The Culling

by Steven dos Santos

  I feel dizzy, like I’m going to pass out. Was it another taser mine or neural scrambler, so close to the finish line?

  My leg continues to burn. I have to get up before Ophelia—where is she? Is she still gaining? But there’s no one behind me.

  The source of the fire is a chunk of metal lodged in my left thigh.

  Ophelia gazes at me from the other side of the finish line. She’s giggling, dancing around triumphantly, taunting me with the amputated limb.

  Digory shoves her aside. “What did you do to him?” he cries. He tries to step over the line but his locator flares bright yellow and his face contorts until he doubles over.

  So they rigged the locators with pain inducers, for just such an attempt.

  My heart thrashes my rib cage. I drop to my knees. I was so close.

  And now Digory’s going to die because of me.

  “Lucian!” he calls. But his voice sounds like it’s miles away instead of just a few feet. “How bad did she hurt you? Damn it! Answer me!”

  I slump on my side. I can’t bring myself to look at him any longer, afraid I won’t be able to hold it together. Instead, I focus on my leg, watching the blood ooze from the edges of the metal but unable to feel a thing.

  The thought penetrates my stupor. I grip the shank so hard it slices my fingers. Still I feel nothing. Taking a deep breath, I rip it out and fling it away. If only I could do the same to my heart.

  A moan to my left. The miner. He’s still alive. Maybe I could do one good thing and get him to safety before I end Digory’s life with my choice.

  I stumble toward Martino and grip his arms again. But I’m too weak. I close my eyes to get my bearings. Take your time. After all, there’s no reason to rush anymore. And the longer I take to cross this line, the longer it’ll be before I cross that line and give up what’s left of my humanity forever.

  I drag the miner a couple of more feet and drop. My pant leg is soaked. It reminds me of the wine Cassius spilled back in the Prefect’s antechamber, back before … before I realized that the terrible infection had set into him.

  My vision doubles. Two bloody legs instead of one. I try to focus. Maybe Ophelia did her job too efficiently and infection is already settling into me as well.

  I don’t think I can go on. They’ll have to carry me across. I chuckle. Hope they don’t mind me making my choice from a stretcher. My eyes feel weighted down. Maybe I’ll feel better if I can just sleep for a few …

  A shadow falls over me.

  I look up. A dark shape is holding out a hand to me. Digory? How did he get past the pain sensors?

  I open my eyes wider and let them adjust.

  It’s not Digory. It’s Gideon.

  How’s that possible? Did I pass out without realizing it and wake up on the other side of the barrier? I look past him. Digory, Cypress, and Ophelia are still standing across the finish line with their rescued survivors lying behind them. But then that would mean—

  I bolt up and allow Gideon to pull me to my feet. “You haven’t gone across yet?” I ask.

  He half smiles. “No. Not yet.” He nods toward an old woman who’s slumped a foot away from the line, her tracker blinking in harmony to his. “After you.”

  Adrenaline surges through me. I grab the miner once again and start for the finish line. I can still do this. I freeze in my tracks and whirl to face Gideon. “Why?”

  His pulls off his glasses and wipes his eyes. “I’m not sure.”

  As heartsick as I feel, I heave the miner across the line with me and he drops to the ground.

  The audio system crackles to life with Slade’s voice.

  Gideon Warrick. You are the last Recruit to complete this Trial. Enter the safety zone and prepare for the Culling.

  twenty-five

  Gideon crosses the finish line, carrying the old woman in his arms. He sets her down gently, his face a mask of eerie tenderness. “Sorry I took so long.”

  Her trembling finger traces his cheek. “Thank you, young man.”

  Ophelia glares at me and then at Gideon. “You could have beat him, Giddy. I expected more from you. I thought we understood each other. You really let me down.”

  He reaches out for her. “Ophelia—”

  But she brushes his hand off and moves away to sulk.

  “Lucian!” Digory has run over and gathered me into his arms. “Your leg.” He turns. “Cypress! Gimme a hand!”

  Cypress joins us. “Got ’im.”

  The two of them set me down. Cypress clears the tattered fabric from the wounded area on my leg while Digory fixes a strip of cloth he’s torn from his own sleeve over it. “Don’t you worry. You’re going to be okay.”

  I smile. “Without a disinfectant or any meds I’m not so sure.”

  The lights in the battle zone dim.

  Initiating whitewash procedure.

  At Slade’s command, a panel opens in the simulated sky. Hundreds of small, steam-powered spherical drones, no more than two feet in diameter, swoosh through the opening like angry hornets. They swarm across the battle zone over the remaining survivors, spewing them with a substance from stinger-like cylinders that jut from their surfaces.

  Only their venom isn’t some poisonous toxin. Whatever the substance makes contact with begins to sizzle and melt away.

  Acid.

  The entire chamber fills with the screams of people being melted alive.

  Just over the line, a young woman holds out a hand, screaming for her life. A drone flies over and sprays her. She continues to shriek, even as her skin curls and peels and her face and body liquefy into bloody goo that congeals into a puddle and dissolves into nothingness. The lights in that sector go out completely.

  There are a few stray screams, then nothing but deafening silence.

  A new horror fills my thoughts. I scramble to my feet. “Slade!” I point to the huddle of suffering humanity we’ve rescued. “These people need medical attention right away!”

  BLAM! BLAM! Ratatatatatatatatatatatat!

  Instead of more acid, the drones spit gunfire all around us.

  “Take cover!” Digory pushes Cypress and me to the ground and shields us with his body.

  I can’t breathe. The air’s filled with thick acrid smoke and the cloying stench of spent weapon casings.

  Sterilization is complete.

  None of them ever had a chance. Despite the burning in my leg, I crawl out from under Digory. Where the survivors once squirmed, there’s nothing left but a pool of crimson soup. Chunks of body parts riddled with ragged punctures bob on the liquid surface. Smoky tendrils of scorched flesh and fresh blood waft into my nostrils, violating them. I choke on the stink.

  “Is anyone wounded?” Digory cries behind me.

  “We’re still in one piece,” Gideon answers in a voice that’s quiet, hollow. He tries to help Ophelia to her feet but she pushes him away, leaving him standing there with his eyes glued to the red spattered spot that a moment ago was the old woman he rescued.

  Cypress brushes against me, staring at what’s left of the little girl she rescued. Tears forge a path through the grime coating her cheeks. “She was about my … my children’s age.”

  A low rumble drowns out the sound of my breathing. A platform rises out of the ground, containing a darkened glass enclosure the size of a small room. From the rock just beneath it, a series of metal steps slides out.

  Recruit Warrick. Approach the podium.

  If my heart’s pumping a million beats per second and I can barely catch my breath, I can’t even imagine what Gideon must be feeling when he hears Slade’s latest orders.

  He stares at the dais. The nub of his throat bobs up and down. Then he moves forward.

  As he walks past all of us, Digory squeezes his shoulder. “Stay strong.”

  When my eyes meet
Gideon’s, I’m surprised by a fleeting glimpse of satisfaction there. Then it’s gone and he’s past us, climbing the stairs, his gait as delicate and measured as if he’s maneuvering through a mine field.

  The moment he’s standing in front of the dark chamber, the lights inside it come on, revealing Mr. and Mrs. Warrick.

  My breath lodges in my throat.

  Stripped of their formalwear, they’re clad in filthy rags that dangle from their bodies, barely concealing their dignity. Mrs. Warrick’s hair hangs in knotted disarray about her scrawny shoulders, while one of Mr. Warrick’s eyes is practically sealed shut and ringed in a swollen patch of dark purple. Bloody slush fills my veins at the thought of what all the other Incentives must be going through, imprisoned in Purgatorium.

  But even more disturbing than the Warricks’ physical appearance is the fact that they’re both sitting on metal chairs on either side of the chamber, strapped down by their wrists and ankles. Just to the side of each of their necks, long metal blades curve toward them like sickles, casting blinding flashes of light.

  Recruit Warrick. You have sixty seconds to make your selection.

  At Slade’s announcement, the digital countdown display above the podium begins hacking away at the seconds.

  Mr. Warrick just sits there, his wide eyes glazed.

  In contrast, Mrs. Warrick, despite her frail appearance, struggles with her bonds. “Gideon, honey. Please! I’m your mother ! You have to get me out of here!” Her face contorts into a mask of terror.

  Gideon’s face frightens me more than anything else I’ve seen. Tears are flowing like rivers down his cheeks. But his eyes gleam with a twisted fire.

  And he’s smiling.

  “How does it feel, huh?” His voice is a bitter frost. “Are you scared, Mommy? Does it feel like you’re all alone and you’re never going to live to see the sunrise? The light?”

  Mrs. Warrick’s scream pierces through me.

  “Gideon, please,” Mr. Warrick begs, his voice drained of any strength it might have once had. “Don’t do this to your moth—”

  “Shut up!” Gideon spits. “You’re always covering for her! How could you not know what she was doing to me all those years? You saw the marks, heard the screams. You did nothing. Nothing! You’re a coward, always have been.”

  “I was always a good mother to you, Gideon!” Mrs. Warrick wails. “Anything I did was for your own good!”

  Gideon pounds the glass. “What kind of a mother beats her child and locks him in the dark for days on end just for crying because he was hungry?”

  Anger flashes on her face. “You’re weak. Always have been. And ungrateful. I was trying to toughen you up. It’s a harsh world—”

  “Harsh world?” He flings the words back at her. “It’s not supposed to be a harsh world at home, with the people that are supposed to love you.” He rips his shirt up and turns, exposing his back to her. “I can’t forget. I’ll never forget.” He slumps against the enclosure, sobbing. “I hope you’re terrified, like I was.”

  Make your selection.

  Gideon raises his head to the sky. “I choose her, Sgt. Slade. My mother.”

  The blade springs forward and arcs into Mrs. Warrick’s throat, slicing clean through to the other side with a loud thwack. For a second she just sits there, her eyes looking confused. Then a red line fades in around her neck and her head topples off, rolling down her body and across the ground until it stops, pressed against the glass at Gideon’s feet.

  Mr. Warrick’s horrified eyes take in the sight of his wife’s body, still sitting in the chair, gouts of blood pumping from the severed neck. A deep moan stretches out from his throat and turns into garbled sobs.

  “I just wanted to scare her, that’s all,” Gideon says with an eerie calm. He slides down the panel and traces the glass as if he’s trying to caress his mother’s face. “How does it feel, Mom? Huh? How does it feel ? Tell me. How does it feel ? How does it—?”

  He repeats the mantra over and over again, rocking back and forth.

  This Trial is now complete. Recruits will now proceed to the next station where you will have a rest period before receiving instructions and proceeding to your next Trial.

  Slade’s voice fades into nothingness.

  None of us move. If the others are feeling anything like I am, they’re too stunned to even speak.

  A swarm of drones buzzes overhead and hovers over us, their glistening pincers providing the motivation we’re lacking. Slowly, we slog single file toward our next horror.

  All except one of us.

  I look back.

  Gideon’s still rocking and chanting, even after the chamber’s lights have dimmed and faded to black.

  twenty-six

  Everything’s dark. For a terrified second, I feel like I’m back in the Fleshers’ Lair …

  “Lucian. Can you hear me? Are you okay?”

  Digory’s voice buffers the throbbing in my head. Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Each pound reminds me of that sharp blade lopping off Mrs. Warrick’s head, over and over again, until it’s not just her head, but Ophelia’s, Cypress’s, Gideon’s.

  Digory’s …

  “What?” My eyes snap open, burning despite the chill rattling my bones. I try and sit up and I’m overcome with lightheadedness. A firm hand on my back steadies me until I’m able to sit upright on my own.

  “It’s about time you woke up, sleepyhead.” Even though Digory tries to smile, a translucent veil of fear clings to his face. Tiny red veins mar the whites of his eyes.

  It doesn’t look like he’s gotten any sleep. Has he been awake since we reached this holding station? Watching over me?

  He presses his large palm against my forehead. It feels cool, soothing against the heat baking my face. “Fever’s worse. You’re burning up.” His lips curl in. The muscles in his jaw flex.

  “H-how l-long have I-I b-been out?” I force the words through chattering teeth.

  “It’s been about five hours, I guess. Hard to say without a real sky.” He glances at the sterile artificial light shining down into the holding station.

  I glance around the cramped, concrete dome that re-minds me of a beehive. Except in this case it’s what’s outside that can sting you dead.

  Ophelia is pressed against one of the curved walls, doing some kind of stretching exercise. When she sees me, her eyes narrow and a long breath hisses out, as if she’s disappointed I’ve regained consciousness.

  It’s a good thing the rules say we aren’t allowed to kill each other, otherwise I’d never get any rest.

  On the opposite wall, Cypress sits cross-legged on the floor next to Gideon. She’s murmuring to him, stroking his hair.

  Everything after that first Trial is a blur. All I remember is stumbling after the others through the dark metal catacombs of the Skein, trying to escape the horrors of the battle zone.

  “You collapsed just after we got here,” Digory says. “I figured it was just exhaustion and stress after … ” He drops his gaze. “After what happened.” His eyes meet mine again. “But I saw you trembling, and when I came over to check on you, I realized it was a fever.” His fingers graze the crimson-stained bandage around my thigh. “How does it feel?”

  I inhale sharply. Even his light touch sends electric pain rippling through me. “I’m … okay … just a little sore … ” Another chill rattles me. I press a fist against my lips to stifle a cough. Now it’s my turn to look away from him.

  He lifts a corner of the bandage, careful not to touch the swollen skin beneath it. “I tried dressing it as best I could, but there aren’t any medical supplies here.” He tucks the bandage back. “Actually, there’s not much of anything here except a hard floor. No water, no food, not even a damn blanket. How do they expect us to keep going without any provisions?” He yells the last above him, for the benefit of Slade
and whoever else is probably eavesdropping. When he looks at me again, his face is flushed, as if he, too, is suffering with fever. “I figured I’d try and keep you warm as best I could.”

  He pulls the zipper of his jumpsuit up the rest of the way, hiding his bare chest.

  All this time he’s been lying next to me, sharing his body heat to keep me warm.

  Another shiver ripples through me.

  “Anyway.” He stands. “You need to conserve your strength. I tried to let you get as much rest as possible, but you slept through the Sarge’s latest warning announcement.” His lips form a thin rigid line. “They’re about to cart us off to the next Trial, in the order we finished the last one.”

  I nod. “Which means you’re first.”

  “Yes.” He looks disappointed, despite the advantage.

  “Did they say what this next Trial’s all about?”

  He shakes his head.

  The speaker system crackles to life.

  “Looks like we’re about to find out,” he says.

  Attention Recruits.

  We all gaze above us as if we’re trying to pinpoint Slade’s whereabouts.

  One by one you will pass through the barrier on the other end of this pavilion in the order you completed your first Trial. The goal of your next mission is to simply make your way through a labyrinth until you find the exit.

  “Sounds easy enough,” Digory grunts. He smiles and squeezes my hand.

  Along the way you will find supplies that will aid you through the next Trials. These include food, medicines, tools, and weapons.

  I squeeze his fingers. “Guess your speech made an impression after all.” My hollow laughter becomes a raspy cough. Digory pats me on the back until it subsides, his eyes worried slits.

  You are urged to appropriate as many of these provisions as you can carry, as they will not be made available at any other time and are vital to your continued participation in the Trials.

  Digory shoots me a nervous look. “Sounds too simple.”

  But you are cautioned to be as efficient as possible, balancing your needs with your speed. The locator wristlets you are all still wearing have now been programmed to act as chronometers, monitoring and timing your progress. You will only have fifteen minutes to navigate the labyrinth.