There Are Only Four (The Competition Archives Book 1)

by Nicole Scarano

  My gaze flies to Luka, and we lock eyes. We stare at each other with uncertainty, and then slowly, a smile spreads across his face. Relief and overwhelming exhaustion floods his features at our triumph. My lips twitch upward to mimic his emotions, but something behind him catches my eye and freezes my mouth in a mangled half grin. I squint and watch as paneled sections of the maze open to reveal tiny nozzles.

  “Luka?” I pull him away from the button, but we barely make it two steps before the nozzles unleash their fury.

  A burning smoke rushes through the air, consuming us in its cloudy vapor. It weaves effortlessly through the small room, filling every inch of space, denying us any escape. My eyes start to sting, and my chest begins to burn as my lungs inhale the thick gas. Instinctively, my lips slam shut to deny the smoke entrance, but it is too late. It is already in my mouth, in my lungs. It’s already eating me from the inside out. Luka tightens his grip on my hand and yanks me to him. Our bodies collide, and we cling to each other. Fear races through my veins, and my heart thunders in my ribcage like a child throwing a tantrum. Is this what we get for winning? Must they kill us all?

  My legs wobble unstably, and Luka fumbles and collapses against me, sending us both to the ground. We clutch one another in a fierce embrace as we sink to our backs, unable to control our muscles enough to even sit. My fingers claw Luka’s bare chest, welding him to me. His legs wind around mine, ensuring we are not parted, and together we meet each other’s gaze.

  “I…” he says, but then trails off. Confusion mars his face, causing his eyebrows to pinch.

  This boy. This beautiful boy. I can’t remember his name. Panic bashes my chest at the sudden realization, but the smoke’s effects slowly quiet my erratic heart as my eyelids grow heavy. They blink in my drugged delirium, and as I stare at this blond teen before me, his name slips further and further into the recesses of my assaulted mind. I do not know him, but I must. If he is merely a stranger, then why do I love him so? I cannot explain it, nor do I understand why our bodies are so desperately intertwined, but I adore this broken boy. No… this brave man.

  My eyelids grow heavier, and my vision becomes hazy, tearing the sight of this perfect boy from me. A small nagging tickles the back of my mind as the entirety of my body goes limp. It taunts and teases me just out of reach. My brain grasps for it like skeleton fingers clutching at fog, but it remains elusive. It feels important though, like something I should know. Something I have forgotten. With all the strength left within me, I look one last time at the man whose name I cannot remember. He is long gone, oblivious to the world in unnatural slumber. I tilt my head down and push my ear against his heart. It thuds erratically in his chest, a death lullaby to deliver me to sleep, and I close my eyes, giving in to the smoke’s demands.

  The nagging flares up one final time with weak resolve. It beats at my memory, struggling to break down the walls of my mind to allow one last thing through. A name. It is trying to push a name through, and not the name of the blond I cling to. Not the name of the boy who was crushed or the girl cut in half. Not the name of a boy who lost his hand or the girl who burned or even the girl who was poisoned.

  It’s a name that is important. One I should know, but it is no use. I cannot remember. I am gone.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Today is the day. Today is our turn to run, and if we win, if we finish the maze, we are free. We get out. Today is the day. If I win, I am free.

  Breakfast is served, and the horde of contestants floods the expansive and uninviting cafeteria. The cell-like dormitories they house the contenders in before the race are separated by gender, but we all eat together in this cold room. As usual, the male competitors surge for the buffet line like a tidal wave, knocking the smaller children and girls out of their destructive paths. I don’t understand their eagerness for this meal. It is filled with grease to sicken our stomachs and water to fill us with emptiness, but I guess for the more athletic teens, food is food. Muscles and strength are not born of wishful thinking.

  One such mountain of a boy is already waiting in the line with a plastic tray in his grasp. His gaze scans the room as if the foreign faces confuse him. I understand his wide-eyed observation. I recognize no one save him, but that is only because he is on my team. The rest of these children are nothing but abstract features in a sea of unfamiliarity. Some teens stand out - the girl with the blood crimson hair, the boy with a large birthmark on his neck, the incredibly tall girl with a shaved scalp - yet I have no recollection of ever having met them, but I feel like I should remember them. How could I have never laid eyes on these striking individuals before?

  My teammate’s roaming gaze finally lands on me, and his eyes brighten even though his mouth remains in a firm line. His head gestures for me to join him in the queue, foregoing the courteous action of filing in at the rear, but I follow his lead, thankful to not be alone in this sea of strangers. I slide in next to Luka, and the teen behind him grunts in annoyance. Luka turns and glares at the boy, and something in his icy stare shuts the kid up so effectively, he even retreats a step. Luka twists back to me and lifts his tray, separating it to reveal two, and hands me the second. My eyebrows raise at him, but he just shrugs nonchalantly.

  Tall and blond, Luka is the oldest of our team at eighteen. He is already hardened to the world despite his young age, the soul that hovers behind his gray eyes mature and bitter. His body is forged steel, strong and angular, and two distinctive scars disfigure his perfect skin. An older one runs along the back of his skull down to his neck, and a newer, still pinkish one starts at his left shoulder blade and disappears under his shirt. He never divulged how they came to be there, and I don’t ask. But based on the raised and angry flesh, this boy has seen trauma. His issued jacket hangs in the crook of his arm, allowing his scars and muscles to show the crowd of fully dressed children he is not a contestant to be trifled with. He wears his disfigured flesh like war paint, and perhaps that is why this whole room seems wary of him. He exudes confidence that is somehow filled with humility. He carries himself in such a way that tells you he can destroy you, but he would rather not. His scars always draw my gaze in an enchanting pull, as if an unseen magic lingers between us. My fingers ache to touch them, to trace the uneven flesh that dares mar his beauty. They only make him more appealing to me though, as if by some unknown event, they are what bind us, as if the thread that knit his skin back together also knit our souls into one. They fill me with sorrow, and an inexplicable urge to apologize. For what? Mother, tell me, for I have no idea. I don’t know what it is, but something about Luka calls to me, pulls at invisible threads in my chest, and the closer to this boy I am, the less I fear in this unforgiving place.

  “Make sure you take all they offer and eat everything off your plate,” Luka whispers in my ear as his chest pushes me forward. “The contest has not started yet, but the competition has already begun. The others, they are watching us. See how some push their breakfast around their trays. Their nerves are eating at them, and their actions are broadcasting it for the whole room to see. Keep your head up. Eat all they give you.” I twist my neck to look up at him, but he keeps his eyes trained ahead, only his chest brushing my back a sign that he means his words for me. “Also, if this is truly a test of our intelligence and athleticism, then we will need all the fuel we can get.”

  He falls silent as we approach a miserable-looking woman whose girth is probably equal to at least four children, and we offer our trays for her to shovel a lumpy sludge, of what I am guessing is porridge, onto. She does not make eye contact with us as we slide down the line to where a younger woman with pin straight hair and a pinched face hands us each a piece of slightly burnt toast. I don’t want to take any more food. The bleak meal on my plate is turning my stomach, but Luka nudges my spine with resolve. Adopting his stance of confidence, I stride forward and settle before a pile of eggs that could pass as vomit. The server scoops a small spoonful onto our trays with a sloppy plop without so much as a l
ook in our direction. No one here looks at any of us with even a single ounce of kindness, but I don’t need their wishes of good fortune. I am determined to win today’s race. Mother, I will make you proud.

  We step to the final serving station where a rail-thin man hands us a small glass of milk. I would rather not drink it. I know from experience that it is mixed with tap water to make it last longer, but I take it with all the dignity my seventeen-year-old stature possesses. Besides, if I refuse it, he will strike me for being insolent and ungrateful. They have done it before, slap a child harshly across the face for even the most minor offences, and so I accept the cloudy, plastic cup and turn toward our table.

  Luka and I slid into our seats, and once again I mimic his stance. Head raised, shoulders back. My other teammates do not share Luka’s determination, though, but they are also not the shaking leaves some of the teams are composed of. The boy is tall and muscular, even if he is dwarfed by Luka. His skin is dark and beautiful, and he has eyes that tell you only goodness dwells behind them. The girl has brown hair, a shade lighter than my black, and while she seems nervous, her clearly athletic background has primed her for the task at hand.

  They separate the competitors by gender to sleep, but for everything else we are required to remain with our teams. They grouped us from the entering contestants when we first arrived, and those are who we must run the maze with. My team, my friends. They are all I know in this bleak building, all I am allowed to know. Luka, Carl, Ann, Jude, Serene ...no, not Jude and Serene. Not sure why I thought those names. I don’t know people by those names. Never have. It’s just Luka, Carl, Ann, and I. There are only four to a team.

  About the Author

  Nicole Scarano is an independent author, avid fiction reader, and film enthusiast. Her favorites genres are dystopian, apocalyptic, fantasy, thrillers, and action sprinkled with romance. She lives with her rescued pitbull, China, and her passion for writing consumes her free time, especially when it includes snuggling on her sofa with China. Her love of writing is so strong, she even tattooed a quote from one of her stories on her rib-cage.

  If you have enjoyed this book and feel comfortable leaving a review on Amazon, it would go a long way in helping Independent Authors like me. Thank you for taking the time to read There Are Only Four!

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