Chapter Thirty-Eight

I stare at the door with only my beating heart as company. The sadness I feel right now is unbearable. It hurts a thousand times worse than I imagined it would, like I am being crushed from above and below and either side. It is terrifying.

So I look at the ceiling, and then my eyes comb the walls for the nearest ladder. I need something to distract myself from the feeling that sits inside my chest like a poisonous lump, and climbing to the top of the storeroom is just that.

Deep breath, in and out.

The closest ladder is attached to the wall near the corner, and I walk there on unsteady feet. My fingers curl slowly around cool metal. Silver has given way to tarnished gold on either side of each rung, and it comforts me, this. I am not the first person to climb this ladder, and I won’t be the last.

But I will be the first person to climb it for the purpose of going aboveground. My nerves tingle with a blush of excitement, and the lump in my chest shrinks ever so slightly. Soon I will occupy the same space that Jack occupied—maybe still does. Soon I will taste freedom. That is what I need to focus on right now. Not him.

Not him.

I pass by net after net after net, all slung at three-foot intervals. Goods litter each one, but I don’t turn to examine them; my only goal right now is to reach the top.

The nets themselves are constructed of rope, coarse and sturdy, and they fasten to the corners of the room through thick hoops of metal. If I stick my leg out behind me right now, or maybe even my arm, I could touch one.

I don’t want to do that, though. Right now I am a single story up, no more, and already my heart is thumping harder than it normally would. My muscles are beginning to ache from the effort, and if I waste too much time, they will tire.

When I am halfway to the top, I look down. Panic floods me like liquid lead; if I fall now, I will die. The thought makes my palms wet, and so I close my eyes and wait for my pulse to slow. Sweaty hands will slip. I need to relax, or this will end badly. Very badly.

I need to think of something else. Anything else.

Hunter. He will be in trouble with his soon-to-be colleagues, and this thought alone makes me distracted enough that I smile. And he will see that the lock on my door is gone in the morning and that I am, too, and my smile grows. He didn’t win. I did.

I wipe my hands one by one and continue to climb.

Next I think about my parents. The fact that I didn’t say goodbye weighs on me. Not much, no, but it is there. A remnant of guilt—one I didn’t want to carry with me aboveground. But who am I kidding. I am choosing to be selfish by the very act of going, and saying goodbye to my parents wouldn’t alleviate that, because they wouldn’t accept it.

Or maybe they would. Maybe when I spoke with my mother that day she fed the Noms, she was giving me her blessing to do whatever selfish act I wanted. Maybe she can find it in her heart to make peace with my decision. After all, if there’s any chance of her children reuniting, side by side, just like she used to sing, this is something I must do.

Now I am three-quarters of the way there. Breathing is becoming difficult because my heart beats so quickly, and everywhere my skin is tacky. I am fearful, yes, but there is also something exhilarating about being so high, doing something completely new.

What would Maggie say if she could see me right now? She would be shrieking at me to get down but cheering me to go higher. I smile, and my boot lifts to the next rung of the ladder.

I wonder what Wren will tell her. Whether he will let her think I have gone to Compound Ten or if he will tell her the truth. That I craved freedom, and, thanks to him, I got it.

I wonder if he will tell her that I am likely dead.

Because by the time the morning comes, I could be.

I shudder, and my boot doesn’t land firmly on the next rung; it grazes the edge, and I slip. The ticking of my heart is replaced by thick, meaty thumps in my throat as my fingers snatch around metal, as my feet scramble for position.

It was a careless mistake—one I can’t afford to make again. I swear under my breath.

Now my heart is beating much too quickly, and when I lift a hand to wipe it on my jeans, I see it is shaking. It shakes so deeply, it must be controlled by a mind that isn’t my own. Okay. Okay, I could climb onto the nearest net and wait for my heart to slow, wait for my palms to dry, or I could force myself to keep climbing, to not worry about the danger that presents itself with each and every step.

I bag up my fear, and I set it aside. Up and up and up, until just ten rungs separate me from the top of the storeroom.

Seven rungs, and I will stand inches below the earth’s crust.

Five.

I climb quicker now.

Two.

I am almost there.

One.

The top of the ladder—the top of the storeroom. If I reach up, my fingertips will graze the ceiling. If I look down, I will vomit on the floor below.

Every muscle in my body is clenched, rigid and taut. The joints in my fingers scream with pain; they have been forced into position for too long—I am asking too much of them.

I will my left hand to open.

It does, but slowly, and it moves sideways on an uneven trajectory until it wraps around the thick girth of rope that leads to the highest net. A shiver of excitement courses through my veins as my boot lifts from the ladder. Another breath, in and out. I tremble and shake and push off with my leg and let go of the ladder completely.

Okay.

All I must do is shuffle along the ropes until I am in front of the nets. Except it occurs to me as I do that I am suspended in midair, that a great bubble of space separates me from the floor—the same one that usually runs directly under my boot.

The idea makes a bite of laughter rattle my tongue.

I inch left, again and again, until the nets are in front of me. Three of them: the one my boots stand on, the one my hip bone digs into, and the one that my hands grip. It is the latter one I care about. My eyes comb it greedily, and I notice that it holds very little compared to the rest of the nets—a small pile of metal in the very center and nothing more. Slowly, my gaze lifts.

Carved in the shape of a perfect square is a small trapdoor. I stare at it, and a smile spreads across my mouth, exposes my teeth. I’m not even sure I believed it was there, until now. The only problem is that the net is slung directly below it; there is barely any room for me to crawl over and up.

I will figure out a way onto it, I will, but first I must rest. Carefully, I draw one leg up, then the other, so that I sit on the edge of the second-highest net in the storeroom, and before thinking about it I twist so that I lie down, so that I give my arms a much-needed reprieve. I catch my breath; I rub my muscles. Then I am still, and all I can think about is the feeling of Wren squeezing my hand, of the look on his face when we forever parted ways.

The trembling in my muscles is replaced by overwhelming sadness.

So I stir; I draw myself back to the edge of the net, back to where my pulse races. It is better this way. Because here, I need to focus. I need to focus on getting to the net above me.

A simple task, except completing it will be anything but easy.

I am much too close to the ceiling to stand. The only way for me to hook my boot onto the top net is to let my arms carry my weight. But my arms are tired from being held over my head for the past ten minutes—blood isn’t flowing to my muscles as it should, and they protest loudly at the idea. I don’t like it, either, but there’s no alternative.

I string one arm through the top net and clench my other hand around it to lock it in place. I let my weight fall, then lift both my legs and hook them around. I am nauseous and cold, yet a new padding of sweat spreads across my skin.

So close. I am so close. I just need to swing my body up, and I will have done it. Soon, Eve. Because right now I can see the floor so many feet below me, and it makes my stomach lunge. Because right now my arm is beginning to ache, and if I don’t act now, I will fall.

My abs contract, and I shift my weight up, my legs straightening to lock in my progress. Every muscle in my body is engaged, and my breathing is shallow. I am perfectly horizontal, hugging the edge of the top net in the storeroom. So close. I am so close.

I lunge upward once again, and this time my arm that serves as a lock lets go. It reaches around, desperate to grab the top of the net.

It is an error.

I lose my balance. I fall. I scream. Then my left hand snatches closed, and it is around rope.

The only thing standing between me and death. I taste something acidic at the back of my throat. Vomit.

My feet are kicking, desperate to latch onto something, desperate to give my fingers a break, to save myself. I didn’t realize how desperate I was to live until now. At first I screamed, but now I sob. I think of my family and friends, and I think about Wren. I want them all, and I love them all. I picture their faces, I imagine their embraces, and my limbs grow still.

Focus.

I need to curl my left arm, to use every last ounce of strength to bend it, to draw my body up to a spot where my right hand can reach the net. That is step one. I can accomplish step one. Already, my arm throbs, but it is my only chance, and so I force my sob to turn into a grunt, and I pull, I pull, I pull.

An inch, and another, and finally the fingers of my right hand curl over rope, and now two limbs hold me from falling to my death.

Now for the final test of strength. One leg springs up and hooks around the top net, and I use the strength in this leg to wrestle the rest of my body weight up and up and up, and now my hands reach deeper onto the net, and I am on, I am on, I am on.

I roll until my back digs into metal, and I breathe deeply and laugh; I let out a shriek.

I did it.

I just about died, but I will live another minute. I will taste freedom after all.

It was strange, though. When I almost fell, I didn’t want to go. I was scared of death, scared of the unknown.

Is it death I am not ready for, or merely death without freedom first?

It isn’t a question I can answer—not here.

And then, all of a sudden, that song starts up in my mind, the one my mother used to sing, playing at full volume. The last stanza thunders in my ears:

Children dearest hear me roaring, release the ticking clock

Relieve your pain, don’t be scared, smash apart the lock

Drift to gentle paradise, it’s there that we shall talk

Children dearest side by side, tick tock

When everything is silent again, I know it in my bones. Maybe I knew it all along.

That famed oasis, paradise, the one I am chasing—it doesn’t exist. There is no north night hawk, no green canopy, no burbling stream—not in actuality. It is the afterlife my mother was singing about.

It is there where I will reunite with Jack, side by side in a field of hollyhock…

Those murmurs under my mother’s breath—always about a clock…it was the song. An act of self-care, maybe—a reminder of the gentle paradise awaiting her, where she, too, can finally reunite with her beloved boy…

A breath rattles my lungs. The afterlife. The afterlife. Jack is dead. He likely died within hours of being released aboveground. And I may be a survivor, but against that burning ball of fire known as the sun, I don’t stand a chance.

Fists cover my eyes, but they don’t stop the tears. Nothing could. I have been chasing an idea and nothing more, blinded by hope, clinging to a whim that offered much-needed solace at the expense of reason. I will never feel Jack’s delicate hands strung through mine, not until I bid goodbye to everything, to life—

And that’s just what I will do if I step foot outside, into the scorching outdoors.

I squeeze the sides of my face; I squeeze until it hurts. Not if. When—when I step foot outside. Because I may not have a shot at finding Jack in the flesh and blood—or paradise, for that matter—but I do have the opportunity to escape Eleven and experience true freedom, even if it is short-lived.

And that is still something I think I want. So I lift myself gingerly over tools until the trapdoor is directly above me. Carefully and with trembling fingers, I push.

Maybe it will be locked, maybe it won’t open, maybe I have come this far for naught.

But no.

It opens silently, and I am greeted by darkness and a musty smell that reminds me faintly of the first floor. I pull myself upright, into the building itself. The building that will see my last moments of Compound Eleven confinement.

My fingers are shaking, but this time it isn’t from fear or terror or whatever it was that saw me here. I don’t know what it is. Perhaps it’s excitement, but I don’t think it is so simple.

I reach into my boot, pull out my flashlight.

The first thing I see is that there are no windows. Next, I see that there is no locking mechanism on the door, just as Wren said. My fingertips brush the door handle. Nothing stands between where I am now and the sweltering world outside. A world I now know without a shadow of a doubt will kill me.

One wall is full of buttons and levers; the rest is empty. There is a lightbulb overhead, but I don’t bother looking for the light switch. Instead, I set the flashlight down on the plank floor so that the small space is illuminated, then lean my forehead against the door.

This is it. This is what it has all been about, what I have been working toward, what I have been dreaming of. Escaping Eleven. I can’t balk now; I just can’t. Even if I wanted to, what cruel punishment would await me below? I am a criminal now, known to authorities. And all thanks to my best friend.

No, I don’t have a choice. I have to go outside. I was going to kill a person to get here. This is what I wanted above all else, and even when I believed I actually had a chance of survival, I knew, too, there was a likelihood of death. So why does it feel so bittersweet?

I don’t think it’s the prospect of certain death doing it—not fully. I think I know the answer but I don’t want to admit it to myself. Because I used to be hardened and tough and self-sufficient, desperate to leave the cruel corridors of the compound at all costs. Then I fell in love.

Just do it, Eve. It’s like lemon juice: The first jolt is the worst. The heat will sting, it will take my breath away, but then it won’t hurt so much.

I look at my knuckles and think of my parents and realize that I was wrong not to say goodbye. I was wrong not to have one last moment with them that wasn’t a fight. Maybe they are worthy of my anger, maybe they aren’t, but regardless of it all—they are family. I breathe deeply and try to set the pang of regret aside. It isn’t a problem I can solve right now; it is too late. If I come back in another lifetime, I will be wiser.

Right now, all I can do is breathe.

Breathe, Eve.

I thump my head against the door, again and again, and after a while, my trepidations slowly give way, smacking into one another and down like a house of cards.

This is what I came for. This is what I want. When I open this door, I will be free.

So what if I am swallowed by unbearable heat—so what that I will never see my loved ones again? I will be free. I will die a happy girl because I will be free.

My shaking fingers graze the door handle, and then my palm grips it tightly. The muscles in my arm stand at attention, and I can feel them rippling under my skin, fatigued from the effort it took to reach this spot but still resilient. I stand up straighter and breathe. In. Out.

In.

Out.

This is it. I am going now. I am brave and strong and free. Finally, I am free.

Time for the lemon juice to spill. I am turning the door handle when something stirs behind me.

“Eve.”