by Sara Grant
CHAPTER
THIRTY-ONE
After I leave my house, I drive into the City. I’m not sure I can do this. But it’s not just for me. I have to be strong for Mom and Sanna. I ditch the van on an abandoned, dead-end street and zigzag through the City. My reality has shifted, and I’m amazed that life is playing out around me as usual. Even though I try to act casual and blend in, I’m surprised people can’t see the change in me.
I never stop moving, not for one second. I play hide-and-seek with a few policemen, but it’s approaching midnight and the capitol seems empty. Thomas said most of the police and Border Patrol would be guarding the border during the renovation.
The bells of the clock tower begin their out-of-tune melody. It’s midnight and I’m hidden among the wreckage of the Capitol Complex. I wander out from my hiding place and take a look around. Even though I don’t see anyone, I feel as if I’m being watched. The shadows seem to move and form new shapes. The last time I was here was when Ethan was arrested. I can still see him smiling down at me from the top of the rubble. Everything has changed since then. If he wasn’t arrested. If we never had a Dark Party. But all those what-ifs led to this moment and the truth.
I turn in a slow circle, searching for a signal or a sign. Suddenly a dark figure emerges from the wreckage. The person is wearing a baseball cap pulled down to shadow his face. I have to look hard to see the outline of a body. It almost blends in with the surroundings. He waves me over. I walk forward, stopping a few times to look over my shoulder.
“Are you Thomas’s friend?” the person asks when I am within arm’s reach.
I nod.
“Identity mark.”
“It’s a snowflake tattoo. Here.” I press my hand into the valley between my stomach and hip.
“I must have visual confirmation.” He looks around and draws me deeper into the rubble.
Now I wish I’d made my mark easy to see. I step in closer and pull the waistband on my jeans low. I lean back so the moonlight hits the spot on my skin.
“That’s fine.” He turns toward the heart of the collapsed building. “Follow me.” He’s weaving his way between the twisted metal. He’s heading farther into the collapsed building. This could be a trap. “Come on,” he says when he notices I haven’t moved.
I’ve come this far. What choice do I have? I can’t go back home, so I blindly follow this stranger. There’s no way out. I don’t understand where he’s taking me. He slips through a gap between an old window frame and a steel beam. He raps three times on the beam and the rubble behind the window slides aside. “Your guide will lead you though the tunnel.” The stranger in the baseball cap steps aside and then walks away.
The only light sources are well behind me. My eyes adjust to the hazy gray as panic burrows down to my bones. I hear someone coming toward me. “Say something so I can find you.” The voice is closer and deeper, definitely male.
“I’m right here,” I say. I wave my arms in front of me and am surprised when my fingertips brush a body.
“Okay. Follow me.” He finds my hand and places it on his shoulder. He takes off, accidentally kicking my shin. “Sorry.”
We take a few steps and I tread on his heels.
“Too close,” he says.
The space is pitch-black. I take a deep breath, keeping my fear at bay. I will not let the darkness rob me of my freedom and Sanna’s hope.
We eventually get the hang of walking together. The walls are close. If I move an inch to the left or right, I’m scratched by stone or metal. The darkness constricts. My skin is damp with sweat. I concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other, but my breath comes faster and faster.
“Where are you taking me?” I ask, shuffling behind him.
“Out the other side.” He half laughs.
“But how—”
“Do I see?” He finishes my sentence. “This is my domain. I know these tunnels better than I know the City streets.”
“I never knew there were tunnels in here,” I say breathlessly. My head swims as panic grabs hold.
“They’ve been here for years,” the guide says, his businesslike tone softening.
Don’t think about the dark. “Where do they lead?” I ask, and try to steady my breath.
“They tie into the old underground train systems so you can walk out of the City underground.”
“What?” Not only is there a tunnel through the ruins of the Capitol Complex, there were once underground trains.
“I forget they don’t teach you about that anymore.” His hair brushes across my hand. I think he’s shaking his head. “The government erases so much of our real history.”
I know who erases it. There’s so much more my dad never told me, never told anyone. He’s not the Minister of Ancient History. He’s the Minister of Invented History.
“How much farther?” I trip and let go of his shoulder for a minute. He grabs my hand and keeps me from falling.
“We’ve got a ways to go. Stay right behind me.” He places my hand on his shoulder. “It’s probably better if we stay quiet. There are old vents and grates that open to the surface.”
My eyes keep trying to adjust to the darkness to see something, anything, but the black is intense. The darkness feels as if it has mass and weight. I’m suffocating and being crushed simultaneously. We are walking down an incline. I don’t want to think about being led deeper underground. The air cools. I steal a lung-filling breath. I can tell that we’ve moved from our tiny tunnel to somewhere more open. The sounds of our footsteps seem to be swallowed up in this new, vast space. A breeze flicks the ends of my hair. The ground is smoother, not dirt and debris anymore. Walking is easier, but I am unnerved not knowing what surrounds me. The darkness closes in. If we lost touch, I would be stranded. I would never find my way back in this maze.
“Relax,” the man says. “Not much farther.”
I try to imagine the space. I give it a high, rounded ceiling and square tiles on the floor. I paint the tunnel white and illuminate every nook and cranny. I concentrate on following him.
I think I see a speck of light ahead. Light. I focus there. My eyes start to adjust. Shapes start to form. I step next to my guide and we walk for a while. “You can go on alone from here,” he says when the exit is clearly in focus. I must look scared because he reassuringly pats me on the back. “The worst part is over. There’s a van outside—”
I think of the government vans that transported Sanna and the others to the Women’s Empowerment Center. A new fear flashes from head to toe.
“You’ve got to go now.” He prods me forward.
“And then what?”
“I only know my part of the journey. I’ve gotten you this far. I’ve done my part.”
“Okay.” The warmth drains from my body.
“I can take you back if you’ve changed your mind,” he says, sensing my uncertainty.
“No.” I clear my throat and speak more firmly. “No, I’m ready to go.” My voice wobbles a bit. “Thank you.”
“Good luck.” He shakes my hand and walks back into the tunnel.
Once outside, I drink in the cool night air. A woman is standing between me and the van. She doesn’t really look at me as she opens the doors to the back of the van.
I hesitate. “What happens now?”
“I take you to the border.” She jerks her head toward the van, encouraging me to get in.
I don’t budge. I can’t aimlessly follow anymore. “And then what?”
“When you arrive at the border, you will wait for a signal. The Protectosphere is under renovation. Each section of the Protectosphere is turned off while the panels are upgraded. You will have a few hours—I don’t know how many exactly—to make it through the tunnels before the Protectosphere is electrified.” It’s obvious that she’s given this speech before. “We take back roads to the border and have found a way to avoid the Border Check Points, but the government has increased security. I can’t guarantee your safet
y.”
I nod.
“We need to go now,” she says in a way that discourages any more questions. I climb into the van and am relieved to discover that I’m not alone. It’s hard to see clearly, but I think there are seven other people sitting in a circle with their backs pressed against the sides of the van. The seats have been removed. A wooden partition separates us from the driver. The two square windows on the back doors have been blacked out with paint. The driver closes us in.
This is it. I’m leaving. I will soon know what’s outside the Protectosphere. It’s almost like finding out what’s after death. I hope I don’t find that out too. I try to focus on a new beginning, not the end of so much.
The van subtly vibrates. With every bump and turn I feel more claustrophobic. I can hear my fellow passengers breathing. They are sucking the oxygen out of the space and leaving none for me. I try to picture my future, but I can’t conjure up my grandma’s face. I can’t seem to remember what she looked like. I try to imagine a vast ocean with a ceilingless sky, but I don’t know how to picture that kind of freedom.
There’re a few spots of light where the paint on the windows has chipped. I let my eyes adjust and trace the outline of the figures in the van. And suddenly the loss is overwhelming, not just leaving my family and country behind but the loss of innocence and trust—the things Braydon has stolen from me. I reach out and find the hand of the person sitting next to me. It’s a small hand, a child’s. I smile down at her even though I know she can’t see my face. I feel her move, then hear the shuffle of hands around the van. I can hear the soft clap when hands meet.
After a period of time that is immeasurable, the van skids and swerves. We free our hands and brace ourselves, but we are tossed into one another and bang into the side of the van. The van jolts to a stop and we slide forward and pile into the partition separating us from the driver then spring back when the van is at rest. Before we can untangle ourselves, the two back doors are wrenched open and we squint up at a bright light. The light doesn’t have any warmth. It’s white and artificial. Its source is slowly revealed. Two figures are holding powerful flashlights. They move the beams and I can see more dark figures behind them. One of them grabs a leg from our pile of bodies and pulls the person out of the van. The body is lifted and practically thrown to another dark figure. Border Patrol. My insides feel as if they are perpetually falling.
I search for the child who was sitting next to me and reach for her. Her round, wide eyes plead with me to save her. I pull her closer, but I am being dragged from the van. Gloved hands pry my fingers from the hand that I’ve been holding. A needle-sharp pain stabs my left thigh, and then everything fades to black.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-TWO
My name is whispered in my ear. At least I think the sounds form my name. I try to speak. I want to tell them to leave me alone. I’m floating, my body feels like liquid, and my brain is peacefully static. I don’t want to lose this feeling.
I close my eyes tighter. I’m beginning to feel my body, to reconnect, but I don’t want to, not yet. Someone is speaking, shaking and ripping me from this in-between place.
“Neva Adams, wake up.” The voice isn’t whispering anymore.
I try to open my eyes, but it’s as if I don’t remember what muscles to use. I raise my eyebrows and try to pull my eyelids open. The images come back to me. My trip through the secret tunnels under the City. Escaping in the van. Getting caught by the Border Patrol.
I open them a crack. A dark figure looms over me and I scramble as far away from him as I can. The room is completely white. It almost glows. I’m huddled on a gray-and-white-striped mattress. If I stand or lie and stretch my arms up above me, I could touch any of the room’s walls or ceiling. I want to close my eyes again.
“Where am I?” I ask, and I cough to clear what feels like a dry wad of cotton from my throat.
“We are at the Border Patrol Detention Center,” the figure says.
I once again inhabit my body. I have an orange bracelet with my name printed on it. How did they know my name? My hand presses my tattoo through my jeans, which are unbuttoned. I feel violated. I clutch my throat, searching for my necklace, and exhale when my fingers find the snowflake pendent.
“Come with me.” The figure extends a black-gloved hand to me, but I ignore it and roll to my feet.
He leads me down a long corridor. Tiny spotlights high on the walls create crisscrossing beams of light on the ceiling. The walls are black. The floor is white. There are no door numbers or markers of any kind. They have created an escape-proof maze. There’s nowhere to run, only endless halls. The guard stops. He pushes on the wall and a door swings open. He shoves me inside. “Sit,” he barks. I sit. He handcuffs me to a silver bar that runs the length of a plain wooden table then leaves.
The room is dark except for a desk light illuminating a circle on the table with two matching chairs. No one knows where I am. In this soundless, soulless place, they could do anything to me. Anything.
I realize I’m not alone. There’s someone hiding in the shadows. I look at the shoes first, expecting to see pointy-toed red boots. Instead I see plain dingy tennis shoes. For some reason I’m relieved and disappointed it’s not Braydon. But I recognize the shape of this body. Those dark eyes. I gasp when Ethan steps into the light.
“I’m sorry, Neva,” he says without looking at me. “But I had to do something. I couldn’t lose you. It’s for your own good.”
It takes my brain a minute to register what he’s saying. “My own good?”
“We can go home now and start over. We can have a family.” His voice dips and cracks.
“What have you done, Ethan?” My voice is flat.
He walks over to the empty chair and sits across from me. “I’m saving you.” He reaches across the table.
I ball my hands into fists. “I don’t need saving.”
“You were going to leave me.” He recoils. “You were going to leave and not even say good-bye.”
Betrayed by Ethan. It doesn’t seem possible. “How did you know?” I clench and unclench my fists.
“After your Dark Party, I started following you. After your meeting with Thomas, they contacted me.”
“They?”
“Them.” He gestures to indicate the entire room. I know who he means; the ones watching me, always watching. “You went off with Braydon.” He rocks back and forth. “How could you?”
“How could I? How could you?” I ask, glaring at him. “How could you turn me in? You said you loved me.”
“I do love you,” he whispers. “They told me you were dead. I knew that couldn’t be true. I watched your house. I knew you’d go back. But I never thought you’d try to leave.”
My face hardens; my teeth grind together.
He gently strokes my fingers. “All you have to do is sign the pledge, Neva. It’s easy. We can put this behind us and get on with our lives.”
He’s touching me as if he knows me. He has already mapped out our lives together. He’s had me chained to this table and now he wants me chained to him, tethered to this place for the rest of my life.
“Go to hell, Ethan!” I lunge for him, not knowing what I would do if the handcuffs didn’t restrain me.
He leaps from his chair. “Don’t be like that.” He’s back where he started, in the shadows.
“Leave me alone. Just leave me alone.” I can’t see him anymore.
“But I can’t lose you.”
“Ethan, I’m already gone.” I bow forward and rest my head on the table.
He waits in the shadows for a while. I can hear him breathing. His breath halts as if he might say something, but then his deep and steady breaths return. Ethan walks over. He leans down an inch from my face as if he might kiss me. I don’t move. “No one can save you now,” he whispers, and then shuffles to the door and knocks.
The door clicks open, but I don’t hear it close behind him. Voices are buzzing outside. I concentrate, tryin
g to make out words. I can make out three or four separate people. Ethan is mumbling. One guard says something like “you did your best.” I hear the squeak of his tennis shoes as he walks away.
“Apparently this type of impudence runs in the family,” a deep male voice rings above the others.
“Her father is demanding we release her to his custody,” another voice adds. “Adams is a good patriot. If she doesn’t sign, he will probably have to commit her to the Reproductive Center for nonconformists. Wouldn’t wish that on anyone…” The voice fades as the click and tap of shoes echo down the hall.
Pure, raw horror engulfs me. If I don’t sign the pledge, this is only the beginning of my torture. Maybe I should sign. Maybe they’ll let me go home if I promise to get a job and start a family. I’m not strong enough to endure what’s next.
“Okay, I’ll sign.” I shout. It’s got to be better than whatever Dad has in store for me. I try not to think of my life beyond the next moment.
A guard brings in a sheet of paper and a plastic pen and lays them both in front of me. I expected a quill that used my own blood or something more dramatic. I’m going to sign away my life with a disposable pen—how poetic. I roll the pen between my fingers. Through the clear plastic, I can see that the ink cartridge is nearly empty. So many people have been broken and resigned themselves to this domed prison. I expected pages of copy with detailed dos and don’ts, but it’s only a few simple sentences.
I hereby solemnly swear to rededicate myself to Homeland. I am a citizen and a patriot. My life will be in service to the government and to our way of life. I admit that I was wrong to jeopardize my civilization. There is nothing outside the Protectosphere. I denounce my past resistance and will follow the order established by generations. I pledge my allegiance to Homeland.
I pick up the pen. It’s only my name. Two words that represent me but don’t mean anything. Scribbled black lines that form the mortar, the very foundation of the Protectosphere. One more name added to the thousands before me. I touch the pen to the paper. The black ink begins to bleed onto the white. The dot grows. I don’t have the strength to move my fingers the tiny precise movements necessary to transfer my name to the page. I can visualize my name sitting on the line. The name that my grandma gave me.
