Blackout (Darkness Trilogy)

by Madeleine Henry

  17

  “What now, smart ass?” she whispers.

  We stand on the sidewalk with our backs to the restaurant. In the open air, it’s as cold as Dark DC. Our breaths form thin, white clouds, and soon we’re both going to start shivering. I should take her to the Underground already, but I still don’t know how to get there. I pull Elektra’s slip of paper out of my back pocket and skim it again: 6 Back Road Pl. (b/w 1st Ave & Ave A). Wherever the hell that is.

  Suddenly, two familiar black trucks pull up on the street in front of us. Carnival cars. They tower over the midsize vehicles that are parked in single file along the curb. I can’t believe my luck. I wasn’t expecting this, but I’ll take the safe rides now that they’re here. I run toward the first one and duck under the bottom to reach the driver’s side. Hoisting myself up the front tire, I stand to knock on his window. It opens a hairline crack. Sliding Elektra’s note through the slim gap, I hold it steady. Please take it, I think. A moment passes before the driver finally pulls it from my fingers. I exhale relief.

  I race back and climb the hanging ladder up to the car where surrogate Hazel is already waiting in the backseat. Her arms press across her chest for warmth, and she rubs her hands up and down over the goose bumps on her arms. Slamming the door shut behind me, I fall onto the seat next to her, and we’re off.

  We ride in very dim light without talking. A few minutes pass, maybe.

  “Hazel’s favorite movie is The Fighters’ Song,” the surrogate whispers, breaking the silence. My interest is piqued, and I turn toward her. “It’s about a girl named Luna who grows up alone in the Dark Zone—”

  You make movies about us?

  I grit my teeth in anger. Aura taught me what those are. Years ago, we were baiting traps in a cave—the place was dark as tar and dead empty—when I asked her what she thought used to happen there. She said we were in an old IMAX theater. I hadn’t eaten yet that day, and hunger was roaring in my stomach as she went on about how people would gather there to be entertained. They would watch their “movies” and make-believe. I was jealous back then, but now I’m livid. Easies are turning our pain into their fun.

  “Luna was an orphan,” the Easy continues, oblivious to my growing frustration. “Her mom died giving birth to her, and she never met her dad. She grew up without them in their tribe and mostly taught herself how to survive.” I clench my fists. The Easies haven’t even got their facts about us right. “The first hour is just buildup, and it shows you how isolated Luna felt her whole life. She never really fit in, so she used her time alone to get stronger. Become a better fighter. People make fun of her, but you can tell the insults don’t bother her. She’s working on something, she keeps saying.

  “Then when she’s our age, her rival tribe gets a new leader who tries to kill them all off in a surprise attack. That’s when the movie really gets good.” That’s not good at all, you Easy. “Luna’s home is ransacked, and right as she’s about to die, she starts to sing. Her attackers pause, and then she kills them first. Luna goes on to save her whole tribe, singing to distract them and slaying every last rival. At the end, her tribe thanks her and there’s this moment of peace. Where everyone gets along.”

  The truck hums onward. Getting a long tip about what Hazel likes should make me happy, or at least relieved, but I’m furious to hear about DZs in this movie. Killing each other. For Easy pleasure. It’s not just the movie that’s getting me, though, it’s this reminder of every other way DZs are being used. By the magazines. The photographers. Crowds. And everyone on the internet. They’re all just goddamn using us.

  Hazel said she liked angry. I can give her angry.

  “That would never happen,” I spit.

  Surrogate Hazel looks surprised. “What?” she asks.

  “Your movie,” I say. “That would never happen.”

  She shrugs as if she doesn’t care.

  “Do you have any idea what our lives are like down there?” I press on, searching her eyes for an answer. She shakes her head no. “Then let me tell you a thing or two about the Dark Zone. You can’t grow up an orphan there. You wouldn’t survive. It takes years to learn your way through the debris, and that’s only with someone paying extremely close attention. At the same time, you’d have to teach yourself how to watch out for animals, how to stay warm, and what you can and cannot eat.”

  “Sure, but—”

  “I’m not finished,” I say aggressively. I sit up straighter in my seat so she has to look up at me. “DZs don’t fight each other. We need each other to survive. There are no warring tribes. There are no tribes. There are just human beings who struggle to stay alive in different parts of the wreckage your people abandoned.”

  “Okay, but—”

  “One last thing,” I say. “You don’t kill anyone by singing to them.”

  “I didn’t make the movie, alright?” she bursts, crossing her arms in her defense. “Americans aren’t told much about your lives down there, okay? Even Family members. All we know is you don’t have electricity and there aren’t many of you left. We just guess the rest. Give me a break already.”

  Her tone sounds sharper than usual, and suddenly I’m worried. Yes, I’m supposed to be angry and flawed, but I might have gone too far. I squint to see her face better. Try to figure out how she’s feeling. The thick shade hides her expression, but I’ve spent my life honing night vision. I can see through this. In the darkness, I make out a small, suppressed smile playing at the corners of her lips, daring to turn them upward. My eyebrows rise in surprise. She’s actually enjoying the tension. I’m still doing well.

  The truck pulls to a stop. I lean over her lap to open the car door. Look around. We’re parked at the beginning of a long and snowy alley. Windowless brick buildings line either side of the shadowed passage, and there’s not a single light in sight. Hell, it looks like a scene out of the Dark Zone. Surrogate Hazel’s gray eyes widen, surprised, and I have a good feeling about this. She’ll get a sense of danger, and I’ll be in my element. I know the dark. Unlike her—and unlike goddamn Luna—I actually grew up in it.

  I jump forward into the air and let myself fall onto the white sidewalk, landing on the balls of my feet. I kick a bit of the snow around, watching it fly left then right. Turning around, I hold my arms out to catch the surrogate as she jumps. The truck engines stay running. Guess they’ll be here when we come back.

  We walk toward the alley. I feel like I’m back in Dark DC on a hunt, walking next to my newest prey. I stride confidently down the black passage, and Surrogate Hazel keeps up with my pace even as her teeth start to chatter. In the distance, I spot a line of people dressed in exotic furs. They stand in various stages of waiting outside a huge brass door guarded by someone who looks like a Suit. That must be our destination; there’s nothing else around.

  “Where are we even going?” she asks.

  I point to the group of Easies fifty or so feet away.

  “Can I get a drink in there?” she asks.

  I raise an eyebrow. “You scared?”

  “No,” she says firmly.

  “Then face it sober,” I say. “I want you to remember me.”

  We reach the Easies. Not one of them is getting through the door. I stride toward the front of the line and pay close attention to everyone I pass. They are all wearing bulky fur coats covered in different animal patterns. Beige with black spots, black and white stripes, plain dark brown. The furs cover everything down to their knees, making them look like animals themselves. A whole herd of them. But there’s only one I’m watching tonight, and she’s right behind me. We stop by the door.

  “Well, if it isn’t Phoenix,” the almost-Suit bellows. A long pink scar cuts diagonally across his lips, turning his smile into a slanted grin. “There’s always room for you and your ladies.” He unclips the black rope separating me from him and beckons me inside. There’s no sign above the brass door. I nod to thank him.

  “Enjoy the Underground,” he whispers.
<
br />   Surrogate Hazel and I step inside an empty room. The door drifts slowly shut behind us. It’s pitch black in here except for blinking red lights overhead. The layout of this place reminds me of Silk, but I brush that out of my mind. I don’t want to get distracted right now. We walk carefully across the floor and listen to our steps echo. What the hell did Elektra get me into. I keep my eyes open and aware, searching the nearly invisible walls for some sort of hint. Anything.

  “What is this place?” the surrogate whispers.

  In the corner, there’s another brass door. It looks just like the first: tall and ominous. A giant goddamn mystery. It starts to open, and as it does, a loud blare of shouting and music surges from the other side. Three Easy men emerge, all dressed in maroon. The color of blood. The middle one limps with his arms around the shoulders of his two companions. He moans in agony, and a dark trickle runs down his temple. His unscathed helpers ignore us as they carry him out the door we came in.

  Surrogate Hazel and I are left alone in the empty room. I hide my sudden flash of fear from her by turning away. The far bronze door has shut, and we are cloaked again in an unnerving silence.

  “I’m going to need a drink,” the surrogate says.

  I disregard the comment and message Elektra. I feel less comfortable than I did just a few seconds ago, and I want to know what’s going on. I hide my sudden flash of fear from the surrogate. Thankfully Elektra responds immediately:

  Phoenix: what’s downstairs

  Elektra: fights.

  Elektra: it’s controlled. not hard. good way to impress hazel

  Elektra: quit whining

  Elektra: baby ;)

  My shoulders relax now that some uncertainty is gone. I can handle “controlled fights” as long as I don’t touch anyone. Whatever risks I end up taking for Hazel, I’m never going to break that rule.

  I walk ahead of the surrogate toward the door and hear her footsteps follow mine. She’s barely a breath behind me as I rest my fingers on the cool brass handle. I wait a second. Looking back, I see the surrogate urge me forward with an impatient nod. She’s not even fazed, probably just eager to look for some alcohol. I guess we’re going through with this. I face the door again, brace myself, and pull it open.

  The blare. A steady and excruciatingly loud beat almost overwhelms me as we stand atop a steep descending staircase. Surrogate Hazel puts her hands on my shoulders. Without asking, I crouch slightly and lift her up onto my back. She kisses the bare back of my neck and I almost drop her to get her off. But I can’t do that. I still have to get her goddamn phone number.

  We descend. So this is the Underground. I step onto the dirt floor of a basement lit by a single crimson lightbulb hanging by a thin wire from the ceiling. It flickers on and off rhythmically, making everything look like it’s happening in slow motion. The wall beside me supports a run-down bar beneath a sign that reads: WE DON’T TAKE ORDERS. Five giant stereos sit along the bar top, and neon-red plasma pulses up and down in a straight line on top of each as the speakers blast the music.

  There’s a wide space in the middle of the room, and a ring of sweaty Easies circling a pair in the center. There, surrounded by everyone, a brown-skinned Easy girl is barefoot. She’s got long legs lean enough to see muscle pop over her knee when she moves. The Easy boy next to her has taken his shirt off, and he has his fists up to his face. He looks faint, like he might fall over at any second. The Easy girl spins to kick him in the chest. He sails backward to land on the floor. The crowd erupts in cheers. Two of the winner’s friends surround her and catch her before her knees buckle in exhaustion. The bartender jogs over to her with a beer, and I realize the “no orders” sign is serious. You only get a drink if you win.

  The music stops suddenly.

  “Who’s next?” the bartender calls into the silence.

  I step into the middle of the ring without saying my name. Even if the surrogate weren’t here, this is where I would want to be. I’m ready for my chance to knock out an Easy. Hell, I’ve been ready for this for years, ever since I first understood what the Frontier meant. Anticipation flows through me like fire. More than fire, like power. This is going to be for every time I walked by the wall and felt like a Ghost, invisible. For every time Wick coughed and there was nothing I could do.

  Whispers start to flow around the room. In the flickering glare, I see Easies huddle in small groups and point at me. Some are gasping, and now I get it. They must have recognized me from the Carnival.

  “And who are you?” the hulking bartender asks gruffly.

  “He’s Phoenix!” someone shouts from the ring.

  The bartender bends with his hands on his knees to get a better look. His broad frame looks strained as he twists under me. His neck is covered in snake tattoos. A blue tear has been tattooed beneath one eye.

  “Well, I’ll be.” He gawks. Standing back up, he roars, “The Frontier is down tonight in the Underground!” Hoots and hollers break out around me, almost as loud as the music. “It’s the Dark Zone versus America! Who here wants to take on a DZ?”

  I nod confidently at surrogate Hazel. She nods back, clearly riveted. I can already imagine myself entering Hazel’s number into my phone at the end of the night. It will feel good, but not as good as winning this fight. I pull my sweatshirt over my fists and lift my gray hood over my head. I’m good to go.

  “My turn!” someone calls.

  The voice sounds vaguely familiar and definitely drunk. I squint to find the Easy behind the words. The crowd is parting as someone makes his way to the front. When he finally reaches the ring, I blink twice: It’s Bing. Bing Troublefield the Fourth. His necktie has been loosened, and his white shirt is wet with sweat. His cheeks flush red as he staggers into the center of the ring and then wobbles in place.

  Bing. Here.

  But—how? His chest, face, and hands are all exposed. There’s nothing to keep anyone from touching him, just brushing accidentally against his skin. Two Easy girls in tight short dresses wave to him from the sidelines, and the truth slowly becomes clear. I bring my mouth into a hard line. Of course. He hasn’t been following the rule at all. He’s not wearing his ring either, and I imagine the tracking device hidden under some beaming lamp back wherever the hell he lives. I spit on the ground. I’m not just facing any Easy now. This man has dishonored my family. He has disrespected his privilege and, worst of all, he’s dating my girlfriend.

  The music is back on. I look around and notice the bartender has gone. We’ve started. Bing nods his head back and forth slowly in time with the steady pounding. The flickering lights only let me see him for part of every second. I raise my fists to my chin, already savoring how good this will feel. One quick punch should do it, but I want to make it last. As I plan, Bing reaches lazily into the waistband of his pants and pulls out a small pistol.

  My cheeks feel cold. The crowd gasps, but no one moves. They stand around us, frozen stiff with fear as the music plays steadily on. Now the beat sounds haunting. I try to swallow but my mouth is dry. I try to keep my eyes on the gun, but it keeps disappearing and reappearing as the red light flickers.

  “Oops,” Bing says, wiggling the weapon around.

  I need to act fast. Now. Instinctively, I swing at the light bulb hanging down above me. My knuckles burn, and I can feel fresh blood as the whole room goes instantly dark. The music stops suddenly, and my ears are ringing. A shrill noise buzzes inside my head, and I push on my temple to make it stop. Still, noise or not, I have an edge now. I drop my hands into fists again and forget about the sound.

  “Welcome to the Dark Zone,” I whisper.

  “Stop it!” Bing yells.

  Feet shuffle as the crowd scrambles for the exit. Bing is too drunk to navigate his way out without any light. As far as I’m concerned, our fight is not over yet. Not even close. I remember exactly where he was standing and creep behind him. I rip the gun from where his hand was and fumble to put the safety on. Once it sets, I drop the pistol to the floo
r and kick it aside. Bing’s footsteps stumble in a zigzag path, but I do not move. Sounds reveal everything in the dark. Even with the ringing, I can tell where Bing is just by listening to him stumble. I step toward him and raise my covered fist. This is my moment.

  I punch him exactly the way I wanted.

  A lightbulb behind the bar illuminates the room as Bing falls to the ground. The bartender stands with his hand still on the controlling string. Bing writhes, clutching his jaw, and I feel a strange sense of satisfaction looking at him. I could hurt him more, but I don’t want him to lose consciousness. He deserves to feel pain. The bartender walks over holding a beer, but I wave it away. I want to savor this moment as it is.

  Surrogate Hazel is backed against the wall. Looks like I gave her a night to remember. I exhale a long breath of relief. The rest of the room is almost empty, except for a few Easies hunched and cowering behind the bar top. I take the surrogate’s hand and lead her upstairs. No more risks tonight.

  We walk back to the trucks still waiting for us and slide inside one. We sit in silence and catch our breaths together. Our chests heave slower and slower until we are calm. She reaches a hand toward mine. I swallow my disgust and let her take it. For the rest of the ride, she whispers about Hazel: She believes in God, she likes “junk food” for breakfast, she used to have a drug problem. Blah blah blah.

  I’m really thinking about Star. I wish she were here because I desperately want to tell her everything that just happened. God knows I can’t tell the surrogate. She—whoever she really is—doesn’t understand what that fight meant to me. She couldn’t begin to comprehend the way I look at Easies or what it felt like to find a dark place in the middle of this blinding city. Star would understand. Star knows me like no one else in the world, and she would just instantly get it. Exactly the way I wanted someone to get it. She would hold my aching fist, tell me I’m warm, and she’d probably feel bad for Bing, but she wouldn’t say it out loud. Because she loves me. And I love her. I love her so much.