Through my tears and fits of laughter, it takes a while but I manage to get out, “Me? The Madam President? Essentially royalty? Can you imagine? That’s so…ridiculous.”
Though I am fairly certain my family thought I was nuts, they smile and shake their heads like they would expect nothing less from me and then we get to work. Mom hands me a small bag before I even know she has left the room. She is clearly over her emotional fit and has herself back together and barking orders, barely pausing to breathe between one command and the next.
“What should you take? Do you need a full change of clothes? A dress? Oh my goodness, what should you wear? I suppose you should dress to impress? Which shoes would be most practical? I wonder what the weather is in Denver. Is it chilly? It will be soon. I suppose you need your good coat. Oh, and how should we do your hair? I need to go find my makeup kit. Do you need anything to drink? Eat?--ASHTON! Stop standing there and get her some tea from the fridge.--I wonder what they will feed you. Ah! I bet there will be chocolate! And the boys! I bet they will be handsome. Don’t fall for their charms though,” she pauses only to shake her head and point at me. “Be the strong girl we raised you to be. Don’t settle for anything less than the best--ASHTON! THE TEA!! AND FOR PETE’S SAKE GET A SHIRT ON.”
She just keeps going and going. It’s impressive really.
“Ummm, Mom?” I ask quietly while Ashton walks to the fridge shaking his head and barely hiding his smile.
She hardly takes a breath. “Yes, dear? What do you need? How can I help? Oh, your hair is still wet. Well at least you put it in a braid. We can work with that. I’ll get--”
I grab the hand she is gesturing with and squeeze it, cutting her off. “Mom, just chill out a minute, would you? I will look fine, and I’m sure if I don’t, they will have something for me or tell me what to do. I just want to spend the last few hours that I can with you guys. I’m sure I will be back soon anyway, but still.”
“Please just let me be a mom and take care of you one last time,” she pleads quietly with a smile and looks like she may or may not be on the verge of tears again. “I’m not sure I will ever get to again after this.”
“Geez. Okay, Mom,” I say, unable to deny the loving woman that has raised me. “What do you need me to do?” I take a sip of the iced tea that Ashton returned with, having also donned a t-shirt as told.
I let my mom dress me in black slacks with a tucked in loose cream colored blouse. It is one of the two fancy shirts that I have, but hey, at least it’s designer. I guess there are a few perks to having a fraction of the previous population; we all get the good stuff. For our good clothes anyway. Not for work clothes. That would be frivolous and wasteful, two things life in Omaha never is.
My brunette hair is down past my shoulders in waves, mostly from my braid and a little from the natural wave my hair already has. I put on a pair of black flats and pack my favorite tennis shoes in my small bag along with my other belongings. I don’t take much--a picture of my family, a journal, a favorite book, and my watch. I take one last look at my reflection and see that my forehead is a little sunburnt from our work in the fields today. I can’t believe so much has happened since then. That was just a few hours ago.
The goodbyes are typical. It’s not like I’m going off to military training like Ash did for a summer. We had a proper goodbye then because we knew how long he would be gone. It’s hard to say goodbye when I don’t know when I will be back, but since it’s the first time I have ever left home, I do the best I can.
Dad tells me how proud of me he is. Mom tells me I am all grown up now and to try my best and hold my head high no matter what. She once again tells me to “settle for nothing but the best” and lectures me on boys and always being on time. Ash is the only one not entirely happy for me. He is trying to put on a good face, but because I know him well, I realize he is a bit withdrawn and looks a little anxious.
He gives me a hug and whispers, “Trust only yourself.”
Before I even have a chance to ask him what he means or wonder why he said that, we hear Shepp barking to alert us someone is here and then shortly after there is a knock on the door.
My ride has arrived.
How do they even know where I live? And how did they get here so fast? There are just so many unknowns about this whole Culling business.
Two uniformed military men greet my father at the front door.
“Good Evening, Mr. Scott. We are here to gather Ms. Reagan Scott. Congratulations on having a daughter make it to the Culling.”
One man is older in what I assume is his late 30s or maybe early 40s. He reaches out and shakes my dad’s hand. The other man is younger and probably just a little older than Ashton. The older one is very obviously in charge. Neither are smiling or looking happy to be here. My dad asks them to come in, but they kindly tell him we have to get going immediately. We have a plane to catch.
A plane? Holy crap!
I give a quick goodbye hug to Mom and Dad again and try to look Ashton in the eyes quizzically to find out what he meant by his comment but he avoids eye contact. Oh well, I’m sure I will be back in mere days. I have nothing to worry about. Right?
“I love you guys. See you next week,” I joke with a smile as I turn and walk out the door, giving Shepp a pet goodbye on the porch before I go.
I feel weak when the tears pool in my eyes. I haven’t ever left home for more than a few hours unless you count going to Offutt. I blink away the tears and don’t dare let them fall. I don’t want to be a bawling mess in front of these two intimidating men in matching military uniforms.
I take a deep breath. I’ll be back next week. I’ll be back next week.
Sitting on the driveway of our family farm is a fancy car. Yet another perk in the aftermath of Trident I guess. Lots of cars; not a lot of people. There were so many cars left empty and sitting there after Trident, that there is no need to even make very many. The manufacturing plants rarely run anymore. In Omaha, we really only have two types of cars. Old pick-ups I refer to as “the clunkers” and small cars that get good gas mileage that we use to go between subdivisions. None are even remotely new.
This car, however, does seem new. And pretty. If a car can be pretty. Although it is getting late in the evening, I can still see that the car is black and sleek and you can just tell by looking at it that it must have been one of those “luxury cars”.
“Woah,” I say impressed and the younger of the guards smirks.
He moves to open the back door for me. They both get in the front seats of the car with the one in charge taking the wheel and just like that we are on our way and I have left the only home I have ever known.
“We are heading to the airport in Offutt. It is a four-hour drive, followed by a two-hour flight to Denver.”
The younger guard hands over a folder while the older one explains, “Here is a packet of information about the Culling and the other competitors. With only three of you from the Omaha township, we shouldn’t have to wait long for our flight. You will have a blood test when we arrive at the airport, which is really just a formality at this point. We hope to be in the air quickly and land early in the morning at 0300 or 0400 hours.”
“Competitors?” I repeat with raised eyebrows, looking at the older of the two guards.
I have only ever heard the word “candidate” when referring to the Culling. I should be more alarmed by the plane flight I am about to take, my first ever, but I’m caught off guard by the verbiage used in regard to the Culling.
“I am sorry, Miss, but to think of the Culling as anything other than a competition would be unwise,” the younger man talks this time.
The other man gives him a look as if to shut him up and he just shrugs.
“Any other words of advice?” I ask bluntly but trying to be polite to the two guards. Neither of them look at me while we drive, they just keep facing forward.
This time it is the older man who replies, “Everything is a test. Everything.”<
br />
“What exactly does that mean?” I ask somewhat surprised.
Isn’t the testing part of the Culling over now? Why don’t I know more information about the previous Cullings? There have only been four before now, but I feel like I have literally no information or previous knowledge on how the process works. How is that even possible? One of the most used clichés post-Trident is the whole “knowledge is power” gambit. It seems odd I know nothing. Zip. Zilch. Nada.
“You will soon find out, my dear. You will soon find out,” he smiles sympathetically while looking at me in the rearview mirror and I feel relieved that the two men before me are turning out to be not as intimidating as they first were.
I peer out the window in the moonlight at field after field of crops. Omaha has to feed the country, after all. I wish I knew my neighbors more, wish we weren’t all too busy and overworked to spend any time with one another other than at work or at harvest.
I also wish I knew which other two candidates--or competitors--were from Omaha. I was so shell-shocked when the list came on, that I only knew of one person, myself. Well two people I guess, but I don’t really know the other, just know of him.
There has been speculation from the beginning that the only reason President Maxwell is retiring now, is because he wanted to ensure his son takes the throne, so to speak. It wouldn’t be the first time a president did so. And it probably won’t be the last.
I don’t even know what the kid looks like though I vaguely remember a light brown haired kid standing by the President in the presidential family pictures on the broadcasts. That thought reminds me of the packet I hold in my hand, but with the surrounding darkness and my exhaustion from this day, I can’t will myself to focus on the material before me. The moonlight provides enough light to see, but not light enough to read, so I don’t even bother.
My back aches a little from my hard work earlier today and I again can’t believe that was just a few hours ago. I lean back against the cool leather seat and look across the fields and close my eyes while resting my forehead on the cool window. I feel exhausted both physically and emotionally. It was a long two weeks of waiting.
Better to sleep now and stop thinking about things that are out of my control. I have never had a problem sleeping despite distractions. I can just flick a switch and shut it all off. If I don’t, I get too emotional and then my temper flares up. And I can have quite the temper so it is best just to not “wake the beast”, as Ashton says.
I turn the “switch” off and hope to get a few hours of rest while we drive in the dark. I shut off thinking about the terrifying plane ride and what that will be like. I shut off thinking about the other competitors and the fact that I apparently will be tested some more. I shut off thinking about how far I will go in the Culling. I just shut it all off.
****
“Ms. Scott, we have arrived at the airfield,” the young officer announces as we pull up to a huge plane sitting on a runway.
I have never seen a plane or a runway before, I have only been taught about them. Despite the poor lighting, as we pull up closer, I can tell the plane is massive. The thought of flying so high in such a machine gives me a bit of the heebie-jeebies. Are these things even safe anymore? Suddenly, staying in Omaha and never ever leaving doesn’t seem like such a bad idea after all.
“Ms. Scott?” the officer repeats.
“Yes?” I reply shyly.
I’m disappointed in the fear and uncertainty I hear in my own voice. I should be stronger than this. I want to impress people, not the opposite. Get yourself together, Reagan! Mom isn’t here to scold me, so I mentally do it to myself.
“We will be boarding the plane after a quick blood test. We are all here and accounted for,” the older officer says while the younger officer opens my door so that I can step out.
I have to admit, I could get used to this whole having doors opened for me thing.
“Thank you,” I say more confidently this time as I smile at the younger officer.
I see the two other competitors right away as we seem to have been the last to arrive. One boy and one girl. The boy I slowly recognize in the lights from the blood drawing station as he finishes up. We had school together in the same subdivision, but he was a few years before me. His name is Benjamin Carter. Only the cool kids call him Benji. So I definitely will not be calling him Benji.
The girl I know immediately. She is a year older than I am but a sweetheart through and through. She is from the neighboring subdivision to mine, but our subdivisions share buses when we have to go to Offutt for yearly testing so I have seen her on numerous occasions. Although I don’t know her well, I know her enough to know she is a genuine person. Her name is Agnes. Her long dark braid seems to give her an approachable look. It suits her well. I’m happy for her that she made it to the Culling too.
“Hi, Agnes,” I smile and wave.
“Hey, Reagan!” she greets in return. “Good to see you.”
“You too!” I say and mean it. Competitors or not, I am glad she made it.
Before we have a chance to small talk with one another, she is ushered into the big plane with her two military guards. I head over to get my blood drawn. I sit down and the military man wearing gloves ties the elastic band around my upper arm. The only word he says to me the entire time is “poke” as the needle goes in. I’m sure he doesn’t like having to do this at this time of day. It seems a bit silly anyway. Trident and all similar strains of the virus have been gone for over a hundred years. Not that they would ever let up on the blood tests. We are tested weekly and before any travel between townships, which is pretty much never.
Finishing with a cotton ball and a band-aid, I then get to walk up the steps and enter the massive air chariot. Inside, I am impressed with all the seats and the roominess. Three seats line one side of the aisle and one on the other with maybe twenty or so rows. The plane smells a little stale, but nothing too horrid. It’s probably because it rarely is used. It seems silly that we are taking a huge plane for the three of us, well nine of us if you count guards.
My guards lead me to my seat. The three candidates are separated throughout the plane with at least five rows between us. The seats are huge and there is plenty of space. I’m in the rear row. Seven rows ahead of me and to the right is Benjamin. Then back on my side of the aisle, and five rows ahead of him, is Agnes.
I guess they don’t want us conversing? Then again maybe they are just trying to intimidate us.
Yep. It’s definitely working.
I fidget my feet as I sit in my seat between my two guards feeling a little anxious for the plane ride. The cloth seat beneath me is comfortable but not as comfortable as the seats in the car. I wonder why my guards have to sit on either side of me when they very easily could sit in a different row.
“Here,” the younger of the two hands me a thin piece of something in a wrapper.
I look at him confused.
“It’s just gum,” he explains.
“Okay.” I try not to sound suspicious. I hear Ash’s words in my head about not trusting anyone. But, I guess if they want to knock me out for the plane ride, I am okay with it. I take off the wrapper and pop the gum in my mouth, glad for its cinnamon flavor. I turn to thank my guard and realize I still don’t know their names.
My mother would kill me for being so impolite thus far so I don’t hesitate to try to remedy the situation and ask, “I am sorry but I never asked your names?”
“I am Corporal James Cane,” the younger one says and then nods in the other’s direction. “And this here is Sergeant Kirk Sargent. Yeah, Sergeant Sargent. So, we all just call him Sarge.”
“Thank you, Corporal Cane?” I ask, trying to use propriety but not knowing the correct terms. I know military ranks are a big deal and I want to be respectful.
“Oh, puh-leeze. Call him Jamie. We all do,” the older one scoffs. “You go around calling him ‘Corporal Cane’ and he is going to have a huge head. Then what would we do
with him?”
I laugh lightly, glad my guards are becoming more likable. “Fair enough.”
At that point, the pilot comes over some sort of sound system saying, “Please make sure you are buckled up and stay seated for takeoff. Thank you.”
I grip the armrests and hold on for dear life. Sarge apparently takes notice. I have the feeling not too much gets by him.
“It won’t be too bad hon’. First we drive a ways, then there’s take off. The engines will sound loud and you will feel a little floaty. Then you won’t feel any different than if you were on the ground while we are flying,” he says quietly and lightly pats my arm in reassurance.
“Thanks, Sarge,” I respond and release the breath I was holding.
“It’s not so bad. You’ll do great,” Jamie takes over, obviously trying to get my mind off it and matching Sarge’s quiet tone. I thought Sarge was going to tell him to stop talking, but he lets him carry on. “Can you believe that before Trident people used to fly all the time? Not just for military purposes, but for leisure activities. For vacations…”
I feel the plane start moving forwards. It feels just like the car ride, only bumpier. I know my guards are trying to make this easier for me and I am immediately loyal to them. I look in front of me and to the right. It seems the guards for the other candidates aren’t really talking.
“Heck, they had flight after flight EVERY DAY. That’s why we all fit at DIA. There is terminal after terminal after terminal. It was centralized in location and just plain easy to set up a communications and military center there in the aftermath of Trident, not to mention the elevation gives us an advantage too.”
I feel the plane stop and the engines turn on full blast. I’m pleased that I don’t jump though it’s loud. I grip the armrests tightly again and keep listening to Jamie rambling on over the powerful hum.
The Culling: Book 1 (The Culling Series) Page 2