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The stash of crossbows, guns, and explosives catches my attention. If an animal attacks, I do not want to be caught unprepared. I’ve never fired a crossbow and immediately scratch that off my list. The explosives are unfamiliar and scare the crap out of me. I have fired my father’s shotgun, and Daileen’s dad taught us to fire his pistol. Daileen is a much better shot, but I can hit the center of the target at least 75 percent of the time. I finger the shotgun, which I am more comfortable with, but it only comes with a box of ten shells. My fingers shift and close over a small black handgun that comes with two boxes of ammunition. Lightweight. Easy to carry. Enough bullets that I can take a few practice shots without worrying about running out.
Second choice complete.
The gun and the two boxes of ammunition disappear into my bag as Michal warns there are two minutes remaining. My heart skips as panic sets in. Two minutes and I have no idea what else to take. Signal flares to help Tomas find me? A sleeping bag? A raincoat? A manual on hot-wiring old-fashioned cars? Will there be cars? I don’t think so—but how can I know?
Closing my eyes, I take two deep breaths and make a list of what I do have. Food. Water. Clothes. A knife and small tools. A Transit Communicator complete with compass. A gun for self-defense. But what if I get injured?
I open my eyes and head for the medical kits. Each one contains bandages, a needle and thread, and antibacterial ointments along with some radiation tablets, mild pain/fever medication, and other bottles I don’t have time to examine now. I shove the medical kit into my bag and sling it onto my shoulder as Michal announces, “Time’s up.”
Turning my back on the supplies, I follow Michal out the door trying to ignore the nagging worry that I have made a mistake. But there is no going back. My three choices have been made. Whatever else I need I’ll just have to find as I go.
Michal checks his watch and leads me down the hallway to a room marked with my symbol. He opens the door. Inside is a small sleeping chamber and an adjoining bathroom.
“You have an hour to repack your belongings or change clothes.” He looks at me and smiles. He knows I won’t be changing into anything, but his words and expression let me know this is a script he must follow. It also tells me something else—if Michal is being this careful, there are people listening to what is being said. “If you need anything during the hour, please let me know. I’ll be right outside.”
The door closes, and I sit on the small twin-sized bed. Everything in the room is decorated in shades of gray. Not exactly the most uplifting place I’ve ever been in, but it could be worse. In fact, I am certain it very soon will be.
I strip off my clothes, shower, and wash my hair. Once I’m clean, I contemplate myself in the reflector before pulling my hair back at the nape of my neck and twisting it into a tight knot. I have no idea what I will be facing when the test begins, but I cannot afford to let my cascading hair get in the way. If during the test I have to cut it off, I will. Vanity has no place here.
Boots laced up, I empty my bag on the floor and repack. I remove one canteen of water to keep handy and store the rest of the kit on the bottom of the bag along with my clothes. The medical kit goes in next. Then the food I took from the dining hall gets wrapped in a towel from the bathroom (no one said we couldn’t take them) and stowed. Last the final canteen, Zeen’s Transit Communicator, and the gun. The knife I put in my pocket. I lift the bag. It isn’t as light as it used to be, but I’ve distributed the weight well. I can run with it if I need to.
The end of my hour is signaled by a knock on the door. Michal is waiting. He takes in my hair, my unchanged clothes, the single bag hanging from my shoulder, and nods. “Follow me.”
He leads me through a series of hallways until we come to an elevator. This time he pushes a button for a floor I’ve never seen before. UG. When the doors open it is very clear by the mildew scent what UG stands for: Underground. According to Michal, we will travel by an underground moving walkway system to the outskirts of the city. A skimmer will then transport us to my designated starting area.
The tension and worry I’ve been carrying diminish when I spot the underground walkway. It is a large conveyor belt that hums along the floor, and I can’t help but ask Michal dozens of questions about how it works, how large the network is, and how it is powered. He smiles and tells me he’ll answer what he can while we travel. I stumble as I step onto the belt, but Michal catches me before I end up on the ground.
The walkway ride lasts the better part of an hour, much of it traveling through dimly lit tunnels. Several times we have to step off one walkway and climb onto a new one. I’m grateful for Michal’s presence as he continues a steady stream of conversation. Concentrating on his voice helps me ignore the anxiety blooming in my stomach.
We arrive at our destination and step off the walkway. An elevator zooms us to the surface, where Michal says our lunch awaits. The elevator lets us off into a large room bustling with Testing officials. One official in purple holding a clipboard spots us and hurries over. He makes note of my identification bracelet symbol, scribbles something on his board, and tells Michal to take me to number 14.
Number 14 turns out to be a well-lit but airless skimmer docking bay. In the corner is a small table holding a large picnic lunch. Michal will stay with me here in this room until I’ve gone through the next step of Testing preparation—whatever that might be. A tiny window next to the table looks out onto a green field of grass. Beyond the grass is sparkling water. After being inside for most of the last few days and not knowing whether I will ever see healthy land like this again, I ask Michal if we can eat lunch outside. He is about to say no, but I must look pretty desperate because he tells me to wait here while he asks one of the upper-level officials.
I take one look at Michal’s face when he returns and give a whoop of joy. Michal grabs the basket of food and tells me we have exactly one hour to spend outside. He presses a small button on the wall, and the docking bay door rises. A moment later we stroll into the fresh air.
Picking a spot near a large tree, I admit, “I’m surprised they let us come outside.”
“As long as I’m with you and you aren’t able to communicate with other Testing candidates, there’s no reason to say no.”
He hands me an apple from the basket and smiles. “To tell you the truth, most Testing candidates are happy to follow instructions. The Testing committee is always interested to see which candidates show a bit more initiative.”
Even now, before we are thrown into the wreckage of our country, we are being tested. It shouldn’t surprise me. But it does. My eyes run up and down the length of the tree, looking for signs that our words are being recorded, that we are being watched.
Michal smiles. “Don’t worry. Our conversation isn’t being recorded out here. The Testing committee is too busy to monitor everything leading up to the fourth test. That’s what I’m here for, and I don’t plan on reporting this conversation. If you want to talk, this is as safe as it gets.”
Do I want to talk? Yes. But do I trust Michal or is this just one more test to be graded? My father would instruct me not to trust him. As much as I want to be, I have proven over and over again since leaving home that I am not my father.
Michal hands me a sandwich from the basket and asks, “How are you holding up?”
My insides are churning, but I make myself take a bite of the sandwich—beef, cheese, and a hearty wheat bread. It probably tastes wonderful. Swallowing, I say, “Malachi is dead. I watched him die.”
“I heard.” His eyes meet mine. “I’m sorry.”
I believe he is. The sympathy I feel radiating off him makes me want to cry. “Why? Why is he dead?” A poisonous leaf. A nail to the eye. Those are the causes. But the reason . . .
Michal looks over his shoulder and then tells me to eat, to pretend to laugh and enjoy myself. Otherwise someone watching at a distance might wonder what we are saying. As I eat, he tells me that the Testing process was designed years ago by Dr. Barnes’s father, who believed that the Seven Stages of War occurred because world leaders did not have the correct combination of intelligence, ability to perform under pressure, and strength of leadership to lead us out of confrontations. That the only way to ensure the United Commonwealth did not repeat past mistakes was to test the future leaders of our country and make sure they had the breadth of qualities that would not only help our country flourish but keep our people safe. Over the years, several Commonwealth officials have questioned the necessity of such strong penalties for failing The Testing. Some even say that the Testers rig the outcome of the tests so that those who are too smart, too strong, and too dedicated are weeded out. For those are the ones who feel not only compelled to rebuild the Commonwealth but also to question its laws and its choices. Anyone who voices negative opinions about The Testing either is relocated to an outpost or disappears.
Michal laughs as though he has said something funny. I laugh too, though nothing has ever seemed less amusing. What constitutes too smart and too strong? Does asking to go outside mark me a rebel? My head spins, but I continue to smile as though my life depends on it.
