The Culling (13 page)

He bolts from the Observation Tower without another word.

Leaving me to wonder if I’ve just made one of the biggest mistakes of my life.

By the time I make it back down to the ground, exhaustion is finally starting to catch up to me. But before I can round the corner leading to the barracks, I spot a figure darting through the shadows from one equipment bunker to the next. A fresh wave of energy takes hold of me. Recalling all my recent stealth training, I slink into pursuit, partially from curiosity and a sense of duty …

Mostly to avoid having to face Digory back at our barracks.

When the figure ducks behind a supply crate, I catch a glimpse of pale skin and raven hair in the moonlight.

Cypress.

What the hell is she doing skulking around?

But she’s already on the move again and I continue my tail, shadowing her as we dodge one ground patrol after another until she stops behind an electrical shed that overlooks two of the perimeter pylons.

She turns in my direction, but I duck behind the bunker that’s diagonal to her, before she can see me. Then I crawl to the edge and peer around the corner.

Styles and Renquist are talking to the pilot of a troop carrier—an oblong transport vehicle, with an open-air bed, that looks like a floating coffin without the lid. The craft is hovering a few feet off the ground, just on the other side of the invisible sonic barrier.

“—After all your recon, you’d think you guys would’ve turned up something already.” Renquist’s voice carries in the wind.

“Maybe they don’t show up on infrared at all,” the pilot’s voice crackles. “Look, just open the shield and let us back inside.”

Styles belts out a raucous chuckle. “Don’t get your skivvies in a wad, Corporal.” He holds his walkie to his mouth. “This is Sector Seven. Deactivate field for squad re-entry.”

Cypress crawls to the edge of the shed. By the looks of her posture, she’s ready to spring.

She’s going to make a break for it.

The hum between the two pylons winds down and the lights dim.

Renquist motions the vehicle forward. “You’re clear!”

The carrier soars through the gap, just as I dash to the shed and tackle Cypress before she can bolt. We tumble to the ground and roll back behind the shed, my hand clamped over her mouth. She jams her elbow into my gut and I see a different variety of stars as she squirms free.

“Don’t do it,” I whisper.

But my warning’s moot. The hum of the sonic pulse vibrates through the air once again and the field flickers, having been re-energized.

“Let’s pack it in, people!” Styles shouts as both he and Renquist are hoisted into the cab by the other soldiers and the carrier speeds off into the distance, leaving Cypress and me alone in the dark.

She kicks gravel into my face. “You idiot! I’ve been mon-
itoring the recon patrol schedules for weeks. This was my
one
chance to get outside the fence before the next rotation, and you screwed it up!”

Her boot hauls back to kick me, but I grab hold of her foot before it makes contact and twist. She yelps as her body slams into the ground.

“I’ve had a really long day and I’m not in the mood.” I grab her hand and yank her to her feet. “
Talk
to me. What’s so important that you’d risk your Incentives’ lives by going AWOL? You know what they’d do to your family if you deserted, don’t you?”

“They’d probably be better off getting it over with quickly than where they are now.” She turns away. “You wouldn’t understand.”

I clear my throat. “Maybe I understand better than you think.”

She flashes me a look laced with anger and panic. “What are you getting at?”

“Back on the raft, during the first training Sim
. The way you were so desperate to strike out on your own—away from everyone else. None of the others saw the look on your face—the desperation. You said there was something you
had
to do.”

She turns away again, and my words keep coming in a rush.

“And your knowledge of the Fallen Five, and how sure you were that I saw something in those woods in the Southwest Quadrant. Just now, you were willing to risk everything to venture out beyond the perimeter, with no map to guide you. You also seem very familiar with the living conditions of the Incentives—it’s almost like you’ve been here before. And since this is a military installation, and you’re too young to have ever served, there’s only one other reason I can think of for you to have ever been here.”

I brace myself for a hostile outburst, but none comes. Instead, her eyes grow moist.

I swallow hard. “You were one of the Fallen Five’s Incentives, weren’t you?”

This time she doesn’t bother to wipe the wetness that spills from her eyes and traces its way down her cheeks. “Yes. I know what it’s like, Spark. Being dragged away from your family and locked in that hellhole Purgatorium. Wondering if someone loves you enough … enough to …
choose
… ”

“But you survived. That means there’s hope.”

Her eyes fill with venom. She leans in close until we’re practically nose to nose and jabs her finger in the center of my chest. “If you tell anyone else what you’ve seen and what I’ve told you, I’ll kill you myself.”

She shoves me out of her way and heads back toward the barracks without ever looking back.

Alone, I stare into the darkness long after she’s gone.

Eighteen

The only good thing about Phase Three training is that it keeps me too stressed and exhausted to dwell on the fact that both Digory and Cypress have been virtually ignoring me for the past couple of weeks. Whenever I cross their paths and they give me the silent treatment, I keep telling myself that it’s fine, because I can’t afford to lose sight of what’s at stake here.

But every time Digory turns his back on me, it takes a bit to shake the dull ache inside.

In between waking up at the crack of dawn for target practice with actual Pulsator guns firing live ammo and spending the entire day under the scorching sun enduring our final physical training tests, there’s not much time to dwell on anything else—
anyone
else—and I slump into bed exhausted every night, too tired to even scrounge up a mild nightmare for a change.

But this morning’s different.

Right after breakfast, the five of us are herded by Styles and Renquist to the East Landing Platform as a hovering Squawker touches down.

My pulse quickens. Today’s the day basic training comes to an end with the last of our Field Training Exercises. Earlier this week, they had us facing a mock group of rioting insurrectionists during nighttime combat operations. “Urban Terrain Crowd Control,” they called it. I couldn’t help notice the wince on Digory’s face as we were forced to fend them off with shields and jolt sticks.

He catches me staring at him now, and I look away.

“I wonder what they have in store for us this time?” Gideon mutters into my ear, over the hum of the craft’s engines.

The Squawker’s hatch springs open and Slade is standing there, smirking. “What the hell are you sorry lot waiting for? Get your asses on board.”

No sooner do we finish scrambling aboard and strapping ourselves in than the Squawker takes off again. I’m practicing my deep breathing techniques, trying to get a grip on my nerves while my mind races with the possibilities of what today’s final exercise will be.

“There’s no reason to get bent out of shape,” Digory whispers to the Recruits, as if reading my mind. He shoots a look my way. “It’ll probably be just another Sim.”

I’m just starting to relax when, instead of landing at the main compound, the Squawker soars over the sonic fences that protect Infiernos and heads deeper inland, further and further away from the coast.

“Where the hell are they taking us?” I mutter, more to myself.

I can’t help but remember the conversation I overheard between Styles, Renquist, and the pilot of that troop carrier. Whatever’s out here beyond the perimeter fence, it has the entire base on edge. From the day of the bomb diffusion Sim, when I noticed the look of worry on Slade’s face, it’s been spreading. The furtive glances among the officers, the tense, weary expressions of the enlisted whenever they return from perimeter patrol … those that
do
return, that is.

What is it they’re not telling us?

Ophelia and Gideon look nervous as they gaze at the barren landscape whizzing past the windows. Even Digory looks ill at ease.

Only Cypress’s face burns with excitement. Our eyes meet and she smirks at me before pressing her face back against the glass.

This is what she’s wanted, all along. To be outside the safety perimeter.

But why?

Slade emerges from the door of the cockpit, and everyone turns away from the window and snaps to attention.

“Now listen up!” she growls. “A situation has arisen. It seems we’ve lost contact with one of the recon patrol units led by Commander Cordoba. Your mission is a search and rescue Op.” She holds up a small handheld screen and tosses it to Gideon. “Using the team’s last known coordinates, you’re to track them, ascertain their whereabouts, and bring any survivors back to base.”

“Excuse me, Sergeant,” Digory says. “Will we be provided any ground backup? Any supplies? MREs?”

As awful as those pre-packaged Meals Ready to Eat taste, they’ll sure beat an empty stomach after a long day of being out on the field.

“No ground transport shall be provided, Recruit. You’ll be traveling on foot with no survival packs or med kits, and only a limited supply of drinking water. Anything you eat you’ll have to pick or kill. Among other things, an important part of this mission is for you put the skills you’ve hopefully acquired during your training to the test.” Her expression softens. “I advise you not to dawdle, and to make your best effort to get back to the barracks before sundown.” She gazes out the window. “If you aren’t afraid of the dark
now
, you
will
be … ”

A look of stark terror settles on Gideon’s face.

As much as I’ve grown accustomed to Slade’s melodramatic embellishments during our training exercises, there’s an edge to her tone now, and a hardness to her expression, that sends a chill through me.

Just how much of this exercise
is
a Simulation?

“Drop point ETA thirty seconds,” a voice blares from the cockpit speakers.

“Get your chutes on!” Slade commands. “This is your stop.”

As we strap into our jetsail harnesses, Slade grips the handlebar overhead with one hand and presses the hatch release with the other. Wind rips through the open cabin. “Good luck!” she shouts.

One by one we leap through the hatchway and into the sky—first Digory, then Cypress, Gideon, and Ophelia, and finally me.

Adrenaline rushes through my veins as I free-fall after them. The ground’s coming up fast and I resist the urge to kick in the thrusters.

Remember the training. It’s not time yet.

“One … two … three … four … five,” I mutter to the wind before jamming my thumb onto the button that activates the jetsail’s steam propulsors. Using the toggles on my handgrips, I maneuver the steering lines of my pack’s sail until I’m knifing down in a reasonably smooth arc. Before I hit the surface I catch one last glimpse of the Squawker, disappearing into the morning fog. Then I hit the surface, rolling on the ground alongside the others.

After eight hours of tracking the missing recon patrol’s troop carrier signal through sparse, rocky terrain, we finally clear the last of the trees and emerge into a clearing—and what little breath I have left is torn away.

The bowl-shaped crater in the earth must be at least a mile in circumference. Just below us is the battered hull of the troop carrier we’ve been searching for. And scattered throughout this canyon, as far as the eye can see, are large mounds about twenty feet high, shimmering under the dying sun. They remind me of giant versions of the ant hills behind the old power plant in the Industrial Borough. But instead of being composites of sludge and weeds, these symmetrically perfect knolls are made up of hundreds of pale faces—staring back at us, eyes black, mouths agape …

Skulls.

My own mouth drops open. But before I can make a sound, a collective moan erupts from the leering faces.

I stumble backward into Digory. The groans build in intensity until each skull’s shrieking its fury into the sky in a maelstrom of despair.

Ophelia clamps her hands over her ears. “What’s that terrible sound?”

“It’s only the wind whipping through the eye sockets.” Cypress’s voice is just as haunting.

Gideon steps forward. “We gotta get a closer look.”

Using the trunk of a dead tree, the five of us manage to roll it into place, at an angle from the rim of the canyon to the floor, so we can shimmy down it for ten feet until we hop off it at the bottom.

Even though we don’t find any survivors in the carrier, a quick survey of the grid yields rust-colored stains throughout, a grim indication of what must have happened here.

“So where are the bodies that go with these skulls?” I finally ask the question that no one else dares to.

Gideon’s staring right into a pair of dark sockets on a skull in the nearest mound. “I’m more disturbed by why someone took the time to arrange these in neat little piles … ”

Digory’s nose wrinkles. “Maybe it’s some kind of burial rite.”

I hear Cypress slam something closed inside the cockpit of the troop carrier. “Even though this baby’s pretty banged up, she’ll still fly,” she says as she climbs out.

I nod. “At least we won’t have to walk home.”

“I found something!” Ophelia’s squeal breaks the tension.

We all turn to see something glistening in her open palm.

Gideon’s eyes grow wide. “Let me
see
that.” He stumbles over to where she’s waiting and scoops it from her. One hand holds the wobbly frame of his glasses in place while he inspects a dangling chain.

“What is it?” I call.

Gideon’s jaw drops. “It’s an identification tag. A
Recruit
ID tag.”

Cypress lunges for it, but he rips it away.

“You sure?” Digory asks.

Gideon pulls out his own tag from around his neck and compares them. “Same size, same shape.
You
tell
me
.”

I clutch my own chain, the one that’s holding me hostage for my brother’s life. “Is there a name on it?”

Holding the tag up to his face with one hand, Gideon rubs the surface. “Nothing I can make out. Looks corroded. But there
is
part of a serial number.”

Everyone else’s attention is fixed on the chain, and I don’t think they notice the pained look on Cypress’s face as she massages her forehead.

Digory shoots me a look. “A Recruit ID tag way out here? Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“If you’re thinking Fallen Five, yeah, me too.”

Cypress’s eyes are riveted on the tarnished silver swaying from Gideon’s fingers. “They must have come right through here.”

Ophelia wipes sweat off her brow. “So is this whole mission a Sim, or not? I’m confused.”

“I’ve been wondering the same thing,” Gideon mutters.

I shrug. “No way to be sure. Slade and the others are definitely worried about
something
, though.”

Digory clears his throat. “If something’s got
Slade
of all people worked up, then we should be, too.”

The sun hovers noticeably lower on the horizon. In a matter of minutes, the temperature’s dropped enough to dry the perspiration on my forehead.

A tortured moan stretches across the canyon like a soul being pulled apart.

My eyes ricochet around the crater’s remains. “What
was
that?”

Ophelia’s face is as pale as the skulls. “We need to get going.”

Gideon shakes his head. “We can’t abort the mission until we find proof, one way or another, of what happened to that patrol. I don’t know. An identifiable corpse. A message. Anything.” He looks around. “I suggest we split into teams and search the area before reporting in. Juniper and I will take the south quadrant, and Tycho, Spark, and Goslin—”

But Cypress is already tromping through the site, her eyes desperately searching as she disappears behind one of the mounds.

Gideon shrugs. “Keep in touch through your walkies.” Then he and Ophelia head off in the opposite direction, leaving Digory and me to explore on our own.

After almost an hour of sifting through the site and finding no evidence of the missing patrol’s whereabouts, I run my fingertips along the surface of the nearest gruesome mound. Interspersed between the skulls are thigh bones, femurs, sternums, clavicles—all jammed against rib cages and all manner of vertebrae. If there’s one thing we learn quickly in the Parish when dealing with Imps, it’s the names and locations of each bone in the human body.

The whole macabre assemblage is held together by a slimy, thick resin. I bring my fingertips to my nose and sniff, then wince. Whatever it is, it reeks of ammonia. I wipe the gunk on my fingers against my pants.

Thwack!

A skeletal hand springs from behind the mound and latches onto my wrist—

I try to wrench free but the grip is strong, frenzied.

“Let … go … of … me … !” I pull with all my might and a figure comes crashing through the mound. Bones scatter everywhere. A heavy weight drives me into the ground, knocking the wind from me.

“You’re dead!” I pummel the figure on top of me as its stone-cold hands grip my throat, squeezing. The light dims. My head swims. I start to float away …

“Get off of him!” Digory’s voice. Far away.

The pressure around my neck is gone. The canyon comes into focus once again. Air cascades through me like a waterfall.

I bolt into a sitting position. A hand touches my shoulder, and I flinch.

“Are you okay?” Digory is crouched beside me.

My fingers knead my sore neck. “I’ll … live. What happened?”

Digory nudges his chin toward a figure lying in a skeletal pile. “
He
did.”

I spring to my feet. “They’re nothing but bones—they
can’t
be—”

Digory stands beside me. “This one’s very much alive. Trust me, Lucian.”

I creep closer to get a look at my assailant.

It’s just a guy. Mid-twenties, maybe … hard to tell. He’s covered in filth and coated in the same goo that holds the bones in place. Scraggly black hair juts from his scalp in long strips, tangling with his patchy beard. Thin red slashes crisscross his prominent cheekbones, and his murky-green eyes are stretched into wide ovals. There’s madness there.

Despite the creepiness of the way his gaze seeps into my pores, there’s something else about him that sends a shudder through my own bones.

“Digory.
Look
what he’s wearing.”

Even though this stranger’s clothes are ripped and flapping in shredded tatters, there’s no mistaking the familiar jumpsuit design and the ID tag that hangs from his scrawny neck.

“A Recruit uniform,” Digory whispers.

I snatch the ID tag loose. The man yelps as if I’ve struck him and curls into a fetal position.