After the Fear (Young Adult Dystopian) (17 page)

‘Go on,’ Ebiere instructs, and her voice is so soft yet commanding that no one could resist it.

‘Um. Well, our fantastic Shepherds knew that landing pads kind of spell out that someone important is travelling around, so they built them all on hospitals. It was done in some war ages and ages ago, too.’ He looks proud then, head held high with a reverent smile. When no one speaks, he adds, ‘No one would bomb a hospital. It’s just not done.’

With a beep, the doors slide open. I walk through the ground floor of Yankee’s hospital, thinking about the Herd officer’s words. I never considered that England and Ireland could have been in danger of bombing. I assumed all the other countries were happy to wait for us to slowly pay back our Debt. In a weird way, I feel sorry for the Shepherds. It must have been scary, knowing you had to come to an agreement soon or endanger the lives of all your citizens. I just wish the agreement didn’t involve me.

Soon enough, a shadow falls over our group. The back of Yankee’s Stadium looms over us, practically identical to Juliet’s. Stone grey, circular and cold. I swallow down nothingness, trying to ignore how hard my heart is beating. We pass into the darkness, through a hidden door in the stone. My eyes dart to all the corridors and stairways we pass, trying to remember the way. I need something to latch onto, some control over this situation.

Ebiere breaks away from the group without a word, heading up a stairway to where light streams in from somewhere unknown. It takes the Herd officers a few moments to realise she’s gone, and a smile tugs at me when two of them suddenly start and race after her.

My smile is gone in an instant, though, because the two remaining Herd officers escort me down a separate staircase. With each step, I draw closer to a shut door. It’s freezing down here, and I imagine the cold seeping in from underneath the door, like a green slimy fog. When we reach the last step, the Herd officer who spoke earlier motions towards the scanner.

‘We can’t go in,’ he explains. ‘We’ll be here when you finish, though.’

And that’s all he says. My stomach lurches with a hundred things. Nausea: definitely, terror: yes, but also hope. Hearing a stranger tell me with total certainty that he’ll be there when I finish, with no other agenda than doing his job, it’s all I need. I scan into the room.

Soil sinks underfoot as I step in. The room is horribly similar to the one I woke up in all those weeks ago, except it doesn’t have a gate separating me from the arena, just a large, open archway. Natural light spills into the room from the gap, as well as the hum of excited chatter as the audience take their seats. I look away from the sands and towards the plastic table opposite me. There’s a small, stocky woman standing in front of it. She kind of looks as though she’s been squashed, with all her height being pushed into her middle. It wobbles as she moves over to me.

‘Hi,’ she says, and her voice is surprisingly soft. ‘I know this is your first Demonstration, but there’s nothing to worry about.’ Her smile irritates me down to my toes. Nothing to worry about . . . apart from the kill or be killed, life-threatening situation, you mean? After asking me if I have any questions, to which I shake my head, the woman moves to the table. She picks up a wide, tan-coloured belt complete with two pockets—one about half a metre long and the other short and curved. Armed with this, she advances on me.

‘Here you go. Good girl,’ she says as though I was a child learning how to dress or something. Her podgy hands fasten the belt around my hips. Next, she passes me a sword. It’s designed the same as Dylan’s sword, the one I fought at the tryouts with, except this time when I take it, it doesn’t pull my arm down.

‘That goes in there,’ the woman explains, motioning to the long leather pocket hanging from my belt. I push the sword in and when I turn back, I flinch.

The woman holds a gun. It’s lain across her palms. She stares down at it like it’s the Book of Red Ink, or the answer to all our Debt. I seriously think there’s love in her eyes. I step back when she pushes it towards me.

‘I, um, I don’t want it,’ I say. My words surprise myself, but I can’t accept the gun. The sight of it fascinates yet terrifies me. Even the thought of holding it makes me think of Mum and what she went through.

‘Love, it’s just back-up,’ the woman says, her voice now so gentle it’s giving me the creeps. She steps towards me, eyes focused on the second pocket on my belt.

‘I said I don’t want it!’ I shout. I back away so far that I hit against the door. The woman’s eyes go wide but she nods her head and turns to the table.

‘Very well,’ she says. Her soft voice wavers, as if she were desperately clinging on to that understanding tone. ‘I will inform the Liaisons. If Ebiere finishes her announcement before I get back, step out into the middle of the arena.’ She tries to smile, but I get the impression I’ve ruffled her usually controlled feathers. Leaving the gun on the table, the woman scans out.

Once I’m left alone, everything goes fast. I stand underneath the threshold of the archway and wait. As ridiculous as it seems, I become really panicky about knowing when to walk into the arena. The whole way through Ebiere’s speech, I play out all these scenarios in my mind where I step out at the wrong time and get laughed back. When she mentions my no-gun thing, a gasp escapes the crowd, followed by applause. I don’t know whether it’s for me or for the end of Ebiere’s speech, but I don’t get to find out. The sands are empty and this it is. This is when I have to walk out.

My hands grasp at each other, my stomach flips and my bladder
really
wants me to go to the bathroom. I’ve heard when people die they can wet themselves. That thought, above all others, makes me want to cry.

I know my legs should be moving, but I can’t make them. Gradually, the applause dies down. The Stadium falls silent. They’re waiting. Ten breaths. I’ll take ten breaths then I’ll go.

One, two, three . . .

A beep behind me makes me jump. The woman is scanning back in. I imagine her pushing me onto the sands with that condescending smile, telling me there’s nothing to worry about.

I walk.

THE STENCH IS THE WORST. It wafts over me like thick goo. I wonder if there’s already been a Demonstration here this morning because it stinks of blood and smoke, like a spit roast. Through the sand, vibrations run into the soles of my boots. I think it’s caused by the audience, who chant my name as I walk into the centre of the arena. Each shout is like the seconds of a countdown which never reaches zero. Eventually, I stop walking and just stand. Clenching and unclenching my fists. I sense the audience is expecting something, so I pull my sword from my belt and hold it in front of me like it can tell me what to do.

From the lowest stalls, the ones closest to me, I hear ‘fearless’ and ‘fair fight’ yelled out. I guess they’re talking about my empty gun holster.

The gate opposite me clicks. The criminals’ entrance. I breathe tightly in and out through a dry mouth.

Another click.

Slow this time, just like the tryouts. I swear all the warmth in my body is draining into the sand. I sway.

And even though it seems like a really stupid thing to do right now, I close my eyes. That falling sensation is like a giant hand reaching from the sands, threatening to drag me down. The audience goes quiet, or maybe I just can’t hear them anymore. All I hear is the gate; that clicking getting louder, causing bright spots behind my eyes. I feel William squeezing my hand.

No!

Gasps come from within and around me. If I fall, I know I’m dead, but my legs won’t keep me upright. I’m hot and cold and can’t breathe and, damn, why didn’t I listen to Dylan?

There are footsteps now, tentative, curious. My vision is fuzzy, and nothing is real. Nothing but the sharp hit of the ground against my head and the cries of the audience and footsteps rushing towards me.

Which means the contestants are out. Which means the gate’s up and I’m here, and I’ve got to get up. Get up.

GET UP!

As if responding to a hypnotist’s clicking fingers, I snap my body into position. I push off the ground, standing with legs bent, my weight even, the sword hilt level with my hip. My blade’s angled up and forwards, and most importantly, my eyes are open and seeing clearly.

If I was expecting angry, crashing warriors, I was wrong. The three contestants surge backwards when I jump up, like a horse rearing onto its hind legs. The hope drains from them, and I see it; I recognise the look in their faces. They were going to kill me while I was down.

The angry, clawing creature tells me what I must do.

I’m a Demonstrator.

I’m a killer.

I
have to
kill.

The only woman grips her sword in front of her with both hands. She breaks from the other two, edging out and around. Gideon warned me that contestants do this—try to ambush you at the same time from different directions.

The two men sidestep so that the three of them form an arc around me. One holds a round shield in front of his body and a dagger pulled back. He has a good stance.

The other boy is younger, around my age and obviously stuck with the short straw. He holds a rope in the shape of a lasso in one hand and a net in the other. I take a deep breath while I formulate a plan.

There’s a second of stillness, and I wonder if the entire crowd is holding its breath. Then I move as if I’m going for the middle man, only to leap towards the boy. His eyes widen as I cross the space between us in three strides. His net and lasso come up, but he can only throw them limply towards me.

I’m sorry.

Sidestepping the net, I step forwards, ready to strike. Yet, my arm won’t obey. I can’t end his life. This boy who’s never done anything to harm me.

Then his eyes change just like William’s did on my tryout. They flicker upwards, looking at something over my shoulder.

I wish I don’t know what will happen if I jump out of the way. I wish I can pretend to myself that I haven’t realised that someone is behind me, ready to kill. But I do know. I still duck and leap to the side. The woman’s sword cuts into the boy’s shoulder, causing a sickening scream from both of them.

My arm finally gives in. Now that the boy’s in pain, killing him seems less horrific. Twisting away from the horrified woman, I jab the boy straight through the chest. At least this way, it’s merciful. It isn’t murder. Not entirely.

The mob does not scream. In fact, as I whirl around to face my other opponents, I swear I hear the low bark of boos sound through the Stadium.

What do they want from me?

I avoid looking at the woman’s hateful eyes as she rushes towards me once again. Her points of weakness are like beacons of light. Exposed rib cage. Weight off-balance. Thinking of the audience, I don’t take advantage of the moment. Instead, I swerve out of the way and kick her in the pelvis, sending her tall body reeling. In the momentary respite from her, the man goes to swipe his dagger into my stomach. I see the move coming from a mile off and place myself between his arm and his body. I’m about to disarm him, breaking his arm as I do so, when a sharp cracking sound comes from . . . comes from—me.

I’m already launching myself backwards to escape danger when pain erupts from my nose. It spreads into my eyes and forehead. I have to look away from the man who head-butted me to gag, bringing up nothing. When I glance back, my vision is blurry, my nose telling me it’s broken with every painful pulse of blood.

I grasp my sword tighter and light-footedly dance away from my foes, keeping a good few paces between me and both of them. Spectators are jeering at my cowardice but I can’t care. If I don’t survive this, I couldn’t give a crap how many followers I’ve got.

My back hits the arena wall. I’m out of space, and time. Like wolves sensing a weakness in a herd, my enemies rush in. I meet steel with steel as I fend off the woman’s random flurry of swords attacks while jerking away from the man’s deliberate dagger jabs. With each movement, I inch myself from the wall, forcing them to come at me frontally rather than from each side.

Then, a slice of pain.

It cuts into my abdomen and I know the man has caught me. I clench my teeth against the sting.

Persistence and resistance.

This is exactly like that. The torture is just another wall I have to push past.

Letting out an uncontrolled cry, I drop my sword and barrel forwards, catching both of them by surprise. It’s a risky move, and the viewers reward me with cheers and whoops which boom from above. The man’s dagger catches my thigh, but I don’t pause. My body works on instinct. I twist, so that the force of my back hits the woman as she scrambles to get up. The man wrenches himself onto his knees, and shoots an arm out in a frenzied but precise jab.

As the blade comes towards my throat, I think he’s got me. Game over. I lean back just in time, barely registering the pinprick underneath my jaw. Without time to breathe, I grasp his wrist with my left hand, wrenching it away from my body while stepping backwards.

His shield is rushing towards my shoulder so I loop my elbow over his arm and
twist.
He cries out as I break his wrist. I duck down to avoid the force of his shield, swerving away from the fight and watching where his dagger lands on the sand with a satisfying thump.