Blackout (Darkness Trilogy) (5 page)

I wait longer than usual.

And she still isn’t here. I pull my wool hat farther down over my ears and stare at her door. Come on, I keep thinking. Come here. Muffled voices rise inside, and it almost sounds as if they’re arguing. The door to Silk
is an inch ajar, as always, but there is still no sign of Star. She’s never this late. Something is wrong.

The outline around her door
suddenly flashes yellow. It flickers until the light is steady. I block the beams with my hand and pivot to look away—until I realize what I have seen. My head whips back to stare, and it’s true.

My jaw drops. I can’t breathe, and my belly caves without air. Numb. That’s all I feel. Numb and hollow. As if this isn’t my life. It’s a dream.

I’m speechless.
I can only stare.

Cold
creeps through my down jacket as I stand immobile on the sidewalk. My shoulders start to shiver. I notice my teeth are chattering and, slowly, I understand that this is real. It’s not a dream. Star actually has electricity, and someone inside Silk
will be sent to the United States. There’s only one person it could be, because only one girl in the entire goddamn Dark Zone is selfless enough to throw herself blindly into America. Sure, they have power, but who knows what awaits DZs on the other side. My darker feelings emerge now. Wrath. Intense rage. I sneer at the light and bare my teeth, punching air from inside my pockets. The Easies can’t take Star. I won’t let them.

I swing the door open so hard it almost rips from the hinges.
The same contraption we saw at the library stands in the center of her first floor. I recognize the glowing sphere the way I would something out of a nightmare. If the device were anywhere else, I might be ecstatic, but not here. Not
here.
It illuminates every corner of the room with light so bright it seems harsh. Almost malicious. This particular metal pole slants slightly, as if it got damaged on the way here. As if the Easies couldn’t care less, and this is all some goddamn joke. Either my anger or the glare has become disorienting, because I’m starting to see red spots, and I have to look at the floor. I can’t let her go.

I
step callously toward the pole and feel the air get warmer. Bending to my knees, I extend my gloves and feel the pole expel hot air through hundreds of pinprick holes. Looking up to my left, I see the Lounge’s door is ajar. Star paces there in and out of shadow. I withdraw my hands, wipe the Easy off on my jacket, and race toward her.

Even with spillover light, t
he Lounge is largely dim. Mrs. Windsong sits rigidly on the bar top cloaked in shade, with her thin legs dangling over the edge. She’s always been a fearful woman, quiet like her daughter can be, but she looks different now. Her mouth forms a very thin line beneath cold and beady brown eyes. She grips her bony knees with locked arms, firm and inflexible. As if to say her mind is made up, and there’s no going back. I clench my fists. I won’t back down so quickly.

“How could you
let her?” I demand.

“The heat will save my s
on’s life,” Mrs. Windsong says tersely.

“You don’t
even know what he has,” I spit. “None of us do.”

“
I know it gets worse the colder he is,” Mrs. Windsong says defensively. “You don’t know him like I do. This heat is his only chance.”

I
scorn her desperation. She isn’t thinking clearly. She and Star have lost all reason, and I want to flip over the bar. Wick interrupts us with a cough so hard that I worry he might throw up a lung. His whole body shakes under a thick mound of quilts at Mrs. Windsong’s feet. I can’t see his face, and I doubt he’ll show himself at all tonight. He must be humiliated. He knows how weak this makes him look, and he knows what I think of weakness.

“He’s
suffering,” Mrs. Windsong pleads.

And now
I’m suffering
, I think, imagining the agony I’ll feel without Star. But I can’t say any more. It will hurt Star more than she is already.

Star.
She stands off to the side of the room with her back as straight an arrow. I turn to face her and finally meet her eyes. She looks strong and stoic in her parka, but I know her better than that. Inside, she is sobbing. I lunge to embrace her, and she pushes me weakly away. It’s the kind of push that says she doesn’t actually want me to leave. I shove gently past her arms and hug her. Touch her hair. Love the home I am about to lose.

“You’re making it worse!” Mrs. Windsong cries. I shoot her my darkest look and fill silence with hatred.
Wick coughs again as Mrs. Windsong stares me down without blinking. She sits so tensely that it looks like she’s on the verge of breaking. As if that’s all she can do to keep herself from falling apart. I know she’s had to sacrifice one child to save another, but I can’t let myself pity her. She is sending Star into the unknown—and away from me.

“Phoenix,” Star whispers into my ear, “I’m so sorry.”

That gets me. She shouldn’t feel bad. My eyes flicker over her shoulder to a strange box behind the bar. In the dim glare, it is glossy and white. The top lies open to reveal mounds of black tissue paper. Something Easy. Probably came with that electric
thing
, but I can’t care about that now. I look back into her blue eyes and see that there is no changing her mind. Even though it means parting with me, she feels compelled to leave. I can feel the determination behind her sadness. I swallow a lump in my throat and accept that I can only love her until they tear us apart. I don’t know what else I can do.

“How long do you have?” I ask her. We
fixate on each other, our noses just three inches apart. I hold her small chin in my hand.

“Tomorrow,” she whispers.

I’m empty. Star leaves me tomorrow. She will be thrown into the United States like a piece of meat and we might never hold each other again. Her eyes start to water and I brush one budding tear away with my thumb. Her lips quiver. She looks up at the ceiling to contain her sadness; my own heart is sinking.

“How many hours do we have?” I croak. This gets Star. She starts to cry with her face buried in her hands.
I know she feels bad for crying, because she won’t want to make me sad. She pushes me away—harder this time, like she means it—and collapses onto the mattress. She shakes next to Wick’s mound, and seeing the both of them together rips me apart.

“Twelve hours,” Mrs. Windsong cuts in.
“At first light.”

I kneel, and Star burrows her face in my chest. She cries silently so that Wick doesn’t hear. She wraps her arms around my neck, and I know I have to be strong for her. I hug her back firmly and clench my jaw. 

Mrs. Windsong shuffles off the bar top and walks to the top of the staircase. She sits facing outward and stares at everything but us. Alone with me and Wick, Star gradually stops crying. She goes limp to say she’s accepted her fate. I guide her to lie down, and we face each other on the mattress.

“
You can be damned sure I’m staying tonight,” I whisper to Star, “and I’m not going to hide it.” The room is warm enough now to make me sweat. I take off my coat and throw it at the wall. Lying back down, I tilt my forehead toward hers in silence. There’s nothing to say. We both know how devastated the other is. I can feel it in the way she trembles. She can feel it in how tenderly I hold her hand.

“You can’t stay up all night,” I whisper.

“I want to,” she whispers. “It’s the last time—”

“No it’s
not,”
I say. It comes out more harshly than I wanted it to, and Star winces. I run my thumb over her fingers to soothe her. “You have no idea what’s going to happen on the other side of the Frontier. You need to be as well rested as possible.”

It’s the truth, and she knows it.

“At least close your eyes,” I whisper. “For me?”

“For you,” she whispers. She closes her eyes, and this pushes out a
nother tear. I watch it drip down her cheek and onto the mattress. Wick coughs. I stare at Star, my Starlight. I kiss her lightly on the nose and remember the last time we kissed on the lips. The only time. My stomach tightens when I remember how it went horribly wrong.

It happened the day Mrs. Windsong trusted Sta
r with her first hunting knife, now Star’s weapon of choice. We were fourteen years old and had spent almost every waking hour together for the past three years. As I got older, I started to think about touching her. Kissing her neck. Running my hand up her thigh.

That afternoon, we took a trip to practice with her knife. It’s exactly the length of my hand from palm to fingertip. Came in a thick, brown sheath that made her smile because it was
hers. Star and I followed a flock of sparrows to the old Washington Monument, where we ran into a group of Shadows. Five teenagers in leather jackets with shoulder pads crouched beside two freshly shot grizzly bears. I’d never seen a Shadow before, but I knew them from the black charcoal rubbed around their eyes. One of them leered at Star.

“Hey, pretty lady,” he said.

I was about to push her behind me when she threw her knife at him. It was going to sail right past him when he grabbed it out of the air. He just reached to his side and grabbed the knife by the handle. After that, no one moved. The Shadow dropped the knife, and they left us and the bear corpses without making a sound.

I don’t know why, but that’s when I decided to kiss her. I had never kissed anyone before, and I didn’t know how to do it. Still don’t. My lips tried to move, but every touch felt awkward. When it was over, neither one of us felt good.
She would never say as much, but afterward she didn’t meet my eyes and crossed her arms over her chest. The timing must have been off. We had almost just gotten killed. I mean, they were
Shadows.
I don’t know what I was thinking.

Since then, we haven’t tried. I swore to myself I wouldn’t kiss her again until she was happy and safe. I’m still waiting for that moment. Sure, she’s been happy, and she’s been safe, but never happy or safe
enough for a kiss to feel quite right. We’ve both wanted to—and I’ve dreamt of doing so much more—but I’m still waiting for that moment. Now, I’ll never be able to kiss her. Tonight, she isn’t happy, and she has never been less safe. Tomorrow, she’s gone.

When
Star’s muscles finally relax into sleep, my chest clenches on the brink of shaking with sobs. I can’t remember the last time I cried, and if Star saw me now, it would destroy her. This can’t be her last memory of me. I have to leave. I roll carefully off the mattress and my hands slip out of hers. I take one last look at her lying like an angel, and I have to slip away. I pass Mrs. Windsong still sitting on the staircase with both of her hands in fists. We don’t say a word to each other.

The
early morning sky is a hopeless gray. I can only think about Star as I step around cars and stare at my boots. Deep sadness pulls down on my heart. Star is leaving me. The warmest person in the Dark Zone is going to join the filthy Easies, and the light of my life is about to turn off. I’m not going to be able to stay here without her. Just the thought of it now is an unbearable weight. I’m going to have to go with her.

My
mind turns faster. No matter what the Easies have in store, my best shot of being with Star is to cross the Frontier. I might not see her on the other side, but I’ll sure as hell never see her here. Not with their wall between us. Over there, I could find her and keep her safe. God only knows what dangers await her outside the Dark Zone. And suddenly it’s clear: I need to make the journey, too. Like a calling from somewhere above or from somewhere deep inside, I know this is what I must do. No matter what happens, it’s our best shot.

Now that
I’ve made my choice, I don’t have a moment to spare. I have to get to the Frontmen and consent before dawn, or my one chance to be with Star will disappear. I’m about to run when I notice something glow from the direction of my neighborhood. Not fire, there’s no smoke. Closer, I see the light is coming from inside my home. Yellow beams radiate through every hole, crack, and scrap of glass. My heart races as I break into a sprint. I know what this means. The ground passes quickly beneath my feet as I run toward the one thing that could save what’s left of my life. If I’m right, one Troublefield is going to the United States: me.

Electricity.

I
sprint over the threshold and wheel myself around our doorway, glimpsing Skye and Leiter’s names blur past me. I run so fast I can barely breathe, but I’m smiling. Beaming like this goddamn light. I halt too abruptly in the living room and teeter forward on one foot, swinging my arms in circles to stay balanced.

My parents sit on the floor with
their backs against the far wall. Next to them, in front of the fireplace, a familiar electric sphere glows on one hulking metal pole. Every inch of this house is exposed in the glare, and I notice a trail of large, wet boot prints leading from the front door to the pole and back. From the size of the prints, I’d guess the Frontmen were here. Dropped off the machine. Left.

I block the
bright gleam with one hand and squint around it. My parents scramble to their feet and stand in front of the light. It shines over them like a halo. They step to the side so we can actually see each other. Standing by the window, Burn puts his arm around Aura and we are silent. Dark bags sag under their eyes, and I can tell they have been up all night. Guilt overtakes me to see them so strained, and now Aura starts to cry quietly. I sense how torn they are about this. How much they don’t want to let me go.

“Aura and I saw Star by a gate
this afternoon,” Burn says heavily. “She was talking to a Frontman, alone. When we reached her, the Frontman was silent again, and Star explained how she had just consented for herself. Then she didn’t want to cry in front of us and had to leave. It was…hard to watch. That’s when Aura and I knew what had to be done. We turned to the Frontman and consented for you son. We…” He clears his throat, clearly pained. “We know how much she means to you.”

“The though
t of the Frontier between you two…” Aura shakes her head. “We had to.”

My chest tightens.
Burn and Aura have followed another one of the Troublefield traditions: giving family what they need before they have to ask. Aura raises her pale and shaking hand to her mouth as quiet tears flow down her cheeks. She is between sad and happy. She wants to hug me, so I hug her first. She feels much smaller without her coat on—in just a ratty blue thermal—but that’s all she will need in the heat. The thought of her sleeping through the night without shivering makes me feel less guilty for a moment and I let myself smile. I kiss her cheek, and now she’s smiling, too. She can’t help it. I’m too happy.

Looking around,
I take in my home for the last time. Wallpaper hangs in patches over cracked wooden boards. The brown sofa cushions slant in haphazard directions. The kitchen is barren—but with something different now. I crinkle my brow and stare at the counter. There, I spot a white box like the one I saw at Star’s. Its glossy exterior reflects our new light. I set my backpack down and approach it cautiously. Thick, black strings tie it together, and the box top beneath them reads T
he Carnival
. I recognize the word that Frontman said earlier—Carnival—but it means nothing to me. I try to pull the string, but it’s caught in a complicated knot.

“Open the box,”
Burn says. “It’s for you.”

“For me?” I repeat softly.

“The Frontmen gave it to us,” he adds. “They said it’s from America.” He enters the kitchen and pulls an old steak knife out of a drawer at hip height. I use it to cut the strings. Toss them aside. Aura picks them up from the tile floor and holds them to her chest as if they’re important. And maybe she’s right. I should be more careful.

The roar of a car motor sounds outside
and my hands stiffen, paralyzed. “When do I leave?” I ask nervously.

“Now,
” Aura whispers.

I grab the
unopened box and my backpack, which already contains everything I need: wood, flint, shears, a change of clothes, and Magic. There’s no more time to waste, and I walk toward the front door. My parents follow.

Outside, a
daunting black truck awaits in the empty street—the same make of truck I saw break through the Frontier. I freeze on the porch and stare. Giant headlights shoot four white beams straight ahead and dark exhaust pumps steadily out of the tailpipe. I recognize the tires: the giant black wheels up to my shoulders. I swallow hard. Either these trucks are common in America, or the exchange and the breach are definitely linked.

B
ut I don’t have time to speculate. Or be scared. No matter how ominous the car looks, I have to get in. I’m going to have to take risks now. At all costs, I must get to Star.

I
turn around to face my parents. They pull down their sleeves and crook their forearms up at right angles. There, on the soft sides of their wrists, is the Troublefield family crest: the family’s longest and greatest tradition. Every Troublefield has this tattoo—a black
T
inside the dark outline of a shield—beneath their left hand. Burn tattooed Aura after they got married, and Aura tattooed me herself when I was fifteen. She dipped a salvaged tattoo instrument in India ink and pricked me thousands of times. The family crest is a symbol of loyalty. It’s supposed to remind us to put other Troublefields first.

And t
hat’s exactly what my parents have done. They just made the ultimate sacrifice, and here I stand, willing to put them through hell. Worse, even happy to leave. Aura cries harder into Burn’s chest, and I hug her in the little time I have left. Burn reaches his arms around both of us and we all embrace for the last time.

“We’re proud of you, son,” Burn says.

I wince. That doesn’t feel deserved.

“I’m sorry,”
I say quietly.

“
For what?” Aura asks.

“
For—being different,” I struggle to say. “For leaving.”

“
Phoenix,” Burn says. He looks up at the sky to find the right words. “When you love something, you set it free. We are letting you chase Star because we love you. We will always love you, son, and if you make it back…” He clears his throat again. “We will be right here at home. We will always be here for you.

“Go
on, son,” Burn says.

It’s time to leave
. I walk heavily toward the truck trying to memorize this walk. My last walk out of the Dark Zone. A stepladder hangs down from the truck’s passenger side, and I climb its rungs up to the door. Looking back at my parents, I wave. They wave back, their Troublefield crests clear against the pale flesh of their arms. I’m overwhelmed by how much they care about me, about this family. Troublefield has been their life and their cause, but it isn’t mine. The closest I’ve come to standing for something—for caring about something more than I care about myself—is Star. As I look at them, I grow to understand: They are not just letting me go to America. They are letting me be my own person.

I sl
ide onto the black leather seat and shut the door behind me. The car windows are too black to see anything. I try to open the door again for one last goodbye, but it’s locked. The truck jolts forward and smoothes into a drive.

*

I’m
moving too fast. I don’t know if all cars speed like this, but it’s nauseating. My head aches, and a steady thump beats against my left temple. Maybe I feel sick because I’ve just left home forever, or maybe it’s the truck, I can’t tell.

I clutch my
head and wait for the nausea to pass. Breathe, Phoenix, breathe deep. The air feels warm in my throat, and I lean my head back against the soft seat to open my chest up for more. Inches above me, the truck’s ceiling is black felt. Everything in this car is black: the seats, the windows, and the opaque wall that divides me from the driver. Easies always need a goddamn wall. I can’t see or hear whoever is in the front seat, and I wonder where he is taking me. Where we are. If we have even left the Dark Zone. When I remember the breach, my heart races all over again. These trucks are powerful machines, and who knows what else they might destroy.

I have to focus. In
new territory, you have to be on your toes at all times. I pull the white Carnival box onto my lap and examine it suspiciously. Run my fingertips over it. Cautiously, I hold my breath and slowly raise the top: It’s filled with black tissue paper. Just like Star’s was. I sift through the loose and weightless layers, peeling them away, until two strange objects lie before me. Above each is a white label with the name of the object written in black letters. The left label reads
Ring for Phoenix
. The right reads
Phone for Phoenix
.

I pick up
the golden ring. It looks like the wedding bands my parents wear and fits my ring finger perfectly. The second object—this phone—is strange, but I’ve seen similar gadgets in the Dark Zone. The Fords stockpiled a bunch of them after the Blackout, just in case they became useful again. They didn’t. Unlike those thin metal boxes, this phone is a rectangular cut of glass. Completely clear with rounded edges. From what the Fords showed me, I sort of remember how to use one and hold it in my hand. As soon as my thumb touches its surface, the word
Identifying
displays in black print across the top of the screen. I almost drop the phone.
Phoenix
flashes twice then disappears. It knows me.

A
column of five words runs down the left side of the screen:
Schedule
,
Messages
,
Calls
,
Camera
, and
Profiles
. I accidentally brush the schedule button with my thumb, and the clear screen displays new text.

SCHEDULE

07:00
a.m.–12:00 p.m. TRANSPORTATION.

Location: Vehicle 6A. Description: Car travel to New York City.

**SCHEDULE only reveals Phoenix’s current event**

Only reveals Phoenix’s current event?

Great. So I have no idea what will happen to me after
this. My thumb presses
Messages
, and the screen changes again to reveal a new note.

MESSAGES

1
NEW VOICEMAIL

Thumb to listen.

I press my thumb on the
new voicemail tab and listen. Nothing. I hold the phone up to my ear and hear a voice.

“Congratulations, Phoenix!” it says. “You are one of
fifty DZs who will enter the United States of America in exchange for electricity. The DZs you leave behind are grateful for the light and heat you have restored. Although it may be difficult to hear: Your departure has benefited your family more than your presence ever could have. You have done your home a great service and should be very, very proud.”

I
clench my teeth and narrow my eyes.

“Unfortunately, the United S
tates is operating at capacity, so not all of you will integrate as citizens with our nation. To determine if you will be accepted into our society, you have been entered into the Carnival, a week-long competition among the fifty DZs. During this time, you are not bound by any of our laws, and none of our laws can protect you. Starting now, you must wear the provided golden ring on your left ring finger as a tracking device. Removing the ring will result in automatic disqualification.

“Phoenix, w
elcome to the other side.”

The truck’s tires hum as we speed ahead. It’s the only sound I hear
now, because I’m not breathing anymore. I have no idea what kind of competition they plan to throw us into, but part of me is sure that Star won’t stand a chance. She’s never won anything on purpose in her entire life. It’s not that she couldn’t—she just has to let other people win. I can’t imagine her doing what it takes—whatever that may mean—to beat fellow DZs. But that is why I’m here: to fight for her and me. For us.

My truck barrels toward New York City. I slide against the window as we make a harrowing turn. My body presses against the door for a long second, and I imagine Star whimpering in the same position
. When the truck straightens, my fists stay balled tight. My eyes narrow.

Star, I will find you again.