TWELVE
WE RATTLE AHEAD, THE CAR lurching over uneven ground. I put an arm around Emma and let my thoughts drift back to the odd light in Maude’s bedroom. I can’t help but think she knows there’s more beyond the Wall. I try to tell myself that it is not possible. If she knows, if she’s known all along . . . I don’t want to think about what that means.
The car slows and we stop before a stretch of wall. Not our Wall but a second one. Emma and I were trapped all along, both in Claysoot and even when we were beyond it. In the front seat, Marco takes the communication device and again talks into it.
What happens next doesn’t seem possible. A small section of the wall twitches, and then it’s moving, parting like a cloud splitting in two. Not a moment later, a vacant expanse lies before us, a clear passageway right in the center of the structure.
Emma sits upright. “Did you see that?”
I nod, dumbfounded.
“Do you think we could do that? Back in Claysoot? Do you think there’s a section of our Wall that opens and we just never found it?”
But I don’t get a chance to answer her because we are hurtling forward again, the speed so great I grow nauseous.
We emerge onto a frozen black river, so straight and precise that I wonder if it is a river at all. It cuts through the earth. The sky hangs gray. The grass grows dry. There is a whole lot of nothing out here, just land that goes on and on. I wonder how much of it exists, how small Claysoot is in comparison.
At one point, we pass several rickety homes and faltering structures. A town, like Claysoot. The people are holding a funeral, obvious from the downturned eyes and a mound of fresh earth. Farther outside the community I see two young boys carrying buckets of water, their forearms strained. I imagine they will have blisters by the time they get home. That, or they make the trip so often their palms already boast proud calluses.
We drive for a long while without seeing anyone else.
Finally, a forest of tiny tree trunks appears on the horizon, stretching toward the clouds. Above them is a glint of light, shaped like an arched rainbow or overturned bowl. It catches the sunbeams and shoots them into the car. As we get closer, I realize that the shapes within are not trees but buildings—hundreds of buildings of varying heights, all stretching up toward the brilliant arch.
Marco drives the car toward the gleaming barrier at a stunning speed. Again he says something into the handheld device, and again, an entrance reveals itself.
Welcome to Taem, a sign above us reads, the first domed city.
Taem is like nothing I have ever seen. I keep thinking that I must be dreaming, that I will wake up in my Claysoot bed to discover that everything from when I first entered Maude’s house to now has been nothing more than the workings of my slumbering imagination. I blink rapidly. I pinch the flesh on my forearm.
I don’t wake up.
The sheer size of Taem makes it hard to breathe. Buildings tower at heights so precarious I am certain they will topple in on us. I realize that the frozen river we travel on is actually a road, dark and solid, so opposite our dirt variety. As we travel through the city, the road splits and forks and multiplies, twisting in intricate patterns as cars fly past. There is a long series of silver buckets that hang from cables and whoosh by overhead, their sides scrawled with letters that read trolley. I repeat the odd term in my head, wondering how it’s pronounced. Emma and I don’t exchange a single word; we are too busy gawking.
Things here are made of materials I have never seen. Lights illuminate the city, their brightness trumping every candle and torch in Claysoot combined. Some cast their brilliance along the road we travel. Others fill the sides of buildings, flashing words and symbols in a frantic manner. And the people: There are people everywhere. Walking. Talking. Coming in and out of buildings. They wear odd clothing and some of the women walk in awkward shoes that appear to be raised beneath their heels. Many carry bags that seem impractical, too large or too small. I can’t stop staring.
Beyond all the things I don’t understand—the new shapes, sounds, materials—there is one thing I do: the men. They are abundant. There are as many as the women. Some are young—my age or children—but there are old men, too, middle-aged to ancient. They have creases on their faces and gray hair on their heads. They have skin as dry as parchment and eyes that droop, tired. It makes my stomach uneasy but in an exhilarating way.
We pass more buildings, pausing near an open center where men, dressed in the same black uniform that Marco and his partner wear, stand on a raised platform. There is a golden statue at their backs, shaped like the emblem atop their chests, and an incredibly lengthy line of civilians filling the square before them. Several of the black-suited men hold the same slender objects Marco and his partner carried, only these men point theirs at the crowd. I know the form. They are aiming. At people. The objects they hold are weapons. Behind the statue, a smooth section of an aged building is illuminated with words: Water distribution today. Segments 13 & 14 only. Must present ration card.
With a lurch, we are moving again and the square slips from view. The next street seems to be the city’s main artery. I have never seen so many people in my life. I think of the struggling community we’d passed earlier and wonder why they couldn’t live here as well, in these immaculate buildings, under this glowing dome. Maybe the city has no more room. Or no more water. The thought is terrifying; Claysoot always seemed to have enough rain, and our lake and rivers never ran dry. Then again, we were only a few hundred people.
The road squeezes between two towering buildings, both of which are plastered with a repeating piece of paper, climbing up, up, up toward the city’s domed ceiling. A man’s face fills each sheet, staring at us. Resting on his ears and the bridge of his nose is some sort of protective eye gear, its frames thick and black. He wears an odd ribbon about his neck that dangles down the front of his shirt. The visuals cut off at midchest, but the man’s shoulders slouch forward within the frame. He looks delicate and brittle, as though his entire body might crumple from even the slightest breeze.
“How do you think someone drew those?” Emma asks, pointing at the man. “They are identical. And they look so real.”
“Maybe it’s not a drawing.”
We both look back at the maybe-drawings. The words Harvey Maldoon appear beneath each picture. There are several smaller words beneath those, but I can only make them out when Marco brings the car to a standstill and lets people cross the street. “Wanted alive for crimes against AmEast, including sedition, espionage, and high treason; crimes against humanity, including torture, murder, and unethical practices of a scientific nature.”
Most of the words are foreign to me, but I know enough to be disturbed. We had little crime in Claysoot, thanks to laws set up and enforced by the Council, and our scrolls documented only one attempted murder, a failed one at that.
I look over Harvey again, trying to fathom one person doing all these terrible things and more. At first I thought he looked weak. Now, after reading the description, something in his eyes appears sick and twisted. I don’t like the way they follow me as the car moves down the street. Emma shudders, and I do the same.
When we break free of the crowded corridor, we travel a few more minutes before arriving at a building more grand than the rest. It sits atop a manicured plot of grass, each blade cut with precision so that their tips seem to match up seamlessly in height. The entire place is surrounded by an intricate fence, made of metal and sculpted with such care and embellishment that I know it would have taken Blaine a lifetime to forge in Claysoot. The building itself is immaculate. It bends and sweeps in odd areas, giving way to arched windows and whimsical coves. The roofline varies in height, creating stepping-stones into the sky. The shapes are all wrong and yet mesmerizing. I can make out the words “Union Central” above a massive front doorway.
A man in black nods at Marco as we head through the front gates. Marco takes the car around the side of the building and then we sink underground, moving into a space filled with idle cars. When ours ceases to rumble, Marco climbs out, opens the back door, and squats beside us.
“I’m Marco. This is Pete.” He jerks his head backward to where his partner now stands. “I apologize for not introducing ourselves sooner, but it wasn’t safe.”
“It doesn’t really seem safe here either,” I think aloud, images of a wanted man and rationed water and men pointing weapons at their own people still clear in my mind.
Marco snorts. “Sure, don’t bother thanking us. We only just saved your lives.”
“Thank you,” Emma says. She reaches across me and shakes Marco’s hand. “I’m Emma, and this is Gray. He seems to have forgotten his manners.”
Marco smiles at that, but I don’t like the way his lips look devious or the way his eyes are working over Emma.
“Maybe I’d be more polite if we could get some answers,” I say. “I still don’t know who you are. Or why we were the first climbers to ever be saved.”
“Like I said, I can’t discuss that,” Marco says, standing. “But after you clean up, we’ll take you to Frank. Come on.”
Emma and I climb out of the car. “Who’s Frank?”
“Just the only thing holding this crumbling country together.”
I don’t understand the differences between towns and cities and countries, but given what I’ve seen today, if a city is a large town, I’d guess a country is a large city. Or something even bigger. “And he has answers?”
“Yes,” Marco responds. He shifts his weapon in his hands and adds, “This is where we split. Emma, you go with Pete. Gray, this way.”
“Emma stays with me,” I say.
“That’s sweet of you, Romeo, but she can’t.” Again with that name. I want to correct him, but he keeps talking. “Boys have one washroom, girls another. That’s just the way it is.”
We never divided outhouses in Claysoot. The idea is ridiculous, not to mention inefficient. So much more construction and upkeep and maintenance.
“It’s okay,” Emma says to me. “I’ll be fine.”
I nod in agreement even though I’d feel better if she never left my sight. Everything about this place makes my skin crawl, and since climbing the Wall we’ve met not answers but more questions. If Emma is not with me, I am incapable of ensuring her safety. I stare over my shoulder as she disappears with Pete. Marco and I head in the opposite direction.
“You regret climbing yet?” Marco asks, his voice condescending. He’s walking ahead of me, but I would bet a week’s worth of hunting game that he’s smirking.
I scowl. “Not at all. Besides, I didn’t get Heisted like I was supposed to. It was worth risking the Wall.”
He freezes. “Wait. Say that again. The part about the Heist.”
“I didn’t get Heisted like I was supposed to.”
He turns to face me, slowly. He looks as dumbfounded as I felt taking in Taem moments earlier. “What do you mean by that?”
“I mean I was the only boy who stayed in Claysoot when he turned eighteen.”
“Impossible.” His mouth hangs open.
Why would he think that impossible? Why does he even recognize the term Heist? I shiver, cold, and against my better judgment I add, “It’s not impossible. My twin brother—he disappeared and I stayed.”
“Twin?” Marco gasps. He runs a hand over his head, looks off down the hallway, and then back at me. “Change of plans,” he says. “This way.”
And then he practically sprints down the corridor, backtracking. My feet work feverishly to keep up. We step into a box. It lurches downward, metal walls surrounding us. Doors open and Marco leads me through a hallway, down stairs, around corners. I lose my sense of direction. One thing is certain, though: the area of Union Central through which we are now walking is not nearly as glorious as its outer shell. The walls are a gray stone. Dust gathers in the crannies, moss clinging furiously to damp corners. Hallways are lit overhead with odd panels of light that flicker and cast an unnatural bluish glow about the space.
We head down a final set of steps and the moisture in the air seems to triple. A man in black sits on a lonely stool within the hallway we’ve entered. It is narrow, lined with doors to the left and right that are too short to walk through without ducking.
“We’re all full,” he calls out.
“Well, double him up,” Marco says. “Throw him in with our pal Bozo the clown. He’ll be good company.” Marco pushes me at the man with impressive force, and then darts off the way we arrived, looking more frantic than ever.
“Where’s he going?”
The man says nothing but shuffles me toward a door at the far end of the hallway, where he presses his thumb to a metal plate before it slides open.
“Sorry, kid,” he says to me. “This guy’s a bit of a loon.” And then he shoves me through the doorway. It’s dark inside and smells of mold and urine. The door slams behind me and it takes the click of metal echoing in my ears before I realize I’m in a prison.