I turned and bolted the door from the inside, hoping that would hold them back long enough for us to get through. The walls of the tunnel were rough and cold to the touch. I could hear Kipps racing along beside me. I kept my hand out, feeling for a light switch, as if I could will one into existence. It wasn’t until the stairs were far behind us that we saw any signs of life.
The tunnel bent to the left and a row of lockers appeared. A man sat on a bench beside them, changing his shoes. I rubbed my eyes, letting them adjust to the overhead lights that now dotted the ceiling. Principal Haverford. He’d swapped his suit and tie for a denim jacket and tight pants. He laced up a bright white high-top and looked at me, then behind me, like I’d appeared in a blast of smoke and fire.
“What the actual fuck? You’re not…you’re…” he said.
I didn’t respond. Instead I picked up my pace, cutting in front of Kipps.
“He must be getting off his shift,” Kipps whispered.
We passed three vanities and some salon chairs, which were scattered with colorful makeup palettes. Shelves of accessories, racks of clothes. Nurse’s uniforms, police uniforms, postman’s uniforms, a TCBY shirt and one for Sassy Shoes. Ripped denim, plaid, Doc Martens, butterfly clips, and some J.Crew dresses I’d admired but never actually bought. I recognized a patent-leather flight crew bag from the Delia’s catalog.
As we got closer to the end of the tunnel I could hear it clearly, the words coming from somewhere above. Fair wages, power, the chant started. Fair wages, power. After a few seconds there was a break, and another chant began. Hey-ho! Hey-ho! Fair pay for extras on your show! Hey-ho! Hey-ho! Fair pay for extras on your show!
“Those are the people striking?” I said over my shoulder. “I heard them some mornings. Only it sounded like ‘Forages.’ I didn’t know what it was.”
“Yeah, it’s been on and off for over a week now. They brought in a bunch of scabs to try to repopulate the set, but it’s still obvious, right?”
“I guess there’s only so long that half of Swickley can have the flu.”
I glanced back at the tunnel. I kept waiting for someone to appear behind us, for someone to yell for us to stop, to wait. But we kept moving until the tunnel bent to the right, leading to a narrow flight of stairs. The chants were much louder now. When I pushed the trapdoor at the top, it pushed back. I tried the key again.
“The door at the other exit—the lock was right at the center,” Kipps said, pointing to a circular metal piece where the two doors met. I waved the light over it and it took a second to catch, but it finally spun clockwise, open. The doors fell back, the sky a brilliant blue above.
“Fair wages! Power!” the chant filled the air.
Dirt stretched out in front of us, stopping at a two-lane road. We could just see the backs of the buildings on the other side. I glanced over my shoulder. A tall, chain-link fence towered over us. Barbed wire lined the top and a sign read: SHOCK WARNING: ELECTRIC FENCE. 7000 VOLTS. Beyond that was the cinder block wall—the set’s perimeter.
“Now what?” I asked, scanning the buildings ahead. “I refuse to believe it’s that simple. They’re not giving up that easily.”
“No doubt.” Kipps turned back and stared up at the electric fence. “I’ve never been out this way. Your guess is as good as mine.”
“Let’s just find cover. We’re too exposed here.”
I closed the trapdoor and made sure it locked. There was a second chain-link fence with barbed wire, but this one wasn’t electrified and opened easily with the key. The area around the set was a barren strip of land, broken in places by overgrown grass or scattered trash. What looked like a single bus stop, complete with bench and metal shelter, sat five yards from the trapdoor. I took off toward the nearest building, a strip mall with its back to us.
The actors were a football field away. There were hundreds of them, standing right in front of the second fence, but they didn’t seem to notice us. They held signs and banners. Some were marching in a line, a collective pacing back and forth. Others waved their signs as though someone above might see them.
I thought the world outside might look and feel different, but it was as if we’d stepped into an alternate reality, this one a bit dimmer than the one I’d known. Crinkled wrappers and soda cans accumulated by the curbs. Trash piled up at the back of buildings, the stores faded, paint peeling away from the stucco. Kipps kept going, but I turned to look at the wall behind us.
Like that, it was all gone. My parents, Sara. Swickley High and band concerts and afternoons at the mall. Just last week I’d spent a half hour obsessing over which top I’d wear, because it was Thursday, the day Tyler and I had study hall together. It had all felt so important, as if that decision alone could sink me. I wanted that girl back, the one who didn’t know what was coming for her. I’d give anything to care about a sweater clashing with my jeans.
“Move it or lose it,” Kipps called out. “Come on, hurry.”
I shook out my hands, trying to calm my nerves, but it didn’t help. I ran to catch him and we moved as fast as we could, walking along the back of the strip mall where no one could see us. We peered around the corner and into the parking lot. There were only a few sleek, egg-shaped cars, nothing like the huge clunky ones I’d seen inside the set. The pizza place had a line at the counter. The bank next to it was closed.
“This is…New York? Where are we?”
“Yeah, technically Long Island. The set was just a town where they bought out every single resident, and they built a wall around the perimeter. They made it look really vintage.”
“Vintage?”
A sleek white car nearly ran us over as we crossed the lot. The pizza delivery guy in the front seat was sleeping. He only blinked open his eyes once the car was in park. He got out and walked right toward us, but his head was down as he poked at a screen in his hand.
“That guy…” I asked. “He was sleeping. How was he sleeping?”
“The car is a newer model. Self-driving.”
A few more sped past, and we pressed against the side of the building so no one would see us. There was a supermarket and a couple of car dealerships down the street. One said SILVERLIGHT 2400 in neon script. We passed a burger place called Charlie’s that smelled like bacon grease. All the customers were facing the back of the restaurant, watching a giant screen above the counter.
Kipps stopped at a side window and waved for me to come closer. A dozen or so people were scattered throughout the restaurant, their backs to us, heads bent as they watched something in their laps. Most of them had earpieces, and occasionally they’d adjust them, only half paying attention to the giant screen on the wall. The restaurant was playing a live feed from inside the set. There were shots of the cul-de-sac, which was now filled with people. My parents were there, plus the bicyclists who’d chased us and a bunch of people barking orders into their headsets. A caption scrolled across the bottom of the screen.
The phrases BRING HER BACK and THE END moved past on an endless loop, followed by the words VOTE NOW and a timer that ticked down from thirty seconds. The audience leaned 88 percent BRING HER BACK, with only 5 percent for THE END. The rest were undecided. Two commentators started unpacking the results, gesturing animatedly, but we couldn’t hear what they were saying.
“People vote? Why?” I asked. “That’s beyond twisted.”
“The producers started doing it about five years ago,” Kipps said. “They think it helps the audience feel more invested.”
“Well, who cares if they want me back?” I said. “It’s done. They can accept it or not, but it’s over. I’m not going back there. They think I’m just going to, what? Play along? Pretend the last two days never happened?”
Kipps rested his forehead against the window. His breath left a small half-moon on the glass.
“Kipps?”
“We don’t want to go back, so we won’t go back.”
“But…?”
“It doesn’t seem like they’re just going to accept it,” Kipps said.
“So what? They drag me back, kicking and screaming?”
“They’d probably try to make it part of the show. You rebelling against your family, confronting them. You feeling trapped, betrayed, struggling with life inside the set. You reuniting with Sara after realizing she was just playing your sister, that you were never actually related. It’s just more entertainment. Hours of it.”
“Well, they have to find us first.”
“We have to be smarter than them.” He was still watching the screen as he spoke. “I’m telling you, eighteen—that’s the magic number. Count down the days. Once we turn eighteen, we’re free; they can’t legally keep us inside the set against our will. We won’t need a guardian’s permission to leave.”
“Let’s go, come on,” I said, tugging Kipps’s arm as I started across the parking lot. I felt a sudden jolt in my stomach and I swore I could run forever. My gaze scanned the different side streets, but there was no obvious exit.
“No—look.” He didn’t move.
When I went back to the window, they’d just posted another question for the audience to vote on. USE ANY FORCE NECESSARY or DON‘T HARM HER, EVEN IF SHE GETS AWAY. VOTE NOW.
Again the timer ticked down.
Neither of us spoke. We just watched the seconds slip away, until the results flashed on the screen: 47% USE ANY FORCE NECESSARY, 41% DON‘T HARM HER, and 12% UNDECIDED.
“They can’t actually mean that,” I tried, but it sounded pathetic, even to me. “They just want to make it seem more dramatic, probably. Do those votes really matter?”
Kipps was silent. He wiped the foggy half-moon off the glass and turned away.
“Yeah, they matter,” he finally said. “They really matter.”