When we reach base camp, one of the men runs inside their shelter and retrieves the wooden box.
“Two lines!”
There is only one line.
“Sleeves up!”
Our sleeves go up.
It seems that even though there are forty-one separate Contenders, tonight we think as one. We’re scared, our teeth are on edge, and we know how close we came to a revolution. But — there’s always a but — we are so painfully close to the end. In each of our minds, in the end, it’s we who hold the Cure. It’s we who return home a savior.
The needle slips into my flesh, and I bite my lip to keep from screaming. Just that one prick is too much. I meet the man’s eyes. He’s not the one who held the gun, but he might as well be. He stays at my side for a moment longer than he does the rest.
“We’ll be keeping an eye on you,” he snaps. “Don’t think we won’t remember this.”
Then he glances at my wrist, at the red band there, and his mouth quirks upward in a stark contrast to his threat. It’s hardly noticeable, the gesture, but I don’t miss his change in demeanor. He almost seems pleased with my performance tonight, despite the warning.
As the drug nibbles the corners of my mind, I reach for Braun. He turns toward me. We’re supposed to face forward when in line, but they don’t correct his protocol breach. Braun and I take each other’s hands.
His wrist now sports a blue band, though I’m sure it used to be green. He didn’t tell me his color changed. Inspecting Braun’s kind face, I think about what happened minutes before, when the Pandoras lined up behind me as if I were their general. Is it so easy to earn their loyalty? If so, is it because their own Contenders treat them poorly?
Or is it because they seek a leader?
I remember sitting in Mrs. Radford’s world history class, and as she spoke about insurgencies, I pretended to act interested. There was a hot new guy who’d moved to our school, and he was into history. So by default, I was, too. That day, Mrs. Radford spoke about what it takes to start an uprising. There were many factors, she’d say, but none so important as this: The people look ahead at their future, and what they see is bleak.
As Contenders, we have the promise of a Cure. But the Pandoras have no such promise. What does the future hold for them?
My body begins to shake. My consciousness is slipping away. For whatever reason, as I lose control of my will to stand, my mind snaps ahold of this memory about the race:
“It is bigger now than Santiago ever thought it could be,” Guy says. “There are people out there ignorant of the details, gambling on what they believe is an illegal horse race.”
And then this:
Contender Joseph – 31 – Red
Contender Courtney – 101 – Green
The first thing was something Guy told me at the end of the desert race. The second is what I saw on the woman’s chart that night in the desert base camp.
In a moment of clarity, I understand everything. I glance at the red bracelet around my wrist, my vision blurring from the injection.
That woman — the one with impeccable fashion sense — she is an oddsmaker. She estimates how efficiently each Contender will finish the race and reports back to headquarters. Then they send those numbers to bookies, and those bookies collect bets.
Contender Joseph – 31 – Red
Contender Courtney – 101 – Green
Contender Joseph, three-to-one odds that he finishes in the top five. Red bracelet.
Contender Courtney, ten-to-one odds that she finishes in the top five. Green bracelet.
No bracelet means you’re a long shot. Big payout, low chance of placing.
People are betting on us like we’re horses, just like Guy said.
I’m a horse.
He’s a horse.
We’re all horses.
But not for long.
I’m numb.
That’s what wakes me, the tingling sensation in my body that says I don’t actually have any sensation. The only part of me that isn’t numb is my left cheek, which is on fire. I jerk my face up, and my eyes snap open.
I’m lying in the snow. They dumped us here like dogs, even though we are horses. All around me are Contenders and Pandoras, some knocked out, some on their feet. Guy is still asleep. It makes me feel like a superhero to awaken before he does. Maybe I am. Who knows.
Almost instantly, my heart begins racing. This is the last leg, and every second counts. I search the ground. There are twenty-nine Contenders in total. Looking at them, I wonder where they’re holding the remaining twelve. The people running this race must have decided to let everyone whose Pandora even entered the wars, regardless of whether they fought, continue. That was real swell of them. I should send a card.
My fingers flutter next to my hair. Blue-and-green feather — check. At least I have that going for me. Monster is on his side, snoring. His muzzle is buried in the snow, and I wonder how he can even breathe. Madox is curled in a ball, snoozing between the bull and the bear. It’s hard for me to look at him. Not because of what he did, but because I’m the one he did it for.
I search for our crew … for Mr. Larson. But he’s gone because I opened my mouth. The last thing he said before he died was Christina. I don’t know who she was to him, but I do know I’ll say her name again when I kill the man who killed Mac Larson.
Or maybe I’ll say Levi’s name, the boy who died with a spear in his back. Or Jaxon, my friend who was eaten by sharks lured by their blood bags. Or maybe Harper’s daughter, who died while her mother fought for her life. I used to be the girl who cataloged sandwich shops by which had the best oatmeal cookies. Now I’m the girl who catalogs death and the girl who vows revenge. The same girl who won’t hesitate to lead the Pandoras, should the need arise again.
I find Rose in the snow and nudge her awake. She wraps her tail around me happily, and I try on a smile.
“Let’s go wake the others, lizard. We can’t waste time.”
I head toward Harper with the iguana following me and stop when I spot V-5. The alligator has a red spray-paint stripe on his back that matches Rose’s, but otherwise he looks to be okay. They sent him here. Why? Did they think he was mine? Instead of questioning it further, I take it as a stroke of luck.
“Hey, there.” I run my gloved hand over his back until he wakes. “It’s okay. I’m going to watch after you. You’re safe, alligator.” I pause, debating. “You’re safe, Oz.”
The alligator turns his reptilian head toward my hand.
As more Contenders pull themselves up, I inspect our new landscape. Snow infects everything. It clings to the aspens and firs, making their boughs droop with the added weight. It piles in great heaps over boulders and dusts even the sunniest bits of the ground. I can’t find a single place that isn’t touched by snow, and even though I know it’ll be a source of profound frustration over the next several days, I have to admit it’s stunning.
There’s something perfect about the mountain’s being the last leg of the race. It’s a physical analogy of how far we’ve come. The peak offers a promise, a reward of sorts. In our eagerness to win, we all believe we can reach it first. I can almost see my brother standing at the top, his boots planted firmly in the snow. Maybe he’ll be wearing his lopsided grin when I get there. Maybe he’ll give me one of his rare hugs where he lifts me off the ground and groans about the weight. Or maybe he’ll cry and call me Telly and say he already feels better knowing how hard I’ve fought to save him.
Three paths cut away from where we were dropped and climb into the mountains. As it is now, we stand on an incline, but it isn’t terribly steep. Snow falls softly to the ground, but it’s the cotton-candy kind that will melt as the sun burns down. From inspecting the sky, I guess it to be early evening, and it worries me that it’ll get colder as the day expires. Because the cold — it is all encompassing. Already, it clouds my thoughts and has me anxious to search for cover.
I can’t believe I thought it was cold
in the ocean. That was nothing. That was a stroll down Rodeo Drive on a warm spring day. This is the epitome of freezing. What skin I can see on the other Contenders is tinged blue; my own teeth chatter; and my entire body shakes from lack of warmth. The more awake I become, the more aware I am, and the worse it becomes.
I evaluate my clothing: long underwear on top and bottom, turtleneck, stocking cap, wool socks, and insulated jacket, pants, boots, and climbing gloves. I feel stiff in all these layers, but I’m thankful for their protection from the elements.
“They left us in the snow.” Harper stares at me like I’m supposed to offer an explanation for this. I try to give her one.
“They don’t care if we die at this point.”
Cotton paces over. His eyes linger on Harper for a moment longer than is natural. Of course, he looks at me the same way. I still don’t know what his deal is, but right now all I care about is finding a way out of this cold.
I scan the area until I find Olivia and then pull her to her feet. I do the same for Guy and Braun and even Willow, because I remember Guy once saying something about keeping worrisome people in sight.
There are packs on the ground, as there were in the desert, and we each pull one on. A man twice my age grabs three packs and races out of view. He’s not waiting for the woman from the device for permission to get started. I don’t blame him for that, but I do despise him for stealing other Contenders’ resources. I want to make like the guy and run straightaway, but there’s racing quickly and racing smart, and I intend to do both.
It isn’t long before Guy, Harper, Cotton, Braun, Olivia, and I are all in cahoots. Willow hovers close, but not too close. I’m not sure whether she’ll travel with us, and I’m not sure I care, though I do hate that she’d be trekking through the mountains without a Pandora, and it still makes me sick remembering how her white rat died.
As if M-4 reads my mind, he noses my left hand. It’s the first time the animal has ever approached me, and I don’t take the gesture lightly. Bending over, I lay my head against his cold fur and run all ten fingers through his mane. When I’ve got him purring up a storm, I raise my head. Guy is watching me, a goofy half smile on his face.
I step back from M-4. “What?”
His smile vanishes, and he shakes his head. I’ve caught the Green Beret looking happy, and to him, nothing could be so embarrassing. “We should get going. Now.”
Harper and Cotton discuss which path may be best, but I interrupt them both.
“No, we wait until the message comes over the device. Then we decide what course of action to take.” I meet Guy’s gaze, daring him to challenge me. Snow drifts lightly over his strong shoulders, his dark hair. In his navy jacket, with the fur-lined hood, and his heavy, black snow boots, he looks like a Russian soldier. Guy’s eyes have always been a cold, hard blue. But right now, against the wintry backdrop, they appear almost lethal.
I want him to touch me so badly, I can practically feel his skin on mine.
I want to touch him so badly, I could scream.
Guy tugs at his gloves. “Okay, we wait.”
It doesn’t take long, but by the time the device starts blinking, half the Contenders have gone and electricity is coursing through my veins.
As I listen to the static, followed by the familiar clicking, I can’t help remembering the first time I put this white device in my ear. I stood in my room, empty blue box in my hand, and listened as a voice I didn’t recognize told me I was invited to join the Brimstone Bleed. “All Contenders must report within forty-eight hours to select their Pandora companions…. The Pandora Selection Process will take place at the Old Red Museum,” she’d said. I arrived in time, but it was Guy who showed me where the last egg lay hidden with a subtle flick of his eyes. Even then he was my protector.
I don’t need him the way I once did. But it’s hard not to want him when it was he who gave me my small black fox.
The message begins, and my mind returns to the present.
“If you’re hearing this message, you have officially reached the final leg of the Brimstone Bleed. We want to congratulate each and every one of you for making it this far. One hundred and twenty-two people joined the race, and today, forty-one continue. Some of you have been granted a twenty-four-hour head start. Please use this to your advantage, and remember that this time, there is no deadline for reaching base camp. One person will win the Cure to save their loved one’s life, and the rest of you will be located and returned home.”
I trace the serpent outline embroidered on my jacket and listen to the woman spill her lies.
“The flags will be your most loyal friends during this leg of the race, pointing you toward safety and success. All you have to do is follow them quickly, and the prize is yours.”
I can hear the woman lick her lips. I imagine they look like two pink slugs.
“For the last and final time, Contenders of the Brimstone Bleed —
“Go!”
Contenders tuck their devices away and race up one of the three paths. As for me, I pull my gray-and-orange pack higher on my back and stay rooted in place. Our group needs to discuss how long we’ll travel together and what everyone’s ultimate goal is, but that’s a conversation we can have once we find shelter. “We shouldn’t follow the paths.”
Olivia grabs hold of her elephant’s ear for balance in the snow. “I agree. It’s too obvious.”
“The woman said the flags will be our friends. Not that we can trust everything they say, but so far that, at least, has been true. If the flags are the only thing we should rely on, then we can assume the paths are a diversion.” I turn away from the paths, toward virgin snow and uneven terrain. “Let’s head this way.”
Guy lifts his legs high and calls for M-4 to keep up. I’m so happy he’s following my direction, I could hug him. And kiss him. And maybe have a full-on fantasy that involves chocolate-covered strawberries and Guy in swim trunks.
The image of Mr. Larson lying on his back, lifeless, rushes into my mind, and I want to berate myself for feeling any joy at all. Not when he’s gone. And not when Jaxon isn’t here to hit on Harper and crack jokes.
Olivia tries walking next to Harper, but Harper falls back like she doesn’t want to be anywhere near the girl. Their silent exchange reminds me — I spin around and spot Willow standing alone, her bottom lip trembling. She’s trying hard to pretend she doesn’t care that we’re leaving her, but for once her emotions show through that facade. Willow splits herself between being a fierce competitor and pretending to be weak to garner help. But right now she looks like what she is — an agonizingly young girl who doesn’t want to be left behind.
I stop and throw my arms up as if I’m frustrated, though I’m anything but. “Willow, get your ass moving. I want you at my side with your eyes on the perimeter.”
When she doesn’t move, I yell once more.
“I said, Let’s go!”
She jogs forward, stumbling once in the foot-deep snow. When she catches up, Harper stops the girl in her tracks and hugs her quickly. I’m not sure why Harper wasn’t the one to ensure she came along. Maybe she saw the way Willow looked at Guy last night, or maybe she’s also wondered what happened in the ocean between her and Olivia after I told her about it.
Once Harper releases Willow, she shoves her toward me.
I point toward the alligator. “V-5 is your responsibility. I expect you to take good care of him. You can call him Oz if you want.”
Willow’s brow furrows. “I don’t need you to feel sorry for me.”
“Well, good,” I say. “I don’t.”
Braun laughs under his breath, and I have to hide my own smile.
We move quickly and quietly, the promise of the Cure driving us forward faster than we’ve ever traveled before.
During our brisk march, Madox shifts shapes to mimic Monster. Then he changes his mind and pulls on the bull’s appearance. My fox, dressed as a bull, sidles up to Y-21, and when the real bull sees his mirror
image, he tosses his head in surprise.
We get a kick out of this.
I pat Cotton’s Pandora on the back. “It’s a compliment, Y.”
We pace for another two hours after that, before Harper has the idea to send her eagle searching for a flag. She explains what she wants, and the bird takes flight. Snow scrunches under our boots as we continue toward the closest sloping cliff face, where the trees thicken. My hope is to find a densely foliaged area where we can light a fire and explore the contents of our packs; let the trees catch the majority of the swirling wet flurries and hide our presence. Earlier, when I explained my plan to Guy, he pressed his lips together in thought. Since he continued our march toward the cliff, I knew he believed it was as good a plan as any.
We reach the cliff at nightfall, the brush becoming thicker with every step, and Harper’s eagle returns. She isn’t clutching a blue flag, but she does soar a few feet up the mountain and land somewhere out of sight.
“Where’d she go?” Olivia asks.
I gaze toward where I last saw the eagle, and my heart leaps in triumph when I spot what she’s found. “It’s a cave. RX-13 found a cave!”
Braun wraps his arms around himself, which is an impressive feat. “Can we make it up there?”
“We can,” Guy responds.
Cotton eyes his bull. “What about our Pandoras?”
“They can, too.” I’m bursting with relief and gratefulness for Harper’s eagle. I’ve experienced cold like this before in Boston and Montana both, but I’m not sure I’ve ever spent so many hours in it without a break. My lips are chapped, and my fingers burn, and pain nips at my entire body. It’s only been three hours, and already this ecosystem has been the hardest. Of course, maybe I’m forgetting how bloody hot it was in the desert.
We ascend the mountain by marching back and forth along its belly like thread being pulled from a sweater. Before the last of the night crumbles away, we are standing outside the cave. It’s deep and high and large enough so that we are all accommodated. There’s a tiny part of me that says I don’t do caves. That I need a vanilla soy latte and my leopard-print slippers, and where are my cute earmuffs? But that was Jungle Tella. Maybe Desert Tella.
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