by Sagine Jean
Darkness
Survive
Written by Sagine Jean
Copyright © 2018 by Abdo Consulting Group, Inc.
Published by EPIC Press™
PO Box 398166
Minneapolis, MN 55439
All rights reserved.
Printed in the United States of America.
International copyrights reserved in all countries.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher. EPIC Press™ is trademark and logo of Abdo Consulting Group, Inc.
Cover design by Christina Doffing
Images for cover art obtained from iStockPhoto.com
Edited by Rue Moran
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Names: Jean, Sagine, author.
Title: Darkness / by Sagine Jean.
Description: Minneapolis, MN: EPIC Press, 2018. | Series: Survive
Summary: Two teens, high school senior Sydney and rookie cop Will, must work together to find Sydney’s autistic younger brother. But the most violent hurricane in New York’s history leaves them stranded in a labyrinth of subway tunnels.
Identifiers: LCCN 2016962939 | ISBN 9781680767315 (lib. bdg.)
| ISBN 9781680767872 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Disasters—Fiction. | Missing children—Fiction. | Survival—Fiction.
| Adventure and adventurers—Fiction. | Young adult fiction.
Classification: DDC [Fic]—dc23
LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2016962939
This digital document has been produced by Nord Compo.
To Mom, Dad, and Marven, for giving me the courage to dream
BEFORE MY FATHER LEFT US FOR HIS SECRETARY , he told me three words I’ll never forget. And no, they weren’t “I love you.” The man would rather choke on his own blood than get sentimental—which I guess makes two of us.
And besides, a simple, generic “I love you” would never have helped as much as what he really said. He had kneeled down so he could look me in the eyes. “When you look someone in the eyes,” he always said, “they can’t just pretend that they never heard you.” I’d wanted to look away, but he held my chin tightly in his grip and watched me as I squirmed.
“Stay tough, Syd.” That’d been it. He’d torn my life apart, and that was the closest thing to an apology I’d ever get. And, well, I took it. I held on to it the way little kids hold on to blankets and grown men to booze because “Stay tough, Syd” was everything. “Stay tough, Syd” was a promise, an omen, a war cry in the dark. It meant protect your brother, watch out for your mom, be the tough one. “Stay tough, Syd,” meant that I was strong, that I’d always been strong, and the only way to deal with all the crap that my dad and the world were going to throw at me was to stay that way.
So that’s what I did.
I took my father’s advice, and when he walked out, I slammed the door in his face and didn’t look back. Not once.
The rain started at about nine a.m. and didn’t let up until a quarter past five. Even now, the city is soaked in the kind of heavy wet air that only comes before a storm. Since the weekend, everyone on the news has been saying it’s going to be a big one—bigger than Hurricane Sandy had been. They keep saying, “Stay in your homes. Only leave if your mom’s in the hospital or the old lady who lives downstairs tries to set your building on fire again”—serious stuff like that.
But trying to tell New Yorkers to stay home is like trying to tell God not to raise the sun in the morning—both are too stubborn to listen. Outside my window, I can already see people shaking off rain from their umbrellas and resuming dinner plans that they probably only canceled this morning. People and cars fly past my street, lighting up the evening in streaks and blurs of color, dancing over puddles and water droplets. Looking at everyone now, you would never know that it rained a whole ocean in about a day’s time. But what little is left of the sun is out now, and New Yorkers wouldn’t be New Yorkers if they didn’t take advantage of opportunities.
“Sydney, are you even listening?” I look back at my phone, shocked to find it in my hand and the screen lighting up with the name “Ezra.” No, I hadn’t been. I’d completely forgotten that I was on the phone, let alone in the middle of a conversation with my boyfriend.
I turn away from my window.
“Yeah, yeah, course. Something about the band, right?”
“Of course something about the band! Damn it, Sydney, you promised. You looked me in the eye and you said ‘Ezra, I’ll be there.’ Sydney, it’s our first paying gig!”
“Ezra, the hurricane warning . . . ”
“What hurricane? Half the city is out tonight; check the news again. There is no storm; those jerks got it wrong.”
I tilt the phone away and groan loudly into my pillow.
Ezra’s not like me. He’s only about a year or two older but he’s the kind of guy that grew up in some swanky sheltered neighborhood in downtown Brooklyn, with a lawyer dad and a doctor mom. He’s got more money than Ma, Sammy, or I’d know what to do with. Instead of . . . I don’t know . . . going to college or something, Ezra spends his allowance on four-hundred-dollar leather pants and bribing clubs and cafés to let him and his mediocre band play. He says it’s the price for exposure. I just think it’s an excuse not to spend any time actually getting good.
“Sydney, this isn’t just some rehearsal you can show up to whenever you feel like it. This is the rest of my life!” I try not to roll my eyes as I get out of bed and put on a raincoat—because well, you never know.
“I’ll be there, I just have to take Sammy with me. My mom’s asleep so . . . ”
“Honestly, Sydney, you are the most selfish person I’ve ever met.”
I can picture him now, dark hair gelled back and a pout on his face that threatens to disrupt the careful makeup he’s just applied. I lean against the doorframe to my bedroom, delighting a little in being another couple minutes late.
“And who are you,” I ask, “Mother Teresa?”
It’d be a waste of both my time and his if I have to explain to him why I won’t be on time, and lately picking fights with Ezra is easier—and frankly more fun—than actually talking to him.
“Just be there, okay? Let your mom take care of Sammy for once.”
I pause for a moment, half out the door of my room, wondering if I’d imagined the edge of concern in his voice.
“It’s not that easy. She’s got work in the morning and—”
“I don’t care, Sydney. Things can’t be all about you! What about my life? All you worry about is your stupid kid brother!”
If I could reach through the phone and kick him in the face, I would.
“Hey look, the last place I want to be is in Midtown, cheering you on like some—”
He’s already hung up and I’m sure I’ve screamed loud enough to wake up both my mom and Sammy from their naps.
Sure enough, Sam comes padding out of his room in a rumpled T-shirt and shorts. “Syd?” he says, his voice a little croaky from sleep.
“Hey, Sammy-jams. Wanna go get dressed? I’ll take you over to Kathy’s.” Kathy is one of the few people I’m close to. She is nice and I trust her enough to leave her alone with Sammy.
Sammy rubs sleep from his eyes with a chubby little fist. He’s got dad’s blue eyes, so it’s always a little hard to look at him at first—too many reminders. But I’m getting used to it.
“Why can’t I stay here? With you and mom?” He’s cranky; he hates being woken up from naps. It messes up the carefully organized routine he’s used to. Sammy likes schedules, and any little disruption can send him into full panic mode. I open up my arms and he steps into them like he’s done a thousand times before. I’m the only person
he lets hug him like this, so it makes me squeeze him a little tighter. Even though he’s seven now, he still smells like a baby—all talcum powder and dewy skin.
“Sorry bud, I’m going out. And, well, Mom’s . . . You know how she is in the afternoon. Especially when she’s got back-to-back shifts in the hospital.”
He nods, and I can see how sad he is. He’s probably thinking about how other kids don’t need babysitters when their moms are at home. He’s probably thinking about Dad, and why he doesn’t have one. Or maybe me, and wondering why I’m such a screw-up. Hell, who knows what Sammy’s ever thinking. His blue eyes are too sharp for a seven year old, and I swear they hide galaxies behind them.
The hug seems to do the trick for the moment, and he’s calm enough that he doesn’t make too much of a fuss when I make him pack up his stuff and head out the door.
“Did you know that some species of bird don’t let their chicks leave the nest until they’re fully adults?” Sammy says, rhythmically squeezing my hand to the beat of some unheard song.
“No Sams, I didn’t,” I say absentmindedly, as I pull him through a throng of people. It’s getting dark out and the air outside is still heavy and wet, but lower Manhattan is as crowded as it would be on a sunny summer day. Even with the supposed storm of the century lurking on the horizon of this night, everyone and their mother seems to be clamoring to get inside the Fourteenth Street station. It takes everything in me not to flip the bird to a guy that nearly knocks Sammy and me off the stairs.
“It’s because they have a greater chance of survival once they reach full maturity,” Sammy says, tugging on my rain jacket until I have no choice but to turn away from the turnstile and look at him.
While I look like my mother—Puerto Rican and all curves—Sammy is blue-eyed and blond just like my dad. Still, he’s nothing like the man that left us when he was just a baby. Sammy lives on facts and truths about the world that you can only find in textbooks and nature documentaries. And even though he’ll never convey emotion by saying he’s sad, happy, or wishes that he saw our mom more often, you can always tell what he’s feeling through the facts he lets you in on. The more persistent he is about them, the more agitated he usually is.
“Listen Sammy,” I say, putting a hand on his shoulder. “I can drop you off at Kathy’s, or you can come with me. It’s only one hour, and you know if mom could take a night off to spend with you she would, but she’s gotta work.”
He looks at me, his steely blue eyes turning my question over in his mind.
“Kathy talks too much,” he says, and that’s that. I stifle the urge to laugh. Kathy and I have been friends since we were little. We aren’t terribly close but I trust her, even with Sammy. The kid is right, though. She could talk forever.
“Alright, then. We’re only gonna be at the concert for an hour. You can play on my phone the whole time and put in your earplugs if it gets too loud. Or close your eyes, even. But right now you gotta give me your hand, babe, our train’s coming.”
Finally he agrees and we board the F train toward Sixty-Third for Ezra’s concert. I swear this boy must owe me a fortune for all the metro cards I’ve spent hauling my butt uptown for him.
The rain starts falling again in light drizzles as Sammy and I climb out of the subway. The train took a little longer than usual to get us here, but we’re only about ten minutes late. We should be fine . . . I hope.
Thick drops cling to my jacket and hair as I pull Sammy toward Sixtieth Street and the Avalon Café, where Ezra and his band are performing.
“Did you know that your chance of dying increases when you go out past eight?” says Sammy, and I sigh. Jeez, for a seven-year-old, the kid is more morbid than an old lady in hospice.
“I know you want to go home, Sams. Alright? We’ll be out in an—” I start, but my phone buzzes and I look down to see all the texts I’ve missed since we’ve been underground. Ugh. Curse subways and their lack of cell service.
Glad you’re actually coming this time.
Get here soon.
Hurry! You’re gonna miss my set!
Come. NOW!!!!
What the hell Sydney?? Where are you???
All five delayed texts are from Ezra. Finally my phone chimes again, revealing another final text from Ezra that I missed.
Don’t even bother coming. I’m done.
My brain’s telling me that it’s just Ezra being dramatic as usual, but my heart is racing. He’s done? His set is five songs long—he shouldn’t be done this quickly. Unless . . . unless he’s not talking about his set. Unless he’s talking about us.
My heart skips a beat.
I’ve dated Ezra for almost a year now and never has he told me to not bother coming to one of his gigs. I run my hands through my hair in frustration. It hasn’t always been like this. Ezra used to make me laugh; he used to make me lie in my bed at night and dream about all the things I wanted to say to him the next time we met. I liked that we were different; I liked that his world was full of music and four hundred-dollar pants and worry-free thoughts. No kid brothers, working moms, and absentee dads. He didn’t have to stay tough for anyone. Most importantly, I didn’t have to stay tough for him.
I race toward Sixtieth, Sammy in tow, flying through the rain with my dark hair tumbling behind me.
I get to Avalon and see that Ezra was right. His set is over. I watch through the windows as his bandmates pack up, putting guitars back in their cases, turning off amps. I take a step toward the door when finally I see her. Perky and pretty with long red hair and flawless skin. I see Ezra, off to the side, whispering in her ear, letting his band do all the grunt work.
I should stop this. I should run in and say something, but it’s too late. He pulls her hips close to his and kisses her, and not like they just met. Like they’ve done it once and again and a thousand times before.
And as I watch him cheat on me in this cafe, I realize that we were doomed from the start—even before this kiss. He’s always been selfish. That was why things between us weren’t like they used to be. Because Ezra is worry-free, careless, and he spends four hundred dollars on leather pants and kisses other girls when his girlfriend doesn’t come at his beck and call.
I should be relieved—and I guess a part of me is. The end of Ezra and me has been coming for weeks, months even. This just cements things.
Relief isn’t the emotion that swells inside of me as I see Ezra’s hands on this girl. It’s rage that’s pouring into me, lighting me up and making me want to scream and tear him apart limb from limb.
This dude just stepped out on the wrong girl.
I’m ready to yank the door to the cafe open when I hear Sammy at my side.
“Did you know that if kids go to bed by eight they do better in school?” he asks, and I pull myself away from the door. I can’t cause a scene with Sammy here. The commotion would be too much for him. He’d probably run away and hide.
“It’s summer. School doesn’t start for another three weeks,” I grumble, pulling Sammy away from the cafe front. School—senior year, without a boyfriend to take to homecoming.
Without another word, I turn away from the door and walk back toward the station, anger still coursing through my veins. The rain comes down harder and the wind picks up almost as if to match my fury. Every moment that Ezra and I have ever shared flashes through my mind, good and bad, now ruined by the memory of him and the redhead.
God, I could just kill him!
The wind grows stronger and I imagine how I’m going to stomp him into the ground the next time I see him. How he’s going to get his butt handed to him.
Sammy and I get to the station in record time, swipe through the turnstile, and immediately find the F train waiting for us.
“Did you know the average hurricane spins at a velocity of seventy-four miles per hour?”
“Whatever, Sam!” I snap as we take our seats. Sammy doesn’t even flinch. He never flinches. He just looks away from me and goes back to staring int
o space. I immediately want to hug him and apologize, but he wouldn’t even get why I was sorry.
I sit in my seat and stew for a little, thinking about how I want to break Ezra’s neck, until I notice the train hasn’t moved. How it’s been here at Sixty-Third for almost ten minutes, and still the doors have not closed and the train has not moved on to its next stop. I watch as the other passengers look at each other questioningly.
An automated train message comes on: “Ladies and gentlemen, we are being held momentarily because of train traff—”
The message starts but cuts and a human voice— the train conductor—comes on. “I’m sorry ladies and gentlemen, but the track is flooded and the F train will not be running today. I repeat: the F train will not be running today.”
As if this day could get any worse.
And then I see the water, and it does. The conductor wasn’t kidding. In fact, he may have even downplayed it. Water seeps onto the train from both the closed and open train doors, spilling onto sandy-colored linoleum floors like waves creeping up-shore.
I hear Sammy squeal beside me as everyone begins to leave the train in a strange sort of panic. It’s just water, what can water really do to you? But this is a New York City subway train—it’s late, it’s unreliable, but never does it fill up with water.
“Sams, let’s get out of here,” I say. People come pouring out with us, and it’s impossible not to feel a little disoriented. Two trains have been emptied during rush hour—this train and the one on the track next to us. That’s more than a thousand people, easy. Not to mention the people waiting on the platform and those coming down the stairs who now have to turn back. The water isn’t just seeping onto the train cars, it’s spilling over the platform, creating waves and splashes as people run up the stairs and toward turnstile exits. It’s the storm that everyone—even the weathermen themselves— thought wasn’t coming, reaching us at full force.
It’s chaos with the water surging higher and higher as people shove toward the stairs. The exodus of people causes a traffic jam, and Sammy and I are at a standstill, caught behind a line of people with the same destination: out.