I stop, it stops.
Three . . . no, I already did that one . . . four . . .
Click-clack. Click-clack.
It’s a real sound, slithering its way through the echo of the security system, and filling the gaps between generator hums. I open my mouth to call for help, but all that comes out is a cloud of white vapor that leaves me hacking.
I slam my hand down to hit the alarm on my wrist, only to remember too late that I’m not wearing it; it’s still by my bed. Slapping raw skin is almost as painful as the original burn, but I swallow the scream.
“Thanks, Mr. Pace. Thanks a lot,” I whisper.
Sanity breaks through and tells me I’m imagining things. I’m exhausted and overloaded with adrenaline, like what Tobin told Anne-Marie. My blood sugar’s crashed, that’s all. . . .
Then my wall begins to move.
I see it first from the corner of my eye, just a hint of motion like a flickering candle. The wall’s surface melts to form an outline of something hanging between the wall and ceiling, clutching at it with clawed hands that clack against the surface when it moves.
There’s a Fade in my room.
It drops to the floor in a whoosh of flared robes, still wearing the wall’s texture. Boiling smoke churns around its legs as it advances through my space. The pattern on its skin and clothes transitions to match whatever it passes, and unless I catch it just right, the creature’s as invisible as our lessons say. My lamp takes a step, then turns into my bed; back into the wall as it reaches the middle of the room.
The only sounds are my skipping heart and hitching breath. Fear and life . . . I’m still alive, and it’s still moving.
Its hands, wrapped in tight cloth, turn dark. Its face is the same, covered so only a pair of burning eyes peek out—silver rimmed in red.
I want to shout that this can’t be real and drive the monster back to the shadows, but the dull ache in the back of my head says I’m wrong. My shaking hand raises my inhaler from habit, but the Fade takes hold of my wrist before I can reach my mouth.
“Do you understand?” There’s no volume or voice to the question, but I hear it in my head.
“L-l-let go.”
An odd, pervasive chill coats my arms everywhere but the one patch of skin on my wrist that sears like it’s being burned again.
“You’re hurting me,” I say, as though a monster can be moved by words.
“Do you understand?”
Each time it speaks, my wrist burns hotter. Much more and I’ll black out.
“Do you—”
“No, I don’t understand! What do you want from me?”
Stupid question. Stupid, stupid, stupid question.
Instinct takes over, and I’m wheeling, jerking, punching—anything to loosen the creature’s grip. I kick through it, hitting air where there should be a solid body. I scream, and don’t stop, raising my pitch until my voice threatens to mangle the inside of my throat, hoping to drive the monster away.
The red rims of its eyes bleed toward a silver center while what I assume are its eyebrows pull closer together. I throw all my weight behind one, hard kick, setting my aim for the very solid arm holding mine. But it lifts me off the ground by my wrist before I make contact.
“Let go,” I order through clenched teeth. My life won’t end like this. I didn’t survive the Dark to die in the light. “What do you want?”
“Help,” the Fade says finally, releasing me so I fall to the ground, where the world shatters into a thousand shards of light as I sit up in bed and pull my blankets from my face.
There’s no Fade. The room’s as bright as ever, with sunlight streaming through the sheer curtains, and my alarm’s right there on the side table. Under the covers, my leg’s fine, if a little sore from last night’s escape; my wrist is the only thing that really hurts.
I let my body crash back against the pillows wondering when the nightmares will finally end.
The world consists of three things: the Arclight, the Grey, and the Dark.
The Arclight is human territory, existing under the protection of perpetual day. A solid wall would create shade and shadows, so we have a barrier of light. Massive lamps embedded in the ground and mounted on posts and buildings shine through the night to keep us safe. We’re packed inside with buildings and gardens, a few pens for dwindling animal stock, and stories of the world that was. They say it takes more than a day to walk the perimeter, but I’ve never tested the theory.
The Grey is a wide expanse where our lights blend with the darkness beyond, a buffer zone created when those who came before set a ring of fire to clear the brush and flatten anything that could be used for cover. That was before we knew the Fade could fade, and we thought we’d see them coming.
The Dark is lost to us, filling the gaps on the map between areas of light. To get from one to another, you must first believe there’s somewhere to go. And should you be so stupid as to believe that, you still have to cross the Dark and pray the Fade can’t see you any better than you can see them. That was the mistake my people made, and now there’s nowhere left to run. Only the Arclight remains, and I’m its only immigrant.
A dozen men and women risked the Grey the night I ran out of the Dark. Nine of them never made it back, including Tobin’s father and Jove’s mother. They were all volunteers who had no way of knowing if the anomaly on the perimeter sensors was human or not. All they had was hope, and all they found was me. One stupid teenager who didn’t know where she was going, or why she was alone. I just saw light and ran toward it.
Light is safety; light is life.
The first rule of the Arclight.
The second rule is that things taken into the Dark don’t return. It’s not an official rule, and our elders have tried to make me an exception, but it’s not easy overriding programming that’s been in force for generations. Maybe if I knew what happened out there, I could make them understand that I’m no different than they are.
Mr. Pace said once that I should count my amnesia as a blessing, like the truth could be worse than what I imagine piecing together the fragments, but any past is better than the void, no matter how horrible the details.
After hours of attempting to force myself back to sleep, I give up. Inside doesn’t feel safe anymore, so I break the third rule and go outside alone.
Outside is beautiful. It’s alive and green in a way that doesn’t mean mold or mildew like it does inside. It’s warmer, without the taint of recycled chemicals in the air to make me choke, and sunlight replaces stark fluorescent glare from the halls, giving my skin a healthier glow.
I toe my shoes off and toss my socks with them, not wanting anything between me and the ground.
Trees, kept manicured in narrow shapes and planted far enough apart that they can’t make true shade, make up the Arclight’s orchard. It’s definitely meant for necessity rather than beauty, but here and there, something breaks ranks: a stray branch cuts out at a sharp angle or drags low enough that I can pull myself up for a better view.
Beyond the narrow orchard lies our garden, where rows of green stalks frame one side of the Common Hall and vines snake up its windowless face. Against the shed that houses our tools, there’s a pile of crates filled with liquid vitamins for the soil. No matter what Dr. Wolff thinks, out here’s where I belong. It’s my favorite place in what’s left of the world, and it