When my eyes open again, it’s to faint pattering on the lid of the crate. The sudden cold is a shock to the system, like I’ve jumped into a freezing pond, and every muscle in my body contracts, pulling in to protect what little warmth is left. Water drips through the gaps in the wood, landing on my face, my chest, my feet.
Lucas’s rain poncho is plastered to him, his ink-black hair flat against his skull. He keeps his head down, looking at the mud. In front of him, no more than a hundred yards away, is the gate. It’s wide open, and a semitruck, the kind I used to see all the time when people moved in and out of our neighborhood, is parked there. Crates are being walked up the platform, but it seems like the PSFs are struggling with the thick black mud sucking at their feet. I see several in ponchos that look like little more than trash bags with holes cut for the arms. They’re like shadows moving against a dreamy gray mist.
The PSFs grunt as they lower me down onto something. The crate goes sailing back, bumps against something, and rocks forward again. Someone voices the cuss word that screams through my head as my leg is jarred. My breath comes out in small, uneven bursts. Then, the crate is tilted again and we’re moving—it’s rolling smoothly. I peer through the crack again, searching for Lucas’s form. He is walking away, around to the front of the truck.
Please, I think. Please let him get on without any problems...Let the driver think he’s someone from Thurmond. Let the Thurmond PSFs think he came with the driver.
There’s a horrible creak as the crate is lifted and dumped off the roller. My teeth catch the inside of my lip and I can’t keep the hiss of pain from slipping between them. The truck rumbles to life and the door clatters as it’s pulled down like a shade, cutting the soft steel-toned light to a sliver. It’s secured with a deafening bang that rattles around inside of my head. After a minute, the driving rain drowns it out.
It’s several terrified heartbeats later that I realize the truck is moving.
Slowly.
Rolling.
Working.
I close my eyes, drawing my hands up to my face. The engine revs as the truck picks up speed. We must be through the gate, or getting close. I wish I could see it. I want to know what the camp looks like as it disappears into the horizon like a fading memory. It’s like Greenwood in that way, I think. A secret place that exists outside of the world’s reality.
The progress is halting. The truck jerks now and then, and I hear the engine rev again as we rock forward, then back. There’s a horrible metallic roar as it lurches forward, rocks violently from side to side. I think, for a second, that something’s slammed into us from behind. The force of the movement sends me crashing forward. There’s banging, the sound of wood splintering—something smashes onto the lid of my crate and cracks it down the middle. I scream, bringing my hands up in front of my face. The spray of splinters. Sawdust in my lungs.
The truck doesn’t move.
I hear the engine rev again.
Voices—shouts of alarm. Slamming doors. The sound is almost lost to the storm.
The back door rolls open like it’s in a rage.
“—busted up everything!”
“Christ, what a mess—”
“—have to dig the tires out—”
We’re stuck, then. The truck is trapped in the same mud that’s constantly trying to suck us down. With the light, I can peer up through the crack in the lid of my crate. See the damage of everything that’s been knocked loose. Rain pours down the open door like a sheet. Like the waterfall Lucas dreamt up for Greenwood. It hides something valuable. Something waiting to be found.
It’s like I can feel him before I see him. A dark shape appears, passing through the rain as he hauls himself up. Lucas stumbles as he comes closer. He’s lost his hat. Dark hair is plastered to his pale, panic-stricken face. His eyes meet mine and he gulps down a shuddering breath. His whole body sags with relief as he pulls off the crate that’s crashed onto mine.
What are you doing? I want to scream. Why didn’t you stay in the truck? You weren’t supposed to turn around.
Someone yells. I can’t make out her words, but Lucas does—he goes rigid again, whirling back. I see his fist clench at his side. The smell of smoke fills my nose, and, for a second, I think I can see it rising off him.
What are you doing?
His eyes are blazing. He still thinks he can get us out of here.
What are you doing?
“No—” I choke out.
“Stop!” A woman screams the word. “Red—M27!”
I see him make the decision. I see how fast fear turns to fury as he raises both hands. Lucas, no, Lucas, please, just—He can’t run, he can’t do anything, they’ll kill him, they’re going to kill him for this.
Fire coats his hands, races up his arms. I’m caught in its glow. I bang on the crate in horror. Why did he get out? Why did he—“Lucas!”
I am still screaming, still beating on the crate’s lid, trying to break out, when the tint of the sky warms to a horrifying red-gold, and the panicked outrage outside turns deadly.
“No!” It was working—it was working—we were getting out—the mud—the rain—
If it had been clear skies—
There are never clear skies here.
The world explodes with White Noise. It spikes into my temple like a ratchet, and for the first time, I’m able to ignore the pain in my leg because everywhere else hurts that much worse. There are shadows closing over me. I can’t keep my eyes open. I turn my face against the crate as the monsters in black rip the lid off the crate and iron hands clench my arms, dragging me out. Freezing rain slaps my skin, my eyes burn with tears at the intensity of the White Noise and the overcast light. I smell burnt skin. There are PSFs on the ground, screaming, rolling in the mud. There are more pouring out of the gate—the gate—God, we were almost through, the rear of the truck only needed to move a foot more, and we would have been past it. The truck sits low in the mud, half the wheels hidden by the black, grasping earth.