Blackout (Darkness Trilogy) (13 page)

“Well, can
you
tell me what measles is?” Tinder asks. He turns toward us with his arms crossed in distress. Apparently, the other doctor has stopped answering questions. Before I can panic—before Tinder glimpses our private moment—Dr. Fletcher withdraws his hand smoothly from mine and sinks a needle into my arm.

“
Measles is a highly contagious disease,” Dr. Fletcher says. He presses a white cotton ball to the pink pinprick after he extracts my shot. He gestures Tinder toward him and grabs another syringe. “And it is entirely preventable. You can come closer now, it’s your turn. I’ll answer every question you have.”

I take one
step back from the action and hide both of my hands behind me. The note is still crumpled in my fist. Dr. Fletcher only wrote a quick line, but I let myself dream as to what it could be. Maybe it’s an explanation of what really happened the day we met. Why he gave himself up so soon and lied to the guards. Why he crashed through the Frontier in the first place. Or where Dr. Harris is now. As I feel the paper against my palm, my anticipation builds. But I won’t open it until I’m alone.

I slip
the message discreetly into my pocket and wait.

We rotate through the different stations
. I make sure the tiny bump of paper in my jeans is safe while a pair of doctors takes our X-rays, checking for broken bones. Turns out that Tinder and I are okay, but Elektra has eight hairline fractures in her legs. The doctors want to attend to them now, but Elektra convinces them to wait until after the Carnival. She claims she can’t even feel them. Then another doctor checks our skin for rashes, cuts, and burns. He certifies Tinder and me clean, but he finds scars from significant second-degree burns over Elektra’s back. The doctor says that 10 percent of Elektra’s skin is scar tissue. Elektra nods without emotion as she listens to this report.

As we leave the
station, I grab Elektra’s arm.

“Elektra
,” I say. “Hold on a second.”

She rips her arm out of my grasp with ease.

“How did you get so hurt?” I ask.

“I’m not hurt,” she says defiantly. “I’m strong, baby.”

We fall silent as a suite of four DZs walks around us to enter a different station. One of them wears a black shirt with the sleeves cut off and the armholes draped loosely down to his waist. The shirt accentuates a tattoo of the Frontier around his bicep. Perfect for Hazel. I guide Elektra away from them so we can continue to talk.

“What happened to you?” I ask again.

“It takes work to become a Shadow,” she says with a shrug.

“Was it worth it?” I ask.

“Of course,” she says. “I’m unstoppable now.”

She blows me a ki
ss and walks behind partition fifteen. I shake my head and follow. Three doctors draw our blood into finger-length tubes for testing. I watch Elektra out of the corner of my eye. She sits on her metal stool with a perfectly straight back and blank face. I wonder if she was always like this.

We finish early and head for the exit.
I want to read this note, but first I want to see Star. I search for her with my eyes in every station that we pass. When I spot a DZ in only her underwear, I unintentionally do a double take. This girl sits on a stool in a light-pink bra and panties having her hair checked for lice. The masked doctor parts her hair again with a metal stick and searches her scalp with gloved fingers. From her scant outfit, it’s clear that she’s playing Bing. This
is what Star is up against. My stomach sinks when I imagine what Star is wearing, but I keep checking between the partitions. I need to find her. I don’t like going too long without seeing her, and I haven’t seen her all day.

There she is.

Finally, I see her. She stands by the partition closest to the elevators. About ten feet away. And she’s dressed. Her little red sweater doesn’t cover much, but at least it’s there above her tight jeans. Another player hulks over her with one hand pressed to the panel. I recognize the shoulders instantly: Blaze. A protective instinct pulls me toward them automatically. I speed up and clench my fists.

“Did you see my p
rof pic?” he asks.

“Maybe,” she flirts nervously.

“You got enough experience for Bing?” Blaze asks.

The nerve. I’m almost in line with them now.

“I think so,” Star says. She tries to giggle, but she fails.

“I think you could use some practice,” Blaze says. “You should stop by my floor. Floor 32. We can practice together.”

The
hell
you will. In a blur of movement, I lunge toward Blaze, turn him around by the shoulder, and punch him square in the face. Blaze takes a step backward and clutches his jaw. His eyes narrow at me as I shake out my hand, and the pain shooting through my fingers brings me back to my senses. I shouldn’t have done that. Goddammit, I shouldn’t have intervened. I want to run and hide my face, but Blaze is already glaring at me. I see the wheels turning behind his eyes. I have to stop this before it starts.

“Don’t—” I t
ry.

“You,”
he interrupts. “I remember you now.”

DZs on their way to the elevator have stopped to gather around us. I pant with my back to most of them and my eyes glued to my newest enemy.
Blaze and I are locked in a staring match, and his eyebrows pull together in an ominous
V.
I crack my knuckles, preparing myself for a fight as he continues to put everything together. Star presses her body into the partition with a preemptive wince on her face.

“And
you!” Blaze cries. He spins around to face Star, and I know he has just recognized her. She throws her arms suddenly around his neck and kisses him to keep him from talking. Blaze looks surprised, but he doesn’t push her away. Pain sears inside my chest. Her body is pressed against him, their mouths are locked—I feel like a hot knife has sliced through my heart and left an open gash. I can’t watch anymore. Star might have just saved us, but seeing this is too much to bear.

I
push through the crowd of DZs behind me and get in the very next elevator. No one wants to ride with me except Elektra. We rise in silence. I think she says something to me, but I can’t really hear it. My ears are clogged with grief.

Our phones
vibrate with an alert.

SCHEDULE

**ALERT: 15 Minute Warning before Next Event**

02:30
p.m.–07:30 p.m. PREPARE FOR FIRST DATE.

We arrive before I finish reading. I slide the phone back into my jeans because I don’t want to see the rest. Elektra leaves the elevator still avidly reading her alert and tapping her bottom lip with one thoughtful finger. I bet she’s already planning, but this time, I don’t care to keep up. All I can do now is loaf behind her.

She disappears down her hallway, and I make my way down mine.
Back in my room, I shut my door. Lock it slowly, still hurt from what I witnessed. Collapsing onto my bed, I grip the cool starched sheets and squeeze. Blaze kissed Star—no, it was worse than that.
Star
kissed
Blaze
, and it was all my fault. I let go of the sheets and roll over to stare at the spotless blue ceiling. Goddammit, I can’t seem to get anything right here. Everything I do for us ends up twisted. Backfiring. I swallow a lump in my throat, once again on the brink of believing that I never should have come here at all.

Suddenly, I remember the note
. In my jeans. I reach immediately into my pocket for the scrunched message, uplifted slightly by a twinge of hope. Pulling it out, I uncrumple the yellow paper, careful not to rip any part. I flatten each of its four corners and start reading the text in the center.

if
347-555-0108 gets you, be like #328

I
read it again.

And again.

I hold the note above my head and pore over it, but it still doesn’t make any sense. It’s too ambiguous. Like Dr. Fletcher confounded what he meant in case this message fell into the wrong hands. I turn onto my side and rest the note on my pillow. Closing my eyes, I try to decipher it. At least I recognize the first ten-digit sequence as a phone number. 347-555-0108 probably refers to the person with that number—whoever that is—but the second part is harder. “Be like #328.” I turn the phrase over in my mind. “Be like #328.”

I
ts meaning is still a mystery when I accidentally drift off to sleep.

I wake up slowly, not sure how much time has passed. My limbs sprawl in a giant
X
across my bed with my head turned toward the window. Illuminated skyscrapers burn my eyes. My heart sinks when I remember where I am.

New York City is never truly dark. Even now, under a
completely black sky, all of the lights are still on. The Easies have so much more than they need, and the strange thing is, I’m getting used to it. I expect the lights to be on now, and I expect the air in my room to be warm. I bring my phone sleepily toward my face and check the time: 7:01 p.m. I bolt into a seated position and squint at the numbers, but they do not change. Panic sets in: I have less than half an hour before my First Date.

“Phoenix?” Tinder calls from the hallway. “Are you ready to go?”

“No!” I shout.

I swing open the door to glimpse Tinder in a white oxford tucked into blue jeans. The oxford has been layered over at least one long-sleeved shirt. He tilts his head in confusion.

“Why aren’t you ready?” he asks.

“I
fell asleep!” I roar.

“Calm down,” Elektra says. Her modest flats patter down the hall toward us. She emerges in a knee-length yellow skirt and snug black sweater. Very Wesley. She
saunters toward my closet and disappears inside. When she returns, she offers me a stack of folded clothes on outstretched arms. I grab the clothes and usher her out of my room. I push her all the way to the threshold and then slam the door. It doesn’t make a sound, and I see Elektra is holding the door open with her hand. I don’t have time for her games. I have to get dressed.

“Why are you always here when I’m taking my clothes off?” I ask.

“Cut it out,” she says. “You don’t have time to be a prude.”

And she’s always right, too.

“While you were moping—” she starts.

“I
wasn’t moping!” I lie, wriggling into the gray sweatshirt

“—
Tinder and I read the magazines to learn about First Dates,” she says. “Turns out, we’re not allowed to meet the prizes yet. They make us interact with surrogates until Day Five.”

“Surrogates?” I
say, puzzled.

I pull my phone out and read the whole alert now.

SCHEDULE

**ALERT: 15 Minute Warning before Next Event**

02:30
p.m.–07:30 p.m. PREPARE FOR FIRST DATE.

Location:
Your suite on floor 33. Description: Get ready for your First Date tonight with surrogate Hazel.

“Surrogates are boys and girls who are trained to look and act like the prizes,” she says. “For each prize, there are lots of different surrogates. If the date is going well, surrogate Hazel will feed you personal information about the real Hazel. The more you learn about her, the better your date went.”

I punch my arms into a blue blazer that fits perfectly over my sweatshirt. Once again, I kick
off my pants in front of Elektra.

“Since you’r
e playing Hazel, I thought you might want to check out a place downtown,” she adds. “If, that is, you can get there. The address is in your back pocket. It’s called the Underground.”

“Sure, thanks,” I say, zipping up my jeans.

Our phones buzz, and we check the newest alert.

SCHEDULE

**
ALERT: 15 Minute Warning before Next Event**

07:30
p.m.–12:30 a.m.              FIRST DATE

Location: Museum of Modern Art. Transportation waits outside The New York. Description: Enjoy time wit
h surrogate Hazel. NOTE: TOUCHING SURROGATES IS ALLOWED. THEY ARE CONSIDERED EXTENSIONS OF FAMILIES THROUGHOUT THE CARNIVAL. A good date will earn you the prize’s phone number.

Elektra dashes toward the door.

“Elektra!” I call. She waits expec
tantly on the threshold. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” she says
. For the briefest moment, Elektra looks uncharacteristically moved by my thanks. She opens her mouth as if she’s about to say something, but deciding against it, leaves hurriedly for her room.

*

My knees shake nervously in the backseat of another monstrous black truck. I’m not as calm as I need to be, and I haven’t prepared nearly enough. I spent the afternoon thinking about Dr. Fletcher’s clue and then just
sleeping
, for God’s sake.

The truck jerks to a stop
and then jolts forward, rocking my body back and forth between the seatbelt and seat. I’m getting nauseous, and all of the sudden movements make it harder to plan my hunt. I feel time slipping faster through my fingers. The truck stops short again, and the seatbelt stops me from flying into the divider. This time, the engine goes silent. We’ve arrived. I unbuckle and exhale sharply. Stay camouflaged, Phoenix. Lure her in with hints of danger, and then aim straight for her heart.

The door opens to the white light of camera flashes. It doesn’t hurt my eyes as much this time, and I remember to stare at the red carpet. Maybe my eyes are already adjusting to this side of the Frontier.

“Phoenix, roar for us!”

“
Show us that famous fist!”

“Phoenix! Phoenix!”

I watch the rug pass beneath me until I reach a pair of untied black boots. Surrogate Hazel. I follow the slim legs up to her thick black fur coat, up farther to her scowling expression. The surrogate looks almost like Hazel, but this Easy’s features are bigger: bigger nose, heavier eyebrows, and fuller lips. Still, her cocked hips and bristly edge capture Hazel’s attitude completely. Resentment for both of them flares inside of me, but I bury it quickly. Passion will skew my aim.

“Hey.”

My
greeting sounds so deep and resonant that for a second I don’t recognize my own voice. Now it hits me, I’m using a false call. In Dark DC, I make these imitation noises to draw birds closer. When they hear the tweets—their particular pattern of chirps, whatever—they answer back and fly toward me. One clean shot after that and they’re down. I must be doing the same thing now to bring the surrogate closer to me. Hazel’s voice was low on Prize Night, and so I’m making mine lower, too.

With just a foot between us, s
he blatantly looks me up and down. Yes, this Easy is just as direct as Hazel seemed to be. She cocks her head toward the all-glass entrance to the Museum of Modern Art and then starts to walk inside, out of the cold. I follow her through the doors, and our fingers brush as she hands the door off to me.

“I didn’t choose this place,” she says gruffly.

I shrug. The lobby is nothing but a big, empty room. Gray and ugly with flat benches running in two rows down the center. I’ve only ever been inside one museum, but even those ruins were nicer than this. I can see the second level from here, which is surrounded by a glass railing. Surrogate Hazel makes her way to the stairwell, taking off her fur coat as she walks. Now she’s wearing only a cropped black tee shirt above her worn jeans. She tosses the heavy coat against the nearest wall. It drops to the floor.

“Hey,” I
call after her. She turns around. “Where are you going?”

“There’s a performance for us,
” she says.

“
Oh yeah? What kind?” I ask.

She shrugs. “Some kind of music,” she says.
“Second floor.”

I
look through the glass bar and see another open space hung with paintings larger than I am. Each one is just a different shade of blue. The portraits Star and I rearranged in the National Gallery were much better than this. We loved those paintings. Never burned them. No matter how cold it got, we never put a torch to them because they meant something to us: color, excess, beauty. Everything lacking in the Dark Zone. But the paintings I see here—I’d burn everything in this museum in a heartbeat.

“I don’t like this place,” I say.

“Yeah, so what?” she asks. “I’m going.”

She
starts climbing the stairs. I would follow along, but there’s no way Hazel will fall for me if we stick around here. Listen to music. Talk about
art
. There’s nothing dangerous about following the rules, and I have to end this mess before it starts. So I jog after her. I’m going to get us out of this museum. When the Easy hears me coming, she looks over her shoulder but doesn’t stop moving toward the second floor. I reach ahead and grab her wrist from a step below her, stopping her in her tracks.

“What are you
doing?” she asks, yanking her arm out of my grasp. It’s not the best reaction, but at least she’s paying more attention to me. Her lips purse together as she stares me down. I look back intently into her gray eyes.

“Do you trust me?” I ask.

“No,” she says. Without looking away, I step onto her level.

“
I want to go somewhere a bit more dangerous,” I say.

“You mean,
leave?” she asks, sounding intrigued.

“Yes,” I say.
“Right now.”

She
smiles briefly and nods yes. I think I’m doing well. We walk back downstairs to the lobby where I spot a side door cut into glass across from the staircase. This is our way out.

Rushing toward it,
I press my palms against the glass and look outside. It’s a sculpture garden surrounded by a square fence. The fence walls might look tall to Easies, but after staring at the Frontier for most of my life, they’re bumps on the ground. I could scale them in a second. I nod my head outside, and she follows me through the door. Instantly, the pervasive chill in the air perks me up. I jump onto a black statue of a horse and peer over the fence ledge. Street traffic passes as usual, and there’s not a single photographer in sight.

Reaching down, I
pick surrogate Hazel up from under her armpits. She’s noticeably heavier than Star, probably never been hungry a day in her life. I place her in front of me on the horse. She leans back into my chest and puts her hand on my knee. I’m not sure if that’s an accident, but I leap up before she can touch me any more. She stands, too, spreading her arms out for balance, and steps onto the horse’s head between its ears. She jumps with the other foot onto the flat top of the fence and lands with a wobble. I quickly do the same.

We d
rop onto the sidewalk together, and I take my bearings. The nearest shelter is a restaurant. Light pours out of every window below an orange awning, and I can’t help but think that this particular shade looks like the color of Star’s favorite parka. Her beautiful face flashes through my mind, and I want to be with her now. Hold her close. Touch her soft cheeks…

Focus, Phoenix. You’re hunting.

I
take the Easy’s hand and we run across the traffic to dash inside. So this is what restaurants really look like. People are scattered among tables, paused with their loaded forks in midair. Some whisper to one another with variations of
Is that him? Is that her?
A teenage girl takes out her phone and snaps a pic of us. I realize I should do the same. I pull out my phone and take a picture of us with the restaurant scene in the background. As quickly as I can, I thumb to
Profiles
on my phone and add it to an update of mine.

PHOENIX

Just now:
now for a real first date