“Not that you will be spending too much time there…”
I feel the plane take off at a rapid pace. Ready or not, here we go. I take a deep breath and close my eyes for a moment.
“You will be at Mile High for the most part.”
“Mile High?” I open my eyes and ask as I feel a little floaty like Sarge explained.
I’m assuming we are lifting off. I feel a slight pressure in my head and am sure that the chewing gum is helping with the effects of that. I am very thankful for this cinnamon, taffy-like substance in my mouth.
“Yeah. It’s the name of the old stadium that used to be there. Not to worry though, the second and third presidents fixed it up real nice since it’s where the presidents always live and work out of. It was the shape of an oval with the middle cut out for a field for people to come and watch football. Can you imagine? 80,000 people watching a football game together? And they all had that much free time? And they served hot dogs and nachos! Hot dogs. And nachos,” he says in amazement while shaking his head. “I got to watch footage of an old game once during training. It was pretty cool.”
I feel the pressure ease off and don’t feel so floaty anymore. Sarge was right again. I don’t even feel like I am thousands of feet above the ground. If it was light and I could see out the window, I am sure I would be thinking differently.
“Anyways, that is where you will spend the majority of your time, but you may go to DIA on occasion,” he shrugs.
“I haven’t heard about Mile High before,” I state rather confused.
Why haven’t I heard of it if it is where the President works? I release my hands from the armrests. The worst of this plane ride seems to be over. Or at least for now anyway.
“Of course not. It’s on a need to know basis,” Sarge chips in.
“Why? Before Trident, everyone knew where the President was, ‘The White House’. Granted, the name seems a little silly but still. And to my knowledge, it was so well protected that a president never died there. Well, except the last one, and that was Trident.” I am going through information in my head trying to process why it matters. I’m saying these things rapidly out loud, although it feels like I’m just talking to myself. “And what do they think someone will do? Go to Mile High? Like Jamie pointed out, we don’t fly anymore. How would we even get there?”
I take a deep breath. Crap. That was a lot of words. I am turning into my mother! Callllm it down, Reagan.
“Just another precaution in the wake of Trident,” Sarge shrugs. “Just wait until you see it all. Now, let us quit jibber-jabbering your head off and let you get to your packet.” He clicks a light on just above my head.
I run my hand across the smooth and thick packet that has been on my lap since we got on the plane. I have been carrying it around like it is my only link back to Omaha. I inhale deeply and open it. Inside I find a yellow folder for the girls and a blue folder for the boys. My guards just look at the seat in front of them and don’t glance once at the information I have. I’m assuming they have been told that it is not information for them. They won’t be a bit of help as I go through all of it, but I am still impressed with their discipline in not even glancing at the papers before me.
Making a quick decision, I assume I will be dealing more with the girls at first, so I will begin there. After all, there will be only one boy and one girl at the end of this. I need to get to know these other 49 girls if they are my ultimate “competition”.
I start with the girls from the Denver township because their files are on top and it’s easy, but also because if this really is a competition, they will be the hardest to beat having grown up in our capital. Never mind the fact that there are more girls from the Denver township than any other township. They each have a picture in which they are smiling on what looks like an oversized flashcard. Under their picture is their basic information, such as their ages and specialties and any special projects or achievements. I read what information I am given on each girl while trying to memorize their names. I’m shooting for first names only. I can’t pronounce some of these last names, so why even bother?
Some of these girls are years into their careers and almost all of them have immediate family members in the military ranks! Holy crap. That’s intimidating. A few seem to be of influential families with parents serving as cabinet members for President Maxwell. One girl looks far meaner than the rest; her name is Marisol. She is beautiful and smiling, but her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes and she has an air about her that reminds me of a catty girl I went to school with. Maybe it’s just the way she sits with her pretty little nose high in the air, like she knows she’s better than everyone else. Or maybe it’s the way her hair and makeup are done perfectly, like she knows she’s pretty. Another girl is far prettier than the rest though; her name is Elizabeth. I’m not sure how this process works at all, but I already think that she will definitely win. Both Elizabeth and Marisol look like they’ve been taking make-up classes because they are flawless. Flaw-less.
Crap, crap, crap.
Wait, why do I care? And why am I feeling more intimidated by the pretty girl than the one who looks mean?
I decide to turn to the Omaha section of the girls’ folder after the intensity of the Denver township. I see my own picture and description. I remember the day we took those pictures. It was the first day of testing right before the blood tests. I look hopeful and maybe even a bit smart? My smile looks way more confident than I really am. I’m glad Mom insisted on doing my hair that day, as my brunette hair is in curls down past my shoulders. I don’t look drop dead gorgeous like Elizabeth, but I look pretty enough and I look happy.
I take another deep breath and read my description, “Taking part in the Omaha township’s production of Agriculture, Ms. Reagan Scott is not only top of her class, but found time outside of her studies to help her father create a more efficient means of irrigation being used in half of the Omaha area. She is our youngest candidate at the age of 18, and has only just begun her specialty in irrigational engineering.”
Great. Now everyone knows for sure I am the baby. I wasn’t sure that I was the youngest, but I knew I would be one of the young ones since I turned 18 not that long before the letter for the Culling arrived. I’m don’t know if being the youngest will help me fly in under the radar or put a target on my back. No sense in wasting time thinking about it. It is what it is. Plus their use of “irrigational engineering” makes what I do sound sophisticated. It isn’t. I water the crops. I’m pretty good at what I do and have made a few shortcuts to help us do it faster, but it seems rather insignificant compared to the Denver girls.
Next I move to Agnes, or Ms. Agnes Warren, as the packet tells me. Her picture makes her look very approachable, just like she is in real life. Her dark skin matches her dark hair, but her honey colored eyes are what give her that kind look. That and she doesn’t lack in the smile department as she supports two perfectly placed dimples. She is 19 and through the description I find out she has been working with the genetic breeding of cattle trying to produce better herds. She isn’t just a nice person, but a smart one too. And we are two of the youngest candidates as I compare us to the Denver girls.
Should I be worried about Agnes now? I look up and see her head cocked to one side as she sleeps on the plane. I shake my head and put it out of my thoughts. If it isn’t me, of course I would want her to make it far, if not win the Culling. Of course I would want someone from Omaha represented. Since Benjamin can come off a bit arrogant at times and is what I call a “closet jerk”, I would rather it be her and not him. For that reason alone, I will not and cannot look at Agnes like an enemy. The girls from Omaha must stick together. I sigh and keep going.
Eleven girls are from the Vegas township. That makes a ton of sense considering other than Denver, it is the second biggest township and our science and medicine powerhouse. The bad news about that is all of these girls are smart, and not just common sense smart, but each seem like geniuses
at things I have never even heard of before. I try to memorize names and faces. I’m not sure I will remember anyone, other than Agnes and maybe Elizabeth, once we get to Denver.
I move on to the Galveston township where ten more girls are from. I’m impressed with what some of the girls are working on in Natural Resources, except for water and water purification, which is the focus of Seattle. One girl named Haley has managed to work on growing better plants using solar panels and the journals from the Bunkers as resources and has gotten a tomato crop with very good yields. Being from the township of agriculture, I am impressed. I realize that some people might think of her work as insignificant, but I find it interesting. Another girl named Honor is working on a less labor intensive means of oil purification. Almost all of these girls have their specialties, are in their careers, and at the oldest ages for the Culling at 20 or 21. I find them having a definite advantage over me, but respect it all the same. They just have more experience.
Next is the Seattle township, where eight more girls are from. The very last file I look at is a gorgeous dark haired girl named Marcia Sanchez. She is 20 and working in water purification. Too bad I’m not here to make friends because I think we would have some things in common, starting with working with water.
And just when I think I can’t look at another face of all these girls that are smarter than me, better than me, and prettier than me too, I get to the last township, Detroit, where only four girls are from. They are all working in their township’s focus of engineering except for one named October who is teaching nuclear design classes at the collegiate level at the young age of 20. The packet tells me she is the youngest professor Detroit has ever had. She seems impressive to say the least. Finishing up the final few from Detroit, I close the yellow folder and close my packet. I cannot take anymore faces. There is no way I can memorize all this information anyway.
“Can I get you some water?” Jamie asks.
“Absolutely, thank you,” I nod, feeling both parched and a bit overwhelmed. If this is my competition, I better put my big girl panties on now.
“Anything else? Anything to eat?”
“No thank you,” I reply, still chewing my gum from lift off. “What time is it? How much longer do I have?” I ask Sarge while Jamie stands to get my water. I want to stay productive, but not be burned out by the time we land.
“We still have about an hour,” he says and checks his watch.
“Do you have any more basic information I need to know?”
I wasn’t sure I would ask this question and wanted to earlier but decided against it. I want as much information about this process as I can, but I don’t want to sound weak and needy or even demanding. Are asking questions a sign of weakness in Denver? Not where I’m from, it’s just a way of life.
I hesitate before continuing, “I mean there is a ton of information here. I can’t get through it all so I’m focusing on the girls because I’m assuming we will be spending a lot of time together and they don’t just throw all 100 of us together or anything.”
“I am not at liberty to discuss this with you. However, I will say that I am confident in your abilities,” Sarge says with a slight smile as Jamie brings back a bottle of water from somewhere behind us.
So yes but no? I think he was trying to tell me I am on the right track without actually telling me so.
“Oh, and I forgot to tell you, if you need to use the restroom, there is one on the plane,” Jamie adds as an afterthought and gestures somewhere behind us with his head.
“Excuse me?” I ask, completely taken aback by the thought.
“You heard me.” Jamie smiles.
“On the plane?!” I ask with lifted eyebrows. Sarge holds back a chuckle.
“Yep.”
“Well, I don’t. Even if I did, I don’t think I could.” I was just getting used to this plane business as it was, in my seat and not moving.
Jamie laughs. “It’s kind of cool. The engines are louder in there.”
I shake my head. I’m completely disturbed by a toilet being available on a plane. I mean really? Even if I ever fly on a plane again, I don’t care to use the restroom while flying above the ground. It’s just weird!
At this point, I flip back open the girls’ folder, thinking that from Sarge’s comment I am correct in my narrowing down the information to girls only. I try to flip through them and look at pictures only and use the pictures like the oversized flashcards they remind me of to try to practice names. It feels like this takes forever, but I am sure it has only been 15 or 20 minutes.
I think about opening the thick blue folder for the boys but avoid it. I am just not ready to see 50 more smiling pictures with names. Plus, boys and I are like oil and water. Boys in Omaha just don’t see me. I have zero experience in the romance department. Zilch. So the fact that there will be 50 boys, and the very small chance that I could be married to one at the end of this, is unsettling. I just cannot mentally make myself go there…yet anyway.
Mad at myself for packing my watch instead of wearing it, I figure I have about a half an hour left on the plane, so I shut off my light and try for a 20-minute power nap. It’s better to be rested than exhausted when we get there. Since I have only gotten about three hours of sleep thus far and don’t foresee any more sleep tonight after we land, this is my last chance for a bit of a nap. The boys can wait.
****
“We will be landing in five minutes. Thank you, and congratulations on making the Culling,” the pilot comes over the sound system again.
I jolt awake as he starts speaking and realize I am still on this stupid plane but at least I was able to get a little rest. I see the other two candidates in front of me start to slowly move around in their seats.
“Hey, Sarge?” My voice sounds a bit groggy.
“Yes. Ms. Scott?” he answers immediately. I realize neither one of them got any sleep at all tonight, nor seem the least bit tired either.
“Any words of wisdom for this landing part?” I ask, already gripping the armrests and chomping down on my gum.
“I think it’s easier than lift off. We will come down on the runway and there will be an initial jerk when we touch down, then it will be like a car again as we make our way to a terminal. We will actually use a terminal this time since part of DIA still works like an airport.”
“Thanks.” I try to smile at him. My hands have gone sweaty. I’m not sure I care for this whole flying business.
Sarge is right again though, and it happens exactly like he said. I still grip the armrests, but after we land, I let go and relax. I look at the other two candidates before me to see if either of them is affected by flying or if I am just being a whiner. Agnes seems normal, but Benjamin’s neck muscles and shoulders seem tense.
Good. I wasn’t the only one.
As the plane rolls to a stop, I hold onto my packet. From somewhere above us, Jamie takes down the black rolling suitcase that holds my small duffle bag from home.
“May I put the file in the suitcase for you, Ms. Scott?” he asks but is really just telling me to hand it over as he takes it before I can even respond.
I realize I still haven’t let go of it since we left, but in a quick glance, I see that the other two don’t have their files either, so I just go with the flow. Although Ashton said not to trust anyone, I feel like Sarge and Jamie are only trying to help me. They were intimidating as heck at first, but have been nothing but helpful since.
“Shall we?” Sarge gestures towards the exit as Agnes is already making her way off the plane.
From there, we walk off the terminal down a hallway and into DIA. There isn’t much going on at our terminal in the dead of the night, but lights are on everywhere, almost blindingly so. I wonder what is going on in other parts of the airport and where all the other candidates flying in are. Other planes would be much more filled than ours was. The Vegas plane was probably completely full with 11 girls plus their guards. Crazy!
Sarge quickly leads the
way down an escalator, around a few corners, and out a sliding door. Three black SUV type vehicles sit waiting with no other candidates or no one else around. I am kind of relieved. I’m not sure I’m ready to meet anyone else just yet.
As we prepare to get loaded up, I look again at the building behind us. The lights on in the middle of the night at DIA are impressive and I wonder what all goes on here. The place is huge. Huge doesn’t even begin to cover it.
Sarge opens the door and lets me in the third SUV. Since there is already a driver with another man sitting in the passenger seat, Sarge and Jamie sit on either side of me in the next row of seats in the SUV, just like we were sitting on the plane. But the cheerful and helpful mood radiating from my guards on the plane has now been replaced with a somber, quiet one. I pick up on the cue that now is not the time for small talk although I really should have asked how long it is going to take to go to Mile High, assuming that is even where we are going.
I think about what is to come and meeting the girls. I also ponder about meeting the boys and when that will be. Romance is bound to ensue since there will be a Presidential Couple at the end of this. So, I’m sure boys will be chasing girls and I’m sure it will even be encouraged. Not girls like me though.
Oil and water. Oil and water. Boys in Omaha always seem to go for girls that aren’t very smart, or at least play dumb, and never argue back. They go for the type of girls that are calm, look flawless, and exude grace. Since I have never been that way, I have never had a boyfriend. Eventually, it is going to have to happen though since if I haven’t married by the end of being 21, on my 22nd birthday I will be assigned someone to marry. It’s yet another curse of Trident and the curse of trying to grow the population. Oh well, I have three years. A lot can happen in three years, right? The thought of being assigned someone to marry makes me want to projectile vomit so I hope it doesn’t come to that.
The Culling: Book 1 (The Culling Series) Page 3