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  “I’m, um … I’m here to join the troop. I want to be a New Order soldier someday,” I gush. “I was hoping to … destroy freedom and imagination …?” Other kids gasp and turn around at my mention of the forbidden words. Perfect.

  A boy with jet-black hair snaps the strap of my dress. “Oh really?” he sneers. “You’re not exactly up to protocol with this little ‘outfit.’ ”

  An older teenage girl yanks on my newly disguised dirty-blond hair. Her own hair is so tight it pulls back her whole face. “And didn’t anybody tell you? All the spots for uglies are full.”

  I shrink inside even though I know the truth: I’m the only one in the world with enough power to rival The One’s. But a well-aimed insult can still sack me with a boatload of self-doubt.

  “It’s my dream to honor the N.O.,” I press on, careful to keep any hint of irony from creeping into my voice. “Truly.”

  Chapter 40

  Wisty

  “TRUE NEW ORDER Youth material joined at the beginning of the ascendancy,” the girl says as an older boy wrenches my arms behind my back.

  “They saw the light of The One Who Is The One. They followed the path of true justice,” another boy says with robotic detachment while the first clamps handcuffs around my wrists.

  “All others are fakers. Wannabes,” a stern little girl with braids chimes in as they march me to the front of the line with the other prisoners. “They are At Risk. They support the unholy cause of the Resistance. They must be stopped!” her shrill voice screeches.

  The black-haired boy cuts in, whispering in my ear, “That’s where we come in. On the direct orders of His Greatness, it’s our job to make such heathens” — he snaps his fingers, grinning wickedly —“disappear.”

  I draw a sharp intake of breath. A Y.E.S. — Youth Extermination Squad! I’d thought they were just a sick rumor.

  The boy shoves me into the center of the two lines, and I huddle against a couple of the smallest prisoners, a girl and a boy no older than five, with rivers of tears running down their grubby cheeks.

  I hear Mrs. Highsmith’s voice in my head. Confident. Powerful.

  “There’s nothing to be afraid of,” I whisper to the shivering kids.

  Other than torture and death, or maybe just being turned into a mindless drone for the remainder of your days, that is.

  “Take me to your leader,” I say to the leering New Order Youth sarcastically.

  “Oh, come on, Red,” a voice says from the front, a voice that knows how much I hate that nickname. “For a girl who so desperately wants to join the N.O., you could put a little more feeling into it.” I know that nasally accent, that whine.

  The boy with the whistle turns around, his eyes scanning my face as if he doesn’t recognize me, as if he hadn’t been trying to win my heart for ages, as if I hadn’t once turned him into a weasel because he was such a freaking traitor. As if we’d never met.

  He grabs my arm roughly and marches me along. “Your wish is my command. To the leader we go. Nice dress, by the way.”

  The whistle-blowing head of the Y.E.S. is none other than Byron Swain!

  Chapter 41

  Whit

  I’M IN CHAINS, but I can still speak. And as long as I’m alive I won’t stop trying to get answers.

  “I’m looking for Benjamin and Eliza Allgood. Is there a girl around here named Celia? If you tell me where the river is — the place where people, um … cross over — I can help you get out of here, too. I swear I’ll help you!” There’s real desperation in my voice, but the Lost Ones are too busy right now to answer my questions.

  They’re busy doing the same thing they’ve been doing for hours since we arrived at their camp, or hideout, or whatever this eerie, foul-smelling place happens to be: they’re busy eating forest animals.

  Live.

  I feel bile rising in my throat. I may never eat meat again.

  I turn from the grisly scene, but the metallic smell of blood nags at my nostrils. The word abattoir pops into my head, dark and foreboding. I can’t remember what it means, but it conjures up images of hacksaws and horror shows. Of muscle pulled from bone and the frenzied desperation of animals awaiting slaughter.

  The feeling of I’m next.

  The fog isn’t as thick here, and I can make out surrounding forests. I’m trying not to look over there, though, either. The trees are not made of wood and leaves but bone. The clouds above are red, menacing, and our shadows seem to have a life of their own; they slither along the ground like snakes, mime acts of violence, dance up your back. I’d run, but there’s nowhere to go. Everywhere outside this valley is thick, opaque fog.

  We’re way deeper into the Shadowland than I’ve ever been before; I had no idea any of this existed, but maybe it means I’m finally getting somewhere. Where there are forests and clouds, there’s got to be a river, right? Mrs. Highsmith said something about following the animals. Could she have meant these sad, torn-to-shreds creatures?

  I strain to see through the fog, squint for some hint of water in the distance. No luck, but I do see more Lost Ones. The zombielike creatures shuffle toward the camp, their stench preceding them. They’ve got something with them being pulled on ropes. Looks like …

  Kids?

  More kids could mean more chances to dupe these ghouls and escape. I scan the crowd, not recognizing anyone at first — they’re still far away. There are several older kids, including a bigger guy around my age; a kid with a bandanna tied around his head; and a couple of small boys. There’s an animal with them, too — a big, loping dog that looks an awful lot like Feffer, the Curve dog who once tried to eat Wisty and me before we tamed her.

  Wait, it totally is Feffer!

  That means these kids are Resistance!

  I feel a surge of elation, my pulse quickening.

  I want to shout to my allies, but I don’t want to set off a frenzy among the Lost Ones. I sit tight, watching the kids file in, impatience making me fidgety. And my eyes fall on a cute girl around sixteen near the end of the line, with wild, curly hair and combat boots.

  I know that determined, no-nonsense walk anywhere —

  Janine!

  Chapter 42

  Whit

  “WHIT!” JANINE NEARLY plows me over with a fierce hug that takes my breath away. She’s tied up, and the other kids grumble as their hands are pulled on the rope, too.

  My heart seems to get caught up in my throat. I bury my face in her dark hair and squeeze her with all of my strength. It’s a little awkward with the others around watching, but I don’t care about anything but this right now. Thank God she’s alive! Somehow — even in this awful place, captured by soulless creatures — I’m elated.

  And surprised to find that the only thing I really want to do … is kiss her.

  Janine’s never been one for a poker face, and she looks at me with fierce emotion, like she’s offering up the whole of herself. “I thought I’d never see you again, Whit! I thought —” She clutches my arms, and my heart beats faster.

  “I thought you were dead, too,” I admit breathlessly, stroking her cheek.

  I still love Celia, and I don’t know exactly what I feel for Janine, but I do know that I’ve missed her more than I thought was physically possible, and I didn’t understand that until this minute. Her serious, intelligent face, free of makeup but prettier than any movie star’s. Her smart ideas. Her strength. I don’t want to ever let her go again.

  “Jamilla said … I thought …,” I whisper, still overwhelmed. “How did you end up here?”

  “The Resistance tried to escape in the Shadowland,” she answers. “Whit, we looked for you. We waited and we searched. I didn’t want to leave you behind, but the N.O. was everywhere in the Overworld, and you and Wisty were on all the posters, so we thought you’d gone into hiding and —”

  “Shh … it’s okay. We didn’t know how to find you guys either. Everything just got so turned around. … Are Emmet and Sasha here, too?” I ask, look
ing around for their familiar faces. “Did they make it out?”

  Her eyes fill with tears, and she brushes them away angrily. “I don’t know. We were split up. I had everything mapped out! We had a plan to get all the kids through to another portal, and Emmet went ahead to scout the path …”

  More tears escape, and her cheeks flush in frustration as she continues. “But we got turned around in the fog and just couldn’t get away from them.” She nods at the Lost Ones. “I’ve been racking my brains to figure out what their plans are for us. But it’s as if they’re hungry dogs following a familiar scent home. They’ve just been hauling us around on these ropes for days, and I think —” Janine flinches uncharacteristically, her eyes widening. “I think they’re going to feast on us.”

  I glance over at the ghouls, still ravaging the bodies of the small animals, and shudder.

  “No.” I shake my head. “That’s not … that can’t happen, Janine. I won’t let —”

  Janine shakes her head sadly. “We’re too far in. There’s no way out.” Her sage-green eyes, once so sharp and full of life, seem resigned. “Look, I’m tired of fighting. Can you just … hold me right now, Whit?”

  I nod and wrap my arms around her, my chin resting on her cheek, her warm body against mine.

  We may not have much time left, but for now we’ve got this.

  Chapter 43

  Wisty

  MY HAIR IS being yanked, the rope’s been tied too tight, and someone keeps kicking me in the heels. As a result of said kicking, I’ve fallen twice, leaving my left knee bloody and my temper fuming.

  Kids trained in torture. I hate the New Order.

  The Youth Troop, minus Byron Swain — who has disappeared, leaving me absolutely freaking out, once again, about whether he’s actually working for them or us — drags me across the busy courtyard with soldiers practicing endless drills, through three heavily bolted metal doors (reminiscent of my prison days), and finally into the leader’s office inside the New Order compound.

  “Found this one prowling the streets, General,” the snotty girl with the tight ponytail reports, standing at attention. “She wants to join the Youth Troop.” She’s unable to keep the venom out of her voice. “We thought you could … take care of her.”

  “Thank you, Genevieve.” The general sighs from his chair facing the window, clearly annoyed with the disturbance. He’s a large man, with black hair slicked back over his receding hairline. “That will be all.”

  Genevieve looks disappointed at not being recognized for her achievement, but she nods and follows the others out the door.

  The lock clicks into place, and we sit in silence for a few moments, the general still facing the window. I take in the office, every object in it tidy and obsessively arranged. Grubby teddy bears and dolls line the bookshelves like trophies in a taxidermy, and I imagine the small hands those dolls must have been ripped from.

  Then, abruptly, the leader spins around and fixes me with a long stare, one of his eyes made of glass and motionless. It’s extremely unnerving.

  He looks at my mussed-up hair and my bloody knee, and an expression of blatant revulsion distorts his face. “I suppose you have something to say for yourself?”

  “I —” I swallow. What do you say to a powerful fascist murderer?

  “No matter,” he says, striding to the window and thrusting it open. “We don’t need to talk. I’m happy to just sit back and take in the sweet sounds of Orderly conduct. Leaps and bounds better than all of that horribly distracting music we used to have around, don’t you agree?”

  His office window overlooks both the exercise yard, where we can hear the New Order Youth practicing drills, and the detainment area, from which pitiful shrieks and sobs erupt to punctuate the grimness of it all.

  I am terrified of this man and his complete lack of empathy. I am terrified of his capacity for torture and his enjoyment of suffering. I am terrified of anyone unperturbed at the prospect of genocide.

  But right now I have to be the model of New Order Youth, eager to usher in an age of death and destruction. High on horror.

  “Sir, there’s been a terrible mistake,” I say to his back, my voice animated and full of conviction. “All I want — all I’ve ever wanted — is to serve the New Order with honor. I approached the Youth Troop because I was stirred by their conviction, but they mistook me for one of those despicable Resistance fighters.”

  He turns around again and fixes me with his fake eye, twisting the ends of his mustache.

  “I’ll do anything to join the N.O., sir. I particularly excel at torture and obeying authority.”

  The general perches on the edge of his desk and methodically works the tip of a pencil through the eye of a teddy bear. “Save your lies for someone who’s interested,” he says. “I know exactly who you are, Wisteria Allgood, and you’re about to have a very interesting last few hours of your life.”

  I swallow hard, imagining the gruesome acts that can be achieved with a sick mind and a few sharp instruments, but a nagging part of me is wondering how he knew.

  Did Byron give me up — again?

  Chapter 44

  Wisty

  “IF YOU KNOW who I am” — I try to keep my voice strong, try not to plead —“you know how valuable I am to The One Who Is The One. He’s your boss, right? As in, you answer to him?” I hate myself for using a man I loathe as a shield, but I feel trapped.

  The general doesn’t say anything but takes out a slip of blue paper and calmly starts writing.

  “If you harm even one hair on my head,” I press, “it will dilute my Gift. Maybe even ruin it. You can’t hurt me.”

  “Level-five prisoner,” he reads, his pen poised above the paper. “Traitor to the people. Scheduled for confession of her crimes against the New Order.” He looks up at me, and his glass eye stares, unwavering. I feel a tight knot of panic in my chest. “Confession to be obtained by any means necessary.”

  He knows who I am, and he’s not afraid. This man enjoys the screams of small children. Just what exactly might he have planned for me?

  “You c-c-can’t do this,” I stammer. “You’ll pay for it! When The One finds out what you’ve done to my Gift, he’ll —”

  The general’s face is a mask, his good eye seeming bored. “And where, pray tell, is this Gift of yours now, Ms. Allgood?”

  I start to sweat, and my throat goes dry. He’s right. Where’s the fireball? Why aren’t I flaming out?

  Why does my magic keep short-circuiting when I need it most?

  I think about what Mrs. Highsmith said about my potential to control electrical impulses in the brain. I don’t quite believe it’s possible, but The One sure does. And if I ever get out of this office, I’m going to have to take him on. Maybe it’s worth finding out if I even possess this Gift that he so desperately covets.

  I look at the general, his head bent over his desk, and imagine the evil thoughts flitting through that warped brain of his, imagine the unspeakable deeds he has in mind. I imagine those thoughts dissipating … evolving …

  I concentrate every ounce of power I can muster into the effort, like a laser beam zeroing in on the head of a pin. Then I feel white-hot electrical energy sparking through my body, and just as I think my brain might explode, the general suddenly looks up from his writing.

  “You know, Wisteria,” he says seriously, his face as empty and innocent as a newborn babe’s, “I think you’d actually be a terrific addition to our Youth Troop.”

  “Really?” I gawk at him, shocked, even though I imagined him saying those very words.

  He touches my shoulder, and I flinch. I’m still not convinced this sick man isn’t playing a trick on me. “I urge you to consider it. Come, look at them.” He waves his hand across the window, and I can see the kids below. They’re viciously beating a dummy with sticks, and stuffing erupts from its torso. I shudder. “Can’t you see yourself among them?” He grins eerily. “Guiding them?”

  “Well, I do
n’t know, sir,” I say, having a little fun. “I’m not convinced the Youth Troop is the best place for my specific talents.”

  “Please!” His bark makes me jump. The general is grasping frantically at my arms, shaking me, his voice verging on madness. And then he’s shaking so hard I feel like my head might snap.

  Refocus, Wisty! I remind myself. I suddenly realize that I might accidentally take this newfound power to places I hardly understand or can control.

  “You need only name your price. I’ll … I’ll arrange for extra chocolate rations!” he yells, his eyes crazed with desperation.

  I immediately start to salivate, remembering that divine, otherworldly chocolate from our days at the Brave New World Center, but then catch myself when I remember how freaking addicting the stuff was and how the N.O. used it for brain control. To extract all energy and euphoria from young minds.

  It almost took me to the dark side.

  “That won’t be necessary, General. But I suppose I’ll join anyway,” I concede, wrenching myself from his grip as he nods, his mustache bobbing. “But only because you said please.”

  Chapter 45

  Wisty

  IF THERE’S ONE thing Youth Troops love, it’s marching.

  With my crisp white-and-red New Order uniform and my hair in two tight braids, I practice legs up, arms stiff, eyes dead, drill after drill after drill.

  “Now,” a horse-faced older boy barks after we’ve been at it for three hours, “we will review maneuvers to capture young Resisters.” He goes down the line with a box, passing out equipment, but I can’t make out what it is yet.

  “Remember,” he says, “the enemy will swerve, dodge, even beg. To eliminate this threat, place the wire against the neck and press the button.”