An odd moment of complete silence hung over the Dome.
It was as if a supernatural wind had swept through the place and sucked out all sound.
Raiden had read the message aloud for those who couldn't see the paper, but instead of erupting in confusion, they all stood dumbfounded.
Harlow would've expected shouts and questions, arguments. But no one said a word; all eyes were glued to the girl, now lying there as if asleep, her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. Contrary to their original conclusion, she was very much alive.
Raiden stood, and Harlow hoped for an explanation, a voice of reason, a calming presence. But all he did was crumple the note in his fist, veins popping from hisskin as he squeezed it, and Harlow's heart sank. She wasn't sure why, but the situation made hervery uneasy.
Wren cupped her hands around her mouth.
"Med-techs!"
Harlow wondered what that word meant—she knew she'd heard it before—but then she was abruptly knocked aside. Two people were pushing their way through the crowd—one was tall with a buzz cut, the other was short and had short brown hair trimmed into an angled bob.
Harlow could only hope they'd make some sense of everything.
"So what do we do with her?" the taller one asked, his voice much higher pitched than Harlow expected.
"How should I know?" Wren said. "You two are the Med-techs—figure it out."
Med-techs, Harlow repeated in her head, a light going off. They must be the closest thing they have to doctors. The short girl was already on the ground, kneeling beside the girl, feeling for her pulse and leaning over to listen to her heartbeat.
"Who said Raiden has first shot at her?" someone yelled from the crowd. There were several barks of laughter. "I'm next!"
How can they joke around? Harlow thought. The girl's half dead. She felt sick inside, but also felt a pang of jealousy at the thought of Raiden being with the girl. She pushed it aside feeling silly. She hardly knew the girl, Hell she hardly knew herself.
Wren's eyes narrowed; her mouth pulled into a tight grin that didn't look like it had anything to do with humor.
"If anybody touches this girl," Wren said, "you're gonna spend the night sleepin' with the Zombic in the Forest of the dead, Banished, no questions."
She paused, turning in a slow circle as if she wanted every person to see her face. "Ain't nobody better touch her! Nobody!"
It was the first time Harlow had actually liked hearing something come out of Wren's mouth.
The short girl who'd been referred to as a Med-tech Sally by one of the others, if the spectator had been correct— stood up from her examination.
"She seems fine. Breathing okay, normal heartbeat. Though it's a bit slow. Your guess is as good as mine, but I'd say she's in a coma. Jeff, let's take her to the Homestead."
Her partner, Jeff, stepped over to grab her by the arms while Sally took hold of her feet. Harlow wished she could do more than watch—with every passing second, she doubted more and more that what she'd said earlier was true. She did seem familiar; she felt a connection to her, though it was impossible to grasp in her mind. The idea made her nervous, and she looked around, as if someone might've heard her thoughts.
"On the count of three," Jeff, the taller Med-tech, was saying, his tall frame looking ridiculous bent in half, like a praying mantis. "One … two … three!"
They lifted her with a quick jerk, almost throwing her up in the air—she was obviously a lot lighter than they'd thought—and Harlow almost shouted at them to be more careful.
"Guess we'll have to see what she does," Jeff said to no one in particular. "We can feed her soupy stuff if she doesn't wake up soon."
"Just watch her closely," Raiden said. "Must be something special about her or they wouldn't have sent her here."
Harlow's gut clenched. She knew that she and the girl were connected somehow. They'd come a day apart, she seemed familiar, she had a consuming urge to scout the outside despite learning so many terrible things…. What did it all mean?
Raiden leaned over to look in her face once more before they carried her off.
"Put her next to Brent's room, and keep a watch on her day and night. Nothin' better happen without me knowing about it. I don't care if she talks in her sleep or takes a shit, you come tell me."
"Yeah," Jeff muttered; then he and Sally shuffled off to the Homestead, the girl's body bouncing as they went, and the others finally started to talk about it, scattering as theories bubbled through the air.
Harlow watched all this in mute contemplation. This strange connectionhshe felt wasn't her alone. The not-so-veiled accusations thrown at him only a few minutes before proved that the others suspected something, too, but what? She was already completely confused—being blamed for things only made her feel worse. As if reading her thoughts, Raiden walked over and grabbed her by the shoulder.
"You haven't ever seen her before?" he asked.
Harlow hesitated before she answered.
"Not … no, not that I remember." She hoped her shaky voice didn't betray her doubts. What if she did know her somehow? What would that mean?
"You're sure?" Wren prodded, standing right behind Raiden.
"I … no, I don't think so. Why are you grilling me like this?"
All Harlow wanted right then was for night to fall, so she could be alone, go to sleep. Hopefully Raiden didn't come to bed until late tonight with the girl here and she could finally be by herself.
Raiden shook his head, then turned back to Wren, releasing his grip on Harlow's shoulder.
"Something's fucked. Call a Gathering."
He said it quietly enough that Harlow didn't think anyone else heard, but it sounded ominous. Then Wren and Raiden walked off, and Harlow was relieved to see Clint coming her way.
"Clint, what's a Gathering?"
He looked proud to know the answer.
"It's when the leaders meet—they only call one when something weird or terrible happens."
"Well, I guess today fits both of those categories pretty well."
Harlow's stomach rumbled, interrupting her thoughts.
"I didn't finish my breakfast—can we get something somewhere? I'm starving."
Clint looked up at her, his eyebrows raised.
"Seeing that chick wig out made you hungry? You must be more psycho than I thought."
Harlow sighed. "Just get me some food."
The kitchen was small but had everything one needed to make a hearty meal. A big oven, a microwave, a dishwasher, a couple of tables. It seemed old and run-down but clean. Seeing the appliances and the familiar layout made Harlow feel as if memories—real, solid memories—were right on the edge of his mind. But again, the essential parts were missing—names, faces, places, events. It was maddening.
"Take a seat," Clint said. "I'll get you something—but I swear this is the last time. Just be glad
Cook isn't around—he hates it when we raid his fridge."
Harlow was relieved they were alone. As Clint fumbled about with dishes and things from the fridge, Harlow pulled out a wooden chair from a small plastic table and sat down.
"This is crazy. How can this be for real? Somebody sent us here. Somebody evil."
Clint paused. "Quit complaining. Just accept it and don't think about it."
"Yeah, right." Harlow looked out a window. This seemed a good time to bring up one of the million questions bouncing through her brain.
"So where does the electricity come from?"
"Who cares? I'll take it."
What a surprise, Harlow thought. No answer.
Clint brought two plates with sandwiches and carrots over to the table. The bread was thick and white, the carrots a sparkling, bright orange. Harlow's stomach begged her to hurry; she picked up her sandwich and started devouring it.
"Oh, man," she mumbled with a full mouth. "At least the food is good."
Harlow was able to eat the rest of her meal without another word from Clint. And she was lucky that the kid didn't feel like talking, because despite the complete weirdness of everything that had happened within Harlow's known reach of memory, she felt calm again. Her stomach full, her energy replenished, her mind thankful for a few moments of silence, sbe decided that from then on she'd quit whining and deal with things.
After her last bite, Harlow sat back in her chair.
"So, Clint," she said as she wiped her mouth with a napkin. "What do I have to do to become a Runner?"
"Not that again." Clint looked up from his plate, where he'd been picking at the crumbs. He let out a low, gurgly burp that made Harlow cringe.
"Raiden said I'd start my trials soon with the different leaders. So, when do I get a shot with the Runners?"
Harlow waited patiently to get some sort of actual information from Clint. Clint rolled his eyes dramatically, leaving no doubt as to how stupid an idea he thought that would be.
"They should be back in a few hours. Why don't you ask them?"
Harlow ignored the sarcasm, digging deeper.
"What do they do when they get back every night? What's up with the concrete building?"
"Maps. They meet right when they get back, before they forget anything."
Maps? Harlow was confused.
"But if they're trying to make a map, don't they have paper to write on while they're out there?"
Maps.
This intrigued her more than anything else she'd heard in a while. It was the first thing suggesting a potential solution to their predicament.
"Of course they do, but there's still stuff they need to talk about and discuss and analyze and all that. Plus"—the boy rolled his eyes—"they spend most of their time running, not writing.
That's why they're called Runners."
Harlow thought about the Runners and the maps. Could the Maze really be so massively huge that even after two years they still hadn't found a way out? It seemed impossible. But then, she remembered what Wren said about the moving walls. What if all of them were sentenced to live here until they died?
Sentenced.
The word made her feel a rush of panic, and the spark of hope the meal had brought her fizzled with a silent hiss.
"Clint, what if we're all criminals? I mean—what if we're murderers or something?"
"Huh?" Clint looked up at him as if he were a crazy person. "Where did that happy thought come from?"
"Think about it. Our memories are wiped. We live inside a place that seems to have no way out, surrounded by bloodthirsty monster-guards. Doesn't that sound like a prison to you?" As she said it out loud, it sounded more and more possible. Nausea trickled into her chest.
"I'm probably twelve years old, dude." Clint pointed to his chest. "At the most, thirteen. You really think I did something that would send me to prison for the rest of my life?"
"I don't care you've been sent to a prison. Does this seem like a vacation to you?"
Oh, man, Harlow thought. Please let me be wrong.
Clint thought for a moment. "I don't know. It's better than—"
"Yeah, I know, living in pile of shit."
Harlow stood up and pushed her chair back under the table. She liked Clint, but trying to have an intelligent conversation with him was impossible. Not to mention frustrating and irritating.
"Go make yourself another sandwich—I'm going exploring. See ya later."
She stepped out of the kitchen and into the courtyard before Clint could offer to join her. The Dome had gone back to business as usual—people working the jobs, the doors of the Box closed, sun shining down. Any signs of a crazed girl bearing notes of doom had disappeared.
Having had her tour cut short, she decided to take a walk around the Dome on her own and get a better look and feel for the place.
She headed out for the northeast corner, toward the big rows of tall green cornstalks that looked ready to harvest. There was other stuff, too: tomatoes, lettuce, peas, a lot more that Harlow didn't recognize.
She took a deep breath, loving the fresh whiff of dirt and growing plants. She was almost positive the smell would bring back some sort of pleasant memory, but nothing came.
As she got closer, she saw that several people were weeding and picking in the small fields. One waved at her with a smile. An actual smile.
Maybe this place won't be so bad after all, Harlow thought. Not everyone here could be a jerk.
She took another deep breath of the pleasant air and pulled herself out of her thoughts—there was a lot more sge wanted to see.
Next was the southeast corner, where shabbily built wooden fences held in several cows, goats, sheep, and pigs. No horses, though. That sucks, Harlow thought. Riders would definitely be faster than Runners.
As she approached, she figured she must've dealt with animals in her life before the Dome. Their smell, their sound—they seemed very familiar to her.
The smell wasn't quite as nice as the crops, but still, she imagined it could've been a lot worse. As she explored the area, she realized more and more how well they kept up the place, how clean it was. She was impressed by how organized they must be, how hard they all must work. She could only imagine how truly horrific a place like this could be if everyone went lazy and stupid.
Finally, she made it to the southwest quarter, near the forest.
She was approaching the sparse, skeletal trees in front of the denser woods when she was startled by a blur of movement at her feet, followed by a hurried set of clacking sounds.
She looked down just in time to see the sun flash off something metallic—a toy rat—scurrying past her and toward the small forest. The thing was already ten feet away by the time she realized it wasn't a rat at all—it was more like a lizard, with at least six legs scuttling the long silver torso along.
A Roamer. It's how they watch us, Raiden had said.
She caught a gleam of red light sweeping the ground in front of the creature as if it came from its eyes. Logic told her it had to be her mind playing tricks on her, but she swore she saw the word DERANGED scrawled down its rounded back in large green letters. Something so strange had to be investigated.
Harlow sprinted after the scurrying spy, and in a matter of seconds she entered the thick corpse of trees and the world became dark.