My eyes sweep the field. Everything looks fragmented. Digory hunches over a clump of tangled limbs about ten yards to my right. Lifting wrist after wrist. Holding his locator to them. Hands reach out to touch him back. He bows his head. Pity-soaked eyes. Mutters unintelligible words …
To my left, Ophelia digs through heaps. Flings aside body after body as if she can’t figure out what to wear …
Only Gideon appears to be taking his time, strolling through the battle zone and occasionally stooping to check a beacon as if he were in a field searching for a particular flower to pick.
All around them, fireflies flit about, filling the air with their incessant buzzing even as they dot the landscape with bloody pinpricks of light …
Not fireflies—beacons. The thought burns through the mist clouding my head.
Then it’s like my brain’s launched into overdrive, careening forward until it synchs into real time. My breath comes in short, shallow bursts through my dry mouth. I squeeze slower breaths through my nostrils until the landscape stops spinning and the dizziness passes.
I sprint over the unnamed boy without even a glance back.
Beyond him lies a pale middle-aged woman, crumpled like a wad of paper.
The faces.
Don’t look at their faces.
I grip the beacon, trying not to touch skin. But the hair on my body prickles when my little finger grazes icy flesh.
Buzz. Red light.
Letting go of her, I scurry through the human wreckage, dodging past Digory, skirting Gideon, leaping over a crouched Cypress, knocking into Ophelia, scavenging through body after body, groping through torn rib cages and steaming piles of entrails until I’m covered in gore and reek of the living dead myself.
But still I push on and on, gulping down the bile and vomit. A part of me dies with every body I desecrate. And through it all, the moans and wails sear into my brain.
I’ll never stop hearing them until I fester in my own grave.
Soon, I’ve lost count of the running tab of bodies I’m keeping in my head. Why haven’t I found anything yet? I risk a fleeting glance around at the others. They’re all still searching, too. Could the Establishment be cruel enough to not have fitted any of the bodies with matching beacons?
Then a worse thought hits my brain, with the same ferocity as the inner fist trying to beat its way out my chest. What if Cassius deliberately disabled just my locator? It wouldn’t be the first time he’s tampered with the Trials. After all, didn’t he have Digory recruited and Desiree Morningside murdered just so I could take her place and provide him with two pawns to play his sick little game with?
I grab another wrist lying in the rubble. It’s so small the beacon nearly slides off the bony hand.
A child’s hand.
“It hurts,” a tiny voice moans over and over again.
My eyes squeeze shut against the molten river about
to burst free. I clamp my free hand against my ear, trying to
muffle as much of the agony as I can. If I can’t see them, they’re not real.
Bleep.
The sound startles me.
I finally found one.
Scooping the child in my arms, I hug its head against me.
But when I look down, the tracker’s still blinking red, sending a vibrating pulse burning into my chest.
I spin.
Digory’s a few yards away, cradling a frail-looking woman in his arms as if she were a newborn.
“Don’t worry, ma’am. You’re going to be okay,” he coos. The green lights of the flashing locator and beacon reflect on both their skin like the hushed lightning of a distant storm, illuminating their faces with a shared gratitude and relief.
Skeletal fingers clutch his collar. “My daughter …
please … you have to find her … ”
“Let’s get you out of here first.”
Then he’s scrambling off toward the safety zone with her.
My heart swells—then bursts with the realization of what Digory’s heroism means to the four of us still struggling to make it through this.
A flash of green to my right blinds me, accompanied by a steady bleeping that matches the rhythm of the blood battering the arteries in my brain. For a second I’m disoriented.
Someone else found their beacon.
Obscured by a veil of smoke, Gideon’s silhouette props the green-flashing arm of a stick-figured woman over his shoulder and stumbles with her through the battlefield, disappearing in the same direction that Digory took off in.
Two down and only three to go.
I hunch my head and bury my face against the small head nestled against me. Whatever I’m going to do it has to be done fast. “Please forgive me,” I whisper into a tiny ear.
Bleep.
What the—?
Cypress’s eyes lock with mine. Her locator and the kid’s beacon are both flashing green. She tries to pry the child from my arms.
“Don’t let Goslin have the girl, Spark!” Ophelia kicks a body out of her way and scrambles toward us, eyes flickering like wildfire. “If she takes her, we’ll both be tied for last place.”
My arms tighten around the faceless girl. She’s right …
Cypress tugs harder. “Give her to me.” Her words are drowned out by the wailing child held hostage between us.
An invisible force slams Ophelia to the ground. “Ungh!” She doubles over, clutching her side.
It was a taser mine.
I lurch toward her, dragging Cypress and the child along with me. “Ophelia! You okay?”
Cypress’s fingers dig into my arm. “There’s no time.”
Ophelia stirs, rising to rest on her hands and knees like a crouching beast. “We can both save our families, Spark. You hold Goslin here while I hide the girl.”
She lurches to her feet and sprints closer. In that instant I know that if she reaches us, she’ll stop at nothing to make sure Cypress doesn’t rescue the child.
I can’t bear the weight of any more blood. Even if I made it all the way through this, I’d never be able to look in Cole’s eyes again.
I release my grip and the child slips into Cypress’s arms. “Take her, and make sure she’s tended to right away.”
“Thanks,” Cypress whispers.
“What are you doing?” Ophelia lunges at them.
I shove my body in front of Cypress and the girl. Ophelia rams into me, fingers raking my back like talons. Her bloody claws reach out and clamp onto the frail little shoulder.
The child screams.
Cypress’s fingers dig into Ophelia’s hand, ripping, pulling, but Ophelia won’t let go. Her head plunges down and her teeth sink into Cypress’s wrist.
“Ah!” Cypress’s face contorts in agony.
With every ounce of strength I can muster, I try to pry Ophelia loose. I twist and lock my arms around her, but it’s like trying to hug fire. Finally, I wrench her free. But her body bucks and kicks, jaws snapping like a rabid Canid, spraying me with a mixture of burning spittle and Cypress’s blood, which is dripping from the bits of flesh lodged between her teeth.
Cypress’s face is drained of color. Dark blood oozes from the missing chunk on her hand. As she whisks the child away, large dark eyes peer over her shoulder at me like shards of guilt impaling me where I stand.
Ophelia’s arm squirms free of my hold, and she jams a thumb into my eye.
Blinding pain shoots through my socket. I swing her away from me, hurling her into the ground. I clutch a palm against my eye, half expecting to feel the molten gore of a shattered eyeball squeezing through my fingers. But the throbbing and blurred vision confirm there’s still something there.
There’s a flash of her boot. Then a searing pain in my groin. I curl up into a ball, knees pressed against my stomach. Tears stream from
my eyes, seeping down my cheeks and between my lips. The salty taste mixes with the blood where my teeth have bitten into my upper lip.
She looms over me, a dark blur. “Guess we’re about to find out who you love more, your brother or Tycho.” She hunches down. “Personally,” she whispers, “I’m counting on it being your brother. After all, he looks so sweet and adorable.” Her smile is laced with blood-stained teeth. Then she takes off.
Adrenaline surges through me, mixed in a whirlpool of anger, desperation, and fear that propels me up. The months of intense training kick in. I tear after her, leaping over the bodies I’ve already rummaged through, dodging the taser mines, holding my breath as I pass through the clouds of smoke, avoiding the fire of the automatic stun rifles. Faster and faster. Everything’s a blur.
Soon, I’m gaining on Ophelia. She’s reached the far end of the battle zone and is digging through the last cache of victims, a tangled heap of arms and legs about ten yards away from the safety zone. When she glances up at me, I can see the beads of sweat trickling down her forehead.
Good. She’s scared.
She’d better be.
I dash up to the opposite side of this miserable pile of humanity and start pulling out arm after arm, pressing my locator against them, ignoring the blood, the smell, the countless moans that rise upward and fill the air with a chorus of doom. Flashes of red and the crackling buzzers from the locators bombard us with light and sound, giving the entire scene the appearance of a human bonfire.
Despite the din, one small sound rings through my ears like a clap of thunder, accompanied by a flash of green lightning.
Bleep.
Ophelia’s found her beacon before I have.
I can’t feel my fingers as they fumble from one beacon to the next, rewarded with one sharp buzz after another. I chance a look through the wailing mound. Ophelia’s bathed in green strobes that fragment her face as if I’m flipping through hundreds of images of different people. Her eyes connect with mine, conveying one clear message:
I’ve beat you. Now you get to watch Cole or Digory die.
Something’s wrong. Her triumphant expression scrunches into frustration. She tugs on the arm she’s clutching, trying to pull it free of the writhing mound.
“No! Let go of me!” A girl’s voice. Her wail pierces the air, a sobering reminder that these aren’t just things we’re digging through. I drop the wrist I’m holding and grab the next one, trying not to squeeze too hard in my panic.
Ignoring the screams, Ophelia continues to yank. But despite the sound of unsettling squishes, the girl won’t budge. The thought of what she might be stuck in makes my stomach heave and I stifle a gag, reaching for the next beacon.
Ophelia cups the pale face. “Hush now.” She runs her fingers through the girl’s gore-matted blonde head.
But the moans continue.
A long sigh escapes Ophelia’s lips. “You know, this whole thing might go a little easier if you just SHUT UP!” She grabs a fistful of hair and slams the girl’s head down into a protruding leg, over and over until the cries degenerate into garbled whimpers.
Ophelia shakes her head. “Much better.” She giggles. “Now I can concentrate.”
A flash of green and a loud bleep nearly stop my heart mid-pump. I stare at the locator pulsing in my hand as if it’s some strange artifact. Then it sinks in. I found it. I found my beacon.
I dare to stare at the face of my lifeline to Cole and Digory, a burly, middle-aged man covered in pustules who gazes at me through yellow-tinged eyes. He’s wearing the gray uniform of a miner, with the name Martino stitched into the breast pocket.
“It’s going to be okay, Martino,” I lie to him through a forced smile.
His mouth opens. “M-my … w-wife … ”
Dark green and brownish phlegm oozes from his mouth, choking off the rest of his words. My father’s face flashes before me, but I allow that mental tunnel to collapse and seal off that painful memory.
“C’mon, I have to get you outta here!” Gripping both his arms, I heave with what little strength I have left. Inch by inch, his huge frame slides from the tangled mass until he’s free and clear.
I wipe my brow and glance up to check Ophelia’s progress. Her glee has turned to pure venom. She tugs on the girl, her teeth clenched, her face burning like a vibrant sunset. She’s trembling from the effort. One of her feet is braced against some poor soul’s face for leverage. Suddenly, the body gives and the girl slides out to her waist. Ophelia lets out a sound that’s half sob, half laughter. Then she’s pulling again.
My knees wobble as I haul the heavy man to his feet. He must outweigh me by at least a hundred pounds. Something in my lower back pops. “Uuuunh!” Electricity sizzles every nerve-ending. I inhale deep. Placing one of Martino’s arms around my neck, I stagger against his weight, lumbering toward the safety zone.
In the distance, I can see someone waving.
Digory?
Not that much further to go. If I can just hold it together a little longer, I’ll make it through this round and Cole and Digory will be safe.
“Don’t worry,” I rasp to the miner. “We’re almost there.”
He grumbles a reply that consists more of hot drool trickling onto my neck. I should be disgusted, but for some reason I’m elated. I’m going to get through this. And maybe this poor guy’ll be able to rebuild some kind of life for himself after all this is done.
Despite the aches, the hammering in my chest, my starving lungs and dry mouth, I speed up.
Digory and Cypress are waiting. It’s hard to tell, with my hair obstructing one eye and the still-throbbing blurriness in the other, but I think that’s Gideon kneeling beside several figures lying prostrate on the ground.
“See?” I huff to my silent companion. “Just … a … little …
further … ”
I get no response. For a moment I’m afraid he’s no longer with me, that I’m lugging around a mere shell of what was once a vital living being. My legs buckle from the dead weight. I stumble but somehow manage to stay on my feet, even though my pace slows to little more than a brisk walk.
Part of me is tempted to glance behind, check on Ophelia, but I don’t dare risk one more second of delay.
I’m almost there …
Just across the finish line, Digory’s eyes widen. I can’t tell what his finger’s pointing at.
A glint of light. I look down at a small metal disk camouflaged by weeds.
Digory’s hands cup the sides of his mouth. “Lucian! Look out for the—
BLAM!
twenty-four
Thousands of hot needles pierce my side. It’s as if a giant invisible hand has batted me aside, tossing me at least five feet backward. The miner is wrenched free from my hold, and my tailbone smacks into the dirt with a thud. Another jolt rips up my spine. When I try to stand, I can’t feel the difference between my right and left legs and I wobble, smacking back down on the hard earth. I try to brace myself with my right hand, but that same cross-wired sensation hits me and my left hand spasms instead. I topple over.
“Nerve scrambler!” Digory cries. “It’s jumbled your neural pathways!” His voice sounds like it’s coming from the bottom of a well. “The disorientation will pass in a few. Just breathe slowly. Focus on my voice … you can do this.”
My eyes feel like driftwood, bobbing further and further into an endless horizon. Maybe if I just rest for a few minutes …
“Lucian!” Digory’s voice echoes through the depths of my numbness, pulling me back up to the surface. “You need to hold it together. There isn’t much time.”
The urgency in his voice snaps me back. My eyes spring open. There’s only one reason his voice would be tinged with fear.
Willing my mixed-up nerves to obey, I take a deep breath and force my head to twist so I can see behind me.
Ophelia’s still a distance away. The poor survivor’s still wedged a little less than halfway into the debris. Even if she pulled the girl out right now, there’s no way Ophelia will be able to carry her and make it back before me.
But Ophelia’s given up on trying to pull the girl free. Instead, using one hand, she’s stretching out the wriggling girl’s arm, the one wearing the beacon.
In her other hand, Ophelia clutches a mangled piece of metal debris that glints in the harsh artificial light. Even from here, I can see its rusted, jagged edges.
Ophelia raises the hand that’s holding the makeshift tool high overhead—
“Help me! Please, help me!” the girl shrieks, over and over again until her cries are nothing but garbled noise that barely resembles anything human.
“Don’t stop, keep moving,” Digory urges.
But I can’t tear my eyes away.
Darkness eclipses the whites of Ophelia’s eyes. With a long, guttural wail, she plunges the makeshift blade across the girl’s forearm.
I wince.
The screams die out.
The girl’s lifeless body slumps over—all except for her right hand. Detached from the rest of her, the appendage is now a grisly stump, clutched by Ophelia and crying bloody tears onto the face of its former owner.
The blinking green of the beacon reflects off Ophelia’s eyes and teeth, the only parts of her not covered in gore.
Our eyes meet.
She glares for an instant. Then she’s dashing toward me, heading for the safety zone, waving the glistening shiv.
“C’mon, Martino! We gotta go!” Grabbing the miner, I pull us both to our feet and half-carry, half-drag him along.
“You got this, Lucian!” Digory’s voice is like a balm to my aching muscles and spirit.
Despite the hammering in my chest and the pain in my starving lungs, I lunge forward.
Digory’s holding his hand out just over the line and I reach for it—
Fire blasts into my leg. Digory’s eyes bug. Then his fingers, which were barely an inch in front of me, are suddenly moving away. A blurry wind grazes my side. Then I crash to the ground, letting go of the miner’s hands.
The Culling Page 19