Unraveling Eleven

Also by Jerri Chisholm

The Eleven Trilogy

Escaping Eleven

Unraveling Eleven

Table of Contents

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

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Sting, by Cindy R. Wilson

Echoes, by Alice Reeds

Smoke and Key, by Kelsey Sutton

Perfected, by Kate Jarvik Birch

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright © 2021 by Jerri Chisholm. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

Entangled Publishing, LLC

10940 S Parker Road

Suite 327

Parker, CO 80134

rights@entangledpublishing.com

Entangled Teen is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.

Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.

Edited by Stacy Abrams

Cover Design by LJ Anderson, Mayhem Cover Creations

Cover images by

Swillklitch/ GettyImages and

Hzpriezz/shutterstock

Font Design by Covers by Juan

Interior design by Toni Kerr

TP ISBN 978-1-64937-098-3

Ebook ISBN 978-1-64937-112-6

Manufactured in the United States of America

First Edition November 2021

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

To j.a.p.

At Entangled, we want our readers to be well-informed. If you would like to know if this book contains any elements that might be of concern for you, please check the book’s webpage.

https://entangledpublishing.com/books/unraveling-eleven

Chapter One

Eve. Don’t move.

The voice is low and hoarse in my ear.

A moment ago, my fingertips grazed the back of his neck as we kissed. My other hand curved over his large shoulder and pressed firmly into muscle. It was the first time we had stopped walking since escaping Compound Eleven, the first time we had even acknowledged each other, because for the past hour we have been too preoccupied and too overwhelmed.

Too mesmerized.

I think it’s the feeling of earth beneath our boots that’s to blame. That and the twinkling night sky overhead. We are used to concrete below and concrete above. But more than anything, it is the staggering realization that the heat won’t kill us after all.

It won’t even hurt us, despite all we’ve learned, all we’ve been taught. Everyone back in Eleven thinks it’s a sauna up here, a killing field—practically upon impact. Yet an hour ago, we discovered that nothing could be further from the truth.

In time, as our shock wore off, our pace slowed, and we held each other—we kissed, celebration thundering like laughter in our ears. Then Wren went still.

Now his tendons stiffen. They lock him in place. He murmurs to me again, Don’t move.

The stars overhead offer enough light to see that he stares at something over my shoulder. His gaze is steady and his mouth is tight. I think it’s the closest thing to alarm that his face can register.

Around his neck, my hands curl into fists, ready for violence—always ready for violence. My stomach binds. For a fleeting moment, I feel like I’m belowground again. I start to laugh the thought away, but then I hear it: the rustling of leaves, a gentle yet poignant indicator that we are not alone. An image flashes in my mind of guards decked in protective suits, dragging us back by our ankles, guns trained on our temples—

No. It’s impossible they know of our escape.

Except nothing is impossible.

We thought it was impossible to survive aboveground, then we stepped outside. And so, against Wren’s words, I turn.

I turn and see something I have never seen before.

Something completely unexpected, completely foreign to those who dwell in tunnels below the earth’s crust. An animal? I mutter, and as I do, the large beast’s ears twitch. Like it knows it’s being talked about. My arms drop to my sides; otherwise I am still. Back straight.

It stands in a clearing twenty feet away, and if it weren’t for its beady eyes that catch in the moonlight, it wouldn’t be noticeable at all. It would fade into darkness. I stare at it, partly with fear that is inborn, but also with awe.

If only the beast weren’t so vaguely yet distinctly threatening…

Maybe I’m imagining it. Maybe my muscles could defeat it—I grew up in the Combat League, after all. I’ve been fighting those larger and seemingly stronger than me since I was nine years old. Or maybe it is a gentle beast.

But I know that can’t be true, and Wren knows it, too. Silently his hand wraps around mine. He pulls me backward: one step, two. The beast watches us retreat, then its heavy skull lifts ever so slightly. It takes two steps forward.

Now I can see its paws, and they are the size of Compound Eleven’s dinner plates. Curved knives line each one.

Should we run? comes a strained voice that I barely recognize as my own.

Wren shakes his head. I don’t think so. Once more, he tugs at my hand. So once more, we retreat like we’re walking barefoot on glass, and this time the beast is still. This time it doesn’t follow.

Suddenly I am hopeful.

Off in the distance comes a sharp cry—one of the birds that calls this strange world home. The beast’s ears flick.

Another two steps back we go.

This is good; this is very good. Soon we will slip out of sight, nothing but a distant memory. And more importantly, we will be nothing but a distant memory to the guards of Compound Eleven, too. They will not drag us underground after all. Nothing will.

And then the heel of my boot hits something hard along the ground. A root, maybe, or the lip of a rock. I catch myself before I tumble.

Still, it was jarring. Still, my pulse quickens.

It must have been jarring for the beast, too, because now something has changed.

Now its head is lower than a second ago and its ears are flat. Now a sound reverberates from its stomach, bubbly and guttural at the same time. Now my heart pounds twice as loudly as before.

We need to— Wren begins urgently, but there’s no chance to finish.

The beast charges.

Immediately our muscles spring into action, propelling us away, hurtling us into a sprint for our lives. Twigs snap underfoot as we shoot farther into darkness, up a small hill, then down a steep slope littered with narrow trees. We are fast, our bodies built for speed.

But Wren’s legs are longer than mine; he is faster. Under the glow of the moon, I see his head shift in my direction, and I see his gait slow.

As his hand reaches for mine, I scream at him to keep going—

Maybe he listens. I doubt it, but maybe. I wouldn’t know, because something strikes my back with enough force to break my neck. A fraction of a millisecond passes since impact, then I’m facedown. My fingernails wedge with dirt. My forehead opens on a jagged rock.

On your feet, Eve.

Before, I was fearful, an advantage to the beast. No longer, because now the lemon juice has spilled. Now I’m primed, and I’m ready. A fighter.

But then it pulls itself onto its hind legs, and it’s taller than even I am. Half a second later, a paw lined with blades slashes at me, and I swing backward in time to hear it slice the air, my innards barely spared. A heartbeat later, I punch it square in the nose.

I’m used to the feeling of a human nose squashing under my fist. I’m used to the sound it makes and the stinging of my knuckles. I’m used to the look of shock and panic shooting through my opponent’s eyes. But this is different. There is no dull crack of bone, and there is no shock, panic, or pain. All that happens is that the blackened lips of the beast pull away in obvious anger, and as they do, they reveal a terrible sight. Yellow daggers, some of them as long as my ring finger.

This is not an opponent I can defeat.

There is no sense in punching or kicking. There is no sense in rooting around my boot for my blade. This creature is already equipped with blades. And speed. And strength.

Just as when I stare down the barrel of a gun, I’m completely powerless.

The gun.

Instead of groping around my waistband for my own weapon, I launch myself at the beast and throw my arms around its neck, tuck my head against coarse fur. This is the safest spot until Wren can shoot it. Otherwise it will gore me with its claws, gut me with its teeth—all before I can pull the trigger.

I hold on with every ounce of strength and scream at Wren to shoot. I hold on, but barely.

It resists my grip as fiercely as I fight for it. It jerks and shakes, and through it all, I wait for Wren. He must be near. He must.

He must have the gun cocked.

He must.

I can’t hold on for much longer. And as the thought passes through my head, its paw is beneath me, my grasp is wrenched free, I am thrown onto my back so that the inky night sky is spread out before me.

The sound of fast, heavy footsteps, then my vision is clouded by blackness.

Chapter Two

Blackness. I was born into it, and I will die in it, too.

At least I was able to taste freedom first. That was my goal; it was always my goal. And it is better to be dead and free than caged and alive.

I must not forget that, as I take my last breaths.

That’s when I finally hear the blast of a gun.

The beast collapses on me, its weight as devastating as the daggers lining its mouth, and I scream. Or I would if I could force air to my lungs. Claws tear through my clothes. Pain clouds my vision.

Then it lifts.

Oxygen. And the ability to move, even if gingerly. Blood rushes to my extremities and dribbles from rips in my skin. When my eyes clear of tears, I notice that the beast has lost interest in me. Its sights are set on Wren and Wren alone, and the realization makes me smile.

The blast of another bullet, then another. Another. They echo through the trees like poetry. Belowground they explode, like a punch to the face. Normally I hate the sound, but right now the shots wash over me in waves. Then the earth tremors.

I don’t know how many bullets it took to defeat the deadly creature, but I hear the clatter of discarded metal on rock and know we are down a gun.

Then Wren is above me, concern rippling over his handsome features. Quickly it passes. Now a scowl contorts them—those wide-set eyes, his kind mouth, that straight nose. "Are you laughing? he shouts. I thought you were dead!"

Now I laugh harder.

He sighs. His hand turns my head, and his fingers trace the wound over my eye.

A rock, I explain as I catch my breath.

Mm. I think you’ll live. What about the rest of you?

Hands slip down my body, and I wince as his fingers find the tears in my clothing that have given way to tears in my skin. They’re not deep, he says eventually. You’re lucky.

I wrap my arms around his neck. Next time, shoot quicker.

I defend my timing completely, he says as he presses his forehead to mine, angling it away from my cut. I wanted to see what that thing was made of. He glances at the fallen beast through the darkness. Then he glances at me, and I see humor dancing in his eyes. "I wanted to see what you were made of, too."

I laugh softly. And?

He frowns, then presses his lips together as if he’s deep in thought. Tough as nails, Eve, he finally concludes.

I grin; I can’t help it. Because we are free. We can kiss, and shout, and run. We can search for my little brother, Jack, who was cruelly expelled from Compound Eleven at the tender age of three. We can do whatever we like—forever.

There’s no more need to fear Daniel or Landry. There is no need to cower at the sight of the guards, not that I ever gave them the satisfaction—that particular form of torture is finished. Same with the low-hanging ceilings and the recycled air. The injustice at being born on the second floor where I’m treated like garbage, where my job options are so severely circumscribed. No longer am I a citizen of a ruthless regime, one that massacres its own people at will.

Now I am free. Forever free. Forever free. Because the scorched earth is scorched no longer. We can survive up here.

Wren and I—and the thought sends a shiver down my spine. How did an unlucky person like me get so lucky?

No matter that my body is bruised from the beast—I pull him as close as possible so no air can separate us. I feel so light; even with his weight on top of me, it’s like I could float to the night sky. I feel so secure; I could let my muscles go soft. I feel so happy; I can’t believe that even for a second I was ready to die.

For a long time, we just lay there, breathing in unison, digesting it all. Then Wren says in a husky voice that tickles my cheek, We should get some sleep.

I lift my head to better look at him. Here?

Or maybe we could find a bed nearby, he says, pinching me. "Of course here."

I laugh, and as we make ourselves comfortable, I realize what a new experience this will be. Not just sleeping on the ground instead of a hard, dusty mattress. Not just sleeping aboveground instead of below. But sleeping with a boy next to me, as well.

I decide to be brave and tuck myself into the curve of his body where it’s warmest, and I find that it’s not scary at all. It feels safe here next to Wren—it feels like home.

In time, our breaths grow longer. As my eyes become heavy, I know not only will I go to sleep with a smile on my face, but for the first time ever, I’ll wake with one, too.

…

Sometime later, the call of the birds lifts me from my slumber, and I find myself grinning ear to ear—just as I predicted. It’s because lightness fills my retinas, and I didn’t even have to switch on a lamp. It’s because I’m not just waking up to sunshine; I’m waking up to freedom.

It’s everything I ever wanted. No, that’s not true. It’s more than I ever wanted, because I have Wren here by my side. And now we have nothing but time on our hands—nothing but time to explore this strange new world and search for Jack. Because even though the beast we encountered in the night, the one that lies in a crumpled heap nearby, was dangerous and clearly deadly, there’s too much beauty up here. It’s paradise. And it’s impossible to believe that Jack perished in paradise.

Dying underground, on the other hand, is easy. Compound Eleven is hell—death is just a small sidestep away, a trip to the left, a tumble to the right. Yet Jack was released into this oasis, and I know he thrived.

Just like Wren and I are going to.

Gingerly, I move Wren’s arm from around me, then sit upright. I wipe sleep from my eyes and gaze around—left and right, up and down, in every direction. The problem with my certainty that my brother is still alive, I think, is the vastness of the space up here. It’s completely foreign to someone like me. It’s unfathomable, hard to wrap my brain around. And it means he could have gone in any direction, could have traveled endlessly—still, to this day.

But maybe not. Maybe he stayed nearby, living among the surrounding trees, because it’s the closest thing to home that he knew. My chest expands with excitement at the thought.

Then I draw away from Wren, careful not to wake him. The morning air feels dewy and fresh, and aside from the endless call of birds, it’s silent. So silent, I can hear my boots as they echo dully along the forest floor, toward the fallen beast. I drop to my knees next to it, then run my fingers over its coarse fur.

Now that I’m not fighting for my life, I can appreciate the texture of the coat and the thickness, too. I study its claws, note how beautiful the arc of its skull is. I even begin to mourn the fact that this sprawling creature died under our hand. Because the last thing I want to do up here is destroy.

But as I finally settle myself onto a large rock nearby, I realize that I don’t want to be destroyed, either. So maybe life up here is a balancing act. Maybe in the old world, things skidded off center. Maybe humans, left unchecked, destroy, destroy, destroy.

I can’t let that happen.

Wren’s voice pierces the silence. Enjoying yourself? He is awake now, watching me.

I let my legs dangle over the edge of the rock. Just a little, I say, and my tone is playful.

For a while, he says nothing—he simply contemplates me with his brow furrowed, like he’s deep in thought. It’s good to see you so happy, he finally says. Then, before I can respond, he adds in a lighter tone, I take it you don’t object to the constant chatter those things make? He gestures to the treetops. As if on cue, a black bird caws into the morning.

"Things? I believe they’re called birds, Wren."

Ah, he says theatrically. Aren’t you knowledgeable.

I bow my head.

They’re loud. And he stifles a yawn. A few more hours of sleep would’ve been nice. And maybe a proper mattress.

Of course you’d want a fancy mattress, I scoff. Preme.

He chucks a stick at me.

I kick aside the stick and throw a stone in his direction.

Not great aim, Eve. His expression is full of feigned seriousness. You should keep practicing—it might be the best protection we’ve got the next time we run into one of those things. He turns his attention to the fallen beast, no longer joking.

I was wondering about that, too, I admit.

He walks over to me and lets his arms drape over my shoulders and down my back. And? Did you figure out what we’re going to do once we’re out of bullets?

Run faster? I suggest. I loop my arms around his waist and pull him close.

He bends down and kisses me on the forehead, then the nose, and finally on the lips. We’d need a motor to outrun that thing. Do you think they can climb trees?

I lean back and give him an incredulous look. "Why? Can you?"

He smiles. Good point. Not that there was a need, but it’s too bad they didn’t teach us how to outwit shockingly large, strangely ferocious animals back in Eleven.

I smile, too, but then the phrase back in Eleven echoes through my head, and my smile falters. The problem is that I’m up here—free and happy—and my friends and family are stuck in a situation that is just the opposite. Caged and miserable.

Back in Eleven. If only there was a way to get word to them that the world has cooled. Because the twinge of guilt I feel that I get to live up here and they don’t isn’t one I want to endlessly carry with me. And more than that, I don’t want them to be stuck underground forever.

Maybe they’ll figure it out for themselves when they realize that Wren and I have vanished without a trace. Maybe the Premes in charge—like Wren’s mother—will figure it out, too. Maybe all of Eleven will join us up here in the coming days.

Then Wren asks, What’s for breakfast? and all my thoughts dissipate at once.

I blink up at him. Breakfast? It isn’t something I’ve thought about, not even once, not since we bid goodbye to the compound. But now that he mentions it, I am hungry. Thirsty, too, and a small flare of panic ignites in my stomach at the realization. Maybe we should walk around and see what we can find, I suggest, careful to hide the unease in my voice.

Sure.

I slide off the rock and consider the ring of trees surrounding us. Which way?

He shrugs, then points behind me. That’s the direction we came from last night, which means the compound is that way. Do you remember seeing any food along the way?

I didn’t notice any cafeterias, I joke. But beneath my easy tone, that flare of panic grows larger. Because Wren and I have always been served food. Food that’s been grown underground, in commercial greenhouses and factories, and prepared in a kitchen by trained staff—and there’s none of that up here.

So. What the hell are we going to eat?

Let’s keep heading in the same direction, I say after a while. I’m sure we’ll find something.

A minute later, we start picking our way through the close-knit trees, my gaze no longer dancing along the treetops or admiring the sun that rises slow and steady from the horizon. No, instead my eyes are trained on the ground, searching for something—anything—that resembles food.

Chapter Three

Time passes. My brain flips from jubilation at being up here, to guilt over those back in Eleven, and finally to hunger, then back again. A nonstop cycle that becomes lopsided toward food with every hour that passes. Movement is slow through the thicket of trees, my boots are coated in dirt, and my clothes are sticky with sweat. The giant rock face that sits to the north of the Oracle is now behind us, far off in the distance, but every so often, I stop to glimpse it through the trees. Right now, it’s the most familiar sight I know.

Wren is as quiet as I am, both of us focused on the task at hand—finding sustenance—but finally he breaks the silence by asking, What’s that?

I look around, spotting nothing out of the ordinary—nothing out of our new ordinary, that is. What?

You can’t smell it?

I walk a bit farther, and then I nod. It’s a scent I can’t pinpoint, and yet it’s sweet and very strong. I gesture to a swell of plants that tower over Wren and me, all their branches covered in tufts of purple flowers. We edge closer, and as I run my fingers over one of the tufts, the scent becomes even stronger. Then I jerk my hand aside as a black-and-yellow insect appears, landing delicately on the petals.

Wren, I whisper, eyeing it. Together we watch as it moves from flower to flower, pausing now and then, like it’s eating or maybe collecting something. What do you think it’s doing?

I have no idea.

Do you know what it’s called?

He shakes his head. Then he adds, Do you think we can eat it?

I gaze at him. He must be hungrier than I am. Maybe, I say, even though it doesn’t exactly look palatable. I reach my fingers forward until they wrap carefully around it and I can feel its wings beating against my palm. I start to laugh at the sensation until it’s replaced by white-hot pain.

I jump, and I scream, and then Wren pulls back my fingers. Part of the insect flies away, but the rest remains embedded in my palm, surrounded by a fast-growing welt. It looks vaguely like the splinter I got when I was five, from an old can that Hunter and I were playing with. My father had to hold me down as my mother dug it out with a fork she’d swiped from the cafeteria, except she couldn’t get it all, and it became infected. After weeks of sickness, I finally healed, and I was told I was lucky I didn’t lose my hand. I was lucky, even, to be alive.

Right now, I carefully grip what remains of the insect, my heart thumping in my throat with a volatile mixture of fear and intrigue, then yank it free. I dig my thumb into the welt to try to numb the pain, then shout, "What was that thing?"

I’m not sure, admits Wren. Then he grins. It probably wouldn’t have tasted very good, though.

I try to kick him—but I’m still doubled over, and even though I feel like crying, I find myself laughing instead. Wren watches me with an amused look on his face.

Here, I say a few minutes later, once the throbbing begins to ease. I tear a handful of flowers from the plant and push them into his hand. "If that insect was actually eating them, maybe we can, too."

That does sound logical, he says, holding them to his nose. Except they don’t smell like food. They smell like…perfume. Don’t you think?

I roll my eyes. "You think I know what perfume smells like, Preme? That wasn’t exactly an allotment offered on the second floor."

Your loss, he says, nudging me, then he pushes the entire handful of flowers into his mouth. Immediately he makes a face and spits them back out.

No good? I ask, trying to hold back my laughter.

No good, he confirms. I’d rather eat month-old mashed potatoes from the Mean cafeteria.

Mashed potatoes. Normally I hate those glutinous mounds of starch, which have no taste, no flavor. Right now, I realize, I’d give my ring finger for some.

…

A few hours later, the sun has arced high in the sky, and it’s far warmer than the middle of the night, or even the morning. My clothes are soaked from sweat, and I’m more thirsty than before. Funny: I had envisioned the world up here to have large stores of water—I’ve seen plenty of pictures in the Preme library of land ending and water claiming its place. Yet we’ve been walking for hours and haven’t spotted a single drop.

Wren and I no longer joke or chat—we just focus on stomping through the overgrowth in search of sustenance. Too bad we don’t know what to look for. Nothing up here resembles those mashed potatoes or shriveled peas that I was served underground. There are no tin cups waiting next to a chipped sink, either.

The flare of panic I felt this morning intensifies, filling my empty belly, and all thoughts of searching for Jack vanish as I zero in on the most pressing need standing before us.

Since I can’t think of anything else, I try to remember the last time I ate. It’s been a while. I was locked in my cell without food before leaving the compound, because my supposed best friend Hunter betrayed me. Before that, I was too busy mourning the Noms who lost their lives in the government-sanctioned mass murder on the ground floor—called the cleanse—to eat a thing. It’s been days, I think, since I’ve had a proper meal.

The longer we walk, the less energy I have. Wren, too—I can tell by the slouching of his shoulders and the shortening of his stride. As the sun drops lower in the sky, our pace is no longer slow simply because of the densely packed trees. I feel like my muscles have gone soft, like pools of molasses, and navigating up and down steep slopes leaves me dizzy. My head throbs, and without the warmth of the midday sun, I find myself shivering.

Finally, after several more hours of fruitless searching, we decide to sleep next to an overturned tree, and we’re both so exhausted from spending the entire day walking, so weakened from having no food or water, that we fall immediately asleep before we can say good night to each other.

…

The next morning when I wake, I listen to the happy chatter of the birds, feel the gentle morning sun against my cheek, even remember that I am waking in total freedom.

But I do not smile.

Wren’s not in a good mood, either, and we quickly begin our search for food and water all over again.

Monotonous hours pass. Futile hours. My stomach gurgles, and hurts, and my headache returns with a vengeance. With every step, I imagine us stumbling upon water—see it sparkling under the sunlight, wide and vast like the pictures I’ve seen in those Preme books. With every step, I’m disappointed. At the same time, a steady stream of visuals competes for space in my brain—visuals of everything I’ve ever eaten back in Eleven—even simple things, like toast. I salivate at the thought.

More and more hours slide by, and that now-familiar feeling of panic grows even worse. What are we going to do? What’s going to happen? Just as I start to lose all hope, I hear Wren say in a thick voice, Eve. Over there.

I follow his gaze and spot