Michal laughs as though he has said something funny. I laugh too, though nothing has ever seemed less amusing. What constitutes too smart and too strong? Does asking to go outside mark me a rebel? My head spins, but I continue to smile as though my life depends on it.
And it might.
I eat the entire sandwich, then another because it won’t keep in my bag and I know I need to be well fueled when I start the next test. Michal leans back in the grass and watches. When the sandwiches are gone, Michal glances at his watch. Ten minutes of freedom remain.
“Are you scared?” he asks, handing me a bottle of water.
I take a sip and feel emotions crash against the carefree wall that I had erected. I nod. Yes, I am terrified. Trying not to lose my composure, I slide the uneaten apples, oranges, and rolls into my bag. My fingers tremble as I try to close the fasteners. Michal helps me and whispers, “Don’t worry about being the first to arrive back. Every year candidates think the order you return in matters. It doesn’t. Be smart. Be safe. Trust your friends from Five Lakes if you can, but no one else. Every year there are Testing candidates who think taking out their competition is the best way to ensure their entrance to the University. More often than not they are right. Don’t let them be this time.”
The bag closes. I sit down as the world around me starts to spin and then fades to black. The last thing I remember is feeling strong arms lifting me while a soft, warm voice says, “You’re smart, Cia. You’re strong. There are people like me on your side who know you can make it. Please, prove I’m right.”
Then everything fades away.
The next thing I hear is water dripping. My eyes fly open. I am lying on a cot in what can only be described as a metal box. The whole thing is probably six feet by six feet. I try to squelch the panic I feel at being in such a small, confined space and take in the rest of my surroundings. There are electric lights illuminating the space. A small basket of food sits on the floor next to me. A toilet and tiny sink occupy the corner at the end of my bed. On the wall across from me is a countdown clock with a sign that reads: TESTING BEGINS IN THIRTY MINUTES. No. Strike that. Twenty-nine minutes.
I use the toilet. Flush the grogginess from my eyes and the metallic taste from my mouth that are clear signs I was drugged. I think back to the water Michal handed me and feel a stab of betrayal. Then it is gone as I remember the whispered words. The drugs were part of Testing protocol. His words and the care they contained were not. For whatever reason, Michal genuinely believes I will make it through this test. He even claims others I don’t know are offering their support. I will not prove them wrong.
As the clock counts down, I strip the bed of its sheet and stuff it into the bottom of my bag. Who knows when I might need the warmth. I then check the food basket. More sandwiches. Dried fruit. A bottle of water. A small box of crackers and three perfectly ripe strawberries. I eat the sandwiches, sniff the water for traces of drugs, and then sip at it while storing the crackers and the dried fruit in my bulging bag. If nothing else, I’ll have enough food to see me through a week. More if I’m careful. One by one I eat the juicy strawberries as I watch the clock tick down. When it reaches five minutes, I wash my hands, dig Zeen’s Transit Communicator out of my bag, and turn on the compass. The compass swings wildly, searching for direction, and finds none. I can only guess the metal box is confusing the signal and hope the situation remedies itself when I am able to leave.
Two minutes left to go.
I take one last sip of water and store the bottle in my bag.
One minute.
I realize anything could be outside that door. After putting Zeen’s Communicator in the side pocket of my bag, I reach into it one last time. When the clock hits zero, I stand with my bag on my shoulder and the small black gun in my hand.
The side of the metal box swings open as a recorded voice says, “The fourth round of Testing has now begun.”
Chapter 10
THEY DIDN’T WISH us luck. Perhaps that is a strange thought to be having at this moment, but my mind can’t seem to focus on anything else as I step from my tiny Testing candidate cell onto a patch of brown grass growing up through concrete. I can barely breathe as I look at the decaying devastation around me. Steel and rock. Glass and wood. Buildings broken and collapsed. Cars completely rusted and overturned. A layer of sooty grime covers it all. Here and there heartier plants are fighting to get beyond the rubble—yearning toward the sun. Vines cover the wreckage of broken cars and buildings. Trees that have been corrupted by the tainted earth but are determined to survive twist through the pieces of the broken city on their way to the sky. Not too far away from where my metal box sits is what looks like a collapsed brick arch that is partially covered by dark, prickly vines. In the rising sunlight, I think I can see words etched on the brick, and I cautiously take a few steps toward it.
I squint to make out the letters: CHICA O STOC EXCH E B
Even with one letter unreadable, I now know for certain where I am. Chicago. The third city destroyed during the Fourth Stage of War. The first two cities had some warning—announced evacuations. Hundreds of thousands of people died, but it could have been worse. Like it was here. Books tell us the attack was fast. Undetected until the first bombs had been dropped. Who the enemy was who breached the country’s defenses and destroyed a city unprepared has never been confirmed, although the president and his advisers believed they knew. They struck back, and the world collapsed.
Wind whistles through the abandoned streets. But they aren’t abandoned—not now. Fifty-eight other Testing candidates are here. Some are my friends, but according to Michal, others will happily cut me down with the weapons provided for our defense just to ensure their spot in the University class. How do I find one without risking running into the others? Or the weapons they might have selected? Being forced to use the gun in my bag?
Tomas said to meet him at the tallest building, but from my current vantage point, it is hard to tell what that might be. I walk back to my box and hoist myself up to the roof to get a better look. More broken concrete and twisted steel. Mountains of rubble that form the graves of the people who used to call this city home. The enormity of the destruction pulls at my heart, but I don’t have time to grieve for the people who died here. I have to find Tomas.
As I prepare to climb down, I spot something that catches the light above the rest of the destruction. It doesn’t look like a building, but it’s the tallest thing I can see from my location. Distance is hard to judge, but I’m guessing it isn’t too far away. I don’t know if Tomas will head there, but I have to take a shot.
The Transit Communicator’s compass is working now. So is the mapping tool that determines longitude and latitude. At least I know my coordinates. I can find my way back if I need to.
Jumping down, I set off with my compass directing me north to my destination. I scramble over piles of broken rock and avoid large gaping holes in the ground, stopping every few feet to listen. Do I hear other footsteps? Is anyone else nearby? All I hear is the wind rustling the dried, clawlike leaves on a nearby tree.
While my goal didn’t appear to be all that far from my metal perch, the sun is much higher in the sky when I approach what I can now see is a grayish-looking spire shooting up from what used to be a building. How the spire survived destruction is a mystery. I wonder if Tomas can see it from his designated starting point.
I sit on a fallen piece of stone and take several sips from my water bottle. The sun is hot. Sweat is dripping down my back. I need to keep hydrated if I am going to survive this test. My stomach growls, and I break off a small piece of raisin bread while I try to decide how long to wait here for Tomas. He might not see the spire. He might have decided that the tall-building plan is a bust and is now trekking his way west to the fence line that was our second rendezvous point.
Checking the position of the sun, I decide it must be sometime after noon. Hours have passed since I first stepped onto the city streets. While I wou
ld like to wait as long as it takes to find Tomas, I also need to find shelter when night comes. The idea of sleeping out in the open with Testing candidates and whatever unknown dangers are lurking freaks me out. One hour. That’s how long I decide I can give Tomas before I leave this spot. Then I will move on.
I finish my sparse lunch and decide to explore my surroundings a bit until it is time to leave. Hoisting the bag onto my shoulder, I scramble over debris. I almost trip on a tree root and end up directly on the other side of the spire, looking at a large metal box sitting on a broken street.
A Testing candidate box.
My heart picks up speed as I tread slowly toward the box, careful not to make any noise as I walk. It is too much to hope for that Tomas’s box would be the first one I come across after leaving my own, or that he would still be in it hours after the test began. Still, I have to look.
The clock inside is no longer lit. The basket of food contains only a discarded apple core and the container the crackers came in. This is definitely not Tomas’s box. He wouldn’t have been reckless enough to eat food that could be stored for later. And he would have stripped the cot of its sheet like I did. I’m considering adding the sheet to my inventory when I hear a stone skitter over the ground.
Someone or something is outside.
I freeze and hold my breath, trying to decide my next move as I hear fragments of cement crunch under a shoe. Not an animal. Definitely a person. My heartbeats count off the seconds as I listen for sounds of advance or retreat. The minutes pass. I hear nothing. I tighten and retighten my grip on the gun in my right hand and count to one hundred. Still nothing.
Being trapped in this windowless box has me at a distinct disadvantage. Not only can I not see who is out there, but I have no method of escape if someone comes through the door. It is time to leave. Now.
I peer out of the entrance of the box. The opening faces an area that at one time must have housed a building but is now home to a few partially standing walls. A few of the walls are only three or four feet high, but one or two are taller than me. The tallest wall is probably fifty or sixty feet away. The walls could provide a place to hide from whoever is nearby. At least until I can determine whether the person means harm or not. The ground between the box and the wall is cracked but mostly flat. If someone is waiting for me outside the box, taking them by surprise is my best chance. I position my bag’s strap over my head so it is more secure, shift the weight, take a deep breath, and run.
My boots pound against the hard stone ground. Somewhere, off to my right I think, I hear someone swear. My flight or my identity has taken them by surprise. If it is a friend, they would call out. When they don’t, I run faster. I am about ten feet away from my destination when I hear a high-pitched, almost musical vibrating sound. Then a thunk. Embedded in the scraggly tree trunk to my left is a crossbow quarrel.
The vibrating whine sounds again. This time I flatten myself against the concrete. Seconds later a metal quarrel hits the wall five feet in front of me and clatters to the ground. More swearing. Definitely to my right. Whoever is shooting the quarrels either has amazing luck with the weapon or has had training with it in the past. I need to get to a safe place—fast. Scrambling to my feet, bag banging against my hip, I speed forward and duck behind the wall as another crossbow quarrel connects with stone.
There is no doubt: someone is trying to kill me.
Another Testing candidate? I have to believe so. A crossbow was one of the weapons in the selection room. And while I understand feeling scared and alone in this wasted city, I do not believe those are the feelings propelling this attack. Like Roman’s sabotage of our group on the third exam, this attack is calculated. It is cold. It is an attempt to better the odds of making it to the University.
Anger and indignation cut through my fear. Whoever this person is, isn’t relying on their own smarts to pass this test. Michal said that killing someone isn’t against the rules, but in my mind it’s a form of cheating. I’ll be damned if I’m going to let a cheater win.
I remember the gun in my hand, get into a crouching position, and slowly move to the right, careful to keep behind the crumbling stone. When I reach the end of the wall, I calculate my best guess as to where the quarrels were shot from, peer around the wall, and fire.
The kick of the gun jolts my entire body as the sound tears through the silent city. Someone curses loudly—a male voice. I find it hard to believe my blind attack hit him. That wasn’t my goal. I don’t plan on surviving this test by killing the others. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to go down without a fight. I shoot three more bullets out into the city and crouch behind the wall, listening for sounds of my attacker. The sound of feet connecting with rocks makes me hold my breath.
Rocks skittering across pavement.
The clang of something metal.
Silence.
Then the sound of heavy footsteps running. Not toward my position, but away. I am safe. For now.
My body shakes as anger seeps out, leaving behind hollow fear. I just shot a gun at someone. No, I wasn’t trying to kill the shooter. But I could have. I could have killed someone. The fact that the person was trying to kill me can justify my behavior, but shame and horror still fill me.
I realize that I am huddled up against the wall, no longer listening to the sounds of the city, and tell myself to snap out of it. There will be time enough later to worry about what I have just learned about myself. First, I need to put distance between me and this place. The gunshots will have attracted attention from anyone in the vicinity. If there are other Testing candidates out there interested in taking out the competition, they might come looking for the source of the gunshots. I don’t want to be here when they arrive.
Listening carefully for signs of life, I peer around the wall and scan the wreckage of the city. I see no one. Not near the candidate box. Not on the piles of broken buildings or hiding among the branches of diseased trees. As far as I can tell, at this very moment I am alone. While I would like nothing better than to have Tomas walking out of the city with me, I will have to make it out of here on my own.
Keeping low to the ground, I check my compass and slowly head west, careful to stop every ten or fifteen feet to scan the area around me. So far I see no one, but I know the crossbow shooter is out there somewhere. Climbing over rocks and pieces of steel makes travel slow. Eventually, I find a street that is mostly cleared of debris and pick up my pace.
The street leads to a wide river of dark, swirling water. There is no need for tests. This water is not drinkable. No amount of basic purification chemicals will make it so. The street I am following arches up and over the river. There are cracks and gaping holes in the bridge. Do I try to cross here or find another way to the other side?
I stow my gun in the side pocket on my bag and climb a tree on the riverbank for a better view. The river curves to the northeast. It’s hard to see what lies in that direction. To the south there is another bridge, but it too appears to be in disrepair. And who knows how long it will take me to get there or what I will encounter when I do. Scrambling back down to the ground, I decide to try to cross here. I need to put as much distance as possible between me and any unfriendly candidates. If I start to cross and find the bridge is too unsafe, I will head south and try my luck there.
As I cross, I see evidence of a meager attempt to repair the bridge. Perhaps past Testing candidates placed the large planks of wood and slabs of rock over gaping holes when they, too, needed to cross to the other side. Pieces of rock crumble under my boots as I pick my way to the middle of the bridge. From this vantage point, I can tell the far side of the bridge is in even worse condition. Entire sections of asphalt are gone, leaving only small strips here and there that can be navigated. Whoever attempted to patch the bridge behind me must not have wanted to go back to land for materials to repair this side.
I contemplate my options: return back the way I came to try the south bridge or keep going and hope for the best
. My current position on the bridge has me exposed. No doubt I am in view of any nearby candidate. If one has spotted me, going back will leave me open to attack. Either option holds risk.
Fear of the crossbow shooter keeps my feet moving forward. I shift the bag on my shoulder as the patch of pavement I walk narrows to a mere foot in width. The dark water rushes underneath me, waiting for one misplaced footstep to carry me away. I am twenty feet from safety when I hear the now familiar vibrating sound that signals danger. There is no choice but to run as what I can only guess is a quarrel whizzes past. There is a plunk in the water below as it is swallowed up by the current.
Five feet from safety the piece of road I have been traveling vanishes. The vibrating sound sings again. I don’t have time to think as I leap up and over the gaping hole, hoping to make it to the other side. But only the top part of me makes it onto land. The rest of me dangles in the emptiness between the ledge and the river. Between the weight of my body and my bag, I feel myself sliding backwards. I claw at the concrete and dig my fingers into a fissure in the stone, bringing my backwards movement to a halt.
My arm muscles begin to tremble as I attempt to pull myself onto land. Only, after several tries, I have barely moved a fraction of an inch and my fingers are starting to lose their hold. There is nothing I can do to stop it. In a minute, I will be plunging downward toward the water. I’m bracing myself for the fall and hoping that the bank next to the river is scalable when something clamps onto my arm and pulls my fingers loose from their tenuous grip on safety. With all the dangers around me I know I should stay quiet, but I can’t help it. I scream.