The Host (The Host #1)(60)

The days that followed—perhaps a week of them, it was impossible to keep track—were very quiet. Jared was like a silent wall between me and everything else in the world, good or bad. There was no sound but that of my own breathing, my own movements; there were no sights but the black cave around me, the circle of dull light, the familiar tray with the same rations, the brief, stolen glimpses of Jared; there were no touches but the pitted rocks against my skin; there were no tastes but the bitter water, the hard bread, the bland soup, the woody roots, over and over again.

It was a very strange combination: constant terror, persistent aching physical discomfort, and excruciating monotony. Of the three, the killer boredom was the hardest to take. My prison was a sensory-deprivation chamber.

Together, Melanie and I worried that we were going to go mad.

We both hear a voice in our head, she pointed out. That’s never a good sign.

We’re going to forget how to speak, I worried. How long has it been since anyone talked to us?

Four days ago you thanked Jeb for bringing us food, and he said you were welcome. Well, I think it was four days ago. Four long sleeps ago, at least. She seemed to sigh. Stop chewing your nails—it took me years to break that habit.

But the long, scratchy nails bothered me. I don’t really think we need to worry about bad habits in the long term.

Jared didn’t let Jeb bring food again. Instead, someone brought it to the end of the hall and Jared retrieved it. I got the same thing—bread, soup, and vegetables—twice every day. Sometimes there were extra things for Jared, packaged foods with brand names I recognized—Red Vines, Snickers, Pop-Tarts. I tried to imagine how the humans had gotten their hands on these delicacies.

I didn’t expect him to share—of course not—but I wondered sometimes if he thought I was hoping he would. One of my few entertainments was hearing him eat his treats, because he always did so ostentatiously, perhaps rubbing it in the way he had with the pillow that first night.

Once, Jared slowly ripped open a bag of Cheetos—showy about it as usual—and the rich smell of fake powdered cheese rolled through my cave… delicious, irresistible. He ate one slowly, letting me hear each distinct crunch.

My stomach growled loudly, and I laughed at myself. I hadn’t laughed in so long; I tried to remember the last time and couldn’t—just that strange bout of macabre hysteria in the desert, which really didn’t count as laughter. Even before I’d come here, there hadn’t been much I’d found funny.

But this seemed hilarious to me for some reason—my stomach yearning after that one small Cheeto—and I laughed again. A sign of madness, surely.

I didn’t know how my reaction offended him, but he got up and disappeared. After a long moment, I could hear him eating the Cheetos again, but from farther away. I peeked out of the hole to see that he was sitting in the shadows at the end of the corridor, his back to me. I pulled my head inside, afraid he might turn and catch me watching. From then on, he stayed down at that end of the hall as much as possible. Only at night did he stretch out in front of my prison.

Twice a day—or rather twice a night, as he never took me when the others were about—I got to walk to the room with the rivers; it was a highlight, despite the terror, as it was the only time I was not hunched into the unnatural shapes my small cave forced on me. Each time I had to crawl back inside was harder than the last.

Three times that week, always during the sleeping hours, someone came to check on us.

The first time it was Kyle.

Jared’s sudden lunge to his feet woke me. “Get out of here,” he warned, holding the gun ready.

“Just checking,” Kyle said. His voice was far away but loud and rough enough that I was sure it was not his brother. “Someday you might not be here. Someday you might sleep too soundly.”

Jared’s only answer was to cock the gun.

I heard Kyle’s laughter trailing behind him as he left.

The other two times I didn’t know who it was. Kyle again, or maybe Ian, or maybe someone whose name I hadn’t learned. All I knew was that twice more I was woken by Jared jumping to his feet with the gun pointed at the intruder. No more words were spoken. Whoever was just checking didn’t bother to make conversation. When they were gone, Jared went back to sleep quickly. It took me longer to quiet my heart.

The fourth time was something new.

I was not quite asleep when Jared started awake, rolling to his knees in a swift movement. He came up with the gun in his hands and a curse on his lips.

“Easy,” a voice murmured from the distance. “I come in peace.”

“Whatever you’re selling, I’m not buying,” Jared growled.

“I just want to talk.” The voice came closer. “You’re buried down here, missing the important discussions.… We miss your take on things.”

“I’m sure,” Jared said sarcastically.

“Oh, put the gun down. If I was planning to fight you, I would have come with four guys this time.”

There was a short silence, and when Jared spoke again, his voice carried a hint of dark humor. “How’s your brother these days?” he asked. Jared seemed to enjoy the question. It relaxed him to tease his visitor. He sat down and slouched against the wall halfway in front of my prison, at ease, but with the gun still ready.

My neck ached, seeming to comprehend that the hands that had crushed and bruised it were very close by.