Time Zero

by Carolyn Cohagan

  His thoughts are elsewhere. The door moans when he pushes down the heavy handle.

  “What’s in there?” I ask, peering into the pitch black, all thoughts of being held by Juda disintegrating.

  “No Twitchers,” he says, striking a match.

  I wonder where the match came from, but before I can ask, he’s produced a lantern, and I can just make out the top of the staircase where they were resting.

  I realize what he wants me to do.

  “I’m not sure I can, uh, go down there,” I say. “I really don’t like being underground.”

  He sighs. “I don’t have anywhere else safe for us to go.”

  My chest tightens. Not only do these stairs lead underground, but they’re next to a lake. For all I know, we’re going to a room that’s under the water, just like the Tunnel. All my childhood nightmares involved being caught in one of the Tunnel’s prison cells and then drowning. . . .

  My mind spins with other options. What about Nana’s apartment? Or maybe Sekena could help us? Or perhaps I should try contacting my parents, just once?

  “Juda, maybe there’s another way.”

  Despite my veil, he seems to look me straight in the eyes. “Mina, there may be other options for you tomorrow, but right now the sun has set and Twitchers will be hunting for you soon, if they aren’t looking for you already. I’m sorry you don’t like spaces below the ground, but you’re just going to have to trust me that it’s safe. I slept here last night and—”

  “I trust you; it’s just . . .”

  “What?”

  “The air . . . I’m afraid of running out of air.”

  He probably thinks I’m being a baby.

  “There’s a vent. I can show it to you as soon as we get down there. Would that help?”

  I nod, but I’m skeptical.

  “Do you think you can give it a try?”

  I hesitate but nod again.

  “We’ll go slowly. Just tell me if you need to come back up.” He gives me a supportive smile and takes my hand.

  Then we step down into the blackness.

  SEVENTEEN

  WE REACH A TINY ROOM, EVEN SMALLER THAN I feared—a simple square with metal shelves reaching from floor to ceiling. I counted fifteen steps from the top. Juda flicks a switch, and, to my utter amazement, the space floods with light.

  Industrial gray paint coats everything—the walls, the ceiling, the floor, the shelves. Whoever made this room wasn’t worried about making it cheerful. A large bundle of clothes nests in the corner, tins and jars of food are stacked on the shelves, and two buckets of water rest near the wall.

  “I don’t see the air vent,” I say, starting to panic.

  “It’s over here.” He hops over to the corner, pointing up. I walk over, turn up my head, and see a long aluminum tube that doesn’t look like much to me.

  “It’s hard to see it at night, but in the morning, you can see blue sky. I promise.”

  “Tell me something you’re afraid of,” I say sharply, more like an order than a request.

  “What?” he says, confused by my change of tone.

  “I want to know something that bothers you as much as being underground bothers me.” I hate feeling so insecure around him, like he’s seeing me at the age of five, cowering under the blankets. I need to know that something makes him feel vulnerable, too. His puzzled expression tells me he doesn’t understand this need for empathy right now, so I change the subject. “So where’s the electricity coming from?”

  “Over there.” He points to a black box in the corner. “It’s some old model battery people used to use in emergencies.”

  “Uh-huh. Hmmm.” I act fascinated, the room still closing in. “If you don’t mind, I really need to take off my veil so I can breathe better.”

  He turns away, out of habit. “Of course. Go ahead.”

  I give the veil one quick jerk, causing the button in back to snap open. I inhale deeply, enjoying that first unencumbered breath. “You can turn around. You’ve seen me without it before.”

  “I know,” he says. “I didn’t want to be presumptuous.” He turns back around but looks at my feet, as if he’s become shy at the sight of my face. “You can take off your cloak, too, if you’d be more comfortable.”

  Now it’s my turn to be embarrassed. “No, that’s okay . . . um . . . huh . . . I don’t have anything, uh, on underneath.”

  I expect him to laugh, but instead his ears turn crimson while he searches for a response.

  “This is where you’ve been hiding?” I say, deciding to help him out.

  He nods.

  “Why is this place even here?”

  “I’m not sure. My mom thinks it must be some sort of war room—like where you would run if the Apostates were coming.” Our eyes meet. I smile, and he smiles back, and our moment of awkwardness seems to be over. “And . . . we . . . uh . . . these food cans have been down here for decades.”

  I study the food tins, all Relics that Nana would have found fascinating. “Your mom knows about this place?” I ask.

  “Yeah, she showed it to me. She works in the Fields.”

  I’m amazed. “She has a job?”

  “Yeah, since I was little.”

  I was raised to believe it was illegal for women to work. “But . . . how?”

  “It took too long for the farmers to leave the Fields, have lunch, and come back, and none of the men wanted to cook—they thought it was demeaning—so Uncle Ruho let a few women inside to make the meals. But they do it in exchange for food, so it’s not considered ‘work.’”

  “And your father doesn’t mind?”

  Turning away, he rearranges the cans on the nearest shelf. “He died when I was little.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, wishing I hadn’t brought it up.

  He shrugs, his back still turned. “I never knew him, so it’s not like I have anyone to miss.”

  The silent air seems thick between us.

  I finally say, “You’re using your mother’s gate pass?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re very lucky she’s willing to help you.”

  Sticking a hand in his pocket, he smiles impishly and pulls out a rusty nail. He then holds up a can of Relic spinach he just took from the shelf. “It’s time to get that collar off.”

  I hold on to one of the shelves while he works on the lock of the bracelet. He inserts the nail into the same hole that the Twitcher used for his long, reedlike key.

  “It’s much bigger than what the Twitcher used,” I say. “Will it work?”

  He’s concentrating deeply. “Shhh.”

  Pushing the nail in as far as it will go, he lifts up the can of spinach. “This may hurt. I need to hammer it in further.”

  “Okay,” I say, closing my eyes. “Do it.” Hearing the thwack of the can against the nail, I brace myself for the pain, but none comes.

  “Nyek,” Juda says under his breath.

  My eyes fly open. The punctured spinach can is squirting nasty green juice down his robe. I laugh before I can stop myself.

  “It’s not funny,” he says, clearly annoyed. “If the alarm goes off again, people will find us. Even down here.”

  I stop laughing.

  He holds the can away from us both. “Oh . . . it really stinks.” The spinach must’ve spoiled years ago, leaving behind a liquid that smells like rotten eggs swimming in cat poo.

  I bite my lip to keep from laughing again. It’s like when I was little—if I started laughing during prayers, Father would scold me, which just made me want to laugh more.

  “You need something harder than a c-can,” I say, coughing to cover my giggle.

  “Thanks,” he says dryly. He looks around the room but can’t find anything suitable. “I’ll be right back,” he grumbles. He heads up the stairs.

  “Wait!” I say.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” I can’t say it. Please don’t leave me. I’m not ready to be alone down here.


  He keeps walking.

  I hear the slam of the door, then silence. Although Juda is large and takes up a lot of space, the room feels smaller without him. I instantly regret having laughed at him and resolve to apologize the moment he returns. He’s just trying to look after me. And if the cuff goes off and gets us caught, it will be my fault. He didn’t have to come get me. He could have stayed here much more safely on his own.

  After an unbearably long five minutes, I hear the door open again. “It’s me,” he says.

  I’m grateful he knew I would be on edge.

  He comes down the stairs, big rock in hand. “It took me a while to find the right size. And I decided to rinse off, for both our sakes.” Smiling, he points to his wet uniform where the spinach juice was. “Shall we try again?”

  “I’m sorry I laughed—”

  “No apologies,” he says, waving away my words. “If you were covered in rotten spinach scum, I’m sure I would be laughing, too.”

  “You have my advance permission to howl if and when I’m covered in rotten spinach scum.”

  He grins. “Accepted.”

  I smile, putting my hand on the shelf where it was before.

  He reinserts the nail. “Ready?”

  I nod.

  He whacks the nail with the rock, and it’s like bird claws digging into my wrist. I wince. The cuff doesn’t budge.

  “Again?” he asks.

  Taking a deep breath, I say, “Yes.”

  He hits it harder this time, thrusting the metal of the bracelet deep into my skin. I cry out, and he says, “I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s fine. Keep going. We have to get it off.” Looking into his eyes, I wish I could tell him how much more I’ve suffered, that watching my mother tear up the Primer hurt me a hundred times more than this. I want him to know that, despite not liking being underground, I’m not the delicate flower he thinks I am. “Don’t hold back. I can tell you’re afraid of hurting me.”

  “Okay,” he says. His face ruddy, perspiration beading on his forehead and cheeks, he holds the rock higher. This time, he brings it down with true force. When it strikes the nail, I think my wrist might crack, but instead the collar splits apart. As the bracelet lands on the floor, the diamonds spill across the concrete.

  “YES!” Juda cries. A grin blossoms on his face.

  “You did it!” I say, jumping up and down, rubbing my wrist.

  “Thank the Prophet,” he says, exhaling.

  As a few of the shiny stones roll toward my feet, it occurs to me that they probably aren’t real diamonds. I’m resisting the urge to grab the rock from Juda’s hand and grind them all to dust, when suddenly, what remains of the cuff starts to scream. We look at the crushed bracelet in horror—the vanquished beast has risen from the dead. The alarm echoing inside the tiny space is like an ice pick through the ear.

  Grabbing the remaining pieces, Juda throws them into the bucket of water in the corner. The siren stops immediately.

  Unable to speak, we just stare at the bucket, then at each other.

  “Do you think anyone heard?” I whisper finally.

  He shakes his head. “The guards seem more concerned with protecting the crops than with exploring abandoned buildings. They’re all praying right now, anyway. Plus, it only went off for a second. . . .”

  The more he talks, the more worried I feel. We’re the ones who should be praying.

  “Do you want to sit down?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I say, feeling like I’m about to pass out.

  He goes to the pile of clothes, separating out more than half of what’s there and making a second stack. “You can sit on these.”

  I happily lower myself onto the makeshift cushion.

  “Don’t worry. They’re clean,” he says.

  “I wasn’t worried.”

  The cleanliness of his laundry is the last thing on my mind.

  When he lowers himself onto the smaller pile of clothes, his enormous size makes the whole image pretty ridiculous. He looks like a bear trying to relax on a pincushion. I can’t help but smile.

  “I never promised comfort,” he says, laughing. “I said there would be no Twitchers, but I’m all out of silk sheets and down pillows.”

  I grin but can’t hold it for long, feeling ashamed. “I never wanted silk or down.”

  “I know you didn’t.” He searches for something else to say.

  “It’s Mother,” I say. “She was always so worried about the whole family and the future—”

  “Doesn’t the whole family include you?”

  I stop talking. Mother’s caused me a lot of pain through the years, but knowing I may not see her again makes me feel more forgiving. I’m picturing her and Father’s lives if he loses his job, which surely he will after my disappearance. Will anyone else hire him, or is Mr. Asher so powerful he’ll be shunned? Will Dekker have to drop out of the Lyceum? Will Mother and Father be able to stay in our apartment?

  Not ready to discuss these things with Juda, I ask, “How were you able to save me from the Twitchers? How did you even know where I was?”

  “I was watching the building, trying to figure out how to bust you out.”

  “You were?” I’m astonished.

  His face screws up as he slowly inhales. “I’m sorry I left you behind. I should never have done it. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  “You had to leave. I knew—”

  “No. I didn’t.” His shoulders tense. “As soon as I got outside, I knew that it was a terrible mistake . . . that Damon would never admit what had happened . . . that you were in horrible danger.” He drops his head, eyes boring into the floor. “So now, I need to know . . .” He takes another big breath. “Did they hurt you?”

  “It doesn’t matter. I told you—”

  He cuts me off, looking up, his words slow and fierce. “Did . . . they . . . hurt . . . you?”

  I think of the day without food or water. Of Mr. Asher sitting at the dinner table with a Taser rod by his plate. Of Damon shocking me and smacking me in the face. And part of me is desperate to tell Juda all of it, to let him console me, to share my pain. But one look at his eyes is enough to know that I can’t. He’ll storm out of here, searching for revenge. He’ll get himself arrested or killed.

  I stare right into his jade eyes. “No. They didn’t hurt me.”

  He studies me for a while, and I’m not sure he believes me, but I think he can sense that he needs to pretend that he does, for now. “Will you ever be able to forgive me for leaving you behind?”

  Leaning forward, I take his hand. “You saved me from Damon. He wasn’t going to stop. He was going to hurt me very badly. You struck him, knowing it could mean your life. There’s nothing to forgive.”

  “Thank you.” His shoulders lower, and the muscles in his face relax. He leans in as well, with a curious look. “I have another question.”

  “Anything.”

  “How did you escape?”

  I pull the Taser rod from my pocket, setting it down on the floor in front of me.

  He eyes it. “Who did you use it on?”

  I look down coyly. “I hope Damon can still reproduce.”

  After a pause, Juda bursts out laughing, cackling wildly. “Mina, you never cease to amaze me.”

  “The feeling is mutual,” I say. “I was sure you’d be in the Tunnel by now.”

  I like making him laugh. He has a dimple on his right cheek that I’ve never noticed before. I’m still holding his hand, and I wonder if he wants to kiss me. Or maybe I should just kiss him?

  “I would have been caught the first day if it weren’t for my mother.”

  “Tell me about her.” We’re so close I can feel the warmth of his breath.

  “Tomorrow,” he says, releasing my hand. “I think you should get some sleep.”

  “But I’m not tired.” Did I say something wrong?

  “You need to stay strong for us to be safe, and for that, you need sleep.”

 
I rearrange the clothes pile and lie down, trying not to let him see my disappointment. I thought boys always wanted to kiss and touch. My aunties warn me about it all the time.

  I lean on my elbow, trying to look casual, even though my entire body aches. My back stings if I recline, my bruised knee complains when I straighten my leg, and every one of my muscles seems to be angry about the shock from the Taser. Even if Juda wanted to touch me, I’m not sure what part of me doesn’t hurt. “Just tell me one thing about your mother,” I say, distracting myself.

  He fixes his pile, too, lying down across from me. “Okay. One thing.” He frowns a little as he concentrates, and when he smiles, I know he’s thought of something. His face is so open and expressive. I realize it’s one of the first things I noticed about him. He doesn’t wear the same stony face the other men have.

  Lying there, he looks so relaxed—flat on his back, feet crossed, hands under his head. I’ve only ever seen him upright, usually standing at attention next to his boss. How funny. This suits him so much more. He looks so much younger and happier, which seems crazy since he—I mean, we—are on the run.

  “When I was little,” he says, “we couldn’t afford many things, which always bothered my mother. She was upset she couldn’t give me the treats and toys that other kids got. So, one year, a while after the harvest, she notices that there are these ears of corn that the pickers somehow missed. The husks are all dry and brown, the cobs have gone really hard—”

  “Don’t tell me you ate them!” I interrupt.

  “Just listen,” he says, grinning. “So she brings home this armful of old, stale corn, and while I’m sleeping she shucks all the corncobs and paints little faces on them. There’s a mama corn, and a daddy corn, and a little baby corn, and even a grandma and grandpa corn. When I wake up, she’s turned the kitchen table sideways, and she’s sitting behind it, and she does this whole puppet show—”

  “With corn!”

  “Yeah. It was the greatest.” His smile is larger than I’ve ever seen it, giving me a knot in my stomach because of how beautiful I think he is.