“About what?” Aggressive Girl says, though her voice doesn’t sound quite so aggressive anymore. It sounds more … drained.
“You said something about Pharmies,” I say. “What is that?”
“Not what — who,” she answers, though I can hardly understand her. It sounds like she’s slurring her words.
I move to sit up, to drill her with questions since she seems to know what’s going on. But as soon as I do, the room spins. I drop back down onto the bed and glance over at Blue Eyes. She’s looking at me, her face a mask of fear.
“Who are the Pharmies?” I ask aloud. My voice sounds strange. I’m not sure if I’m talking strangely, or hearing differently.
The girl above me doesn’t respond, and slowly, I begin to sink. Blue Eyes and I hold each other’s gaze for several seconds, like if we can just keep eye contact, we’ll be okay. But then her lids flutter closed and open. Once. Twice. Her cheek presses deeper into the pillow. She doesn’t open her eyes again.
My own eyelids feel like they’re weighted. It’s just a sleeping pill, I assure myself. That’s all we took. Since I haven’t slept in I don’t know how long, I close my eyes for just a moment. I fully intend to reopen them, but once they’re closed, it feels so good.
“Can anyone hear me?” I ask, my eyes still shut. My voice sounds like it’s coming from the other side of a wall. Though my arms feel heavy, I manage to tug my backpack onto my chest. I wrap my arms around it, praying my egg is safe inside. When my feather falls over my neck — tickling my skin — it reminds me of my mother.
I pull her face into my mind, and I let go.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The first thing I become aware of is the sound. It’s a low rumbling and seems to be coming from beneath me.
I open my eyes and immediately close them again. Everything in my body screams for more sleep. I almost give in to the temptation but know I shouldn’t. There’s something I’m forgetting. I force my eyes back open and this time, I take in my surroundings. Or at least I try to take in my surroundings. There’s hardly any light to see, and a slow panic twists in my stomach.
Where am I?
Pushing myself up from the fetal position, I feel smooth wood beneath my hands. I throw my arms out and find four walls. They’re close, way too close. My throat tightens when I begin to understand.
I’m in a box.
I go from mild anxiety to full-fledged mania in a matter of seconds. Pounding my fists against the boards, I scream. I swallowed the pill. I’m in a box. How stupid could I have been? I left without telling my family where I was going, got on a train to a city that doesn’t exist, and swallowed a foreign object. Oh yeah, and I also picked up a rotting egg along the way.
My egg.
I feel along the bottom of the box and my fingers touch a corduroy bag that’s not my backpack. Stuffing my hand in, I sigh with relief when I find my smooth egg tucked safely inside. I pull the bag over my crossed legs and into my lap and wrap my arms around it.
“It’s okay. We’re okay,” I say. I’m not sure who I’m talking to, but I guess it’s my egg. I gently lift it out of the bag and lay it in my lap. “Everything’s going to be okay.” I stroke the outside of the shell and glance around. The rumbling sound outside is steady. It’d almost be soothing if I weren’t in a friggin’ box.
I consider screaming until someone lets me out, but I’m afraid I’ll lose my mind if I do. I’m also concerned with how long I’ve been in this thing and how much air is left. I don’t see any air holes, and I know screaming will cause me to use what little air there is quicker. Thanks, horror movies.
I try to steady my breathing and calm my thoughts. It’s not working. I rub my hands over my egg and think that this would be a really good time for this thing to hatch and help a sister out.
I lean over as best I can and whisper, “Please come out.”
Nothing happens.
Rubbing the fabric over my knees, I suddenly realize my jeans don’t feel right. I grab at my legs and stomach. These aren’t my clothes. Oh my God. Someone changed my clothes while I was asleep.
My first thought is: What creepazoid takes someone’s clothes off while they’re sleeping? The second is what undies I’m wearing — whether it’s an old skeezy pair or my good Victoria’s Secret stuff. I’m not proud of this last thought.
My box suddenly jerks and a loud hissing sound pierces the air. I’ve heard the sound somewhere; I just can’t quite place it. For several minutes, nothing happens. I continue stroking the egg, reassuring whatever’s inside that everything’s going to be okay. Even though I’m not at all sure it is.
When my box jerks again, I scream for the second time. My hands fly out and I push against the walls beside me. I close my eyes and breathe through my nose. Then the box, and me, and my egg start swinging. It’s not much, but the sensation is undeniable.
“It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay.” I repeat it like a mantra as the box continues to sway side to side.
The box jolts to a stop. I feel like something’s going to happen, so I tuck my egg back into the new bag. Then I look around, waiting. The front of my box slides open and light blinds me. I blink several times, my arms shading my face. When I lower them, I see dozens of people wearing what look like brown scrubs and tan boots, all standing in a forest-like area. Looking down, I realize I’m wearing the same thing. With the light, I’m able to look around the box. My backpack is gone. I figured it was, but now I know for sure. The food, the water, the cash … the photo of my family. Gone.
Afraid I’ll be stuck forever inside this box, I grab the corduroy bag and scramble outside. When I turn around, I gasp. Two enormous semitrucks are parked several yards away. A hundred or more boxes are stacked on the semis, and someone operating a crane is lifting each one off the bed and placing it on the ground. The semis’ and crane’s windows are tinted, so I can’t see who’s inside, but I do spot two men opening each box that the crane sets down. They’re wearing green, collared shirts and jeans, and they look like they could live in a suburb outside of Boston. One man is tall and lanky, with thinning hair and enormous ears. The other looks almost pregnant with his protruding belly and twiglike extremities.
I turn in a circle and watch as people of all ages, races, and genders crawl out of the boxes. There’s an older woman with short blond hair, who folds her arms across her chest and scowls, and a girl with a determined expression, who can’t be older than twelve. I spot a man who looks like he’s never seen the inside of a gym and young woman who could pass for a physical trainer. Everywhere I look, people. These are the Contenders — I realize. But they’re treating us like livestock.
“Crazy, huh?”
I spin around and see a man twice my age with dark skin and enormous eyebrows.
“What’s going on?” I ask him. I don’t wonder why he’s speaking to me; I just want my questions answered.
“You don’t know?” he asks.
“No. You do?”
He makes a face like he’s sympathetic. “I don’t blame your parents for trying to hide this. I would have done the same for mine.”
I’m guessing he means his own children, but all I can think about is what he’s implying. That my parents knew about this and didn’t tell me. I decide that’s impossible. They wouldn’t do that to me; they certainly wouldn’t do that to Cody. Maybe they knew something might happen. Why else would my dad try to burn the device? But they couldn’t have known … everything.