Gideon lands with a loud thud on his back.
And Digory crawls over the finish line and into my arms, burying his face against my chest.
I’m too stunned to speak and can only hold him, rocking him back and forth even as tears stream from my eyes and into his golden hair.
A few feet away, Gideon rises to a sitting position. The life that had returned to his eyes is gone again and he just stares, his lips moving soundlessly.
Recruit Warrick. You have ranked last in this Trial. You will now step forward onto the podium as there is still a selection to be made.
thirty-three
Still a selection? What the hell is Slade talking about? What else could he possibly choose? I thought that once you lost your second Incentive, it was just a matter of watching them be executed before you were condemned to the work camps. What new level of depravity are they sinking to now?
The familiar hum of a platform rising to the surface fills the quiet. It lifts all the way, then is as silent as it’s dark.
Gideon trudges across the finish line like a sleepwalker.
A long sigh hisses from Ophelia’s lips. “Oh, well. One down … ” She shakes her head and turns away.
Digory steps forward. “Gideon. I had no choice.”
“I forgive you.” He shrugs. “It doesn’t matter anymore anyway.”
His tone … the look in his eyes … sadden and terrify me.
Cypress wraps her arms around him.
He kisses her on the forehead and traces a tear down her cheek. “You’re supposed to be the tough one, remember?”
Her face contorts. “Y-yes, S-Sir.”
He smiles at her and pulls away.
Then he turns to me and takes off his glasses, placing them in my palm, and closes my fingers over them. “Can you hold these for me?”
A lump wedges in my throat. “Aren’t you going to need them?” My voice cracks.
He squeezes my hand. Then he walks past all of us and up the stairs until he’s standing right next to the chamber.
The lights in the enclosure grow bright.
Mr. Warrick is standing on one side of the structure separated by a partition from the other, darkened side. His arms are strapped to the wall behind him. He looks even more haggard, his hair scraggly threads, his eyes sunken and hollow. It’s as if he’s already died inside.
The outer door to the chamber hisses open.
Recruit Warrick. You will now step inside and make your selection.
Gideon walks past the threshold. He stumbles and braces himself against the glass, staring at his father.
The door hisses shut behind him and the lock engages with a sharp click.
Cypress’s bandaged hand trembles against mine. “What are they going to do now?”
I can only shake my head, terrified at what’s to come, unable to tear myself away.
Recruit Warrick. The time has now come for your second Incentive to be shelved. But you still have a choice in the matter.
The other half of the chamber lights up at last. My insides turn to liquid.
The entire side is jammed with rodents—large rats, larger than any I’ve ever seen in the Parish, at least three feet in length not counting their sickening pink serrated tails. They’ve obviously been bred as weapons, just like the bees that devoured Mrs. Juniper. Glowing orange eyes glare at us. The mutant rodents snap at each other with bared teeth, some chomping into the bodies of the others with razor-sharp fangs that drip with drool, greenish against the dark crimson wounds. Claws that are more like talons scratch against the glass of their prison. And to make things worse, the sound of their screeching, now amplified through the sound system, makes every hair on my body prickle …
Recruit Warrick. Either you allow your Incentive to be shelved in the manner prescribed … or, should you elect, you have the option of shelving your Incentive in a more sedate manner. One which you must carry out personally.
A pedestal rises from the floor.
On it lies a solitary object, reflecting the bright light in its smooth silver finish.
A gun.
Be warned. The weapon’s firepower will not penetrate the reinforced glass surrounding the chamber. You now have sixty seconds to make your decision, Recruit Warrick.
Gideon walks up to his father’s side of the tank and splays his fingers against it.
“I’m sorry, Dad,” he says. “I guess I am a real loser, just like everyone says.” He shrugs and drops his gaze, his shoulders heaving.
Mr. Warrick’s eyes stream wetness down the concaves of his cheeks. “I’m the one that’s sorry, son. For not protecting you, keeping you safe. I don’t expect you to forgive me. But please, son, I beg you. Show me mercy.”
He nudges his head toward the rats without looking at them, his face flinching against the sounds of scratching and screeching. “I don’t want to go that way.”
Gideon lumbers toward the pedestal and stares at the gun. He face is a mask of indecision and anguish as he traces a finger over the barrel.
“You’re a better person than your mother and I ever were.” Mr. Warrick’s words quaver.
One of the rats screeches so loudly I fight not to cover my ears.
Recruit Warrick, carry out the sentence.
He grasps the gun in a trembling hand and slogs back toward Mr. Warrick. When the glass separating them slides into the floor, Gideon runs to his father, throwing his arms around him.
“I’m so sorry, Dad. I wish things could be different … ”
Mr. Warrick closes his eyes. “So do I, son.”
BAM!
Gideon kisses his father’s cheek and moves away. Blood gushes from a wound right over Mr. Warrick’s heart. For the first time since I laid eyes on him at the Graduation Ceremony, Mr. Warrick looks serene, as if he’s merely taking a well-deserved nap.
The suffering’s over for him.
Recruit Warrick. You have accomplished your task. Now return the weapon to its proper location and prepare to be transported to the work camps.
But Gideon doesn’t seem to be paying attention. Instead, he staggers from his father’s lifeless body and presses against the glass that’s overlooking us.
We all rush up to face him, even Ophelia.
Recruit Warrick. Return the weapon at once. This is an order. Failure to do so will subject you to immediate shelving protocol.
My heart’s running an obstacle course of its own at Slade’s warning. I’m pressed against the glass trying to will myself to melt through it somehow. I need to touch Gideon. Now … before …
“Gideon. Please. Listen to them. Put down the gun.” I try to sound calm, but I can hear the panicked edge creeping into my own voice. “You can go to the camps. At least you’ll still have a chance.”
He shakes his head. “Thank you.” His eyes sweep the four of us. “Thank you all for trying. But I’m so tired … I just need to rest … yeah … that’s it … just rest. It’s gone on way too long.” He smiles despite the stream leaking down his cheeks, onto the bridge of his nose.
Recruit Warrick. You are in violation of a direct order. Under the military code, you must now be shelved.
The enclosure holding the rats begins to vibrate as it prepares to slide open and let them loose—
My fist clenches Gideon’s glasses so tightly I can feel the frames cutting into my skin. “Don’t be stupid. Things can change.”
“Listen to him, Gideon.” Digory bangs on the glass himself. Cypress’s bloodied hand is cupped over her mouth.
Gideon slides down the transparent wall and I mimic him from my side, nose to nose, separated by the reinforced glass, so thin, but impenetrable.
He shakes his head. “There’s nothing for me now.” He cocks his head as if he could whisper through the barrier. “I wanted to be a good person.
Make a difference … But I … I mean … after my mom … my dad … ” He shrugs and his eyes connect with mine. “Am I unforgivable, Lucian?”
The panel holding back the writhing rodents rises an inch …
I pound as hard as I can. But the glass doesn’t shatter. The only thing that does is my heart.
“You are a good person, Gideon. You are,” I sob.
“Thanks for everything.” He smiles at me. “I wish we could have gotten to know each other better in school.”
He lifts the gun to his temple and looks right at me.
I can’t breathe.
“Don’t do it !” Cypress shrieks. She grabs onto me, her fingers digging into my arm.
Gideon squeezes the trigger—
CLICK.
It’s empty. The gun drops from his hand and clatters on the floor.
I sag against Digory. Of course they’d only load it with one bullet.
Gideon’s face is a mixture of regret and fear. “That’s what I figured.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out something that flashes in the light … something familiar …
I open my hand, staring at his glasses—and at the empty socket on one side, where the lens has been removed.
He shrugs. “I hope it’s not too dark … ”
“Gideon, no!” I shout.
He jabs the small shard into his throat, tearing a ragged smile all the way across it, choking and gurgling as a dark river flows down his neck.
His head slumps over.
And then I can’t hear the rats’ claws, the screeches, my heartbeat … nothing but my wails, which drown out everything else.
Far above, in that opening that let the Squawkers through, the sun tears through the dark veil of night and into a cloudy morning.
We’ve been at it for hours. The four of us pause in our labors and lean against the mound of sticks to gaze at it, no one saying a word. The muted light casts a creeping grayish brown pall over us. For a moment we’re frozen in time, like an old sepia-toned photograph.
But time’s fleeting. No matter how hard we try to capture it, it always trickles away through our fingers like fine sand, gone forever.
As the soft light deepens to a fiery orange, I can’t help but think how cold the sunrise is despite its radiant warmth, how indifferent to the fact that one less pair of eyes will ever be in awe of its majesty.
“It’s time.” Digory’s voice breaks the silence, plaintive notes whistling through a hollow reed. In his hand, he holds a makeshift torch which he’s lit by using one of the matches he found in the labyrinth. It flickers across his face in the deep orange and red hues of autumn, highlighting the circles under his eyes and infusing his pale cheeks with color.
I finally move, wiping the sweat from my brow, and place the last naked branch atop the others, careful not to disturb him. He looks so peaceful lying on the pyre, hands folded across his stomach, almost as if he’s stretched out in sleep. I run my fingers through his hair, and pull his collar closed, covering the long dark scar on his neck that shatters the illusion.
Cypress steps up to the pyre. Her face is ashen, eyes red and swollen. She bows her head, her lips moving in silence.
Ophelia stands a few feet away, her arms crossed, her eyes empty wells. “Why do we have to do this?” she mutters, her voice drained of any emotion. “We could get a penalty for this. If we had just left him there—”
I whirl on her. “They would have just dumped him in some unmarked grave, buried him as if he were trash—as if he … ” The words catch in my throat. “As if he didn’t mean anything.” I bury my face in my hand, letting my fingers slide upward until they’re knotted in my hair. I bite into my lip to hold it together. But I’m powerless against the tremors rocking my body, making my shoulders heave.
I expect her to say something snide, to fight back. I don’t care. But she doesn’t, just continues to stare at Gideon. And then I think of her own mother, how horrible she looked at the end, how Ophelia never got the chance to lay her to rest, and I can feel her anguish. My grief is compounded with guilt for lashing out at her, and I reach out and clasp her hand.
Cypress sidles next to me, resting her head in the crook of my neck, not bothering to fight the tears running down her cheeks. Digory pats me on the back and lowers the torch to the kindling.
The branches sputter and sizzle as the fire catches, growing stronger and stronger, consuming the rest of the branches until it swaddles Gideon’s body in a blinding blanket of blazing light. Cypress’s sobs harmonize against the steady crackle of the flames.
“Anyone want to say anything?” Digory asks.
Ophelia can only shake her head, her eyes glazed with firelight.
I step forward and take the torch from Digory, a sudden rush of strength coursing through me.
I have to do this. I need to.
My eyes challenge the brightness of the fire, now raging like a miniature sun. But I don’t blink. Instead I let its heat seep into my pores as if I’m absorbing a part of Gideon that will forever be seared into my soul.
“Goodbye Gideon,” I say. “We’ll miss you. You will always be remembered for the kind, brave person that you were. A good son. And a true friend. May you find the peace at last that eluded you for so long.”
I hold the torch high.
The tendrils of flame look like fingers that reach up to the sky and merge with the risen sun, now bursting free of its cloudy prison, brilliant rays beaming down upon us.
The warmth finally penetrates my heart. I smile. Tears fill my eyes, trapping them in prisms of glistening color. “Rest in the light, Gideon, and never fear the darkness again.”
thirty-four
Hours later, after a sleepless rest at the holding station and a wordless breakfast of ration bars and water, we’re trekking past the end of the field and through the metallic arteries of the Skein once more. The only sounds are the drag and shuffle of our boots against the steel floor. Along the way, I pop a few more of the antibiotics into my mouth. But instead of swallowing, I swish them around my mouth from side to side and grind the pills with my teeth, concentrating on each bitter particle as it dissolves against my tongue.
With each chew, one thought echoes in my brain.
There are only four of us now.
We finally reach the end of the corridor.
I force the last of the gritty medicine down my throat.
Before us looms a silver bunker lined with five metal doors, four with names stenciled on them that correspond to each of our own:
Juniper Tycho Goslin Spark
The surface of the fifth door is blank and marred by a series of scratches, as if someone hastily removed the name that recently appeared there. I glance behind us. A needle stitches through my heart.
The speakers above the doors crackle with static.
Greetings, Recruits. Congratulations on making it this far in your Trials.
If Slade’s announcement is intended to bolster our moods, one look at the sullen expressions plastered on our faces is confirmation of the utter failure of that attempt.
When you’re given the signal, you will each enter the chamber that is marked with your name.
We shamble past each other like sleepwalkers and line up outside our individual doors.
This Trial will involve two phases. In Phase One, you will race to disable the explosive mechanism you will find in your chamber. Whoever accomplishes this task first shall emerge victorious. However, if none of you disarms the explosive, it will detonate and all of you, as well as your Incentives, will be shelved.
It takes a moment for the words to penetrate the shock.
A bomb?
Slade said we’d all be shelved. Recruits and Incentives alike. What if Cole’s just beyond that door, only a few feet away, closer to me than he’s been since this whole ordeal
began? A blast at such close range would kill him. And he’d never even know I fought for him. He’d die thinking I abandoned him. The thought terrifies me so much I can’t even move.
The bomb could kill us all. And given my track record with disarming explosives … only it’s not a Sim this time. And if I’m the one to screw up and set it off, it’ll be like I murdered everyone myself.
My eyes flit to Digory. The lines etched into the stone of his face tell me he’s struggling with the same anguish.
Should one of you succeed in preventing the explosion from triggering, then that Recruit shall proceed to Phase Two and await further instructions.
My eyes fix on the iron door with my name on it, examining every inch of its shiny surface, every circular bolt screwed into its perimeter, including the flecks of paint that have withered away like dead skin, exposing patches of red rust like mottled wounds.
“I can’t do this,” I whisper to Digory.
He reaches out and squeezes my hand. “You can and you will do this.”
CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!
The locks on each of our doors disengage. They spring open in a chorus of drawn-out creaks, exposing slices of darkness within.
Proceed inside your chambers and begin weapons diffusion.
Ophelia’s halfway through her door before Slade’s voice finishes echoing through the speakers. I practically leap through my own door, catching a blurred glimpse of Digory entering his to my left.
It suddenly occurs to me this may be the last time I ever see him—
SLAM!
The door crashes shut behind me, blocking out the light and leaving me in total suffocating darkness.
I freeze in my tracks, afraid to touch anything that I might accidentally set off. Try as I might, my eyes can’t penetrate the black veil. I take a tentative step and my foot’s blocked by a hard surface. Reaching out my arms, I find I can’t stretch them out fully before they, too, are blocked by cold, sturdy metal. Panic sets in. My mouth dries up. I can’t suck in air.
It feels like I’ve been buried alive inside a vertical coffin.
The Culling Page 25
