The Ark

The Ark

LAURA LIDDELL NOLEN

HarperVoyager an imprint of

HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpervoyagerbooks.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperVoyager 2015

Copyright © Laura Liddell Nolen 2015

Jacket layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2015

Cover images © Shutterstock.com

Laura Liddell Nolen asserts the moral right to

be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008113629

Ebook Edition © March 2015 ISBN: 9780008113629

Version: 2015-03-02

For Will

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

Acknowledgements

About the Author

About the Publisher

One

On the last day of Earth, I couldn’t find my hairbrush. That probably seems like a silly thing to worry about, what with the imminent destruction of, well, everything, but my mom was always after me about my usual ratty ponytail. Normally, I’d ignore her. Or, if I were having a really bad day, I’d tell her what she could do with her hairbrush. But like I said, it was the last day of Earth. And I figured, since it was the last time she’d ever see me, I wanted it to go smoothly. I wanted her to remember me, if not fondly, then at least without anger.

A girl can dream.

I slipped out of my cell as soon as the door swung open. I’d done the same every day for the past month, and my family had yet to show up. Their OPT—Off-Planet Transport—took off in eighteen hours, so they still had time. Barely. I couldn’t blame them if they didn’t come. It wasn’t hard to imagine that they’d rather escape to the stars without so much as a backward glance at me, their big disappointment. Even my father’s influence couldn’t persuade the government to give me a spot on an OPT.

Turns out, when humankind is deciding which of its children to save, the last place it looks is in prison.

But I was pretty sure they’d come. West had said as much in his last transmission. The thought of my younger brother actually halted me mid-step, like one of those punches in the gut where you can’t breathe for a few seconds.

“Looking for something?” The lazy drawl floated out of the nearest cell.

Against my better instincts, I turned to see Cassa lying on her bunk, her arm draped across Kip. My Kip. Or at least, my ex-Kip. Whatever. In twenty-two hours, I wouldn’t have to think about him anymore.

See? Silver lining. And they called me a perpetual pessimist at my last psych workup.

They barely fit next to each other on the flimsy mattress, but that wasn’t the weird part. The guys’ ward was separated by a substantial metal wall. We were kept apart during evening hours, for obvious reasons. Not that anyone cared anymore. The med staff had been the first to go, followed by the cleaning crew, followed by the kitchen crew. To show you where girls like me fell on the government’s list of priorities, there was still a skeleton crew of guards lurking around, despite the fact that I hadn’t had a real meal for going on a week. The guards would be gone soon, too, and then there’d be no one in here but us chickens.

I figured either Kip had a key, or the guards had left already. A key could be useful. My curiosity got the best of me. “How’d he get in here before the first bell?”

He cocked an eyebrow. “I got some tricks you ain’t seen, babe. Why don’t you join us? End of the world and all.”

The guards were gone, then. I felt a small trill of anxiety deep in my chest. If the guards were gone, my family was even less likely to show. But it was never smart to show fear. “The Pinball could be headed straight for this building, and I still wouldn’t be desperate enough to touch you. Oh, wait. Guess you don’t have to take my word for it.”

I turned to leave, but he continued. “Now is that any way to treat your dear ole partners? Be nice or I won’t give you back your stuff.”

“Ugh, you were in my room?” I flexed my shoulder blades, making sure my gun was still tightly secured between them.

“Don’t worry, Char. I didn’t handle the merchandise. Didn’t want to wake you up. Just lifted me a few keepsakes.” He pronounced my name the way I like: Char, as in charred. Something that got burned.

I wasn’t sure what Kip and Cassa were planning, but I knew I wouldn’t like it. They were thieves and liars. I would know. I used to be one of them. That was before the last job, when Cassa had attacked an elderly man in the home we were robbing. She’d kicked him until he stopped fighting back. Kip had called her off after a few licks, but I just stood there, staring. The old man looked at me, like right at me, while we made our getaway, and my stomach twisted into a knot so tight that I tasted bile. That was the moment I knew I wanted out.

But by then, no one believed me. Or, if they did, no one cared. Except for Kip and Cassa, of course. They’d taken the news pretty hard, to put it lightly.

If I lunged for the box, I could probably grab my hairbrush and get out of there. I wouldn’t have time for more than that. Then again, I’d be doing exactly what they expected, and I didn’t have time for delays. My family could be in the commissary any second now.

“Ahem. Seeing as it’s your last day of life, I might let you have one thing back,” said Kip.

“In exchange for what?”

“I’m hurt. All our time together, and you still don’t believe in my inherent generosity. But now that you mention it, I’ve got a hankering for some peanut butter crackers.”

“Sorry, Kip. I’m fresh out of food. Kinda like everyone else.”

“Nice try, Charrr.” He drew my name out, as though tasting it. “I saw them yesterday. Figured you were hiding them under your pillow when I couldn’t find them last night.”

“You figured wrong.”

All I could think about was my brother’s face. And how I had this one last chance to apologize to my parents, for everything. I shrugged and turned to leave.

That was probably a mistake.

About five steps past Cassa’s cell, an enormous weight tackled me from behind. My chest and face hit the dirty concrete. My anxiety over my parents leveled up into near-panic territory. I could not afford to deal with this right now. I flipped onto my back and jerked my knee upward, and Kip let out a groan.

But Cassa was already there, standing over us. She kicked my head, and my arms and legs quit obeying me. I was vaguely aware of the dispassionate stares coming from other cells as Kip and Cassa dragged me back to their room.

“Now, now, love,” Kip murmured. “That was no way to treat your old friends.”

“She’s gone soft. Must have been distracted.” Cassa wasn’t British, but she had the intensely annoying habit of using a fake accent. Not all the time, either. Just with certain words or phrases. In my opinion, that made it even worse. It was probably an attempt to impress Kip. Or to prove to everyone she spent a lot of time with him.

They propped me up against the wall, and Kip began tying my wrists with a twisted black cord he pulled out of nowhere.

“Screw you.”

“Is that any way for a lady to talk?” he said cheerfully, slipping his hand up my shirt. His fingers were like ice, and I winced. “Aha—found them.” He removed a packet of crackers and waggled them in front of my face. Those were going to be my last meal. I bit back a curse. Wouldn’t have made much difference in the end, anyway.

I didn’t fully panic until they tied the ends of the cord to the exposed pipe of the sink.

“Wait, no. My family’s going to be here. I have to get downstairs.”

“No one’s coming for you. And even if they were, do you really think they want to see you?”

Cassa grinned down at me. “But me and Kip, that’s a different story. We’re busting out of here.”

“Figured we’d do a bit of traveling in our twilight years. I mean, hours. See the world, that sort of thing. So we need all the supplies we can get. And no one has supplies like you,” said Kip.

Cassa spat. “And if you hadn’t rolled on us, we might be bringing you along. Think about that while you wait for the Pinball. Alone.”

I kicked at them, once, and Cassa responded by plopping down on top of my legs. Normally I’d have been able to deal with that, but nothing about today was normal, and I had to settle for growling at her. Somehow, that made me feel even more helpless. My face was abruptly hot, and I gave myself temporary permission to hold my breath. If I cried, I’d never get over it.

I didn’t breathe until I had to. Gradually, my head cleared. “Don’t tell me you’re going hunting for the Remnant. They don’t exist.”

Cassa paused, just for an instant, and Kip gave me a hard look. “She couldn’t possibly know that.”

“She’s friends with the Mole.”

Kip rolled his eyes. “He couldn’t possibly know that. He doesn’t know everything, Cass.”

“You sure about that?” I said. “He knows the way out. He wouldn’t still be here if they exist. If there were even a chance.”

Cassa bit her lip, but Kip ignored me and continued his search. He was a bit rougher than before. “Ah, what have we here? Little blade-stick-doohickey?” He pulled a makeshift knife from the leg of my pants and twisted it in his fingers. “Fair enough. Not your best work though, if I’m honest.”

“Hello, what’s this?” Cassa yanked me forward and pulled my shirt up in the back. There was a tearing pain as she ripped the duct tape off my shoulder blades. “Bingo. Char, you never disappoint.”

Kip held the gun up to my face and grinned while peeling the remainder of the tape from the barrel. It had been my finest moment. The guard I stole it from never saw it coming. I consoled myself with the thought that, in a few short hours, I would never need a gun again. The thought was a lot more comforting than it should have been. It was probably the only silver lining I would cling to, in the end. No more guns, no more eternally disappointed family members. No more pitying glances from judges or lawyers or parole boards. Or West.

“I believe our work here is done,” Cassa said. She couldn’t get away from me soon enough. “Time to make our way in the world.”

“Good luck with that,” I muttered.

They stood to leave, but Kip stopped at the door. “Here,” he said, pulling my shoebox off the bed and tossing it to the ground in front of me. “For old times’ sake.”

And then they were gone.

Two

My panic disappeared quickly. First of all, it never does any good. Years of burglarizing high-level targets taught me that. And secondly, Cassa had actually kicked me pretty hard. I leaned back, letting the cords on my wrists support some of my weight. I barely felt the pain that spread through my forearms. I closed my eyes. The harsh light from the ceiling collapsed into a crescent, then blinked away. It felt good.

But I couldn’t let myself sleep. Not yet.

The usual noise on the block was gone, replaced by an eerie, soundless vacuum. I had been on lockup for so long that I was no longer at ease with total silence.

In her haste to leave, Cassa had missed the blade in my sock. Not that I could blame her. None of us had showered in a week. My leg was heavier than it should have been, but I managed to kick it up toward my mouth. I bit down on my shoelaces and yanked the knot out, then kicked off my shoe.

The blade itself was trickier, and it was several minutes before I had it between my teeth. From there, cutting the cords was nothing. I pulled on my shoe, leaving it untied, and took off for the commissary.

The only thought in my mind was West. West would come for me. He would smile for me, and it would be a sad smile, but it would belong to me. And I would tell him that he had deserved a better sister, and that I had always been proud that he hadn’t turned out like me. And that I would never forget him.

And he would say that he would never forget me, either, and I would know that I wouldn’t be forgotten. That I hadn’t already been forgotten.

I threw open the door to the commissary and was greeted by a total rager. People jumping on tables, singing, laughing, sobbing. The air was sour with the smell of liquor, which some kind benefactor must have brought in for our final hours. This was no place for my little brother.

My parents must have had the same thought.

When I finally saw them, huddled in a corner, backs pressed against the wall, they were alone in a sea of dirty prison scrubs. West was nowhere to be found. My father had his arm around my mother, but I could tell they had been fighting. Her arm was clenched across her chest, and her face had that blankly pleasant expression she used in public when something was wrong.

My tongue grew thick as I pressed my way through the crowd. When I was close enough to my parents to touch them, my mother cringed, and my father tightened his grip on her shoulder, pulling her hard against him.

I cleared my throat and forced my tongue to move. “Mom, Dad. It’s me.”

Dad’s brows deepened, and his eyes slid away from my face to focus on a place behind me, as though his real daughter might still emerge from the crowd.

“Where’s West?” I asked.

“Your brother couldn’t be here.” My father’s voice was strange, like listening to a once-familiar recording that had grown warped with time.

“What happened to your head?” My mother’s voice was exactly as I recalled: piercing and unhappy. “You’re bleeding. Let me take a look at that.” I flinched as she reached for my face, and she echoed my reaction back to me. “I’m not going to hurt you. It’s going to get infected, the state you’re in.”

“Not if I die first.” My words had the intended effect of shutting her down, but it didn’t feel like I wanted it to. Regret and fear crowded together in my stomach, and I looked away from her. “So, why couldn’t West be here?”

“For Pete’s sake, Charlotte,” my father began, but Mom cut him off.

“His OPT had to leave.”

“You’re not all on the same one?”

“No, we are,” Dad said, and it was Mom’s turn to look away. I stared at her anyway, trying to figure out how they were all going to be together, but West wasn’t here. In this room. “It’s been hard for him,” Dad continued. I flicked my eyes up toward my father, still confused.

“Michael,” Mom whispered.

“It has. It’s been hard for all of us. She should understand that.”

“It’s just not the time.” She turned to me. “But he wrote you a note, sweetheart.”

My mother had not called me sweetheart since I had called myself Charlotte. Dumb, I stared at the torn envelope in her hands. I snapped back to my senses when I saw the attention it was getting from the rest of the room. They were definitely watching us.

My father noticed it too, and stiffened. “We can’t stay here any longer. You were ninety minutes late, anyway.”

Mom wrenched herself from my father’s grip and wrapped her arms around me. I fit my face against her collarbone, exactly like I had as a child. Her voice in my ear was no louder than the slightest whisper. “I never gave up on you. I should have told you that.” Her arms moved down my back, and her grip tightened. “I’m so sorry, Charlotte.”

Everything I had planned to tell them—everything from I never meant to hurt you to please don’t forget me— curdled into a cold wad in my chest, and died in my throat. I tried to breathe in, but I heard myself make a sound like a gasp instead. “Mom. Please don’t leave me here.”

She jerked a little, as though something had knocked against her, and I didn’t feel her breath going in or out anymore.

“Excuse me, Senator,” a voice barked. I opened my eyes to peer over my mother’s shoulder. An armed guard stood a few paces away.

My father reached around my mother, so that for the briefest instant, he was holding me, too. But then he closed his fingers around her wrists, and pulled her arms away from me. “Goodbye, Charlotte. I can’t help but feel responsible for…” he began, then stopped.

I watched them leave, feeling numb, like floating underwater, before sliding the folded paper out of its nest. It was my brother’s handwriting, but not as I remembered it. He’d be thirteen now, not seven or eight, as I always thought of him, so it took a moment to confirm that the lighter, sharper letters were his.

I’m sorry.

Yeah, I thought. Me too, kiddo. Me too.

No one stopped me on the way back to my cellblock, and I was doubly thankful to find it as empty as before. When I slipped West’s envelope into my back pocket, my fingers closed around something sharp and hard. My mom must have put it there.

I pulled the object from my pocket as soon as I was sure I was alone. It was a dark metal card with a single silver band across the top. Raised symbols covered the band, and in my stupor, I ran my thumb over them twice before I realized that they were words.

Stamped across the top of the card was the phrase “North American Off-Planet Transport—Admit One.”

Three

My whole life, I felt trapped. I hated the constant pressure to maintain the appearances that were so crucial to my parents’ lifestyle. I resented every choice they made on my behalf: stuffy uniforms at private school, mind-numbing ballroom lessons at junior cotillion, forced smiles at charity events. No matter where I was or what I was doing, I was never where I wanted to be, and nothing I did made sense, even to me. I baffled the hell out of my parents. But all I wanted was to feel some kind of freedom, some kind of escape. Escape never came.

So my first stint in juvy, at the ripe old age of twelve, was hardly a big adjustment. It was actually more like a relief.

For the first time, I was surrounded by people who didn’t care what I did with my hair or who I hung out with or where I was going, which was always the same answer: nowhere. I was a lost cause, and in here, no one questioned that or tried to change it. Once I got in the system, the only life I could ruin was my own. And everyone here was fine with that.

I knew for a fact I wasn’t the only one who felt that way. Why else did I see the same kids coming in and out of here, for so many years that we had our own holiday traditions? Heck, last year, I had a Secret Santa. I had given myself a name, and they called me by it. So don’t tell me I didn’t belong here.

Except that now, I had to get out.

Standing on the floor of my block, dwarfed by the rows of cells above and around me, I felt, for the first time, like a rat in a cage. And the cage had become a death trap.

I pressed the starpass deep down into my shoe, inside my sock, where no one could lift it off me without my knowing it, and tried to think. There were no more guards to bribe or threaten. After the meteor was discovered, and the Treaty of Phoenix was signed, everyone who enforced it, from soldiers to street cops to prison guards, was guaranteed a spot on one of the five Arks. Keep the walking dead from rioting, and you get to live. I could hardly blame them; it was a brilliant solution. How else could you get nineteen billion people to die quietly while half a million others escaped to the stars?

I didn’t exactly have a key to the outside, since like I said, getting out had never been a big priority for me. But I knew someone who might.

Isaiah Underwood was a year older than I was, but it might as well have been fifty. He was legendary in our circles, not because he was the only juvy we knew who had escaped, which he was, but because he came back. Deliberately. I vaguely remembered the day he’d gotten out—alarms, total lockdown, the usual drill. Normally the missing prisoner was just hiding someplace halfway clever, like the laundry or whatever. But when Isaiah left, we stayed in our rooms for two straight days, and they never found him. They finally had to concede defeat and let us out.

I was between stays when he came back, but I’d heard the story a hundred times. Months had passed. Someone else had been placed in his cell. Everyone on his row was at lunch, and he just strolled into the commissary like he’d been in the john the whole time. Isaiah was back, except he wasn’t. First thing you noticed was his eyes, or rather, his lack thereof. It was only when you talked to him that you realized something else was missing, too, but you couldn’t pinpoint what it was. He was more thoughtful, less happy. Older.

We called him the Mole after that.

I took off in a dead sprint, hoping no one would see me. Running was an excellent way to make trouble for yourself. The walls smeared past in a blur of blue and gray, and even the barrier to the men’s quarters didn’t slow me down. It was wide open.

The Mole was sitting on his bed with his white cane across his lap. A book lay on the blanket before him, its precise rows of dots skating underneath long, careful fingers.