The Rift Uprising (15 page)

There is genuine fear in his eyes as he scrambles up and hops the few feet into the bathroom. I hear the door slam and lock. I close my eyes. I plead with myself to stop. I can't think. I can't breathe. I want to hurt him so bad that I am in agony. I whimper. I bite my lip and I can taste blood. I see a flash of images in my mind. Naked bodies touching, kissing. I use my last bit of free will to force myself down on the ground. I smash my head into the hardwood floor. The pain gives me a moment of reprieve. I take this moment, away from direct contact with Ezra, and stretch it into two. I claw at the floor, my fingernails trying to gouge tracks in the boards; I feel some of my nails cracking and ripping. That pain helps, too. A little. The Blood Lust begins to ebb. It's not immediate. It pulses, like a throbbing ache that eventually winds down after a sharp pain. It's not localized. It's as if I've been stabbed with a thousand needles, deep and repeatedly. I lie here, a quivering, sweating, bloody mess. I'm afraid to move, afraid to bring that pain on again . . . or worse. Eventually, my heart is only pounding—as opposed to being close to exploding—and I exhale slowly. Crawling on my hands and knees, I make it to the bathroom, where Ezra is locked in.

“Ezra,” I whisper. “I'm sorry.” I hear his hand on the latch and quickly say, “No, don't. Not yet. I'm not sure it's completely safe.”

“Tell me what that was” I hear from the other side.

I lean my cheek against the wood and fight back a sob.
“That is what I'm talking about. I can
really
hurt people. Part of it comes from the implant inside of me. The one that gives me all these amazing superpowers, and could potentially turn me into a cyborg zombie according to you. It does something else, too. It . . .” I trace my finger on the painted grain of the door. It's probably the closest I will ever come to touching him again. This is my version of intimacy, and already I can tell it might be too much, so I jerk my hand from the wood. “It sends a signal to my brain so that any time I feel attracted or aroused, I go into attack mode. It's sick. It's pretty disgusting, actually. What's even worse is that, as a soldier, I actually
see
why they put this fun little safeguard in here. I get it. You can't have an army of teenagers who are more concerned with their boyfriend cheating, or getting laid instead of being on duty. Kids our age, not so great at prioritizing when hormones take over.”

“Jesus. I'm . . . sorry? God, that sounded trite. I don't know what to say to that. I'm okay, though. You didn't hurt me,” Ezra says with a soothing tone in his voice.

“But I could have. You . . . you can't ever touch me again. Not a pat on the shoulder. Not a hug good-bye or peck on the cheek. You shouldn't even get too close to me.” My cheeks burn. I can't believe I have to admit this to him. I don't want to, but I have to, to make sure he's safe. Especially since it doesn't look like I'm actually strong enough to stay away from him. I'm hoping that his sense of self-preservation will kick in hard enough so that he listens to me. That as horrible as that moment was, it showed him enough to override
his
hormones. “Ever since I saw you at The Rift, I've been half-crazy. I like you. I . . . Oh, God, this is embarrassing. I really like you. I can't stop thinking about you and I'm putting you in more danger than you already are.”

“Ryn, enough,” Ezra says sharply. I give the door a dirty look. “Although this latest tidbit about the brave new world I'm in is disturbing, it's also motivating.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I like you, too. A lot. And if your problem really is technical—I mean, if it involves circuitry and code breaking and hacking . . .”

“What?”

“If it's an engineering issue, I can fix you. Do you understand what I'm saying? I can undo what they've done to you.”

For a moment, I
don't
understand what he's saying. But then it comes at me in a rush. Can he really rewire me? This is Roone technology, after all, so what if he tries and something worse happens? But then again, what if he really can fix me and Violet, and Boone and Henry and Levi? And I realize that ARC has said something that indicates it
might
be possible: the opt-out when we turn thirty. So now I start thinking less in terms of “can it be done” and more “can
we
do it.” In other words: Can we pull off something so major without getting caught?

Clearly Ezra thinks we can. “All you need to do is get me out of this place, Ryn. Will you help me?” I hear the lock, and the door swings open. We are both on our knees. It almost looks like we are praying. Maybe we are. The word pops out of my mouth before I can catch it.

“Yes.”

“Okay, so you have the number of the villa we are staying at, and our cell phones will work, too. Daniel, you made sure that they activated our international data plan, right? You called them?” my mom asks my father in front of the waiting cab. I had offered to drive them to Portland, but they insisted on getting there themselves. They always feel so guilty about leaving. I try, even in my own minimalist way, to let them know that they shouldn't stress, but they claim the airport good-byes are too tough. I don't see how it's any worse than the one here in our driveway, but who am I to understand their weird parent logic?

“Oh, and you know the country code for Spain is thirty-four; you have to dial that before the phone number of the house we're staying in, but not our cell phones. I don't think . . .” Mom looks at Dad, who is trying to be patient. He knows that
if I need to reach them, I can do so quickly. He understands my efficiency. I know my mom does, too, but this dance she's doing is, again, all about guilt.

I can't give my parents very much. I certainly can't give them the truth, nor can I give them much of myself. So instead, when I was fourteen, I decided to give them Thanksgiving. That makes me sound noble when, in fact, it was kind of the opposite. I was a new Citadel. I hated being around my family. The lying was so much harder back then that I almost never spoke (which was saying something) and when I did, I was rude and angry. I suggested that they take the time off to spend alone together. As a couple. I offered to spend a week at my grandparents' house with Abel, helping them look after him. I told my parents I didn't care about Thanksgiving and neither did my brother, which was a super bitchy move on my part because the truth was I had no idea how my brother felt, nor did I particularly care. My reasoning was that we would have been with my dad's family anyway. At first, they waffled. What kind of parents leave their kids alone on a holiday? Even when one of them is a jerky asshole teenager. (To be fair to them, they didn't say that out loud, but I'm pretty sure they had to be thinking it.) I assured them they deserved time off and it was no biggie—that was
my guilt
talking. Eventually, I convinced them and they've been going away ever since. For this vacation they will be gone for a little over two weeks, coming home just a couple days after the holiday, which will give me almost the entire time here alone before I have to worry about any family obligations.

Abel will stay with his best friend, Dylan, while my parents are gone, just like he did last year. Since they basically do everything together anyway—including football, and they have a game that Friday—everyone agreed it would just be
easiest for him to stay over there. I will drive us down to Portland for Thanksgiving dinner, but I have ages before I need to worry about that. If things go sideways and I can't take Abel, well, I'll either have to make up the world's best excuse or it'll be so bad that ARC will step in and solve the problem for me. I
really
don't want that to happen.

“I understand how the phones work,” I assure my mom. I stayed on my own last year, too. It was such a relief to have the house to myself. To come and go without lies or bogus explanations about what I was doing. I think I probably look forward to this vacation more than they do. My mom pulls me into a hug and tells me she loves me. I tell her the same. My dad follows and I hold on to him for just a fraction longer than I usually do. I realize why: I am about to do something dangerous. I am probably putting my whole family at risk.

And I am downright terrified.

But I know this has to happen. Ezra needs to find some answers.
I
have to find some answers. It's the right thing to do even though I know it's wrong to put the people I love most at risk. Things seem to be getting more complicated by the minute.

I watch my parents drive away. They will drop off Abel on their way out of town.

Our house has white clapboard; it's a two-story farmhouse set well back from the street behind a row of high hedges. I have always felt safe here. There is something about this property that makes it feel different from the rest of the neighborhood, magical almost. It's probably only been projection on my part, but now I am hoping that it will truly protect us from the world outside its walls. A citadel for a Citadel. I let out a nervous laugh at my lame wordplay and move quickly up the long path that leads to the front door. I maneuver around
the bizarre three-tiered stone fountain that was here when we moved in. It's never worked, but I've always liked it. Probably because it doesn't quite belong . . . just like me.

I walk in the front door and close it. I lean my head on the frame. I have a lot to do before Ezra gets here, but I feel overwhelmed. I wish I could bring my friends in on this. I trust them with my life, but I don't know if I can completely trust them with
more
than my life. Because that's what this is—something much bigger than simply making sure we aren't killed by Immigrants. Besides, the more people who know, the more likely someone at ARC is to find us out. For now anyway, this will just be another lie.

Ezra and I made the plan three weeks ago that night in the Village. We didn't talk about our feelings or the future or airplane tickets or fake identities. We discussed strategy and logistics, conversations I navigate well with words that wouldn't potentially kill him. I drew a map of The Menagerie. I remembered where all the cameras were that Levi identified. I made notes of the ones I had seen in the commercial part of the Village and the ones around the habs. Ezra doesn't have my speed. It will take him a while to get not only to the metal gates of The Menagerie, but through The Menagerie itself. Once he's deactivated the fence, he'll have ten minutes to get to it. Not a lot of time at all. He'll have to locate the Prairie Dog Worm pen and scale its twelve feet. He swore up and down he could manage it, but I gave him some exercises that would increase his upper-body strength. To his credit, he paid close attention, though I caught him checking out his biceps with a frown when he thought I wasn't looking.

We both agreed that it would not be wise for me to meet him in the forest. Our connection was known to Levi and possibly Audrey. I'd need an ironclad alibi when they started
the search for him. It's bad enough that it was me, alone, who met him when he first came out of The Rift. I know that every move I make once they figure out he is gone will be scrutinized, and since he is staying here with me, I will need more than my usual awesome poker face to sell the lie that I have no idea where he is. Which means the safest thing for both of us would be for me to go out with the gang the night he breaks out.

The one thing we haven't quite figured out is
how
he's going to make it to my house. Even with the three weeks he's had to figure out a way out of the forest and then into town, the Village is still miles and miles away from me. I gave him the exact longitude and latitude of The Menagerie, but I didn't have time to teach him how to use those numbers to navigate a way out. He said he would take the three weeks to learn. It might take him a while to get to me, but he promised he would have a plan and be prepared. Since he is technically a genius, I figure he'll do his homework and then some.

Regardless, I worry.

Vi is expecting me in an hour, so I don't have much time to get the last bits and pieces ready for Ezra's arrival. I race through the house and to the back door to my dad's office. Ezra will need all of my dad's gear. I wince a little as I unplug his monitors and hard drives. It feels wrong dismantling my father's private space, but what else can I do? Go to Best Buy and spend thousands of dollars on equipment? I have to provide the hardware, and Ezra is providing all the data in the form of top-secret files he's stealing from the Village. I think, in the big scheme of things, Ezra's got the shorter straw.

That said, I, too, had put the three weeks we had to good use. I couldn't build a secret lab, but I was able to reconfigure the attic to hide a workable space for Ezra. No one in my family
really goes up there because it's such a pain in the ass to access. The entrance is hidden in our upstairs linen closet, which makes it even more ideal. I start taking Dad's stuff up to the second floor. I pull down the ladder from the concealed panel in the top of the closet and begin to climb up. In the weeks leading up to this day, I have already spent every spare second alone in the house preparing this space. I bought bookshelves and shelving from Ikea, and I modified two of the bookshelves to sit on wheels. I then constructed paneling around the bottom so that the casters couldn't be seen. When I finished, anyone just glancing would see a tiny space filled with Christmas decorations and clutter enclosed by a long wall of books.

In reality, I had cut the room in half. The bookshelves can swing out, and behind them I had put an old desk (one that was already up there, thank God) and a camp bed. I found a rug and a small table—a lamp, too—just to make it look less dingy. It isn't much, but it doesn't have to be. We'll only have the days my parents are gone and then Ezra has to take off and use his crazy computer skills to pull off his disappearing act.

I hope he's the technical magician he says he is . . .

I plug in the equipment and arrange it as best as I can on the small desk. I turn around and tug gently on the blanket on the bed, making the fold crisper. I run my hand up and down the soft fabric of the duvet so there isn't a wrinkle in sight. Ezra will sleep here, far away from me . . . but all too close. There is only one small window in this section of the attic. It makes the lab that much safer but far more claustrophobic. I hope Ezra doesn't have a problem with things like that. If we knew each other better I might know if he did. I realize at that moment, though, that we are still relative strangers. We are two people drawn together because of chemistry and a secret. It doesn't sound like much of a solid foundation for anything.

I quickly leave the room. In my own, I throw on a pair of leggings, a T-shirt, and a cardigan I knitted myself. I throw up my hair in a messy bun and look at myself in the mirror. Whatever the opposite of sexy is, that's what I see in my reflection. I plan on looking my absolute crappiest for these next few days. I consider that I might not even want to shower, then I think again. Ezra will at some point have to get close enough to my implant to decode it. It's one thing to want to dampen our mutual attraction, it's another thing to make his eyes water.

I run downstairs and out the door. I have to be happy but not too happy. I have to remain calm and not look distracted. I have to act like there is nothing especially interesting going on when
everything
is going on. I have to monitor my heart rate to remain at a steady pace because my team will hear it race if I think too hard about what's happening. I have to play this part with Meryl Streep–like perfection because there is so much on the line.

So . . . no pressure.

I gather myself and drive to Violet's. I knock on the door and she opens it quickly.

“Hi!” I say with a bright smile. Immediately her brows furrow.

Shit. Too happy.

“What's going on with you?” she asks as she closes the door behind her.

“Nothing.” I rearrange my face to appear more passive. “I'm just excited to see the movie tonight.
Sorry,
” I say sarcastically.

“Really?
Transformers Five?
Big fan?” Violet chuckles and makes her way toward my car.

“Yeah, I love explosions and robots and exploding robots. Optimus Prime is very spiritual.”

We both get into the car.

“He is a
truck,
right?” Vi asks jokingly.

I am going to have to do better. I bite the inside of my cheek. It's getting dark. Ezra will be heading off any minute. I make some small talk. I calm down. I should be able to do this, no problem. I am a liar, it's what I do. We pick up Boone and Henry, who both live in a cute little development called Battle Ground Square, then we head off to the movies.

I physically have to stop myself from checking my watch every five minutes. I purposely only look at my phone every half hour. I am grateful for the loud, obnoxious, mind-numbing movie. It has little to no plot and lots of action, which is about all I can handle. In the dark, my friends cannot see my fidgeting. After the movie, we eat at the North Wood Pub. I am extra careful to come across as normal. Since none of my friends are shooting me weird looks, I must be succeeding. Ezra should be clear of The Menagerie and in the forest by now. When we get outside, the boys walk home to their own houses, which are just across the street from the restaurant. I stare up at the stars. It is a moonless night, a blessing and a curse for Ezra.

Violet and I head back to Meadow Glade. She comes over to my house and watches a TV show I've recorded. When it's over, she asks if she can just spend the night.

“Oh,” I respond neutrally. “Would you be super annoyed with me if I say no? I just . . . I haven't had the house to myself, you know . . . haven't gotten a chance to be alone in a really long time. I know that sounds selfish . . .” I trail off.

Violet stands in front of the couch and folds her arms. “We're best friends, right?” she asks softly.

My hackles are up. Why would she ask that now? “Yeah, of course we are,” I answer genuinely.

“I would do anything for you. If something is going on, you can talk to me.”

I look away, glancing at the clock above her head that's in the kitchen. I look back at her. I am careful not to rush my words. I absolutely cannot be defensive. “Why? Does it seem like there is something going on?”

“Not really. Not in a way that someone who didn't know you so well would pick up on. But you're acting different.”

I breathe out slowly.
Heart rate!
I pause to keep it steady. I should have known Violet would sense something. She does know me better than anyone.