by Meli Raine
“We have no goals,” he resumes, staring off into the distance, gaze soft but hands clenched. His slight accent slips in and out of his conversation, a liability that he must hate. His tongue betrays him, unable to shake the ghosts of his childhood in another land.
“No goals,” I repeat. We repeat these phrases a lot. We were trained to do so, to reinforce our automatic responses.
“Chaos is the goal. Whatever it takes, Callum.” He says my name with a bite.
“Yes. We are viral cells,” I say, knowing what's expected of me. I want to please him. It feels sick and yet good at the same time.
“Viruses replicate by injecting themselves into host cells, no? They insert their genetic material into the host and take over. It's ingenious, really. Elegant and creative, such a refined form of consumption. You are a virus. Every child taken into this training compound is one cell, one that will go on to infect thousands, injecting itself into the host of American culture. You go out into the world and destabilize. You break down the host.”
“Yes.”
“What is the host?” he demands.
“The fabric of society.”
“Indeed.”
“That's anarchy.” My words could be used against me. I take the chance anyhow, needing to feel a rush of something.
“Anarchy is the mission.”
“Chaos. Our job is to do nothing but destroy.” I look at my hands. “Like killing that animal.”
“That animal was nothing. You're snapping necks in society, true. Perhaps not literally, but the effect will be the same.”
“I'm being trained to use psychology, mind power, instead of my hands.”
“Yes.” One corner of his mouth quirks up. I match him. “How could there be any higher mission? We unravel a sweater with a single thread. We collapse a weak structure with a single charge.”
“Angelica says that collapsing a society is much harder than bombing a building or using weapons in a state of war.”
“Is it? Is it really?”
“Well...” I have to stop and think, looking away, looking inward.
“How do we know? No one has tried it before.” The smile on his face makes my chest swell and hurt at the same time.
“We are now.”
“Yes, Callum. Exactly.”
Good Callum. Good student. Good boy.
“Yes. We are,” he continues. “And we are winning, and the best part is this: No one knows we are winning. By the time they realize it, it will be too late.”
“It will be too late.”
He nods. He gets to his point. “And the weak, like that girl–Kina–have no place in the viral structure. She is only allowed to stay because even dead weight has its uses sometimes.”
My blood runs cold at the words dead weight.
“She's smarter than you think.”
I'm playing a dangerous game, but I have to say something to defend her. Dead weight is a phrase I've heard used about others before.
Others who disappeared one day, never to be seen again.
“What I think of her does not matter,” Romeo responds.
My laugh is intentional. It surprises him for a second, making him watch me closer.
“What you think about the stir-fried vegetables served at dinner last night matters here, Romeo.”
He likes when I say that.
The pink point of his tongue pokes out between his lips, full and edged with a slight shadow from his beard. It's unusual to see him with scruff. He must have come straight here from The Field.
I want to be assigned to The Field.
The Field is out there. Beyond the fences that pen us in. I've lived my entire life in this compound and know nothing else.
If I can get a field assignment, I can attend university. Infiltrate student and administrative populations. Learn valuable information to bring it back for the cause.
Go somewhere other than here.
“I think you are wrong. Everyone is wrong when they are young,” he says, though he's not much older than me. Six years? Ten, at most? It's hard to tell his age. If you study him for too long, he notices.
And if he notices, he is on guard. Men like Romeo are dangerous when they're on guard.
Especially when they’re on guard against you.
“How did it feel to kill that bunny for her?” he asks abruptly.
“It felt like nothing.”
Tilting his head, his eyes stay the same, like cold, black pennies. As he studies me, I focus on giving him the same enquiring look in return. If we mirror them, they don't get to see inside our minds.
They only see what they want to see.
We all have the same mission. The world outside these fences is big and unyielding, full of rampant chaos and a kind of mindless pseudo-altruism that makes people think their government is caring for them while destroying humanity at the same time.
It's not Senator Harwell Bosworth's fault. Not Governor Alicia Ludame's fault, either. It's not the fault of the Senate or the Cabinet or the prime minister of Canada or any of the other government officials in any of the countries across the globe.
It's all about structure.
It's the structure's fault.
All government is rotten to the core. We've been taught this from the crib.
And Romeo and I are part of a mission to destroy.
Destroy and rebuild.
“It felt like nothing to hold a life in your bare hands and end it so quickly?” he persists.
“It was a rabbit,” I say, my voice designed to be withering and full of contempt.
“Can you kill a person so easily?”
“Of course.”
“One you love?”
Silence for half a beat.
“I would never be so foolish as to fall in love with someone, Romeo, so your question is unanswerable.”
He huffs, the laugh coming through flared nostrils.
“You say all the right things, Callum.”
“I mean them.”
“I am sure you think you do.” His eyes drift to my hands. “Why did you really kill the rabbit?”
“Because asking Kina to kill it was beneath you.”
He freezes. He thaws. It happens in seconds.
“That's not for you to judge.”
“Isn't it? We're trained to point out the truth if we think it weakens the cause.”
“You think I weaken the cause?”
“I think targeting Kina in front of the class like that was unnecessary. If you want to challenge her, send her to Woods.”
“Now you're telling me how to strengthen my own trainees?”
“No, sir.”
“Woods is a good idea.” His eyes click up.
I don't even have to ask.
I know what my night will be like.
Chapter 3
Kina
* * *
In Woods, they don’t expect you to do anything but be.
That doesn’t mean we don’t have goals and metrics.
That doesn’t mean they don’t evaluate our every move.
That doesn’t mean they aren’t constantly watching.
But it does mean that I can breathe.
In the building, I can’t breathe. Even in my own room, tucked into my bed, under the covers, with Glen in the bed next to mine, I can’t really breathe.
My ribs shake inside my chest as if they want to break free from one another and fling themselves to the far corners of the universe. Our lungs are balloons, filled by an inhale, emptied by an exhale, always working. They’re like a mule trudging along slowly, doing the heavy work that no one respects.
That’s my nickname here. The Mule. Angelica gave it to me. She’s not wrong.
Having an identity is a relief. It’s better to be singled out for a characteristic that no one respects than to have nothing special about you at all. I don’t want to be marked or harmed. That could come at any time, though. People with no redeeming characteristics here are oft
en chosen to be the training body.
No one wants to be the body.
Especially in Woods.
A mule, though, fades into the background. It’s expected to be there when its masters demand, but serves no purpose other than to haul, to move, to carry.
To drag.
It’s a creature viewed solely through the lens of drudgery. If that’s my role here at the training center, then I accept it. It’s my contribution to The Mission. It means that I’m good for only one thing, but at least I have a thing.
No one will mistake me for my sister, Glen, the star, the shining example. She excels in every way, like Callum.
We are The Star and The Mule.
When I’m outside in the woods on a training exercise, I get less attention. They don’t think they need to watch me the way they watch the others because I am predictable. I am dependable. Why would you worry about a mule? It needs to be fed. It needs a place to sleep. It needs water.
That’s it.
I do worry about the littles, though. Since I turned twelve, more than six years ago, I've been tasked with nursery duty, one shift per week. No other trainee does this. It was an accident. One of the children threw a tantrum to the point of vomiting and was close to being sent away. I calmed her down as she tried to run away from the nursery.
Sela. She was three when it happened.
After her, I was brought in for the “impossible” children. Each time, I talked to them. Held them. Stroked their hair. Spoke to them when they needed it and stayed silent when what they needed more was pure presence.
I've been grilled over and over, asked how I know such things. How do I know how to calm a child? Surely the experts here are better. And yet for the extreme cases, only I can soothe the child. Make them focus. Turn their negative behavior into an asset.
Every time the leaders ask, I tell them the same thing:
I do not know.
And every time they turn to me, I reinforce that truth:
I don't know.
I just do.
And now here I am in Woods, missing a shift in the nursery, wondering about little three-month-old Jaedy's stuffy nose, worried that two-year-old Tim's emerging tooth is making him cranky.
Until children are four, they live in the nursery.
Four is the age of reason, we are taught. The age of mastery.
The age where the emotional attachment that feeds the brain becomes a relic. A vestigial quality.
And a liability.
I don't really understand the philosophy, but I know this: There is something so peaceful about being the one and only person in the world who can connect to a tiny child and help them to be right with the world. I cherish it. I am not supposed to, but I do.
And I am derided for it.
But I don't care.
Being in Woods for what Jason did to me earlier is bad enough.
Missing the littles is worse.
If you lay in the quiet for long enough, you hear the sounds of the woods around you. All of them.
Especially the human ones.
“I hear you,” I tell the person above my head. My eyes are closed, and I can tell it’s either Callum or Glen. The vibration is friendly, and my shoulder blades don’t seize up.
That is an instinctive response that my body has whenever I’m in danger. I’ve learned to trust it. Even Angelica says that it’s a useful biological adaptation.
I think they’re the kindest words she’s ever said to me.
“It’s me.” Callum comes into view as I open my eyes. Oh, thank goodness. I assumed he would be taken away by Romeo. The shock of his presence makes heat bloom in my blood.
Relief has a funny biochemical presence.
He’s upside down, eyebrows stern. “What are you doing?” he asks.
“Pressing my body against the Earth to prevent the planet from hurtling into space.” I twist my palms against the dry leaves and push down, making a crackling sound.
“You’re failing miserably.”
“Add it to my file.”
One corner of his mouth quirks up. “It’s a long file.”
“So is yours.”
He shrugs and sits down on the ground next to me, careful not to touch, moving his bow and quiver around his ribs. We're sent into Woods with nothing, but he always has them. I think he hides them out here. Has Callum outsmarted our leaders? Video surveillance means he can be caught at any time.
What does it mean that he hasn't yet?
We’re being monitored at all times, and this exchange could get me in trouble. I would care more if I could not defend it. That’s the difference between fifteen and eighteen.
What used to terrify me is only a source of fear now if I don’t know how to use it to my advantage.
“How many nights?” he asks, the words shorthand for an understanding we all have here. If you’re in Woods with no backpack and wearing all black, then you must be on a sleepover. That’s what they call it.
Two nights in the woods, completely alone. No food, no water, no compass, nothing. The training grounds are vast, but if you walk for long enough, you can hit the end. It’s a fence, twelve feet tall, with barbed wire at the top and big signs warning that it’s electrified.
I do everything possible to avoid reaching those fences.
Callum, though, has charted every single foot of them and tells me that it’s a full day’s walk from one end to the other, daylight to daylight.
“Only two nights,” I tell him.
“Not three?”
Three is a sign of true punishment. Four is what you get when you failed the previous sleepover.
“Just two. A refresher.”
“A refresher?” he asks. “What did you fail? Something must have happened after I left class.”
“It wasn’t my fault,” I say, calm but irritated. “I was distracted after you left.” Instantly, I detach myself, forcing my muscles to go slack.
The brain can be a muscle, too. Train it well and it will obey subconsciously.
“Why are you really in Woods?”
“Jason baited me again.” Jason is the only person in our cohort who genuinely hates me, for reasons I do not understand.
“Then he succeeded. How many points did he get?”
“Enough.”
“Did he hurt you?”
“Only in my file. Why are you here?” I say, changing the subject.
“Sleepover,” he says.
“How many nights?”
“Five.”
“What did you do? Other than challenging Romeo and killing the bunny for me.” I want to tell him I'm stunned and relieved that Romeo didn't send him away.
Or worse.
“They tell me it’s an endurance test.”
“Can you handle five?”
“I’m going for six.”
“Why?”
“I’ve decided to give everything I have to The Mission.”
“But we all have.”
“I’m giving more.”
“How can you give more than everything?”
“That’s what I’m about to find out, Kina.” Serious eyes bore into mine. Callum has blue eyes like the sky. Endless and mesmerizing, they draw me in. I could look at him forever and it still would not be enough.
My body tingles at the thought.
Relief that he's still here really has a funny way of settling into my bones.
“Thank you,” I choke out.
“For what?” His eyes cut away. The air between us has changed. I can't explain it. Suddenly, I'm uncomfortable.
And yet I just want to be with him.
“For killing for me.”
As the words come forth from my mouth, I cringe inside. I did not mean to say for me. “For me” implies that he killed the bunny out of some attachment to me.
We are not allowed to have emotions for one another. It puts us at risk.
“I did it for me,” he says, louder than he should need to.
“You did?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“To challenge Romeo.”
“Why would you do that?” My voice goes up to a sharp squeak at the end, incredulous.
He laughs. “Because we are taught to destabilize power structures.” He looks around. “What do you think the compound is?”
“I don't think they meant that, Callum.”
He stares out ahead. Darkness is coming swiftly, casting a grey blanket over the sky. His eyes dim, too, as if their blue light is connected.
“Are you serious?” I prod. If I tell him I agree and he's just saying this to test me, I'm in trouble. Deep trouble. But his words alone could get him placed in a week of solitude. We cannot joke about overthrowing the powers that be at the compound.
That's not our place.
A slow grin just adds to my confusion as he asks, “Why didn't you tell the truth about your dream?”
Heat rushes to the surface of my skin. Oh, how I want to confide in him. Tell the truth. Relieve some of the pressure in my head. As if he can tell (and what if he can?), he stands, motioning for me to follow.
I do.
What choice do I have?
He takes me near a small waterfall, where he's built a lean-to out of large sticks and brush. Small twigs and kindling form a pile near the shelter, and he's also collected purslane and dandelion greens.
The memory of how quickly he killed the bunny flits through my mind.
In Woods, Callum will not go to bed hungry.
My look isn't hidden as I take in the food. My stomach betrays me, grumbling. He ignores the sound.
“Tell me,” he urges. “Tell me your real dream.”
His urgency fills me with a strange mix of excitement and horror. “There was no other dream. I told the truth. I told the truth just like you always do.” The lie lingers on my tongue, a bad taste I want to spit out.
In the waning light, we stare at each other. The hardness of the rocks beneath our feet makes me feel unmoored, light like helium, ready to float away.
“I have dreams, too,” he whispers, bending down, collecting twigs. I imitate him, shocked by his admission.
“Dreams about things that aren't true?”
“Dreams about people I've never met,” he confesses.
“What do they look like?”
He shrugs. “We know that dreams are simply the subconscious pushing through.”
