Lauren Oliver - Delirium (22 page)

The strange thing is that for a minute in the middle of all that noise and confusion, I see things super clearly, in slow motion, like I'm watching a film from a distance: I see a guard dog make a leap for a guy to my left; I see his knees buckle as he topples forward with the barest, tiniest noise, like a breath or a sigh, a crescent of blood spattering up from his neck, where the dog's teeth tear into him. A girl with flashing blond hair goes down under the raiders' clubs, and as I see the arc of her hair, for a second my heart goes totally still and I think I've died; I think it's all over. Then she twists her head my way, shouting, as the regulators get her with pepper spray, and I see that she isn't Hana, and relief rushes through me, a wave.

More snapshots. A movie--only a movie. Not happening, could never really happen. A boy and a girl, fighting to make it into one of the side rooms, maybe thinking there's an exit that way. The door is too small for both of them to enter at once. He is wearing a blue shirt that reads PORTLAND NAVAL CONSERVATORY, and she has long red hair, bright as a flame. Only five minutes ago they were talking and laughing together, standing so close that if one of them had even tipped forward accidentally they might have kissed. Now they wrestle, but she is too small. She locks her teeth on his arm like a dog, like a wild thing; he roars, rages, grabs her by the shoulders, and slams her back against the wall, out of the way. She stumbles, falls, slipping, trying to stand up; one of the raiders, an enormous man with the reddest face I've ever seen, reaches down, knots his fingers around her ponytail, and hauls her to her feet. Naval Conservatory doesn't get away either. Two raiders follow him, and as I run by I hear the thud of their clubs, the mangled sound of screaming.

Animals, I think. We're animals.

People are shoving, pulling, using one another as shields as the raiders keep gaining, surging forward, swinging at us, dogs at our heels, batons whirling so close to my head I can feel the air whooshing on my neck as the wood twirls, twirls near the back of my skull. I think of searing pain, I think of red. The crowd is thinning around me as the raiders advance. One by one people are screaming next to me --crack!--and dropping, getting wrestled to the ground by three, four, five dogs. Screaming, screaming. Everyone screaming.

Somehow I've managed to avoid being caught, and I'm still rocketing through the narrow, creaking hallways, passing a blur of rooms, a blur of people and raiders, more lights, more shattered windows, the sound of engines. They've got the place surrounded. And then the open back door rises up in front of me--and beyond it dark trees, the cool and whispering woods behind the house. If I can make it outside . . . if I can hide from the lights for long enough . . .

I hear a dog barking behind me, and behind that, a raider's pounding footsteps, gaining, gaining, a sharp voice yelling, "Stop!" and I suddenly realize I'm alone in the hallway. Fifteen more steps . . . then ten. If I can make it into the darkness . . .

Five feet from the door and sudden, shooting pain rips through my leg. The dog has got its jaws around my calf, and I turn and that's when I see him, the regulator with the massive red face, eyes glittering, smiling--oh, God, he's smiling, he actually enjoys this--club raised, ready to swing. I close my eyes, think of pain as big as the ocean, think of a blood-red sea. Think of my mother.

Then I'm being jerked to the side, and I hear a crack and a yelp, the regulator saying, "Shit." The fire in my leg stops and the weight of the dog falls off, and there's an arm around my waist and a voice in my ear--a voice so familiar in that moment it's like I've been waiting for it all along, like I've been hearing it forever in my dreams--breathing out: "This way."

Alex keeps one arm around my waist, half carrying me. We're in a different hallway now, this one smaller and totally empty. Every time I put weight on my right leg the pain flares up again, searing all the way into my head. The raider is still behind us and pissed--Alex must have pulled me to safety at just the right second, so the raider cracked down on his dog instead of my skull--and I know I must be slowing Alex down, but he doesn't let me go, not for a second.

"In here," he says, and then we're ducking into another room. We must be in a part of the house that wasn't being used for the party. This room is pitch-black, although Alex doesn't slow down at all, just keeps going through the dark. I let the pressure of his fingertips guide me--left, right, left, right. It smells like mold in here, and something else--fresh paint, almost, and something smoky, like someone's been cooking here. But that's impossible. These houses have been empty for years.

Behind us the raider is struggling in the dark. He bumps up against something and curses. A second later something crashes to the ground; glass shatters; more cursing. From the sound of his voice I can tell that he's falling behind.

"Up," Alex whispers, so quiet and so close it's like I've only imagined it, and just like that he is lifting me and I realize I'm going out a window, feel the rough wood of the windowsill grate against my back, land on my good foot on the soft, damp grass outside.

A second later Alex follows soundlessly, materializing beside me in the dark. Though the air is hot, a breeze has picked up, and as it sweeps across my skin I could cry from gratitude and relief.

But we're not safe yet--far from it. The darkness is mobile, twisting, alive with paths of light: Flashlights cut through the woods to our right and left, and in their glare I see fleeing figures, lit up like ghosts, frozen for a moment in the beams. The screams continue, some only a few feet away, some so distant and forlorn you could mistake them for something else--for owls, maybe, hooting peacefully in their trees. Then Alex has taken my hand and we're running again. Every step on my right foot is a fire, a blade. I bite the inside of my cheeks to keep from crying out, and taste blood.

Chaos. Scenes from hell: floodlights from the road, shadows falling, bone cracking, voices shattering apart, dissolving into silence.

"In here."

I do what he says without hesitating. A tiny wooden shed has appeared miraculously in the dark. It's falling apart, and so overgrown with moss and climbing vines that even from a distance of only a few feet it appeared to be a tangle of bushes and trees. I have to stoop to get inside, and when I do the smell of animal urine and wet dog is so strong I almost gag. Alex comes in behind me and shuts the door. I hear a rustling and see him kneeling, stuffing a blanket in the gap between the door and the ground. The blanket must be the source of the smell. It absolutely reeks.

"God," I whisper, the first thing I've said to him, cupping my hand over my mouth and nose.

"This way the dogs won't pick up our scent," he whispers back matter-of-factly.

I've never met someone so calm in my life. I think fleetingly that maybe the stories I heard when I was little were true--maybe Invalids really are monsters, freaks.

Then I feel ashamed. He just saved my life.

He saved my life--from the raiders. From the people who are supposed to protect us and keep us safe. From the people who are supposed to keep us safe from the people like Alex.

Nothing makes sense anymore. My head is spinning, and I feel dizzy. I stumble, bumping against the wall behind me, and Alex reaches up to steady me.

"Sit down," he says, in that same commanding voice he has been using all along. It's comforting to listen to his low, forceful directives, to let myself go. I lower myself to the ground. The floor is damp and rough underneath me. The moon must have broken through the clouds; gaps in the walls and roof let in little spots of silvery light. I can just make out some shelves beyond Alex's head, a set of cans--paint, maybe?--piled in one corner. Now that Alex and I are both sitting there's hardly any room left to maneuver--the whole structure is only a few feet wide.

"I'm going to take a look at your leg now, okay?" He's still whispering. I nod okay. Even when I'm sitting down, the dizziness doesn't subside.

He sits up on his knees and draws my leg into his lap. It's not until he begins rolling up my pant leg that I feel how wet the fabric is against my skin. I must be bleeding. I bite my lip and press my back up hard against the wall, expecting it to hurt, but the feeling of his hands against my skin--cool and strong-- somehow dampens everything, sliding across the pain like an eclipse blotting the moon dark.

Once he has my pants rolled up to the knee he tilts me gently, so he can see the back of my calf. I lean one elbow on the floor, feeling the room sway. I must be bleeding a lot.

He exhales sharply, a quick sound between his teeth.

"Is it bad?" I say, too afraid to look.

"Hold still," he says. And I know that it is bad, but he won't tell me so, and in that moment I'm so flooded with gratitude for him and hatred for the people outside--hunters, primitives, with their sharp teeth and heavy sticks--the air goes out of me and I have to struggle to breathe.

Alex reaches into a corner of the shed without removing my leg from his lap. He fiddles with a box of some kind and metal latches creak open. A second later he's hovering over my leg with a bottle.

"This is going to burn for a second," he says. Liquid splatters my skin, and the astringent smell of alcohol makes my nostrils flare. Flames lick up my leg and I nearly scream. Alex reaches out a hand, and without thinking I take it and squeeze.

"What is that?" I force out through gritted teeth.

"Rubbing alcohol," he says. "Prevents infection."

"How did you know it was here?" I ask, but he doesn't answer.

He draws his hand away from mine and I realize I've been grabbing on to him, hard. But I don't have the energy to be embarrassed or afraid: The room seems to be pulsing, the half darkness growing fuzzier.

"Shit," Alex mutters. "You're really bleeding."

"It doesn't hurt that much," I whisper, which is a lie. But he's so calm, so together, it makes me want to act brave too.

Everything has taken on a strange, distant quality--the sounds of running and shouting outside get warped and weird like they're being filtered through water, and Alex looks miles away. I start to think I might be dreaming, or about to pass out.

And then I decide I'm definitely dreaming, because as I'm watching, Alex starts peeling his shirt off over his head.

What are you doing? I almost scream. Alex finishes shaking loose the shirt and begins tearing the fabric into long strips, shooting a nervous glance at the door and pausing to listen every time the cloth goes rippp.

I've never in my whole life seen a guy without a shirt on, except for really little kids or from a distance on the beach, when I've been too afraid to look for fear of getting in trouble.

Now I can't stop staring. The moonlight just touches his shoulder blades so they glow slightly, like wing tips, like pictures of angels I've seen in textbooks. He's thin but muscular, too: When he moves I can make out the lines of his arms and chest, so strangely, incredibly, beautifully different from a girl's, a body that makes me think of running and being outside, of warmth and sweating. Heat starts beating through me, a thrumming feeling like a thousand tiny birds have been released in my chest. I'm not sure if it's from the bleeding, but the room feels like it's spinning so fast we're in danger of flying out of it, both of us, getting thrown out into the night. Before, Alex seemed far away. Now the room is full of him: He is so close I can't breathe, can't move or speak or think. Every time he brushes me with his fingers, time seems to teeter for a second, like it is in danger of dissolving. The whole world is dissolving, I decide, except for us. Us.

"Hey." He reaches out and touches my shoulder, just for a second, but in that second my body shrinks down to that single point of pressure under his hand, and glows with warmth. I've never felt like this, so calm and peaceful. Maybe I'm dying. The idea doesn't really upset me, for some reason. In fact, it seems kind of funny. "You okay?"

"Fine." I start to giggle softly. "You're naked." "What?" Even in the dark I can tell he's squinting at me.

"I've never seen a boy like--like that. With no shirt on. Not up close."

He begins wrapping the shredded T-shirt around my leg carefully, tying it tight. "The dog got you good," he says. "But this should stop the bleeding."

The phrase stop the bleeding sounds so clinical and scary it snaps me awake and helps me to focus. Alex finishes tying off the makeshift bandage. Now the searing pain in my leg has been replaced by a dull, throbbing pressure.

Alex lifts my leg carefully out of his lap and rests it on the ground. "Okay?" he says, and I nod. Then he scoots around next to me, leaning back against the wall like I am so we're sitting side by side, arms just touching at the elbows. I can feel the heat coming off his bare skin, and it makes me feel hot. I close my eyes and try not to think about how close we are, or what it would feel like to run my hands over his shoulders and chest.

Outside, the sounds of the raid grow more and more distant, the screams fewer, the voices fainter. The raiders must be passing on. I say a silent prayer that Hana managed to escape; the possibility that she didn't is too terrible to contemplate.

Still, Alex and I don't move. I'm so tired I feel like I could sleep forever. Home seems impossibly, incomprehensibly far away, and I don't see how I'll ever make it back.

Alex starts speaking all at once, his voice a low, urgent rush: "Listen, Lena. What happened at the beach--I'm really sorry. I should have told you sooner, but I didn't want to frighten you away."

"You don't have to explain," I say.

"But I want to explain. I want you to know that I didn't mean to--"

"Listen," I cut him off. "I'm not going to tell anyone, okay? I'm not going to get you in trouble or anything."

He pauses. I feel him turn to look at me, but I keep my eyes fixed on the darkness in front of us.

"I don't care about that," he says, lower. Another pause, and then: "I just don't want you to hate me."

Again the room seems to be shrinking, closing in around us. I can feel his eyes on me like the hot pressure of touch, but I'm too afraid to look at him. I'm afraid that if I do I'll lose myself in his eyes, forget all the things I'm supposed to say. Outside, the woods have fallen silent. The raiders must have left. After a second the crickets begin singing all at once, warbling throatily, a great swelling of sound.