SCHEDULE
**ALERT: 15 Minute Warning before Next Event**
12:30 p.m.–1:30 p.m. RULES CEREMONY.
Location: Floor 10 Auditorium. Description: Official introduction to the Carnival. The rules will be revealed.
As we head for the elevator, I realize this is my chance to see Star.
9
“What are your names?” Skinny asks.
Man, he has no touch. He stands between us in the elevator and looks back and forth to our faces like an eager puppy dog. Bit by bit, he’s coming out of his shell and getting more and more annoying. The Shadow crosses her arms and leans against the side of the elevator, bored. She rolls her eyes, and I stare at her arched dark eyebrows. They curve sharply and so cleanly, not a single hair out of line.
“I’m Tinder,” he says.
When we don’t answer, he stares at his thumbs. We drop toward floor 10 slowly. I don’t want to hurt his feelings.
“I’m Phoenix,” I say quietly.
“Hi, Phoenix,” Tinder says, perking up. “Where are you from?”
“I’m from Dark DC, Tinder,” I say.
“Me, I’m from Dark Virginia,” he says. “I lived in the University of Virginia. My whole building got lit up when I came here. Everyone from my town is going to move in there. I saved them.”
“Wow,” I mutter. “That’s really cool.”
“I lived in the engineering school,” he says. “That’s where people studied electricity before the Blackout. Isn’t that ironic?”
“Yes.”
“I know,” he says, shaking his head.
The elevator doors open. We’ve arrived.
I stare head-on at a crowd of DZs shuffling toward a row of doorframes in the distance. Their dirty ponytails and braids unravel down their backs. One DZ tears his tattered flannel shirt short at the sleeves in order to cool down in the crowd. Everyone is streaming into a dimly lit room I can’t quite make out.
The Shadow dashes ahead, slithering between DZs to the front of the crowd. Damn. I follow and start searching for Star: her fine straight hair, or orange parka tucked under her arm. Any sign of her at all. I try to trace the Shadow’s trail, but DZs are packed shoulder to shoulder. I can’t get through. Frustrated, I wedge my leg in between two girls in front of me and shake my hips to wriggle through. One of them tips her head back and screams.
“Get off me, pervert!” she yells.
I recoil instantly. A couple of DZs jerk their heads back to eye me with distaste. I hold my palms up to apologize. Fine, I’ll stay here. Behind me, Tinder says “Excuse me” as he bumps into other DZs, and I shake my head for him. We shuffle slowly, step by step. The sour stench of sweaty teenagers fills the air. Finally, I cross one of the thresholds to enter some kind of movie theater. Rows of red velvet seats filled with jittery DZs face a hanging screen.
I need to find Star.
A DZ pushes me forward, and I stumble into a row of knees. Knitting my eyebrows together, I scan the room for her again. There she is. Second row all the way at the end. Her creamy profile looks solemn as she stares at the ground. Beautiful. My girl. Not wanting to waste any more time, I leap over a row of seats and make my way toward her. Step after step until, finally, I’m here. Just two feet away. I hold my breath and sit gently in the empty seat beside her. It creaks and startles Star, who grabs her chest as if her heart might jump out. We look at each other. Tears jump to her eyes, and she’s stunned—overjoyed.
I take her hand tenderly. “I’m here,” I whisper.
“Phoenix…” she says, her sweet voice thick with emotion. She can’t find any other words to say. I wrap my other hand around hers, and she does the same. Forget the Easy chandeliers and lamps, her touch is the real electricity. What I feel with Star keeps me warm, and nothing else is truly bright. My Star.
“Quiet, now,” a voice booms throughout the room.
Whispers behind us fall silent. The open door beside each frame swings slowly shut. The last DZ to wander in looks familiar, and he takes the seat next to me. I furrow my brow to remember, and then it hits me: Blaze. From Dark DC. He’s brought his shotgun with him, propped between his knees. I turn my head away from him instantly, and a shiver runs down my spine. Star’s eyes widen in fear when she recognizes Blaze, and she looks down fast at her lap. Suddenly, the lights go dim, and the giant screen in front of us turns white. Blaze shields his eyes, disoriented. For now, at least, he’s distracted.
THE CARNIVAL appears on screen.
“On January 6, 2015, the Blackout struck worldwide,” a familiar voice booms throughout the auditorium. Images alternate on display. First, mountains of trash on a city street. Rats seethe over the stack of bags barely visible against black sky. Now, a shot of a highway gridlocked with four lanes of motionless cars. Some people are craning their necks out windows, others are mid-run in a panic down the road. Now, a photo of an empty hospital. An abandoned school covered in snow. The Easies might be trying to scare us, but this is the most comfortable I’ve felt all day. These might as well be pictures of home.
“The United States government gathered its best engineers,” his voice continues. “As they drew up plans to restore electricity, it became clear: There would not be enough for everyone anymore. The flare had destroyed all transmission lines. The climate was new and unpredictable. At best, only half the nation could have access to light and heat. The United States made the most difficult decision in its history when it chose to build the Frontier and then, a decade later, to power only the northern half.”
A map of the United States appears on screen. The Frontier is traced in a dotted black line from where it starts in the middle of California up to the top of Dark Missouri and then down between Dark Virginia and Maryland. It looks like a giant frown.
“After mandating the construction of the Frontier, the United States adopted a new kind of government. Local authorities replaced centralized control. Every state came to be ruled by one elite Family. For the thirty states, there are thirty Families. They handle all political matters separately and internally, cooperating only on matters of the military, foreign policy, and the Carnival.”
Each state above the Frontier glows individually, one after another. The Dark Zone has been amalgamated into one giant area of outcasts shaded gray. I glance over at Star. She is riveted and does not notice my wandering eyes. Good, I think, at seeing her focus. Maybe she has a better chance at winning this than I thought.
“Even with power, it took more than six decades to repair the damages incurred in those ten years we survived in the dark. Natural decay and desperate human activities nearly ruined our nation as we knew it. Only now, in the year 2082, are we technologically and culturally on par with where we were when the Blackout hit. Life in the United States today is very similar to the way it was in 2015. We have barely advanced.
“The Dark Zone has suffered even greater damage, and the region has shown no signs of progress. As DZs, you have survived great injustice. Your lives have been ruled by chaos and darkness. The Families want to atone for this. To offer your people something more, they selflessly began the Carnival.”
Suddenly, the lights switch off, and we are left in utter darkness with the voice.
“Welcome to the beginning of a better life. You have suffered, but the Carnival offers you the chance to find something even more precious than electricity: true love. Not just with anyone, but with the world’s most powerful sons and daughters. Eligible members of the Families. Each one is considered a prize. You are the newest players. In the Carnival, you win a prize by falling in love with them and by making him or her fall in love with you. You will get the chance to woo them and, at the end of the week, each prize chooses one of you to marry.”
My mouth gapes.
“The Carnival has endured for ten successful years. You have not heard of us until now, because we keep this contest secret. For many DZs, entering is so desirable that not being able to participate could lead to riots. So we sp
read the news of this opportunity sparingly. Selectively. After all, every single prize has found true love, and every Carnival marriage has stood the test of time. Why? Because in matching couples, we ultimately rely on the prizes’ choices. This method has never failed.
“We have four marvelous prizes this year. Only the players who win a prize will be integrated into American life as citizens. The rest will continue to live here, but as foreigners with fewer political rights. They will be kept in isolation quarters, and they will lose the special devices they received in exchange for immigrating. We do apologize for this. There is simply not enough to spare. However, even if you lose, you will continue to live here with electricity, the priceless gem of our era.
“The winning players will keep the electricity in their Dark Zone homes. That is our promise to you. No matter what—and we do mean no matter what—that electricity will be rightly yours. Your loved ones will be eternally grateful.
“For now, please return to your rooms.”
A shocked hush falls over the auditorium. I tighten my grip around Star’s hands and feel her limp pulse against my fingers. Both of us have gone cold. She curled one hand around my thumb before the rules were read, but now it lies lifeless. The thought of Star wrapping her hands around an Easy’s makes me livid. My gut wrenches in anger. There’s no way I could ever hold anyone else, or tell anyone else, “You’re warm.” Especially not an Easy. Every hair on my body is sticking straight up.
The sick irony of this situation overwhelms me. I crossed the Frontier in the name of love, and now I’ve been thrown into this thing to find it with someone else. I let go of Star and tighten my hands into fists. This is not what I had in mind when I shut the black truck’s heavy door.
I lean toward Star to figure out how she’s feeling. Beside my ear, she exhales slowly, deeply. Puzzled, I look into her eyes and see that she isn’t angry at all. She’s staring vacantly in one of her dazes. Oh no. The sound of Wick’s wet cough reverberates inside my head, and my heart drops into my feet. There’s no doubt in her mind: She is going through with the Carnival. This is about the electricity for her. It’s always been about the goddamn electricity.
But that’s okay. Fine. If Star needs to play, then I’ll have to play too. I am here for our love. At least one of us will win and then, when this week is over, we’ll find a way to be together. Like he said, once we win, that power is ours no matter what. For now, we just have to get through this week. If she marries someone else—although my throat closes just at the thought—then we’ll find a way out of that when we need to. All that matters this week is that we get that electricity. Then we will be together.
A gun cocks.
Blood drains from my face. The sound came from the back of the auditorium. My body chills as I wrap my mind around what someone else must have just realized: Fewer players will mean higher chances of winning a prize.
Gunfire erupts. Star and I race for the nearest door and throw our body weights against it. The door swings open to reveal an empty room lined with a row of golden elevators. More shots fire in the auditorium, and DZs scream. The Easies have just turned us against each other, which makes them even worse than I thought. Star hits the up-arrow button by the closest elevator five quick times. She looks anxiously over her shoulder toward the doors. I can feel her fear, and I hate it. I should be protecting her.
Wild-eyed DZs start streaming out the doors in droves. Tears clean pale streaks down their cheeks, and some bare their yellowed teeth as they run. It’s not safe enough to wait for an elevator anymore. I spot a shining door at the far end of the elevator row and drag Star toward it. It swings open to a gleaming white staircase—perfect.
“Let’s run!” I roar.
More gunfire explodes. The door swings shut as we jump up steep stairs. Every flight slants in the opposite direction, and there is an exit door on each flat ledge between flights. The floor number is displayed in bright red above each one. We reach 11. Over twenty flights left. Boots squeak on the stairs after us. My chest and thighs burn as we sprint, and Star pants and pulls herself up by the white railing. A shot fires in the stairwell, and footsteps below patter faster. Unexpected inner strength pushes me forward two stairs at a time. Star is right with me. We meet each other’s eyes. Tears well above her lower lids, and I want to kiss them away. At floor 31, Star yanks me toward her. We embrace before she dashes through the exit.
I climb the rest of the stairs slowly. Without Star next to me, there’s less fire inside to run. Less electricity, and I can’t move as fast. At floor 33, I can only lean my body weight against the door to push it open. I stumble into my suite expecting peace, but someone is laughing quietly inside. Stunned, I creep through the foyer and down a hallway decked with wallpaper of endless golden feathers. No footprints—of an intruder or otherwise—sully the glossy white floor below me. I pass the kitchen and spot my backpack where I left it next to the sink. I grab Magic and sling the bag over my shoulder.
The laugh starts again. It’s coming from the living room. I raise Magic’s stock to my cheek and creep back through the hallway toward the noise. The foyer is empty and alarmingly spacious—any noise made in here could echo throughout the suite. One loud breath could reveal me. I imagine who could be behind the laugh. How I would react to an attack. In my heart—even now—I know I will never fire against a DZ. I’d shoot a gun out of their hands, but never where it hurts. The laughing stops.
I jump into the living room to see the Shadow slouching calmly on a white sofa. She is surrounded by pale-yellow chairs and wicker lamps. A television in the shape of a large, clear rectangle—like a giant phone—stretches across the corner of the room. I look at the Shadow, but she doesn’t even acknowledge me. Her spidery legs cross on a glass coffee table covered in pink magazines, and one lies open on her lap.
I lower Magic in a frustrated huff. I’m still panting, but she looks relaxed. Her fair skin is smooth without any hint of an expression. She is neutral, utterly neutral, and I’m not used to this kind of person: unemotional and cold. Everyone in Dark DC had a beating heart and they showed it. I don’t trust this Shadow. Not yet, anyway.
The door to our suite opens behind me.
“Who’s there?” I call.
“That would be Tinder,” she says, flipping a shiny page with one long and careless finger. I creep slowly backward to see the front door. Sure enough, there he is.
Tinder slams the door shut and runs to grab the wooden bureau by the opposite wall. He pivots the bureau around and pushes it toward the door. It screeches across white tiles until it stops at the threshold. Tinder turns to face me, still bent ninety degrees at the waist. His face shows only fear. Through a wide hole on the side of his shirt, I see his delicate ribcage heaving up and down as he catches his breath. I pick up a cream-colored armchair and carry it toward him, wedging it under the golden doorknob and nodding for him to continue. Tinder and I drag furniture toward the door until there’s almost nothing left to move. Except the sofa where the Shadow still sits.
“You should relax, boys,” she says.
Tinder and I walk until we are standing over her with our hands on our hips. She should be thanking us, but she doesn’t even look us in the eye. Just another reason to be skeptical of her: People don’t look at you when they have something to hide. Instead, the magazines have her full attention. She bats her dark eyelashes and flips another page.
“You’re welcome,” I say, irritated.
“No one wants to marry a murderer,” she says, distracted. “The fights will stop when the rest of you realize that.”
She’s absolutely right.
Our phones buzz once. I reach for mine in an instant.
SCHEDULE
**ALERT: 15 Minute Warning before Next Event**
1:30 p.m.–5:00 p.m. MAKEOVER.
Location: Your suite on floor 33. Description: Clean and dress yourselves appropriately for Prize Night.
“Boys, have a seat,” the Shadow says in a bre
athy voice. Without any furniture left, Tinder and I sit on the plush white carpet. “I’d like to introduce myself.”
She flips her voluminous hair to one side, revealing three shiny diamond studs in her ear. The Shadows’ arrowhead symbol has been tattooed behind her neck. The black tattoo is small—about the size of my thumb—but still it impresses me. It’s a sign of who she knows and how much she can do. Slowly, she licks her lips.
“I’m Elektra,” she says.
I swallow. She just exudes power.
“I am a Shadow,” she says. “Shadows are survivors, and we never work alone. In this Carnival, you and I are going to work together.”
Tinder nods his head up and down feverishly, but I still don’t feel quite right about trusting her. I need to know why she’s here. In the Dark Zone, Shadows didn’t seem to need anything—even electricity. They were above it. Even if they did need power, I can’t imagine they would bow to anyone to get it. They would never consent to a Frontman or play by anyone else’s rules. There must be some other reason to explain why she’s in The New York now, competing in this goddamn Carnival.
“Phoenix, darling,” she says. “Is there a problem?”
“Uh—no,” I say quickly.
“Oh really?” she says. She licks her lips again, and I clear my throat to stall for time. Think, Phoenix, think of something to say. I want to know why she’s here, but I don’t want to challenge her. The last thing I need is a Shadow as an enemy. A silence has started to grow—and finally I know what to do.
“I just think we should all say why we’re here,” I say slowly.
Elektra shrugs and gestures at Tinder to go first.
“For power,” Tinder says, like it’s obvious.
I nod cautiously. “Me, too,” I say. “My…closest friend’s little brother is sick. His name is Wick Windsong, and he needs to be warm to heal.”
Blackout (Darkness Trilogy) Page 7