The Complete Four-Book Box Set

by Brian Spangler

  Sequences of colors flashed on and off, reprimanding her, and pouring out commands that now seemed moot. She could see the bright wash of colors through her eyelids. Hadn’t she followed every instruction, every command, until now? Sammi tightened her grip on the table and prepared to open her eyes.

  It shouldn’t hurt, she told herself. It didn’t hurt before. But still, she anticipated the pain.

  The lights beamed brightly, the message still directed at her. Another flutter turned in her belly, stronger than the last, and Sammi took hold of the table again, thankful to have something to lean on.

  Another volley of lights followed in rapid succession. The message needled its way into her consciousness, repeating, stronger each time. Sammi shook her head until she’d become dizzy, and then she surprised herself by turning away from the lights. The urge to look at them was still there; but it had been trumped by the revelation that she didn’t need to see, didn’t need to obey, didn’t need to understand what they were saying. Not anymore.

  This is what Declan has been talking about, she realized. The lights don’t drive him; they never have. A flutter from her belly welcomed the thought. Sammi saw the brightness bouncing off the other workers, splashing rainbow shades from their iridescent coveralls. She looked one last time and then moved her eyes down and away.

  The urge to listen to the lights faded, grew distant and lost. I’m listening to something else now. While Sammi knew that it was too soon, and maybe even impossible, a pleasing calm settled into her when she felt the first kick of her unborn child.

  1

  With her feet in the surf, Janice kicked up some of the ocean water, enjoying the feel of it on her skin. As she wiggled her toes, the foamy spray felt crisp and reviving after the long muggy walk from their Commune. Any respite from the stifling humid shuffle over the black sands—especially for her feet and legs—was welcome, and, to say the least, necessary. She let out a contented sigh, while she gazed at the wall of fog that was just a few dozen hands from the surf. Squeezing her toes around the loose sand, she watched the vaporous gray, as it rolled, busily moving about, like a nest of farming floor honeybees after pollinating the gardens. She stared long enough to see the myriad of fallen clouds dispersing and thinning, only to reform, hiding the other side of the world from them. She thought of all the people who’d stood where she stood, wondering what was beyond the wall; wondering what had happened to them all after the accident.

  Why did the End of Gray Skies fail?

  Puffy gray pockets coasted around her and Richard for much of their walk; she was sitting in one now. The veil of it reflected up from the watery ripples that were spurred on by the kick of her toes. Their walk was a dramatic change from her day-to-day in the classroom, but she couldn’t complain, since their journey had been mostly uneventful. While the fog was heavier most of the time, they’d had perfect weather for the travel to the VAC Machine. What Richard had warned her about, more than once, was the state of the weather. Outsiders were more apt to be on the move: prowling and hunting when the fog was thick, and the air was warming.

  Janice turned and waded through the surf, keeping her distance from Richard to no less than a few hands. With the mix of thick fog, and pits and hollows around them, she didn’t want to risk being separated. Richard’s step was slowing; she could tell by the way he favored one of his feet, occasionally stopping and shifting his padded coverall shoes. Janice called out to him, motioning to the ocean, and urged him to douse his toes too. He waved off the suggestion and then shooed away a salt-gnat, before explaining that he didn’t care for the surf. Janice considered this, scoffed at his silliness, teasing him, and then kicked the spray into the air. Richard dodged the water, curling his nose, and insisted that he wanted to stay dry.

  Having traveled for days—even on the softest beach sands—her feet had tired easily, and she was certain that his must have too. Soon enough, as they continued walking, she saw him venture closer to the ocean’s edge, where he finally dipped his feet. Only the cool ocean water helped, and she was glad that Richard had listened to her. They couldn’t afford to rest their feet; not with the chance of Outsiders being on the move.

  Richard glanced up at her, trying to mask a subtle smile, but she could see the appreciation on his face. He pushed his feet through the calm surf, creating a small wake behind him, and nodded.

  What a long way he’s come, she thought. At the beginning of their venture, Richard seemed to take pride in complaining. She dismissed most of his grumblings, knowing they were likely born from his ever-changing, and sometimes volatile, mood. It had been nearly eleven days since they’d left the Commune; eleven days without a drink. It wasn’t just the questions about the VAC Machine and the End of Gray Skies that they were after—with each day, questions grew like the distance from their home.

  Most of what they had come up with concentrated on the executive floor and the square numbers on the index cards. Some of what they’d talked about was why James had jumped to his death, and what the executives had to do with it. A few times, they’d even stopped and turned around, aiming to go back, when they questioned what they were doing. They’d talked about whether or not they should create a small group, and force their way onto the executive floor to demand answers to their questions. But when Richard described for her what had happened when he and Declan had a run-in with the executive guards, Janice thought of the index cards and told Richard that they should continue forward. After all, they’d never get enough people to overpower the executive guards.

  What Janice pondered more than anything else wasn’t James’ death, but the death of Declan’s sister and mother. Could her chosen have really been a part of something so evil?

  Not alone, never, she thought and kicked a dissident foot into the unsuspecting surf.

  A spray of water splashed onto her skin, startling her. It landed on the back of her legs, and up to her neck. The chilly touch stopped Janice where she stood; a reflex pushed her shoulders up, and arched her back. She heard laughing then, and knew at once what mood Richard was in. Turning, she kicked up the foamy surf at him and laughed as he darted around the white spray. It was good to see him smile, and even better to hear him laugh, even if it was brief. He’d left the remaining bag of potato juice in her dwelling, and along with it, the convulsions that came from not drinking. He was healing, but it was physical; she knew he had more work to do emotionally. This trip and finding Declan was just the start.

  While Richard pushed through the breaking surf, his smile gave back years, turning his aged face to one that was almost boyish. And there were times when she could see Declan in his gestures and mannerisms, especially when Richard told stories of when his family had been younger. He told her about Declan and Hadley and the sibling fun that they’d had when they had been growing up. As he talked, Janice wondered if he realized that she was there too. She was, for most of their lives, their teacher. Her heart ached when thinking of them, and it especially hurt for Hadley’s death. She missed them both. She knew a teacher’s pain but could only imagine how it would feel if Hadley had been her child. In a way, she was though; all of her students were her children too.

  They always will be.

  More ocean spray came in her direction, and after she’d kicked off a return volley, she watched as Richard pulled handfuls of water over his head. The ocean was crisp and cold, but the air had already started to warm, and had become muggy. They were moving into the hot months, and it wouldn’t be long before the air was thick and still. As he splashed more water on his face, she saw that his hands had grown still and quiet. In the first days—the worst days—he’d finished all of the carrot candy. Most of his control was back, ridding his hands of the shakes that had plagued and haunted him. Any threat of convulsion had passed. With his dark hair slicked back, she could see that Richard had already put back on the weight that he’d lost drinking. Even the sunken and taut skin on his face had filled in, pushing out the deeper lines around his mouth a
nd eyes.

  He does look younger… a lot younger. It wasn’t until she felt a nervous flutter that she remembered something that had been lost twenty years earlier. She was attracted to Richard. Not since James had she looked at another man; especially not the way that she was looking at Richard now.

  As she stared at him, fancying the curve of his shoulders, and peering in through the front of his open coveralls, another spray of ocean touched her, dressing her front in blotches of dark gray. A chill ran through her, raising bumps up and down her arms. Shaking it off, she felt her nipples rise, along with a flush of embarrassment, and she was quick to bring her arms up to cover herself. Janice turned away and mouthed a thank you to a pocket of heavy fog rolling in. A few hands more, and there would be enough gray between them to conceal her embarrassment.

  “Now that wasn’t fair!” she exclaimed. “Not fair at all. I wasn’t paying attention.” Richard laughed again, kicking more of the water in her direction.

  “What do you mean not fair,” he joked. “You can’t call not fair when you started it!” He was right. She raised her brow, realizing that this was her doing. The cold held the lift at the front of her breasts, but she didn’t care; she lowered her arms, running toward his voice, and kicked up the water. Laughing, Janice almost stumbled, catching herself before a breaking wave swept her legs. She was still laughing when she was up again and kicking more, drenching Richard, until every part of his front had been soaked.

  Janice slowed then, as Richard tried to hide from her playful advance, retreating into the fog. At once, she stopped. Her smile quickly faded. She had a revelation. She was starting to have feelings for Declan’s father.

  But that can’t be, she told herself. Would twenty years hide what it was supposed to feel like? Guilt rushed into her heart, like the ocean cresting over her feet. Should she have feelings for him? Could she have feelings for him? Confusion teased her thoughts and played with her emotions, kicking them back and forth, just like she, and Richard had done moments before.

  Is it okay to have feelings for this man? She wondered, and then fixed her eyes on him as he suddenly rushed out of the gray. Trails of fog followed him, losing their grip on his body as he quickened his step. Then she saw that he wasn’t laughing anymore: his face was stricken with terror—his color pale and gray—masking the wispy fog chasing after him. The sight of him turned her newfound emotions into fear, and she instinctively stepped backward, away from the premise of danger, and away from him as he rushed toward her.

  “There is someone out there,” he said hurriedly in a gruff whisper. He took her arm and tried to lead her away from the ocean. “I think there are Outsiders coming this way. I heard five voices, maybe more. I can’t be sure though.” She held her place in the shallow water, afraid to move. His touch turned soft then and encouraged her to follow. When she finally did move, he led her away from the ocean and to a steeper dune of black sand.

  Janice nudged her face, nodding in Richard’s direction while he talked to her. An urge to pee was sudden, and her insides felt heavy, like her feet, which had rooted into the beach’s thicker black sands. It had been a while since she’d heard any voices. But when the unfamiliar sounds came out of the fog, a jumble of nerves gripped her insides.

  The salty taste of congestion filled her mouth, and she could hear her lungs wheezing while she tried to keep pace with Richard. As they ran in the sands, her feet were clumsy, and she tripped once, falling to her knees. When she tried to use Richard’s arm to get back to her feet, she almost pulled him down with her. He groaned against the strain and lurched forward until her legs were underneath her again.

  The voices became louder as they chatted back and forth. She listened to them jokingly berate one another, like her younger school kids liked to do; it was a rite of passage for all students. They jabbed witty comments at one another—back and forth—with no cares of being heard. She thought that they sounded too confident, and maybe even arrogant, and then she realized that, with their numbers, they deserved the boldness that she had heard.

  The Outsiders closed the distance. Richard’s grip became stronger, until he dug his fingers into her arm, where she was sure that she’d later find a blossom of welts.

  He’s strong, she thought, but not against a group. She was afraid—afraid for the both of them. What would the Outsiders do to them if they were found? Would they kill Richard without hesitation, but not her?

  No, they’d wait, taking turns until they’re done with me. And there was no knowing how long that might be. When they’d finished, would they kill her? Terror and revulsion welled inside her, and suddenly she wasn’t sure if she was going to vomit or if her bladder would let go.

  Outsiders had the advantage. They knew the fog; they worked the fog. Like the blind burrowing rodents from the deeper levels of the Commune, they survived on other instincts. They’d grown them, and perfected them, and they could survive without sight. Richard was digging before Janice understood what he wanted to do. Without a word, he showed her his plan: to dig, and then lie in the groove of the black sands. With a thick enough pocket of fog, the Outsiders might pass right by them; they would maybe even walk over them, without knowing that they were there.

  Dropping to her knees, Janice drove her fingers into the moist sand and scooped handful after handful. Pebbly grains stung the soft skin beneath her fingernails, like resentful salt-gnats biting for the sheer pleasure of it. Working together, they hurried and had emptied an area big enough for the two of them to lie in and hide. With the sound of the breaking ocean, she wondered if they should have hidden there instead. But she couldn’t see the surf. The fog was thicker there, and if they hid in the ocean, then they would lose sight of the beach.

  She felt herself being pulled. Richard wrapped his arm around her waist, dragging her closer to him. His height gave him a great advantage, and she admired the stretch of his arms as he covered both of their bodies with loose sand. She offered to help, shoveling in what she could, and peppering it over their gray coveralls, hoping that it would be enough to blend into the vast blackness of the beach.

  Some of the fog is loose, she thought. A little heavier and we’d nearly be hidden.

  Huddled in the sand crevasse, they listened to the approaching voices over the breaking surf. Richard’s smell and his warm breath touching her neck caused an unexpected sensation: something physical, something carnal. She was quick to dismiss the abrupt feelings, but the effects lingered, and she found herself shifting her middle, embarrassed and unable to remain still. When she began to apologize, Richard placed a finger across her lips and lifted his chin slowly, motioning to the patch of fog behind them.

  There was silence. Janice didn’t know exactly when the chattering voices had stopped. With only beach sand under their feet, counting footsteps wasn’t possible. There was no listening for the occasional scuff of a toe against the heavy resin paint of a Commune’s morse-line; there was only silence, and it told her that their safety in hiding was a lie. The approaching Outsiders had heard something other than themselves, and now they were hunting.

  The first hit came out of the fog in a blink, startling Janice, but not Richard. He’d never even seen the attack. The back of his head opened up against the fat end of a club, spraying blood onto the side of her face. The impact of the hit drove Richard’s face forward into hers, knocking her back, and crippling her vision with a flash of dizzying light. Reaching to hold onto Richard, she gripped his open collar, while gnarled and dirty hands saddled the back of him, pulling on him. When he shook his head, blood spilled down his face; relief came to Janice when she saw that the blow hadn’t killed him. He was still awake—dazed, but conscious. Richard turned to fend off their attackers, and then tried to get to his knees. His scalp bled profusely, washing into his eyes, and turning his coveralls dark red from his shoulders down to his chest. He screamed at their attackers, punching the air with the same profanity she’d heard him use in the Commune’s courtyard.

>   When Janice pushed up to her knees, all of the air in her lungs disappeared as the world suddenly seemed to land on her back. Her body was thrown into the black sands, and her insides were pressed until she thought she’d explode. As the pressure on top of her increased, she understood what a salt-gnat must feel like when being pinched to death between two fingers.

  “Get off of her!” Richard screamed, and Janice saw a club swing from in front of him, and then connect with his middle. Richard fell over and was shoved onto the sands as more hands wrestled him down. When the air came back to her, and she coughed a haggard breath to replace the explosion in her lungs, she heard a deep, throaty voice. The owner of the voice lay on top of her, pressing his knee into the small of her back, causing her to cry out in pain. The voice had a hand, and the hand wriggled beneath her, approaching what had stayed untouched for two decades.

  “Do you know how long I’ve wanted to do this?” she heard in her ear. The voice sounded menacing and raspy, but it was vaguely familiar. “Maybe today, I’ll teach you something!”

  Janice gasped when she recognized whose voice it was. Harold Belker had survived his exile from their Commune, a punishment for having killed Sammi Tate. It pained Janice to realize the level of evil in a boy whom she’d known for most of his life. He’d had no repentance for having killed Sammi, though, no remorse. Instead, he’d found the Outsiders, and had become one of them. Maybe he’d always been one of them; maybe he’d been an Outsider the entire time.

  Janice tried to pull in more air, breathing in the salt and the sands, until she coughed out the pain of the attack. Janice’s fear quickly turned to anger as her strength returned, but Harold was strong, and he had her pinned with his knee to her back. When Harold removed his knee, she felt him press something else against her, and dread and vileness filled her, sickening her. She cried out, cursing him, and swinging her arms, clutching at handfuls of sand and air. When she tried to get up, she heard his heinous laugh, and he gripped her hair, driving her face into the damp, pebbly sands. The immense pressure forced sand into her eyes, nose and mouth while she struggled. But the struggling only made the attack worse, as the coarse sand peeled away the skin on her face. When the hand against her head relaxed, she lifted her head, gasping for air.