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The river—like all untreated water sources—is tainted. But one look into the swirling waters tells us that at least some species of fish have adapted to the contaminants. While the contaminants make it dangerous to eat the fish raw, a pan and a fire will make them more than edible. I roam the banks of the river, gathering plants for dinner, while Tomas attaches a hook from his tool kit to a braided strip of sheet. He goes fishing using the last bits of our opossum as bait. By the time I return with a pot filled with wild onions, pickerelweed, and cattail roots, Tomas has caught and cleaned three medium-sized fish—two catfish and one that looks similar to the wide-mouth bass we catch near home. We boil the cattail roots and pickerelweed, fry the wild onion and fish, and have a feast.
With the sun still an hour or two from setting, I decide to wash. Our tests have determined the water contaminant is mild and won’t affect skin on contact so I strip down to my undergarments and wade into the cool water. The current is surprisingly strong. I don’t venture far from the bank as I scrub the mud, dust, and sweat from my body and the clothes I’ve been wearing for the past few days. When I climb out, I give myself a few minutes to air-dry before pulling on my second set of clothing and hanging the wet ones over a branch to dry.
I’m about to call to Tomas that I’m finished with my bath when I see him still and quiet, positioned behind a clump of bushes on the hill that leads to the road. His muscles are taut. His hand clutches the hilt of his knife. He has spotted something.
Gripping my handgun, I am careful to step softly—avoiding the rocks and branches, keeping to the grassy patches that will deaden my tread. Tomas jumps as I touch his shoulder, but then he points far down the road in the direction we have already traveled.
People. Three of them. At this distance, it is hard to tell whether they are male or female. But their feet drag on the ground, telling us they are tired, hungry, and possibly dehydrated. Even with the slow pace the three will be here before the sun sets.
“Do you want to pack up and move farther away from the road or should we stay put and see if they notice us?” Tomas asks.
“What do you think?”
Tomas frowns. “They look pretty tired to me. If I didn’t know about our crossbow friend, I’d say flag them down and see if we can help. They won’t expect us to travel with them since they’re on foot and we’re on bicycles. Still . . .”
I can finish his thoughts. There are candidates out there willing to shoot. To kill. To get a passing grade on this test no matter the cost. But we are not like them. As if to prove it, I say, “Why don’t you catch a few more fish in case they make it thi
s far before nightfall. They’re going to be hungry.”
Tomas’s eyes narrow as he studies the trio. After a moment, he agrees.
There are five fish roasting over coals when the three candidates step off the bridge onto our side of the river. All three look vaguely familiar. One gangly, freckled red-haired boy. Two girls. One is tall with olive skin and short dark hair. The other has long ash-blond hair and is several inches shorter. All three look as though they are ready to drop from exhaustion.
“Are you hungry?” I ask, stepping out from my hiding place.
Tomas is still behind the bushes with the knife poised in his hand. We agreed that the trio might be more inclined toward aggression if they saw both of us. I hope a single, smallish girl will inspire them to think before they react. The three don’t look surprised at my appearance. I suppose the smell of food cooking alerted them to the presence of another human being. But their eyes gleam with terror as they notice the gun in my hand. I feel bad, but I don’t lower it. I’m not that naïve. “You look like you’re hungry and tired. I have fish cooking and some water down by the river if you’d like to make camp here tonight.”
The tall redheaded boy speaks first. “Why would you want to help us?”
I give them the only answer I have. “It’s what I was raised to do.”
Whether they believe the honesty of my words or they are just so hungry they can’t resist the smell of the cooking fish, the trio follows me off the road. I warn them I’m not traveling alone, and while the shorter of the girls looks terrified at the sight of Tomas and his knife, the others don’t appear concerned. Especially not when they spot the food and water waiting for them. They keep their bags close at hand as they sit on the ground. The tall girl starts to cry when I say, “Help yourself to the food.”
In between mouthfuls of fish, the tall girl tells us her name is Tracelyn. The other two are Stacia and Vic. All three are from Tulsa Colony. They were sitting together in the lecture hall when Dr. Barnes showed the map of the fourth test and, like us, they set up a meeting point. For them it was the fence line directly south of the starting location. It took them two days to find one another and they’ve been traveling near the road ever since, only leaving it to look for food and water. Food has been scarce, and they haven’t wanted to venture far from the road to find more familiar plant life. The road has been their greatest source of safety since they can see people coming and hide if necessary.
“We were hiding in an abandoned building when you rode past,” Vic admits, taking another helping of fish. “I thought you were miles and miles ahead, so it never occurred to me to look for bicycle tracks on the side of the road. I should have been more careful, but the smell of food distracted me. You guys seem to be playing things straight, but not everyone is.”
“We know.” Tomas meets Vic’s eyes. The two seem to size each other up.
Vic looks at the knife in the scabbard on Tomas’s belt, at the gun resting in my lap, and nods. “Someone took a couple potshots at me while I was getting out of the city,” he says.
“With a gun or a crossbow?” I ask.
Tracelyn’s eyes widen. “Someone’s shooting at people with a crossbow? I just don’t understand how anyone can do that kind of thing. I mean, the Testing committee said they’re going to evaluate us on the choices we make. They can’t possibly give someone a passing grade for shooting the competition. What kind of leader would that person be?”
“A strong one.” This from Stacia, who until now has sat cross-legged on the ground, eyes firmly fixed on her food. “The Fourth Stage of War would never have happened if the president of the United States had attacked the Asian Alliance. Instead, he tried to broker a worldwide coalition even when his own advisers said it was useless. He was a pacifist when the country needed aggression.”
Tomas shakes his head. “Striking first would have guaranteed a strike by the Asian Alliance. He knew the damage the first Three Stages of War had caused. He had to try and head off what he was certain would be the destruction of the world.”
“Fat lot of good it did.” Stacia laughs. “Isn’t that the point the Testing committee was making when they dropped us in one of the destroyed cities? They’re looking for candidates with a killer instinct.”
“I don’t believe that,” I say. “My father passed The Testing, and he’s a pacifist. He believes in creating, not destroying.”
Stacia shrugs. “Well, maybe he lied in his evaluation and told the committee he took a few of the candidates out while making his way back to civilization. I mean, how are they going to know he lied? It’s not like they can see what we’re doing out here.”
Or can they? I remember the camera in the skimmer. The ones in the log cabin we lunched in. The cameras in our sleeping quarters back at the Testing Center. The most direct route to Tosu City from Chicago stretches seven hundred miles. Tomas figures there is a twenty- or thirty-mile stretch of land in between the fence lines. There is no way the Testers have planted enough cameras in the landscape to cover every inch of ground. But what if they don’t need to? What if there is another way to keep track of our actions?
The conversation shifts from The Testing to talk of home. Tomas, Vic, and Tracelyn share information about our two colonies. Tulsa Colony has more than seventy thousand people living in the southern half of what used to be Tulsa, Oklahoma, and the countryside that stretches beyond the city limits. There is an oil refinery still active in Tulsa that Vic’s father works at. Tracelyn’s parents both work at the power plant—the largest operational plant in any of the colonies. Stacia doesn’t seem interested in sharing information about her family. She just lies back on the ground and stares at the sky as the stars begin to shine through the haze. I wonder what she is thinking as the boys compare weapons. Both girls have knives. Vic has a handgun like mine. I’m glad they’ve been honest about their protection, but I have to wonder if I will sleep knowing candidates I don’t fully trust are armed.
