Her eyes go wide with panic as her own force pulls her backward. Those huge feet shuffle as she loses balance.
I twist away, also falling,—but I’m still holding her staff.
Once my hip thuds onto the sand, I roll back up to my feet. She’s up in the same moment, but that cocky look in her eyes is gone. Sand sticks to her arms, and her brown uniform is darkened with sweat. I give the double-bladed staff a little swirl before breaking it in half on my knee and throwing one piece behind me. Perhaps that was cruel, but it’s worse if she thinks she has a chance of surviving.
The viewers roar, although I’m not sure who it’s for. I think Bronach will retreat, but she puffs her chest out and balls her fists.
I swirl the blade one more time before leaping in to close the space between us, eager to finish the fight. Bronach spins, avoiding my jab. I see a wide elbow, but don’t have time to react.
I swear I hear my skin split as agony slices into my eye.
Jeez! I reel backward. Why the face? Why is it always the face?
There’s the sound of metal on metal, and I barely register that I’m blocking her attacks as they cascade down on me. She must have found my sword because she uses that and her brute strength to force me to the ground. My knees buckle. Her face looms over me.
We both realise I’m losing at the same time. She lets out a strange, guttural sound and her attacks become stronger. My energy is zapped with every block. I know how this works. It’s just a matter of time.
The sound of the onlookers dulls. My arm aches. Her face, contorted with the hope of victory, begins to tunnel in my vision.
Again and again, the sword clangs down onto my half of the staff. My movements become sluggish. Any second now I’ll make a mistake and—
I lean back on my left hand. The cool sand is brittle against my palm. A last, desperate attack forms in my mind.
So, so slowly, I curl my fingers, grasping a handful of grains.
I’m still blocking, but now I’m thinking, too. Planning. I summon any strength I have left and wait for my moment.
NOW.
Sweeping my hand up in an arc, I cast the gritty sand into Bronach’s face. I don’t see her reaction—I’ve clamped my own eyes shut—but I hear her screech. In that second, I pivot to my right and use the last of my energy to pull myself up. The boos from the crowd coil around us. Hundreds of people scream for my blood.
A sword swings down from ahead. Instead of defending myself I match her attack with a blow of my own. I can’t fight her strength; I knew that from the start. But I can go faster than her for longer.
I dodge her blows with my body instead of deflecting with my bladed staff, swerving and tilting out of the way while I try to find a weakness in her defences. Her breath is fast, heavy, and rancid like stale eggs. She groans like an animal as I put all of my training behind my attack, swinging my arms so fast she hardly has time to block me. Like a widening crack in the earth, her strikes dwindle as she tries to back away, but I stay close. I’ll stick to her just like the guilt of her death will stick to me.
I lean away. Bronach panics and, as she tries a last ditch attack, her neck is left defenceless. My chance.
Countering her attack with my blade, I jab her, palm up, in the side of that thick neck. She gags, those strong shoulders sagging. Without any more fuss, I swing my half of the staff up. Bronach looks up in time to see me end her life, cutting through her shoulder and into her collar bone.
Another set of dead eyes to plague my dreams.
As Bronach slumps to the ground, jeers wash over me. I let the crowd storm, keeping my head held high as I exit through the open archway.
I didn’t want to kill her. She chose this. I didn’t. And if throwing sand in someone’s eyes is what it takes to survive, then I’ll do it. Who needs pride if you’re dead?
But I still won’t use a gun.
Even in all of this, I will protect that part of who I am.
‘GREAT STUFF, GREAT STUFF, SOLA,’ Shepherd Fines says somewhat unenthusiastically as we make our way through X-ray’s hospital. Ebiere follows us silently, her mouth moving as she looks slowly around. I wonder if she’s practising her next speech.
‘She had evidently been training her whole life and you, on your second Demonstration and without a gun . . . well, the crowd will forgive your “little moment” in no time.’
‘There’s nothing to forgive. I won,’ I say, nursing my headache. Please stop talking. Please. Coupled with my guilt over killing, I can’t stop thinking of Dylan; the way he leaned in to kiss me by the tree, the brush of his thumb against my skin, the look on his face as he saw me leave Shepherd Fines’ office. Each second that passes is another moment in which he thinks badly of me, and I can’t bear it.
‘At least now you have a second chance to win some followers,’ Shepherd Fines shouts as we cross the roof to where the spinner’s roar awaits us.
‘What do you mean?’ I yell over the din of the engine.
‘My dear, you have another Demonstration booked.’
‘When?’ I stop climbing into the spinner, afraid of the answer.
‘Today.’
***
WE FLY STRAIGHT TO to city Whiskey. Even with ear pads, the screams of the spinner sound like the jeers of the crowd—like they’re following me everywhere I go. My arm is stiff, my body exhausted. Once we land, Shepherd Fines jabbers on in my ear about how you have to ‘strike while the iron is hot’ with someone’s tour. Quick exposure means maximum sales. I’m replaceable, but a badly sold Demonstration isn’t. Thankfully, he leaves me at the back entrance to Whiskey’s Stadium with Ebiere and four Herd officers. Although I’m exhausted, the familiar buzz of survival swarms over me. I’m shown into another room just like the two before: small with an open archway and a ‘kind’, ‘understanding’ worker trying to force a gun into my hands.
It’s as though I’m playing a digipad game, and can press save. I’ll save my life the way it is before I step out onto the sands and load it up again once I’ve made the kill. That would be a lot easier to believe if I didn’t have to watch myself in the huge screen. I walk out as soon as Ebiere finishes her speech. It’s only when I’m standing there do I notice a dried red patch on my uniform where I let Bronach catch me.
I’m not sure if it’s because I’ve already fainted today, or perhaps because Ebiere described the two men I’m about to fight as kidnappers who stole and hurt a child, but as I watch the gate clink open William keeps away from my mind.
Icy air washes over me and cools my throat. It carries the wild scent of hay and sawdust. As the last of the clicks signify the open gate, I hold my sword across my body as if it were part of my arm.
When the first man steps out, I charge.
The mob’s cheers sing to me, joining in with the musical rhythm of blade against blade. The men—barely older than me—are terrible fighters. They don’t work together, they panic, and they continuously try to outrun me. I play their game for a while, enticing the crowd by cutting at my enemies. I let them think they have me. Then I swing my sword in a dramatic arc, slicing one of their bellies. I don’t know which one, and I don’t care. The other one runs away: surprise, surprise.
The crowd is sending me signals so clear I can practically read them. These are criminals they can hate without a second thought. They are positively salivating for their blood.
I hate them too, I realise. What they did to that little girl . . .
As the wounded one lies dying on the sands, I cartwheel over his body, grabbing the knife that rests in his shaking hand. In that moment I feel as though I’m dancing; the vibrations of the Stadium my music. I’m rewarded with whoops; the audience must have seen previous footage of what I’m hoping will become my signature move. When I come out of the cartwheel, I extend my arm, leaning my body back, as if I am blowing the fleeing man a kiss. The knife flies out of my hand. It hits home in the small of the man’s back.
I’m not sure those eyes will b
e joining my nightmares.
There’s a smiling, blood-stained girl on the screen and it takes an age to figure out she’s me.
One woman in a front stall leans over the barrier, tears running down her face. Her mouth moves, slowly forming a word.
‘Beautiful.’
I LIKE SHEPHERD FINES. I do, but the words ‘personal space’ aren’t in his dictionary. When we leave the Stadium, night has fully descended on Whiskey, a place which has buildings so thin and tall that I’m surprised they’re not scraping the hanging layer of pollution. Shepherd Fines tells me we are staying here tonight as there aren’t any spinner departures until tomorrow morning. Although Ebiere heads to the hospital for a bed for the night, a host of rather exited-looking young Herd officers escort Shepherd Fines and me through the buzzing town and to our hotel.
The rules are different here. In Juliet, you can’t even speak loudly in a public place without a glare from a Herd officer. Here, the officers greet and tease the passers-by. The streets are living things, full of friendly faces and bright lights from drinking houses and open shops despite it being way past 10pm. Delicious food smells drift throughout the paths, making me crave my dad’s fried chicken. The men here are supposed to be so chauvinistic that no woman from another city would ever be safe, but I swear there’s a female Herd officer on patrol. I’ve never seen that in Juliet.
No one recognises Shepherd Fines or me, probably because of the tight circle the officers have created around us, but one officer keeps finding a reason to look around him. The next time he ‘discreetly’ glances at me, I dart my eyes up and scowl.
No one said Demonstrators had to be nice, did they?
We reach a tall, wide building which looks like one of the old cathedrals I’ve seen in films. Orange light shines from every ground floor window, and just being near it makes me imagine warmth. The officers request Shepherd Fines to scan in. Evidently, his finger is the only thing which will open the elaborately decorated glass doors.
I follow him inside. My boots mash into the thick, cream carpet. A log fire crackles beside an array of empty loungers on one side of the foyer, while a nervous woman behind a polished oak desk obviously awaits our arrival on the other.
After the Herd officer who kept on staring at us speaks to the woman behind the desk, she hands him a card, and the group lead us up the wide, carpeted spiral stairs. Canvass prints of old men dressed in white hang on the pristine walls, and I wonder if they are the first ever Shepherds. They seem to ooze that important, ‘wouldn’t smile even if it solved all the world’s problems’ look about them. Then again, what do I know? The only Shepherd I’ve ever met never stops smiling.
‘Wow, business is booming here.’ I joke to Shepherd Fines, indicating to the uneasy silence which surrounds us. There’s not another customer in sight.
‘You’re correct actually.’ He grins back at me. ‘I hired the whole place out for security reasons. It’s just you and I tonight, Sola.’
Oh. This is not good. I’m suddenly grateful for the Herd officers who accompany us upstairs.
I cross my fingers by my side. Separate rooms, please separate rooms . . .
No such luck.
Shepherd Fines uses his card to open a large door, and after we step in, he slides it shut on the curious face of the young officer. I can’t help but think this is going all over Debtbook the second we’re out of sight.
‘Wow.’ I let the word drop from my mouth. The ‘room’ is actually a living space twice the size of my whole flat back in Juliet. There’s a gigantic screen which bursts to life as soon as Shepherd Fines steps in, oozing classical music.
‘Welcome, Shepherd Fines.’ The warm voice makes me jump but I soon spot the surround-sound speakers in each corner. Shepherd Fines gives me a grin.
I pad over to the full-length windows, entranced by the lights of the city below. Halfway across the room, the screen flickers to my profile, and I see the update solidify underneath my name.
Sola Herrington is at Les Bergers d’Arcadie Hotel with Shepherd Fines.
‘How did it know?’ I ask slowly, pointing to the screen.
‘Oh, do you like it? It’s state-of-the-art technology, you know, connecting to your scan chip without you having to lift a finger. Some whizzes are working on it in Kilo. If all goes to plan, the devices should be ready to install around the country in a year or two. Those scanner boxes are so ugly, don’t you think, my dear?’
I groan inwardly. Dylan is bound to see this.
Shepherd Fines places his digipad on the circular desk and continues talking despite my lack of an answer.
‘Sometimes, people manage to open doors without scanning in. Or they disable their scanners altogether. Soon, that kind of deception will be a thing of the past. This also has the added bonus of connecting scan chips with those around you, meaning less work for profile monitors.’
‘I thought you didn’t have a scan chip?’
‘Oh, I don’t! No thank you, not for me, no Sir-ee! I’m rather old fashioned that way, prefer good old fingerprint readings. The hotel has programmed me in manually. I’ve stayed here before.’
A ‘great,’ is all I manage. Shepherd Fines shows me the rest of what I can only call our floor, and it turns out that there are two bedrooms attached to the study.
I breathe out in relief. Hopefully, there will be another status when I get to my own room which reads ‘SOLA HERRINGTON IS ON HER OWN!’ Yeah, I know. Wishful thinking.
Both rooms are amazing, more plush than even Coral’s house with double beds, five extra pillows than you would know what to do with, and en suites that are the same size as the bedrooms themselves. It’s a bit weird sharing a place with Shepherd Fines, but after the day I’ve had, I can’t wait to lose myself and my conscience in the plethora of duvets. Also, the large bolt across the top of the bedroom door is reassuring.
I change into a set of checked pyjamas found hanging up in my walk-in wardrobe before I hear a knock on my bedroom door.
Shepherd Fines stands outside, still dressed in his black jeans and a dark blue shirt. There’s a drink in each hand. He chuckles when he sees my outfit.
‘You look sweet in those. Very innocent.’
‘Appearances can be deceptive,’ I say dryly, taking the drink angled towards me and walking past him.
‘Cheers to that!’ He catches up to me and clinks our glasses together. ‘This is an Irish speciality. A portion of this is probably more expensive than anything you’ve ever owned.’
I raise my glass, the smile going stale on my lips.
‘What film have you put on?’ I ask, noticing the screen frozen on some opening credits.
‘Martyrs Rising. It’s a recent one. I thought you might like it.’
I groan. Another ‘fictional’ film about a group of men who save England and Ireland from rioters. This time they’re robot rioters but the principal is the same.
‘Or you could choose one from my library if you wish?’ Shepherd Fines slides his finger across his digipad to unlock it before passing it over.
Eager to see what kind of films a Shepherd has in his library, I take the digipad. A small face I recognise stares up at me. The title of the document reads:
Extradition records: William Wilson.
I hardly have time to gasp before the digipad is swiped from my hands. Shepherd Fines makes some high-pitched excuse, fiddling around with the device before handing it back to me. This time his film library folder is open.
There’s a moment’s stillness as I stare at the titles in front of me. Shepherd Fines watches my face closely. Although I open my mouth to ask about William, a tight sensation in my stomach stops me. I swallow and scroll through the list, picking one at random.
‘What’s this about?’ I try to sound casual, keeping my voice steady.
‘Ah, The Godfather. Banned in every city since 2094, you know.’ He winks at me, the tense moment seemingly forgotten. ‘I suppose I could let my favourite Demonstrator watch
it.’
That’s exactly what we do. Well, during the first half an hour I have no idea what’s going on. I’m far too pre-occupied with why William’s face was on the digipad and what that title meant. But soon, the Old Italian restaurants and American streets with no limitations draw me in. I like that I don’t know how to judge the characters. They’re doing terrible things; yet, I’m drawn to them and their exotic accents.
An hour into the film, I reach to turn the heating down and accidentally knock Shepherd Fines’ drink over. He’s in the bathroom, so after a quick glance towards the door I mop up the spillage with a cushion and slide my own hardly-touched drink over to his spot. When I hear the door open, I bring his empty glass to my lips.
‘Finished already?’ he asks.
‘Mmm, delicious,’ I say, wondering what he would think if he knew his ridiculously expensive drink was actually staining the silk lining of a cushion right now.
A few ‘I forgot how long this film was’ comments from Shepherd Fines later and he’s practically lying down on the sofa, his eyelids drooping.
‘I’ve been wanting to talk to you actually, Sola. Let’s turn this off.’
‘Erm, we can talk and watch?’ I offer. The thought of being this close to him with no other distractions worries me.
‘Very well.’ He yawns. ‘In light of our recent—’ He pauses, rubbing his eyes. ‘Our recent . . . progressions, I have a surprise for you.’
I tear my eyes away from Michael Corleone on the screen and try to act pleased.
‘It’s a party. At the camp. For you.’ He takes slow breaths between every few words. When he looks at me I notice his face kind of . . . sag. It’s as though his features are melting: his eyes look up like those of a puppy dog while his lips make a half-drunk smile. ‘You’re very special to me. I think you know it.’ He closes his eyes. ‘I think, I think you feel it . . .’
More breathing. This time it doesn’t stop. I look down at his empty glass and swallow, suddenly not wanting to watch the end of the film. A tingling sense of dread warns me I should run into my room and bolt my door. Yet a different, daring side is propositioning me.
After the Fear (Young Adult Dystopian) Page 15
