The Dark and Hollow Places, Page 2

  Digging through the pots, I find a blue that I smudge over the red and then black around the blue. Eyes, lips, hair, chin: Bit by bit I create a portrait of the woman. Not the way she was at the end, crouched in the shadows, but how she looked falling, with her wide smile and the knowledge that her misery was ended.

  Plague rats moan in the alley, and from a window below me I hear men laugh and women joke. The air’s thick with the smell of their sweat and need as they find solace together while I hunker in the night drawing the woman. I make her beautiful, make her flying through the air as if gravity would never dare to sully her with its grasp.

  It’s a rush. I feel like I’m reclaiming the control the woman stole from me. And when it’s over and I step back I realize that at some point I stopped painting the stranger and started painting myself. But not how I am now, not scarred, with stringy blond hair that tangles in front of my face. How I could have been if I’d never left my sister in the Forest that day.

  The woman asked me what I wanted in my life if it could be anything. I haven’t given any thought to what I want in a long time, outside of longing for Elias to come back. When we first arrived in the Dark City I’d have said I wanted to go home to my village in the Forest but somewhere along the way I’ve forgotten that. I’ve let the day-to-day existence of life blind me to dreams.

  Just like this city, I used to be something once. I used to be a girl who liked to get out of bed every morning and who understood passion. Yet for the past three years—longer than that, even—I’ve been frozen, incapable of accepting that life around me has shifted without my consent.

  Exhausted and lost in thought, I push away from the wall and start making my way back to my flat, needing the familiar surroundings to remind me why I’m still here.

  Why I’ve allowed myself to stay stuck waiting.

  The darkness of the night settles heavy on my shoulders as I retreat toward the Dark City. I scamper over bridges and wade through the line of people waiting to cross the Palisade wall into the City proper. I feel invisible, everyone around me wrapped up in their own problems, not caring about an anonymous girl with her gaze trained on the ground.

  I scramble past the debris pile of what used to be a wing of the building housing our flat and climb down the fire escape, slipping through the window into the emptiness of my home. Bare walls, scarred floor, dust coating everything.

  Nothing personal except for the quilt twisted at the bottom of the bed, where it landed after I kicked it off this morning. I wrap it around myself, burying my face in the tattered cloth that was once bright. That once held his smell.

  Usually sleep comes fast and easy. Usually I want nothing more than to be yanked into the featureless dreams, but not tonight.

  Tonight I think of the woman. The stars spin outside, chasing dawn across the sky, and sleep never comes. Only the cold emptiness of the flat.

  No other heartbeat to keep me company. No voice to keep away the blackness of night. Nobody to share the length of days with.

  And I realize that I’ve been spending too long trying to forget that I’ve lost the part of myself that used to belong to someone else. That I once held my sister’s hand and sat on my father’s lap and knew my neighbors’ names. I’ve filled that place with an emptiness, and the woman tonight made me see that that hole inside me is from Elias and that I’ve waited for him to come home long enough. He’s gone. And I’m alone. Crouching here in my empty flat, listening to the moaning of the City dying around me, I remember what I want.

  I want to find my way back home, to my sister and my family and my village in the Forest of Hands and Teeth.

  There are only two ways off the island: boat or bridge. The boat docks sit on the southeast side, deep in the protected range of the Dark City. A series of gates and fences blocks the City from the docks, and Recruiters patrol with dogs that can smell infection to ensure that no vessels carry it into the City.

  The few boats remaining after people fled during the Recruiter Rebellion are fiercely guarded, and I know it would be almost impossible for me to book passage on one. Which means that if I’m going to really do this—leave—I’ll have to travel by foot like everyone else who wants to get off the island. And the only bridges in and out are far north in the Neverlands.

  I start my journey in the late morning after a sleepless night standing on the roof of my empty building waiting for dawn. I stared at the few remaining lights flickering in the skyscrapers along the bottom edge of the island and tried to find the strength to leave it behind. Elias fought so hard for our flat in the Dark City, scraping together the exorbitant rent just for the promise of safety, and I feel wrong abandoning it.

  What if he comes home tomorrow and I’m not here? What if he’s just over the edge of the horizon, dreaming of me, fighting his way back to me?

  But then I remember that woman. Her falling through the air. If I only had a few days left to live would I spend them like her, huddled on a roof, waiting for a stranger to stumble upon me?

  And the answer is no.

  By the time I arrive at the Palisade wall it’s early afternoon. No one challenges me as I make my way through the series of gates separating the Dark City from the Neverlands. It’s only those coming the opposite direction—those trying to gain access into the Dark City—they care about. People leave every day.

  The journey through the Neverlands is uneventful as I stick to the well-traveled avenues, keeping safe in the crush of people scurrying about. Streets of broken buildings spread out around me, dark alleys with sinister promises that I walk past gripping my knife tightly, promising a fight if anyone tries to mess with me.

  There’s already a line at the bridge when I arrive in the late afternoon, the process of leaving the island a slow and sometimes arduous one. No one meets my eyes. No one glances at me or cares, even when they brush past to shove their way forward, knocking against me as if I’m invisible. It’s easiest when I keep my hair pulled over my face, my head tilted forward as if I’m examining the ground.

  My scars make me stand out—they mark me as a distinct individual, and I’ve learned well enough that it’s better to stay inconspicuous, especially since the Rebellion. The Recruiters like to make examples of people, and their methods have grown crueler and harsher day by day. It used to be their cruelty was a form of keeping order, but now with the Protectorate no longer around to hold them in check, it seems more like some sort of sick pleasure.

  I’ve heard rumors of Recruiters enslaving women who catch their eye and taking anything that isn’t theirs. There have been even worse murmurings: black-market dealings in the dead, people disappearing, heads staked throughout the City as proof of Recruiter power. Things I choose not to contemplate but that have convinced me to avoid causing trouble as much as possible.

  Around me people shuffle anxiously. Some of them carry bags and one or two push a cart piled with crates. Those are the ones I try to stay away from—they’ll only attract attention from the Recruiters interested in looting, and there’s no one to stop them.

  The main bridge spanning the river between the Neverlands and the mainland is cut into sections by thick metal walls, each with two doors: one for those leaving the island and one for those entering. Running along the center of the bridge is a metal fence separating the coming from the going. A bell rings, the doors slide open and people pool from one lock into the next, and then the doors close and we wait, trapped in a pen until the bell signals again.

  People push past me, elbows digging into my arms and back. I’m wearing most of the clothes I own: thick trousers under a skirt, three shirts layered over one another and a worn coat hanging down to my thighs. A small pack holding my old quilt rests against my lower back, and I’ve tucked my knife against my hip. I was afraid anything else I packed might be taken. The layers of clothing make my skin slick with sweat as the sun beats down, the day unseasonably warm for winter.

  The door to the next airlock slides open and a man steps in fron
t of me as I start walking through. He knocks me back and just as I catch myself from falling, palms flat against the steel wall, I see her through the metal dividing fence, walking toward the island.

  Or rather, I see me.

  The crowd grumbles as I hesitate in the entrance, trying to catch another glimpse of the girl. Eventually someone shoves me hard in the back, but I refuse to budge, bracing my hands against the door. My eyes skim every face, wondering if I was mistaken, but then I see her again just on the other side of the fence, entering the space I’m leaving. Her hair’s long and blond, almost burned white by the sun.

  She walks with her chin tilted up as if she’s never had to worry about anything. As if she has no sense of the danger her clean, healthy looks invite. No one shoves or trips her, she just glides along as if expecting the world to make room.

  Her eyes slide over the crowd, skipping right over me as if I don’t exist.

  Of course, that’s why I keep my face hidden in my hair. It’s why I hunch my shoulders and wear drab colors. I’m supposed to be invisible. It’s who I am.

  But not to her. Never to her. She should be able to find me in the deepest darkness. She should feel me there in the crowd the same way I feel her.

  She’s my sister. Her face as familiar to me as my own because it is my own. My chest tightens and I have a hard time gulping enough air. I’m dizzy, gripping the doorframe to steady myself, and the person behind me uses the opportunity to force me through.

  I turn against the crowd, trying to wrestle my way back, but they’re insistent and overwhelming. They push forward, flowing through the door in an unending stream as I struggle.

  Nothing feels right about this moment. I fight for another look at the girl, knowing I must be mistaken. Even so, a prickle of hope starts to swell inside.

  I want to scream—to draw attention to myself—but the warning bell rings and the crowd surges forward and then the doors groan shut and the girl I saw is gone.

  I stand frozen, trying to understand what just happened. Trying to breathe. Trying to put the pieces together in my head. Even from such a quick glimpse I could tell that she had my face. My nose. My green eyes. She even had my wrists and chin and ears and neck and hair, if I spent time outside in the sun.

  She had everything but my scars.

  None of this makes sense—can’t make sense—but I don’t care because I desperately want it. For years I’ve replayed the moment Elias and I left Abigail, my twin sister, behind in the Forest of Hands and Teeth. I see her trip, see the blood trickling down her leg, catching in the downy hairs of her five-year-old shin. I remember the hesitation I felt, the intense desire to keep exploring mingled with rage that my sister was crying and fear that she wouldn’t go on any more.

  I remember walking away from her. We thought we’d just go a little farther, just around the corner.

  We never saw her again. We got lost, couldn’t find our way back and ended up here.

  Over the years I’ve dreamed of her a dozen different ways but I’ve only known one truth: that I left my sister crying and terrified in the middle of a path in the Forest because I was being selfish.

  I left my sister once and I can’t do it again. I can’t give up this chance that she’s real and safe and within my grasp.

  I fight my way back to the door, start banging against it, but a Recruiter grabs my hands and twists my wrists painfully, his fingers digging into my skin. “Wrong way,” he says, pushing me back to the crowd waiting at the other end of the holding area, waiting for the bell to sound and the door to open so they can move forward on their journey across the bridge to the mainland.

  “I have to go back,” I tell him, trying to rip my arms free.

  “Not the rules.” He narrows his eyes, causing wrinkles to spread around his cheeks. His shirt’s dirty and reeks of smoke and overly ripe perfume. “Unless you have something to trade for it.” He tugs me a little closer until I have to look up at him, my hair falling back from my face.

  He takes in my scars, his lips pressing thin. He drops my wrists.

  I hear the bells ring down the bridge, hear the doors sliding open and know that she’s getting farther away from me. “You have to let me go,” I shout at him.

  “Get to the end and then you can come back. This side is one way only—off the island,” he says. He can’t help but stare at my scars, a look of disgust in his eyes. “Either way, keep moving forward. That’s the rule.”

  I see the door begin to grind open behind him, the creak of old gears and rusty metal separating me from my sister. He pushes me away from it, away from her. Away from the Neverlands and farther out over the river toward the mainland.

  People flood in around me and press tight, making it hard to breathe. They crowd against me, just wanting to get to the other side, and I’m causing trouble and getting in the way.

  I’m drawing attention and attention isn’t good. But I refuse to give up. Already she’s out of my sight. Already I may never find her again. The Recruiter must see the resolve in my eyes the moment before I move, because his muscles tense, ready for me. I’m just about to lunge at him, just about to fight my way through the door, when we both hear the fierce growling and barking of dogs and then the explosion of the alarm blaring over the bridge.

  Every door rolls shut, the heavy metal pinning one poor woman’s fingers against the jamb, causing her to howl in pain. The Recruiter forgets about me and leaps for a rope ladder, climbing to one of the lookout posts at the top of each wall.

  All around me people press against the side of the bridge, trying to see what caused the commotion, shouting at each other in confusion. I elbow my way through them, keeping low until I can shove my head through the gaps in the railing. The sound of dogs barking, their growls deep and ferocious, underscores the wailing siren piercing my ears.

  It’s almost impossible to figure out what’s going on, but there’s clearly chaos at the checkpoint on the island end of the bridge. A few Recruiters gesture wildly and I watch as they push a young man to his knees against the metal wall circling the shore of the island. Dogs lurch at him, their backs spiked with rage.

  He pulls something from his pocket—some sort of disk that looks like one of the old Recruiter IDs—and holds it out to them. One of the men snatches it and frowns, disappearing into the guardhouse as the young man kneels, his hands held up as if trying to entreat the guards who pull knives from their belts. The dogs smell the infection—they won’t allow him onto the island. He’s too dangerous.

  The siren eats away at the air, cutting off everything except the sound of the woman still screaming as they try to pry her fingers from the steel door. Everyone around me jostles, all of us straining to see what will happen next.

  A large man, his Recruiter uniform crisp and clean with a red sash across his chest, storms out of the guardhouse, towering over the young man. The Recruiter’s mouth moves but none of us can hear what he says and the young man keeps shaking his head, his hands raised palms-out.

  Just then a blur bolts from the crowd at the edge of the bridge. It’s my sister. She’s running at the large Recruiter, tangling her arms around his neck. He twists, batting her away, but in the split second of distraction the young man lunges to his feet and throws himself against the metal wall, feet scrabbling as he clambers to the top and slides down the other side along the river.

  Chaos erupts, Recruiters running to climb after the young man as others on the bridge take aim with their crossbows. Around me people scream and lunge out of the way but I stay kneeling, watching the young man scrabble along the shore while bolts pepper the ground around him.

  “Got him!” one of the Recruiters shouts. The young man stumbles, a bright red streak of blood along his arm where a bolt clipped him. He loses his balance and starts to slip toward the river running under the bridge. And with a splash, he’s gone.

  Everyone around me holds a collective breath as they wait for his body to break back up to the surface. Except me. I’
m staring at the girl—at my sister—the one who is me. Abigail. She’s crouching where the young man knelt just before he ran. Thin lines of blood well along her arm where her sleeve was torn in the scuffle, and she holds her fists to her temples. One of the dogs thrusts his nose against her elbow and she leans on him as if she has no idea what to do next.

  Two of the Recruiters slap hands as they walk past her and she raises her head. They must tell her what happened as they haul her to her feet, because she opens her mouth, and even with the havoc flaring around me I can hear her screaming in rage. It reverberates inside my head as if it were my voice and my throat and my pain.

  I will her to look at me. To turn her head and glance my way. I beg her with my mind to see me. To know I’m here. But she doesn’t move. Her gaze never wavers from the towering metal wall where the young man just stood.

  Below me the ripples on the river die out to a calm smooth glass. The man never comes to the surface.

  The siren eventually cuts out and the Recruiters order everyone to line up so they can search us. They go from section to section with the dogs, trying to determine if any of the rest of us might be infected like the young man.

  By the time I’m released everything’s in disarray and I’m able to double back toward the Neverlands, but when I finally make it off the bridge I can’t find my sister anywhere. I race to the wall where I last saw her and press my hand against the cold rust-pocked metal, trying to feel her.

  Not too far away a group of Recruiters huddle in a circle around a low fire, laughing and passing around a clay jug. I square my shoulders and as I approach, one with a thick white mustache breaks away, stopping me before I get too close. I’m acutely aware of the way they all stare.

  “What are you looking for, hon?” he asks, his voice a mixture of warning and stern amicability.

  “What happened to the girl?” I keep my chin up, my hair tucked behind my ears. I feel wide open and vulnerable but I have to know if he sees what I saw: if he notices the resemblance or if I’m just believing what I want to. That my sister is still alive. That I didn’t leave her to die in the Forest after all.