by Melanie Tays
I yelp when the horse’s hooves start to move. Even though we’re only moving at a slow walk, it’s hard to balance as the horse keeps shifting from side to side. I clutch for anything I can get my hands on to keep from being thrown off like Ty.
Cresta laughs. “Don’t worry, she’ll go slow. Hold on to the reins.” She demonstrates how she holds the ropes of the harness that has been fitted around her horse’s head. I try to mimic her actions. “Good. Now, just relax and feel the rhythm. Let your body move gently to counter-balance Petal’s motions.”
I try to relax, but the signal doesn’t seem to be making its way successfully from my brain to my clenched muscles. It takes a while before I start to see what Cresta means about the horse’s rhythm, but finally, I start to anticipate how Petal will shift, and I gently sway to match my own balancing motions to hers.
I can’t believe I’m actually riding a horse—and it’s actually really fun. I have a strange desire to show Vander what I can do, but as we ride through the farm, he’s nowhere to be seen. I can’t help but worry that he’s in the Supply Barn right now, rifling around for Eason’s box. He saw it once, so he could find it without me. I fight the urge to go looking for him. I remind myself that he doesn’t know how to open the secret compartment, so whatever is in that box is waiting safely for me. And perhaps I’m being too suspicious. Likely Vander just went inside to get more feed for the pigs. Or maybe he saw Kamella and is following her around at this very moment.
Cresta takes me out to an open field and teaches me how to trot. She makes it look so easy, gliding along in a smooth, relaxed rhythm, her golden ringlets bouncing gracefully as she rides.
Even with Petal’s gentle manner, it takes a little practice before I can gather any kind of speed without bouncing around like a rubber ball. I can definitely see how a feistier horse could throw someone right off its back. Soon, though, I’m trotting along at an invigorating pace. The air whips through my hair, and I feel truly free for possibly the first time in my life. But all too soon, it’s time to go back.
Maybe tomorrow Cresta can teach Vander to ride, and we can go out together. The thought occurs to me that if we do decide to leave the farm and go looking for help, knowing how to ride a horse would be very useful. I dismount Petal and put her back in her stall.
The beautiful, glorious sun is low on the horizon. Cresta is finishing up with her own horse, and people all over the farm are winding down and heading to the dining hall for dinner.
Fox exits a building just down the lane that must be the Supply Barn, and I decide that this is my chance. I walk right past Fox and several of his friends, who carry large bundles of logs for tonight’s fire. They say hi as we pass, but no one gives me a second glance. Just before entering the Supply Barn, I look over my shoulder to make sure no one is watching. Seeing only the backs of their heads, I duck inside and quietly shut the door behind me.
There are rows and rows of shelves, organized neatly with bins labeled for every imaginable supply—spoons, flour, rope, and hammers. The only exceptions are the bins on the very top shelves—far out of reach—that have labels like P23 or XG19. They’re too high up for me to peek inside, and I don’t have time for distractions, anyway. I doubt that’s where my backpack has been stored. I skip past the rows of bins filled with food, tools, seeds, and animal-care items. Near the back, I find personal items—labels for clothing, hairbrushes, and floss.
There’s a flutter in my chest as my eyes land on a whole pile of dark-green canvas bags just like mine. I rush over and pick up the first one my fingers touch, but it’s empty. It only takes a few seconds to realize they’re all empty.
I shouldn’t be surprised. Everything is organized and categorized here, so of course they separated out the few contents of my bag and stowed them in their proper places. I don’t care about the extra clothes or hairbrush. All I want is that little wooden box. But what category does that fit in? It must be one of a kind and has no real obvious use.
Feeling a bit frantic, I start running from bin to bin, rummaging through the contents before moving on to the next. I try not to leave anything disturbed, but with each failure, I get more desperate and less careful.
I’m considering upturning a bin to form a step stool and see what’s in the mysterious bins on the top shelves when I reach one bin on the bottom shelf of the row nearest the door. It bears a strange label: MISC. I pull it out, and it’s the only bin I’ve seen without any discernible rationale for its contents—a small gem, several watches, a red satin ribbon. There are so many weird-shaped things I’ve never seen, and I can’t even guess at a use for most of them. And, in the midst of all that clutter, sits Eason’s box.
I grab it. All I want to do is take it and bolt out of here, but I have nowhere to hide it. What if someone sees me carrying it and wants to know what it is? Most of the people here would be easy to put off with a simple excuse—but what if Bretton, or Vander, or Ollie sees? What could I tell them?
Ultimately, I decide it’s worth the time to examine the hidden contents right now. Then I can leave the box here, and no one will ever suspect a thing.
The first panel I need to slide out is already slightly askew, maybe from being jostled around in the bin. My hands shake as I manipulate the pieces. Finally, I manage to slide open the little hidden compartment. When I tilt the box, a folded piece of paper and a small silver orb slide out and drop into my outstretched palm.
Hastily, I shove the items in my pocket and close up the secret compartment. Then I shove the wooden box back into its place in the supply bin. Just as I slide the bin back in, the door creaks open. I turn slowly to face it.
Mieka is standing in the doorway right next to Ollie. For a moment, I think Mieka has brought Ollie here on purpose to torment me. But that’s old Mieka—clear-thinking Mieka. It really is just an unfortunate coincidence that Ollie and the girl now staring at me with a serene, blank smile happened to come along at this moment.
“What are you doing here, Emery?” Ollie asks, surveying the room.
I venture a glance to see what she sees, and it’s clear at once that I haven’t been nearly as careful as I’d intended. Nearly every visible bin sits askew on its shelf.
I remind myself that I’m not supposed to be able to feel fear or agitation or defiance. I remind myself that I don’t know if Ollie knows the truth or not. I don’t know if she, herself, is a victim of the Mind Mist, or if she and Roe are the ones who devised the mind-control scheme for their own power. I cannot let her suspect that I’m free of its grasp.
I imagine I’m floating, looking down on myself from afar—nothing can touch me, and nothing matters.
“I was looking for my hairbrush,” I say, and I’m pleased with the detached, almost dead quality to my voice.
“If you need something, you have to request it,” says Ollie. “There are procedures here that must be followed. You can’t just come in here and start digging through things. Did you take anything?”
“No,” I say. “I couldn’t find the brush.”
Suddenly, Ollie is brandishing the same strap she used to lash the boy at dinner last night. She must carry it around in her pocket or attached to a belt. “Come here.” From her tone, it would be impossible to tell if she means to hug me or harm me. Her expression is not that of an Enforcer enacting punishment. There is no anger or disappointment. Rather, she reminds me of a force of nature. Let go of something, and gravity pulls it to the ground. Break a rule, and endure Ollie’s lashes. It’s nothing personal—hardly noteworthy at all.
Closing the distance between us is the last thing I want to do, but I make my feet—which feel as heavy as steel blocks—move one step forward, and then another. I lock my face into a stoic mask, breathe, and do what I must to survive.
“Put your hands out,” Ollie instructs.
I do as she says, and try to remember the boy from last night—the way he winced with each blow, but didn’t recoil. I try to do exactly what he did as the first sting
ing lash makes contact with my skin, and then another, and then another. The lashes are painful, but they don’t cut, so I can be grateful for that. At worst, they’ll leave bruises.
Mieka stands on, watching without concern or interest—just as I did last night in a room of hundreds. I understand. I don’t blame her. She can’t help it.
My eyes prickle with tears, but I refuse to wipe them.
“Next time you need something, ask Fox. He is in charge of supplies,” Ollie informs me, wrapping the strap and replacing it in a holder at her waist, hidden under her long shirt.
“I’m sorry. I will,” I assure her.
She walks to the back of the room and comes back a moment later with a single hairbrush. “Here you go,” she says with a smile so warm I can hardly believe she was just lashing me moments ago. But the burning stripes on my hands don’t let me forget the truth.
“Thank you,” I say, accepting her offering. Then I turn and make my way to the door.
“I’ll see you later,” Mieka calls amiably.
I mutter assent and exit the building, anxious to find somewhere private to read Eason’s message.
The evening routine is the most chaotic time—everyone finishing work at different intervals, looking for friends. Some people have already finished their dinner, and everywhere I look there is someone—walking, talking, working, waiting.
I duck around the horse stalls and make my way to the edge of the tree line. It only takes me a minute of jogging to reach the tightly growing trees. Sheltered under the thick green canopy, I at last find some privacy and an opportunity to finally discover the truth about Eason.
Chapter 10
My hands tremble as I unfold Eason’s note. Anything could be written on that paper. What if Eason’s plan isn’t something I can enact without him here? What if he tells me he never loved me and was just using me all along to help ensure the success of his mission?
There’s no sense delaying this. Waiting doesn’t make me stronger or more prepared. It only gives my mind license to spin more scenarios that jab at me. The only remedy for my vicious imagination is to be confronted with the truth—whatever it is.
I unfold the paper and start to read.
Emery,
I hope you will never need to read this letter, but I have a growing concern that the Council will not let me go. That is why I waited for an ally before making my move. If the worst should happen, you have everything you need to free The City.
First, I strongly suspect a mind-controlling agent is being used in the Ash. The black cylinder contains an inoculation against its effects. One spray directly into your face is all it will take to protect you indefinitely. There is enough for only six doses, so do not waste them. Use it as soon as possible after arriving in the Ash. I am not sure how the agent is administered, or how quickly it will take effect.
Good thing Vander is so rash and impulsive that he discovered this by accident. I curse myself for not checking the hidden compartment and reading this note on my first day here. Once I tucked it back in my bag, it never crossed my mind again. But that day, I was still so furious with Eason that I probably wouldn’t have believed a word of this message, anyway, even if I had read it. It’s probably better this way.
I keep reading.
In order to deactivate the barrier field, matching signals must be received simultaneously by the field generator from both inside and outside The City. I have constructed two versions of the device you now have—both are calibrated to emit the same frequency upon activation. To avoid detection, I have set the transmitter inside The City to transmit only twice each day—at noon and at midnight.
To activate the transmitter, simply squeeze the two halves of the device together to complete the circuit. When you do this, it will send out a signal. If you have successfully synchronized with the signal from inside The City, the effect will be immediate, and the Safe Dome will deactivate.
I turn the silver orb over in my hands, examining it. It looks like such a simple act to compress the two halves, connecting them into a perfect sphere. There’s an itch in my palms that begs me to try it now, but I resist. It’s not the right time, and I have no way of knowing how many attempts the power cell can manage. I’ll have to wait until midnight, as Eason instructed.
You must follow my instructions exactly. Do not delay. If I have been arrested—or worse—time is of the essence before the Council will find a way to undo what I have done.
Everything Bretton told us seems to be confirmed by Eason’s words. Except that Eason refers to the Council as though he believes it’s still intact. My sense of unease at this seemingly minor detail only grows as I continue reading.
Emery, trust no one! Don’t let the device out of your hands, and do not delay. Remember how much you opposed the idea of deactivating the Safe Dome when you first learned of my plan? There are many who would fight much harder to keep the Safe Dome in place, for much less noble reasons. If we fail in this attempt, I fear the stranglehold of the Council will never be broken.
If I am not there with you, know that I will be thinking of you every moment of every day until you succeed—as I know you will. Then I can hold you in my arms again.
All My Love Forever,
Eason
Despite all the essential information packed in there, what I read, again and again, is the last paragraph and the signature. Without even trying, I’m hearing those words in his voice whispered against my ear. I’m imagining his strong arms wrapped around me. I drift back and replay all our kisses, forgetting everything else for one blissful moment.
But all too soon, the rest of the message is beating at my brain for attention. The process for bringing down the barrier sounds simple enough. It has to be done, not only for Whyle and Eason, but for everyone’s sake. The City is no longer a place of safety; it has become the threat.
Still, I can imagine—have imagined—what this will mean to so many unsuspecting people. All our lives we’ve been told that what lies beyond the shelter of the Safe Dome is nothing but a world ravaged by disease—a disease that may still be seeking to sink its tentacles into us. A place where no one lives except Roamers—mangled and desperate survivors who wouldn’t hesitate to kill us if they thought it could prolong their own survival. To suddenly have the one thing you believe holds back the tide of terror disintegrate before your eyes would be nothing short of petrifying.
I can see Bretton’s point about needing to think this through and make some kind of plan, but Eason said time is of the essence, and I shouldn’t delay. He also warned me not to trust anyone. That’s easy because not trusting people is my default reaction. Still, something in Eason’s words unsettles me.
The sun has gone down. I need to hurry or dinner will be over. Bretton might get suspicious if I don’t show up. I have all the information we need, but I’m not sure that Bretton can be trusted with it. If Eason trusted his father, wouldn’t he have told me to seek him out and enlist his help?
Maybe Eason doesn’t know his father is in the Ash—or didn’t when he wrote this note. In fact, he specifically mentioned the Council. Does that mean he didn’t know about Traeger Sterling or the banishment of the Council? But even if Eason believed the Council was still intact, he’s never said a single good word about them, despite the fact that his father was one of them.
Even though Bretton seems to be behind everything Eason has done, and even though Bretton claims to have opposed Traeger, the Wall of Fire, and the Burning, this is too important to take chances on.
I remember the gleam in Bretton’s eyes as he spoke of taking over the farm as a precursor to gaining control of The City. Is it possible that this entire plan—maybe even from the moment he realized he was losing control to Traeger Sterling—has been nothing but a ploy to seize control for himself? Perhaps rather than setting The City free, Bretton is merely after a regime change.
In fact, how do I even know that Bretton is actually who he claims to be?
No, I
have to keep this circle of trust as tightly closed as possible. If Eason didn’t vouch for his own father, then I can’t trust him, either.
Chapter 11
When I enter the dining hall, it’s bustling with light chatter and laughter. Most people are finishing up. I fill up a plate and head for a mostly empty table, looking forward to enjoying my food in solitude, but Cresta sees me and beckons me over to where she sits with Fox and Ty.
“Wow, you’re coming in late,” Cresta observes. “Where were you?”
“I had a headache and went to lie down for a while,” I lie through a mouthful of potatoes.
“That’s too bad,” says Cresta. “Maybe you should ask Ollie for a pain pill.”
“No!” I say, a little too abruptly, and a few speckles of half-chewed potatoes spew from my mouth.
Everyone at the table bursts out laughing.
“I’m fine now,” I assure her, my mask of calmness reclaimed.
They happily accept my excuse without further question. It’s a pleasant vibe in the air—I have to admit that. It would be enticing if I didn’t know it was fragile and fake.
Furtively, Bretton watches me from across the room. I give a microscopic wave, and he nods back. We make no other attempt at contact in this very public forum. Now that I know Eason didn’t vouch for Bretton, the way he watches me sends my skin crawling. I wonder how I’m going to shake him off. A part of me wishes we could undo the antidote, but I know that’s wrong. What we need is enough antidote for everyone, but according to Eason, we only have three more doses.