Authors: Amy Christine Parker
Gated (29 page)
I don’t want to believe that Marie’s gone. For a long time I sit against the bars and call to her, hoping somehow she’ll answer. I try to tell myself that she’s just unconscious. But she doesn’t wake up. Now there’s only silence, a vast ocean of it. I’m drowning in it.
I cry until I have no more tears. I’m rocking back and forth against the bars. It’s all over now. This is the end.
Maybe that’s good
.
Maybe it should be the end
.
I’m not sure that I can get past what just happened. I "juve
The dark is scarier now. I keep thinking Pioneer is in here too even though I just saw him leave. How long did he sit in this room and listen to me cry and talk to myself? He’d had a knife for all of that time. Was he going to use it on me after he killed Marie? And what about now? Has
he already found a way to get rid of Mr. Whitcomb? Could he be coming back down the stairs at this very moment? I listen and wait, but I can’t hear anything other than my own labored breaths.
I promise myself that if he is somehow in here with me again, I will fight. I will do whatever it takes to make him hurt. He has to pay for what he did to Marie, to Indy, to all of us. He made us think there was a better way to live, a better life, when all he was really doing was sentencing us all to death.
When he doesn’t materialize in front of my cell and jab his knife through the bars, I start to think about what I should do next. I need to get out of this cell. I need to expose Pioneer for what he really is. I need to save whoever I can so that Marie’s death counts for something.
The key
.
Marie had a key. An image of it flashes across my brain. Pioneer didn’t take it. He’d forgotten to retrieve it before Mr. Whitcomb came along. She must still have it in her pocket or her hand. If I can reach her, I can get it and get out of here.
“I’m sorry, Marie. About all of this,” I say. My voice sounds overly loud in the silence, hollow.
I lean against the bars and put one arm out as far as it will reach so I can feel around the floor in front of me. My hand lands in sticky wet—blood—and I recoil. I have to make myself put my hand out again. I strain against the bars, crying out when my hands don’t land on anything
substantial, but I don’t quit. I keep grasping at the floor, pulling my arm out as far as it will go. My shoulder screams a protest, but I can’t give up. Not now. Just a little bit farther. I gasp, my lips parting just enough for me to taste the metal bar beside my face. I put my foot on the cot beside me and press myself harder into the narrow opening between bars. Just when I’m beginning to be afraid that my cheekbone will break, my fingers finally, finally graze fabric. It’s stiff with blood, but it still bends as I grab hold and pull. I can hear the trash bags that Pioneer used to cover her rustle. The sound makes me jump. At first nothing moves and I pull harder with both hands, my fingers cramping with the effort. I feel Marie inch forward just a little. It’s enough to help my fingers find better purchase. Slowly I slide her forward until I can reach her pocket. It’s empty. She’d been holding the key in her fingers. I let my hand travel the length of her arm. I put my hand over hers. Her fingers are cold at the tips, but her palm is still warm. I bite back a fresh round of sobs. Tucked in her hand is the key. I slide it out and pull it back to me.
It takes a few minutes to wrangle the key into the lock. My hands are shaking so badly that I have to lean against the bars to steady them, but then the door opens and I’m free. I feel my way from the cell to the door and switch the overhead light on. It takes several minutes before I can open my eyes and several more before I can actually focus on anything. I’m not sure how long I was in the dark. Hours? Days? It feels like forever.
Marie’s body is almost too much to take now with the lights on. There’s so much bloos slikd on the floor. I stare at her sneakers, which are sticking out past the garbage bags. I can’t decide if I should leave her covered up or not. I keep thinking that she can’t breathe under the bags even though I know she’s dead. I kneel down beside her and finally tuck the garbage bags around her like a blanket, leaving her face uncovered. Her skin is ashen and milk pale against her dark hair; the caramel tone it usually has is gone. I stroke her cheek. It still feels unbelievable, wrong that she’s gone, that Pioneer did this to her.
“I’m going to stop him,” I whisper into her face. “I promise.” I lean down and kiss her cheek.
I stare at Pioneer’s knife, lying between Marie and the door. I should take it with me, but the blade is red. Marie’s blood. Suddenly I can’t make myself pick it up. I don’t want to take it with me. I don’t want to ever see it again.
I stand up and open the door to the stairwell. The light is on, but dim. The air is stuffy and close and shadows blanket the twists and turns ahead of me. I start moving slowly upward, careful to stay on the balls of my feet and make as little noise as possible. I feel like Pioneer is lurking behind every turn in the stairs, waiting to come at me with his knife—even though the knife is still on the ground next to Marie. My heart stutters to a stop as I peek around the corners. Pioneer’s not there. Now that I know I’m still alone, I’m not sure where to go.
My parents. I can go to them first. They may be my
only hope for reinforcements right now. They’ll listen to me; they have to. I’ll explain everything and they’ll know I’m not lying. I can bring them down to the supply room and show them Marie if I have to.
Our living compartments are two floors up. I head there first, hoping to catch them alone. I can’t talk to them in front of the others, and if anyone else knows I’m out, they’ll tell Pioneer. I climb the stairs as fast as I can. I ease open the stairwell door that leads to our rooms. It’s quiet, dark. There’s no sign of anyone; still, I study the hallway and the doors leading to our neighbors’ compartments. I leave the overhead light off and tiptoe across the burgundy-carpeted floor, being careful to listen as I pass each door. Several of the doors already sport wreaths of dried flowers, signs that the others have taken up residence and are trying to make their spaces as welcoming as possible. Our door is still plain, unadorned. The dark navy paneling on it gleams. I twist the knob and peek in.
My parents are sitting at the tiny table on the right where our small kitchenette is situated. My mom has her hand up to my dad’s forehead. The cotton ball in her fingers is wet and tinged pink with blood. She freezes when she sees me. Her blue-green eyes are large in her head and her mouth drops open. She looks horrified. It’s only now that I realize that my shirt and hands are still stained with Marie’s blood.
“Lyla! Are you okay?”
She clambers out of her seat and rushes toward me,
stops short of hugging me and lets her hands flutter about my arms and waist. “Where are you hurt?”
“I’m not,” I say. “The blood’s not mine.”
I can’t say that it’s Marie’s. The words won’t come out. Instead I start crying hysterically. I’m a little shocked that I have any tears left. I thought I’d managed to use them all up in the supply room. My parents descend on me, wrapping me in a tight hug between them.
I look up at his face. There’s a long, angry red mark on his temple, but otherwise he doesn’t seem to be hurt. The relief I feel only makes my crying jag worse. His forehead wrinkles and he stares into my face. “Lyla, what’s happened?”
“H-h-he k-k-killed h-h-her,” I manage to say between sobs.
“Who killed who?” Dad says more gruffly.
“Who are we talking about?” my mom says in a voice that’s unnaturally high-pitched.
I try to regain control of myself. I have too much to tell them. I can’t let myself get any more unglued. “Pioneer killed Marie.”
My parents glance at each other. I can see the look of doubt that passes between them, so I hurry to tell them everything that’s happened before I can worry too much about them not believing me. I tell them about the cell and Pioneer’s and Will’s visits and Marie’s. The words are coming so fast now that they’re practically overlapping
one another. I don’t stop until I talk myself to where I am now—with them—then I grow silent.
“But why would Pioneer do something like this?” Mom looks completely confused.
“You think I’m making it up?”
“No, it’s just … why? He wants to save us. It doesn’t make sense.”
“He thinks we have no chance of staying in the Silo now. He thinks that the sheriff and the others will force us out. He’s convinced that no matter what, we’re going to die.”
My dad shakes his head. “But why would he kill Marie the way you say he did?”
The way he asks the question hurts. He’s struggling with my story and that means they both think I might be lying. “He killed her because she came to let me out. He was waiting down there in the dark with me like he knew she’d be coming. For hours. She’s still down there. I can show you.”
They both look at my shirt at the same time like they’re finally starting to believe that I’m really covered in blood; I can see the horror flood across their faces.
Dad lets out a shaky breath. “Well then, we have to confront him. I know that I’m not ready to hand over my life because we’ve hit a snag. If we have to leave the Silo, then we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”
Dad pushes his hair up out of his eyes and winces as his hand grazes his wound. He’s sweating like crazy.
We all are. It dawns on me that the air isn’t circulating. That’s why the stairwell was so stuffy. Pioneer’s turned off the air.
“The air’s not working anymore, Dad,” I say.
He looks up and puts a hand to the vents. He frowns. “No air means no oxygen. We’ll suffocate in here. What did he say to you about his plans exactly?”
“He said it was time we all went to sleep, traveled to the next place, where the Brethren would be waiting.”
Dad’s face is sickly under the fluorescent overhead lights. “Carbon monoxide,” he says more to himself than to us. “The oxygen levels will start dropping now, and if he keeps the generators running … th02601D; hee carbon monoxide won’t dissipate. We’ll die in a matter of hours.” He leans back against the kitchenette’s counter. “That’s why we closed off the emergency tunnels already … not because the sheriff would find them. It was to reduce the air circulation even faster. We don’t have a lot of time.”
“Emergency tunnels?” I ask.
Mom leans in to listen. Seems my dad has kept some secrets too.
“When we built this place, we needed to have two escape hatches apart from the main entrance. In case of fire or, like now, if the air isn’t circulating properly. There’s one in the supply room and another that leads out of the medical center. I drew them into the plans myself. Pioneer wanted it kept a secret so that he could be sure no one would breach them during our stay here unless absolutely
necessary—you know, in case someone panicked over being cooped up so long and tried to escape. That’s originally why we had the cell built too.”
“But we can use them now to leave,” I say. I feel the first faint glimmers of hope. We might not even have to confront Pioneer if we can get to the rest of the Community first. We can sneak out as many people as possible and then just let the sheriff deal with Pioneer.
“There’s a coded lock on each door, but yes, if we can figure out his code, we can use them to leave the Silo. Although I’m not sure we will be able to convince everyone to come along even if what you’re saying is the truth.” Dad glances at my mom. I look from him to her and back again.
“Why not? He’s about to kill all of us. Why would anyone just give up and stay once they know that? He murdered Marie. That has to be enough to make them listen.”
“Because giving up is easier than having to go back out there,” Mom says quietly. Her eyes are shimmering with tears and she looks frightened. “Because the world’s evil and capable of much worse than what Pioneer’s done. If the sheriff forces us out, we’ll have to live in it again … at least for a few weeks before the end, and then we’ll die anyway. Maybe he’s right to let this be it.” She walks over to the front door and grabs Karen’s shoes, cradles them. “Do you think Karen will be waiting for us?”
I stare at her. “Mom, Pioneer could be wrong, don’t you
see? About all of it. The apocalypse might not be coming. Shouldn’t we make sure before we just accept it?”
“But he can’t be wrong!” Mom yells. “No world where children are taken from their own doorsteps, from the families that love them, can remain in existence. Terrorists crash planes into buildings, men hit their wives and children, teenagers shoot their classmates, and countries war with one another. The Brethren won’t just keep letting it all happen. They can’t, do you understand me?”
Mom’s face crumples and she presses the shoes against her cheeks. She’s crying harder than I’ve seen her cry in a long time, like somehow she’s been storing up this hurt all these years and she can’t hold it back any longer. Her cries are harsh and angry, painful to hear.
“But why would the Brethren wipe out the world and let Pioneer go? He killed Marie. He stabbed her and left her on the floor. How is that good? How is he not just as evil as the people who took Karen? We haven’t escaped anything here. We can’t run away from all the bad m a isthings, because there will always be more. We have to deal with them and survive.”
“But what if I can’t? What if I don’t want to anymore?” Mom says into her hands. She buries her head in my dad’s chest. His eyes meet mine. The pain in them is every bit as raw as my mom’s, but his eyes are dry. He believes me, I can see it in his face, and he wants out just as much as I do.
“Mom, please! I don’t want to die in here. Can you
just try for me?” I want so much for her to wrap me in her arms and rock me the way she used to when I was little. I want her to promise me that everything will be okay. I need the mom she was before, the one I barely remember anymore, who laughed and danced and told stories. When we moved here, I thought she could be okay again, but she’s never quite pulled herself back together and now she never will.
“Mom!” I ask again, my voice cracking.
“I can’t, Lyla. I’m sorry.” She won’t look at me. “I do love you, but I just can’t.”
I lunge forward and yank Karen’s shoes out of her hands. “These stupid shoes! Why do you keep carrying them around? Karen’s dead! She is never coming back. These shoes aren’t a reminder of her; they’re an excuse for you to give up. And don’t you dare say you love me! You can’t and still choose this.”
I hurl the shoes across the room. They hit the wall and land underneath the kitchenette’s small table. Mom turns her back on me and rushes to pick them up. She carefully brushes the worn suede back into place and then tucks them against her chest again.
“So that’s it? You’re going to choose your dead daughter over the one who’s living and breathing and right in front of you? I spent my
whole life
trying to make sure you never had to go through anything like her death ever again. I stayed inside the house after she went missing; I came here and followed Pioneer. I did whatever you asked me
to do. I would’ve even gone into the Silo for good to make you happy, but you never cared, did you? You brought us here so you could stop living.”
The truth of what I’ve just said rips me apart. I stare at her, hoping that she’ll at least try to argue with me, that she’ll find a way to make things right, but she just hangs her head and rubs her thumb across those stupid shoes.
She begins to talk without looking at me. “You can’t understand. You’re just a kid. I lost a child. You don’t just get over that.”
“No,
you
don’t understand! You lost Karen, but you still had me.”
She tries to move a little closer to me, but I don’t want to be anywhere near her right now and I back away.
“I
do
love you,” she whispers. “Find a way out, Lyla. I want you to. You deserve more than I could ever give you.”
I fold my arms around myself to keep from reaching out to her. I still want her to come around—so badly, but I can see that she won’t. Her arms drop to her sides and she walks past me to the bedroom area and closes the door behind her. She’s taken Karen’s shoes with her. I’m finally beginning to understand. She died when Karen did and all these years we’ve just been living with her ghost.
Dad stares at the door. “I’ll talk to her.”
“tif just beIt won’t do any good. I think she’s wanted this all along,” I say, my voice shakier than I want it to be. “Are you coming?”
I move toward the door.
“I have to stay with her, Lyla. She’s my wife,” Dad says softly.
“And I’m your daughter. You’re telling me neither of you are going? This is crazy! You’d both rather stay here and die?”
“No, of course not. You’ll bring help … but if somehow you can’t, I can’t just let her die down here all alone.”
Dad looks tortured and guilty, but I don’t care. I want to shake him or hit him. I want to make him come with me.
“You’re asking me to survive your death and hers? On top of Karen’s, Marie’s, and Indy’s?” My voice breaks. I can’t believe he’s doing this. I can’t lose my entire family in one day. It’s too much.
“You’ll do it because you survive. It’s what you do. You were the only one who actually managed it after Karen and now again with Pioneer. You’ll survive us too if you have to.”
“I was never completely alone before,” I say. “Dad … please.”
My dad looks close to wavering, but then he shakes his head. “You’ll find help. And I swear that I will do what I can from down here to keep us alive until then. I can talk to the others and show them Marie. You need me down here. You can’t get everyone out all at the same time anyway. There’s not enough time. You have to get help. The faster you go, the sooner all of this will be over.”
“Daddy …” My voice breaks and I fold in on myself.
He pulls me close. His voice is thick and he has a hard
time speaking at first. “I want you to go, Lyla. Find the exit and leave. Get help. You have to go now, because there’s not a lot of time left.”
He’s right. I can feel the closeness in the air. I might be imagining it, but every breath I take feels less … right. The oxygen levels could already be dropping.
Dad walks over to the wall and pulls out one of the storage drawers built into it. There are rolled-up papers inside along with flashlights and pens, candles and matches. He pulls out one of the large paper rolls and opens it.
“These are the building plans for the Silo. We’re here.” He points to our compartment’s location. “The closest emergency hatch is in the supply room on this wall. Pioneer’s hidden it pretty well behind supply shelving, so you’ll have to move things to get to it. There’s a combination lock on it. If Pioneer hasn’t changed it since we originally set it, it could be this.”
Dad pulls out a pen and writes a series of numbers onto the side of the plans. I recognize them. It’s the date the world’s supposed to end.
“When you get up to the surface, give the plans to the sheriff. He’ll know what to do from there.” Dad plants a kiss on the top of my head. “Be careful. And no matter what, don’t stop until you’re out.”
I nod and take the papers, folding them so they’ll fit inside my jeans pocket.
“I love you,” Dad says. “Your mother does r md and ttoo—I mean that. She’s just been broken for a long time.”
“Sure, whatever you say,” I say bitterly.
“People don’t always react the way you want them to when they’re hurting. Don’t give up on her.”
“Why not? She’s already given up on me.” I lo
ok past him at the closed door to the bedroom. “I need to go.”
I can’t stay in this tiny space with them any longer or I might not be able to keep my courage. As it is, I can’t think about the possibility that I might never see them again. My feet are having a hard enough time taking the few steps forward to the front door.
“Be careful,” Dad says from behind me. The way the silence hangs in the air makes me think he’s about to say something more, but then he doesn’t and I’m opening the door and looking to see if anyone’s in the hallway.
“Wait.” Dad pulls me close, hugs me so hard that I can’t breathe. “I love you.”
“Me too,” I say, but I feel like I’m choking on the words.
I step out into the hallway, thick with heat and darker than I’d like it to be. I fly toward the stairs. I don’t look back. I can’t. The only thing I can do now is run.