The Culling (2 page)

Three

Pressed against the rear of the building, I slink down the alley, ignoring the soot and slime oozing onto my back. At least I remembered to wear my rattiest clothes, though considering the state of my wardrobe, it wasn’t a difficult choice.

I barely escape a loud splash that spatters my boots with a strong stench of ammonia. Smothering a gag, I look up. A rusty basin disappears into a fifth-floor window, which slams shut with a rattle. Guess all those years of playing Dodge Piss in these very alleys with the rest of the neighborhood kids paid off. Or maybe it’s just the universe hinting at the chances of my plan’s success. Either way, I pick up the pace before I get the opportunity to relive another childhood fave: Shit Dash.

Overhead, a half-dozen gliders circle the dawn sky like predators. Their wooden wings beat courtesy of churning cylinders hidden in their bowels. Puffs of steam billow from two nostril-like exhaust ports on either side of their cockpits, resembling beastly breaths.

The craft are piloted by specially trained agents called Imposers. Imps, as us locals like to call them. The military’s elite.

And today, five more of us will bypass the regular draft and be recruited for a chance to enter their ranks—at a terrible price.

Given the aircrafts’ current flight formation, they must be on Recruitment Day recon patrol, no doubt surveying the quadrant for signs of what the Establishment considers
suspect activity
. The problem is, everything from three or more people enjoying the night air in public to someone just taking an early morning stroll, like I’m doing now, is considered suspect.

If these Squawkers spot a violator, they radio their findings to Establishment officials, and before you know it a team is dispatched to
apprehend the offending party for questioning
. Must be some pretty mind-scrambling questions, though, ’cause anyone who’s been asked them never seems to remember their way home. Ever.

It would be so easy to let the Squawkers spot me and do their thing. Only there’s no guarantee this particular unit will transport me where I want to go. Better to be detained by a ground patrol before the Recruitment gets underway. Then, with any luck, I’ll be taken right inside the Citadel’s detention area, taken before
him
, at last. Excitement and fear tangle in my veins.

What will it be like, seeing him after more than two years? Has he changed?

Just ahead, Liberty Boulevard slices through the alleyways. Crisscrossing wooden beams are set up at the intersection to cordon off the area for today’s procession.

Creeping forward, I crouch beside one of the planks and stare up the street toward City Central. Tall, tarnished lampposts line either side of the boulevard, their flickering gas lights powered by the lungs of those unfortunate enough to slave away in the mines, like my parents and the Bledsoes. Under the veil of morning fog, the posts resemble grave markers, the muted light of each lost soul within winding and fading away under the shadow of the hulking stone mausoleum looming in the town’s core, watching … listening … knowing all.

The Citadel of Truth. The nerve center of the Establishment’s presence in the Parish. The place anyone in their right mind avoids.

I’m not feeling in my right mind this morning.

I spy my opportunity for an escort into the Citadel’s walls in the form of two Imps clad in their signature black jumpsuits and helmets, patrolling the alley on the opposite side of the street. Something hanging on the rear wall of one of the buildings has them in a stir. The shorter of the two is pointing a rigid finger at it, then turns his head to mutter something to his companion.

The taller Imp, a female, reaches for the wall and rips some kind of poster from it. Then she unclips a radio from her belt and mutters something into its mic.

The response from the radio’s speaker cuts through the quiet.
“Suspect activity confirmed
… crack … hiss
…
Sending in a Canid backup.”

They’re sending in Canids? Looks like I’m not the only one teasing danger this morning.

Filling my lungs as if for the last time, I stand. Better to get it over with quick. For Cole’s sake.

A dark blur soars over the barricade and plows into me, squeezing the air from my chest. Then I’m tumbling over hard cobblestones and slamming to a stop, pinned under the heavy weight of my attacker.

My mouth tries in vain to find some spit to swallow before giving up. Forcing my eyes open, I face my captor.

Maybe I hit my head harder than I thought. The figure straddling my chest is not an Imp, but … just a guy … a guy not much older than me. My eyes focus on long, tawny hair and chiseled features carved into a pale, smooth if somewhat smudged, face. His frame is large and muscled, the body of someone whose survival hinges on physical labor. No wonder I can’t breathe with this giant pinning me down.

He glances up, reflecting the orange sky in the blue of his eyes. The heavens aren’t the only thing dawning. I recognize this face, though it’s been several years since I’ve seen it up close.

Digory Tycho, one of the two most popular and handsome boys in the Instructional Facility’s recent history. The boy who everyone in the Parish says is a shining example of the core values of the Establishment, who will someday make a great Imposer and a fine husband to anyone lucky enough to catch his eye.

Yep, the great Digory Tycho himself, who never ack-nowledged my existence all through primary and secondary instructional levels, is sitting on top of me in a grimy alleyway, unkempt and reeking of Dumpster, in violation of Recruitment Day curfew no less.

Amusing, if not for the pain wracking my body … or the fear engraved on his face.

He leans in close. “You okay?” he whispers.

I squirm beneath him. “Can’t … can’t breathe … ”

“Oh, sorry!” He shifts his weight off and squats beside me. “Let me help.” He cradles me into a sitting position.

“Thanks,” I mumble, massaging my still-throbbing right arm. Warmth trickles down my cheek. Sweat? I rub my hand against my face and raise my fingers, which are now coated a bright red. The alley starts to swim.

“Here, let me see that.” Digory nestles me in the crook of his arm and fumbles in his tattered coat. I catch a glimpse of two rolled-up sheets with yellow ties stuffed into a pocket. He tugs his coat over them quickly, pulls out a handkerchief from the other side, and dabs it against my cheek. “What’re you doing out during curfew?”

I crane my neck to look up at him. “You
do
realize that question works both ways, don’t you?”

He half-smiles, a sparkle of white amidst all the gray. “Right, Lucian.”

My name. He actually knows my name …

The sizzle and pop of radio static snuffs the twinkle from his face.
“Proceeding to check for violators in Quadrant Seven.”

The Imps I’d spotted across the street are at the mouth of the alley. I need to get away from Digory now. No need to drag him into my mess.

But his arms tighten around me before I can move. He hauls me up. “We have to get out of here,” he whispers in my ear. “If they find us, I’ll be
shelved
.”

I twist around to face him. “They wouldn’t shelve you for curfew violation. Imprisonment, hard labor, yes, but not—”

He grabs my shoulders. “It’s got nothing to do with curfew, Lucian. It’s about treason. And there’s only one punishment for that.”

“Treason? What’re you—?”

“Sssh!”

Before I realize what’s happening, Digory drapes me over his shoulder as easily as if I were a scarf. Suddenly the alley is upside down and I catch a glimpse of two pairs of shiny black boots, then a patch of rusty metal, before the ground swallows me and I’m thrust into darkness.

Four

My nose tells me where I am before my eyes do. The cloying stench of human waste mingles with the stale air of rodent droppings. It’s a combination I’ve smelled ever since I could crawl, especially on those muggy summer nights where you welcome any breeze that accidentally detours into an open window, no matter what scent it might carry. Digory’s brought us into the sewers. Only now, so close to the source, the odor is overpowering, threatening to coax the stale roll of bread posing as last night’s dinner ration from my stomach.

I wriggle out of Digory’s hold, and he steadies me against the ladder he’s clinging to until I’m securely perched on a rung opposite him. With our faces so close, his warm honey breath almost conquers the sewer’s stink. I start to feel lightheaded again. Must be all the blood rushing to and from my head. Forcing my gaze from him, I squint at the daylight tearing into the sewer’s perpetual night through a slit in the manhole cover a foot above.

The Imposers are standing just where we were moments ago, stepping over the sewer entrance, pacing, searching. My heart sneaks in a few extra beats. All I’d have to do is reach up, slide the grate aside, and turn myself in.

Grasping the rung above, I hoist myself up … and freeze. My eyes pull back to Digory’s. He could have left me lying in the alley and saved his own skin, but he didn’t. Better for both of us if he had. His chivalry has definitely complicated things. If I crawl out of this hole, they’ll nab Digory too. Who knows what they’ll do to him?

No. I’ll wait it out a few, until we’ve gone our own ways, before surrendering. I owe him that much at least.

“Any citizen harboring violators is asked to remand them to authorities at once!” a female voice bullhorns through the alley.

Looks like the Imps aren’t giving up that easily. Once they lock onto the scent of their prey, they rarely let go, just like the Canids. And I’m sure we smell pretty ripe about now. It’s only a matter of time before they stop searching the alley and start searching underneath it.

Digory shoots me a look, and I can tell he’s thinking the same thing. He nudges his chin downward to the catacombs. Great. He wants to move into the maze beneath the city, hoping to lose them. How can he know that’s the last thing I want to do right now? Guess I have no choice but to follow him down, conveniently separate myself from him in the dark, then backtrack once I’m sure he’s in the clear.

A rumbling growl startles me, almost making me lose my grip on the ladder. Digory’s arm is behind my back in a flash, holding me tight against the handrails. Something warm and wet drips onto my forehead and I look up … and into a set of jaws crowded with glistening fangs, snapping and spraying drool through the gash in the manhole cover. The growls turn into a series of deep barks, which vibrate through my ears. As hideous as that muzzle is, it’s not quite as unnerving as the eyes that take its place—cold, bloodshot pools of amber fury.

The Canid has arrived.

In seconds, a set of black boots appears by the hound. “Got something, boy?”

The male Imp’s voice.

Digory pulls me against him, pressing us both close to the wall to avoid the angle of the grill’s opening. He gently places a finger to my lips.

For what seems like forever, there’s an eerie calm. The sound of the beast’s panting commingles with the babbling of sewage slogging through the tunnels below, the skittering of roaches and other vermin creeping over pipes and into crevices, and the pounding of Digory’s chest competing with my own. Maybe they won’t see us.

The manhole cover begins to slide open, shattering that dream.

My eyes meet Digory’s.

“Take him, please! We didn’t know. I swear!” a voice shouts from above. It doesn’t sound like one of the Imps.

The grate stops moving. The Canid and the boots have moved away from the opening. Could it be a trap?

Digory and I compete for who looks the most confused.

“No, let me go, please! I didn’t do anything!” A different voice this time.

What’s going on up there? Ignoring Digory’s tug at my arm, I risk ascending another rung to get a better look.

Two men are gripping a struggling third between them. He looks to be about twenty, short and wiry, dressed in a dirty gray Sewage Plant jumpsuit. Tears stream from his eyes and onto quivering lips. I’ve seen that cornered look on more than a few Parish faces over the years, and each time it brings a lump to my throat. The old-timers say you eventually get numb to it.

I’m not sure I want to live that long.

Digory joins me on my rung. He doesn’t look at me or say anything, just stares at the scene being played out. His hand touches mine and stays there.

The female Imp moves in closer to the terrified prisoner, the Canid now leashed at her side. She gives the beast’s harness some slack and it lunges forward.

The young man shrieks. But the Canid stops just short of its mark, jaws snapping, spittle flying, each bark drawing another yelp from its potential prey.

The eyes of the disheveled men restraining the young guy are vacant, as if their minds have left the premises. The shorter, portly one is Fernando Frye, the foreman at the Sewage Plant. The tall lean one is Frye’s son, Felix. It’s probably not the first time they’ve turned in a friend and co-worker to the Imps. And certainly not the last.

“We found these in his locker, Captain Valerian.” Avoiding her eyes, Frye senior hands the female Imp a stack of documents.

Valerian leafs through the bundle, handing them off to her partner one at a time. “Looks like we have ourselves a Worm, Arch.”

Even from here I can see the telltale triangular symbol of the ID cards. The fact that there appear to be dozens of them, instead of just one, can only mean one thing.

I don’t know what sickens me more, the fact that this poor guy’s desperate enough to prostitute himself as a Worm or that potential Recruits would be driven to hire a Worm to impersonate one of their two Incentives—another of the Establishment’s benign terms masking an unspeakable malignancy.
Family
.
Friend
.
Lover
—that’s who they
really
mean when they say Incentive. Human beings reduced to mere choices, expendable collateral discarded round after round during a Recruit’s ascension to hell.

Considering what I’d do for my little brother, I realize I’m not much different than this unfortunate young man or the people who might hire him, and that thought both comforts and repulses me.

The prisoner sinks to his knees. “You’ve got the wrong guy!”

“Black-market traitor,” the male Imp called Arch grunts. “Don’t you know it’s an honor to serve as an Incentive for the Recruits? You and the other Worms
pollute the process with your filthy impersonations.”

“Please,” the prisoner whimpers. “I just needed some extra cash for rations, I don’t have enough—”

Arch’s booted foot flies up. There’s a loud crunch as it sideswipes the Worm’s jaw, spraying blood.

I flinch.

The young man’s head slumps over. He coughs, spitting out a couple of small white teeth onto the pavement.

Now I’m the one who’s shaking, but not with fear. Digory’s fingers entwine with mine, holding me in place. His other hand grips the rung, pulsing, as if he’s trying to squeeze his fingers through the metal.

Valerian snatches the ID cards back from Arch, looking at the first one. “Well,
Tim Fremont
, or whatever your name really is. I’ll Radio HQ. We have enough evidence here to start investigating these citizens and seeing which one of them was willing to pay off a Worm like you to commit fraud upon the Establishment.” She turns to Frye senior. “We’re going to hold you two for questioning.”

“But—”

A growl from the Canid cuts the elder Frye off.

I can imagine scenes like this one taking place all over the Parish today. People being pulled out of their homes, dragged into the street, beaten, hauled away. All for daring to let people into their hearts.

All for daring to love.

Blinking the cold sweat from my eyes, I turn to Digory, motioning him to climb down into the tunnel. I need to get away from here, get to the Citadel, do whatever I can for Cole. That’s all that matters.

Digory nods, then moves to follow me down.

“Just one more thing.” Arch’s voice dumps ice into my pores.

Digory and I stop and look back.

“Who is your cell leader?” Arch asks.

For the first time, the prisoner looks confused instead of afraid. “C-cell … what?”

“The
other
traitors,” Valerian spits. “The ones that had you put these up all over town?” She holds out the poster I saw her tear from the alley wall across the street.

“Don’t forget the one I found by the Dumpster.” Arch is unrolling another poster, this one tied with a familiar yellow cord.

My eyes flash to Digory. He’s searching his coat pocket, where there is now only one rolled sheet. The sun’s angle has shifted, casting a shaft of light that slashes across his neck, which bobs in a silent swallow.

“I’ve never seen those before, I
swear
!” the young man pleads.

Arch clears his throat and reads from the poster. “
The Establishment is Lies. The Establishment is Death.
” He turns back to Tim. “Sound familiar, Worm scum?”

Digory’s eyes are bulging. He looks like he’s about to spring from the sewer. Now it’s my turn to rest a hand on
his
shoulder and hold him steady.

Valerian strokes the Canid’s head. “Perhaps all this Worm needs is a little persuasion.”

The hound lifts its head and bays at the sun, a long painful cry that suggests it agrees.

Tim’s face dissolves into madness. “I ate a worm once … ”

A dark stain appears on his trousers, spreading into a puddle of fear that soaks his shoes.

Valerian releases the Canid. It pounces on Tim in seconds. I turn away. But the sounds of screams, mixed with the squishing and chewing, paint a more vivid picture than my eyes ever could.

“Let’s go.” I risk a whisper into Digory’s ear over the sound of nightmares.

And as I take his cold hand and pull him down into the city’s entrails, I can’t help but think that I now know what would have happened to Digory if I’d turned myself in.