Through the Dark (A Darkest Minds Collection) (A Darkest Minds Novel) (24 page)

“Sparks…”

Her voice draws me back to her, the way it always does. “The sparklers from the Fourth of July? You remember those? I bet that would have gotten your attention.”

She gives a tight nod, her jaw clenched. “Hurts…Lucas…”

“I know, I know—I’m going to get you out of here, okay? Get you real medicine. You’ll be back on your feet in no time.”

“Mia…medicine…”

“No, medicine, then Mia. You have to get back on your feet first.”

“Mia, medicine,” she says, with a bit more heat this time. Her eyes flutter open against the bright lights. I recognize the look she gives me.

“We’ll have to agree to disagree,” I say. Looking up again, I see Dunn rubbing the top of his head, a far-off expression on his face. He turns to Kore, who’s been staring at our linked hands the whole time. I don’t breathe easy again until, finally, she nods.

“All right…okay,” Dunn says, suddenly pale at the abstract idea becoming actual reality. My own heart is speeding out of control, and I have to look at Sam again to calm down.

Don’t do anything stupid,
her expression says.

Too late.

I
HEAR THE SONG LIKE
the birds high up in the branches of our tree in Greenwood. I turn toward the sound, trying to imagine it’s a cool blanket, one that’ll put out the simmering heat trapped inside my head and leg. I’m not surprised, not in the least, when I open my eyes and see Lucas.

Just…muddled.

I think I’m in the Infirmary. I know these are nurses, I recognize their calm, kind voices, but it doesn’t—it doesn’t make sense, the things he’s saying. They’re all talking so fast.
Medicine, Mia, sparks, out
…I try to watch his lips move, read the expression on his face, but he’s wearing that mask again. The Lucas I know disappears behind it as I lose my grip on his hand and he rises to his feet, shucking off his crimson vest, his uniform. The female nurse hands him a pair of gray scrubs as the man starts unhooking the machines. Fever and pain have turned my vision glassy at the edges, and the things hanging near me, things that have only been blurs up until now, are set on my stomach. I have to strain my ears, fight the black water rushing over me, to stay at the surface and listen to their low conversation.

“—bring one of the crates over—”

“—be fast—”

Footsteps, doors opening, doors shutting, doors opening, problems—

“—too small, can’t do both of you—”

Lucas sounds the strongest, the calmest. “Then I need a PSF uniform. I’ll pose as one of the escorts. It might even be easier that way.”

“They don’t have those just laying around!”

“I can get one,” Lucas says. “Do you have any zip ties? I’ll need one of you to lock an office after I’m done…”

They go away long enough that I drift back down into the haze of pain and don’t surface again until I feel hands on me.

“No, this isn’t—stop…” I try to get my lips around the words but they come out sounding slurred, blending together. When I open my eyes again, I see a black uniform, red Psi stitched over the heart, and try to twist away.

“It’s me.” It’s Lucas above me, blocking out the lights overhead. I can’t see his face. I want to see his face. “You’re okay, Sammy.”

He eases his arms under my shoulders and legs. He’s so warm that I forget. I can’t think of what this means until he says, quietly, “We’re getting out.”

No.

NO.

He doesn’t know. He hasn’t been here long enough to have seen it—they kill kids who escape. They shoot them. I remember every single shot, the way the single crack of thunder would roll through an otherwise silent camp and we would all just
know
.

“No—Lucas—”

No matter how gently he lowers me into…the crate, I think, it still jars my leg and sends a stabbing pain racing up through it. “Sorry, sorry, I’m sorry, Sammy,” he’s breathing the words out, carefully arranging me so I’m flat on my back, my entire right side throbbing. I don’t want to think it let alone say it, but it’s shaped long and shallow, like a coffin. They’ve put down some kind of padding, but the wood is cheap and I can feel it splintering as it rubs against my back. The sawdust smell makes me think of old, gone things. The town fair. The horse stables Lucas and I walked by every day to get to school.

Before he can pull away, I force myself to reach up and grab the front of his uniform coat. I want to shake him, but I can barely tighten my fingers enough to pull him in closer. Lucas’s horrible blank mask cracks enough for a small smile to come through. He leans over and takes my face between his big, warm hands. I barely feel the tremble in them as he presses his lips softly against mine.

“You can hit me later, okay?”

“Again,” I demand, turning my face up. I feel dizzy. A good dizzy. My headache evaporates.

“Later,” he promises. “Love you, Sammy. Don’t be scared. I’ll be with you the whole time.”

His words stay in my ears, even as the lid is lowered and snapped into place.

The male nurse is still nearby. I hear him say something to Lucas, and Lucas’s low, rumbling response. “Whatever happens, keep walking out. Look like you know what you’re doing. You might get separated, but don’t try to hover over the crate. Don’t turn back.”

“Thank you…”

“Just…be careful…okay? Wait inside the office until the PSFs are down to pick it up.”

And that’s it. That’s all there is left for us—waiting. I close my eyes, focusing on making the sound of my breathing as quiet as I can manage, but it still sounds like a wet windstorm in my ears. It’s dark, so dark and tight and cold. And without anything else to focus on, there’s only the raw, blistering pain left in my leg.

The boots the PSFs wear are heavy enough that you can always hear them coming. They’re the sound of strength; they trample over everything. I crane my neck back, peering through a crack in the wood joints.

A door creaks open as the black boots come closer, closer, closer.

“Is this one going out?” comes a gruff voice.

“Yeah. It needs to be on the truck with the MRI.” It’s Lucas’s voice, sounding as easygoing and natural as I’ve ever heard it. “The nurses said it’s delicate.”

“Yeah, yeah…You one of the drivers?”

“Yes.” That’s how he’ll try to get away with this insanity. He knew they wouldn’t recognize his face. All of the PSFs here have been working together for years.

I hold in a yelp of surprise as the crate is heaved up and off the floor with twin grunts. It rocks wildly—one of them is either stronger, or has a better grip. I feel myself sliding back, my head connecting with the side of the crate.

“Careful!” Lucas growls.

One of the PSFs mutters something filthy under his breath, and the whole crate sways again with their first few steps until they work out their rhythm. When I look through the split in the wood again, I see Lucas’s broad shoulders, the scrubs stretched out over them. He’s walking stiffly, keeping ahead of us as we start up the stairs. The moment the crate tips up, I slide again, this time toward the base of it. My right leg already feels raw and shattered; having it rub against the side of the crate makes white spots flash in my eyes. I shove my fist up against my mouth to keep from crying. I try to imagine that I’m a spark, rising up through the dark. Up, and up, and up, out of the cold, black stillness.

Please, God, please lead us out of this, please don’t abandon us, give me the strength to be delivered from this fear
—they’re fragments of prayers I can’t fully remember. My throat aches with the need to speak the words out loud.

“—shitty weather, make the drive out to New York rough, but it should be okay once we’re in Jersey—”

“—can’t believe we got stuck with this shit. Our luck, right?”

“Here, here, careful, last step up—”

The crate evens out again, and I have to twist around more fully to see through the crack again. Lucas is still there, still with his back to me. I recognize the first floor of the Infirmary, even without the beds and curtains hung up. There are more black-uniformed soldiers moving around us with boxes and crates of their own. It sends a trill of panic through me when Lucas disappears again and again, forced to weave through them to get to the door.

Please help us, please let this work, I’ll never ask for anything else again…please, God.
I know He doesn’t grant wishes, I know that’s not His role, but just once, just this once, I want to believe that I was right, and not my father. I want to believe that He will be there like a guiding hand. I squeeze my eyes shut again, trying to clear the haze that’s crowding in on my line of sight. My head is feeling too light; I know this. I’m disconnecting again. There are hands at my back, trying to drag me back under, back…

When my eyes open again, it’s to faint pattering on the lid of the crate. The sudden cold is a shock to the system, like I’ve jumped into a freezing pond, and every muscle in my body contracts, pulling in to protect what little warmth is left. Water drips through the gaps in the wood, landing on my face, my chest, my feet.

Lucas’s rain poncho is plastered to him, his ink-black hair flat against his skull. He keeps his head down, looking at the mud. In front of him, no more than a hundred yards away, is the gate. It’s wide open, and a semitruck, the kind I used to see all the time when people moved in and out of our neighborhood, is parked there. Crates are being walked up the platform, but it seems like the PSFs are struggling with the thick black mud sucking at their feet. I see several in ponchos that look like little more than trash bags with holes cut for the arms. They’re like shadows moving against a dreamy gray mist.

The PSFs grunt as they lower me down onto something. The crate goes sailing back, bumps against something, and rocks forward again. Someone voices the cuss word that screams through my head as my leg is jarred. My breath comes out in small, uneven bursts. Then, the crate is tilted again and we’re moving—it’s rolling smoothly. I peer through the crack again, searching for Lucas’s form. He is walking away, around to the front of the truck.

Please,
I think.
Please let him get on without any problems
…Let the driver think he’s someone from Thurmond. Let the Thurmond PSFs think he came with the driver.

There’s a horrible creak as the crate is lifted and dumped off the roller. My teeth catch the inside of my lip and I can’t keep the hiss of pain from slipping between them. The truck rumbles to life and the door clatters as it’s pulled down like a shade, cutting the soft steel-toned light to a sliver. It’s secured with a deafening bang that rattles around inside of my head. After a minute, the driving rain drowns it out.

It’s several terrified heartbeats later that I realize the truck is moving.

Slowly.

Rolling.

Working.

I close my eyes, drawing my hands up to my face. The engine revs as the truck picks up speed. We must be through the gate, or getting close. I wish I could see it. I want to know what the camp looks like as it disappears into the horizon like a fading memory. It’s like Greenwood in that way, I think. A secret place that exists outside of the world’s reality.

The progress is halting. The truck jerks now and then, and I hear the engine rev again as we rock forward, then back. There’s a horrible metallic roar as it lurches forward, rocks violently from side to side. I think, for a second, that something’s slammed into us from behind. The force of the movement sends me crashing forward. There’s banging, the sound of wood splintering—something smashes onto the lid of my crate and cracks it down the middle. I scream, bringing my hands up in front of my face. The spray of splinters. Sawdust in my lungs.

The truck doesn’t move.

I hear the engine rev again.

Voices—shouts of alarm. Slamming doors. The sound is almost lost to the storm.

The back door rolls open like it’s in a rage.

“—busted up everything!”

“Christ, what a mess—”

“—have to dig the tires out—”

We’re stuck, then. The truck is trapped in the same mud that’s constantly trying to suck us down. With the light, I can peer up through the crack in the lid of my crate. See the damage of everything that’s been knocked loose. Rain pours down the open door like a sheet. Like the waterfall Lucas dreamt up for Greenwood. It hides something valuable. Something waiting to be found.

It’s like I can feel him before I see him. A dark shape appears, passing through the rain as he hauls himself up. Lucas stumbles as he comes closer. He’s lost his hat. Dark hair is plastered to his pale, panic-stricken face. His eyes meet mine and he gulps down a shuddering breath. His whole body sags with relief as he pulls off the crate that’s crashed onto mine.

What are you doing?
I want to scream.
Why didn’t you stay in the truck? You weren’t supposed to turn around.

Someone yells. I can’t make out her words, but Lucas does—he goes rigid again, whirling back. I see his fist clench at his side. The smell of smoke fills my nose, and, for a second, I think I can see it rising off him.

What are you doing?

His eyes are blazing. He still thinks he can get us out of here.