"What the hell is this?" Marcus asks, lifting his arm to stare at his bracelet.

"A bomb?" the southerner says in a horrified tone.

"If they wanted to blow us up, they would've put collars on us," Alec says. "Maximum damage. No, this is more like—"

"An alarm," I say.

He starts to nod just as my bracelet shocks me. It's a mild sensation, like touching a doorknob after working up static electricity, but it startles me just the same. And then it happens again but with more intensity this time.

"Ow, ow, ow!" my roommate exclaims, rubbing her wrist. "I think we should keep going."

"No kidding," Marcus says, wincing as another sharp jolt comes from our bracelets. I'm selfishly glad to see that tough-guy Marcus isn't invincible.

We fall in behind him as he walks down the hallway. I catch a glimpse of open space beyond the doorway before Marcus comes to an abrupt stop. I crash into his back and find myself sandwiched between him and the others.

"Move," I snap, my arm stinging from another stab of electricity.

We file out once Marcus clears our path. As I sidestep him and get a good look at what's on the outside, it becomes clear why he froze in the first place.

Kids. Everywhere. Dozens of them in front of seven doors like ours, all dressed in white t-shirts and gray sweatpants. All with silver bracelets. They are a diverse bunch, of all sizes and shapes and colors, but none of them look older than eighteen.

Above each block is a white sign with bold black text written across it. BLOCK ONE. BLOCK TWO. Our sign says BLOCK THREE.

At the center of the space is a giant perforated metal stairway. There are no floors above us, but we're not on the ground. If the floors below us hold more teenagers, I should wonder at the audacity of our kidnappers to have orchestrated all of this.

Not that I have any idea what exactly this is.

"You know what's going on?" Alec asks a few kids standing in front of the door closest to us. Around us, people are leaving their blocks, wide-eyed with fear and clutching their tender wrists. Some of them even have tears streaming down their faces.

Some guy shrugs. "I don't know, man. I'm thinking my parents put me up to this. This must be summer camp or something."

I doubt it. Ignoring the freakiness of everything that's happened so far, no camp would be opening barely a week before the new semester starts. And I'd be lucky if my mom acknowledged my existence, let alone paid for something so . . . extravagant.

Not surprisingly, Marcus is the first to head for the stairs. The steps clang as he descends them. He stops, leans over one side of the railing, and shouts, "Hey! You see an exit down there?"

"No, just these numbered doors!" someone shouts back.

Marcus holds up his arms and gestures for us to quiet down. "Alright. If you've got any idea why we're in here, speak up. And don't give me stupid answers or whacky theories. I'm talking real information. If you waste my time, I'll have to come over there and kick your ass."

Real inspirational, this guy.

I go over to the railing and peer down. There's one level between us and the floor below. Down at the bottom are medium-length tables and chairs spread out in every direction. It looks clean, unused.

"Here's what we're going to do," Marcus says. "We're going to look for two things. Clues or some way out of here. If we can't get out of this place, we're going to try to understand what we're doing inside it." He points at someone on the level below. "Weasel-face. Is this a joke to you?"

A few snickers accompany the Weasel-face.

"No," comes the reply.

"Why're you talking? Do you think what I'm saying isn't important?"

The other boy's voice gets a little louder, like he's worked up a smidgeon of courage. "Just wondering who put you in charge, that's all."

"I put myself in charge." Marcus grips the railing with both hands and leans forward. "If you've got a problem with that, get over here and let's work this out." Pause. "Yeah, that's what I thought. Shut up and listen. All of you. I need some of you to stay up here in case we can go back inside the blocks and the rest of you down below."

"That's not going to work," I say without thinking.

Marcus looks up at me. "What's not going to work?"

At least he's not calling me Weasel-face. "I don't think we'll be able to return to the blocks. I think the bracelets are supposed to keep us out." My voice echoes across the wide space. I clear my throat. "I mean, the shocks stopped as soon as we left the blocks, right?"

"So did the beeping," someone behind me says.

"The beeping came before the shock," I reply. "Like a warning."

Marcus looks away from me, dismissing me and my contribution, and all I feel is relief that it didn't turn into more. He points again to someone on the lower level. "Buzzcut! Get up here. You, too, Moneybags," he adds, gesturing toward Alec.

"I'd rather you call me Blaine if nothing else," Alec groans.

"Sorry, champ. I can't show favoritism."

The trio huddle together on the stairs. Buzzcut is a big brown-skinned guy with hair shaved close to his skull and a stoic expression on his face. Alec is tough, too, male model looks aside. Marcus is building an army, choosing the right people to work under him. It's like I'm witnessing a dictator being born right before my eyes.

He turns back to us. "Everybody, downstairs. Top floor, you're with Moneybags. The rest of you are with Buzzcut. Let's search this place before more weird shit happens."

I'm about to join the others as they trickle downstairs when Marcus appears. He grabs my arm and pulls me off to one side. "Ready to back your words up, Rose?"

I take in everything about him. His striking features, his coal-black eyebrows, set low over dark eyes, his short black hair. A tattoo peeks out from one edge of his collar. He's the tall-dark-and-dangerous type of good-looking, but it's hard to think about how attractive he is when everything about him makes me feel threatened.

"Rose?" I say.

"Easy on the eyes, prickly when touched."

I cross my arms over my chest. "What do you want? I'm not going to get into a fistfight with you. You'd obviously win."

"Not what I meant. How about you prove this theory of yours by walking through that door?"

I watch his face for signs that this is a trick. "Why don't you do it?"

"I will if you're afraid. Are you?"

"You're asking if I'm afraid? What do you think?"

Marcus appraises me. "You want some advice? Keep that fear to yourself. Some of the people in here—they feed on that sort of thing."

"Do you?" I dare to ask.

One corner of his mouth moves up. He walks back to our block without another word, and I scowl after him. "I'll do it."

"You're easy to provoke, aren't you?"

"It's not like that. You're right. I'm the one who said the bracelet is still active. I should be the one to prove it."

"Be my guest," Marcus says, sweeping one hand toward our block.

I stop in front of it. Taking a deep breath, I lift my right hand and inch it toward the doorway. Slow and steady. The bracelet's shocks increased earlier the longer we stayed in the hallway. I don't want to risk killing myself by running straight into the block.

"Any time this decade would be nice," Marcus says.

I shoot a glare over my shoulder. My hand passes through the doorway. I wave it, trying to get something to happen. Nothing. So I lift the hand with the bracelet.

Marcus makes an impatient sound. "Too slow."

He grabs my shoulders and shoves me forward. I have just enough time to gasp and push back against him before we're both through the doorway.

The electric shock is nothing like it was before. It races through me like lightning. I drop to the floor, muscles cramping. For five seconds, it feels like my blood has caught on fire. Then it stops. Distantly, I hear the bracelet beeping in warning, telling me that I have an insignificant amount of time before I experience a world of hurt again, but I can't get my body to work.

Marcus is stronger than me. Out of the corner of my eye I see him crawl through the doorway. He stays on his knees for a moment, catching his breath. Then he lets out a groan and a short laugh. "I admit . . . that was . . . a bad idea."

The bracelet is still beeping. I lift my head and stretch a hand out to him, but he doesn't react. Fear leaks in through my pain. Marcus doesn't strike me as the helpful type. There's no way he'll risk electrocution to save my life.

Which means I'm as good as dead.