Read Online The Haven: A Novel by Carol Lynch Williams - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Carol Lynch Williams
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so hot, I wondered if I could bear it. I flapped the front, letting cool air up against my skin.
If you go outside, you’ll be cold, I thought. If you sneak to the gazebo. Go to the wall. Peek over. The people with signs, eyes bloodred, flashed in my memory.
No, I wouldn’t sneak to the gazebo, wouldn’t climb the wall. I would follow the rules, except this once, and I would fix what was broken with Abigail and Gideon. I would convince them meetings like this were wrong. I would tell Abigail not to trust that Gideon could save any Terminal at all. Logic told me that was impossible. It should tell her the same thing.
He rounded the corner up ahead.
I ran after him. “Gideon,” I called. My voice echoed. Why was it so loud? “I want to talk to you.”
“Shhh,” he said. “Shhh, Shiloh. They’ll hear us.”
At last, I caught up with him. His back was to me. His hair looked green in the light of the EXIT sign. I grabbed his shoulder, pulled hard to turn him around, my stomach somersaulting. I would tell him how I felt about Abigail being with him at night. Before we got to her.
His whole arm and a chunk of his shoulder came off in my hand. Blood sprayed in the air, splashed on the floor. I felt it, warm, under my feet. Felt the blood run over my fingers, down my hand.
“Look what you did, Shiloh,” Gideon said. He shook his head at me, his eyes glowing. “How can I save the Terminals if I bleed out?”
His eyebrows disappeared. Then his mouth, nose, and eyes, and then his whole face was gone. There was nothing but a black hole where he had once been. His shoulder and arm were heavy in my hands. Warm. Wet. I dropped it to the floor. It hit the ground with a thunk.
“No.”
The fingers reached for my ankle, then clawed at the floor, trying to get to me, but I stepped back.
“No!”
My own voice woke me, my eyes flying open.
It was another dream. A crazy, crazy dream. I clutched at the covers. Swallowed again and again. I should have taken the Tonic.
It took some time to not think of that arm coming loose. The way it had torn. The weight of it. I shivered. I could still see the hand reaching for me. Could feel the warmth of the blood on my feet.
I needed to go. Get this whole thing over with though the dream felt like a warning or an omen.
My head and stomach felt just like that, topsy-turvy, upside-down. I steadied myself by touching the bed. Then in slow motion I went to the door, so I could see the time.
Had I overslept?
It was 12:25.
Time to go.
If I had the courage.
* * *
I was sent to Isolation the morning after Abigail and I snuck to the kitchen.
I’d written a note on the whiteboard there, a poem about wanting more food and finding everything locked away.
Terminals need nourishment past sup
Give us something because we’re up.
Abigail and I’d given each other the nod of approval, then headed out and done more exploring and, later, gone to bed.
The next day, when our teacher, Mrs. Galloway (who’s been here forever and works with ten-year-olds), asked who had graffitied the whiteboard outside the kitchen, I didn’t even hesitate. I confessed. I felt the urge to tell the truth and so I did. I spent twenty-four hours in Isolation, going out only for sips of water and to use the restroom.
I never told on myself again. Even when the urge to expose incidents turned fierce, I kept my mouth shut. If I had to bite confessions off, chew them up, and swallow them, I kept my bad behaviors to myself.
There was plenty to tell: nightmares, sneaking out, and now this running to meet a male.
I wouldn’t confess saving Abigail and Gideon, either. There was no reason to make it hard on anyone.
But if it was necessary, I might disclose information on Gideon to save him. To stop him from ending up like Romeo, dead from staying in Isolation and having no water. Ever. It happened. We read that in books.
Isolation was its own nightmare: no bed to sleep on, no pillow or comforter, not
If you go outside, you’ll be cold, I thought. If you sneak to the gazebo. Go to the wall. Peek over. The people with signs, eyes bloodred, flashed in my memory.
No, I wouldn’t sneak to the gazebo, wouldn’t climb the wall. I would follow the rules, except this once, and I would fix what was broken with Abigail and Gideon. I would convince them meetings like this were wrong. I would tell Abigail not to trust that Gideon could save any Terminal at all. Logic told me that was impossible. It should tell her the same thing.
He rounded the corner up ahead.
I ran after him. “Gideon,” I called. My voice echoed. Why was it so loud? “I want to talk to you.”
“Shhh,” he said. “Shhh, Shiloh. They’ll hear us.”
At last, I caught up with him. His back was to me. His hair looked green in the light of the EXIT sign. I grabbed his shoulder, pulled hard to turn him around, my stomach somersaulting. I would tell him how I felt about Abigail being with him at night. Before we got to her.
His whole arm and a chunk of his shoulder came off in my hand. Blood sprayed in the air, splashed on the floor. I felt it, warm, under my feet. Felt the blood run over my fingers, down my hand.
“Look what you did, Shiloh,” Gideon said. He shook his head at me, his eyes glowing. “How can I save the Terminals if I bleed out?”
His eyebrows disappeared. Then his mouth, nose, and eyes, and then his whole face was gone. There was nothing but a black hole where he had once been. His shoulder and arm were heavy in my hands. Warm. Wet. I dropped it to the floor. It hit the ground with a thunk.
“No.”
The fingers reached for my ankle, then clawed at the floor, trying to get to me, but I stepped back.
“No!”
My own voice woke me, my eyes flying open.
It was another dream. A crazy, crazy dream. I clutched at the covers. Swallowed again and again. I should have taken the Tonic.
It took some time to not think of that arm coming loose. The way it had torn. The weight of it. I shivered. I could still see the hand reaching for me. Could feel the warmth of the blood on my feet.
I needed to go. Get this whole thing over with though the dream felt like a warning or an omen.
My head and stomach felt just like that, topsy-turvy, upside-down. I steadied myself by touching the bed. Then in slow motion I went to the door, so I could see the time.
Had I overslept?
It was 12:25.
Time to go.
If I had the courage.
* * *
I was sent to Isolation the morning after Abigail and I snuck to the kitchen.
I’d written a note on the whiteboard there, a poem about wanting more food and finding everything locked away.
Terminals need nourishment past sup
Give us something because we’re up.
Abigail and I’d given each other the nod of approval, then headed out and done more exploring and, later, gone to bed.
The next day, when our teacher, Mrs. Galloway (who’s been here forever and works with ten-year-olds), asked who had graffitied the whiteboard outside the kitchen, I didn’t even hesitate. I confessed. I felt the urge to tell the truth and so I did. I spent twenty-four hours in Isolation, going out only for sips of water and to use the restroom.
I never told on myself again. Even when the urge to expose incidents turned fierce, I kept my mouth shut. If I had to bite confessions off, chew them up, and swallow them, I kept my bad behaviors to myself.
There was plenty to tell: nightmares, sneaking out, and now this running to meet a male.
I wouldn’t confess saving Abigail and Gideon, either. There was no reason to make it hard on anyone.
But if it was necessary, I might disclose information on Gideon to save him. To stop him from ending up like Romeo, dead from staying in Isolation and having no water. Ever. It happened. We read that in books.
Isolation was its own nightmare: no bed to sleep on, no pillow or comforter, not
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