In the End Page 6

  “Fine. I’ll sleep on your floor for tonight.”

  “Oh, I’ve got an extra bunk. We’re talking luxury.”

  Out of choices, I put my hand out for Jacks to take. If I want to find Ken, there’s nothing to do but play the game.

  Jack looks down with a faint smile as he takes my hand, and we make our way back through the crowds, I assume in the direction of his cell. Again, I’m horrified by the desperation in the eyes of the hungry.

  “Can’t anyone help these people?”

  “Sometimes the Warden makes a show of giving them food,” Jacks says. “He’ll have the Scrappers throw them a dented can or two. They’re all expired, but mostly they’re still good.”

  I nod. “What’s a Scrapper?”

  “Someone who travels far outside the walls to find food and supplies.” He steps over a rusty can, pointing it out to me.

  “Thanks,” I say, although I’m in no danger. A sharp can won’t tear my synth-suit if a Florae’s claws can’t. But Jacks doesn’t know that.

  We’re most of the way across the yard when another gunshot stops me in my tracks.

  “Feels like the Wild West in here, doesn’t it?” Jacks says, pulling me back into motion. “People are just left to sort things out for themselves.”

  “Yeah, or not sort them out.”

  “Right,” he says. “Well, it makes things exciting. It’s weird, but I sort of like it. I always wanted to be a cowboy when I was young. . . . It’s a Texas thing, I guess.” He chuckles at his childish admission.

  We come to a heavy, open door in the center of a massive gray building, the middle of three that rise past the shantytown of the exercise yard. The structure is built of cinderblock and stone. The walls drip with condensation.

  “This is our cellblock—B. It’s the middle one. . . . Don’t forget,” Jacks says, pointing out the large B on the door as we walk through an entryway and into a sort of multileveled atrium surrounded on all sides by jail cells. Walkways soar above us, and the walls echo with voices. Garbage litters the floor: empty cans and broken pieces of plastic and debris. Most of the cells are open; the ones that are closed are secured with thick chains and padlocks.

  Jacks points at the second floor. “I’m level two, number sixteen.”

  I follow him up the metal stairs to the second floor and down the walkway between the cells and the railing, stepping over shattered glass and around a discarded, broken chair. I’m glad to see the cells are at least separated by solid walls instead of just bars. There will be that much privacy, anyway.

  I’m passing the second cell down when a man with an ear-to-ear grin leans out like he’s been waiting for me. “My, my,” he says. “You anyone’s yet, sweetheart?”

  I lurch away against the side railing. I can see on his wrist, in large block letters, the word POX.

  Again Jacks steps between us and stares the man down. Without Jacks having to say a word, the man steps back and fades away into his cell.

  Jacks takes my hand and leads me quickly past more cells. His aggression unsettles me, but when he looks back at me, I see he’s grinning. “Does it help if I don’t actually say the words, ‘She’s mine’?”

  “Sort of.” I offer him a small smile, but I don’t feel any better. “Does he have the Pox?” I ask. “Why is he out here with everyone?”

  “He had it and recovered. Now he’s only contagious if he . . . well, exchanges bodily fluids with you. His tattoo lets everyone know so he doesn’t accidentally infect someone.”

  I grimace as we reach Jacks’s cell, the door held closed with a bike lock. He pulls a key out of his pocket. “I know this seems like a total suck-fest, but it’ll be okay. One day at a time. And I have a feeling you’ll find this Ken guy soon.”

  “Especially with your help,” I say.

  Jacks undoes the bike lock and pulls open the cell door. “Home sweet home,” he says bleakly.

  I walk into the dimly lit box. It’s tiny, crowded even with its sparse contents—a set of bunk beds, a single chair, and a small table covered with notebooks and sketch paper. The walls are covered with artwork, life drawings, and vibrant tattoo ideas. In one corner a sheet hangs from the ceiling. Jacks pulls it aside, revealing a small metal toilet and sink.

  “You can wash up,” he tells me, trying to place his art supplies into more organized piles. “There’s no electricity in this building, not like in the wall, but at least the plumbing works.” He hurries to the bunk beds and begins to clear papers off the top bunk.

  “I’m okay for now,” I tell him, though the fact is, I could definitely make use of the toilet, and I know I could stand to clean up. Maybe I’ll get over my shyness later—I’d better—but for now, I’d rather wait until I’m alone in the cell.

  There’s barely room to walk, the cell is so crowded. Not knowing what else to do, I study his artwork. It’s amazing—the colors in his intricate tattoo designs practically light the room, and the people he’s sketched look as if they could step down from the walls . . . Not a good thing in one case.

  “You drew Tank?” I ask, pointing to a sketch near the tiny window. He studies it with a pained look, then shrugs and almost snarls, “I draw what’s around.”

  “You captured his look perfectly.” Tank’s eyes stare back at me from the drawing, a predator after his prey. I shudder.

  “Maybe we can take that one down for now?”

  “Sure.” Jacks rips it from the wall and throws it on a stack of papers. “Sorry about the mess. I wasn’t expecting to get a roommate.”

  “That’s okay.” I pick some more papers off the floor and put them on the table, trying to be of use. Shoved under the table are boxes of paints and paintbrushes.

  “Where do you get all this?” I ask.

  “From the Scrappers in exchange for tattoo work,” he tells me, breaking down an easel from the middle of the room. Just putting that aside makes me feel like I have room to breathe.

  I turn back to the table and shuffle through the drawings. Jacks must have sketched half of the people at Fort Black, each one of them so lifelike, I almost expect them to blink back at me. I can’t stop looking at them. My eyes stop on maybe the hundredth sketch. The man’s face looks familiar. His features are delicate, almost pretty for a guy. Other than a heart-shaped mole on his left cheek, he seems like someone I should know. I pick up the drawing.

  And then I realize why I recognize him. He looks familiar because he looks like Kay.

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  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I twirl around. “Who is this?”

  Jacks takes the sketch. “I’m not sure. . . . This is a pretty old drawing.”

  “I think that’s Ken.”

  “You think?” he asks, confused. “You mean you don’t know what Ken looks like?”

  “No, his sister told me to find him, and this guy’s practically her twin.”

  “Oh,” he says. “I thought this Ken guy was your man or something.”

  I feel myself blush. “No, nothing like that.” I’ve only told him I want to find Ken—not why. And I’m not ready to do that yet. “My friend Kay thought he could help me with something.” I reach for the drawing, and Jacks gives it back to me. “Maybe I can show this to people?”

  “Well, you saw how eager everyone in this place is to help.”

  “But I can try.”

  Jacks leans against the bars and crosses his arms. “This really means a lot to you? Why?”

  “It’s my sister. She’s—” I stop myself. I can’t let on about my connection to New Hope. “She’s in trouble, and Ken can help.”

  “You have a sister?” he asks, surprised. “Who is alive?”

  “Yes,” I say quickly. “Not biological, though. I found her after everyone else died. She was a toddler, wandering around in a supermarket. But we’re very close. We may as well be
sisters.”

  Jacks is quiet for a moment. I can’t read the look on his face.

  “So you let yourself get attached to someone weak,” he says, his attitude suddenly fierce. “And you let her get hurt. Not exactly smart.”

  “Excuse me?” I’m surprised by his dramatic change in demeanor. “I protected her for years,” I snap defensively. “And I’ll save her again. Like you saved me today, when you rescued me from that guy in the yard.” I look away. “Why are you looking after me, anyway?”

  “It’s my job to make sure you don’t turn into a Florae, remember? I’ve got potassium chloride duty.”

  “You didn’t have to offer to watch out for me.”

  “Maybe you remind me of someone. Someone who needed protection and didn’t make it.” The tone in his voice tells me not to ask any further questions, but it didn’t need saying. He’s talking about his sister, Layla.

  Jacks crosses the cell and clears off the top bunk, then throws up a pillow and an old sheet. “I need to get some sleep.”

  “I could sleep some too,” I say. Like, for a week. I’m exhausted.

  I also have to use the bathroom. Jacks catches me eyeing the toilet.

  “Okay,” he tells me, moving to the cell door and stepping outside. He turns and shuts it, then locks the bike lock. I feel a flash of panic before he tosses a key to me through the bars in the door. “I’ll give you some privacy this time,” he says. “Should, um, fifteen minutes do it?” he asks.

  I nod, relieved I’ll get some alone time. I look around the hastily rearranged room, packed to the brim with art supplies. I should probably look for something that would tell me more about Jacks, but he has so much stuff, I wouldn’t know where to begin. I clean up in the bathroom, then sit on the bed and think about how I can find Ken. How much can I trust Jacks?

  When he comes back, I’m waiting in my bed, and I unlock the bike lock for him, then climb back up in my bunk. He shuts the door and relocks it, then hands me the key.

  “This is my spare. You can keep it, just in case,” he tells me with a shrug, then starts getting ready for bed.

  I stare at the ceiling as Jacks settles in on the bottom bunk. Nice as he’s been to me, I take my knife and hold it again with the hilt to my chest. Like Jacks said: Just in case.

  I feel like I’ve barely closed my eyes when I awaken to a series of gunshots. I fly off the top bunk, crouching low on the floor, knife held in front of me.

  “Holy shit!” It’s dark in the cell, but there’s just enough murky light to see Jacks staring at me, wide-eyed, from his bunk. “Amy, what the hell?”

  “I heard gunshots.”

  “Oh. It’s just the guards.” He rolls over and puts the pillow over his head. “Look out the window,” his muffled voice instructs.

  I go to the window. I must have been asleep longer than I thought; it’s already nighttime. The darkness is cut by bright beams of light streaking across the sky. More gunshots ring out.

  “What are they doing?”

  “Fishing,” he says again. When I look back at him, I find him peeking out from under his pillow. “They do it once a week to help out the Scrappers.” He sits up and rubs his face. “They bait all the Floraes to the prison and shoot them, leaving the surrounding area clear.”

  I look back down to the exercise yard, which is filled with a warm glow. “What’s that light? I thought there was no electricity in most of the prison.”

  “Candles.”

  I think of all that cardboard and plywood. “Isn’t that a fire hazard?”

  “Yeah, there was a fire last year.” Then, almost in a whisper: “A lot of people died.”

  “And what was done so it won’t happen again?”

  “Nothing,” he says after a long time. He lies down again. “I’m going back to sleep.”

  I climb back up to the top bunk.

  “Does the knife make you feel better?” he asks through the mattress between us.

  “A little bit,” I admit.

  “Just don’t kill me in my sleep.”

  “I’ll try not to,” I say. “No promises.”

  He lets out a small huff of a laugh, and I can’t help but smile.

  I try to go back to sleep, but just when I think they’ve finally stopped, gunshots crack the night again. How does anyone sleep here? Eventually I sheathe my knife and remove my gun holster, trying to get more comfortable. I make sure the safety is on and place my gun under my pillow, for easy access.

  It can’t protect me from my memories, though: When I do drop off again, I dream of the Ward.

  Dr. Reynolds’s face hovers over me. He licks his lips, his eyes lit by pure evil joy. “Let’s begin,” he says.

  The pain blasts through me like a lightning bolt, and my entire body seizes. Every nerve, every synapse is on fire. I am burning from the inside out. I bite down on the piece of leather in my mouth, wishing I were dead, that the excruciating agony would stop. I wait to lose consciousness, but the pain continues, burning my nerves and melting my skin.

  At last I wake in a cold sweat, clutching my gun desperately. I can hear Jacks’s steady breathing below me. I roll onto my back and close my eyes.

  I am not in the Ward. I am not in New Hope. I’m in a prison, but I’m not trapped.

  Or am I?

  I think about Rice. His piercing blue eyes filled with kindness but often covered with his shaggy blonde hair. What would he think of Fort Black, of Jacks? Not much, probably. Rice is so smart and Jacks is . . . well, Jacks is Jacks. Hard but still kind. At least they’d have that in common. Rice just wanted to protect me. And, what’s more, he promised to watch over Baby.

  My heart aches as I think of my sister. Kay’s words echo hauntingly in my mind.

  Dr. Reynolds has Baby.

  I shouldn’t even be sleeping—I don’t have the time. Yet I can barely move. As I drift off, I make Baby a promise:

  Tomorrow I’ll find him. And we’ll get you out of there.

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  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Someone shakes me awake, and I dart up, my legs dangling off the side of the top bunk. Jacks is looking up at me, his arm resting on the bed, not quite touching my leg. Light streams in through the tiny window.

  “Is it morning?” I ask.

  “Afternoon. It’s been almost two days.”

  “What?” I rub my hands over my face. “Two days?” How could I have let myself sleep for so long?

  I move to get down from the bed, but my muscles ache from disuse. I didn’t know I was this exhausted, but it makes sense. I hadn’t slept for days before setting out on my twenty-mile trek to Fort Black. How often had I even stopped to rest?

  Jacks tilts his head. I can see the tattoo of the snake, where it peeks out from under his collar and winds around his neck. “You were having nightmares. Whimpering in your sleep. I was almost afraid to leave you when I went to work yesterday, but Doc said that your body needed rest. That’s why you shut down.” He hands me a fork and a can of baked beans. “I thought you should eat.”

  “Thanks.”

  I’m ravenous. I pull the can tab, my mouth watering at the sweet, tangy smell, and begin to shovel the beans into my mouth. Every bite is delicious.

  Jacks takes a step back and sits at the small table. The room looks a little less messy today. Although the walls are still covered with sketches, the floor has been cleared up.

  I pause mid-bite. “Where’s my pack?”

  “Here.” He retrieves it from under the bed and tosses it up to me. “I didn’t look in it or anything.”

  I put down the can and quickly check. Nothing missing. The emitter is safe. Its battery is dead, so I switch it off and quickly close the bag. I’ll have to remember to charge it. It’s solar-powered, so I’ll just need to place it in the window during the day.

  I go back to my bea
ns and begin to eat, more slowly this time. “Sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to accuse you or anything. I see you’ve cleaned up.”

  “Yeah, it’s good you slept so long. It took me awhile.”

  I think of Baby again, my stomach turning. I hate myself for wasting so much time.

  “Well,” I say, “I’ve got to get out there. Ken’s not coming to me.”

  “Wait.” His tone surprises me—almost nervous. I glance up, and we lock eyes for a moment. “I got you something.”

  Jacks picks up a large book from the table and hands it to me.

  I touch the smooth, worn cover. “The Complete Works of William Shakespeare,” I mumble. I open it and thumb through the pages, stopping at one of my father’s favorite plays, The Tempest. My eyes catch a line that gives me chills. “Hell is empty and all the devils are here.”

  I close the book and stare at the cover, desperately trying not to cry.

  “Thanks,” I manage, shaken by my conflicting emotions of happiness and fear. Love and heartache. “Where did you find this?”

  “The prison library. Well, it’s not the library anymore—people live in there—but all the books are just stacked against the wall. You sounded really sad when you told me that line. I didn’t know it, so I asked the old dude who used to be the librarian. He showed me the book and which pages to read.”

  “You read Macbeth?”

  “Well, I do know how to read,” he tells me with a hint of a smirk. I look over, thinking I might have hurt his feelings, but he’s impossible to decipher. “Anyway, I thought it would remind you of your dad. I know”—he pauses and looks out the window—“it’s good to have reminders. That’s all.”

  I stare at the cover again. “I love it. Thank you.”

  “No problem. I should probably admit that I read that part about courage, but then I gave up. It’s kind of hard to understand.”

  I nod. I’m anxious to go start looking for Ken, but I know that I owe Jacks. “It really isn’t that difficult if you concentrate. I’ll show you.”

  His eyes slide toward me, and I think he’s going to say something light. But then he gets up and climbs next to me on the bed. He’s so close to me that for a moment I’m paralyzed. After being alone for so long, it’s nice to have someone close to me, someone who isn’t trying to hurt me. I’d forgotten how good that can feel. His arm brushes mine and my skin burns under my synth-suit. After a few long seconds I adjust my position and move away. If there’s one thing I can’t afford right now, it’s to get close to someone else.