by Susan Kim
Without knowing why, Silas felt a stab of dread for the boy.
Meanwhile, a slow procession had emerged on the fourth floor and was making its way down. Dozens of females cloaked like the boys in black or white crowded the staircase, covering their faces, bowing, as they chanted loudly. They appeared to be following someone. But although Silas strained his eyes, he could not make out who it was.
By the time the ensemble made it to the ground floor, all of the boys had crowded forward to join them, if at a distance. Silas went with them, uncomfortably aware that everyone around him had a strained, expectant expression, their faces reverent. The person at the head of the group, a tiny figure draped in black, picked its way across the marble floor of the giant atrium to what Silas knew had once been a fountain. It climbed inside the large tiled receptacle, now empty of water, then turned to face everyone as it took a seat on the fanciful structure inside, pushing back its hood as it did so.
With a start, Silas realized it was Saith. He could not believe that the little girl he and Esther had rescued from the streets of Mundreel had become what she was rumored to be. And with this comprehension came the sudden understanding of what the people around him were chanting:
“Forgive us, Saith. Clean us, Saith. Heal us, Saith. Save us, Saith.”
With her newly shaved head and air of total authority, Saith was almost unrecognizable. Yet she still had the same sharp features and huge black eyes that, even now, seemed to be trained on him.
Silas shrank back, glad he was heavily cloaked. Still he made certain to cover his face with his hands as he continued to bow and move his lips in time with the others. After a few moments, he noticed that, in fact, Saith hadn’t noticed him at all; her eyes had moved past him. With a pang, he realized she was staring at the boy who stood behind the crowd, the one with the child’s mind. For Silas was certain that he was the only one not bowing, chanting, and giving thanks to Saith.
As if she could hear his thoughts, Saith frowned. She gave some sort of signal, for at once one of her guards came forward and inclined his head so he could hear. Without averting her gaze, the girl addressed him. Then the hulking boy nodded.
Through his half-shut eyes, Silas could sense rather than see that two other guards began to circle the group. Still bowing and chanting Saith’s name, Silas inched his way back; he wanted to see what was going to happen next. Within moments he became aware of a small commotion in the back of the central hallway. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the guards walking away with the simple boy, whom they held between them. Seemingly unaware of what was going on, he continued to laugh and play with his fingers.
On an impulse, Silas made a decision.
By now, the devotions had ended. Saith had begun receiving individual followers: They approached one at a time, lay facedown on the ground before her, then murmured to her in soft and urgent voices.
Silas took advantage of the moment to break away. He knew the layout of the District better than anyone; from where the guards were walking, he assumed they were heading to the hidden staircase that lay at the far end of the main floor. Making certain not to draw attention to himself, Silas found his way to the metal door and slipped inside the dark stairwell.
Although it was pitch-black, Silas could hear the sounds of the guards and their prisoner high above him, echoing down through the seemingly airless shaft, and he put on speed until he was only a level below them. They all continued upward, flight after flight. Finally, they stopped; by Silas’s count, they were on the seventh floor. There was a clunk of the door being pushed open. Then he could hear the guards stepping out, dragging the younger boy with them.
Silas climbed the final steps and waited for several seconds in the dark. Then he too pressed open the metal bar that opened the door and stepped out into the hallway.
The layout was exactly the same as the hall where he lived: a square passageway with sleek wooden doors on one side and windows looking down on the atrium below on the other. Silas could see the guards on the far side of the hall, through the panes of glass. He dropped down so he wouldn’t be noticed. Then he darted forward at a crouch until he made it to the corner. He took a quick peek: No one was there. As he crept down the corridor, he could hear the guards more clearly as he drew near. When he reached the next corner, he pressed himself against the wall and willed his heart to stop pounding.
He was no more than a stone’s throw away. The three boys had stopped in front of the twin silver panels with the vertical seams that stood in the same place on every level. “The elevators,” Joseph called them. Unlike the rest of the immaculate beige hallway, the rug beneath their feet was blackened and filthy.
“But he a baby,” one of the guards was saying. He had pushed his hood from his face; he was perhaps fifteen, with brown hair and snub-nosed features. “When my sister alive, she the same way.”
He was speaking of their prisoner, who sat on the dirty ground between them. Using his finger, the boy traced pictures in a tiny patch of clean carpet before rubbing them out and starting over again.
“Her orders.”
“But he ain’t no harm.”
The other one shrugged. “She don’t want that in the District no more.”
Silas became aware of the sound of the boy’s breathing: noisy and through his mouth. This got the guards’ attention as well.
“Better get it done, then,” the first one said. He sounded resigned.
The second guard pulled something from beneath his robe. Silas realized the object was a gun. He leaned over the boy who sat between them, absorbed in his game.
Then he shot him once in the temple.
Silas squeezed his eyes shut. Trembling, he could taste the bile rising in his throat and he willed himself not to vomit.
A noise made him look around the corner again. One of the guards was using a crowbar to pry apart a set of silver panels as the other held the dead boy by the ankles. The first one gazed through the doorway of the partly open elevator. Even from where he stood, Silas winced at the terrible smell that filled the air.
“Ready?”
Together, they half dragged and half pushed the body over the threshold. The twin doors weren’t fully open; an arm snagged on one and the boys had to kick and maneuver it free. A few seconds later, Silas thought he could feel the faint thump as the body hit the ground floors below. Then the two guards, working together, managed to slide the elevator panels shut again.
“I need a drink,” the first one said.
“Proof? Ain’t it gone?”
“I got some hid.”
Both wiped their hands on their robes and clapped them to remove dust and blood. Then they headed back toward the staircase.
Silas had already retreated in the opposite direction, disappearing around the corner just before the guards appeared. He crouched low a few feet away from the door, his heart thundering in his thin chest.
After he heard the bang of the door shutting and the lumbering steps fade away down the stairwell, Silas girded himself. Then he stood up and moved out into the hall.
He walked quickly, trying not to think. At the elevators, he stopped.
The guards had forgotten their crowbar, which lay at his feet. Silas picked it up and, with difficulty, inserted its sharp edge inside the seam of the second set of panels, the way he had seen the other boy do. By rocking the heavy tool back and forth, he was able to work the doors open a few inches. As he pulled one of the panels open even farther, the blinding stench hit him so hard his eyes and nose began to water. Feeling in his pocket for a firestarter, Silas clicked the tiny wheel with trepidation. Then holding it out as far as he could, he leaned over and attempted to peer down into the darkness.
“Hey!”
As Silas whirled around, he saw one of the guards standing at the far end of the corridor. The crowbar, he realized with a sinking heart. The boy was already fumbling in his robes for what Silas knew was his gun.
It was impossible to run. S
ilas could already hear the other guard coming around the other direction to cut off any escape.
In desperation, Silas tried to fling the iron tool at his assailant. It was far too heavy for his thin arms and clattered against the wall instead. Yet the guard instinctively quailed, his arm against his face, and this bought Silas precious seconds.
Silas turned to the elevator. He had a sense of what horrors lay in its depths, and the thought of it filled him with dread. Yet he had no other choice.
Leaping through the doors into the foul darkness, Silas dropped like a stone. Behind him, he heard the gun go off.
As Esther gathered the third load of dirty bedding, she paused to push the hair back from her eyes.
Silas had not returned the night before. Nor had he shown up that morning to help her on the sick floor. Alone, Esther brought the sheets and blankets up to the roof garden and added them to the giant metal tub kept in the corner for much-needed washing; thanks to the recent heavy rains, there was enough water to boil for laundry. She was glad for her usual chores—gardening, fixing a broken pane of glass, helping Michal and Skar pound dried beans into flour. They were a welcome distraction. Yet as the hours passed, her anxiety about the boy grew.
After the midday meal, Esther drew Skar aside to speak in private. She had told her friend about Silas’s mission the day before.
“Any sign of him?” Skar asked.
“Nothing,” Esther said.
Esther tried to cling to hope, for although he was young, Silas was clever and resourceful. Every time the door to the roof banged open or she heard a footfall in the corridor, she looked up, her heart pounding. Yet as the afternoon deepened and the sun grew low in the sky, there was still no sign of the boy. After dinner, Esther was supposed to teach the evening classes. Yet her mind was not on her work and she stumbled over the simple lesson she was giving the few Outsiders who had shown up.
Uri had been reading, unnoticed, in a corner of the library; now he came forward.
“Why don’t you rest?” he whispered to her. “I’ll take over.”
Esther’s initial impulse was to retreat to the dark stairwell, as she often did when she needed to think or had trouble sleeping. Yet it brought back unsettling memories—not of Trey, but of Aras. She shook off the feeling and on an impulse, headed to the eighth floor, a level below.
The corridor was dark and silent. Moonlight spilled in through the corner windows, forming gleaming pools on the carpet and reflecting off the interior windows that looked out on the dark District. As Esther paced around the rectangular hallway, she found that her thoughts kept returning to her former partner.
For weeks, she had made peace with the thought of him with another girl. Aras had moved on with his life; now she was attempting to move on with hers.
So why did he feel so close to her tonight?
Esther’s bare feet were silent as she made her way along the soft beige carpet, leaving a trail of faint impressions. She closed her eyes as she walked; with her arms extended to either side, she let her fingers brush the walls, guiding her. It was as if she too were blind like him, she thought. And the more she thought of him, the more she sensed him materialize as a ghostly presence behind her. She could almost feel the softness of his breath on the back of her neck, the warmth of his hand as he reached out to touch her.
To warn her?
Esther’s eyes popped open. She could hear it now: a faint cry that seemed to arise from the building itself. It was not a dream. In front of her, the silver panels of the twin elevators shone in the dim light. She leaned forward. Then she pressed her ear against the smooth metal surface and listened.
And she heard it again.
It sounded far away; there was no way of telling whether or not it was even human. For a moment, Esther picked in vain at the sealed doors; then she gave up in frustration. Whoever it was lay far below her, many floors down. She would have to descend to the mall to find out who or what it was.
Esther was halfway down when she hesitated. She could not go alone.
Skar was in her room with Michal, preparing to retire for the night. But when she saw Esther, she got up without speaking and slipped her knife into her pocket. From their bed, Michal watched them both, her face drawn with concern.
“Don’t worry,” said Skar in a soft voice. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.” She bent down to kiss Michal before joining Esther in the hall.
The girls leaped down the stairs, taking entire landings in each bound. Skar said nothing, but matched her friend stride for stride in the darkness.
The two girls emerged on the deserted main floor. Moonlight streamed down through the skylight far overhead, throwing deep shadows.
“That way,” Esther whispered. Skar nodded and the two ran across the hall and down the twin staircase that led to the basement. After the smoothness of the dusty marble floor, the sharply grooved steps cut into the soles of their bare feet. Then they picked their way across the food court, surrounded on all sides by the soft sounds of boys sleeping, and toward the back corridor where the elevators lay.
Esther approached the two sets of metal panels. Even though they were tightly shut, the stench wafting from them was overwhelming and the air was filled with a distant hum. When she lit a firestarter and held it up, Esther saw that blackened rot seeped from both seams and spread onto the floor.
Skar was already working at one of the doors with her knife. By jamming the blade in and pushing it back and forth, she was able to separate the metal slabs a little bit. It was enough room for both girls to slip their fingers in. As the noise and smell increased, the two girls tried to force the elevator open. Pulling with all of their might, they managed to slide one of the doors open.
Inside was a nightmare come to life.
Dozens of lifeless bodies were packed together in the bottom of a dark shaftway. Freed from their prison, they now spilled out into the hallway at the girls’ feet. The humming sound was that of thousands of flies buzzing everywhere.
Esther recoiled, her hands to her mouth. Behind her, she heard Skar’s breath quicken.
“Help.” The voice came from somewhere higher up. It was little more than a croak, but Esther knew it belonged to Silas.
“He’s still alive,” Skar said, her tone practical.
“Can you move?” Esther whispered to him.
“Yeah.” Silas’s voice was louder. “My legs hurt. But I’m all right.”
The two girls glanced at each other in the flickering light. Then, swallowing hard, Esther clicked it off. Without speaking, they both knew that what they had to do would be easier in the dark.
First, Esther tore off strips of cloth from the bottom of her T-shirt, which both girls tied around their mouths and noses. Then they crouched down side by side and began pulling bodies out of the way.
It was horrific, yet the darkness made it seem abstract, as if it were happening in a dream. Esther tried to touch only fabric, robes that were dried and stiff with what she knew was blood. As they pulled, it tore in their hands, yet bodies began to slide out into the hallway, making the job easier.
Esther yanked on whatever she could grasp that didn’t feel human: belts, T-shirts, jeans. Once, her hands closed on a limb that was soft and rotting; clamping her lips together so she wouldn’t cry out, she adjusted her grip so she was holding only the baggy denim around it. The air was filled with the sounds of fabric shredding and bodies sliding and landing on the ground with a thump. More than once, pieces of clothing tore off in Esther’s hand. At least two of them felt like partnering ties.
Throughout, Esther clung to the one thought that made it bearable: Silas was still alive. Were it not for that one hope, she felt she might go mad.
At long last, Esther heard something move above her. It reached out and struck her; by instinct, she grabbed it. It was a foot, blessedly moving and alive.
“I got him,” she whispered. Together, she and Skar pulled the boy free. He slid down the bodies strewn in the corri
dor and landed on the floor before them.
Esther took out her firestarter and clicked it to make sure he was all right. The boy looked pitiful: His face was bruised and one of his eyes was swollen. Yet he was alive. That was all that mattered.
“We must go,” said Skar. “Someone will have heard us.”
She had put one arm around Silas; together, they were already heading back the way they had come. Esther was about to extinguish the light and join them when her eye fell on something.
It was not a body. No, this was something that had dropped to the side, a strip of blue cloth she had torn from one of the dead.
It was fabric from a shirt.
The same shirt she had given to Aras.
Esther bent and picked it up, but her mind struggled to grasp the meaning of it. Even after she clicked off the firestarter, the pattern of the cloth stuttered and repeated in her brain like an obvious message she still could not understand.
By now, Skar and Silas had already made it to the foot of the dual stairs. Her friend hissed a warning at Esther to hurry up, yet Esther heard her as if through a fog. Thoughts whirled through her head as she tried to make sense of it all.
But there was no time to understand what had happened.
The glow of an approaching torch lit the hall, throwing ghastly light on the pile of dead.
“Esther!”
Gideon was flanked by three guards, one of whom held a gun.
Fingering the shirt fragment, Esther felt as if her life were draining out of her. For when she heard Gideon’s voice—the boy she had nearly partnered with—everything clicked into place.
What the girl Nur told her had been a lie.
Aras had not left her for someone else. He was dead.
Gideon had killed him and hidden his body.