Follow Me Through Darkness Read online

  If this is the truth, or leading us to the truth, then nothing is what it seems. Not the Elders, the Remnants, our lives, or even us. My father was only the beginning.

  5 MONTHS BEFORE ESCAPE

  MY FATHER FELL ASLEEP ON THE COUCH, papers spread across the floor and himself and the kitchen. Asleep, he looks so much like who he was a few months ago that I almost feel bad for avoiding him. Ever since I read that journal in his office, I haven’t quite known what to say or how to act. Everything is different now.

  It’s crazy, and that’s what I keep telling myself, but it feels right. Like a missing piece has been put back into place. It’s been three hundred years. Of course there’s life outside. And if the Elders are trying to stop it from coming in, then it’s no wonder they aren’t involved in our lives here. They’re trying to be everywhere. The question I can’t understand is why no one asks about the Old World. Hasn’t anyone else wondered?

  I stare at my father and the papers littered across our house. I should walk away, go back to bed, and pretend I never saw them. But what if there’s more information? What’s the outside like, and why is it a secret? Why would the Elders lie?

  I start in the kitchen, furthest away from him and the easiest place to lie about should he wake up. I fill a mug with water and set it on the table. My cover. I was thirsty. Without another second of thinking, I leaf through the papers. My heart starts pounding, but I focus on the words.

  At first, it’s nothing except procedures and rules and bylaws. Things I’ve known all my life, but it looks like the Elders want to change a few of them. Phrases are crossed out and replaced with red lines and messy handwriting. The slightly curved, thin letters are the closest I’ve ever been to seeing the Elders.

  The only thing remotely interesting I see is one line: This will prove useful for the large movement in the future. But there are no context clues as to what that means exactly.

  Time passes. Occasionally, my father moves on the couch, and I freeze in place, afraid to breathe. He always goes back to sleep, and I continue reading until my eyes hurt. Until I work my way off the table and am nestled on the living room floor.

  There’s nothing here. This is all a waste of time.

  I throw the pages down, and then I see my name.

  This part of the page isn’t typed; it’s handwritten in the Elders’ writing.

  Cornelia Ambrose is the plan.

  I reread the line, and a knot forms in my stomach. What plan? Why me? I have nothing they could want. The rest of the page is useless. It’s scientific words that might as well be another language. I’m the plan for what? My eyes scan the page, and at the bottom, I notice a four. This is page four.

  I search through the stack on the floor and find the rest of the pages. They are out of order now, but I can’t worry about that, about what he’ll do or say, in the morning. Right now, reading this information is more important.

  I start at the first page. The notes outline an experiment from years ago that the Elders started at the formation of the Compounds. One that used the branding. The details are very direct and offer no explanation or background information.

  The branding proves an efficient tool in keeping questions at bay; test subjects are not injured but are open to whatever is being told to them. They think for themselves and still make decisions, but in a controlled environment, the decisions are intentionally Option A or Option B. There is no Option C, no deviation. This will be useful in the future.

  The branding does something to everyone who has it. All of the people in the Compound. It stops them from asking questions, from seeking anything beyond what they are given. That explains why no one has ever wondered about the Old World-there’s no reason to wonder.

  I turn the pages and keep reading. It’s more of the same, outlining people who were test subjects before the Preservation and their reactions to the branding. How the Elders altered it so it wasn’t noticeable to people that they were being forced to do things they didn’t necessarily want to do.

  The Elders manipulated genes together, creating marriages that would produce the most genetically appropriate children for the Elders’ needs, and this leads to the next page about twins.

  The eternity sought is to be found. Two people born of one offers the best opportunity to examine genetic splicing. The study of the way a cell forms and develops can be imitated if the testing is started from conception. Identical twins are the ideal study subjects, the most like clones that the universe can create. These two halves are stronger than one whole; in studying them closely and experimenting with data collected, therein lies the potential to live forever—either on one’s own accord or, should the search for true immortality fail, in a replicated fashion. The promise of strength found within fraternal twins is not to be overlooked. While they do not possess the qualities of eternity, they could be the key to survival in strength, skill, and other reasoning, as the bond could be made unbreakable in all circumstances. Perhaps also death.

  The Elders were studying twins? They wanted to live forever? To prolong life and rebuild themselves? Why would someone want that? How could they do this? What happened to all the twins? But there are no answers on the pages. Only more disturbing facts and experiments outlined. Test subjects with no names.

  Between the branding and the twins, I can’t shake the feeling that the Elders are up to something incredibly dangerous. I toss the paper down and scan the last one. The one with my name on it.

  It talks more about twins before it mentions me.

  Experiments are conclusive. The twins who receive the twin branding are not altered in the same way as others. They have no inhibition with free will as the others do, but have something more powerful that could destroy all that has been built. This is an unforeseen consequence. It shall be remedied and stopped.

  I think about the other people in the Compound. Thorne and I are the only ones here with the twin branding. There are no others. Is this what they did- removed twins?

  The true identity of Cornelia Ambrose leaves many questions, and to start, we must determine how the twin branding has claimed her and Thorne Bishop. Liv Taylor will execute the experiment.

  The next entry says, Cornelia Ambrose failed.

  That’s the end.

  I lower the page back to the floor and close my eyes. The room spins, from exhaustion or confusion, and I realize that the life I know is completely false. There’s nothing here that’s my own. The Old World does exist. The Elders are manipulating everyone, lying to everyone, and no one even knows it’s a possibility.

  And if they are lying about all this, what else are they lying about?

  I pull myself up off the floor and move toward my father. When I look down at him, he doesn’t look calm, like himself, anymore. He looks tortured. The Elders have betrayed him, used him, and he has no idea. I take my father’s hand, and even though he’s asleep, I’m almost positive he squeezes it.

  DEADLINE: 19D, 4H, 30M

  REMNANT CAMP: EL PASO, TEXAS

  DELILAH SQUEEZES MY HAND tighter as another call for lights out sounds around us. Her board full of letters is completely finished. It’s half her size. Some of the letters are big and some are small. They’re all crooked, but that doesn’t matter. The point is, I taught her that. I taught her something lasting.

  “Will I see you again?” Delilah asks me.

  “We’re leaving at dawn,” I say. I don’t look at her. I can’t look at her because she melts me.

  She digs in her pocket with her free hand and pulls out a small, folded piece of paper from a book. The words on it are typed and perfectly spaced on one side.

  “I wrote a note for you,” she says. She kisses my cheek quickly and whispers “I love you” in my ear. Another bell echoes, and Delilah pulls her hand from my own. I smile and look down at the paper. There, written in the margins, is her name spelled in crooked letters, and the word thanks, but the “N” is missing.

  DEADLINE: 19D, 1H, 12M

&nb
sp; REMNANT CAMP: EL PASO, TEXAS

  IN MY DREAM, I’M DROWNING. It’s the same feeling of the water surrounding me and pulling me under. I’m relaxed and devastated all at once. I move my legs, my feet, my hands. I try to swim. Try to kick. Try to scream. There’s only more water. Only more water filling up my lungs.

  His face is the last thing I see-Xenith’s-and he’s telling me words that I can’t hear.

  “Neely, wake up,” Thorne says, his voice tired. He keeps shaking me, pushing on my shoulders, his gruff voice calling my name in my ear. “You’re dreaming again.”

  I open my eyes to find Thorne staring down at me. “You okay? That was intense. What were you dreaming about?”

  I shake my head. “It’s nothing. I’m okay.” He reaches out for my hand, but I don’t take it. His shoulders tense and he turns his back to me, and I know he’s waiting for me to tell him that I’m scared. But I can’t say it, so I stare at the ceiling in the darkness and wonder when all of this will end and I will wake up.

  7 DAYS BEFORE ESCAPE

  “NEELY, WAKE UP,” Xenith whispers in my ear. He shakes me, and I jerk at his touch and sit up, panting. His blue eyes peer back at me. “You were dreaming again. You were yelling his name.”

  I pull my legs in toward my chest and rest my chin on my knees. “I keep having the dream.”

  “The drowning one?”

  I nod. “I keep feeling it. All of this is going to come crashing down on us, Xenith, and then what?”

  “It won’t.”

  A pause. “I don’t think I can do this.”

  “You can.”

  “Not without Thorne,” I whisper.

  Xenith sighs heavily. His arm is too close to mine. His chest is too bare and his body too warm, so I force myself not to look at him. “You have to. You’re going to destroy the blockade I built if you keep calling out to him. It will only stop so much from getting through to him in the connection.”

  I nod silently. Xenith gave me an injection, right into my branding, that numbs a connection, like putting it to sleep temporarily. If I use it too much, the injection’s effect will break. He’s never done it before, so we’re not sure how long it will work.

  “I feel like the wrong girl for this.”

  Xenith brushes a piece of my auburn hair behind my ear. His gaze is so intense on me that I can’t look anywhere else.

  “You aren’t,” he says.

  I stare at him. Four days together and I still can’t figure him out at all.

  “You have me. You can call on me if you need me.”

  “I know.”

  “I’m right here. I’ll be right here,” he says, his voice as deep and dark as the night around me. He doesn’t leave until I’m asleep.

  DEADLINE: 18D, 19H, 22M

  EL PASO, TEXAS

  THE MORNING AIR IS MOIST with humidity. Joe and Benny stand next to us, Joe with his arms crossed over his chest and his hair ruffled from sleep. Or lack of sleep. Benny stands with him, but neither says much to us as we wait in the silence. I expect something to happen. Noise or crickets or birds. There’s nothing aside from breathing and the slight rustle of the wind.

  Thorne won’t look at me. He hasn’t met my eyes since we woke up, and he’s blocking whatever it is he’s feeling. Where did he learn to do that so well? A month ago Thorne would never have hidden anything from me, but I wouldn’t have, either. Yesterday we seemed to be in a good place, like we were on the same journey. Today? Today it feels like yesterday didn’t happen. We are further apart than ever.

  The sound of a gunshot echoes in the air. I jump. It has to be a Trooper coming back for us, but there’s no sign of movement. No whistling whir of the Cleaners, and Joe doesn’t look alarmed. Just down the road, a vehicle moves toward us. As it gets closer, the sea- green door of the truck stands out against the dark blue of the rest. It jerks and sputters before stopping.

  A man jumps out, hugs Benny, and shakes hands with Joe. They talk back and forth in the Remnant language, and I pick up a few words of it here and there but not enough to completely understand. Thorne and I stand there in awkward silence, unsure what to say. The new man is short and scrawny, dirty. His hair is gray and pointing in all directions. When he speaks with Joe, I notice one of his teeth is missing. He nods at us.

  “This is Len,” Joe says. “He’s goin’ to a camp in Phoenix for a delivery. He’ll take you with him.”

  That’s all that’s said about it. Joe says goodbye to Thorne and thanks him for all of his help. Thorne was always better at people than me. When he turns to me, he simply says, “Be safe.” Then he steps back and nods at us. “Best of luck to you both.”

  “And to you,” Thorne says. “Good luck with the baby.”

  Joe beams at the mention of the baby.

  Benny holds out a hand to Thorne, who shakes it. Then he snaps his fingers and digs around in his pocket. “Delilah wanted me to give this to you,” he says, reaching out to me. He opens his hand and drops a small green band into my palm. It’s thin, no bigger than a piece of wire, and made out of some sort of plastic. I saw her with this on her wrist, but it doesn’t fit mine so I tie it around my finger.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  He nods, and then we watch him and Joe disappear underground. Len stretches behind us and lets out a groan.

  “Reckon we should get going. Can’t stay in one place too long. There’s a seat in the back the girl can probably fit in. She’s small enough.”

  I maneuver around the front seat and squish my feet up in the cramped space of the back. I exhale, grabbing the side before the truck starts to move forward.

  “What’s your names?” Len asks after we’ve barely started going.

  Thorne says his name first and doesn’t offer mine. In the silence, I tell him.

  “Them are weird ones. Lots of weird ones nowadays,” Len says. “Hope you don’t mind the music. It’s a long drive.”

  DEADLINE: 18D, 16H, 48M

  SOMEWHERE IN THE DESERT

  WE’VE BEEN DRIVING FOREVER. Len stops a lot, dropping things off from the back of his truck to people who appear out of the trees, out of the ground, out of nowhere. We stay in the truck and don’t move when he makes stops. He doesn’t want anyone to see us.

  Len isn’t so bad. He likes to sing loudly while he drives, to some funny songs called show tunes. My injured leg is cramped up in the back seat, and it reminds me of the safehouse. Thorne says something to Len that I can’t really hear because of the music. Whatever the question, the response is a scowl and a snort.

  We’re silent again. The bump of the truck on the road and the rhythm of some lady’s voice fill the air. We move on that way, none of us wanting to be where we are, for the next hour of our trip.

  I listen to the girl sing about freedom. The music stops sounding so strange after that.

  DEADLINE: 18D, 15H, 22M

  SOMEWHERE IN THE DESERT

  THORNE’S HEAD RESTS AGAINST the window, slightly bobbing as we move. I check the countdown watch Xenith gave me. We’re about four hours into the eleven-hour drive, with no more stops scheduled until we’re there, when Len finally turns off the music. Thorne’s not asleep, but he’s quiet. I’m quiet, too, feeling the hours slip away from me. Eighteen days from my deadline and we’re not there yet. The pressure is starting to grow.

  Len groans and hangs a hand out the window; the wind rushes back into my face. “You two sure are a silent pair,” he says.

  “It’s better that way,” I say after it becomes obvious Thorne isn’t going to speak.

  He laughs. “I used to think so, too. When I was a kid, I never said anything to anyone. I just walked around with a dazed look on my face and tried to figure it all out.”

  “Figure what out?” Thorne asks.

  Len looks at him with a smile. “Exactly.” I can’t see Thorne’s face, but I can imagine it, furrowed and hinting at his frustration. He hates answers like that. I should know. Len chuckles. “Everything, you know? It
was all a mystery. This world is so full of things that a little kid can’t understand. It’s not right, the way we live.”

  “You’ve got it better than some,” I say. I think of the ones who died in the Burrows. Of Delilah. I turn the little piece of green plastic around my finger.

  “I reckon,” he says. He looks at me through the rearview mirror. “I never said anything. Not ‘til I was five. My parents and brothers thought I was a little off, but then I opened my mouth and said a whole sentence. A few of them. Nothin’s stopped me from talking since.”

  Thorne laughs. It’s light and half-pretend, but it makes me smile. I want him to laugh again like he used to. I need it to feel like it did before everything happened. I know he’s just as lost as I am, and that’s all because of me. I want him to find himself again. Maybe when he does, I can, too.

  “What business do you have in Phoenix? There ain’t much there anymore,” Len says.

  Thorne looks at me through the side mirror. I feel his question just as loudly as I hear Len’s.

  “Just passing through.”

  We don’t have a plan, only a dot on a map and the memory of Xenith telling me it’s off the road. Telling me I’ll know it when I see it. But I’m not even sure what I’m looking for. “A place you have to stop. It’s part of history,” was all he’d said.

  Len grunts back. If he knows I’m lying, that I have no plan, he doesn’t say it. He simply nods his head in reply. I look out the window to evade any more glances.

  3 YEARS BEFORE ESCAPE

  XENITH AVOIDS MY GLANCES and ignores me when I talk. It’s been like this for days. He barely looks up. We were paired up to complete a presentation for our Old World history class. By “paired up,” I mean I volunteered to work with him. Since his mom died a couple months ago, no one else has really wanted to be near him. Thorne wasn’t happy when I raised my hand, but it’s not fair. Xenith never asked to be different. Thorne and I should understand different more than anyone.