Strangers Among Us

by Kelley Armstrong

She nods. “It’s hard sometimes.” A wry smile. “Most times, I think, for anyone with a heart. But we must remember why it is done.”

  I say, by rote, “For the protection of all. So that we may be healthy and safe, and may bear equally healthy children who will contribute all that they can.”

  “Exactly,” she says and loops her arm through mine. “Let’s see if I can sell the rest of my wares, and we’ll buy a treat and forget about the Culling. It does not concern the likes of us.”

  Oh, but it does, the voice whispers. It really does.

  The Culling begins with a physical examination. With my clothing off, two physicians inspect me from top to bottom. It doesn’t matter if I’ve been undergoing this since birth. It is done every year in case some physical deformity, like a curve of the spine, appears as we grow into adulthood.

  Next come the mental tests. These used to stop when we reached puberty, the assumption being that if we were slow of mind, it would have appeared by then. Now they continue until we are twenty, looking for signs of other mental impairment, the kind they believe might come with a sickness like mine. I have no such problems, though, and I fly through the tests.

  The final stage is the psychological examination. That’s the one I most fear. It’s the one everyone fears. If we are quick to anger or sadness or even joy, might it be considered a sign of impairment? If we display the behaviour they call “obsessive” or “compulsive” or if our pattern of thinking is deemed to be different from the norm, might that be enough? Even to be overly anxious about the testing itself could see us labeled unfit.

  My parents, using the example of my aunt, have trained me how to answer these questions. How to give the “normal” responses. I take a light sleeping draught for three nights before, to ensure my worry doesn’t rob me of sleep. They feed me the best food available, a luxury even on their generous salaries. They give me half their rations of water. They brew teas meant to calm my nerves. In short, they do everything possible to ensure I am alert and happy and healthy and that nothing as small as being hungry and irritable might make the inquisitors take a closer look at me. I have always passed the tests with ease. As I do again this year.

  I’m in the village hall with my brother, Dieter. No parents are present while the youth are being tested. It is allowed, but parents fear that even normal anxiety over their child’s results could be misconstrued. So they stay out. Dieter and I are at the table together, receiving our results.

  “Marisol Perret,” the woman drones, not even looking up from her paper. “You have successfully passed this year’s tests, as has Dieter Perret.” She hands us two circles of paper. Both are yellow. “Please report to the next room to await further testing.”

  I look at my yellow circle and then at Dieter. He frowns and says to the woman, “But we passed. Our tests should be complete; our circles are green.”

  “There has been a change this year,” she says, making a note in her book. “Those with a family history of impairment will undergo additional screening. You may proceed to the next room.”

  “But—” Dieter says.

  She looks up sharply at that, cutting him short. “Do you wish to lodge a complaint, Dieter Perret?”

  “No,” I say quickly. “He’s confused by the change, that’s all. No complaint, ma’am.”

  She grunts, as if disappointed. A complaint is almost always accompanied by inexplicable test failure. I shoot Dieter a look. He mouths an apology, but worry clouds his eyes.

  I lead him away and whisper, “I’ll be fine. I always am.”

  Pure luck, the voice whispers. And it cannot hold.

  I sit across the table from the head inquisitor. I’ve never spoken to her before. I duck away whenever I see her coming in the streets. Now I keep asking myself what I’ve done to warrant her personal attention. Dieter is being tested by one of her underlings. But she came in especially for me.

  I tell myself it’s our family history and, since I am older than Dieter, I am more likely to show signs of the illness our aunt suffered. A simple matter of probability. Not suspicion. But as I sit there, watching her scratch in a notebook, having not yet said a word to me, sweat dribbles down my face and the voice whispers, She knows.

  There is a cup on the table. She brought it with her. I thought perhaps she was bringing water, a subtle reminder to me of the danger we face as a village. Or a reminder of who she is, that she can drink so freely.

  Yet she has placed the cup closer to me. I know it is not a peace offering. Not intended to put me at ease. I stare at that cup, and a drop of my sweat falls onto the table.

  “Marisol Perret,” she says finally, looking up. “Do you solemnly swear that all answers you have given in your previous interview are correct?”

  I discreetly swallow before answering, so I don’t stammer. Another trick my parents have taught me. I look her in the eye and say, “Yes, I do.”

  “Drink the contents of that cup, then, and we will be sure.”

  “What?”

  “We have obtained a potion used by other villages to ensure honesty in the Culling interviews. Of course, we cannot afford to use it for everyone. But when there is a family history, combined with irregular responses in the interview—”

  “Irregular?” My voice squeaks, and I struggle to deepen it before saying, “Irregular how, ma’am? I was told that I passed.”

  “Drink the contents of that cup, and I will re-conduct the interview.”

  “But—”

  “Are you objecting, Marisol Perret?”

  “N-no.” Control, Mari. Get it under control. “I just . . . I don’t understand. I’m not yet eighteen and if there is a change to the proceedings, my parents ought to be notified before I—”

  “Are you objecting?”

  “No, I—”

  “Are you challenging the prerogative of the council?”

  “Never. I just . . . I just want to understand.”

  “Drink the potion. Answer the questions. That’s all you need to understand.”

  I hesitate just for a moment. She gets to her feet and calls to the guard posted behind her. “Please note that Marisol Perret has challenged the authority of this inquisitor and the Culling.”

  “No!” I leap up. “I never said—” I grab for the cup to drink, but she snatches it before I can.

  “This interview is at an end. In refusing to participate, Marisol Perret has proven that she has something to hide. On that basis, she will be Culled at midnight tomorrow.”

  The guard strides forward and grabs me. I struggle as hard as I can, protesting that I didn’t argue, didn’t challenge her authority, that I’ll take the potion, answer her questions . . .

  He drags me out the door. The inquisitor is already gone.

  See? The voice whispers. You cannot win.

  I am to be Culled. Not because of my sickness, but because they need to Cull more people this year, and I am as good a candidate as any. It is almost ironic, that after years of hiding my sickness, it isn’t even that which damns me. It is a simple matter of logistics.

  They need to reduce the population. My family has a history of sickness. I briefly questioned this new technique for revealing it. Anyone would have questioned it, feared it would reveal some hidden thread of sickness. We all worry about that in this world. We can’t help it. We analyze every thought and emotion for the signs that could see us Culled.

  I remember when I first started showing symptoms. My mother had tried to calm my fears. We all show “signs,” she said, to some degree. We are sadder some days, more anxious on others. We have the occasional wild imagining. We may have a voice in our head that encourages us to do wrong or chides us when we do. It is a matter of scale. At the one end, yes, there are those like the man in the cage, where the sickness has eaten his mind. But they deserve care, not fear. And for the rest, like me, it is a matter of dealing with the symptoms as one would any minor ailment and allowing me to remain a productive member of society.


  I don’t know if I believe her. I’ve seen the man in the cage, and heard the words of the council too many times. I feared his fate was, indeed, my future.

  Yet it is not. My future is to be dragged into the desert beyond the village and executed before I can consume any more precious resources.

  My future ends at midnight.

  Unless . . .

  “We’ve bought the exemption, Mari,” Dieter whispers outside my cell. He’s snuck in. No one can visit those waiting to be Culled, but there are ways. Just as there are ways to avoid execution. My family has paid—dearly, I’m sure.

  An exemption.

  That does not mean I will be allowed to stay. Only that my life will be spared. That I will be freed once I’m taken to the place of execution. Freed to die in a barren desert wasteland. Because that’s the only option, no matter how much desperate families convince themselves otherwise.

  My family has paid for hope. And that’s why I won’t tell them to keep their money. However steep the cost, my mother still blames herself for not being able to scrape enough together when my aunt was Culled. My family needs that hope, to believe I have survived, found others who’ve been exiled, living like nomads in the desert. It is an impossible dream, but I owe it to them.

  Once I’m freed, I’ll find a quick way to die. It may not be as merciful as the executioner’s axe, but it will grant me dignity. Choice.

  I hug Dieter as best I can through the bars, and we both cry, but I tell him I’ll be fine. I’m resourceful and determined. My sickness is far from debilitating. So, I’ll be fine. Just fine. Better even, without the specter of the Culling hanging over me. I’ll miss them all, but in the end I’ll be better off.

  Yes, the voice whispers. You will.

  We are taken into the desert at midnight. Taken far from the outer wall, so that no one traveling from the village in the days to come will stumble over our desiccated bodies. When we reach the spot, I see headless corpses stacked like cordwood, undisturbed from previous Cullings because there are no longer predators large enough to drag them away. The very sand around us is stained permanently red. Somewhere in that pile is my aunt. I turn away before I find myself searching for her.

  The executioner works methodically. We are bound in a line, and he does not even free us from our ropes. We all kneel, still in that line, and he works his way down it. There are eleven of us. I know their names. Have spoken to them all before. In a village of two hundred, it is impossible not to have crossed paths. But here, we say nothing. We simply wait, resigned.

  The executioner gets to the last three. I’m between the other two. The girl next in line will have an exemption. My family is well off; hers is wealthy. Sickness runs in it as well, the methodical sickness, with its obsessions and compulsions. I knew her in school, and had noticed those tendencies, but they were so slight they impaired her not at all. This year, that doesn’t matter. This year, she was Culled.

  She will have an exemption, though. That means the last three of us do. That’s the logical way to do it, leave us for the end. Yet the executioner raises his axe and she lets out a cry, and I know she does have an exemption . . . and it doesn’t matter. It never mattered. Wasted hope.

  The axe falls, severing the rope binding her to the string of new headless corpses for the pile. Then it rises again and cuts the one between us. Another cut separates me from the young man to my right. We rise, shaking off the rope as the executioner efficiently tosses the new corpses on top of the old. We remain unmoving as he wordlessly begins the long trek back to the village.

  “We should stick together,” I say. “There’s a chance we can survive if we—”

  They run, in separate directions, leaving me alone.

  What did you expect? The voice whispers.

  I walk until I can’t. Then I sleep. I need to find an easy way to kill myself, but nothing presents itself in this endless desert. I won’t die of exposure. I just won’t—that’s a horrible way to go. Tomorrow I’ll figure out a solution, even if it means burying my head in the sand and suffocating. For now, I’m too exhausted to even try that.

  I wake in the night to a hand on my shoulder, but as I jump up, I don’t panic. I think it’s one of the other exemptions. They’ve realized I’m right—that we might stand some chance of survival together. He or she has tracked me down, not difficult through the sand. I’m a little alarmed by how eagerly I rise, just as I am by how disappointed I’d been when they ran. I might tell myself I don’t hope to survive, but obviously I do. I cannot help it.

  When I leap up, though, the face over my own is a weathered stranger’s. He squeezes my shoulder and says, “Be calm, child. We have a place for you. A proper place.”

  A proper place.

  You know what that means, the voice whispers.

  An image of the man in the cage flashes through my mind. I’ve heard stories of this, of towns where they don’t merely display one of the “sickened” as an example but where they have an entire menagerie of them for entertainment.

  A proper place.

  “Come,” he says. “We’ll—”

  I lash out. I hit him hard, a blow to the stomach, and he falls back in surprise. I scramble up only to see two other shadowy figures. One holds a blade that glints in the starlight. I run at the other, who seems unarmed, but she knocks me down, and says, “We’ll have to do it this way, then,” and presses a noxious-smelling cloth over my mouth and nose. I still fight, I fight so hard, but my struggles fade and I fall into night as the voice whispers, There is no escaping. You always knew that.

  I wake several times, enough to realize I’m in a cart, but I’m so groggy I fall straight back to sleep, lulled against my will by the heaviness in my head and the rhythm of the cart wheels. When I am finally able to open my eyes more than a slit, I’m no longer in that jostling cart. I’m in a darkened room on a pile of blankets, my head cradled on a pillow.

  I rise and blink. It’s a shelter of some kind, with fabric overhead. A tent? We’ve stopped to camp, then.

  I blink to help my eyes adjust. Daylight seeps in through the fabric seams. The weathered man sits beside me. His eyes are closed, though. He’s fallen asleep at his post.

  I creep from my bed, my gaze fixed on him. He doesn’t stir. I make it to the tent flap and push it open. Light floods in, and I’m blinking to adjust again. That’s when I hear voices—someone giving orders, someone talking, someone laughing. Voices from every direction.

  I push my head out and see that I’m in a village. There are tents, like the one I’m in, but permanent buildings, too.

  I curse under my breath. I’ve reached my destination. My proper place.

  No matter. I can still escape. No one guards the door. I’ll move carefully and, if I’m spotted and recognized as a stranger, I’ll run. If I’m caught, I’ll fight hard enough that they’ll decide I’m not worth the effort and kill me. That will be better than any fate they have in store for me.

  I slip along the tent. I can see people down the road. Two people walk and chat. A young woman hammers a board onto the side of a house a few doors down. A man heading toward her has some kind of device braced under his arm and his pant-leg hangs oddly, as if he’s missing part of his leg. I stare at that, but I presume it’s a recent injury and he’ll be Culled next time, though it seems strange they’d waste the medical care required to treat such an injury. They certainly don’t in my village. That keeps my attention and I walk out further than I intend.

  Someone spots me—an older woman coming around the corner, talking to a man who seems distraught. She’s assuring him everything is fine. I stare at that, too. Public displays of emotion are unwise—they could be mistaken for sickness. Perhaps she is his mother, getting him quickly off the street before anyone notices. She gives me a smile as she goes by, but apparently she’s too caught up in her charge to notice I’m a stranger.

  I look around. I can see a wall, like the one around our village, and I make my way toward it. As I do, a
noise startles me, but it’s only a thin piece of wood banging lightly in the breeze, a notice nailed to a building. I can’t resist sidetracking to read it.

  Village meeting next moon to discuss settlement at newly discovered spring.

  Volunteer settlers may sign up for interviews at this time. Single, young tradespeople preferred but exceptions, as always, made for families.

  A new spring? Our village found one years ago, but decided it was too far to transport water. Why had they not considered this—relocating people to start a new village? Perhaps that wasn’t possible and this was a trap—people would leave and never return, executed as a form of the Culling. Even as I think this, I know it doesn’t make sense.

  I look around. I see the man with the walking device has stopped. He’s giving instructions to the young woman working on the building. She listens as he picks up a hammer and demonstrates, no more restricted by his impairment than I am by mine.

  I look toward the distant wall and then back at what I can see of the village.

  Is it possible this isn’t what I thought?

  No, I cannot believe that. I want it too much. Hope is a dangerous thing.

  I continue toward the wall. That’s when I see a picture on a building wall. A huge picture, taller than me. It’s not of anything, not a literal representation. I see trees and storm clouds and lightning bolts, and it is magical and wondrous and terrifying. It reminds me of my aunt’s picture, the one my parents hid. It reminds me of my own, too. Mine represented the maelstrom of my mind, the things I see in my head, equally wondrous and terrifying. And here they are, drawn large.

  I’m seeing things. I must be. No one would show these things in public. No one would dare.

  “Do you like it?” a voice asks behind me.

  I turn to see my mother. It’s then that I’m sure I’m dreaming. Or lost in my sickness, finally pulled under by that ever-threatening tide.

  But it’s not my mother. She’s too young, perhaps around her thirtieth year. This woman looks like her and yet is not her. She looks like me and yet is not me. She’s somewhere between the two and when I see her—really see her—a memory sparks deep in my mind.