I need to drive myself.
On shaky legs, I move back into the house, and search my mother’s study for the car keys. I haven’t driven since losing citizenship. My palms are sweaty as I tuck my keys between my fingers. I balance the coffee mug in the other hand and move out the door. So far no one has attacked me in town, but the YouTube video going viral worries me.
And then someone steps out from behind the bushes. My heart lodges into my throat, my every muscle tensing up with terror. A scream rises in my throat.
“You shouldn’t be out here alone,” my visitor says.
I catch my breath, still frightened. Alexander Metz stands there in his usual long, weather-inappropriate coat. His blue eyes are cautious beneath his black hair. He was waiting for me just outside my door… For some reason. I don’t feel reassured by this.
“What are you doing here?” I say in a voice thin with fear.
“I’m not going to hurt you.” He looks away from me, the light wind tousling his black hair. His shoulders strain against the fabric of his coat, the cut line of his jaw ticking. “You probably know someone uploaded a video of us.”
I nod shakily. “I know a bit.” I’ve avoided looking online since Friday. The video must’ve picked up even more steam since then.
“You’re on the video, too. If anyone sees my bounty and comes to town to hunt, they’ll recognize you, too. You need to watch your back. That’s all I came to say.”
He turns away from me. As I stare at his back, it strikes me as so strange seeing Alexander Metz on my front lawn. He’s an anomaly I see only at school. The other anathema. I think of him as a fixture of that place, not as someone who exists outside of it. It feels like two worlds are leaking into each other.
And it hits me suddenly that I never see him outside of school. He doesn’t just venture out on the town like everyone else. He must’ve risked true danger by coming over to intercept me before school. He probably doesn’t even have a car.
My feelings are so torn about him. On one hand, I’m afraid of him. I’m also angry he nearly killed Conrad. On the other, I know it was self-defense. I know it wasn’t malicious, just practical survival stuff. And he did spare him.
“Do you need a ride to school?” I call after him. Then I wonder about my own sanity.
He turns back towards me. There is something on his carefully neutral face that tells me I’ve surprised him with this question, but it disappears immediately. “Riding with me is the one possible way you could be in more danger than you already are.”
I catch my breath. “From you?”
His mouth looks chiseled from stone, but his eyes soften. “No. You helped my sister. Never from me.”
And I believe him. I do.
Sort of.
During the drive to school, Alexander and I sit together in total silence. I occupy myself sipping nervously at my coffee. Alexander scans the street as we drive, watching for signs anyone has taken an interest in our car. He always has the air of some dangerous, alert predator, intent and razor sharp in his focus. Despite everything, I feel safer driving with him than without.
“So you really think some hunters might come here because of the YouTube video?” I finally ask him.
“Some people live for a challenge. I have a high bounty.” He was silent a moment. Then he flicked me a sidelong glance. “Failing that, yours would pay for a trip.”
“For those who don’t want a challenge,” I conclude bitterly.
He generously does not elaborate on that.
Stormy feelings rise within me. “Were you really going to kill all three of them?”
“That’s how it works, Kathryn.”
“What, kill or be killed? We’re not animals.”
He pinches the bridge of his nose. “If you don’t kill hunters the first time they attack, you get pegged as an easy target. This is the internet age. Word spreads. There are a small number of sociopaths out there willing to kill for money. There are a smaller number of people still willing to risk their lives for money.”
“So your survival tactic,” I say, trying to see his reasoning, “is to convince people they’ll risk their lives if they go after you.”
“I don’t convince anyone. I make sure it’s true. You’ll see the necessity one day for your— Look out!” he roars suddenly. He seizes the wheel, yanks it to the side. My heart leaps up into my throat as we swerve to the side. We narrowly miss a van that careens out of the side alley next to us.
I slam on the brakes. The van jolts past, its garish painted side a blur. “They had a stop sign!”
“That wasn’t an accident. Hit the gas,” Alexander orders, adjusting the rearview mirror.
I stare out the window. The van is swerving around like it’s going to make another pass at us. Then it clicks into place: that wasn’t just bad driving. It was intentional. The van tried to hit us.
We’re being hunted.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“Hit the gas!” Alexander roars again.
I slam my foot on the gas. The tires shriek as we shoot forward. We don’t make it far. Two more cars swerve out into the street and block our path. I hit the brake. We jerk to a stop. Adrenaline races through my veins.
We’ve been hemmed in. The van is already racing up behind us. The doors of the cars in front of us pop open. Armed men with blades pour out along with…
Camera men.
“What’s going on here?” I don’t understand this. Men with large cameras, others carrying microphones, race towards us. Others wielding nets and what look like tazers follow. In the rearview mirror, I catch a glimpse of the side of the van. Large painted faces grin at us: a woman with electric red hair and heavily lined eyes, and a man with a cowboy hat and reflective glasses.
The sight of the faces sends a jolt of recognition through me. I know those two faces. Everyone in America does. They’re Ezra and Ezekiel, the hosts of Showdown, a sadistic show on pay-per-view. They target the most dangerous anathemas, round them up, and have them fight each other to the death. The whole process is captured on camera, from the initial acquisition of the fighters, to their very last breaths.
But why would Showdown film an episode in Cordoba Bay?
Suddenly I want to kick myself for even wondering. I look at Alexander. I know what they want. I know.
“Drive,” he orders me.
“I can’t,” I say. They’ve blocked the street in front of us.
He blows out a breath, scanning the street. “You’re right. You can’t.” Then he reaches over and pushes open his door an inch.
“Where are you going?” I cry, panicked, afraid he’s going to leave me.
“I’m doing you a favor.” His eyes are fixed on the closest hunters. There are two men running ahead of the rest of the pack, getting closer and closer to us. His long, powerful body is poised, ready to spring. Vitality and strength radiates from his every decisive movement. “They’re here for me. They must be. As soon as I’m out of the car, drive.”
“But…”
“They won’t care about you,” he tells me fiercely, his blue eyes alight with vehemence, “but they’ll take an extra five thousand if you’re in easy reach. Now go!” And then just as the two closet hunters near our car, Alexander kicks his door open. It slams into the men, knocking them both off balance.
He leaps out onto the street and whips around, sinking a brutal kick into one, bringing the handle of his knife onto the head of the other. Then he takes off like a swift gazelle, charging out of sight. The hunters recover their balance and start after him. As I sit there, frozen in place, more begin to pursue Alexander. Camera men and microphone guys run after him. Together with the hunters, they form a whole pack. The two cars blocking the road start up and swerve off after Alexander as well. They clear a path for me. I can drive on.
Alexander was right. They don’t care about me.
I hit the gas again and jolt forward, feeling like I could cry with relief. In the rearview mirror, the
van has also pulled away, along with the garish, smiling faces on its side.
I’m two blocks from school when I have to stop. I have to.
I left Alexander back there.
I just left him.
He told me to, but I still left him. He ran off between the buildings, but I don’t know what his escape plan is.. Or whether he has an escape plan. Nothing is going to stop those hunters from following him, from circling the block. They’re professionals. They do this for a living. They’ll catch him.
How am I going to explain to Noelle that I just left her brother to die?
No. I can’t do it.
I won’t do it.
I twist the wheel to turn the car around. The van is now parked at the lip of an alley, but no one is moving. The only person there is someone sitting next to some filming equipment, drinking a coffee.
It’s not until I circle the block that I find them, and see what’s become of him. Alexander is hanging from a fire escape, rapidly climbing the face of a building. He won’t make it far. The hunters on the ground are preparing what looks like a rocket launcher of sorts. It can’t be a true projectile weapon, since they’d all lose citizenship over that. It must be some the type of thing police use on rioters—a launcher for some sort of gas canister. I don’t know. I don’t. I’ve only seen this stuff on TV.
My heart pounds faster and faster. Sweat pricks on my palms. If I just drive below him, Alexander can jump onto my car. We can soar down the street and get to the safe haven of school grounds before the hunters block our path again.
Go. Drive, I think to myself, but fear paralyzes me.
It’s not until they lift the launcher thing and aim it that my foot moves on its own.
Then I’m soaring forward, driving straight towards them. They look up as I approach, shouting, pointing. The cameras swing towards me, glinting with sunlight. They all scatter in different directions just before my fender crashes into their setup—their camera, their equipment, their weapon. I roll down the window and scream to Alexander, “Jump onto my car!”
There’s an answering thump on the roof that I can only hope is Alexander. I hope he can hold on. I jolt off down the street again, fear racing through me along with an odd sort of elation. I did it. I acted. I did something.
I make sure to slow gradually as we approach school, my heart in my throat. Maybe he fell off. Maybe he didn’t make it. Maybe some hunter is up there, clinging to my roof.
But then Alexander slides down my front window, hops onto the street, and neatly opens the door. He drops down into the passenger’s seat, his skin pale, coated with sweat.
“I told you to leave!” he snaps. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Saving your life!” I slam the gas and jolt us off down the street just as the hunters spot their quarry, the one who evaded them. Their cars swerve after us again, but it’s too late. I manage to put a block between us and the nearest car.
We swerve into the parking lot of Cordoba Bay High School, then I stamp the brakes. By the time I switch the engine off, I’m in disbelief. I can’t believe I just helped someone against that many hunters. Hunters with specialized equipment, camera crews, and…
Alexander lets out a long breath. “I told you to go. You could easily have been killed.”
“You wouldn’t have gotten away if I’d left.”
“I would have made it. I’ve been in tighter spots before.”
“It didn’t look like you were going to make it.”
He looks at me sharply. Suddenly I’m uneasily aware of who I’m with. Suddenly I realize this is Alexander Metz, not just anyone. Alexander of the high bounty and HI-9. Alexander with his knife.
He turns away. To my disbelief, I realize he’s trying not to laugh.
“You came back to save me.” He says it like it’s the most stunning thing in the world.
For a moment, I wonder if that’s an insult there.
Then he looks up at the roof of the car, and shrugs. “So you did. I owe you.”
A flush heats my cheeks. “You did it for me first,” I admit. “You left the car to draw them away from me.”
“They weren’t after you. I didn’t save you from anything.” He’s silent for a moment. The air feels thick and fraught with significance between us. Then, so softly I almost don’t hear it, “I’ll remember this.”
He shoves out of my car without another glance back.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I lose sight of Alexander in the lobby. The Showdown people have created a virtual barricade around the fence ringing the school. The only thing I can figure is that the video of Alexander attracted attention from the show’s producers.
“I wouldn’t worry,” Amanda decides, watching clips from the show on her phone. “They’re not after you for sure. You’d be a terrible gladiator. You’d die in two seconds.”
“Thanks, Mandy.”
When I reach Comp Sci that afternoon, Alexander slips in only after class has already started. We have a midterm today, and the code I’ve been working on all month is due. Tension grips me as he sits next to me. I strive to focus on my screen, knowing how important it is that I pass this test. It’s hard not to shoot him a questioning glance and wonder how he’s coping with the mass of hunters waiting outside the school for him.
When I do steal a glance, he looks as aloof and uninterested as usual. He silently watches me scroll through the program, searching for any last-minute errors.
The program doesn’t work when I run it. It returns a value of null. Frustration rips through me, but we’re reaching the last minutes of class. I just have to turn it in now.
“Wait,” Alexander says, before I can send it to the teacher. His hand grabs mine before I can click ‘Send.’
His touch is warm and firm, his long fingers encasing my hand. We both pull back, the nerves under my skin leaping. He meets my eyes with his clear blue ones, then holds up a finger.
And then he begins scrolling through my code.
“What are you—” I whisper furiously.
The objection dies on my lips as he begins typing, correcting my code, cutting out segments here and there, deleting extra periods. Shock sweeps over me. He’s been watching me this entire time. And he knows how to do this.
“I wanted you to have a chance to learn for yourself,” he says simply.
And then he runs the program.
It works.
It actually works. I stare in disbelief at the partner who’d been silent until now, hiding his secrets. He knew all along how to do it. He didn’t sit back there because he was stupid or lazy.
“When do you learn this?” I ask him.
He flicks me a brief glance. “I have this vague plan in the distant future to save myself using tech skills.” He shrugs a shoulder. “It probably won’t happen.”
“You mean an H1An visa?”
Mom read about it in Not a Citizen? Not a Problem! Anathemas with highly in-demand tech skills are often recruited by companies and given H1An status. Anathemas go for it, because H1An status means they’re temporary citizens. They can’t be killed by hunters.
Of course, there are downsides. They’re virtual hostages to the companies that secure H1An status for them. Since companies can revoke their H1An status anytime, they have to work long hours for low pay. They’re not allowed to shop around for better jobs because changing companies means temporarily losing H1An status. There are hunting guilds that specifically target anathemas between H1An jobs, since H1Ans drive down wages for regular citizens.
“Wow,” I murmur. “Guess that option won’t be mine. I suck with computers.”
“I wouldn’t say that. You did most of this,” he points out.
And it occurs to me suddenly that he didn’t step in to tweak the code until the very end. I did the rest. Was Alexander doing me a favor, being so hands off?
“You really were trying to help me, weren’t you?” I ask him, a smile tugging at my lips.
He r
aises his eyebrows. “Learn by doing, Kathryn.”
Then he sends our project to the teacher. I already suspect we’re both going to get an ‘A’.
My thoughts dwell on him that afternoon. I lost him in the crowd surging from the computer lab, and I haven’t seen him since.
I’m jittery as I wait through dance squad practice. My friends are driving me home. I’m leaving my car in the parking lot. My parents will have to pick up my car when they get back from work. They’ll be furious with me for driving to school without a citizen.
There’s a cold breeze today. I sit in the stands of the football field, rubbing my hands over my arms. I’m trying to do my reading for history. The football team is in the distance, doing calisthenics. Conrad, Russell and Derek are all conspicuously missing. Closer to me, the dance squad is practicing formations for the next game.
I don’t pay much attention to their exercises, or even notice the brand new dumpster someone has wheeled out onto the field. Occasionally I glance up to watch them tumble and flip. Amanda is steering them closer and closer to the dumpster. If she’s not careful, someone will hit that.
Then someone does.
A shriek arises from the girls, and laughter. I look up sharply, just in time to see the lid to the dumpster being slammed closed. Several of the girls on dance squad are frantic like there’s been some sort of mishap. Others are laughing, and pointing at it.
But Amanda has hopped up on top of the closed lid of the dumpster and seated there calmly like it’s a throne and she’s queen of the world. She’s saying something I can’t hear.
“What’s going on?” I yell down at them.
No one answers me, so I run down the steps of the bleachers.
Amanda’s voice reaches me. “… confession cleanses the soul.”
“I didn’t do it!” The voice is muffled, but very definitely familiar. Siobhan’s.
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