Drawn

by David Alan Jones

  “Listen up,” Torres said. “There will be no morning calisthenics today.”

  Someone in the ranks gave a short whoop of joy.

  Torres hesitated as if she might call that female out, but then smiled. “Oh, you’re happy to hear that? Good. I’m glad you’re happy because the head shed has something even better than calisthenics. Today, your names are going up on a leaderboard. It seems someone in HQ has decided that what you females need is competition to fire you up. Which means you’re gonna spend the next twelve hours going through draw trials to test what you’ve learned.”

  Someone groaned. Anna thought it might have been Leslie but couldn’t be sure. Either way, Torres ate it up.

  “What’s the matter, pumpkin?” Torres asked the platoon. “That doesn’t sound like fun? Well, you’re right, it ain’t fun, but I expect every damn one of you females to give your all. I want Charlie platoon at the top of the board today and every day for the next three weeks of this competition. You will excel, and you will win. Understood?”

  “Yes, Sergeant,” the platoon roared.

  “This isn’t going to be the puny tests you’ve been going through the last month. Those were to find out what you can draw. This competition will push you to your limits. It will test your ability to draw under pressure, even under fire, while simultaneously keeping your goddamn brains screwed in behind your eyes. It will culminate, three weeks from now, with a platoon-level field exercise meant to test not only your abilities to draw, but your unit effectiveness, your willingness to take orders, and your ability to lead when called upon to do so.

  “This too, you shall win. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, Sergeant!”

  Against outrageous odds, not to mention years of slinker indoctrination, Anna managed not to roll her eyes.

  “Good. The draw trials begin in twenty-five minutes. Platoon leaders, take charge of this rabble.”

  Austin Booker, a lanky incubus with a morose face, long thin fingers, and perpetually moist eyes, looked like a dope. And yet after five hours of competition, Austin’s name sat firmly at the top of the pure dexterity leaderboard. Anna shook her head in disbelief as she watched him flick a quarter through a soda machine slot from twenty feet away while skating backward on one Rollerblade.

  The crowd of recruits roared their appreciation. Anna could see copious amounts of money exchanging hands as Austin’s shot put paid to bets around the training area inside Links. Either the draw sergeants didn’t notice—unlikely—or didn’t care. They were too busy devising ever more fiendish challenges for the final two contestants: Austin Booker and Leslie Phelps.

  “You’ve got this, girl!” Anna shouted from her place at the front of the gathered crowd. The draw sergeants had at first tried to keep the other competitions going, but as Booker and Leslie’s trial grew more heated, they had finally given up, suspending all other trials until the clash of the dextos could be determined.

  “Everyone back!” shouted Matt Snow. He had taken charge of this contest thirty minutes ago when the other sergeants had run out of good challenges. “We’re bringing out live firearms. If you don’t want some piece of you blown off, I suggest you move back!”

  The crowd shuffled back a few paces, but they were reluctant to go farther. The lights were bright in Links, the smell of sweat pervasive. Anna didn’t mind. It reminded her of a gym—not fear sweat, but the odor of people pushing themselves to their limits.

  Leslie skated over to Anna, her face drenched, her eyes wide. “We’re gonna have to shoot something?”

  “You’ve never shot a gun?”

  “No!”

  “It’ll be okay,” Anna said. “My dad taught us to shoot when we were kids. Just aim and fire, control your breathing, and keep your arms stiff. Don’t jostle the sights.”

  “What?” Leslie folded her arms about her middle like a kid who doesn’t know what to do with her hands.

  “Just shoot whatever target they put in front of you!”

  “Okay!”

  At Matt’s direction, a couple of draw sergeants wheeled out two metal stands with dartboards affixed to them.

  Booker had sat down in the middle of the floor studiously unfastening his single Rollerblade when Matt stopped him.

  “Get that skate back on. Both of them.” Matt turned to the crowd. “For our next challenge, our master dextos must fire at these targets. Sound too easy? That’s just what I was thinking. So, let’s add some challenge. Phelps, Booker, you’re going to skate from one side of this arena to the other, firing at the numbers I call out. And to make sure I’ve got your attention, the targets will be spinning!”

  On cue, both targets started to spin. Fast. The numbers became a blur to Anna. And though she prided herself on her draw of dexterity almost as much as speed, she knew she would never be so accurate as to hit a target that small, moving that fast.

  Leslie looked at Anna, fear in her green eyes.

  Anna put on a smile she hoped appeared genuine and gave her young friend two thumbs up.

  Matt beckoned the contestants to the targets. He gave Anna that little half-grin of his when he caught her eye, which made her traitorous cheeks flush, then turned back to Leslie and Booker.

  What was that about? Anna had caught Matt glancing her way on more than one occasion whenever circumstances of training brought them together. Always on the sly, of course, and he looked away quickly whenever she caught him. But was he checking her out?

  Yes.

  She had been checked out enough as a waitress to recognize the tells. Anna didn’t know how to feel about that. It confused her. Matt Snow had brought her to this godforsaken place. Part of her wanted to brain him with a baseball bat. But what about the other part? The part that felt…what…flattered? Camp Den was filled with succubi. Every one of them a freaking supermodel. But Matt Snow checked her out, not them. Petty? Sure. But it felt good. And the man certainly had charm. Not charm in the incubus sense, but the mundane sort that a draw could mimic but never replace: the kind that made Anna’s stomach tingle.

  He spoke with Leslie and Booker for a bit, then handed each a small pistol. The draw sergeants yelled for the crowd to move still farther back.

  Booker went first. He set a blistering pace, head down, skates slapping the wooden floor with a sound like pool balls colliding. His path described a shallow, perpendicular arc roughly fifty feet from the targets.

  “Double twenty!” Matt’s voice boomed around Links.

  Pop. The pistol must have been low caliber, probably a .22. It made a sound not much louder than a BB gun.

  The bullet hit the target, and a few people in the crowd cheered, but Anna couldn’t tell if Booker had hit his mark or not.

  “Bullseye!” Matt shouted.

  Pop.

  Just as Booker rolled out of range, his angle to the target surely too acute for even an incubus to make, Matt shouted, “Triple seven.”

  Pop.

  Then it was Leslie’s turn. She skated from the opposite side of the building. As with Booker, Matt called out three targets by their dartboard positions.

  Anna’s stomach churned, and her palms grew sweaty. Mentally, she kicked herself for getting worked up over a manufactured competition run by her kidnappers, but she wanted Leslie to win. Booker had grown up in a succubus family. He had known he could draw charm and dexterity his whole life. That made Leslie, who hadn’t even heard of succubi outside mythology classes before a couple of weeks ago, a major underdog.

  Matt had the contestants take another pass, this time firing with the opposite hand. When they were through, he relieved them of their pistols and sent them back into the crowd.

  Leslie skated over to stand with Anna.

  “That was a blast!” she said, grinning.

  “I bet.” Anna hugged Leslie. “You’re amazing! I can’t believe how deep your draw has gotten.”

  “Gina has a lot of grandkids,” Leslie said. Gina was Leslie’s votary volunteer from the Elmwood retire
ment home.

  Matt and the other draw sergeants, there were twenty of them all told, scrutinized Leslie’s and Booker’s targets for several minutes. A hush fell over the recruits as they watched with ardent anticipation.

  Finally, the judges spread out, Matt at the fore.

  Leslie took Anna’s hand and squeezed it. The younger woman wore a nervous smile.

  “This has been one of the toughest dexterity trials I’ve ever seen,” Matt said. “Before I announce the results, let’s give our contenders a big round of applause.”

  The crowd roared their approval. The people nearest Booker and Leslie slapped their backs and shoulders and offered words of appreciation.

  “I’m proud to announce the winner of today’s pure dexterity trial, with a perfect score of six hits for six shots, is Leslie Phelps!” shouted Matt, holding Leslie’s target aloft.

  Another roar from the crowd and suddenly hundreds of succubi and incubi were lining up to shake Leslie’s hands or pat her arms or offer her words of encouragement.

  Even Gunny Lipe, who must have been hiding in the crowd, came to shake her hand. The recruits parted before him as he swaggered forward in his black tracksuit.

  “You were good with that pistol,” he said. “Have you ever entered a competition?”

  “No, Gunny. I had never held a pistol before today.”

  Lipe’s brown eyes went wide. “You’re serious.”

  “Yes, Gunny.”

  Lipe grinned like a man whose daughter had just told him she’d been accepted to his alma mater. “Who’s your draw sergeant?”

  “Sergeant Torres.”

  “Good. We start general marksmanship training next week, but I’d like to invite you to join our sharpshooting team right away. It’s a three-day-a-week class with an eye toward creating elite snipers. If you’re interested, I’ll send the formal invite through her. She has to approve.”

  Leslie’s eyes widened. “I’d love to!”

  “Good,” Lipe said. “I’ll make the arrangements.”

  “All right people,” Matt shouted, his voice filling the stadium-sized room. “Everyone back to your stations. We have three more cycles to complete before dinnertime!”

  A collective groan went up from the recruits, though they hurried to obey, separating into clusters around the draw sergeants assigned to run the trials.

  “Help me get these off.” Leslie dropped onto her backside and held up one Rollerblade like a little kid. “They’re on pretty tight.”

  Anna unfastened the snaps and began heaving the thing off her friend’s foot.

  “You still think the Order is manipulating us?” Leslie asked as she waggled her foot back and forth to help loosen the skate.

  “I know they are.”

  “But you have to admit this has been fun. And we’re learning a lot. Even you said that last week.”

  Anna shrugged. “I’ll admit they’ve taught me a few things. And, yeah, this part was fun. I think.”

  “You think? I’m having the time of my life.”

  “Maybe that’s the charm,” Anna said. “And just because something is fun, doesn’t make it real.”

  Leslie grew quiet. All at once her right skate popped off, and Anna started in on the left.

  “I’ve been thinking about that,” Leslie said. “What is real, anyway? For all we know, we’re just a couple of brains in jars being fed everything we experience, right?”

  Anna furrowed her brows. “Where’d you hear that?”

  “Moss. We’ve been talking about your charm theory. He agrees with you, by the way. He says he can feel it too, but he isn’t hung up about it. He says it’s like when you’re a kid and your parents manipulate you into doing something good like eating your vegetables by tricking you or offering you a treat. So what if they’re telling you little white lies? The overall goal is good.”

  Anna pulled off Leslie’s second skate and helped her to her feet. “But we’re not children.”

  “Moss says if you’re ignorant of something, that makes you like a child on that subject. And I know practically nothing about drawing, even though it’s my birthright. So, either I learn from people who know, or I go it alone. And I don’t think I’d fare too well outside.”

  Anna pursed her lips. She was about to retort when Valerie Satterfield took her by the elbow. “We’re due at the sime trials, Carver. You’ll have time to gab later.”

  Leslie gave her a grin as Satterfield hauled Anna away.

  “What are you grinning at, Carver?” Satterfield asked as they weaved their way through the crowd.

  “I think Leslie’s going to be okay,” Anna said as much to herself as to her squad leader.

  “Of course she’s okay. Why wouldn’t she be?”

  “Exactly,” Anna said.

  8

  The Rundown

  Anna found sneaking out of the barracks at night far easier than she expected.

  It was all about the now.

  Right now, Anna didn’t think about escape. That sort of thought would send her back to her bunk with no idea how she got there. Instead, she focused solely on helping a fellow recruit. How could that be wrong?

  Melissa Willbrook stood fire guard, which amounted to manning a lectern near the barracks door while the rest of the platoon slept. Unfortunately, Willbrook, a former slinker like Anna, had a monodraw of eyesight, when what she needed at this ungodly hour was alertness. Her eyes were closed when Anna approached.

  “Melissa.”

  Willbrook jumped, nearly toppling the podium. Her flashlight spilled off. Anna drew speed and caught it before it could hit the floor.

  “Shit,” Willbrook whispered. “You scared me, Carver.”

  Anna smiled, drawing charm. “Sorry. I just thought you might like a break. I can’t sleep, and you look exhausted.” All true. Not a whit of lie in that.

  Willbrook’s eyes fluttered almost shut as the wave of suggestion struck her. “Oh, God yes. You don’t have to ask me twice. It’s all this draw testing. It’s killing me. How are you even awake at this hour?”

  Anna slipped an arm around the girl’s waist and guided her toward the bunks. No one stirred as they passed. Good. She drew strength, and all but carried Willbrook the last five steps before easing her onto her cot. In a trice, she had Willbrook covered over in her woolen blanket, running shoes and all. With luck, no one would notice her missing from her post before 0600 wake-up call.

  Anna drew hearing. She stood still, listening more fiercely than a rabbit. She wasn’t planning an escape. Not that. Not now. She was simply checking on her bunkmates, something any conscientious guard would do in the long hours of the night. She happened to notice, entirely by accident, that none of the sleeping women’s breathing had changed.

  Anna clenched.

  She wouldn’t have long, maybe ten minutes. That was the longest she had managed to hold a clench during classes and training sessions over the last three weeks. It would have to do.

  The night held still aside from the see-saw oscillation of crickets and far off warble of frogs. A crescent moon, nothing more than a sliver of white light on the western horizon, provided scant light for Anna’s feeble, regular vision. She took her time, scanning for guards, but saw none on the cement pathways surrounding the steel barracks.

  Anna headed due south. Though she had never been allowed much freedom to roam the camp, she had noticed fewer buildings in that direction. Did it follow there would be fewer people? She hoped so.

  Careful of chuckholes and rocks in the near darkness, she ran at her five-mile pace. She tried not to think about cameras and motion detectors. If Camp Den had them, she was already caught. No use worrying about it. Best to put such things out of her head and keep moving.

  The camp wall resolved itself as she drew near: a dark line on the dark horizon. Anna lengthened her stride. Freedom lay beyond that wall. Freedom, and doctors who could remove the chip from her arm.

  Her clench faltered. Though she had practiced
whenever possible over the last several weeks, Anna hadn’t clenched for this long under physical duress. She couldn’t take the strain much longer. Her body shook, throwing off her balance, and nearly sending her into a headlong tumble. Time to find out if the charm blast reached the camp wall.

  “Here goes everything,” Anna whispered.

  She dropped her clench and immediately drew speed, dexterity, and intelligence, wrapping them about herself like armor. The camp’s pervading charm tried to overwhelm her senses, but at this distance, it could do little more than tug at her desires.

  Perfect.

  Anna rocketed toward the wall, kicking up plumes of dust in her wake. This would not be easy. She had practiced high jumping every chance she got, but her vertical never quite measured up to the camp walls. But if she could get a hand on the precipice, she knew she could squirm her way over. She had to.

  Charging at top speed toward the stone barrier put a flutter of doubt in Anna’s chest. This could kill her. Everything hinged on her timing.

  She leapt at the last possible instant, hurtling upward, wind lashing her face. The world fell silent for what felt like an hour but was probably half a second. She stretched, using every inch of her short frame. Her fingertips caressed the wall’s upper lip followed immediately by the rest of her body. She slammed into the obdurate stone with bone-shattering power that knocked the wind from her lungs. The impact nearly flung her back the way she had come, but she dug in with her fingers, healing her internal injuries even as she scrabbled for purchase with her wet shoes. At last, they caught, and she scrambled up.

  Anna rolled onto her back, panting, exultant, thankful for space to lie prone while she caught her breath. Camp Den had taught her some new skills after all, and the votaries she had gained from Renni and Lee had held her in good stead. She lay there for a count of twenty, drawing to recover, then rose to a crouch to scan the surrounding countryside.

  Where was she? It had to be somewhere within a night’s driving distance of Columbus, Georgia, where Matt Snow had abducted her, but that could be several states. She hadn’t even considered the question while under the influence of the camp’s charm blast—just another reason why she needed to get the hell away from this place.