The Testing

by Joelle Charbonneau

  A large metal arch towers over us as we follow the main road that travels around the outer rim of the city. The buildings stand taller than those in the city we passed through days ago, but these look to be in far worse shape. The scorched nature of some of the wreckage tells the story. This city was bombed.

  According to Tomas’s map book, the name of the city was St. Louis. Neither of us remembers if our history books say what kind of bomb was used here. Some bombs destroyed what was in their path. Others laid waste to water and soil. The worst contained poisons with potencies that, unless physically counteracted, do not fade over time. It is the last option that keeps our bicycles pointed to the west and our eyes fastened on the road that veers around the city. With a sufficient amount of water and food, we do not need to risk whatever tests this city contains.

  The next few days we settle into a pattern of foraging for food, traveling, and camping. We find several small streams that help us wash away the stains of travel, and while we do not go hungry, our clothes begin to hang from our bodies. I wrap a long piece of cot sheet around the top of my pants to keep them from slipping onto my hips. Tomas is forced to do the same. We talk of only the most superficial things. Every once in a while I catch Tomas staring at me as though longing to say something. But he doesn’t. And neither do I.

  I jump at every sound even though there are no more animal attacks or strange humans—although twice we spot what look like other Testing candidates on the northern horizon. We pedal faster to avoid confrontation. The man from the other side of the fence does not appear again. Just day after day of travel. The shadows beneath Tomas’s eyes get heavier. While he laughs and smiles, I can see the strain under everything.

  My nightmares get worse. Friends, family, and foes find me in my dreams, but I am learning to bite back the screams that come with waking. I find myself touching the vial of liquid in my pocket to calm myself. More disturbing are the cuts on my arm. For the first few days I tell myself I am imagining the difference, but after a week passes, no amount of wishful thinking can change what is undeniable. The cuts have gotten worse. The scabs growing over them turn green and ooze a yellowish liquid. Whatever chemicals twisted the humans in this area have now infected me. I take more pain pills, drink more water, and hope I can make it to the end of this test without the infection doing permanent damage.

  After more than a week of riding, we spot another large collection of buildings on the horizon. Here both the northern and southern fence lines are visible. The Testers are limiting the amount of space during these last two hundred miles. If there are other Testing candidates nearby, we are almost certain to come in contact with them.

  Footprints and what look like tire tracks on the side of the road tell us at least two, maybe three, candidates have passed through this area. While we have moved fast, they have been faster. Now they could be lurking somewhere in this city’s streets.

  We wait until dawn before following their lead through the first streets. The city looks decayed, but the buildings are in moderately good repair. Until we turn a corner and the buildings come to an end. In their place is a deep crater that stretches as far as we can see. Ringing the edge of the crater are buildings like the ones we just passed through. Several streets deep. All that is left of a place where people once lived and worked and thrived.

  We stare into the emptiness with our fingers clutching our handlebars. Miles and miles of scorched emptiness. While the land behind us is corrupted, there are still plants that have adapted. Things live. In front of me there is not a speck of plant life. Nothing lives here. I try to imagine what once stood in this space. How any leader could order a bombing that results in this—the kind of destruction that cannot be fixed with the right chemistry equation or a new breed of plant. The earth is resilient, but it’s hard to imagine a time when this place will be anything but a terrible reminder of what we as a people can do.

  With the crater stretching for miles, we have no choice but to take one of the roads that travel around it. This means going through the maze of streets filled with buildings. For no real reason, we choose to go to the right, walking our bicycles instead of riding. I am glad for the decision to walk. My arm is aching more. So is the rest of my body. The pain pills push back the chill for hours at a time, but it always returns. Maybe walking will help my body rest enough to fight the infection inside me.

  After we zigzag through several blocks, I ask, “Do you think the people who bombed this city really understood the damage they were causing? Do you think they realized winning might mean killing everyone and everything—even themselves?”

  Tomas shrugs. “Does the answer really matter?”

  “Maybe,” I say. During the past week, I’ve thought a lot about that question. Perhaps because the closer we come to the end of the test, the closer we are to becoming the next leaders of our generation. Many of my fellow candidates had demonstrated their belief that the end justifies the means. I have a hard time understanding that, but one thing is certain. The past cannot be changed. My nightly dreams are a testament to that. And sometime during the wakeful nights, I have realized that the length of this test is not arbitrary. The third test helped them learn what they needed to know about our ability to trust, strategize, and cooperate with others. From our behavior during that exam, I have no doubt the Testing officials could predict which candidates would use the provided weapons for survival and which would turn them on their fellow man during this test. While the fourth test measures many of the same areas as its predecessor, it’s also designed to gauge not only the choices we make, but also how we live with those choices once we’ve made them. Do we learn from our mistakes and use that information to carry us successfully to the end of this exam, or will they swallow us under? From the shadows under his eyes and the slump of his shoulders, I know Tomas is being swallowed whole.

  The image of Ryme’s lifeless body flashes in front of me and I feel a stab of fear. Ryme was swallowed by whatever doubts plagued her. While I am not sure what memory is haunting Tomas, I am certain by the despair in his eyes that it has the power. I don’t know what he has done, but whatever it is, he does not deserve to end up a victim of The Testing.

  Taking a deep breath, I explain, “The whole point of this test was for us to see what terrible things were done and for us to learn from those mistakes. Right?” Tomas cocks his head to the side, and I forge ahead. “The best leaders make mistakes and then learn from them. The best leaders never make the same mistakes again. The only way you can learn is if you understand the mistakes that were made.”

  Tomas looks down a street that ends at the crater and considers my words for a long while. When he looks back at me, I see some of the tension is gone. “I think the leaders knew they’d destroy the buildings and kill the people. The rest . . .” He sighs. “I can’t believe they intended to completely destroy a world they wanted to live in. They had to realize they were making a mistake. They just didn’t know how to stop.”

  I look around at the buildings and nod. “Maybe that’s the mark of a real leader. Admitting a mistake has been made and finding a way to stop it at all costs.”

  We’ve traveled over halfway around our side of the circle when a shiver travels up my spine. I reach for the fever pills in my medical kit and shiver again. This isn’t the fever. This is something very different. When I was little, my brothers made a game of talking me into doing things our mother wouldn’t approve of—like sneaking bread from the pantry or taking her best sheet and turning it into a pirate’s costume. I could always tell when Mom caught me by the tiny shiver I felt as her eyes settled on my back. The same shiver I feel now. Someone is watching.

  Gaping windows, open doorways, cracks in the walls surround us. I see nothing in the ones we pass, but I slide my gun out of my bag anyway. The wind picks up. The sky turns gray. A storm is coming. Perhaps that is what is making the hair on my neck stand on end.

  The wind whips a strand of hair free from the knot I’ve been w
earing it in. I push the hair off my face, and that’s when I see it. A face framed by a doorway. Large, intelligent eyes sunk in a wrinkled, sunbaked face. Tufts of dark brown hair on the head, the neck, the arm I see. My blood churns as I see the familiar razor-sharp claws at the end of the hand. Several inches long. Sharp. Poisonous.

  The wind howls. No. Not just the wind. The wind has merely masked what I refused to hear as we walked. The low murmur of voices. Guttural sounds carried on the wind that tell me there is more than just this one. Slowly, I turn and study the shadows, counting the faces I see. Five. Ten. Two more in a second-story window. Too many for us to survive if they attack. But they haven’t yet. They are waiting for something.

  Tomas has yet to notice the faces. His eyes are fixed on the road, looking for danger ahead of us—not in the windows three stories up. I hold my breath as a light rain begins to fall. Tomas swears and suggests we climb on our bicycles so we can move faster. But I don’t dare. Thus far the occupants of the buildings have done nothing more than watch. Perhaps walking seems unthreatening. But riding? I was riding when one attacked. If riding triggers their aggression, I will not repeat the offense.

  “Cia, did you hear me? I think we should ride.”

  I give a small shake of my head, put my hand on his arm, and whisper, “Look in the windows.” He stops walking. The quick intake of breath tells me he has spotted someone. Leaning closer, I say, “There are dozens of them.”

  “They look almost human.” Tomas’s hand fingers the hilt of his knife, and I see the watcher in the window shift.

  “They are human.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  The rain falls harder, plastering the clothes to our bodies, making it more difficult to see the eyes following our every move. A watcher steps away from his spot in a doorway. His movements are fast and smooth. Tomas reaches again for his knife, but I put a hand on his arm and shake my head as the watcher comes to a stop ten feet behind us. His eyes are unblinking as he waits for our next move. My chest tightens and it’s impossible to catch my breath as step by agonizingly slow step we begin to walk again. Thunder rumbles. The cuts on my arm burn. Two more watchers join the first in the street. They slowly follow behind us.

  The rain falls harder still. Lightning streaks across the sky and reflects in the watchers’ wide, never-blinking eyes. Another falls in behind us. Then another. Soon there are more than a dozen. Never moving faster than us. Walking with their strange hunched but fluid gait. They keep their distance, at least ten yards behind, but are ever present with their claws and their overwhelming numbers.

  It is Tomas who first notices the distance between the watchers and us is growing wider. They do not leave the street, but their gait slows until it comes to a stop. Dozens of them stand in the street as we pick up our pace. Perhaps this too was a test. Maybe the Testers were curious to see whether we would attack these people without provocation—out of fear of the unknown instead of a real threat.

  I see one more watcher in the doorway of a building twenty feet in front of us. Thunder rattles the windows as the watcher stares at us with unblinking eyes. I barely register the rattle of gunfire until the person’s face is torn to shreds.

  Chapter 18

  STRONG ARMS PULL me to the ground. Tomas drapes himself over me, acting as a human shield, as the sound of gunfire continues. From the asphalt, I see the watcher’s sightless, bloody body hit the ground. Then I hear the cries behind us. I do not know the words. But I understand. Outrage. Anger. The need for vengeance. The group is no longer dozens of yards behind us. They are moving forward. Fast.

  Tomas scrambles to his feet first and holds out his hand. I take it as another rattle of bullets sparks the pavement and sends wounded watchers to their knees. The bullets chew apart limbs, torsos, heads—creating a gore unlike any I have ever imagined. The mutated humans shriek as bullets cut their comrades off at the knees. I catch a glimpse of blond hair, a tall, muscular build, and the dark metal machine gun atop a three-story building as Tomas pushes my bicycle toward me and yells to ride.

  But I can’t. I know the boy wielding the gun. It’s Brick.

  “Stop shooting,” I scream, waving my arms to get his attention.

  Cries of anguish come from windows and doors that line the streets and mix with my screams as more watchers arrive. Dozens and dozens of them. And while I should be scared of their vengeance, all I can do is scream for Brick to stop firing and stare at the horror he has wrought. It is impossible to tell that the tissue and flesh on the ground were just moments before standing in front of us. The smell of blood makes my stomach rebel. From the retching I hear next to me, I can tell Tomas is not in much better condition. Doubled over, I see the rainwater streaming down the road toward us swirling with red blood. Red. The same as ours. Human. All human. All dead.

  Amid the thunder and the guttural cries, it takes me a minute to realize Brick is shouting down at us. “I have you covered, Cia. Run! Hurry. Get out of here before they attack you. Go!”

  “Stop,” I scream. Tears clog my throat. Revulsion threatens to choke me. All these people dead. Killed by a boy I helped to survive. “You’re killing people. They weren’t hurting us. They’re just people.”

  But Brick isn’t listening. He has opened fire again, farther down the street, at people who despite this horrific provocation are not attacking. All the living want to do is care for the dead. And now they, too, are among the fallen.

  Tomas grabs my arm. I lose my grip on my bicycle, and it clatters to the ground.

  “Pick it up. We can’t help them, Cia. We have to go.”

  I barely keep my balance as I cast looks behind me, willing Brick to stop. But he doesn’t. Rattles of gunfire echo through the air. How many more dead? Because of me. Because I saved Brick’s life and he in turn believes he is saving mine.

  More than once I stop pedaling as the enormity of the massacre I witnessed overwhelms me. Tomas’s patient voice is the only thing that keeps me moving forward. All I want to do is curl into a ball and weep.

  And I do. On the outskirts of the city, Tomas spots a small building that looks sound and insists we stay there for the night. The downpour has ended, but our clothing, hair, and shoes are soaked through. He finds enough wood to build a fire on the stone floor near a window and encourages me to change out of my wet clothes. I follow his request even though my other shirt is stained from my first encounter with those people—when I too killed.

  My body isn’t up for food, so I pull my legs tight against my chest and stare at the fire, trying to imagine my family safe and warm in front of theirs. Tomas insists on treating my arm. He digs out some pain pills and makes me take them. Maybe the pills will stop my body from shaking. Thunder still echoes in the city streets as Tomas tells me how much he loves me and holds me as I cry myself to sleep.

  My dreams are filled with gunfire and rivers of blood. When I wake, I remember the dreams were real and nausea rolls through me. I know I need to eat, but my stomach curdles at the thought of meat. I force myself to eat a pear and drink some water. Our boots are still damp, but we put them on, store the rest of our belongings, and step outside. The sky is a brilliant shade of blue. The wind is cool and refreshing. There are even a few flowers blooming under the brilliant sun. A perfect day that mocks the horror of the night before.

  Out of habit we consult the map, wheel our bicycles to the road, and begin to pedal. According to the Transit Communicator, we have just under two hundred miles before reaching the end of the test. We pedal hard, as much to reach the end as to get away from the death behind us. As we ride up hills, we can see the fence line to the north moving closer. Perhaps as little as a mile separates the two boundaries. Yes. Our Testers want us to face each other. I wonder whether the Testers will have to make a choice when this is over. With what I have seen, it will be a miracle if twenty of us cross the finish line alive.

  We travel throughout the day with only minimal stops. My arm is worse. I am sweating mo
re as we ride, and my fingers on my left hand grip the handlebars with less assurance. But I force my legs to move around and around. I will our wheels to go faster and faster to the end. We meet no other candidates during the day, and there are 150 miles left to travel when we stop. Tomas holds me close again at night, kisses me gently, and whispers that if we keep up this pace we can make it to the end in three days. Just three days. I tell myself I can make it and hope I am right.

  The sky is gray when we once again set out. My legs feel weaker, my arm more inflamed. I take more pain pills. Use more ointment. Know that both are useless against the poison festering inside me. Will they know how to treat the wounds when I get to Tosu City? Tomas says they will, but he will say almost anything to keep me from giving up. Funny, but giving up is the last thing I will do. Not after everything we have witnessed and the things we have been forced to do. Giving up would be like admitting none of it mattered. And it needs to matter. It needs to be remembered. But, now that we are so close to the end, I worry about the memory wipe my father said is coming. As we ride, I recall everything I’ve learned about the workings of the brain from our teachers and from Dr. Flint and when we break for lunch, I tell Tomas I’m tired and need a nap. Instead of lying down, I take off my bracelet and walk fifty yards away. After a few minutes, Tomas does the same.

  “What’s up? Is your arm worse? We can slow our pace a little if you need a break.”

  I ignore the pain that has moved from my arm to my shoulder and down my torso and say, “We’re almost to the end.”

  His face breaks out into a wide smile. That familiar single dimple makes me want to cry. “I know. Another day. Maybe two and we should be there.” He feels my forehead and frowns, which only tells me what I already know. I’m burning up. “They’ll fix up your arm as soon as we get there, Cia. You’ll be good as new in no time.”