The Sowing (The Torch Keeper)

  Finally, at the far end, I peer through the vent down into Dahlia’s cell. Unlike the others, she’s breathing heavy, like when she’s exercising. She must be doing push-ups.

  And she’s still alone.

  I press my face against the grate. “Dahlia!”

  Rustling below me. “Who is that?” she whispers back up to me.

  “It’s me, Spark.”

  “How did you—?”

  “I don’t have time to explain. Renquist is on his way to your cell. He’s going to … hurt you.”

  “What are you talking about? Lee-Man said I should trust you now, but—”

  “Just shut up and help me unscrew the grate!” I thrust my hands through the grate and start unscrewing the bolt with my bone blade.

  In the distance, the sound of footfalls reaches my ears, mingling with our heavy breathing. Each clomp of the boot heel against the floor is like a chisel to my heart.

  In a flash, Dahlia joins me, her hands sweaty and trembling against mine, helping to twist the screws I’ve loosened. In seconds we have one side free, then another; all we need is one more and I’ll be able to push it aside and help her escape, though I’m not quite sure where we’ll go.

  The bone shard slips from my hands and clatters against the floor, disappearing into the darkness. Dahlia’s hand tightens around mine. The footsteps must be no more than ten feet away now. Already there’s enough light from Renquist’s flashlight for me to make eye contact with her.

  She drops to the cot and I duck into the shadows of the shaft, just as Renquist’s hulking form stops outside her cell door. My heart’s thudding in my temples.

  As he reaches into a compartment for his security access card, Dahlia’s arm darts underneath her bed and emerges with something clutched in her hand, which she tucks into the mattress.

  It must be the bone fragment I dropped.

  The door to her cell opens and Renquist saunters in. He pauses by her bed. In the sickly yellow glow of the flashlight he sets on the floor, I can see his face twist into an awful leer.

  I’m not sure if the breathing I’m hearing is Dahlia’s or my own.

  “Rise and shine, beautiful.” He reaches down and strokes her hair with his stubby fingers.

  Dahlia bolts up. I see an ivory flash as her arm thrusts toward his thick neck.

  But Renquist is too quick. He grabs her wrist before she can make contact and backhands her with the other hand. Thwack!

  “Ungh! ” Her neck snaps back and she hits her head against the wall. Her dazed eyes flutter open as she tries to focus. Then she yelps as Renquist’s fingers tighten around her wrist and he plucks the bone from her grasp.

  “I’m not sure where you got this, little lady, but there’ll be time for questions after I’m done.”

  He lowers himself on top of her.

  She spits at his face. “I ain’t no lady.”

  In a flash, she raises her knee and slams it into his groin. Then her fist jabs him in the chin. He reels back and clutches himself. His bellows echo down the hallway.

  I smirk as I think of his last exchange with Echoes about ignoring any sounds coming from the cell block. No one’s going to be checking things out for a bit.

  My fingers wrap around the final screw and twist harder and harder. I can feel the grooves cutting into my flesh, moistening my fingers with blood. The bolt begins to loosen …

  Dahlia tries to scramble from the cot. But Renquist grabs her by the hair. His yelp of pain is turned into a howl of rage. His face contorts into a vicious snarl. “You’ll pay for that, bitch!”

  Then he slams her face-down onto the hard floor.

  A long moan squeezes out of Dahlia’s throat. Her body twitches and writhes.

  Then Renquist’s tearing off his belt and peeling away his clothes like a snake shedding dead skin. He grabs the bone fragment and climbs on top of her, slicing through her clothing.

  My heart’s about to tear free of its moorings. I twist the screw as hard as I can—

  The sounds of ripping fabric pierces right through me. Flashes of Delvecchio … and my mother …

  Below, their bodies are a blur of motion, punctuated by the loathsome sound of Renquist’s rasping breaths.

  Then Dahlia is screaming, a series of long, plaintive wails that burrow deep inside of me, ripping through my guts.

  “What’s going on in there?” someone yells, farther down the hallway.

  Leander?

  As I twist the screw harder, my whole body’s trembling with rage at the violation below me. Hot moisture leaks down the corners of my eyes, stinging my cheeks with venom. I yank the screw free, heedless of the pain, shove the grate aside, and leap—

  Then I’m on Renquist’s back, fists pounding, clawing at him, tearing him away from Dahlia’s convulsing body.

  He shoves me aside, flecks of spittle flying from his foamy mouth. “Just wait your turn, pretty!”

  Something inside of me breaks. I grab Renquist’s belt and loop it around his neck. Before he can react, I’m pulling with all my strength, concentrating all my fury, my vengeance, on this one act, pulling tighter and tighter, watching the thick cords on his neck bulge as his body convulses, still attempting to dislodge me. But nothing he does can make me let go.

  And then Dahlia plunges the makeshift blade of bone into his chest, once, twice, three times …

  Renquist’s body spasms. Then his struggles begin to subside, until he finally stirs no more.

  I fling his lifeless husk to the floor, staring at his glazed eyes, the puffy tongue poking out from between purplish lips. Kneeling by Dahlia, I try to arrange her torn clothing to cover her, but she flinches.

  “D-don’t … touch … me.” She covers herself.

  “I’m sorry.” I move away, not knowing what to do or say.

  She’s trembling, her eyes fixed on Renquist’s body. “What are we going to do about that.”

  Pulling away from her, I stare back up at the grate. “We have to get him out of view, up inside the shaft.”

  She looks confused. “Won’t they notice he’s missing?”

  I shake my head. “Not for forty-eight hours.”

  I scramble up into the shaft. As she helps me pull and wedge him through the duct, I explain about Renquist’s furlough.

  Once he’s hidden away, I rummage through his uniform and utility belt. Aside from his security clearance card and flashlight, he’s got infrared goggles, a chronometer, and a compact, hand-held version of a holocam that can be worn around the wrist and will be great for monitoring the facility’s transmissions. He’s also got a gun. I take these, and then help Dahlia secure the grate cover enough that no one will be able to tell it’s been opened.

  I check the time and stare down at her. “It’s almost 0600 hours. The morning shift will be arriving soon. Gotta get back to my own cell. You going to be okay?”

  She nods. “Thank you. I just need to get cleaned up.” Plopping back down on the cot, she stares at the wall, humming some unrecognizable tune to herself as if I’m no longer there.

  All the lights come on in the holding cells.

  “Rise and shine, maggots!” an Imp croaks down the cell block.

  I scramble away from the grating, squeeze past Renquist’s body, and scurry along the maze of ducts like a rat, my heart racing, my breaths rapid-firing. I’m breathless by the time I get back to the grate above my cell.

  Tristin’s anxious eyes find mine—just as Styles opens the cell door. He stares at the lump on my cot. Apparently, Tristin’s bundled the sheet to make it look like I’m there.

  He reaches for it. “Get your ass up, Sparky!”

  Before he can touch it, Tristin bolts past him out the cell door. Styles turns and grabs her, and they begin to tussle.

  “I have to see my brother!” she screeches.

/>   She’s positioned her body so that Styles has his back to the cell … to me …

  Not wasting a precious moment, I move the grate aside and slip through, moving it back in place just as Styles tosses Tristin back into the room, where she collides against me.

  “No ration privileges for you today!” he shouts.

  Then he glares at both of us. “Now hit the showers. Both of you. Today’s Trial is about to start.”

  I nod at Tristin as we join the others lined up outside their cells.

  As anxious as I am about what they have in store for us today, I can’t help but smile.

  Things have changed.

  twenty

  The next Trial is about to begin.

  Cage, Boaz, Drusilla, and Crowley are perched on the ledges of long cylindrical columns, which gleam like silver missiles ready to launch them into oblivion. Even through the unnatural flicker of the holo-projection, there’s no mistaking the new lines carved into their haggard faces. Their arms and legs tremble as they struggle to keep their balance, their backs pressed against the smooth steel.

  But as bad as the other three look, Crowley’s fairing the worst. His flesh is leached of color, a sickly whitish yellow. His features are contorted, his cheeks and jaw clenched. Unlike the others, who are bracing themselves against the pillars with both hands, one of Crowley’s hands is grabbing his leg, just above the bloodied bandage that covers his torn flesh. Every time he teeters, I hold my breath, expecting

  him to lose his grip, tumble off, and plunge down the twenty feet or so to the surface.

  Dahlia is standing in the shadows of the common room with the rest of us. Her eyes remind me of the carcharian’s—cold, empty sockets reflecting the dark emptiness within. I can’t even imagine what she must be feeling—if she’s even feeling anything right now. Maybe it’s better if she isn’t.

  Welcome to your third trial, Recruits!

  The lights in the chamber dim even further, until I can barely make out that the other Incentives are standing here with me.

  Spotlights capture the four Recruits, washing out their features in a flood of cold light.

  This next Trial is a test of endurance, requiring strength, balance, and the ability to withstand any natural threats you may encounter in hostile territory. Be the last Recruit to remain on your pedestal and you will be the victor. The winning Recruit must then select which one of their failed competitors must choose between their Incentives. However, if the victor is too weak to make this choice, then he or she will be deemed unworthy and immediately be shelved, along with any remaining Incentives.

  My stomach knots. I remember how, during my own Trials, I was faced with the terrible burden of making a blind choice. The horror I felt when I found I’d selected Cypress—and watched her die alongside her two young children.

  The choice is always yours. Good luck.

  My eyes dart through the darkness, toward my cell. Now. While this Trial is going on. I have to risk going back into those ducts to look for more weapons.

  The signal blares through the chamber.

  A low hum fills the room, vibrating through my teeth. Cage, Boaz, Drusilla, and Crowley are braced against their pillars, which have begun to shake as if they’re suffering the aftershocks of an earthquake. Drusilla and Boaz’s eyes are shut as they struggle to retain their balance. Crowley’s face is a concoction of fear and pain. On the opposite end, Cage is staring straight ahead, stone-faced, as if he’s a sculpture etched out of his pillar.

  Something brushes against my arm and I whirl. It’s Leander. In the dimness, I can barely make out his silhouette as he nudges his chin toward my cell, then back at the holos. But there’s no mistaking the nod he gives me.

  He moves off to the center of the room.

  “Boaz!” he shouts at the images. “You can do this! Don’t punk out on me!” He shouts obscenities at Boaz’s holo that would make even the most hardened Imps blush.

  The perfect diversion to keep the focus off me.

  None of the others seem to notice, their eyes glued to the three-dimensional projections as they agonize over whether or not they’re about to receive their own death sentences.

  Now’s my chance. I sink deeper into the shadows, melding into the darkness until I’m feeling my way back into my cell. Once inside, I waste no time springing onto the cot, pushing the grate aside, and wedging myself up and through, ignoring the cold metal clawing at my skin.

  After groping through Renquist’s things near Dahlia’s cell, I grab his flashlight and flick it on the dimmest setting, careful to keep it pointed away from the cell below. Good. This makes it much easier to pull on his uniform over the rags I’m wearing. Though I’ve packed on a lot of muscle during my Imposer training, Renquist’s uniform is still too big—I hope whoever spots me won’t look too closely.

  Checking the weapon to make sure it’s loaded and ready, I holster it to my belt. I wedge the earpiece of Renquist’s hand-held holo in my ear and flick on the device. I adjust the audio level so it’s loud enough to hear, but not so loud that it would drown out any other warning sounds I might encounter. Then I start to crawl, keeping the hand-held in front of me so I can monitor the Trial as I slither through the twisting maze of ducts.

  Crowley is shaking so bad, it’s like he’s having a seizure.

  “Hang on!” Cage shouts at him. The veins on his forehead are pulsing from his own effort to stay aloft. “You got this. Don’t give up now, mate!”

  But it’s useless, and I can tell Cage knows this by the panicked look plastered on his own face. Crowley is teetering like a top sputtering out of control.

  I creep along faster, pushing myself to the limits.

  Crowley turns to Cage. His wide eyes are coated with fear. “I … I can’t … ”

  He drops off the pedestal like a felled bird.

  “Crowley! ” Cage cries.

  Even through the earpiece I can hear the thud of his body as it slams onto the floor. Then he just lies there, his body twitching.

  They’re just going to leave him there like garbage until it’s all over.

  I hurry along faster.

  Recruit Crowley has been eliminated in this Trial. But for those of you that are left, the test of endurance has just begun. Out in the wilderness during actual combat conditions, you never know what types of natural elements you may encounter.

  I whip around a corner as fast as I can. The duct leading into the locker room is just ahead. I pause to get my bearings and study the images projected on my palm.

  “What’s going on now?” Drusilla screeches, echoing my own thoughts. She and Boaz are barely hanging on, alongside Cage, but now have their eyes pried open.

  Boaz nudges his chin toward the side of her pillar. “Your pedestal’s opening!”

  “So’s yours!” She whips her head around to Cage. “That goes for you too, Cage.”

  I reach the duct and fumble with my utility belt, whipping out the compact blow torch and aiming it at the slats in the grate. There isn’t time to twist open screws. But even as I turn it on and the wavering tongue of blue fire casts flickering shadows down the shaft, I can’t help but glance at my hand-held.

  Things are crawling out of the openings on the pedestals.

  Hundreds of them. Maybe thousands. Twisting, wormlike insects, like rotting grains of rice, wriggling and headless, engulfing the three Recruits. Some form of mutated maggots.

  “What the hell? ” Boaz tries to flick them away, but he almost loses his balance and manages to steady himself at the last moment. “Get them off of me! ” His shriek pierces my eardrum.

  “Stop it!” Drusilla cries. “Just hold still. They only eat dead tissue!”

  I cut through the slats as quickly as I can, hoping no one below can hear them as they clatter onto the floor. Then I kick in the last of the slats and drop down.


  Getting my bearings, I check my gear and look around, making sure no one’s seen me. But the chamber is clear and I spring to my feet, straightening out my uniform, my belt, my helmet, and trying to look as presentable as I can. Once I’m done, I kick the melted pieces of the grate into a corner and hope no one will discover them.

  I have no choice but to deactivate the com unit.

  Then I make my way to the door, take a deep breath, and open it, emerging into the corridor. The control center should be to the right. No sooner do I start out in that direction than two Imps round the corner and head my way.

  “It’s only a matter of time before one of those things gets through the perimeter and into central control,” the taller of the two is saying to his shorter, thicker companion.

  “All the more reason we should take out the lot of ’em before they get the chance,” the other responds.

  Who are they talking about? The Fleshers? The Imps are just a couple of feet away.

  With the brim of my helmet low, I keep my stride measured as I march past them, offering a salute, which they return absently.

  Dead ahead is the entrance to the control room. I dig into my pocket for Renquist’s access card. Whipping it out, I slide it into the slot by the side of the door.

  Ping!

  The light blinks green. Authorization accepted.

  Then I slip inside. The good thing is that the control room is dimly lit, thanks to the Trial in progress. There are maybe half a dozen Imps there. I brace myself for an onslaught of questions, anticipating the lies I’ll have to weave, working up my conviction.

  But all their eyes are riveted to the main screen. I take a sharp breath.

  The three Recruits are completely covered in maggots.

  “Hang on, Boaz!” Cage spits the words and I can see flecks of the wriggling larvae spray out. Boaz teeters on his pedestal. The maggots are covering his lips, squirming their way into his nostrils …

  “Help! ” Boaz cries through a mouthful of slimy invaders. His hands fly to his face, tearing at it, scraping as many of the insects off as he can—

  And he loses his balance, plunging off the pedestal to join Crowley at the bottom.