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The clock inside is no longer lit. The basket of food contains only a discarded apple core and the container the crackers came in. This is definitely not Tomas’s box. He wouldn’t have been reckless enough to eat food that could be stored for later. And he would have stripped the cot of its sheet like I did. I’m considering adding the sheet to my inventory when I hear a stone skitter over the ground.
Someone or something is outside.
I freeze and hold my breath, trying to decide my next move as I hear fragments of cement crunch under a shoe. Not an animal. Definitely a person. My heartbeats count off the seconds as I listen for sounds of advance or retreat. The minutes pass. I hear nothing. I tighten and retighten my grip on the gun in my right hand and count to one hundred. Still nothing.
Being trapped in this windowless box has me at a distinct disadvantage. Not only can I not see who is out there, but I have no method of escape if someone comes through the door. It is time to leave. Now.
I peer out of the entrance of the box. The opening faces an area that at one time must have housed a building but is now home to a few partially standing walls. A few of the walls are only three or four feet high, but one or two are taller than me. The tallest wall is probably fifty or sixty feet away. The walls could provide a place to hide from whoever is nearby. At least until I can determine whether the person means harm or not. The ground between the box and the wall is cracked but mostly flat. If someone is waiting for me outside the box, taking them by surprise is my best chance. I position my bag’s strap over my head so it is more secure, shift the weight, take a deep breath, and run.
My boots pound against the hard stone ground. Somewhere, off to my right I think, I hear someone swear. My flight or my identity has taken them by surprise. If it is a friend, they would call out. When they don’t, I run faster. I am about ten feet away from my destination when I hear a high-pitched, almost musical vibrating sound. Then a thunk. Embedded in the scraggly tree trunk to my left is a crossbow quarrel.
The vibrating whine sounds again. This time I flatten myself against the concrete. Seconds later a metal quarrel hits the wall five feet in front of me and clatters to the ground. More swearing. Definitely to my right. Whoever is shooting the quarrels either has amazing luck with the weapon or has had training with it in the past. I need to get to a safe place—fast. Scrambling to my feet, bag banging against my hip, I speed forward and duck behind the wall as another crossbow quarrel connects with stone.
There is no doubt: someone is trying to kill me.
Another Testing candidate? I have to believe so. A crossbow was one of the weapons in the selection room. And while I understand feeling scared and alone in this wasted city, I do not believe those are the feelings propelling this attack. Like Roman’s sabotage of our group on the third exam, this attack is calculated. It is cold. It is an attempt to better the odds of making it to the University.
Anger and indignation cut through my fear. Whoever this person is, isn’t relying on their own smarts to pass this test. Michal said that killing someone isn’t against the rules, but in my mind it’s a form of cheating. I’ll be damned if I’m going to let a cheater win.
I remember the gun in my hand, get into a crouching position, and slowly move to the right, careful to keep behind the crumbling stone. When I reach the end of the wall, I calculate my best guess as to where the quarrels were shot from, peer around the wall, and fire.
The kick of the gun jolts my entire body as the sound tears through the silent city. Someone curses loudly—a male voice. I find it hard to believe my blind attack hit him. That wasn’t my goal. I don’t plan on surviving this test by killing the others. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to go down without a fight. I shoot three more bullets out into the city and crouch behind the wall, listening for sounds of my attacker. The sound of feet connecting with rocks makes me hold my breath.
Rocks skittering across pavement.
The clang of something metal.
Silence.
Then the sound of heavy footsteps running. Not toward my position, but away. I am safe. For now.
My body shakes as anger seeps out, leaving behind hollow fear. I just shot a gun at someone. No, I wasn’t trying to kill the shooter. But I could have. I could have killed someone. The fact that the person was trying to kill me can justify my behavior, but shame and horror still fill me.
I realize that I am huddled up against the wall, no longer listening to the sounds of the city, and tell myself to snap out of it. There will be time enough later to worry about what I have just learned about myself. First, I need to put distance between me and this place. The gunshots will have attracted attention from anyone in the vicinity. If there are other Testing candidates out there interested in taking out the competition, they might come looking for the source of the gunshots. I don’t want to be here when they arrive.
Listening carefully for signs of life, I peer around the wall and scan the wreckage of the city. I see no one. Not near the candidate box. Not on the piles of broken buildings or hiding among the branches of diseased trees. As far as I can tell, at this very moment I am alone. While I would like nothing better than to have Tomas walking out of the city with me, I will have to make it out of here on my own.
Keeping low to the ground, I check my compass and slowly head west, careful to stop every ten or fifteen feet to scan the area around me. So far I see no one, but I know the crossbow shooter is out there somewhere. Climbing over rocks and pieces of steel makes travel slow. Eventually, I find a street that is mostly cleared of debris and pick up my pace.
The street leads to a wide river of dark, swirling water. There is no need for tests. This water is not drinkable. No amount of basic purification chemicals will make it so. The street I am following arches up and over the river. There are cracks and gaping holes in the bridge. Do I try to cross here or find another way to the other side?
I stow my gun in the side pocket on my bag and climb a tree on the riverbank for a better view. The river curves to the northeast. It’s hard to see what lies in that direction. To the south there is another bridge, but it too appears to be in disrepair. And who knows how long it will take me to get there or what I will encounter when I do. Scrambling back down to the ground, I decide to try to cross here. I need to put as much distance as possible between me and any unfriendly candidates. If I start to cross and find the bridge is too unsafe, I will head south and try my luck there.
As I cross, I see evidence of a meager attempt to repair the bridge. Perhaps past Testing candidates placed the large planks of wood and slabs of rock over gaping holes when they, too, needed to cross to the other side. Pieces of rock crumble under my boots as I pick my way to the middle of the bridge. From this vantage point, I can tell the far side of the bridge is in even worse condition. Entire sections of asphalt are gone, leaving only small strips here and there that can be navigated. Whoever attempted to patch the bridge behind me must not have wanted to go back to land for materials to repair this side.
I contemplate my options: return back the way I came to try the south bridge or keep going and hope for the best
. My current position on the bridge has me exposed. No doubt I am in view of any nearby candidate. If one has spotted me, going back will leave me open to attack. Either option holds risk.
Fear of the crossbow shooter keeps my feet moving forward. I shift the bag on my shoulder as the patch of pavement I walk narrows to a mere foot in width. The dark water rushes underneath me, waiting for one misplaced footstep to carry me away. I am twenty feet from safety when I hear the now familiar vibrating sound that signals danger. There is no choice but to run as what I can only guess is a quarrel whizzes past. There is a plunk in the water below as it is swallowed up by the current.
Five feet from safety the piece of road I have been traveling vanishes. The vibrating sound sings again. I don’t have time to think as I leap up and over the gaping hole, hoping to make it to the other side. But only the top part of me makes it onto land. The rest of me dangles in the emptiness between the ledge and the river. Between the weight of my body and my bag, I feel myself sliding backwards. I claw at the concrete and dig my fingers into a fissure in the stone, bringing my backwards movement to a halt.
My arm muscles begin to tremble as I attempt to pull myself onto land. Only, after several tries, I have barely moved a fraction of an inch and my fingers are starting to lose their hold. There is nothing I can do to stop it. In a minute, I will be plunging downward toward the water. I’m bracing myself for the fall and hoping that the bank next to the river is scalable when something clamps onto my arm and pulls my fingers loose from their tenuous grip on safety. With all the dangers around me I know I should stay quiet, but I can’t help it. I scream.
Chapter 11
“IT’S OKAY. CIA. It’s okay.”
