And it is not alone. The large black head swings to the right, and I can see another grayer but equally scary animal standing behind it. It sniffs the air. Has it caught our scent? I think so. Which means we need to get out of here now.
I’m grateful we kept our things packed because we have to move fast. Kneeling, careful not to make a sound, I gently shake Tomas awake. His gray eyes open. His mouth smiles as he sees me, but the warmth and happiness leave his face as he notices the fear on mine. His eyes narrow as I lean close to his ear and whisper, “There are mutated animals outside. We have to get moving.”
He nods and is on his feet, bag in hand, in seconds. Together we cross to the other side of the barn. Every scuff of our shoes or rustle of dry grass under our feet makes my heart jump. Once we are at the door, Tomas whispers, “We’ll run with our bicycles until we get to the road. Then we’ll ride. Okay?”
The barn is about 150 yards from the road. There are rocks, trees, and underbrush between us and the pavement. Not to mention the way back to the road slants uphill. I have no idea how the hook-clawed wolves move or how fast they can run. Perhaps they won’t notice us. Or even if they do, maybe we will be far enough away for them not to give chase. If they do . . . well, I hope they lumber like bears. That might give us a chance. If they are swifter . . .
I clutch my gun, take a deep breath, and say, “Okay. Let’s do it.”
My feet pound the hard-packed earth, my hands hold tight to the handlebars as I keep my eyes focused on the road. The bicycle wheels bang and jump as they roll over the harsh terrain, but I don’t look back to see if we have been noticed. That will only slow me down. If the animals and their vicious-looking teeth are in pursuit, I cannot afford the delay.
But Tomas does look back. I can tell by the way he sucks in air. The way he wills himself to go even faster as he yells, “Run, Cia. Run.”
I do. I run as fast as I am able. My calf and thigh muscles burn as I propel myself and the bicycle up the hill that leads to the road. To our hope for escape that lies at least another fifty yards in the distance.
With his longer legs and superior strength, Tomas pulls ahead of me. He yells for me to keep running, and I am, but I can only go so fast. And then I hear it. Panting. Branches cracking. Yips and whines. They’re close. Too close. And getting closer.
Fear, swift and fierce, helps move my legs faster. I climb the incline. Twice I almost lose hold on my bicycle as my feet catch in the underbrush, but I manage to keep climbing. Somewhere behind me the yips become growls. The sounds are closer. They are catching up, and I still have at least ten yards until I reach the road. A bicycle pedal catches on a bush, and I tumble to the ground. I look up and see Tomas at the top of the hill. He’s already seated on his bicycle, poised to take flight.
“Come on, Cia. Hurry.”
He doesn’t say it, but I know the animals are moments behind me. There is nothing he can do to help me unless I make it to the top. So I scramble to my feet, pick the bicycle off the ground to keep it from catching on branches and grass, and force myself up the last incline. My feet hit smooth pavement and I want to cry with relief, but I can’t. Out of the corner of my eye, I see them. A pack of them. Six or more. They are fast. Large, bulky shapes of gray and black matted fur. Ten or fifteen feet behind me. Jaws open. Ready to attack.
One leaps out in front of the others. Its wide, yellow eyes are focused on me as it closes the gap between us. I aim and fire. The thing growls in anger as the bullet hits it square in the chest. But it doesn’t stop. The bullet doesn’t even slow it down.
“We can’t take them out. Get on! We gotta go.”
Tomas’s voice snaps me into action. I throw my leg over the bicycle frame. My feet hit the pedals and push. The sound of claws on pavement and the snarls of our pursuers get my legs pumping faster. The rickety metal beneath me protests as it picks up speed. I pray my handiwork won’t give out on me now. Tomas is right. These creatures, whatever they are, are too strong for us to kill with a handgun or a knife. If we cannot outrace them . . .
Tomas yells encouragement back to me as the road slants downward. My wheels pick up speed. There are howls behind me, but they sound like they are dropping back. I keep pedaling. Willing the animals to give up the chase. To find a different, less speedy prey for their morning meal.
And they do.
The yips and growls grow fainter. When I no longer hear the sounds of the animals in pursuit, I brave a look behind and see in the distance that the pack is leaving the road. Heading north. Away from us.
Still we keep riding in case the creatures think to circle around and come at us from the other side. That kind of thinking takes higher reasoning and calculated determination. More than most animals are capable of, but there are stories told around campfires to scare children. Stories as well about humans who survived the radiation and the chemicals but were horribly changed. Never did I believe those stories were true, but I would never have believed the United Commonwealth capable of killing Testing candidates to aid in their selection process. So while the animals we are escaping showed no signs of human characteristics, we ride another fifteen miles before we stop and catch our breath.
I lay my bicycle on the ground and walk into Tomas’s waiting arms. Pressing my head against his chest, I hear his heart hammering hard and know mine is pounding equally fast. We are alive. Since being shot at hours after the test began, I have been focused on the dangers my competition might bring or the ones the Testing officials have put in place. I had almost forgotten to worry about the animals roaming the damaged plains. Although, now that I think about it, I have to wonder if they are out here by accident or design. The Testers erected fences. If they are high enough to keep us in, wouldn’t it stand to reason they would keep animals not welcomed by the Testers out?
Pulling away from the comfort of Tomas’s arms, I dig out a water bottle and swallow the bitter taste of fear and fatigue. I hand Tomas the bottle and unwrap the food we intended to prepare for our morning’s breakfast. Miraculously, the eggs, wrapped carefully in my clothing, have survived unbroken. Tomas suggests we make a fire and cook them since we need to rest for a while anyway. Our race to safety has left us both exhausted.
At least, that’s what I think when we first gather twigs and sticks for the fire. As Tomas kneels down to light a match, I notice the blood seeping through the back of his pants. The sight stops me cold, and I realize how bloodless his face has gotten now that the color of exertion has disappeared. The match trembles in his hand as he lights the twigs and coaxes them into a crackling fire.
I pull my medical kit out and order Tomas to lie on the ground.
He flashes me a pained grin. “Tell a girl you love her and she automatically gets bossy. Well, I guess I can’t complain since you’re asking me to take off my pants.”
I laugh, but a tear in the cauterized wound puts an end to my amusement. And once I wash away the blood, I can see a slight redness that speaks of infection. The infection isn’t bad—yet. But it could be if we aren’t careful. Seeing the possible contagion makes me decide to change treatment options. Not that this one will be any easier.
I make Tomas take several pain tablets and drink a lot of water before I sterilize a needle, thread it, and begin work. Tomas flinches as the needle slides into his flesh. Or maybe it was me who flinched. My heart thuds, my stomach clenches, and I grit my teeth as I push the needle back through tissue, pull the thread taut, and do it again. The tear is less than a half inch long, but each stitch is so small that it takes a dozen of them to complete the job. Tomas doesn’t make a sound, but every wince on his face makes my heart ache. Dr. Flint told me once that it’s hard for doctors to work on people they love, and that he hoped he’d never have to perform surgery on Dad or any of us kids for fear that love would get in the way of his training. Working the needle in and out of Tomas’s flesh, I understand Dr. Flint’s words. My fingers are slick with red when I make the last stitch and tie and cut the knot.
I decide to postpone cooking for a while. After all that blood, the idea of handling or eating food doesn’t appeal. Gun in hand, I do a search of the area for something to cook with the eggs and score some wild onion. I also find a patch of ripe wild raspberries.
I let Tomas sleep for more than two hours—as long as I dare. When his eyes open, I’m thrilled to see they are bright and clear and filled with annoyance at being left to sleep the day away. Although, when we finish eating, it’s obvious that no matter how much he might want to travel, riding isn’t a good idea. Tomas is weakened from the blood loss, and the injury is too tender. So we walk, wheeling our bicycles beside us for hours and taking short breaks for Tomas to rest. We find a river, but the water is poisonous and cannot be purified. At least, not with the chemicals in my bag. Our progress isn’t fast, but it is constant. And by the end of the day, we can see buildings in the distance.
An abandoned city. And the road we are traveling runs right through it.
Chapter 15
THE SIGHT OF the buildings makes me shiver. The streets in between the buildings could house anything—wild animals, other candidates, or worse. From here the city looks to go on for miles. Even without the threat of danger lurking around every corner, I do not relish entering its depths. Tomas and I have been foraging for plants and treating water from the ponds and brooks we have encountered along the way. I doubt we will be able to do the same in a world comprising decaying stone and steel.
With the threat of the city looming in the distance, I set out dinner and say, “The city would be the perfect location for the officials to add some additional tests. Most candidates will probably pass through the city instead of going around because it looks like the faster route.” I think of my father and his nightmare. Whatever happened to his friends took place in a city like the one sprawled out before us.
Tomas meets my eyes and nods. He understands what I am thinking and what I am careful not to say with the Testers listening in. “Or they could place traps on the roads leading around the city to make sure candidates have to travel through it. They’re going to want to see how we react when we come across other people. Look.” He points to the south, and I squint into the setting sun. “The southern fence line bumps right up against the city. I can’t see the northern boundary, but I’m betting it’s closer than we think.”
Weapons tight in our hands, we let sleep claim us and are up and ready to travel with the dawn. A survey of our supplies has us looking for water as the city looms closer. We find a small, murky pond coated with a black oily substance about a hundred yards from the road. Three of the purification chemicals are needed to treat the water, and even still I am concerned about its safety. Storing the water, I hope we find another source before we are forced to drink it. If not—well, we’ll have to take our chances. While I don’t relish being poisoned, I like the idea of dehydration even less.
Tomas insists he is okay to ride and grits his teeth as he takes his seat. His obvious pain makes me reevaluate my plan to go around the city. If Tomas’s injury does not improve, we will need a better mode of transportation. A city with all of its abandoned stores and buildings could be the best place to find a vehicle.
The road we are traveling forks. The section that swings to the right and travels on the outskirts of the city is in serious disrepair. I doubt our bicycles would last more than a few minutes navigating the broken pavement. The fork that leads into the center of the city is perfectly smooth. The obvious sign of direction from our Testers makes my muscles clench. But there really isn’t much of a choice. We will follow the road and get to the other side as fast as we can.
The road narrows, and we begin to pass the occasional building. Most of them are only two or three stories tall. None are in good repair. In fact, considering the number of holes in the roofs and walls, I’m amazed the structures are standing at all. We make a point to stay in the middle of the road in case the Testers have rigged the dilapidated buildings to collapse as we pass.
As the buildings grow taller and are spaced closer together, we see ones that have collapsed. In each instance, the building wreckage blocks a road leading off from the one on which we’re traveling. At first I think I am imagining it, but when we pass the fifth different building collapsed over a fork in the road, I know I’m right. The Testing officials are herding us in a straight line. Toward whatever they have planned.
I yell to Tomas and stop in the middle of the road. He puts his feet down and turns to me. “What’s wrong?”
I explain about the collapsed buildings and my worry about what might lie ahead.
“Do you want to go back and travel around the city?”
By his annoyed expression, I know Tomas does not. And to be honest, I’m not sure if I do. Going around might be equally dangerous. And we’ve already spent the morning coming this far. If we go back to where we started, we’ll have wasted the entire day.
“No. Not really. I just want us to be careful.”
He gives me a quick kiss and grins. “I promise not to throw rocks at any ponds unless I clear it with you. Okay?”
His smile makes my heart turn over, and despite my lingering worries, I find myself smiling back. “I’m going to hold you to that.”
We set off at a slower pace, watching the buildings and pavement in front of us for signs of danger. Anything could be hidden ten or twelve stories up—cameras, traps. Anything. After pedaling almost four more miles we come to an intersection of roads. This time there are no piles of stone and metal to block our way. Instead, there are three unblocked paths. One that stretches in front of us and two that jut off to either side.
“What do you think?” Tomas places his feet on the pavement.
“I think now is a good time to start chucking rocks.”
Tomas laughs but then climbs off his bicycle, grabs a large rock, and lobs it down the center path. It hits the ground and skips another ten feet across the pavement. He does the same for the other two. The rocks hit the ground and skid to a halt without incident.
“Now what?”
I don’t know. We look down each path, trying to envision what it might hold. The path ahead and the one to the left are surrounded by buildings all similar in structure to the ones we’ve passed on our way to this point. Far to our right is a building that catches our attention. The gray structure is long. The center of the building stands several stories taller than the rest and is capped by a large dome. If for no better reason than we are curious to get a better look, we set off to the right.
And come to a dead end.
The domed building that once must have been magnificent is now crumbling. It and two collapsed buildings on either side block our way. Is part of the test figuring out how to get beyond these barriers or something else? While I consider the implications, Tomas picks up a rock and lobs it onto a set of broken stairs.
Nothing happens.
The two of us smile at each other, but before Tomas starts forward I say, “Try another rock. Just to be sure.”
Tomas picks up another rock and hurls it toward the rubble to our left. For a moment there is silence before a faint ticking sound fills the air. A moment later the patch of ground where the rock landed explodes. There is no going around or over. Leaving the road is the wrong answer. A decision that will be punished.
Wordlessly, we follow the road back to the fork and choose the path that leads straight ahead. Another dead end. We don’t bother to test this one for traps. We know they are there.
The left path takes us past several buildings that once might have been shops. A faded but partially legible sign boasts hardware. Part of me itches to stop and explore whatever inventory might still be usable, but I d
o not. The road that once terrified me is now a source of safety. The road zigzags around the crumbling gray buildings and eventually comes to another fork. Once again we have three choices. We take the middle one, pass more decaying structures, and come to a dead end that shows signs of a recent explosion. We turn around. And I realize what this reminds me of.
A maze. We are in a maze.
When I was growing up, my father used to draw me and my brothers complicated mazes and then ask us to solve them. Kind of like a race. All of us would be given the same maze and Dad would wait until we were all ready before telling us to start. Once we touched the tip of our pencil to the paper, we were not allowed to pick it back up. If we ran into a dead end, we were out of the race. Dad was teaching us to think and plan ahead. Not to rush into any decision too quickly without considering what the outcome would be.
Perhaps somewhere in his fragmented memory, he remembered this part of the test. Or maybe he was just giving us a game to pass the cold, snowy nights. Whatever the reason, I need to use the lesson it taught and think ahead. Already it is late in the day. If we aren’t careful, we could be trapped in this maze longer than our supply of food and water will hold out.
I tell Tomas we should break for an early dinner. He’s frustrated and hot enough to agree, so we sit down in the middle of the road and pull out the chicken since it will be the first to spoil in this heat. While we eat, I ask to see Tomas’s book of maps. Together we pore over the pages. According to the book, the road we want to take out of the city is on the southwest side. That means we should choose paths in directions that should ultimately lead us to that road. The more straight- and south-traveling paths we can take the better.
Well, it isn’t much information, but it is more than we had when we sat down. We hop back on our bicycles and start pedaling. Another fork. We take the left road. More undistinguishable buildings. A dead end. Back to the fork and straight ahead. Our shirts are soaked with sweat as we continue to search for the right roads. Even with the compass as a guide, the twists and turns are confusing my sense of direction. At nightfall, we have no choice but to make camp. Without light, we risk stepping off the road and tripping a trap. We opt to camp in the center of the road near a dead end. The three booby-trapped sides will at least limit the direction from which new dangers can arrive.
The Testing Trilogy Page 18