I manage to lift my head out from under someone’s leg in time to make out the form scurrying over us like a little rat. It’s Alice. I-puked-when-a-PSF-looked at-me-funny Alice.
The little monster finally grew some claws, and is climbing over us without missing one flipping beat.
I’m one of the lucky ones—I’ve landed on top, my hands are pressing down on someone’s neck, cheek, as I struggle to stand, to get off the boy who’s wailing under me. The sound—it’s the crying that tears at me, tears me in two, three, four, not his hands as he scratches up at my arms and legs. All those times I called us little monsters, somehow I never thought we’d be capable of this. It’s like the others don’t even see us on the landing. Their feet stamp us back down every time we manage to get up.
They don’t care.
I know how fear can blank your mind, bleach out every last thought. But this reaction is more than just instinct; it has to be. All these years they’ve been teaching us to keep each other at a distance, even as we’ve basically been sleeping on top of one another, constantly shuffling by each other in blurs of color to the cafeteria, to the Wash Rooms, to the sleeping rooms. They’ve taught us not to see each other, cursed us into becoming monsters who will eat each other to survive.
This isn’t what I want—this isn’t who I want to be—
You can’t be a monster, I think. Stop listening to the monster!
They don’t stop coming. The air thickens, and all I can taste is my own sweat, bile, the charred ash spinning through the smoke. My vision starts to dip into black. It hurts—I shake my head, trying to clear it, to pull back away from the memories tailing it, crowding in—
Dad in the front seat, saying, We have money, let me get it, pal, just stay calm—
The man with the jitters, the one with a face like a warty toad—the black gun—
Mom looking back at us as she reaches for the glove box, the money spilling out of the paper towels it’s wrapped in.
Lucas covering me—the toad turning glassy red eyes on us—the idea reflected there.
The gunshot—
Dad twists. Mom screams.
The gunshot—
Lucas, no, Lucas don’t—
Fire.
The second man; the knife.
The black uniforms.
Why didn’t I die? Why didn’t I die with them?
“Stop!” a voice bellows. It catches me at the edge of consciousness and drags me back. “Stop where you are! Slowly! Careful! Slowly! Calm down!”
Someone is giving orders behind us—another Blue boy is standing on the last step before the landing, his arms linked with three others’. My eyes have adjusted to the darkness enough to see that they’ve created a wall, damming up the swell of straining bodies behind them. With a little more biting, we’d have a zombie movie on our hands.
I feel hands scooping under my arms, hauling me up.
“—you okay? Hey! You okay?”
Another Blue, head and shoulders taller than me, has me back on my feet and keeps me upright until my knees stop buckling. My knight in grimy soot.
The Blue boys give me and the others enough time to help each other up. The monster wants to tear the rest of the way down the stairs before it happens again. Save yourself, everyone saves themselves. For the first time, I don’t listen. I feel so bad about accidentally mauling the face of the boy under me, I make sure he goes first.
There’s not a single inch of me that doesn’t hurt as I stagger—lurch—down through the last few feet of darkness. Cold air reaches out for me, and I feel myself strain toward its waiting arms.
I’m shoved through the open access door and into the dead of night, stumbling awkwardly onto my knees and into the nearest patch of brown snow.
Outside, outside, my fingers are curling in the mud, I’m out….
The kids keep spilling through the doorway behind me, collapsing onto the sopping wet ground. It’s like we’re going to have to fight through a swamp as one last trial, I think. A test of strength—no, fortitude.
My cough rocks my whole body. I feel like I’m trying to purge poison from my blood. The air is sharp with the bitter cold, but sweet on my tongue, soothing to my scorched throat.
Glass explodes down around me, shaking the ground and sending us scattering forward again. We’re in some kind of cement courtyard or driveway. The facility sits like an enormous U behind us, but the gate in front of us is so tall and black it’s camouflaged by the night sky. I duck down and cover my head as a wave of heat rolls out over us, rising. When I think it’s safe, I look back, trying to confirm my suspicions.
I’m right. All of the first-floor windows are blown out. Fire and smoke are pouring up over the empty frames, licking, slithering, almost like liquid. It’s most intense right at the center of the building, where we’ve always thought the control room for the camp was—the hive mind of machines and misery.
I crawl toward where I see Elise’s dark shape. To the right is—oh my God. The other buildings are burning, too. The Blank Rooms, and the smaller version of the facility specially designed to house the Yellows.
Their yellow uniform shirts are moving through the night like wandering stars, rushing through the blisteringly cold air. I wrap my arms around my center, frozen in place, as several of the older Yellow and Blue kids emerge, carrying or holding the hands of other, smaller ones in white uniforms—the kids who haven’t “changed” yet. The Blanks.
An engine revs, roaring from behind the Blanks’ building. A Hummer bursts through a pile of snow as tall as me, forcing several Greens to dive to the ground to avoid being hit. I turn back to the gate just in time to see the last of the PSFs’ trucks drive away, dragging the metal doors shut behind it.
It’s five hours before our rescuers come, their silver coach buses streaking up through the rose-glow of the sunrise. We can see them coming over the head of tangled barbed wire that sits on top of the fence none of us have been brave enough to try climbing over. The PSFs bolted the locks from the outside before they blazed off—I guess so we couldn’t wander away? They—the Camp Controllers—smoked us out of the building, set fire to the one room that would have kept things running after they abandoned it. Why? To leave us out here to slowly freeze to death?
To…let us go?
Kids toss out theories, volleying them back and forth between chattering teeth. And all I can think is, this feels like a prologue for another story.
One that might have an even worse ending.
Forbidden words buzz around us in a swarm of hope. Mom. Dad. Family. Leave. Home.
There is no more home.
There is no Mom and Dad.
And Lucas…
“Bull,” Elise says as the bus engines shut off. “They’re just moving us to another camp.”
And when the soldiers come into view, I realize she’s right.
Different uniforms. Different soldiers. Same story.
I watch them watching us, their careful—ginger—approach, like we’re animals who have escaped our cages at the zoo and need to be guided back to them. Their rifles are up and pointing at us like long black snouts, sweeping us back as their boots squelch against the soggy ground.
We don’t come when they call. None of us step onto their buses, not even when a man gets on the megaphone and starts trying to redefine the word safe.
“We’re taking you to your families,” he says, the machine in his hand crackling and popping, clipping his voice. “The camp program is over. We are here to help you and escort you away from Black Rock.”
Black Rock. They keep using those two words like they mean something, and I can see on the faces of the girls around me, the boys who’ve kept to their side of our makeshift pen, that they’ve come to the same conclusion I have: Black Rock is the name of our facility. It has a name and in addition to being a burnt-out husk of its former self, it will never be repaired, never reopened.
We will never have to go back inside.
The words burst inside me, exploding into a shower of white-hot hope. I think I am wearing it all on my face, that the color is drawn on my cheeks in wide strokes, the way I used to apply Mom’s makeup. Elise tells me I’m an idiot and if I go along with them, then I deserve whatever I get. I know she’s scared and she doesn’t mean it, not really—her nails are biting into my wrists, holding me, and I can see the desperation in her face like it’s sweat coating her skin.
But…these soldiers don’t shoot at us when we disobey them. They don’t use Calm Control. They give us water bottles and ask to see our burns, they give some of the kids oxygen masks to use. I wonder what they see when they look at us—if we look as haunted as we all must feel. It feels like standing on top of a fence post, waiting for the moment they decide to knock us off it.
They don’t.
They want to know where the PSFs and Camp Controllers are, and one of the older Yellow girls explains exactly what happened. She is tall and brave, like a queen. We let her speak for us.
“They set fires to all of the buildings, unlocked the doors, and left.”
Fled, I think. They didn’t leave. They fled.
When Colonel Megaphone sees the charred remains of the control room, he swears so viciously that the kids around him recoil from the heat. All six feet of him stalks back to the soldiers who are hanging back by the gate, their light camo fatigues darkened by a drizzle of rain and the wet snow.
“They did it again!” he snarls. “They shouldn’t have gone public with the first camp. It’s all scorched earth—the cowards! It’s going to be a fucking nightmare to prove accountability!”
That’s when I believe him, all of them. That’s when the arc of the story clicks, aligning all these little clues in my hands.
The camp is closed. Over.
The PSFs burnt their records, digital and print. They knew to feel ashamed. They knew what they did to us was wrong.
And then they ran, knowing these soldiers were coming—that they’d have to answer questions with uncomfortable answers.
I feel the burn of tears starting at the back of my throat. If this has happened before, it means other camps are closing, too. Which means…
“Lucas,” I whisper, my hands twisting the mud-splattered fabric of my pants. It feels like my chest is too full, like I’m about to burst all my seams. Who cares? Who cares? I’d go out on this feeling. It’s been years since I let myself catch it and hold—cling—to it.
My brother is going to come get me. He promised. What are the chances that he’s already out and waiting for me? Good, I know. This is Lucas, after all.
Elise hisses between her teeth when they call for volunteers to take the first bus to a place they call Pierre. Colonel Megaphone finally figures out that we aren’t just going to take his word and ride off into the sunrise, no matter how warm those buses look. I hear him working on some of the older kids, telling them to set a good example, pulling out some kind of handheld device to say, this is where we’re going—look, there are already parents waiting there.
In some ways, it feels like we’ve spent endless days wandering lost through a forest, only to be met with a stranger dangling a sweet, ripe apple in front of us. Another test. It’s a risk, sure—if the thing’s poisoned, we’re all dead. But if we stay here, we’re dead anyway.
And I want to see Lucas. I want that more than anything.
Elise’s gaze rakes down my back as I step forward, following the first few kids heading through the gate. The monster doesn’t care. The monster wants what it wants, and feels strong enough now to push back on anyone who’s stupid enough to get between it and the only thing it has left. I feel like I’m shedding an old skin, one weighed down by scaly ash, as I pass through the entryway and move toward the first bus, up the stairs that lead into the enormous beast’s belly.
There’s a soft-faced woman at the wheel who gives me this little nod of encouragement when my feet slow to a stop so I can look around. I don’t need it. My toes curve like claws against the ground as I square my shoulders and follow the Blue boy in front of me to the back of the bus. The heat kicks on and pierces my frozen skin like a thousand small cuts. It feels so much better than the nothing that gulped me up the minute the PSFs drove me through the gate. If they are taking us to another camp, if the plan is to kill—dispose—of us somehow, then at least we get a few minutes to thaw out after being trapped in the facility’s cold arms.
But I’m going to hope. I’m going to believe.
I’m going to see Lucas.
I pick a window seat on the side opposite the camp. I don’t want to see it ever again. My pulse is kicking so hard as the engine starts for real, and one by one heads appear, coming up the stairs, filling the empty seats. There’s a crackle and pop, drawing my eyes down to where my hands have twisted and crushed the empty water bottle.
A laugh swells up inside me, chased by another, and another, and I can’t figure out why. None of this is funny, but others are doing it too. Some are still crying, and I have no idea where that energy is coming from because they’ve been going at it for hours now.
The bus jerks forward, finds a dirt road running through a field where nothing grows. The land around us is achingly empty, and we seem to fill only a fraction of it, one small sliver moving up its spine. And as we pass low rolling mountains pockmarked with black stone, as we drive through empty towns, that same buzz of hope I felt at the start of the journey begins to fade, settles into a monstrous little growl. Because no matter how far we go, it’s never far enough.
I can still see the camp’s trail of black smoke rising into the clear blue sky.
UNCLAIMED.
I think it is the worst word I’ve ever heard. The worst label they’ve tried to give us, at least. Call us freaks any day of the week, we’re all so used to it that the sting barely registers. But this…it confirms the one fear so many of us have carried around like a blister on our hearts.
Part of me wishes the news and officials would just be honest about it; “unclaimed” is the polite whisper for unwanted. “Unclaimed” means a loose end, something that could change any minute, any day. It’s something that gets lost, or left behind, and is only waiting for the owner to return and retrieve it. It’s only a matter of time….
“Unwanted” is a statement of fact. It is something to come to terms with and move past. Wherever my parents are, whatever they’re doing, they are never coming back for me. And that’s by choice.
How many times did Ruby and I talk about exactly this? When this is over, I told her, no one is going to be waiting. No one will want us. She’d nodded in that quiet, sad way of hers. It was the same for both of us. We were the only girls in our cabin who would admit it.
I swallow the bile in my throat as I finally pry the piece of plywood away from the doorframe. I’ve been carrying around this screwdriver for the past few weeks; I don’t know how to use a gun, and I’m not sure where I’d find a knife, but this is more than enough to hurt anyone who tries to hurt me.
This is the first time I’ve had to use it, and it’s not even in self-defense, but a break-in. I’m already a thief; why not add “trespassing” to my score?
I found this emergency exit after a full day of slowly circling the towering hotel. Someone, or something, has smashed in the central glass pane, and if I’m right…I am right. There’s a turning lock on the other side. I grip it with stiff, half-frozen hands, turn my wrist until I hear the metal click as it unlocks, and slowly ease the door open.
My shoes are coated with so much mud and snow I have to take some time to wipe them off against a nearby patch of carpet, to keep them from squeaking and alerting everyone to my presence.
This is an in-and-out type of thing. I need to see if she’s still here, or confirm that someone’s already come to get her, and then I’ll be able to go. But if they catch me, identify me…well, they’ll have another “unclaimed” to add to their list.
I sidle up along the far wall, keeping to the ed
ge of the open space. There are a few soldiers in uniform milling around, but most of them are sipping cups of coffee to stay awake. Some are finally breaking down the tables lining the opposite end of the room, along with the signs above them, where the families were supposed to line up to claim the kids by last name: A-D, E-H, I-L…Highlighted rosters, the names crossed off, are being dumped into the overflowing trash cans.
The concierge desk is empty, dark. I wait there in a crouch, hanging back. My hair is stuffed into a knit cap, my oversized parka zipped up all the way, half-masking my face. I picked them up out of a charity bin somewhere in Kentucky, thinking These jeans, this sweater, these sneakers, this coat—they’ll give me the confidence I can’t fake. All they’ve done in the end is make me feel like I’m ten all over again, wearing a costume pieced together from Mrs. Orfeo’s closet.
Someone’s already come for her, I think, hoping I’ll believe it this time. You can go in a second….
The hotel’s lobby has been left in shambles by the media. Empty, half-crushed soda cans are scattered alongside empty food wrappers. There’s a protest sign, highlighter-yellow, that somehow found its way inside. A soldier bends down to pick it up, angling it so the other man can see. WOULD YOU FREE CRIMINALS FROM PRISON? They laugh.
I almost can’t believe how filthy the world is—in every sense of that word. Thurmond might have been falling down around us, the grounds covered in enough mud to make walking a challenge, but we kept the buildings spotless. Not a crumb left behind in the Mess Hall. Everything stowed neatly in the Factory. The Wash Rooms scrubbed on hands and knees.
But trash is the media’s footprint, its calling card, and that’s exactly what they’ve been producing each night on the TV and each morning in the papers. I’ve had to wait all day for them to leave. The news—the channels that have been turned back on—love this. They serve everyone the sweet stuff, try to make them feel better about what they did to us by shoving image after image of family, tears, hugs, in front of them.
What are they trying to prove? That it’s all good now? All better? All anyone has to do is look out the window and see the peacekeeping forces on their patrols, implementing the new curfews, distributing meager foreign rations of imported food and water. Because, of course, even our crops have been watered with Agent Ambrosia.
Through the Dark (A Darkest Minds Collection) (A Darkest Minds Novel) Page 20
