“It’s only a matter of time before one of those things gets through the perimeter and into central control,” the taller of the two is saying to his shorter, thicker companion.
“All the more reason we should take out the lot of ’em before they get the chance,” the other responds.
Who are they talking about? The Fleshers? The Imps are just a couple of feet away.
With the brim of my helmet low, I keep my stride measured as I march past them, offering a salute, which they return absently.
Dead ahead is the entrance to the control room. I dig into my pocket for Renquist’s access card. Whipping it out, I slide it into the slot by the side of the door.
Ping!
The light blinks green. Authorization accepted.
Then I slip inside. The good thing is that the control room is dimly lit, thanks to the Trial in progress. There are maybe half a dozen Imps there. I brace myself for an onslaught of questions, anticipating the lies I’ll have to weave, working up my conviction.
But all their eyes are riveted to the main screen. I take a sharp breath.
The three Recruits are completely covered in maggots.
“Hang on, Boaz!” Cage spits the words and I can see flecks of the wriggling larvae spray out. Boaz teeters on his pedestal. The maggots are covering his lips, squirming their way into his nostrils…
“Help!” Boaz cries through a mouthful of slimy invaders. His hands fly to his face, tearing at it, scraping as many of the insects off as he can—
And he loses his balance, plunging off the pedestal to join Crowley at the bottom.
Recruit Boaz has been eliminated from the competition.
“Son of a bitch!” One of the Imps shoves the other.
“Pay up! I want my cash now, Bartesque!” The other Imp shoves him back.
Bartesque plunges his hand into his uniform and whips out a wad of bills. “Double or nothing the girl takes it!” He slams the money down on the console.
“You’re on!” his companion snorts.
While they’re all preoccupied, I march straight toward the supply cabinets and begin loading my satchel with all the weapons that I can.
On the screen, an onslaught of arachnids has joined the horde of maggots engulfing Cage and Drusilla, their hairy, spindly legs creeping over them as they skitter out of the gashes in the pillars.
“I can’t take much more of this!” Drusilla cries. “Please! You gotta let me have this, Cage!”
Cage shakes his head. “I can’t! Tristin needs me… and… I’m sorry, I can’t!”
I continue stuffing my satchel. A few more guns, some thermal charges, flame thrower.
A big hand clamps around my shoulder and I nearly piss myself. “You’re sure packing some firepower, aren’t you there, sonny?”
It’s Styles.
All my muscles stiffen. I keep my back to him. “Heading out to Quadrant seven,” I grunt, lowering my voice.
He chortles and claps me on the back, nearly sending me through the cabinet. “I hear you. Those things are getting out of hand. You must be part of the reinforcement squadron.”
“Uh-huh.” I zip my satchel shut.
His fingers remain on my back, pressing into my flesh like iron. “What did you say your name was?”
My stomach sinks. This is it. It’s all been for nothing.
“Wahoo!” Bartesque’s companion bellows.
Styles releases me and I can feel him turning away. “What’s up?”
“Seems like the little lass has lost her grip, which means I win, double or nothing!” the Imp says. “Pay up, Barty!”
Recruit Drusilla has been eliminated. Recruit Cage, you have emerged victorious in this Trial. You must now select which Recruit will have to make their selection in the next sixty seconds.
Styles shuffles away from me. “How about a little wager as to who he’s gonna choose?”
“You’re on, buddy!” Bartesque snorts.
Without wasting a precious second, I grab my bag and slip out the door, trying to move as fast as I can through the corridors without arousing suspicion before Styles decides to sound an alarm.
Then I’m in the utility room and scrambling up the shelves into the ceiling, pushing the satchel containing the weapons ahead of me as I crawl as fast as I can back toward my cell. Breathless, I flick on the hand-held as I scuttle through the ducts. Cage has been lowered to ground level and a drone is just finishing spraying off the last of the vermin from his body. His face is a struggle of emotions.
Recruit Cage. Make your selection now.
I reach my cell.
Cage’s eyes are glistening with moisture. “I’m so sorry. I can’t eliminate Crowley. He’s too weak to even talk—it’ll mean his death. And if I choose Boaz and he chooses Leander this round, then Corin dies if Boaz fails again. Can’t chance that. I’m sorry. I have to choose you, Dru. Please… forgive me…” Anger flashes across his face as he wipes his eyes.
“It’s not fair…” Drusilla sobs.
I tear off my uniform and drop down from the vent shaft into my cell, emerging into the holding area and rejoining the others just in time to see two Imps grab Arrah and Mr. Ryland, shove them into their cells, and strap them into chairs.
Then that terrible, familiar rumble as the entire cell is lifted and disappears, reappearing on the holographic projection of the trial field.
No. We’re not ready yet. And if we try to escape now, we’ll be caught before we even get started.
“It’s all right, baby,” Mr. Ryland calls to Drusilla. “Whatever you decide, I can accept it. I’m proud to have you as my daughter.”
Drusilla is sobbing uncontrollably. “Daddy… I love you so much…” She turns to Arrah.
“Oh, Arr… I love you too… I can’t… I can’t do this…” She looks up to the sky. “Please… don’t make me do this…” Drusilla sinks to the floor. “I… I choose…”
Mr. Ryland clears his throat. He gestures toward Arrah. “The one thing I want more than anything else is for you to get out of here and live your life. You have a better chance with her, Drusilla. Choose me.”
Arrah’s sobbing, too. “No, Dru. He’s your father. I understand. I love you too much to make you choose him.”
Recruit Drusilla. Make your selection now.
Drusilla’s eyes bounce between them. “I choose… my father!” she screams, burying her face in her hands and collapsing to her knees. “Daddy, I’m so sorry… I’m so sorry,” she wails over and over again.
Cage tries to hug her, but she shoves him away.
Metal spikes thrust from the ceiling above.
Mr. Ryland smiles. “I love you, honey.”
Then the metal slams down, impaling him. His head slumps over as a fountain of blood erupts from the wounds.
The holo fades, and we’re herded back into our cells in silence.
TWENTY-ONE
My eyes and nostrils are stinging from the stench of the rotting corpses filling the cart. Every bone in my body aches from all the stooping and lifting.
For hours, we’ve been wading through the heaps of dead inmates that litter the stockades. We drag them into the wagon, haul them to the crematorium, and pile them into the incinerators. Back and forth, back and forth—a grisly conveyor belt of human tragedy.