Sparks Rise (The Darkest Minds 2.5)

“Sweetie,” he calls, “sweetie—come here!” He punctuates the last two words with the baton. He can’t get to me while I’m in here. I’m safe in the cage—

Tildon stands suddenly and seizes the front of the kennel and hauls it toward him, the center of the small room. The scream that leaves my throat is drowned out by the screech of the metal against the cement, the thunder of the empty cages above it filling in the empty space, crashing to the ground. He drops the weight with a satisfied grunt, a smile that’s all teeth. I can’t get away from him now. He stands over me, looking down through the bars, considering. I have to force myself not to look at Lucas, still facing away from us in the corner.

He can’t help you—you have to get out of this—think, Sam, think—

“This is M27 requesting permission to leave the cages to return to my post,” I hear Lucas say. His voice has a halting quality to it now, each word clipped. “Officer Tildon is here to relieve me.”

Tildon’s breath whistles as it’s sucked in between his teeth. He twists around, pinning Lucas with a look of such undisguised malice, I can’t imagine how both of them will walk out of here alive.

The instinctive panic smooths out to horrified understanding. He’s telling them Tildon is here in a way that makes it seem like he’s only asking permission to act. But he doesn’t get it. The power is on. The camera is operational. The Control Tower must know he’s here. They just don’t care.

Don’t! I want to scream it. Don’t put a target on yourself. Just get out!

He tried, though. He tried. My throat is thick with the need to cry, I’m so grateful.

Neither of them has moved, and I’m too much of a coward to make a sound and break the tense silence. Tildon is still, frozen, his hand still dangling inches above my head. Someone in the Control Tower must be talking in his ear. For the first time, I wonder if maybe they didn’t know—if someone hadn’t been watching this room from the moment the power came back on.

Lucas turns around slowly, crossing the short distance to the door. He pops it open and holds it; the room seems to gasp, sucking in the cold air. Doesn’t say a word, just waits. His eyes never once leave Tildon.

“You stupid little shit,” the PSF seethes. “Don’t think I’ll forget—”

“Our orders,” Lucas says without an ounce of warmth in his voice. “Sir.”

He is good. It’s almost terrifying—like there are two different boys trapped in his body. The last traces of fizzing brightness I’d felt with him fade and die completely.

Tildon looks down at me and, before I can turn away, spits in my face. The smile he gives me is somehow worse than anything else he’s done to me here; it’s a promise. I duck down, folding myself inside the cramped space to wipe every last trace of him away with my sleeve. The smell of him hangs over me like a cloud of poison, and I feel myself gag again and again until he finally crosses the room and switches off the lights.

The door swings shut and locks behind them.

And when there is nothing and no one but the walls around me to hear, I begin to hum again. I lift the pitch higher and higher until the ache in my throat clears and the wind begins to answer back.

It seems impossible, but I sleep.

It’s the shallow kind, one that I dip in and out of until I finally feel more exhausted than I did at the start. The day has cut me open and exposed every last nerve in my body. As night comes, early as always, the leftover haze of light from the storm is stained a deep violet. My back is stiff no matter how I bend and twist around, and I have to imagine my skin is turning the same color as the sky. I grit my teeth and close my eyes, drifting back out of reality.

By the time my eyes open again, the light has gone out of my world completely. The metal grating on the side of the cage digs into my back, groans as I shift again. There’s no way for my eyes to adjust, and there’s nothing to see save for a prick of red light on the door where the electronic lock is. Instead, every other sense sharpens to fill in the gaps. The smell of wet fur is slowly easing out of the small room, but what replaces it is the stench of soggy dog food. My belly cramps with hunger and my throat is dry, but it won’t be unbearable until the morning. How long did they say I have in here? This morning feels like it happened in another life.

Did I imagine Lucas? The fear takes hold of my throat and squeezes tight. It wouldn’t have been the first time. He is always there when I need him, waiting for me to pluck him out of my memory box. There are new images now, tucked behind the old ones. I close my eyes and imagine him sitting there again. I remember every curve and dimple so clearly, I think I could paint him into the air, back into existence. I wish I could have trapped the sound of his singing in my head.

I draw in another breath. Real. I can’t tell if this has all been a dream or a nightmare. It seems so out of line with my life to be given this one small thing. My mind is trying its best to quickly burn the fire out in my heart; it’s actually thinking this through, dragging me back down into this reality.

The odds are I will never have the opportunity to speak with him again as long as we’re both here. So many different moments of chance had to line up to bring him to this camp, for us to recognize each other, for him to step in, for the power to go out—my hands shake with how frantic I feel at the thought. I didn’t appreciate it enough while he was here. If I could go back and live those few minutes again, I’d have paid closer attention to his smell, the details of the scars on the right side of his chin, the way the warmth of his voice shrank and broadened depending on what he was talking about.