The Isle Page 2

I understand those sharp tools, though. They sit there, waiting.

  “Some Dilameth, to keep you calm.” The lady fills up a syringe with clear liquid.

  I tighten my forearms against the sheets.

  “Now don’t be difficult.” She rips my arm away, stretching it across her lap like I have doll bones inside me. “Make a fist.”

  Ren—she’d make a fist, but it wouldn’t be the kind this lady’s expecting. Ren wouldn’t let anyone stick her with a needle. She would fight. And then she’d escape, all on her own.

  Am I smart like that?

  I don’t know, I realize. I make the fist she asked for.

  2

  REN

  1:15 A.M., FRIDAY

  “How much longer?” I ask Derek for the hundredth time. My voice carries too loud through the miles of unused track that’ll lead us to the lab. A rat squeaks in the darkness.

  We lost our flashlights for good reason—any one of Derek’s centuries-old, assassination-happy family members could be following us. The delightful Kitaneh could be hanging back in the black right now, waiting to make her move.

  “Soon.” He stops. The rope leash around my wrist slackens—that’s how I can tell. “Sooner than the last time you asked, at least.”

  “Brack—” I curse, bumbling backward under the weight of my waterproof pack. I’ve just flat-tired Derek, walked straight into him, nearly pulling his boot clean off. “Why’d you—”

  He grabs my elbow, first to steady me. Then, like it’s some sort of road map, his hand travels down to find mine. The hairs on my arm prickle, standing tall as he brings my fingers to his lips. Between my knuckles, he whispers a soft “Shh.”

  I shut my trap and freeze all my bones, listening.

  We stand in the pitch-black for what seems like hours, our hands welded together. Another rat squeaks, and Derek exhales. Releases me from his grip. I feel him step away and the rope that’s tied between us grows taut again. He’s moving.

  We fall into a quicker pace this time.

  “You sure the Blues don’t know about this route?” I ask in a low voice, worried that maybe Derek was wrong about that bit. We don’t need unforeseen trouble; the Tètai are trouble enough.

  He stops short and a puddle splashes under his sole. “The DI knows the PATH exists. They’re just under the impression that it’s still flooded.”

  The PATH. He hadn’t called it that before, but now that he’s using the tunnel’s old, pre–Wash Out name, my DI training kicks in—his information is good. As a former Blues mole charged with scouting the UMI for freshwater, I had to study maps galore: underwater, above water, geology, topography, history, too. This route travels under the Hudson River, now a strait. It connected Manhattan with New Jersey, now the Ward and the West Isle.

  Then the asteroid hit. Screwed everything up. Big-time.

  Sea levels rose. Ground water aquifers turned too salty to drink. Couldn’t even desalinate with an underwater power plant upriver. Upstate was left with the only good, clean water on the East Coast, streaming down from the mountains. And those brackheads bolted once they saw they could make a quick buck. Didn’t want to be the sole supplier of fresh on the eastern seaboard no more. So they seceded.

  Left New York City high and dry, literally. Leftover landmasses banded together—including a few Jersey towns. They renamed themselves the West Isle. Together, we became the United Metro Islets.

  Since we had no army, the police force became the Division Interial. Or the Blues, if you ain’t the fancy type. And without funding, routes like the PATH stayed out of commission. People from the West Isle weren’t exactly clamoring for a way in once the Blight took over in the Ward either.

  “So you and your family—the six of you—you just went ahead and drained an entire underwater railroad system? Like fixing a clogged pipe?” I whistle, ducking around the puddle that he’d missed. “Impressive.”

  Derek chuckles. “Lower your voice,” he says softly. “And no. It was just Kitaneh and me, her sister, Sipu, and Lucas—they’re also married. My other brother Pietr and his wife weren’t there.”

  “And where were they while you four were off doing all the heavy lifting?”

  He doesn’t answer, not right away. Maybe I’m imagining it, but the thick dark of the tunnel starts to feel oppressive, like I’ve asked something that doesn’t have a good answer.

  “They died that day.”

  Dammit, Ren, why you gotta go and ask so many questions? I kick myself, about to say how sorry I am, but he goes on—

  “It was supposed to be a simple recon mission: learn how much water Voss had in his personal supply. That was all. We knew he’d found one of the spring’s locations back before the Wash Out. What we didn’t know was just how much he’d made off with, and he’d been evading us for years. All our attempts at assassination failed. Somehow . . . Voss knew we were following him. He was ready for Pietr and Takhi when they came.”

  “But . . . I thought you guys couldn’t die?” I ask, unable to stop myself. I’ve been wondering that since I found his photo album. From the 1800s.

  “There are ways,” he tells me. “Humans have basic needs: Fresh water. Air. The spring’s unique properties don’t change that.”

  “I’m sorry, Derek. About . . . everything,” I say, but the words sound so limp once they’re out of my mouth. As we continue in silence, I wonder if he’s hurting now, still, after so many years. I’d hurt every day for the rest of my life if I lost Aven.

  “Something else has me confused . . . ,” I start, needing to break the uncomfortable quiet.

  “Go on.”

  “You guys have a zero-tolerance policy, so when Voss finds the water, you try to off him. Don’t matter what he’d use the water for—you’ve also tried offing people who’d do good with the spring, like Callum. And me.”

  Derek’s discomfort at the reminder runs like a line of electricity through the rope ’round both our wrists. It’s taut with guilt. “So here’s my question: Why not just bomb the hell out of the spring? Destroy it. Why go through all this trouble to keep it hidden in the first place?”

  Derek answers on an inhale. “We’ve tried. We can’t.”

  Behind us, something crumbles. Derek raises his hand as the dull racket of a rockslide echoes down the tracks.

  “Structural damage, right? Your people would never be so clumsy.”

  Derek don’t answer immediately. Waits for the tunnel to fall quiet again.

  He grabs my hand, harder this time. Our soles hit the ground. Rubber squeaks against the metal rails, and we’re running, giving every step away.

  3

  AVEN

  WEDNESDAY

  I need more time. My brain doesn’t work like Renny’s does. She thinks things over so fast.

  I yank my hand back from the lady in white and cross my arms. “I have to use the bathroom!” I shout. “It’s an emergency. I’m serious.” And I am. I really do have to pee.

  She doesn’t believe me. Her helmet hair actually stiffens around her head.

  “Do you want me to go in the bed while I’m under?”

  The lady exhales through her nose, flat-lipped like a dead fish.

  “A bed full of pee is no fun for anyone. . . .”

  She nods toward a door in the far corner. “There’s the bathroom. I’ll be waiting for you.”

  I’m sure you will. If Ren were here now, she’d know how to escape in the amount of time it took to pee. I don’t know if I’m that smart. Steadying myself, I place both feet on the floor and take all the time in the world. Then I stay like that for a bunch more seconds.

  “Sorry,” I say, breathing heavily. “I’m so dizzy. And my stomach hurts.” I clutch it, the same as when I’d skip class at Nale’s to go penny-hunting.

  The lady doesn’t respond.

  Once I’m finally inside the bathroom, I look around. It’s a normal bathroom with normal bathroom things: sink, toilet, toilet paper.

  How will any of this
help me? I can’t flush myself down the drain. Above the toilet there’s a metal air vent. If I followed it long enough, could I eventually find a way out? It looks like I could unscrew it, too. But what if I get caught?

  My fear embarrasses me. Ren wouldn’t think like that.

  Still mulling over the vent, I lift the hospital gown above my waist and pee, since I was telling the truth about that part. I’d need to get the lady out of the room—at least for a few minutes—if I were going to try for the vent. At Nale’s, other girls used to spend hours and hours in the bathroom. They’d rather be in a smelly bathroom than in class. They’d say they had their period. I’ve never had mine. Survival trumps baby-making, Ren told me once.

  I could get it, though. . . . I clap my hands together. Today’s as good a day as any.

  I decide to scream.

  “Oh my god, oh my god! There’s blood!” I start fake crying.

  “What is it, child?” I hear the lady say from outside the door. She’s banging on the metal, announcing to me that she’s coming in. Since the door doesn’t have a lock, she’s able to walk in on me like this, squatting on the seat, knees locked together.

  “What are you doing?” I howl, blushing furiously, clutching my penny necklace. “Go away!”

  Quickly, she shuts the door and says from the other side, “Don’t you know what a period is? Jesus, child. That’s nothing to scream about.”

  “Please, I hate blood. I need . . . something,” I answer through the tears.

  “All right, all right,” the lady mutters. “You stay where you are. And stop your crying.” I hear her walking away, and then a door closes.

  It worked.

  I . . . I don’t believe it. I stifle a giggle. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt smarter than I do in this very moment. This was just the first hurdle—there are more to go—but I can’t help it. If Ren were here, she’d—well . . .

  First she’d tell me to get over myself. Then she’d tell me to keep moving. Last, when I was definitely out of danger, she’d tell me she’s not surprised in the least.

  With that thought keeping me afloat, I hop onto the toilet seat and examine the vent. My fingernails are too short to twist the screws free. I try anyway and end up with a bloody thumb.

  What can I do? I’m not even sure how much time has passed. . . .

  In bed, time never seemed to pass. Since I drank the water, time moves so much quicker. I rub the copper penny between my fingers, staring at the screws, chewing on my lip, and getting the squirmy feeling in my stomach.

  The penny! I tug off my necklace and fit the copper piece into the end of one screw. Work, work, I think, and I turn it like a key, twisting as hard as my fingers can manage.

  The screw budges. I spin it round and round until it drops onto the floor. I have to work fast on the next three. Twist, twist, twist, pull, repeat.

  I don’t notice the door as it swings open. The lady is staring at me with her black hair-helmet, a square package in her hand. Quickly, I hide my hands behind my back. The last screw drops out on its own. The vent falls. It clatters against the linoleum.

  We stare into each other’s eyes.

  The contest lasts less than three seconds.

  She grabs my wrist. I’m dragged off the toilet seat and out of the bathroom. “N-no,” I groan, digging my bare heels into the floor. It does nothing. A cool sweat has covered every inch of my skin. “I need some assistance in Lab A1,” the lady says into a tiny mic at her neck.

  I’m breathing through a pinhole. “You can’t keep me. You can’t do this!”

  The lab door opens. A young man in white runs in, rushing to my other side—but . . . he’s not here to help me. He’s helping the lady instead.

  Together, they grip my wrists. I’ve got so much fear in me, so much adrenaline swimming around, that I jerk and jolt, swinging as far as my arms will let me.

  They’re too strong, or I’m too weak. I’m dragged along like a toy, soles squeaking against the linoleum, until they throw me stomach-down onto the bed. With both arms crossed behind me, it’s useless. I choke on the dead smell of bleached linens and my own sour tears.

  A needle pierces my vein. I flinch, and from the corner of my vision, I watch the syringe pump itself empty inside me. Don’t close your eyes, I tell myself, repeating, repeating, but the words lose their meaning. They become a lullaby.

  Soon every one of my eyelashes is a building, heavy and lumbering against my eyelids. I have no choice. I have to close my eyes—the room rabbit-holes away from me. From the cobwebby corner of a memory there’s a smell like the color yellow. It kisses the tip of my nose, nodding good-bye, and again I’m made of doll bones.

  4

  REN

  1:30 A.M., FRIDAY

  Derek and I run, palms jostling, but we stay tight together. “Are we close?” I huff.

  He slows to a stop. He’s not listening to me, but he is listening to something. If he were a dog, I imagine his ears would be perking up right now. “Do you hear that?”

  A few moments of silence pass, then—

  “Brack.” Someone is definitely behind us. Each second, their footsteps pound closer. I wait for Derek to make the next move. Ain’t used to doing that sort of thing, but he knows his way through the PATH and I don’t, plain and simple.

  “Derek,” I hear Derek’s own voice say.

  And yet, of course, I know it’s not Derek. Same timbre, same cadence. How can two totally different people be so similar? Their features, their bodies, the sounds that come out of their mouths . . . it confuses me to my very core.

  “She’s not worth it,” Derek’s brother Lucas says.

  I’m flattered he thinks this is about me, but he’s wrong. It ain’t—not entirely, at least. Derek’s been part of a family that refused to help when hundreds took sick. Can’t Lucas imagine that maybe—just maybe—Derek’s feeling guilty after sitting back and doing nothing for so long?

  Lucas’s flashlight flickers on, and I search the tunnel’s graffiti-worn brick for a place to hide. Behind us I find a small alcove, shielded in shadow, with a recessed metal door tucked neatly out of sight. Jackpot.

  Derek nudges me into the nook. I feel him slip the leash from his wrist; we’re no longer connected. He pushes his bag into my arms and the contents clink softly, sounding fragile. He wastes no time. Stepping into the center of the tunnel, Lucas’s flashlight finds him immediately, as he meant it to.

  “Brother,” Derek says, like he don’t care that his own blood is out for his blood. Even his smile seems sincere. He draws the beam a few more feet away, and I stay hidden.

  “She’s with you. I heard her.” Lucas sounds frantic. The warped circle of light darts up and down the tunnel, searching. But the alcove is deep. If I keep myself pressed against its side, I’m safe. “Do you think she’ll like it when you’re a corpse, Derek?”

  A corpse? Shrinking back, the realization cuts straight to my marrow.

  Derek’s going to die soon.

  How didn’t I think of it? If he doesn’t keep drinking the water, his age will catch up with him. And the moment Derek got booted from the Tètai for helping Aven, he left his own supply too. I go so stiff, so cold, I may as well have turned into the corpse first.

  “It’s not too late for you to come home,” Lucas says, and Derek stops breathing. “She’d accept you as family, if not her partner. With some help, Kitaneh’s gotten over you fairly easily; you’d be surprised.” At this, Lucas snickers to himself, exactly like an older brother. “We don’t need to speak about what you’ve done, but this must stop, here and now. Your girl is a risk, Derek. Say Governor Voss catches her. If it’d get her friend back, would she tell him the spring’s in our basement?”

  Derek’s silence frightens me.

  “You have to let her go.”

  Would he do it? Would he go back to them? Though I’m fully out of sight, both legs ache from the sudden rush of adrenaline. Not from fear of being found, but from fear of being left. />
  Please don’t, Derek, I find myself praying. Under the flashlight’s yellow, his hair burns. He’s the brightest thing in the tunnel. I watch him like a wildfire. Waiting for his answer, I’ve forgotten to breathe.

  Somewhere back the way we came, shoes crunch gravel—I whip my head. I find nothing. I’m imagining things.

  “She is not the risk,” Derek says after an eternity. He moves closer to Lucas, his footsteps tightwire steady. Ten feet off, I hear scuffling. Someone else is here.

  Lucas flicks his flashlight in its direction. Finding no one, he says, “Your girl’s a coward, Derek,” and turns the beam back on his brother.

  “Governor Voss is the risk. Or have you forgotten? This is larger than the four of us can handle. We’ve made too many mistakes.”

  Derek’s words are slow. Too slow. He’s stalling. He wants me to make a move. A distraction until he steps in—

  The light follows him, keeping me well out of sight. I lower both packs and ease over, ignoring the size of Lucas’s muscled arms. They’re Derek-sized, which says enough. I hesitate before moving in; a surprise attack by a five-foot-tall teenage girl might not end in my favor, but I’m the best we’ve got.

  “Voss never should have survived this long,” Derek goes on, his words smooth and deliberate. “We should have caught on earlier that he’d kept so much water. Over and over we failed. Now the rules must change. We must change. There are not enough of us to continue as we have.”

  Under my feet, tiny bits of asphalt shift around. I’m being too loud, I think, stopping, but Lucas doesn’t notice. Derek’s speech is doing the trick. I can’t walk straight toward Lucas—that’d put me in the way of his flashlight. Instead, I inch along the wall and cross the tracks behind him. About five feet off—when I’m so close I can hear him breathing—someone’s foot finds a puddle. It makes a soft, slurping noise.

  Brack. I freeze.

  Lucas spins around with his flashlight. “Where are you?” he asks, but I wasn’t the one who stepped in that puddle. Who the hell else is here? His light zigzags from one side of the tunnel to the other.