Within These Walls

Life After Dark: 1 (WTW Sequel)

(A/N: I thought about announcing WTW's progress, but why keep teasing you guys? Some of you, at least those who stuck around, have been waiting for months and years for the sequel. You might notice a few changes, which I believe I covered in a previous author's note - I've already updated WTW to reflect these changes. So without any further ado, here is the first chapter of the sequel, Life After Dark).

The rumble of an earthquake drags me from my slumber. I scramble for cover as it thunders through my bones, but I get as far as bounding off my hard cot before the chain attached to the manacle, attached to my ankle, snaps tight and yanks me off my feet.

The excruciating crash knocks the breath out of me. For a minute, I hug the damp stone floor and ride out the pain. My heart is beating crazily, like it's already decided to run with panic before waiting for the go from my brain.

Bruises flare with pain. Old, inexplicable bruises. Everywhere. My left wrist aches so badly it should be in a cast, but it feels like there's only a strip of bandage around it.

I flick my eyes across the room, but I can't make much out. There's one source of light at the center: a lone candle sitting on the floor, burned to a waxy fat clump. Nothing else. Just this room, half obscured by shadow, and the cold air seeping through my coat, prickling goose bumps over my skin.

Déjà vu. This all feels too familiar.

I prop myself up on my good arm and stagger to my knees, then scurry to the rough wall by the cot, over to a rust-brown pipe that disappears into the ceiling. Secured to the pipe is my chain, about five feet long and freezing-cold to the touch. I wrap a length of it around my hand, ignoring the stinging cut on my palm, and pull with all of the adrenaline-charged strength of a frightened and injured teenage girl.

The pipe doesn't budge. No surprise there.

I brush limp strands of brown hair from my eyes. I've never been the type to brute-force my way to solutions. You're a thinker, April. So use your head.

Sam's words echo in my head, and for the first time in forever, I welcome the memory of his voice. It's my only connection to him.

There are two giant padlocks securing the chain to the pipe. Padlocks equal keys. I check my jeans pockets, both front and back. Then I tug off my worn boots. Nothing. Ten minutes later I've ransacked the thin mattress and bedcovers on the cot and turned up nothing.

I collapse against the wall, defeated. A sludge of fatigue has replaced my adrenaline. I'm so hungry and tired. I want to fall back onto the cot, but it goes against every survival instinct in my body to do nothing, not after everything I went through to escape the stress facility, after I faced crazed teenagers and a psychopath boy and an army led by a man who wanted us all dead. Not after I watched Sam Parker, my stepfather, murdered by someone I considered an ally and a close friend.

I did get my freedom. We all did. Except nothing says you're not free more than a manacle around one's leg.

I wish Marcus were here.

Marcus.

His name is a sparked match in this darkness. I sit up straighter, my heart racing with hope. When Gardiner took eighty-nine of us teenagers, they put me in a room with another girl. Camille. She died in the stress facility, so it makes sense why she's not with me now.

Marcus was the second person I met there. We got off to a rocky start and I thought he would be my biggest obstacle in that hole, but he turned out to be the opposite. He was someone I grew to care about. The first guy I ever wanted to be with. Granted, our relationship took a nosedive when he betrayed us, but we're working on rebuilding the lost trust.