I open my mouth to tell him we must be talking about different people when he speaks again.
‘Look, you and I were never great friends to begin with. Let’s just stay out of each other’s way from now on.’
He turns and scans back into his pod shaft before I can find any words. This was not how I imagined our conversation ending.
***
I WISH THINGS HAD BEEN peachy since then, but that was two weeks ago, and I’ve given up on making friends in this place. Demonstrators leave on the spinner every day. Some come back, some don’t. I try not to let myself think about stuff too much. That’s why I’ve been fighting non-stop since Dao died, adding a new scar to my criss-crossed body almost daily.
Dylan didn’t mention this part in his little plan to keep me alive. ‘By the way, whenever anything bad happens, everyone will blame you because they all think you have influence with Shepherd Fines. Thanks to Coral’s and various other status updates, the whole camp thinks you’re together . . .’ I even heard someone whisper Shepherd Fines had given me drugs to make me a better fighter.
The whole way through this month from hell, I keep thinking that I might have a sister living yards away from me.
So, what kind of person does it make me that all I want is to destroy her?
TODAY IS CHRISTMAS.
Or at least it used to be.
Shepherd Fines told me that since religion was declared illegal, people get restless on December 25th. I know he’s approved whatever fight has been planned for me; he’s been a mixture of frantic excitement and genuine worry for days. Even Dylan stops tapping on his digipad when he sees Shepherd Fines and I walk across to the gate.
‘You don’t have a Demonstration today, do you?’ he shouts across to me. I nod, but keep my pace up.
‘But, it’s a tryouts day. We get the time off.’ Dylan sounds confused, anxiety flitting into his low voice. Worried about his conscience, no doubt. I let the Shepherd do the talking like my own personal bodyguard. He tells Dylan some speech about how I’ll get more followers if I demonstrate when no one else does. I walk away without a second glance.
***
VERY SOON, I wish I’d listened to Dylan. At city Hotel’s Stadium I’m rushed into a different type of room than usual, equipped with not one, but two workers with understanding smiles. The place is oddly silent, with no open archway, just another door.
One of the workers grins. ‘Sound-proof,’ she tells me, looking delighted. Instead of handing me the usual leather belt, she picks up a long, oval, metal clamp from the table. She runs her scan chip over one end and it opens up like a jaw. Beaming that condescending smile, she instructs me to put my arms up. When I do, the woman places one half of the clamp over my body so that it runs from my shoulder to my hip. The other side is pulled down over my back, and the two ends join together with definite clicks. I look down to see an angry red circle on the clamp, like the lens of a camera. It sits right over my heart.
‘What is this?’ I ask.
‘Something slightly different. You have to work out the rules when you get out there.’
She nods to her colleague, who I notice is holding a tiny controller in her hands. Her hands move and something buzzes through my chest. I scream out.
‘Fantastic, it works.’
I barely register the woman’s words. My breath is rushing out of me, my heart going twice as fast. I want to be sick. The electric shock was like a hand reaching into my rib cage and scratching my organs.
‘Don’t worry. You won’t feel that again. And if you do, you won’t be around to experience it for long.’
***
THE OTHER DOOR leads out onto a staircase. At the bottom, I’m escorted to the open archway and practically pushed out onto the empty sands by the two workers. I roll my shoulders underneath the clamp. It already weighs heavily, pulling on my neck. No one cheers as I walk to the centre of the arena, but I do hear a cough. It’s this that tells me I’m in trouble—people are too excited to speak in case they miss something. Anticipation hangs in the air like a thick fog over my head. My hands are idle and useless without my sword, so I end up fidgeting while I wait for something to happen.
I knew today would be different. People are getting restless with me. My ticket sales are creeping down. They’re bored of my signature cartwheel move, bored that I always win. Even my gate-induced fainting has lost their interest. Some have written on Debtbook that I should get a new quirk. They prefer Coral, her deadly dance-like moves, her clear enjoyment of the fight. That seductive lack of compassion.
I’m shuffling ever closer to getting home, and I’m rewarded with disdain.
The gate clicks.
I gulp down ice-cold air. Let my body sway. Instead of panicking and fighting the faint, I clear my mind, closing my eyes and latching onto the smells of this Stadium.
Mothballs, stale rubber . . .
Stay here. Stay here.
My hands hit the ground as sharp gasps rise around me, like the sound a vegetable makes when you chop in it half.
The gate is up. There are footsteps, one set, two, three . . .
I open my eyes wide, terror overtaking me in whelms. Over a dozen brown-uniformed men and women face me, frightened and shaking, clutching their weapons like sacred talismans. I’m stepping back, calculating how I can go about killing that number of people when there are more clicks behind me.
I fight the faint this time, and only my adrenaline keeps me here. Whizzing around, I clock the group already out and the rising gate to my right in swift glances.
More people. They fall onto the sands like white-faced lemmings, lingering at the edge of the arena.
I’m trapped between two groups, crouched in my bracing position. I try to count the heads, but there must be over thirty people against me.
That’s it. I’m dead. I’m dead, and I don’t want to die, but I will. In this vast space, it’s as if I’m shrinking, becoming tiny and useless even though my enemies grow bigger.
Maybe I am fainting after all because on everyone’s shirts lies a bleeding ‘x’. Just like my tryout. They’re painted with blue and red crosses.
Dylan’s words come back to me: it’s a tryouts day.
The December tryouts at Hotel. I’m in them.
Up on the screen, my face takes up half of the image with my name at the top and a tally at the bottom. It reads 0/10. On the other half is footage of the contestants. Some of them are inching closer. To me or to the other team? I can’t tell.
Sickness glides over me like a mist. For some reason, I know I’ve not been put in here to stand around and watch the outcome. I try and adjust the clamp over my heart, but it won’t budge.
I take a deep breath, swallow, and run to meet the woman closest to me. If this is what I think, I need to act fast. She waves her hand in sloppy slices through the air. Her whole arm is encased in metal and at the end is a semicircular blade. For a split second, I wish that she isn’t a red—I guess I still harbour some loyalty to my own team, though not enough—as I wait until she’s swerved her arm far out, and then jab her in the nose. There’s a satisfying snap underneath my palm. I twist, grabbing her weapon arm and forcing it towards her chest. Her eyes connect with mine moments before they go vacant.
She’s left on the ground with her own blade sticking out from her chest as if she has her hand on her heart. I stare at the screen.
1/10.
The audience certainly isn’t silent any more. The usual screaming pulses from the stands now that I’ve given them blood. It’s as though my kill gives others permission to do the same, as both teams rush in, colliding like turning cogs.
Each body that falls is one less point for me.
The metal clamp constricts my chest. It’s hard to breathe. I just know I have to reach that number. Ten kills before the fight is over.
Or the clamp kills me.
Time is not on my side, so I run into the furore of the fighting. No more dragging out the combat. No more pleasing the c
rowd. That raging monster uncurls, and I gladly allow it to take over. Blades clatter all around, aiming for my body, trying to jab into me. I duck, swerve, teeter backwards, leap and roll to evade the blows. The rhythm of fighting hammers in my head. Music made of clashes and thuds ring through the Stadium; vibrating through the ground and into my boots.
If the teams didn’t know the rules of the game, they catch on after I kill three more reds and a blue. It doesn’t matter what team they’re on. I just have to get my kill count.
5/10
A man darts past me, dragging a heavy metal chain. I stand on it abruptly, causing him to topple backwards. Before I crumple his throat with my foot, I make sure I look into his pleading eyes. I don’t deserve to forget about these people easily.
Paces away, two blues have teamed up and are executing reds with irritating precision. If they carry on, I’ll still be stuck on six kills by the time the blues win. Which means I lose.
I spin round, taking in the scene. Some of the crowd scream my name; others ignore me, watching the slaughter with eager eyes. My lips taste salty and stale. I wipe my face with my arm, trying to clear some sweat from my eyelashes.
Eighteen bodies are still dancing their sloppy fights. A child stands near the gate, eyes clenched shut and hands against the Stadium wall.
I tear my gaze away. I haven’t got time to save anyone but myself today.
As soon as I locate the two blues, I take off—
Something clamps around my throat. The hands squeeze, then pull me back. I gag.
Their skin scrapes under my fingernails as I claw at their grip. Useless. My mouth works up and down, panic stabbing at my throat in hot jabs. My attacker’s body is pressed against my back: strong, desperate, determined.
The chain clatters as it falls from my hands. I watch my scrambling legs as if they’re not mine.
Can’t breathe. Choking on vomit. My mouth is slowly opening, tongue flopping out. I can’t see. I’m just falling, falling.
I freeze.
Panic: one of the biggest killers in the Stadium.
It only takes a millisecond to clear my head. Get my bearing. I force my eyes to focus, pull up the last of my ebbing strength, and lean. Not forwards but backwards into my assailant. At the same time, I reach behind me, cupping my palms between their wrists before pulling with all my remaining strength. The force is enough for their hands to jolt, losing their grip and allowing me that beautiful, god-sent breath. I strike out with my elbows, battering their head while I twist to face them. My throat scorches as if I have a flame in my belly, and I’m 99% sure I’m about to faint. Yet I still find enough strength to kick them in the groin, knocking them backwards. Almost as an afterthought, I flop on top of them, pinning them to the ground before using both hands to jab my hairpin through their throat.
There’s some cheering, but I hear a low wave of disappointment from the stalls. Maybe the whole point is that I don’t have a weapon. Oh well. I take a moment to re-gain my breath, relying on luck that no one stabs me in the back while I lie on top of the man I’ve just killed.
Something near me moves. That’s my cue to roll away and jump up, meeting my next assailant face on.
Another man. I use his own sword to cut his arm before knocking his legs from underneath him and seizing the weapon. I clock his green eyes, slice into his chest, and look up to the screen.
8/10
What a waste. Lying by the side of the young girl I saw earlier is a fully loaded crossbow. If I could get to—
Something jabs into my calf. A woman with dirt smeared over her face rears up the side of me, pulling her knife from my leg and moving to strike again. I cry out, but even with my injured leg, she’s no match for me. In the seconds before I run my sword through her stomach, her jaw sets in resignation.
One more. One more.
Ten survivors scatter across the sands in three groups.
The two blue alpha males have recruited another man and three women. They stand ready, weapons sturdy in their hands, their uniforms soaked in blood and grit. Three reds have come together on the other side of me, while the girl still faces the Stadium wall, preventing anyone from seeing her coloured cross.
I have to kill once more before the blues exterminate the reds, else it’s all over. For me, at least.
Just as I’ve made the connection, so must the blues. They rush in with war cries to meet the reds. The pain in my thigh is becoming unbearable, but I grit my teeth.
PERSISTENCE AND RESISTANCE.
I dive into the furore.
Hands grab my arms. I look round, and there are so many blues—too many blues— grasping at me, holding me down. I struggle, writhing around like not-quite-dead rail-kill. One of the alpha blues comes towards me with his mace raised high. Undeniable intent fills his wild eyes.
I squeeze mine shut.
No. Can’t die now.
I force my eyes open. The mace rushes to meet me. I lurch my neck backwards and push both my feet from the floor, relying on the pair of blues who hold my arms to support me. My boot collides with the mace with a crunch.
I hit the ground as one blue drops me. Straight away, my feet find purchase. My forehead rams into someone’s nose as the mace again rears upwards, ready to bite into my shoulder. I swing around. Grab the man still holding my arm. Heave him in front of me . . .
Even I wince as his back makes a chewing sound. The alpha who dealt the blow stares, mouth open in shock as he tries to pull the weapon out of his comrade’s back.
I take long strides backwards, glancing around as if my next assailant could come from anywhere. Damn! The screen still reads 9/10. The kill doesn’t count as mine. As I reach the side of the Stadium, the young girl runs from behind me to join the group now forming. The group which, I realise with a sickening clarity, all don blue crosses painted on their chests. It’s over. The blues have won. I didn’t meet my target.
So how come I haven’t been shocked into oblivion, thanks to this clamp?
My boot hits something hard on the floor as I back up. The child’s discarded crossbow. I pick it up with shaking hands. The sounds of the arena heat the air, confusion twirling around me. No one knows what’s going on. Why hasn’t it been announced that the fight is over? Why aren’t I dead? Why aren’t the medics and Ebiere coming out here to wrap it up? All eyes turn to the screen. I’m still on one side, the huddled group of blues on the other.
Ticker tape runs across the bottom of the screen.
One of the blues is realy a red. They switched their shirt earlier in the fight. The tryouts are still live!
There’s a spelling mistake, as if someone’s typed it out in a hurry.
That tiny flicker of hope is all I need. I speed towards the group, seizing my chance before anyone can steal it away.
The five survivors step away from each other, panic and fear now rife in their faces. They’re trying to work out who the red is. I raise the crossbow.
I can shoot anyone. One more person, and I’ll be saved. My aim hops from one face to another. If I choose a true blue, then the mysterious red will still have to be killed. With both hope and anguish, I realise that if I manage to kill the hidden red, I can save one person’s life tonight.
I rule out the alpha blue I’ve seen all game. Then there’s the woman whose nose bleeds from my head-butt. Not her. Another woman who I’m sure I saw earlier with the blue men. That leaves the other male and the child. Was the girl wearing red when I spotted her earlier? Why was she hiding her cross against the Stadium?
Like an echo of the beginning of the fight, the audience falls silent. This unexpected twist tantalising them more than blood alone could. I lean on my good leg, heaving breaths, holding the crossbow as steady as I can manage. Adrenaline pumps through me, pushing away the edges of exhaustion and pain.
‘Only one of you has to die. Which one switched? Tell me, and you can save someone else’s life,’ I half-shout, half-gasp out to the group.
More shuffling.
The child looks to the floor, hiding her face.
The man I couldn’t place steps forwards and pushes the child towards me. She squeals and tries to rush back into the group, but they all stand tight.
‘It was her,’ he shouts shakily. ‘I saw her switch but didn’t want to say anything. Please.’
I’m not sure what he’s pleading for. The worst part is, if the girl had used her crossbow, her team might have won.
‘Okay,’ I say, but I’m thinking I’m sorry. The girl hides her face.
I let the arrow fly.
It cuts straight into the man’s heart.
There’s a second of quiet. Then—cheers. The audience erupts. They’re screaming. The game is finished. My clamp opens with a click. I haul it off my chest and as far away from me as I can manage. Urgh, my shirt is saturated with sweat where the thing was secured.
The child looks up at me, her wide eyes questioning.
I don’t have it in me to explain. I didn’t know it was him. I’m still not sure it was. I just knew the crowd would love it if the snitch died. No one is going to prove the crowd wrong, not even the Shepherds.
The girl scurries over to me, clinging onto my leg with tight arms.
‘Happy Christmas,’ I whisper.
AFTER THE FIGHT, I spend a day recovering in the Medic’s Cabin. They fix my leg, and only a small mark remains where I was stabbed. In the bed opposite lies the child from the tryouts.
I hadn’t noticed during my fight that the girl had been injured, but the medics had come around with their little stretcher and tried to load her onto it straight after I shot the man. Immediately I thought of William, how I had saved him only to send him to who-knows-what life somewhere else. I told them she was fine, gathered her up in my arms and limped out of the Stadium with her on my hip.
I’m not sure whether it was this or the way I fought that tipped me back into the lead for followers, but either way, I’ve overtaken Coral and have reclaimed my title of ‘best Demonstrator with a live Debt.’
When I check my digipad, there’s another scathing status from Coral about my fighting. She makes a joke about how it was obviously the little girl who switched.
After the Fear (Young Adult Dystopian) Page 19
