Chapter Two
The room goes black.
The next thing I know I am being roused, my head in Gretchen’s lap. She is trying to get me to drink a glass of water.
“You need to hydrate,” she tells me.
I look into her eyes, but there is no fear there, no worry. This relaxes me a bit.
“To have a successful Letting, your veins must be plump.” Her hands busily stroke my hair and hold the glass. She looks at me then away, over and over as she speaks. “At least four quarts of water tonight and tomorrow eight quarts minimum. You’ll have to pee like the devil,” she smiles, “but it will make the draw easier.”
I reach for the water, but instead of taking the glass, I grab Gretchen’s arm. My action surprises her, and for just a moment, I see a spark of something deep inside those blue eyes. Then as quickly as it appears, it fades again.
“You need water,” she repeats, calmly.
“No.” I shake my head. “I need to know what’s going on.”
She nods delicately, and I catch the smallest tear escape the corner of her eye, betraying her carefully controlled emotions. So she is scared, after all.
Unlike me, the Lettings terrify Gretchen. The Gretchen she was showing me a moment ago, the efficient, soft, yet confident Gretchen. This is the girl she shows our campers—this is the front she wears. She is always warm and caring to the girls, but she’s somewhat standoffish. She never bonds with any of them. I’m sure she’s concerned she’ll betray her fears and terrify them.
I let go of my grasp on her arm and sit up, next to her. I take her hand in mine. “You don’t have to be afraid,” I whisper.
“I’m not.” She is clearly trying to be brave. This time her lie is so transparent even she doesn’t believe it.
“This is what we do,” I assure Gretchen, trying to allay her concerns. She nods again. “This is what I do.” Saying these words calms me as well. This is what I do. I am a Leader. After the Harvester has brought the ripe girls to me, I prepare them, and I lead the girls to the Letting.
But why have I been summoned? I blossomed early and haven’t been ripe for nearly six years. In those early days, when I was ripe and they first checked my blood there was something they didn’t like. Something didn’t fit. But they kept me on at camp because I always looked so much older than the others, and I was a natural Leader. I needed to pay my debt to society in some way. So that someway was to stay here. In my early days, I was a Leader-in-Training, but as I’ve grown and the older Leaders have moved on to the New World, I have become Head Leader of our camp. No one has brought more girls to the Lettings and subsequently, the New World, than me. And there is no one above me, except Margaret.
Margaret. As I sit here in the dark staring at Gretchen, both of us scared to move for fear we’ll have to act, my mind races with questions. Why is Margaret happy for me? She has never made it a secret she dislikes me. But why she dislikes me is a mystery. Gretchen thinks Margaret is jealous because I have a better rapport with the campers and I’m well liked. She thinks Margaret fears for her job. I have a wall full of awards from the government, and I would be the next in line to take over running the camp. But even if that were true, Margaret would move on to the New World, and her life would be wonderful. Maybe she’s scared of change. Or maybe she loves her career. Or maybe Gretchen’s not right. I look up at Gretchen, and her hands are trembling.
“Why are you so scared?” I ask. “The needles? The machines? The Caretakers?” She only nods. I would imagine all of this would seem unfathomable to a girl who can’t run a quarter of a mile without running out of breath. Then Gretchen stands, seeming suddenly powerful and competent. She looks much bigger than her petite five-foot-tall frame. She looks me dead in the eyes.
“You need to drink.” She pushes the glass of water into my hands. “Tonight and tomorrow. Then you must eat. The real food, not the food bars we eat to survive. You need to eat red meat and spinach and drink gallons of the algae drink they force on those girls. You must do this because if they have summoned you, they must be in desperate need of an O. And you must offer them enough so you…” She seems to be choosing her words carefully. “…so you are healthy enough to be summoned another day.”
****
I toss and turn for hours. Partly because it’s much too early for me to be in bed, and part of it’s the heat and my concern over having been summoned myself. I see the silhouette of Gretchen, her chest rising and falling. Occasionally, her small body convulses slightly as she fights for a breath. Her hands clench and then relax when her breathing is restored to its nice, easy flow. I squeeze my eyes shut but all I see are images of machines, the size of my cabin, attached to me, sucking the very life from my body. When the girls come back to me, exhausted and anemic, it’s easy for me to carry them off the truck and into their beds where Gretchen is waiting with a warm nettle soup to rebuild their blood. But who will carry me? And more importantly, how will I help my girls if I’m too exhausted to help myself? I can’t take it anymore. I rise from my bed and silently steal across the room and out our door.
Once I feel the warmth of the night, I remember that with all the craziness that happened tonight, I never picked my mushroom. Somehow, just realizing this makes me feel better. Now my wandering has a purpose.
Despite the pitch black of night, I walk my usual path with no fear of getting lost. I have walked this way so many times I have forged a trail for myself. I can feel my way, the tall weeds, already broken under my feet. Occasionally, one will still stand tall and fight back, scratching my leg, reminding me this is his turf. Inevitably, the scratch makes me think of my mother and the first time she showed me my mushrooms. This drives me forward in search of my mushrooms and my mother.
I reach my usual patch, but tonight I don’t want to stop. I don’t want to do anything the same way I normally do. Instead, I push ahead, feeling soggy ground, new reeds cracking under my boots. I am immediately sorry I didn’t stop to change from my shorts and tank top into long pants and sleeves, something that could offer me some protection. But it’s too damned hot anyway. As I walk, my mind is reeling. I try to understand my thoughts. I am uneasy, that’s for sure. But I came to this camp seven years ago to be called to the Letting, so what has changed? I was so confident then, so sure.
I remember leaving on the day I had been harvested, a tiny bedroll in my hand, my mother’s picture of the dandelion tucked safely inside. I remember being self-assured as I climbed aboard the long, open-backed truck. I remember my mother’s eyes, lighter than mine in color but far more intense. I remember her fierce gaze, and despite the chaos and all the crying children, she never once let me out of her sight. She was boarding another moving object, larger than mine, and nicer looking. It was taking her to the New World. There she would work a government job for a period of time, helping those in need before she would be released into paradise to do as she pleased. And then, once I had blossomed and she had fulfilled her obligation, we would be reunited. I knew this was the right move for us, to be away from that city riddled with crime and pollution, to never again be starving or have to work ourselves to exhaustion. Thanks to the fact that I am an O, we were the chosen ones, the lucky ones. It could have been so much worse. We could have waited a few more years, and then I would have been called for the Coupling. I knew I was lucky, and I tried to make every other girl who got on that truck with me feel the same way. I never cried that day. I knew my small breasts were swelling under my t-shirt. I knew it wouldn’t be long until I blossomed. I just never expected to have toxic blood that would cause me to wait seven long years for our reunion. I never cried the day I left my mother. And I will not cry today.
On and on I push, my arms pumping, sweat running down my legs and dripping into my boots, my blood almost painful as it courses through my veins. I think of the calisthenics I put the girls through—the jumping jacks, the jogs we take, the games we play. Anything to keep the blood moving.
Between the hea
t of the night and the exercise, I am probably an easy stick now. On and on, farther and farther I push, until when I turn back, I can no longer see even the outline of the small cabins behind me. I am caught somewhere in limbo, with camp behind me and the unknown before me.
For a moment, I panic. What if I can’t find my way back? What if I am lost out here? Lost, somewhere in the middle of these six hundred acres of woods? Or what if my carelessness causes me real trouble? What if a bear finds me before I find my way back? Who will take care of my girls?
All of these thoughts are legitimate concerns, yet I cannot will myself to stop. It is as if I am being pulled by some invisible force, and no matter how hard my brain tries to resist, my feet will not stop. They move faster and faster until I break out into a run. Soon, panic and fear are the fire fueling my run, but I keep running the wrong way. I am now so far from camp I wonder if I can make it back before Gretchen notices I’m missing. I run swiftly and easily, farther and faster, half-expecting to see the slight glimmer of light from the sunrise breaking before me. Thankfully, I am sure-footed, even when I leave the weeds and run over the slickness of ankle deep, pine needles.
I run straight up an embankment, trees growing thicker with every step. Higher and higher I climb, my brain unable to stop my feet, wondering repeatedly why I am doing this. Where am I heading? What am I running from? And more importantly, what am I running to?
The sweat pools on my back and in my boots. My palms feel wet. I am climbing higher and higher, wondering how and if I will ever get back.
Then I am face down on the pine needles. I feel the impact my body makes, but I am somehow distanced from it. I hear myself gasp, and I feel the air rush from my body. I know it must hurt, pine needles stick deep into the fresh cuts on my hands, one knee crashed against a large stone, and the other is skinned open. I do feel a gash on my cheek while I wait for the rest of the pain to register, but it never does.
I need to get myself up, but I can’t. All I want is to lie still in the thick pine needles and cry for my mother. But my mother is not coming. And I don’t know if she ever will. So, I need to lift my head and focus. I put my bloody hands under my shoulders to push myself up and—
Wham!
Something hits me on the head. Hard. The pain radiating through my skull is excruciating, and yet somehow I know it is only a harbinger of more pain to come. In this one moment, I feel everything I thought I should have felt moments ago. Every part of my body is in agony.
Bam!
There is a blunt impact right between my shoulder blades, and with a grunt, I am down again.
“Ugh,” I groan through clenched teeth, squeezing my eyes shut. The darkness has me completely discombobulated, and I have no idea what is happening. Then I hear the voices.
“Got it,” a voice screams. Then a bigger, even heavier weight is on my back, pinning me down. It must be a knee digging in my back.
I try to speak, to tell the voice I am not a bear or whatever creature he’s trying to trap, but nothing comes out. When I attempt to explain, dirt fills my mouth. I spit the dirt out, trying not to choke. Within seconds, I hear more footsteps and voices growing louder. They are the voices of boys. But boys out here? In the middle of the woods? This cannot be good. It can only mean rebels.
I have no time to process anything. Suddenly my hands are pinned behind my back, and I am pulled to my feet. I can barely walk because of my blown knee, so I hobble, trying to keep up with the mass of anger and energy forcing me forward. We climb higher up the embankment and I slip on the needles.
“Grab her,” one voice yells. And suddenly two hands are there, one on each arm, dragging me on. My head is throbbing now, and my body feels broken. My neck goes slack and my head drops forward.
“Don’t let her black out,” a voice warns. And suddenly a hand slaps me, trying to keep me conscious.
How I wish they would just let me go, just let me slide away, to a better, more comfortable place.
They drag me and slap me for what seems an eternity. Finally, I am in the middle of a grass field, in a makeshift camp, far from my home base. My head is still throbbing, but I do my best to take in my surroundings, in case…in case I ever have the opportunity to escape. Best I can tell, there are small tents pitched in a semicircle around a pile of logs. Obviously, the logs are for their campfire. Next to the tents are various forms of weaponry: long guns, spears, and bows and arrows, all piled in neat piles. Diagonally placed near the back of every tent is a torch, burning. They are obviously hunters, waiting to trap… something.
I am thrown into the middle of the camp, and I lose my balance. Unable to catch myself, I fall, landing a fraction of an inch from the campfire. Thankfully, it’s unlit.
“Get up,” a voice roars, and I know it is talking to me. Carefully, I force myself to my elbows. “Get up,” the voice repeats, louder. I try, I really, really try to stand, but I make it to one foot and fall over again. “GET UP!” the voice screams at me. I stagger to my feet, my head ringing, and turn in the direction the voice is coming from.
The glow from the torches allows me to make out the shapes of the people standing there. There are two, no, three of them. One is average height, one is very tall, and another is quite tiny. No matter what, I am completely outnumbered. I feel a tremor run through my body and know this is the end for me. No matter what they do or don’t do to me here, I will never come out of it the same.
The tallest one steps forward. He is remarkably blond, so blond his head is like a beacon in the night. The tiny bit of moonlight reflects off his near-white hair. He remains mostly a shadow to me, but I can make out his slight features: a small upturned nose, close set eyes, cherub shaped lips. Most of all, I see a large scar shaped like a crescent moon that starts just below his eye socket and travels down until it is hidden away by his t-shirt. Despite the terror I am feeling now, something about his face is familiar, though there is no way I could ever have seen it before. “Well, if it isn’t Veronica Killings,” he taunts, with an amused look on his face.
“Billings,” I choke out, spitting blood as I speak.
“Tomato—tom-ah-to,” he says, smiling. His words confuse me.
“How do you know who I am?” I hear my words, choppy and agitated.
“Everyone knows who you are.” He smiles again. He turns to his comrades and one of them nods, appreciatively. “But not everyone knows where to find you.”
“It’s a secret?” I want to ask so many things but this is all that comes into my aching mind. I put my hand up to my throbbing cheek. The warmth from my hand stings the open wound, and I pull it away. The oppressive night and my aching body become too much to bear.
“What’s going on?” I ask, genuinely confused. “Who are you?”
The tall one continues to smile.
“Who are any of you?” I begin to feel the panic settling over me. In just a few hours, my girls will be waking up and preparing for the biggest day of their young lives with no one to guide them. Gretchen will be there, but she can’t appease the girls the way I can. I hope she remembers to hold their hands and not just force them to drink their green algae goo.
My face stings, my leg throbs, and I have grown incredibly itchy from the pine needles that remain stuck to me. Worst of all is my head. My head is pounding.
As I look at my assailant, I see the cruelty pouring out of his expression. I can tell he would love nothing more than to see me dead, or worse.
I strain to see if the other figures are as terrifying, but I see merely shadows.
“The least you can do is tell me who you are,” I yell. “You, you, cowards!” I spit the words at them. “You attack me three to one, and you have the gall to be smug about it?”
The tall one takes another step toward me. The look of humor on his face is replaced by anger. Pure, unadulterated anger. I see hatred in his beady, little eyes. He takes another step and another, trying to force me to back down. But I won’t. Looking up slightly, I am able to st
are him straight in the eyes.
I feel his breath on my skin, and he looks at me like I am a complete mystery to him—like he is trying to crack some ancient code and the answer lies in my face. At this distance, I see his scar clearly. It is ridged and jagged on the edges. Some parts are still red, others, a deep purple. His eyes scan my face, up and down, up and down, trying to take in every detail. Suddenly, without warning, he grabs my arm and spins me to face the others.
“Step forward,” he commands, and they do. The average height boy walks up directly beside the tall boy. He is slightly heavy, with a buzz cut and a round face. I don’t like his look. The other lags behind. The blond boy raises my arm into the air. “Here is the face of pure evil,” he declares. “And we have stopped her.”
Buzzcut raises his fist into the air and lets out a loud “whoop!” The other figure remains quiet. I wrack my aching brain, trying to imagine what any of this means.
“What are you talking about?” I ask, terrified and confused.
“What am I talking about?” The blond boy looks directly at me. “What am I talking about?” he asks again, turning to face the others as if he was rallying troops. “I am talking about you, Veronica Killings.” He spits the last words at me.
“Why do you keep calling me that? I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I am exhausted and exasperated. I want nothing more than to fall down and wake up in my bed, to find all of this an impossible dream.
“Really?” the blond boy asks.
“Why don’t you prove it’s lying?” Buzzcut suggests.
“Good idea.” The blond boy speaks in a tone that sounds like they’re discussing a science project. In the faint moonlight, I see they may only be a few years older than me. “So Veronica Killings, let’s see what you really know, shall we?” My stomach clenches, knowing this is about to become a very violent game of truth or dare. “How many has it been, Veronica? Hm?” he asks.
“How many has what been?”
“Wrong answer,” he growls, punching me in the stomach. The ache I feel radiates from the inside out, and I am certain I will vomit all over him. But I have no food in my stomach and the best I can do is dry heave. The blond boy and Buzzcut laugh.
The Letting Page 3