“Marie!” I scream with everything I have.
Pioneer takes a deep breath and then moves the knife from left to right in one fluid motion, opening up Marie’s throat. Her body jerks. I want to scream, but I can’t. I can’t move. I can’t think. It’s as if I’m made of glass and everything inside of me is shattering. I press so hard against the bars that it hurts, but I keep pressing against them anyway. Marie.
When it’s over, the floor is wet with blood and Marie’s pale green shirt is bright red. Pioneer’s face is blood spattered and wild. His hands still grip the knife, but it’s down at his side now. He’s looming over her, watching her chest for signs of movement, but there are none.
Anger bubbles inside of me, lava hot and violent. I pick up the cot and throw it against the bars. The room seems to be spinning. I can feel my grip on reality loosening. She trusted him and he betrayed her. He’s the evil we should’ve been running from all along. How could we not see it? How could we not know? He has to pay. Somehow he has to pay for all of it.
Pioneer stares at the blood on his knife. His hands are shaking. Tears roll down his face. It’s like he’s actually mourning her. Slowly he picks up the flashlight, stands, and walks to the back of the supply room. He returns a moment later with garbage bags and a roll of paper towels. He wipes off his hands and face, then begins peeling off one garbage bag from the box at a time and laying them over Marie like a shroud.
I watch him numbly. I can’t make sense of what just happened. This cannot be real.
“This is your fault. She could have just gone to sleep with the rest of us. If she hadn’t come down here to set you free, none of this would’ve happened.” His voice cracks. “But I knew that she would. I just knew it, that’s why I waited down here for her to come.” He stares at me so hard that I back up a little. “What have you become, girl? Some kind of demon? My own Judas sent to betray me in my darkest hour?” Spittle flies from his mouth and suddenly he lunges forward toward my cell. I shrink backward even further. He shines the flashlight in my face so that I can’t see him anymore, and I pull myself as far into the corner of the cell and as far away from the bars as possible.
“Well, I won’t let you, do you hear me, demon? I won’t let you tear the Community apart!” he yells.
He can’t reach me from where he is, but still I can’t stop shaking and crying. He slit Marie’s throat to save her soul, and now he’s bent on saving mine as well.
Suddenly there’s a knock on the door to the supply room.
“Pioneer? We need to talk.”
It’s Mr. Whitcomb. The door begins to open. Pioneer shuts the flashlight off, plunging the room into total blackness again. I had meant to scream and get Mr. Whitcomb’s attention, but now I don’t know what Pioneer will do. He may have gotten the knife again. If I try to warn Mr. Whitcomb, will he kill him now too?
I squint into the darkness and try to see where Pioneer is, but it’s impossible.
“I’m here, Sonny,” Pioneer says, and he rushes toward Mr. Whitcomb’s silhouette in the doorway. He pushes him back into the stairwell. The door slams shut behind them. I can hear them running up the steps.
They’ve left me in the dark again—only this time I’m not alone.
A lot of people are tired around here, but I’m not sure they’re ready to lie down, stretch out, and fall asleep.
—Jim Jones
I don’t want to believe that Marie’s gone. For a long time I sit against the bars and call to her, hoping somehow she’ll answer. I try to tell myself that she’s just unconscious. But she doesn’t wake up. Now there’s only silence, a vast ocean of it. I’m drowning in it.
I cry until I have no more tears. I’m rocking back and forth against the bars. It’s all over now. This is the end.
Maybe that’s good.
Maybe it should be the end.
I’m not sure that I can get past what just happened. I don’t want to carry around the image of Marie’s bloodied body or Indy screaming. But both are seared into my brain and on constant replay. I just want it all to go away.
The dark is scarier now. I keep thinking Pioneer is in here too even though I just saw him leave. How long did he sit in this room and listen to me cry and talk to myself? He’d had a knife for all of that time. Was he going to use it on me after he killed Marie? And what about now? Has he already found a way to get rid of Mr. Whitcomb? Could he be coming back down the stairs at this very moment? I listen and wait, but I can’t hear anything other than my own labored breaths.
I promise myself that if he is somehow in here with me again, I will fight. I will do whatever it takes to make him hurt. He has to pay for what he did to Marie, to Indy, to all of us. He made us think there was a better way to live, a better life, when all he was really doing was sentencing us all to death.
When he doesn’t materialize in front of my cell and jab his knife through the bars, I start to think about what I should do next. I need to get out of this cell. I need to expose Pioneer for what he really is. I need to save whoever I can so that Marie’s death counts for something.
The key.
Marie had a key. An image of it flashes across my brain. Pioneer didn’t take it. He’d forgotten to retrieve it before Mr. Whitcomb came along. She must still have it in her pocket or her hand. If I can reach her, I can get it and get out of here.
“I’m sorry, Marie. About all of this,” I say. My voice sounds overly loud in the silence, hollow.
I lean against the bars and put one arm out as far as it will reach so I can feel around the floor in front of me. My hand lands in sticky wet—blood—and I recoil. I have to make myself put my hand out again. I strain against the bars, crying out when my hands don’t land on anything substantial, but I don’t quit. I keep grasping at the floor, pulling my arm out as far as it will go. My shoulder screams a protest, but I can’t give up. Not now. Just a little bit farther. I gasp, my lips parting just enough for me to taste the metal bar beside my face. I put my foot on the cot beside me and press myself harder into the narrow opening between bars. Just when I’m beginning to be afraid that my cheekbone will break, my fingers finally, finally graze fabric. It’s stiff with blood, but it still bends as I grab hold and pull. I can hear the trash bags that Pioneer used to cover her rustle. The sound makes me jump. At first nothing moves and I pull harder with both hands, my fingers cramping with the effort. I feel Marie inch forward just a little. It’s enough to help my fingers find better purchase. Slowly I slide her forward until I can reach her pocket. It’s empty. She’d been holding the key in her fingers. I let my hand travel the length of her arm. I put my hand over hers. Her fingers are cold at the tips, but her palm is still warm. I bite back a fresh round of sobs. Tucked in her hand is the key. I slide it out and pull it back to me.
It takes a few minutes to wrangle the key into the lock. My hands are shaking so badly that I have to lean against the bars to steady them, but then the door opens and I’m free. I feel my way from the cell to the door and switch the overhead light on. It takes several minutes before I can open my eyes and several more before I can actually focus on anything. I’m not sure how long I was in the dark. Hours? Days? It feels like forever.
Marie’s body is almost too much to take now with the lights on. There’s so much blood on the floor. I stare at her sneakers, which are sticking out past the garbage bags. I can’t decide if I should leave her covered up or not. I keep thinking that she can’t breathe under the bags even though I know she’s dead. I kneel down beside her and finally tuck the garbage bags around her like a blanket, leaving her face uncovered. Her skin is ashen and milk pale against her dark hair; the caramel tone it usually has is gone. I stroke her cheek. It still feels unbelievable, wrong that she’s gone, that Pioneer did this to her.
“I’m going to stop him,” I whisper into her face. “I promise.” I lean down and kiss her cheek.
I stare at Pioneer’s knife, lying between Marie and the door. I should take it with me, but the b
lade is red. Marie’s blood. Suddenly I can’t make myself pick it up. I don’t want to take it with me. I don’t want to ever see it again.
I stand up and open the door to the stairwell. The light is on, but dim. The air is stuffy and close and shadows blanket the twists and turns ahead of me. I start moving slowly upward, careful to stay on the balls of my feet and make as little noise as possible. I feel like Pioneer is lurking behind every turn in the stairs, waiting to come at me with his knife—even though the knife is still on the ground next to Marie. My heart stutters to a stop as I peek around the corners. Pioneer’s not there. Now that I know I’m still alone, I’m not sure where to go.
My parents. I can go to them first. They may be my only hope for reinforcements right now. They’ll listen to me; they have to. I’ll explain everything and they’ll know I’m not lying. I can bring them down to the supply room and show them Marie if I have to.
Our living compartments are two floors up. I head there first, hoping to catch them alone. I can’t talk to them in front of the others, and if anyone else knows I’m out, they’ll tell Pioneer. I climb the stairs as fast as I can. I ease open the stairwell door that leads to our rooms. It’s quiet, dark. There’s no sign of anyone; still, I study the hallway and the doors leading to our neighbors’ compartments. I leave the overhead light off and tiptoe across the burgundy-carpeted floor, being careful to listen as I pass each door. Several of the doors already sport wreaths of dried flowers, signs that the others have taken up residence and are trying to make their spaces as welcoming as possible. Our door is still plain, unadorned. The dark navy paneling on it gleams. I twist the knob and peek in.
My parents are sitting at the tiny table on the right where our small kitchenette is situated. My mom has her hand up to my dad’s forehead. The cotton ball in her fingers is wet and tinged pink with blood. She freezes when she sees me. Her blue-green eyes are large in her head and her mouth drops open. She looks horrified. It’s only now that I realize that my shirt and hands are still stained with Marie’s blood.
“Lyla! Are you okay?”
She clambers out of her seat and rushes toward me, stops short of hugging me and lets her hands flutter about my arms and waist. “Where are you hurt?”
“I’m not,” I say. “The blood’s not mine.”
I can’t say that it’s Marie’s. The words won’t come out. Instead I start crying hysterically. I’m a little shocked that I have any tears left. I thought I’d managed to use them all up in the supply room. My parents descend on me, wrapping me in a tight hug between them.
“What’s happened?” my dad asks.
I look up at his face. There’s a long, angry red mark on his temple, but otherwise he doesn’t seem to be hurt. The relief I feel only makes my crying jag worse. His forehead wrinkles and he stares into my face. “Lyla, what’s happened?”
“H-h-he k-k-killed h-h-her,” I manage to say between sobs.
“Who killed who?” Dad says more gruffly.
“Who are we talking about?” my mom says in a voice that’s unnaturally high-pitched.
I try to regain control of myself. I have too much to tell them. I can’t let myself get any more unglued. “Pioneer killed Marie.”
My parents glance at each other. I can see the look of doubt that passes between them, so I hurry to tell them everything that’s happened before I can worry too much about them not believing me. I tell them about the cell and Pioneer’s and Will’s visits and Marie’s. The words are coming so fast now that they’re practically overlapping one another. I don’t stop until I talk myself to where I am now—with them—then I grow silent.
“But why would Pioneer do something like this?” Mom looks completely confused.
“You think I’m making it up?”
“No, it’s just … why? He wants to save us. It doesn’t make sense.”
“He thinks we have no chance of staying in the Silo now. He thinks that the sheriff and the others will force us out. He’s convinced that no matter what, we’re going to die.”
My dad shakes his head. “But why would he kill Marie the way you say he did?”
The way he asks the question hurts. He’s struggling with my story and that means they both think I might be lying. “He killed her because she came to let me out. He was waiting down there in the dark with me like he knew she’d be coming. For hours. She’s still down there. I can show you.”
They both look at my shirt at the same time like they’re finally starting to believe that I’m really covered in blood; I can see the horror flood across their faces.
Dad lets out a shaky breath. “Well then, we have to confront him. I know that I’m not ready to hand over my life because we’ve hit a snag. If we have to leave the Silo, then we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”
Dad pushes his hair up out of his eyes and winces as his hand grazes his wound. He’s sweating like crazy. We all are. It dawns on me that the air isn’t circulating. That’s why the stairwell was so stuffy. Pioneer’s turned off the air.
“The air’s not working anymore, Dad,” I say.
He looks up and puts a hand to the vents. He frowns. “No air means no oxygen. We’ll suffocate in here. What did he say to you about his plans exactly?”
“He said it was time we all went to sleep, traveled to the next place, where the Brethren would be waiting.”
Dad’s face is sickly under the fluorescent overhead lights. “Carbon monoxide,” he says more to himself than to us. “The oxygen levels will start dropping now, and if he keeps the generators running … the carbon monoxide won’t dissipate. We’ll die in a matter of hours.” He leans back against the kitchenette’s counter. “That’s why we closed off the emergency tunnels already … not because the sheriff would find them. It was to reduce the air circulation even faster. We don’t have a lot of time.”
“Emergency tunnels?” I ask.
Mom leans in to listen. Seems my dad has kept some secrets too.
“When we built this place, we needed to have two escape hatches apart from the main entrance. In case of fire or, like now, if the air isn’t circulating properly. There’s one in the supply room and another that leads out of the medical center. I drew them into the plans myself. Pioneer wanted it kept a secret so that he could be sure no one would breach them during our stay here unless absolutely necessary—you know, in case someone panicked over being cooped up so long and tried to escape. That’s originally why we had the cell built too.”
“But we can use them now to leave,” I say. I feel the first faint glimmers of hope. We might not even have to confront Pioneer if we can get to the rest of the Community first. We can sneak out as many people as possible and then just let the sheriff deal with Pioneer.
“There’s a coded lock on each door, but yes, if we can figure out his code, we can use them to leave the Silo. Although I’m not sure we will be able to convince everyone to come along even if what you’re saying is the truth.” Dad glances at my mom. I look from him to her and back again.
“Why not? He’s about to kill all of us. Why would anyone just give up and stay once they know that? He murdered Marie. That has to be enough to make them listen.”
“Because giving up is easier than having to go back out there,” Mom says quietly. Her eyes are shimmering with tears and she looks frightened. “Because the world’s evil and capable of much worse than what Pioneer’s done. If the sheriff forces us out, we’ll have to live in it again … at least for a few weeks before the end, and then we’ll die anyway. Maybe he’s right to let this be it.” She walks over to the front door and grabs Karen’s shoes, cradles them. “Do you think Karen will be waiting for us?”
I stare at her. “Mom, Pioneer could be wrong, don’t you see? About all of it. The apocalypse might not be coming. Shouldn’t we make sure before we just accept it?”
“But he can’t be wrong!” Mom yells. “No world where children are taken from their own doorsteps, from the families that love them, can r
emain in existence. Terrorists crash planes into buildings, men hit their wives and children, teenagers shoot their classmates, and countries war with one another. The Brethren won’t just keep letting it all happen. They can’t, do you understand me?”
Mom’s face crumples and she presses the shoes against her cheeks. She’s crying harder than I’ve seen her cry in a long time, like somehow she’s been storing up this hurt all these years and she can’t hold it back any longer. Her cries are harsh and angry, painful to hear.
“But why would the Brethren wipe out the world and let Pioneer go? He killed Marie. He stabbed her and left her on the floor. How is that good? How is he not just as evil as the people who took Karen? We haven’t escaped anything here. We can’t run away from all the bad things, because there will always be more. We have to deal with them and survive.”
“But what if I can’t? What if I don’t want to anymore?” Mom says into her hands. She buries her head in my dad’s chest. His eyes meet mine. The pain in them is every bit as raw as my mom’s, but his eyes are dry. He believes me, I can see it in his face, and he wants out just as much as I do.
“Mom, please! I don’t want to die in here. Can you just try for me?” I want so much for her to wrap me in her arms and rock me the way she used to when I was little. I want her to promise me that everything will be okay. I need the mom she was before, the one I barely remember anymore, who laughed and danced and told stories. When we moved here, I thought she could be okay again, but she’s never quite pulled herself back together and now she never will.
“Mom!” I ask again, my voice cracking.
“I can’t, Lyla. I’m sorry.” She won’t look at me. “I do love you, but I just can’t.”
I lunge forward and yank Karen’s shoes out of her hands. “These stupid shoes! Why do you keep carrying them around? Karen’s dead! She is never coming back. These shoes aren’t a reminder of her; they’re an excuse for you to give up. And don’t you dare say you love me! You can’t and still choose this.”
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