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“Is he gone?” he asks.
Feigning more confidence than I feel, I say, “With any luck he’ll black out from blood loss and crash his skimmer before he gets to the end. Where did he shoot you?” A pointless question since I can see where Tomas’s red-streaked hands clutch his right side. I roll him over and find a bloody wound on his back. The bullet passed right through. One less thing to worry about, I tell myself as I pull the rest of the towel I took from the Testing Center out of my bag, rip it into pieces, and hold one against the wound. With the flow of blood stanched, I rack my brain for everything I learned from Dr. Flint about human anatomy. An ear pressed to Tomas’s chest tells me his heartbeat is quick but steady. His breathing sounds strained but there are no gurgling noises to indicate his lungs are filling with blood. Both are good signs. But neither will matter if I can’t get him back to Tosu City.
There are other Testing candidates traveling this way. With the fence lines so close together, there are few if any places we can hide that will ensure our safety. The only answer is to get him across the finish line as soon as possible.
Folding several strips of fabric, I create pads to absorb the blood and press them to Tomas’s wounds. While he helps hold the pads in place, I dig out his other shirt, wrap it around his torso, a
nd tie it tight. Handing him a bottle of water to sip, I say, “We have to get you to Tosu City. Can you walk?”
“I can try.”
But it’s clear after a few stumbling steps that walking is not an option.
Tomas sinks back to the ground and shakes his head. “It’s no use. I’m not going to make it.”
“You just need time to rest,” I say, but I know that isn’t true. Time is our enemy. Every second that ticks away means more blood loss. More chance of infection. Fellow Testing candidates approaching with weapons in hand. A greater chance of dying.
He takes my hand and pulls me closer. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but you’re going to have to leave me here. Once I get some rest, I might be able to walk the rest of the way—”
“I’m not leaving you.” I try to pull back my hand, but Tomas isn’t letting go.
“Yes, you are. You’re going to finish this test for both of us. I want you to go. Please. Before another Testing candidate comes along.”
Tears bubble close to the surface, but I choke them back because I won’t give in. “I can’t. This is my fault. I told you to trust Will. I have to make this right.” I kiss him firmly on the lips to quiet whatever argument he wants to make and give him the last three pain pills so he can rest easier while I think. He closes his eyes, and I start to pace.
Tomas can’t walk.
If he doesn’t get to the end of this test soon, he won’t make it at all.
Even though one bicycle is broken, the wheels still function. There has to be a way to use them. Tomas can’t operate a bicycle. Not in his condition. But maybe, if I work it right, he can sit behind me while my feet do the work.
With the possibility of other Testing candidates nearby, I hate the idea of lighting a fire, but the night is cold. Tomas needs the warmth, and if I’m going to turn our bicycles into something that can transport him, I need the light. Tomas is asleep on the ground as I dig through his bag for matches. I find the matchbox at the bottom of the bag along with something metallic. From the feel of it I’m guessing it’s a Testing identification bracelet. Briefly, I wonder if Tomas took the bracelet off the bag of the girl we buried. Perhaps, like me, he wanted something tangible to remember her. To keep the bracelet from getting lost, I shove it deep into my pocket. Then I turn my attention to the fire. My brothers showed me how to bank a fire to minimize the amount of light it produces. I try my best to replicate the process, but I’m not sure how effective it will be. Keeping my gun within reach, I drag the two bicycles close to the light and get to work.
I jump at each snap of a stick. Every howl of the wind sends me reaching for the gun. But no one disturbs us as I assess my supplies and decide on a solution. A cart for Tomas to sit in would be ideal, but the metal and tools I have at my disposal make it hard to create one, especially if I want to do it fast. The most likely option would be to modify the one working bicycle into something that the two of us can ride. And I have an idea.
My eyes are grainy and my hands caked with grease when I finish. The moon has shifted, telling me dawn is near. The bicycle seat has been wrapped with Tomas’s extra pants to give him a slightly wider and more comfortable perch to ride on behind me. To accommodate the extra weight on the back of the bicycle, I have salvaged the two back wheels from my broken bicycle and screwed their assembly slightly behind and to either side of the back wheel. The training wheels I used as a kid inspired the plan, but it took hours and a lot of wire, screws, and bolts and six test rides to get it to work. Of course, the real test will be the ride to the finish line. I only hope my handiwork will help us get there.
Tomas’s forehead is feverish, but not scarily so as I rouse him from his sleep. I cut up some pears and leftover meat and make him eat as I explain what I’ve been working on. “All you have to do is put your arms around my waist and hang on. I’m going to do the rest.”
I don’t give him a chance to protest as I empty out all but the essential items from our bags. When I’m done, there is a pile that includes a pot, a pan, the bow and arrows, several empty water bottles, the book of maps, the gray-haired man’s burlap sacks, and the now empty medical kit. I wince as I put Tomas’s tool kit in the pile, but I have my pocketknife if I need basic tools and, really, if the bicycle breaks down, I’m not certain any tool would help fix it. At this point, I just have to hope for the best. Putting my hand in my pocket, I remember one final chore and shove the vial with its unknown drug into my spare pair of socks. I don’t know what will await us at the end of this road. Whatever it might be, I know it is best to be prepared.
With everything ready, I help Tomas to the bicycle. I don’t bother to douse the fire. If someone finds our camp and the supplies there, so be it. The two new wheels help keep the bicycle upright as I maneuver Tomas onto the seat. I get on in front of him and have him wrap his arms around my waist. As an extra precaution, I’ve cut my other shirt into strips and braided them into a rope, which I now loop around the two of us. If we go down, we’ll go down together.
The gears groan as I push my feet forward. The extra weight makes it hard to gain momentum. Tomas leans his head against my back as I shove my right foot forward. Then my left. Inch by inch we move. I am not discouraged. Moving at all is a victory. Right foot. Left foot. I push with all my might, and we begin to teeter forward. After several more pushes, we start to coast. The road slants downward, and we gain momentum. Not as fast as we traveled before, but faster than I dared hope as I worked through the night.
Zeen’s Transit Communicator is strapped with wire to the handlebars.
Seven miles left.
Six.
Five.
The sun is high in the sky. Sweat drips off my forehead as I push forward. Tomas’s grip around my waist slips, and I stop the bicycle to check on him. He’s shivering, and hot to the touch. I make him drink half of our last bottle of water before starting back up. Somewhere behind us there are gunshots. I use the fear they bring to keep my feet moving.
Four miles left.
The fence lines have narrowed so that there is only about ten yards of space on either side of the road between them. There is no sign of Will or his skimmer. I know I injured him, but it must not have been enough to stop him. Unless . . . Could he be well enough to lurk near the completion mark, waiting to finish what he started?
