The Dark at the End

by Susan Adrian

  13

  MYKA

  Really Don’t Care by Demi Lovato

  Dad tried to prepare a bedroom for me.

  I mean, it’s not like a typical catalog bedroom with pink curtains and fluffy pillows and letters that spell M Y K A on the wall…and it’s not like my own bedroom at home, blue and green with my big elements poster, and my signed picture of J.K. Rowling. But he tried. The room is tiny, about the size of a bathroom. But there’s a twin bed with a real, blue-patterned comforter, a little white reading chair, and a bookshelf packed with Chemistry textbooks and fantasy novels, classic and new. He steps in and waves an arm around, grinning like he’s done some amazing thing.

  “Here it is, Myka! Your room!”

  He actually says that. Like I’m still 9, or even 6, and I’m sulking about something., but I’ll get over it because I’m so thrilled at my new space in an underground bunker.

  I stay in the hall and grip Mom’s arm. “I’m not going in there. I’m staying with Mom.”

  He frowns, and I can see all the emotions spill over his face, from confusion through hurt to irritation. “But this is your room,” he says.

  Mom puts her hand over mine. “She said she doesn’t want it, John. She can stay with me.”

  He just frowns deeper.

  “This isn’t a family vacation,” Mom says, sharp. “You kidnapped us. We’re not going to be staying here.” She looks down at me. “Myka is tired. We barely slept last night, handcuffed in the back of a van. I suggest you take us to whatever room you’ve prepared for me, and we can get some sleep.”

  I am tired, suddenly. We’ve been through a lot in the past two days. More than I want to handle. I wobble. Dad stands there for another second, but then he nods and leads the way down the hall, to the next door. It’s an identical-sized room, but this one has a yellow comforter—Mom’s favorite color is yellow—and a brown leather chair. There’s a shelf with art supplies and a few books.

  “Can we fit another bed in here?” she asks.

  “Not tonight,” he says. He slams the door behind him, leaving Mom and me alone. For the first time I see the electronic lock on the door, like in a hotel. Except in this room you need a card to get out. We look at each other. I can’t decide if I want to cry or laugh.

  She shakes her head. “What have our lives become?”

  I sigh. “Unstable.”

  That’s my only word for it. In chemistry, when something’s unstable…there could be an explosion.

  The door opens again, and a woman pokes her head in. She’s not in military uniform like most of the people here—she’s in nice pants and a white shirt, like Mom would wear to work. She has blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, and a sharp nose.

  “Hi.” She smiles, a little awkwardly. “I’m Dr. Liesel Miller. I’m working with John now.”

  Mom moves forward like she’s going to slam the door in her face, but Liesel comes in further, holding out a hand to stop her. “I know, Jake’s told you the unpleasant side of things. How I tricked him into working for DARPA, how I kept him a prisoner and made him work for me.” She licks her lips. “I promise, it wasn’t like that. I was honestly trying to do the best thing for everyone.”

  “The best thing for our family?” Mom asks quietly. “I thought my son was dead because of you. You ruined us.”

  I thought he was dead too, for a while. Though with Dedushka’s help I put together the clues and figured it out after a few weeks, that he was just taken somewhere. Still. I don’t like her either.

  Liesel grimaces. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for…” She stops, takes a breath. “I was looking at the bigger picture. I wanted to help him help people. We did some good, finding terrorists, kidnapped little girls…”

  “I’m a kidnapped girl,” I say, as bold as I can. “I don’t want to be here. And you started everything. I was just wishing we could go back, before…you.”

  “Get out,” Mom says. “Now.”

  Liesel’s face falls, and for half a second I feel sorry for her. “But I have clothes, toiletries…”

  “Leave them and go,” Mom says.

  Liesel nods, slowly. She goes back out into the hall and brings in two duffel bags. She sets them on the floor by the door. “Bathrooms are next door. Just knock when you want to go. I’m sorry,” she says again, quietly.

  She closes the door gently. This time Mom and I don’t talk it over at all. We just silently get ready for bed.

  14

  JAKE

  Allies by MUTEMATH

  I stare at the ceiling. From the light, it seems like early morning. I finally fell asleep for a little while, though I still feel groggy. I hear something outside, patter and a low rumbling. A thunderstorm.

  When Myk was little, she was afraid of thunderstorms—they were too loud, too unpredictable. But I sat her down when she was about four and told her she had to face her fears if she didn’t want to be stuck in them all the time, something Dad told me once. She took it literally, like she did everything then. Ever since that day, at the first sign of a thunderstorm she runs outside, starts dancing in the raindrops. Laughing at the thundering sky. I used to go with her.

  Mom thought it was pure insanity, like we were daring lightning to strike us. She always would stand in the doorway and beg us to come back in. But we did it just the same. It was better than cowering.

  My stomach growls, loud. I stretch, look around. There’s no Jones. He snuck out at some point in the night, and I didn’t notice. I’m alone.

  I have to tunnel to Dedushka, just to tell him I'm all right. I promised him that. With him, I don’t need anything but memory and privacy. I just have to concentrate on him, his real self, and I can reach him.

  I think of him. His warmth, his gruffness. The way he smells, like cigars and fish. I find him, and feel a burst of relief…but he’s in the motel, asleep. I can't do anything when I tunnel to someone who’s asleep. It's useless. I come back out again.

  I push out of the comfy bed. I’m not going to lie here anymore. It’s time to test the boundaries.

  I turn the door handle, carefully. It’s unlocked. I guess he knows I won’t leave. But I do want to explore, while I have the chance. See if I can find clues to where Mom and Myka are.

  I lean out, check the walls. I don’t see any cameras in the hallway. Now…left or right? Right is the dining area we were in last night, and there was only one door along the way. Left is the red room, with the one mysterious door on the other side that’s guarded.

  There’s probably stairs somewhere too. I go for right, for the door on the way to the dining room. I’m tempted to sneak along the walls like they do on TV, but I’m 99% sure it wouldn’t do any good. If there are cameras, they see me. If there aren’t, there’s no point.

  I think of Eric suddenly, in the graveyard warning me about satellites on the first day I worked for DARPA. God, I was so naive then. So much has changed, in such a short time.

  I’ve changed.

  There’s no one else around, no one pounding after me. When I get to the door I put one hand against it, take a deep breath, and push it open.

  It’s not stairs. It’s another bedroom, identical to mine except with a spectacular view east, towards the Arboretum and the Anacostia river, the rain streaming down the window. And Bunny, lying in the bed blinking, staring up at me like I’m not real.

  I freeze, not sure how much trouble I’m in. It’s like a standoff of silent staring. Just when I’m about to back out she jumps to her feet, and waves me in. This room is bare like mine, nothing personal in it. She’s wearing men’s pajamas that are too big for her. I don’t think she lives here.

  This isn’t what I was aiming for with the exploration, but I should see what happens. I close the door behind me. She puts a finger to her lips, urgently.

  I stand there, arms hanging at my sides, just inside the door. Awkward. If I can’t talk, why am I here?

  She grabs a notebook from the bedside table, and a pen. She s
its cross-legged at the head of the bed, against the pillows, and writes. Passes it to me, watching me closely.

  I look at the page, since it’s obvious she wants me to. This room is bugged, it says at the top. But there aren’t any cameras in here. There are in some of the other rooms.

  Of course. I suppose I should be glad he doesn’t video the bedrooms.

  She gestures for the pad back, and writes again. She hands it to me. Her writing is ridiculously neat, rounded, like a grade-school girl’s. He’s insane. I’m sorry about last night. I’m dying to get out of this, away from here. We can go together.

  I barely keep from rolling my eyes at her. “Come on. I’m supposed to believe you?”

  She slams her finger against her lips.

  I shrug my shoulders. This is probably all some elaborate trick of Smith’s to catch me out in something. I’m too tired to try to figure out what.

  She writes on the page again and flips it over to show me, her eyes big. You have to trust me. Smith is out this afternoon, so we might have a chance to talk later. There’s a safe place. Until then, go back to your room. Act normal.

  Great. This woman already betrayed me, over and over. She’s still working for the man who stole my family. And I’m supposed to act normal? I trust her about as far as I can throw her off the balcony.

  Which, considering how small she is, is actually pretty far. But still. Trust? No.

  She shoos me out, and I go. I stare at the door to the red room, considering whether I should go there next.

  I stop at the bathroom and piss. Splash water on my face, not looking in the mirror. I can feel my face sagging from tiredness, and the cloud of exhaustion is surging back into my brain again. Jesus, two days of this and I’m a mess. Smith is way worse than Liesel.

  Does Bunny really want to escape from him? I could use that, if she does. I can’t leave, not with him holding Mom and Myka. I have to get them out first. But I could use her to find out where they are, to rescue them.

  Of course she doesn’t want to leave. She’s lying. I can’t trust a thing she says. I can’t make that mistake again.

  Or should I?

  One thing I shouldn’t do…go mildly back to my room when no one is keeping an eye on me. I open the door to the red room. I’m going to see what’s behind that other door.

  15

  JAKE

  Surprise Surprise by Billy Talent

  Time to try that door they guard. There’s got to be something there. Maybe it’s Mom and Myka.

  I run across the red room as fast as I can and try the door. I half-expect it to be locked, but the knob turns in my hand. I know there are cameras in here for sure, so they’ve probably seen me. I’d better move. I push through and shut the door behind me.

  It’s another hallway, matching the one on the other side. There are two doors on the left, then a corner. I have probably ten seconds before Joneses come busting after me.

  I keep going. I need to check out as many places as possible before they shut me down, see if there are any clues.

  First door: bathroom. I leave it swinging, push on to the next. This door opens too. It’s a study, crammed floor to ceiling with books, and two plush chairs that match the one in the other room.

  There’s a boy sitting in one, a few years younger than me, a book on his lap. Skinny, pale. Fourteen or so, maybe. His dark hair is in a military buzz cut. He looks up when I open the door, but he’s not startled. Just resigned.

  “Yeah?” he asks, bored. He’s barefoot, like me, and taps his feet on the carpet. “Does Mr. Smith need me?”

  I stand there uselessly for too long, staring, putting clues together. This isn’t a Jones, or a guest. Not from the way he reacted. This is someone like me.

  “Who are you?” I ask, the words hot in my mouth. Footsteps barrel down the hall.

  Time’s up.

  He frowns. Then he seems to really see me, my rumpled clothes, my bare feet, my stubbled face, and his eyes widen. “I’m Lucas. Who are you?”

  “Jake,” I manage, before someone strong pins my arms behind my back, yanks me out of the room. The door falls shut. I struggle, but I’m outmuscled by a lot. I’m pushed towards the red room, firmly.

  “You want to spend some time handcuffed?” he asks in my ear, and I recognize the voice from last night. The skinny Jones who escorted me back to my room.

  I grit my teeth. “No. Come on. I was just exploring.”

  He lets go of my arms with one hand for a second to open the red room door, and I turn around just enough to see Lucas standing in the hall, holding his book, watching. His mouth is a little open. He must’ve not known I was here. Just like I didn’t know he was.

  Who is he? He thought Smith needed him. But he’s a kid. Does he have a talent Smith is using? A power?

  Jones shoves me through the door so hard I stumble, almost smack into another Jones standing there. The huge one. Bunny stands behind the sofa in her pajamas, arms folded over her chest, hunched.

  “That’s off-limits,” the big one growls. “Got it? You stay on your own side.”

  The skinny Jones behind me makes a show of locking the door. “You do that again, you will be cuffed to your closet, standing. For days. You’ll be starving, pissing yourself. Crying. None of us want that—you’re no good to anyone like that. And I, for one, have no desire to be cleaning up puddles of your piss. So stay out of there.”

  I look at the door, imagining Lucas behind it. A whole story I know nothing about. I’ll find out—I have to. But I’ll have to come at it a different way.

  “Got it,” I say, straight-faced. “Nobody wants puddles of piss.”

  Jones smiles a little, I swear, even though his face hardly moves. “Go on, then. Back to your own room. We’ve got damage control to do now.”

  Damage control. Explaining to Lucas who I am, probably. I wonder what they’ll say. Probably something that’s nowhere near close to the truth. I look at Bunny, but she shrugs and points to the hall. I go, slowly.

  Who the hell is Lucas?

  16

  RACHEL

  Just a Girl by No Doubt

  We slept in a fleabag motel—though I hardly slept at all, thinking of the thin door of the motel, and what happened to Vladimir even with a sturdy door. I keep picturing him there on the bed, so weirdly and finally still. Picturing poor Doreen crying for him.

  I don’t want to end up like Doreen. Or dead like Vladimir. Or taken like Myka and Abby and Jake. Man. Dedushka and I are the only ones left out here, still hanging out in the world. That’s pretty bad odds, Dad would say.

  I stare at the popcorn ceiling, imagining where everyone is—including Dad, and Mom. Where does Mom think I am? Was that cruel of me to leave her, after Dad did? Did I do the wrong thing?

  I wonder if people ever feel sure they did the right thing. I don’t. Except maybe applying to Berkeley. I was always pretty sure about that. And then I got in, and all I had to do was ride out the summer…

  And I’m back to whether I did the right thing.

  Dedushka rolls out of bed, glances over at me, and grunts at me to get ready. He seemed to sleep fine, snoring all night. He’s got the constitution of a bull.

  We have apples for breakfast, while he tells me his plan.

  He wants to drive north towards Tampa, dump the car, do a bit of subterfuge, and then pick up another one. We don’t know where to go today anyway. We can talk over the clue on the way, he says, and see what we can figure out together.

  Seems all right. I don’t have a better idea. Except…I’m tired of being passive and letting everyone else take the lead.

  “I’d like to drive,” I say, on the way out.

  “No,” Dedushka snaps, and slides into the driver’s seat.

  I stand there for a second, stunned. No? Just like that? He glances at me through the windshield—like he’s going to give me one more minute before he drives away without me—and I get in on the passenger side. He takes off before I can even get my
seatbelt on.

  I feel the heat rising in my face. “Why not?”

  He gives me the briefest of glances. “Why not drive? You do not know where to go.”

  “I could figure it out. I can follow signs. And you could tell me.” I take a breath. “Do you realize I haven’t driven since we met up with you? It’s been you or Jake, the whole time. Even when we drove from New Mexico to Virginia. Why is that? Don’t you trust me?”

  He’s silent, for too long. He navigates onto a freeway heading north, while I burn holes in his profile.

  This is just like my dad, deciding he knows best for everyone. Like Jake.

  “Well?” I say, once we’re settled in a lane.

  “You are a girl.” He shrugs, not looking at me. “Girls are not good drivers.”

  I suck in my breath, hard. Wow, there it is. I didn’t think he was actually that much of a Neanderthal. “I can’t believe anyone actually thinks things like that anymore, much less says them. Do you know how sexist that is?”

  He grips the wheel tightly, his gnarled knuckles turning white. “I do not know this word.”

  “I bet,” I mutter. I stare at those knuckles, at all the lines on his face. He’s old, sure. And Russian. Do I let it go, this ridiculous old-man sexist opinion of me and what I can do, because he’s old, and Jake’s grandfather, and I’m supposed to be polite? Or do I challenge him?

  I can’t let it go.

  “You won’t know unless you try,” I say.

  He answers by raising his Groucho Marx eyebrows.

  “Look, I don’t know where you got your opinion,” I say, letting the sarcasm drip through. “But I—an individual, not just a girl—am a great driver. Better than you, or at least better than Jake, who drives too fast. So maybe if you’d get your head out of…the 18th century, you’d see that.”

  He frowns, but I think I see a glimmer in his eyes. I look at the ocean flashing past him, past us. We’re silent for a lot of miles, neither looking at the other. I stare outside at the green, flat landscape. Maybe he’s mad, but I couldn’t just be quiet. He’s wrong. Wrong wrong wrong. I’m glad I said something. Let him be mad. More miles go by. I fold my arms and don’t look at him.