“We gotta run, folks. Everyone knows where we’re going. The hole is about a mile west of here. There are Troopers everywhere. Cleaners. It’s risky, but it’s our only hope. Go to the center. I love y’all. We’ll meet where it’s safe. And if we don’t…”
“We’ll meet on the other side,” they all say in unison. Then it’s silent inside the hall. The people trickle out in small groups of ten or fifteen. I move to the window near us and watch them run. The first group is out of sight when the second starts running out the door. It goes that way, a group leaving the hall every forty seconds-or however long it takes to get to the edge of some trees-then another goes.
Delilah pulls on my arm, her blonde curls falling around her dirty face. “Do you run a lot?” she asks. Her blue eyes are wide, awaiting my answer.
“I run sometimes,” I say. It’s true. Down the beach usually, when the morning air is salty and brisk. But lately, a lot more than that. “How old are you?”
“Seven,” she says, scrunching up her nose and looking back out the window. The next group is heading outside, still undetected. “I’m real fast. I’ve been goin’ since I was borned. My brother Benny taught me that there be two rules to survivin’.” She pauses and looks at me. “I can tell you if you want to know ‘em.”
I nod. She presses her lips together. “Rule one: Don’t stop runnin’. If a Trooper gets you, hit ‘em real hard and keep goin’. Don’t ever show ‘em where we hide, though-go anywhere else, but never stop if you’re bein’ tailed.”
I repeat it back to her. Never stop. Burly Guy calls for the next group. The Remnants around me start moving toward the door. “And the other?”
Delilah cocks her head to the right. “Run fast.” Benny calls her over, and she doesn’t look back at me until she’s at her brother’s side. Thorne’s arm brushes against mine as our group readies at the door. Run, run, run.
I should be good at that by now.
There’s a yell, and then people are pushing past me. Thorne practically pulls me out the door before I realize we’re out, and then I go, too. The shrill sound of the Cleaners is more vibrant out here in the open. Inside, I almost forgot the sound of them and the way the wind seemed to still and spiral at once. Outside, I can’t even pretend.
The pregnant woman is on the ground. She’s fallen only a few feet from us, and by the way Thorne looks at me, the way his eyes meet mine and dart away toward the woman, I know he wants to help her. People seem to be rushing around her, ignoring her even though she’s obviously injured. I move toward her, but Thorne reaches out for me.
“I’ll get her. You keep going. Stay on the mission.”
“I can help,” I say. I want to stay with him. The thought of him not making it is enough to paralyze me. What happens when a Cleaner takes you? Where do you end up? Do you even survive that?
Thorne shakes his head. “Together, right? Go. I promise I’ll find you,” he says to me.
I nod. I believe him. I want to believe him. He kisses me quickly, and then he’s gone. Swooping up the woman so she can lean against him while they walk quickly. He tosses me a look before he disappears from my sight. There’s a yell behind me about the Cleaners, and I turn to look while I run. They’re approaching at a rapid speed, sucking up trees and buildings and who knows what else as they move toward us. They’re close enough that they block out the afternoon sun, and I move faster.
But they’re not alone. Just as the last group exits, Troopers dressed in black uniforms, clutching shiny guns, jump out of trees. Appear in the air. Come from behind things. They’re everywhere. A sea of men in uniform. A black sea of death.
Don’t stop running. Delilah’s voice echoes in my head. I turn and take off as quickly as I can, trying to find Thorne or someone I recognize in the crowd of people. It’s impossible to see anything. The Cleaners move around us, blowing up dirt and leaves and debris. People are going in every direction.
Someone cuts my arm when they pass by, and I scream at the sudden pain. It’s a fluid movement, and then my arm is bleeding, drops falling into the trampled, dying grass. I trip, catch myself before I fall, and hear a scream. Somehow I hear her scream over the crying and the whirring shrill of the Cleaners, the breaking noise as it chomps up whatever it’s found. I hear the scream as if it’s tuned just for my ears. And then I see her being dragged behind some trees by a Trooper.
I’m not sure how I move against the fierce wind of the Cleaners-adrenaline, maybe-but my feet act as wings. All I know is I’m there, standing in front of a wooden house that’s held together by poles and beams. Delilah is with a Trooper, who’s bloodied and beaten and probably not in his right mind. Not if he’s cornered a child with a knife. Surely, he won’t kill her. Surely. She’s crying, begging him, trying to wriggle out from his grasp.
“Let her go!” I shout. He looks at me, confused. She’s still fighting his hold on her. “Please let her go.” I squeeze my good hand around the wound on my arm. It’s a deep cut, but not to the bone.
He does it. He lets her go, just like that. I step toward him, and then he falls over, dead.
Benny stands behind the dead Trooper and pulls Delilah into his arms. I look down at the fallen Trooper, and when I look up again, Benny and Delilah are gone.
I run back to the main path, where the Remnants are still rushing toward the hole. Cleaners screech in the air, covering the sun and making it look darker. I watch them, searching and waiting. For what, I don’t know. The whistling pauses before a Remnant gets sucked up into the air toward the Cleaner. His screams aren’t heard, but his limbs fly around, trying to find land again, and then he disappears inside the tube. There’s a chomping sound. Someone else is dead.
I need to find Thorne. All the Remnants are running toward the center, toward the hole, so I follow them and push everyone and everything out of my mind. I don’t want to see them being hurt around me. I just want to find Thorne and get out of this.
From the corner of my eye, I see him. I think it’s Thorne. I yell his name, know he can feel me through the connection, but then the figure disappears. As does another person. It’s the entrance into the underground, and I’ve made it.
It’s only forty feet away. That’s nothing. I let myself smile. This part of the nightmare is almost over.
Then something pierces me, and I fall to the ground and scream.
A sharp pain courses through my leg. A Trooper steps into my vision, looking down at me. I’m crying and screaming, I know I am. Searing fire burns through my muscles, and it’s all I can think about. I see the Trooper’s gun. I pull my hand from my wound, and it’s covered in thick blood. The Trooper is over me, and he repositions his gun to my head.
I wonder if this is dying, if this was always the way it was supposed to end. I stare up at the Trooper. There’s something about the way his nose curves and the point of his chin that reminds me of my father.
There’s a sharp blow to my head, and everything is dark.
10 MONTHS BEFORE ESCAPE
THE SKY IS DARK TODAY, which is fitting since there’s a funeral. They don’t happen often since the dead aren’t celebrated in the Compound; they are barely remembered. There are stories that the dead used to get whole days to be remembered, have parties and dances. We don’t do that. We have a simple service held four times a year for all those who have died-unless it’s someone important to the Compound, like a director, and then we have it immediately. Our funeral services are the same for everyone-the people gather on the beach, men in black, women in white. The names of the deceased are stated, and the survivors toss ashes in the sea. Then we all move on.
My father is home today, waiting for me to dress. There are few occasions lately that we go out into the Compound together, and aside from our weekly dinner, I rarely see him anymore. He’s never here. But this is a big event in the Compound, an act of unity and oneness, so we must appear to be a picture of father and daughter. He is the director, the leader of everything and the example. I am expecte
d to be at his side.
Father knocks on my door.
“Come along, Cornelia. Even the dead don’t like waiting.”
I glance at myself in the mirror and open the door. My father’s eyes-blue like mine, the only thing I got from him besides his stubbornness-are wide as if he’s seeing a ghost. We stand there in silence until he clears his throat. He walks toward the door without saying a word, and whatever is going on with him, I hope it ends soon.
Outside, the sky is overwhelmed with darkness. Around me, people are stirring. Little houses are busy with life. Children cry, and smoke from hearths billows up toward the sky. House after house is the same.
As we walk through the center of town, a little boy named Jacob runs past us, his black pants covered with specks of gray from the gravel dust. His mother yells after him, but Jacob doesn’t stop. Not until he sees my father. Then he freezes, and his chest heaves.
“Jacob Teem,” my father says. His voice is rough and loud. It’s always rough and loud lately. “I believe your mother is calling for you. Tell me, Jacob, what is the punishment in your household for disobeying your parents?”
Jacob’s eyes expand three sizes. He gulps, and the freckles on his face seem to dance in trembling fear. “Director, sir, we must spend the day on trash duty throughout the Compound for each account.”
My father nods. “How many times did she yell your name?”
Jacob doesn’t answer. My father bends down toward him, and I swear the boy is about to pee his pants. Father whispers in the boy’s ear. With a nod, Jacob flees from us and back to his mother. I hear her say his name in the tone that mothers get. I’ve heard Sara’s voice change that way many times.
“What did you say to him?” I ask.
My father stands, straightens his shirt, and we walk on before he answers. “I told him the Elders were looking at his records, and if he continues to disobey, they would send him North to be a servant.”
“Father!” I say.
He doesn’t even look at me. “He will listen now. These are the cards we must play to teach the children right and wrong.”
“But you’re scaring him. How does a child running constitute a warning such as that? Since when is running forbidden? You aren’t teaching him. You’re threatening him.”
Father stops and looks at me. His face is contorted and red, very unusual for the way he’s always so composed. I miss his smile. Where is his smile? “I will not have my own daughter questioning my authority in public or in private. You should learn to tame your tongue, Cornelia. It will get you into trouble.”
And then, he keeps walking. I inhale and push away my anger before following him like a good little girl. If he can act like this, then I can too.
Thorne’s family is already on the beach when we arrive. Sara waves as I walk by, and I smile back at her.
“Cornelia,” Father says. He waves me over, and I join him toward the front of the forming crowd.
The head of each family lines up along the edge of the ocean. Silver urns glisten under the sunlight. I know all these people. Sam the grocer. Hank the mill worker. Henry the Healer-in-training. Jane the teacher. There are about sixteen dead to name today. We haven’t had a ceremony since the winter.
The matron has already stood up in front of us to begin the service when I see him saunter up. Xenith Taylor is dressed in black, head to toe, and carrying his father’s urn from a few months ago. The matron gives him a disapproving look, and then she continues with her ceremonial words.
Xenith catches me staring, and I look away toward the water.
DEADLINE: 23D, 8H, 54M
SOMEWHERE OUTSIDE THE EL PASO CAMP
I NEED WATER. I pointlessly run my tongue over the cracks on my lips and reach out for Thorne, but my hand hits the ground. That’s when I remember. I’m with the Remnants, and we’re running from the Cleaners. My heart races, and I freeze with panic, waiting for the sound of them-the shrill whirring or chomping, the sound of death and crying. There’s nothing.
My head is spinning before I even sit up all the way. There’s a hot, thick liquid on my left arm that reminds me of the sand when it’s wet and warm.
Where’s Thorne?
I survey the empty place. No, not empty-the Trooper who shot me is here. He’s dead. Blood seeps from a gaping wound in his head. There are other bodies, too-children and men and women-but Thorne is nowhere near me.
I need to find Thorne.
I stand, a sharp pain piercing through my body, and the sky above me is moving so quickly that the dark clouds seem to dance. I look around as the breeze picks up. The trees billow in the wind and my stomach churns with my surroundings, but I don’t dare close my eyes. If I do, I will fall over and never stand again.
There’s a pull through the connection, a dull throbbing that’s familiar and diluted. It felt that way before-when Thorne was far away and I was pretending to be dead, hiding out with Xenith-and it would seep through despite the block. He’s in pain; I can feel that, too-the pressure of worry and anxiety and fear. I’ve felt it before when my father tortured him, and it’s not a forgettable emotion. Thorne must be nearby.
Each step is a thousand knives in my body, but his pain is undeniable. He’s here somewhere.
I move slowly, past pools of blood and too many bodies sleeping on the ground. Sleeping. They have to be sleeping. Pretending they are asleep makes this easier, something other than the bloodbath that it was. Sleep is not as final as death. Death that I caused by coming here when the Elders are obviously tracking us. Tracking me.
After a few feet, I pass another dead Trooper. There’s a shimmer of metal in his hand. I lean down and notice that he’s probably just a little older than me. How did the Elders get to him so young? Where did he come from? Did he have a family?
His eyes are open, bloodshot red with dark brown irises. I pry the gun out of his cold, stiff fingers, which stay in position, still clutching a phantom weapon. I close his eyes before I move away from him and toward the hole in the center of the field, toward where Thorne could be.
Everything is my fault. Because I killed my mother. Because my father is insane. Because I loved Thorne. Because of the secrets.
My arm is crimson, and my stomach lumps as I step over a body. The blood from my arm drips on her. Her. A girl that looks younger than me. I step over her like trash.
Because I escaped. Because he followed me.
I am so close to the hole, to where the connection is leading me. It’s only a few more steps before I see a man on the ground and hope it’s not him. That it’s someone else.
Because I am selfish.
I wipe my hands on my tattered pants and cover my eyes with my hand. As if all of this will be gone when I look again. But it isn’t. Choices have been made and can’t be undone. This field littered with dead is all the proof we need that the Elders are somehow following me. So many people have died for me on this journey. People I can never thank or know or repay.
I bend down to the dead man. I try not to look at his eyes or his shape. Or the color of his hair that matches Thorne’s. I look for one thing.
My hands find his neck, and I try to wipe it clean. The blood is dried already, caked to his skin like it never wants to leave his body. Heart racing, I peel it off with my fingernails, and the dried pieces become part of me. His skin is soft, like Thorne’s, but cold with death.
I look down, and there is nothing. Just skin-creamy, perfect, white skin. There is no branding. It is not Thorne. I half-cry and half-scream. I’m thrilled that someone else has died who’s not Thorne.
It’s not Thorne.
But I was still led to a man who isn’t Thorne. I still feel the connection pulsing through me. The pressure in my head and the nausea in my stomach tells me that he’s alive and nearby. I ease myself back to my feet and start to move away. The ground shifts, bounces. I freeze. Step. Another shift. I lower myself to the ground again, searching for something. I’m not sure what until my fingers find a cr
evasse. They slide into it, and the ground moves up. It’s a door.
I slip my hands under the dead guy’s stiff body so I can move him off the door. I push him and scream as my arm stretches and the blood flows. The dead guy has barely moved, but I try again.
Heat rises within me, and everything feels off- center.
When I’m calm enough to move, I try to push the guy with my legs. I pound and pound at the door. Thorne’s name tears through my throat. Again and again it burns my tongue, tasting of desperation and despair. I’m so close to him, yet I can’t reach him.
I can’t move the guy off the door. He budges a little, but not enough.
I’ll never get to Thorne.
I’m going to die out here.
Then I hear voices, and someone pounds back up at me through the door. I yell, but I’m not sure what I say. Exhausted, I curl up on the ground. Noises move under me and around me. Everything is spinning. Green and red and blue whirl in my brain, and I can’t separate the colors.
“This is her?” a voice calls.
“She’s injured,” a different voice says. “Get her inside.”
Hands are on me, voices grow around me, everything is fuzzy, and someone says, “You’re safe now.”
Safe.
11 DAYS BEFORE ESCAPE
“YOU’RE SAFE, NEELY. Open your eyes. It’s okay. You’re safe.” I stare directly into Xenith’s cobalt eyes, and get lost in them. It feels as if I just saw him yesterday.
“Take a breath,” Xenith says.
I do, and the air fills my lungs quickly. I gasp it in again, fill up with it, and then cough out the air I’ve craved so much. The last thing I breathed was water.
My hand squeezes his as I inhale, slowly this time. He’s staring at me intensely, so innocent and concerned. I keep gasping, even though I can breathe now. It was just a dream. A nightmare.
Xenith strokes my hair. My head is pounding. How long have I been asleep? I’m on Xenith’s couch, so that means the plan worked and they saved me. He and Kai did it. It worked; I’m dead.
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