Through the Dark (A Darkest Minds Collection) (A Darkest Minds Novel)

by Alexandra Bracken

  I try to plan something.

  In the early morning light that slips in through the front windshield and the tinted back windows, I study Lucas’s face. At the next stop for food or a bathroom break, when they uncuff us, Mia can shove the soldiers back and I’ll lunge for one of their guns. If she can’t knock them unconscious, then I’ll—

  “No, Sam.”

  I look up. Mia watches me, her dark eyes intent. The radio belches out more static, interrupting the song the driver was humming along to.

  “But—”

  “No,” she repeats, glancing down at Lucas. “It’s over. You were right.” Mia’s voice trembles. “You were right. I was just…stupid…”

  “No,” I say, “I was wrong—”

  “Wouldn’t it be better…for him?” she asks.

  Maybe. An unwanted voice whispers the word in my mind. Is it better to let him live like this, force him to eat and drink, when he’s clearly determined to drift away? How would Lucas feel about living as a shadow of himself, while we cling to the memory of who he was?

  I must have fallen asleep at some point, too, because the next thing I’m aware of is waking up. I’m angry with myself all over again, blinking against the bright interior lights of the car, disoriented by the blast of icy air that charges into the cramped space. What time is it? The engine is off—I can’t read the dashboard clock. How many hours have I wasted in sleep?

  A soldier with a face I don’t recognize is peering down at me, a pale blue helmet secured tightly under his chin.

  “Where—?” I rasp out, my throat dry to the point of pain. Where are we?

  The floor at our feet is empty.

  Lucas?

  They’ve already taken him out—God, they did it while we were asleep? Did they stop before now? Did they take him out just a few minutes ago? Mia struggles against her cuffs, straining to see what’s happening outside of the doors.

  “Where is he?” she shouts. “What did you do to him?”

  “What are you doing?” I demand. “Where is Lucas?”

  Panic scrambles under my skin like a thousand ants. The soldier’s hand clamps down around my wrist hard enough to pin me there while he replaces the van’s cuffs with zip ties again. Where is he? Is he all right? Anything could be happening—he might slip away completely, and neither of us would know—

  I’m choked by my own helplessness. I have nothing to pour my anger into, and it just feeds itself, until I practically push my escort out of the van, which earns me a stern look and a sharp tongue cluck, like I’m a dog getting my behavior corrected in obedience class. We’re under an overcast sky thick with steel-spun clouds, but I have to squint against the pale light. I swallow back the familiar wave of nausea that comes with too many nerves stewing in too little sleep, searching for Lucas.

  Then I hear it.

  It is a sound that lives inside me, vibrating at the edge of seven years of memory. The low hum turns me inside out in a second, and it happens so fast—my lungs constrict painfully, my vision tunnels on the tangles of barbed wire. The air shivers with electricity. Green trees—even the smell of the air and wet earth is the same. The fog hides the body of the camp, but I know it must be there. The electric fence—

  Thurmond.

  They brought me back—the electric fence in front of me is quivering with laughter—thought you were gone, did you, thought you got away—I recoil hard enough to trip up my escort and nearly bite my tongue off. Blood fills my mouth. Why are they doing this? Why—

  I squeeze my eyes shut, open them, squeeze them, repeating it until the throbbing in my temples finally calms.

  Not Thurmond.

  Mia is talking to me, eyes wide—I don’t understand how I’m looking up at her until I see that I’m on my knees, that I’ve tripped and fallen. It takes two men in uniforms to get me back up.

  One of them, his blue helmet gleaming from a light mist of rain, squints at me, his eyes as dark as his skin. “—won’t hurt you, won’t hurt—”

  The drumming in my head gets louder as the darkness at the edge of my vision clears, expanding so I can finally take in the real scene in front of me, not the nightmare my mind decided to terrorize me with.

  There is an electrified fence. I didn’t imagine that, at least. It stretches across the four lanes of empty highway we’re standing on, and disappears into the damp, spring-rich forests cushioning either side of it. There are trailers everywhere, but two enormous concrete buildings have already been erected on either side of the road. Construction workers in bright orange vests are building another section that will bridge them together over what looks like it’ll be some kind of tollbooth, or security checkpoint. National Guardsmen with blue bandanas tied around their upper arms are overseeing the work, hovering around as if they’re unsure what they’re supposed to be doing.

  The asphalt is cracked and scattered with rotting leaves and tire tracks as we weave through the concrete barriers they’ve erected to slow down approaching cars. To our right, two soldiers in blue helmets are covering up the WELCOME TO WEST VIRGINIA: WILD AND WONDERFUL sign with one that reads ZONE 1 SECURITY CHECKPOINT HAVE PASSES READY.

  Wild and wonderful. I don’t know if I should laugh or cry.

  I should have paid better attention to the news reports about how the peacekeeping force was dividing the country up into four zones for better management—I do kind of remember hearing that West Virginia would be the western barrier and Virginia the southern barrier for Zone 1. It includes all of New England and the Mid-Atlantic states. Which would make Zone 2…the southern states, including Texas. Zone 3 would be the middle slice of the country, from the Great Lakes through Kansas, and everything west of that would be Zone 4.

  They think it will be easier to manage the populations and rations this way, controlling the flow of both, telling us what to do and what’s right. But dependence won’t outlast desperation. I think they are building dams that will never withstand the hundreds of millions desperate for clean water, food, and work.

  “Where is the boy? The one who was with us?”

  He shakes his head, leading me through the construction, the deafening whine of drills and jackhammers hidden by work tarps. A shower of sparks falls from where the welders are binding the bones of the structure together over our heads. They strike the ground and disappear before they can catch.

  When I dig my heels in, the escort signals to another soldier and they lift me, kicking, up the short stack of stairs into the warm arms of the building. The doors slide shut and seal behind us. A lock beeps.

  Every head in the small, cramped entryway swivels in our direction. Mia and I are half walked, half dragged down the length of a door-lined hallway.

  I am used to being watched. I am used to knowing that, even when I showered in the Wash Rooms, there was a camera there, keeping its eye on me. I ate under supervision. Worked with the eyes of PSFs drilling into my back. I am used to living like a shadow, a poor imitation of a person, but not invisible.

  What I am not used to…is being stared at. Having men and women lean out of doorways, trail steps after us like we’re the circus coming to town. It feels like I’m being passed around, crumpled by their careless hands. These aren’t lethal looks. Mostly just plain, ugly curiosity. Fascination.

  I can see the same realization dawning on Mia. Her shoulders hunch, her fingers curl, and a look like death comes over her face as she stares into each of the faces we pass. She’s winding herself up, cranking up her temper. I shake my head, but she ignores me.

  We make a sharp turn down another hallway with more doors. But these have glass observation windows, and instead of offices and supply closets, there are cots and four blank walls. These are prison cells.

  They don’t even cut the zip ties off our hands before they push us inside and let the door slam and lock behind us. Mia surges toward the window, where a crowd of soldiers and men and women in suits are slowing as they pass, or stopping altogether to look in.

&n
bsp; “Where’s my brother?” she yells. The men and women turn toward each other, whispering, confused. “What are you even looking at?”

  Mia whirls back to me.

  “Don’t,” I say, reading her expression. She wants me to pick a target for her—I think she wants them to see that glass isn’t enough of a barrier to keep her from them. “It’ll only make it worse.”

  It’s my turn to address them. “We want to talk to whoever is in charge. Hey! Are you even listening?”

  We can hear the rumble of their muted voices, but no one actually speaks to us, no one so much as moves, until a short, stocky man pushes his way through the crowd, slides a key card through the door’s lock, and lets himself in. Two National Guardsmen trail in behind him, looking decidedly more worried.

  The man in the blue beret motions for us to sit, but Mia and I remain on our feet, stepping back to the far side of the small room.

  “I am Major Benn.” The man’s accent is heavy, filling whatever space his physical presence doesn’t. None of them are armed with guns, and I wonder if that’s a reflection on them, or on us. “You are at the Zone One Processing Center.”

  “Where’s my brother?”

  Major Benn waves his hands, shooing the question away. “You’ll be kept in this facility until you are collected for…re-homing. You understand?”

  “Where’s my brother?” Mia repeats. “I want to see him!”

  “Perhaps you will soon, if you are a good girl, okay?” the man answers, and I know I will hate those words, good girl, always. “You are…Mia, then? Mia…”

  “Orfeo,” one of the National Guardsmen finishes, shifting uncomfortably. He glances down at a printout in his hand before passing it to the major.

  The man’s blond brows rise and rise as he reads it over. “Then you are blau—Blue?”

  My whole body tenses. Mia stares at him, her hands clenching where they’re bound behind her back. “Yeah. So?”

  “You do the trick, please—you show us?”

  What?

  Major Benn unclips a pen from his shirt’s front pocket and lets it drop on the ground. “You pick this up. No touching, right?”

  Mia and I exchange a look of disbelief. I think I’ve misheard him until I see the blood drain from the faces of the National Guardsmen. The muscles in my back tense to the point of pain. He’s watching us, brows still raised expectantly.

  The pen is a deep blue, rimmed with gold. It’s still rolling back and forth, back and forth on the ground.

  Maybe he does just want to see her abilities, marvel at them the way he would a magician’s trick at a kid’s birthday party. But I know for a fact that the group—the one that led to Thurmond being closed—released videos of the kids using their abilities and kids talking about the use of their abilities. So it’s not like he hasn’t had the chance to see it before.

  “Is there a problem?” Major Benn asks, the words sharper now. He is not smiling, and that alone makes me straighten, catch my breath. I ease in front of Mia, just a step. He holds the paper up. “Is this wrong? Is this not what you do?”

  “Sir—” one of the National Guardsmen starts to say, only to be silenced with a look.

  At Thurmond, using your abilities—using them accidentally or willingly—was a punishable offense that involved lost meals and being forced to sit outside and let the elements prey on you. If not that, then…my leg throbs at the thought of stacked dog cages, remembering the snake, how it felt to be curled up and locked inside.

  This isn’t fair—we don’t know the rules now! We don’t know if they’ve changed, if Mia will be hauled off for doing this, or applauded for putting on a good show. Could he claim that she was trying to use the pen as a weapon? That he had to kill us to subdue us?

  “She’s not—” I start to say, but it’s already too late. Mia doesn’t have to lift a hand. She looks at the pen, looks at the faces peering in at us like we’re animals at the zoo, and she sends them on a collision course.

  The glass doesn’t shatter, even with the force of the tip driving through it, but the cracks radiate out in a web that reaches the edge of its frame. There’s a collective gasp as the men and women standing there scatter, but it’s nothing compared to the click and swish of the National Guardsmen pulling out their White Noise machines.

  What is she doing? Does Mia really think they’ll let us see Lucas now?

  “It was an accident,” she says, all sweetness, and if I could reach back to strangle her without them tackling me for moving, I would. “You said you wanted to see me move it. I guess my control isn’t very good.”

  Every last trace of humor is gone from Benn’s face as he crosses the room in silence and slides the pen out of the window slowly, carefully, like one wrong move could bring the whole thing crashing down.

  The person who slams the sheet of paper up against the glass behind him has absolutely none of these concerns. I don’t see her until Benn takes a surprised step back, and then it’s the electric purple hair that draws my eyes first, even before her fury-tight face.

  “Show’s over, assholes!”

  Every voice but hers seems to have been sucked out of the world. My stomach lurches, starts to flutter again.

  It’s so strange to me that I remember this girl’s voice and can connect the right memory before I can do the same with her face. Or…not so strange. She’d been wearing a ski mask when she burst into our cabin.

  This is the girl from Thurmond. One of the team that came to open up the camp. The window distorts her face, breaks it up into pieces, but what I see are dark eyes, rich skin, high cheekbones, full lips, and a glare like venom. The few stragglers in the hallway duck away into nearby offices; I don’t blame them. She’s shaking like she’s about to detonate and bring the whole building down.

  Benn signals to one of the National Guardsmen to open the door, and the girl fills the doorway. She’s too smart to step inside, where they could trap her, too—actually, on second thought, I’m not so sure anything could cage her. She’s a full head shorter than all three men, and looks about ten times as lethal. Gun holstered at her side. Knife peeking out of the top of her combat boots. Plus whatever else she’s hiding under her oversized green army jacket.

  “Transfer order,” the girl says, handing the paper over. “Signed, sealed, delivered—what the fuck are you squinting at? Get a fucking pair of glasses if you need a better view!” The National Guardsman who’s been staring at her immediately turns back toward Benn, who is reading and rereading the piece of paper.

  “What—?” I give a sharp shake of my head at Mia, silencing her. I don’t know how she’s even speaking. My throat is so tight I can barely breathe.

  “This is signed by…” he begins.

  “Interim President Cruz,” the girl finishes.

  “Where is—you are—” Benn releases the next few words in German. “You are not an officer of the law, armed forces, United Nations—”

  She holds up what looks like a small identification card. I can’t read what it says, but it looks official. Mia watches the girl with wide, wondering eyes.

  Benn is still holding the card when she snatches it back and gestures toward us. “Get moving, girls.”

  I don’t need to be told twice. The door slams shut behind us, and I don’t risk looking back at the wreckage we’ve left.

  “What’s going on?” I whisper. “How did you get us out?”

  She narrows her eyes and slides them over to us. “Someone called in a favor on your behalf, so don’t jack this up, hear me?”

  Someone? Who?

  The girl doesn’t cut our hands free, and keeping up with her long, steady strides means jogging on a leg that’s hurting badly enough for me to want to cut it off myself.

  “What about my brother? Where is he? Are you getting him?” Mia asks the second we reach the door, when the spell of silence from the hallway finally wears off. The blast of damp air and gray skies is so at odds with the dry, white glare of the new buil
ding, it’s staggering. I have to limp slowly down the steps to keep from falling.

  “Treating you like you’re fucking animals, the assholes, God—come here,” she says, tugging Mia over to her. I’m right, that is a knife poking out of her boot. The girl makes quick work of the zip ties around Mia’s wrists, then mine. By the time she’s finished, the door to the other building hisses open and a tall, lanky teen appears, his silver-framed glasses fogging up from the sudden change in temperature. He’s wearing something my dad would have worn—nice slacks and a dark fleece to keep out the cold.

  I recognize him, too. This is the one who was at the press conference. The kid that spoke up.

  The numbing hit of confusion takes away all of my words. I fumble for them, for the question screaming across my mind, and come up with nothing but a gasp.

  He looks at the girl and shakes his head. “It’s like we thought. They already moved him out.”

  “Lucas?” Mia asks. “Are you talking about Lucas?”

  The girl throws a quick glance around to the soldiers moving between the construction site and the building. “Shit, girl, can you try a voice level under screeching? Let’s go.”

  “I’m not leaving without my brother!” Mia leans back, digging in, nearly red with the effort to keep from either screaming or crying, I’m not sure which.

  “You want to stay here?” the girl challenges, squaring her shoulders. “You want back in that jail cell?”

  “Vi”—the boy tries to step between them—“we don’t have time for this.”

  Mia raises her hand, and my mind blanks again.

  The girl only arches her brow. “Try it. I’ll break both of your fucking legs and you walking out of here won’t be a goddamn question, will it?”

  I feel like she’s reached in and ripped away my shock. My hackles rise, and no one is more surprised than me to hear a sound like a growl come tearing out of my mouth. If she so much as touches Mia—

  “Look, we’re running out of time,” the boy says. “I checked the other building. Wherever your brother is, he isn’t here—but none of us are going to find him if we don’t get moving.”