They have a mission and they jump at it. “I ’ave a layered dress,” Frenchie says. “We can cut ze layers into strips to tie pieces of wood together.”
“I’ve got a knife in my pack.” Harman lifts his pack off his shoulders. “Bring the cloth to me.”
“Here.” I toss them a few of Father’s chisels to help cut material.
“We should get the rest of the clothing from the people who died.” Dusten says it quietly, as though concerned about our reactions.
I nod. “Warmth and survival are our main concerns. Dusten’s right.” My observers scatter to start their work. I breathe easier.
Solomon tugs me away from them. “Let’s get you bandaged.” Careful not to touch the wound, he brings my fingers to his lips and breathes on them. I barely feel a difference, but the action warms my core for a blink.
“It’s so cold.” It’s a dumb statement, like saying the sky is blue or the Council is evil.
“I know. We don’t have long.”
Now freed from the crowd, from the Wall, and from the boxcar, my mind returns to other thoughts. More pleasant thoughts, almost as an escape. “I liked your notes.”
Solomon grins. The cheer doesn’t fit the situation, but it shows me his strength. He can cling to joy. I wish I could do that.
“Solomon . . . how did you—what happened?” It’s been over four weeks since we were in Prime together. I thought the Council had found him and locked him away. Did he learn anything from his father?
“I ought to make you tell me what happened. You walked out that apartment door and never came back. Next thing I knew, you were being Clock-matched on every X-book, post board, and video screen around.”
I turn my face toward the workers where people are toiling together on a few shelters. Some wandering Radicals from other villages join in. “I know. I’m sorry.”
I gave in. I gave in to the Council and he saw it.
His hand moves up to my forearm and squeezes. “I don’t blame you. I just thought, maybe you’d . . . maybe the Council had . . .” He pulls the bandage a little too tight and I flinch. “Sorry.”
He loosens the tie. “Anyway, I managed to trail you and the Enforcers leading you to the train station, but lost you once they took you on board. Since Willow wasn’t with you, I assumed the Council still had her. I had to hope you were being taken home.”
He meets my eyes in earnest. “You have to know, I would have checked but . . . I knew you were worried about Willow, so I went after her instead.”
“Thank heavens. Did you find her?”
He ties off the bandage and I wiggle my fingers. It stings and aches up my entire arm, but my body relaxes against the pain now that it’s wrapped and somewhat clean.
“I found out which orphanage they’ve taken her to—the one Jude got involved with.” His voice recedes into a guttural growl.
“That’s where the Council tested his Clock invention on the orphans.” I choke. “Brickbat threatened to kill Willow if I didn’t get Clock-matched.”
Solomon rubs the back of his neck with one hand. “That orphanage is in northern New York, near where my father lives. It took me a while to travel up there. Dad and I visited the orphanage from afar. Enforcers surround it now, and the Council will be sending Clock-matchers there soon. I don’t know if they’ll experiment.”
“I’d assume not, since they’ve already released the new Clocks to the public.” It’s odd talking to him—watching him grow upset. I want him to feel like we’re on the same team.
“Dad’s watching over the orphanage and Willow. I traveled back to Unity Village, finally managing a train ticket. When I arrived, most of the town people were gone. Oliver—excuse me, your father—and Tawny told me what you and your mother did. This is all very brave of you, Parvin.”
Heat rises in my chest and my cheeks—a combination of embarrassment and growing anger. This isn’t about bravery, it’s about being forced by the Council. “So I’m brave for joining a bunch of doomed people to come to a wasteland. But what about you, Solomon? I told you not to come. What can you do now? Who’s there for Willow?”
Brickbat’s going after her! He’s going to test her until her brain turns to mush!
I AM THERE.
The reminder soothes me. Of course God’s there, just like He is here so tangibly.
“My dad is. And you will be, too when we escape.” He glances up at the sky. “I left my NAB with Oliver.”
“Father?” I almost laugh. “He doesn’t know how to use a NAB!” And there go our chances of trying to contact someone on the other side—like Solomon’s dad—to alert them about the Council’s threats.
Solomon gives a half smile. “Neither did you at one time. I showed him the basics. Now he can contact Fight or Idris if he needs help. And, if we find someone here with a NAB, we can send him updates.”
He rests his hands on my shoulders and stands there for a moment. I try to calm down. God is going to get us out of here. He’ll free us.
“Now we need to save these people.”
That’s all. Just save an entire social class of people who don’t even view me as a leader. Can I blame them? “Solomon, do you think they can die? Or do you believe what Jude did—that the Clocks can’t control our deaths?”
He looks around, then lowers his voice. “I found something else out.”
My pulse doubles. “What?”
“Jude was working on a . . . a glitch in the new Clocks. Dad told me. Apparently, after the Council tested his original Clock-matching on the orphans, Jude created a new Clock. One that . . . added something.”
My mouth goes dry. “Added what?”
Solomon shakes his head, and I want to grab him by the shoulders, but that’s all he knows. He’d tell me if he knew more . . . wouldn’t he?
“Whatever it is, I think it’s how he died. He used his new Clock as one final test to see if his invention worked.”
As he says this, a memory surfaces of that fateful evening with the assassin. “Jude said something.” I grab his arm. “When the assassin gave him the pirate chip, Jude said, ‘You’ll get your information . . . and I’ll get mine.’ Do you think that’s what he meant? That he was testing his new Clock?”
“He could have.”
If only Solomon knew more! “But if Jude knew about this glitch, wouldn’t the Council know too, since they stole information from his brain with the pirate chip?”
A shiver runs through Solomon’s body, but it has nothing to do with the conversation. We’ve been standing still too long. “Dad talked to a fellow physician and discovered that Jude had a procedure done just before going through the Wall. He had a brain surgeon destroy the parts of his brain that harbored the new Clock glitch. It couldn’t have been stolen no matter what the pirate chip downloaded.”
“So all the Clocks being distributed to the citizens of the USE have this glitch . . . whatever it is?”
“I think so. We’ll figure it out, Parvin.”
A humorless laugh escapes. “We better. And we better escape before those Enforcers put us to work. Who knows how they’ll use us.”
23
No wood. No fire. No food.
No time.
That is our supply list. It’s been a few hours and a handful of shelters are completed in a circle. The completed igloo huts—wonky and asymmetrical—are packed with people. They huddle with their backs to the walls, breathing their body heat into the communal air. No one builds anymore.
We’re too cold.
How do I lead, God? What am I supposed to do? The sun cycle is different here. Will it get dark at all? If not, then we may keep our body heat a little longer. But without fire, food, or decent shelter . . . everyone’s Clocks will be sorely tested.
I can’t feel my nose, ears, toes, or fingers anymore, even beneath the hand bandag
e. Every breath pinches my lungs.
“We’ve all brainstormed and come up with nothing.” Mother blows into her hands. “We need to escape. The shelters are a good idea, but they’ll only last for so long.”
She’s right. “Let’s find Solomon.”
Solomon scoops snow from inside a half-finished dome. I kneel beside him and peer in. It’s almost completely hollow. “Hey.”
He looks up. A small white line mars the skin above his cheeks. “Good sunset, Parvin.”
“You have frostbite on your cheeks.”
One of his hands—wrapped in a sock—lifts to tap his cheeks. “So do you. And everyone else.”
Cheeks aren’t the only victims. Mother has some frostbite on her fingers and everyone’s noses are turning redder and redder. “Why aren’t you using the wood for a shelter?”
“Because snow will do just as well and wood may serve better as a fire for people to warm at.”
Could there be enough wood to burn? “Any ideas on escape?”
He leans back on his heels. “I think we need to return to the cargo ship.”
I cup my hand over my mouth and breathe twice, letting the warmth rebound on my face. “How?”
“I have an ice pick in my bag.”
“For . . . climbing?”
He chuckles. “That’s generally what they’re used for. I tried to pack in preparation for Antarctica, but only the ice pick made sense. All the extra clothing I packed for warmth got soaked when I jumped into the ocean. It never really dried and now it’s frozen.”
“So . . . escape. Do you plan to climb up the Wall? Smash through the door, maybe?” I’ve already seen people trying to climb that beast. I loathe the idea of him trying . . .
And falling.
“It’d be hard with only one pick, but I’ll do what I must.”
Does he even think he can?
A gust of wind blows snow dust in a cyclone around each igloo. I tuck my head into my arms and suck in air through my teeth. That’s cold. Too cold. Deathly cold.
Mother nudges us. “Let’s go inside and talk for now.”
“Okay.” My voice comes out muffled through my arms.
Mother, Solomon, and I crawl into the hollowed dome. It’s not dark, as I suspected it would be. Light shines through in a pale, icy blue. A torn tarp covers most of the floor. It’s still cold, but no longer wet. The snow walls block the wind.
Mother pulls her shawl up over her head and wraps it tight around her face, leaving only her eyes uncovered. Her voice is muffled, but still understandable. “Some men talked of going to the ocean—to the projected Wall—to see if we can get through there.”
Solomon shakes his head. “You can’t.”
“Well, your great-grandfather or something i-invented it.” I tuck my stump and hand under my armpits. “D-Don’t you know how it works or how to get past it?”
“I don’t know much about it, Parvin, only that it’s programmed against human DNAs. Everything else can go through, but a human would be killed.”
“We have to try.”
“Trying could mean someone’s death.”
I lean against the igloo wall, then recoil from its chill. “So could not trying. It’s not that far away. Besides, the movement will keep us warmer. And there might be penguins there to . . . eat.”
He rests his forearms on his knees. “The Enforcers are probably watching us. They’ll have cameras.”
“They didn’t stop McTavish from leaving.” Maybe they think he’ll return. Or die. “I don’t think the Enforcers care about us. They don’t think escape is possible.”
He sighs. “The projected Wall is impassable.”
“I saw it flicker.” Only as I say it do I remember this. “It flickered while I stared at it from the cargo ship.” Not long enough for me to see through it or for a person to pass through but . . . maybe it means something. “Is it supposed to flicker?”
Solomon is silent for a breath. “No. It’s not.”
I sit straight, releasing my back from the frozen wall. “It’s not? So maybe something’s wrong with it!”
“Don’t tell people. Don’t give them false hope. At least, not yet.”
It’s too late. I’ve already given myself hope. “I’m going.”
“You should rest first. Even the healthiest of us can’t trek to the ocean and back without some recuperation.”
“Rest?” Is he not as cold as the rest of us? “I’ll freeze! I’ll never fall asleep.”
“Just wait until you close your eyes. The prolonged daylight is tricking your body into thinking it has stamina. You must rest, Parvin.”
A yawn gives me away. “No.”
“Ten minutes.”
“No!” People are freezing out there. “I need to move around.”
Mother places a hand on my arm “Just ten minutes, Parvin.”
I sigh. “Fine.” I need them on my side and, in truth, I trust these two people more than anyone else in the world. If they think I should sleep, then I will.
But . . . didn’t Mother want me to lead? To take charge? How will sleeping accomplish that?
“Don’t sleep alone, Parvin.” Solomon buttons the top button on his coat. “It would be much too cold for you.”
My stomach flip-flops. He’s not suggesting that we—
“I’ll go find others to join you and your mother.”
“Okay,” I squeak. What’s wrong with my brain? Of course Solomon wouldn’t suggest that we sleep together. And I wouldn’t want it. Well, I would . . . wait, would I? Not unless we were, like, married. Okay, stop.
I take a deep breath to tie up my thought strings. Solomon was right—I’m definitely tired.
Frenchie and Madame join Mother and me in the small igloo hut. Frenchie glares daggers at Madame the entire time, but we squish together anyway, all curled up and tucking our faces and hands into each other’s coats. Solomon stays outside to finish packing in the entrance hole.
This is ridiculous. We have one day before the Enforcers start putting us to work. I’m too cold to rest. To think. To sleep.
The icy ground sends its chill through the tarp and my thin garments in minutes. I wiggle closer to Mother. I manage to drift away from this nightmare for what seems like seconds before Solomon nudges my shoulder.
Ten minutes are up, and I feel half dead, both from cold and exhaustion.
“I’ll meet you by the infirmary,” he whispers, then ducks out.
Mother, Frenchie, and Madame still sleep. I don’t want to move for fear of waking them, but I’m so cold. Stiff. Everything is numb, but I’m not dead.
I sit up slower than a waking flower. As I detach from the imprint I left against Mother’s side a chill air rushes into the space. I shiver. Something inside me flutters, panicky. A quick scan of the three bodies resting with me reveals puffs of breath above each head.
Good.
But even with them breathing, if they’re anywhere near as cold as I am, I ought to wake them soon and get them moving. Blood flow and food—our two lifelines.
Food.
If I don’t eat the potatoes in my bag soon, they’ll go old and I will have wasted them. I have only a handful, but I need to share them. We need to eat. I can’t pick and choose who should eat and who shouldn’t. Instead, I go with those in front of me. My new Antarctica family.
I leave a potato next to each of them and eat half of one myself. I put the other in my pocket for Solomon. Before I leave, Mother’s croak comes from the ground. “Two hours.”
I smile. “Two hours.” Then I crawl out of the hut. It’s silly giving the familiar valediction when neither of us relies on the Clocks anymore. Old habits die hard, I guess. At least she’s counting on my return.
I hope we’re gone only two hours.
As I head to the infirma
ry, I try wiggling my toes, but they feel thick and sausagey, sending painful zings into my foot. On my way, I find Dusten digging through one of the giant trash heaps.
“Hey, Dusten.”
He starts. “Oh, hi.”
“Why are you out here alone? Aren’t you cold?”
“I’m getting wood for a fire. Your Enforcer guy said we’d build a fire and then head to the projected Wall.”
I pull the collar of my shirt up over my nose with my bandaged hand. “You’re coming?” He nods. “I was about to do some jumping jacks to help me warm up for the walk. Want to join me?”
“That’s weird.”
I could take offense, but instead I laugh. “It’ll keep us warm.”
“Whatever.”
I do a few jumping jacks. It feels a little silly, especially since I’m winded after ten of them. “Come on.”
He rolls his eyes and joins in. We do some more jumping jacks, facing each other. I can’t help watching him do them. He watches me for an awkward jump or two, then laughs. I laugh.
We both stop jumping and laugh, avoiding each other’s eyes. I’m sure our humor is based on hysteria, but who cares? On impulse, I pull the half a potato from my pocket and hand it to him. “Here, have breakfast . . . dinner . . . whatever.” The sky is still bright. What time is it?
“Oh, thanks.”
We stand there a moment, staring at the stretch of Wall. “Maybe while we’re by the sea, we’ll get some penguins to eat. Or even a polar bear.”
“Idiot. Polar bears exist only at the North Pole.”
“Oh.” I look at my feet.
He swallows a chunk of potato with a grimace. “Besides, I don’t want to stay here long enough to cook a single meal. We need to get out of here.” His voice is fierce. “I need to do something. I know I’m going to die soon but . . . I can’t die here. Not here.”
I set my wrapped hand on his arm. “We’ll escape.”
He nods and takes another bite of potato. He chews for a very long time before managing what looks like a forced swallow. “Is Angelique coming?”
A Time to Speak Page 25