CHAPTER 16

BEFORE I CAN say a word, the man throws a small bag over the fence and disappears into the brush. I stare at the bag, trying to decide if this is another test. Do I look in the bag and risk something exploding or leave it and walk away?

The sack is small and made of a coarse brown material. Not anything like the fabrics used to make our Commonwealth Testing bags or any of the bags I saw in the Testing supply room. I think about the man who threw it. His clothes were faded but in good repair. His skin was sunbaked and weathered, but his muscles looked strong from hard use. More like my father. Less like the Testing officials I've come in contact with.

So who is the man? One of the rebels Michal mentioned in Magistrate Owens's house? History tells us there were differing opinions about how to revitalize the country after the Seventh Stage of War ended. Those who survived struggled with how best to proceed: to band all the survivors together under an other centralized government or to allow each group of survivors the freedom to choose their own way forward. Those who disagreed with the choice of the majority struck out on their own. Could the man I saw be one of the survivors who live outside the United Commonwealth authority? If so, why is he throwing a bag over the fence marked as United Commonwealth territory for me?

After several minutes, curiosity wins out. I pick up the bag, hoping to find some clue to the man's identity inside. Instead, there is a loaf of bread, a small hunk of white cheese, a bag of raisins, and a bottle of water. I open the cap to the water and sniff it. The scent is clean and pure. A few drops of my chemicals confirm it.

I contemplate the items in my hands. The almost magical appearance of water when we are running so low is a blessing. So are the other supplies. But there is no way I can share them with my companions. Not without provoking questions about where the food and water came from. If it was just Tomas, I could have him remove his identification bracelet. Will doesn't know about the listening devices implanted in the bracelets, and we haven't known each other long enough for me to guess how he will react when he finds out about them. He might tip off the listeners and give away the only advantage we have — not to mention letting the Testers know we have received help from outside the fence. I can't help but wonder what the penalty for that kind of assistance might be and if other Testing candidates will be subjected to that punishment if they, too, run into the gray-haired man.

Not sure what else to do, I pour some of the fresh, clean water into the canteen. Then I store the bottle and the sack of food in my bag until I can best work out how to share them with my friends. Back at our camp, I stoke the fire and skin the rabbit while thinking about the gray-haired man and the sack of food he gave to me. Who is he? From my fellow candidates I've learned that Five Lakes Colony is far better stocked with provisions than many other colonies. So why is the gray-haired man sharing his food and water with an unknown girl? Does he know why I am on this side of the fence? Does he know there are others out here on the corrupted plains? Does he understand this is a test that some of us will not survive? By the time I get the rabbit roasting and wake my companions, I still have no answers.

Will is giddy at the sight of the cooking meat, dancing back and forth on the balls of his feet. He reminds me of my brother Hamin on Christmas Day. It makes me wonder if it is that similarity that causes me to trust him.

No one questions the amount of water in the canteen as we eat breakfast, pack up, and walk back to the road. With everyone's stomach full, I feel less guilty about the food hidden deep in my Testing bag. But I find myself walking behind them, watching the fence line for signs of the man who gave me the food.

After ten miles, we have yet to spot water although we do find a tree bearing small, hard apples. We fill our bags with the apples and some wild carrots I find growing nearby, and then we set off again. After another five miles I begin to suspect that any nearby water sources will not be close enough to the road for us to spot. The Testers aren't making it that easy.

The ground around the road is packed flat, which makes me say, "I think one of us should take a bicycle and scout for water off the road. Whoever goes can cover more territory and get back before it's time to camp for the night."

"I'll go," Will volunteers.

Tomas immediately rejects the offer. "No offense, Will, but once you have one of the bicycles, who's to say you won't ditch us and speed your way to the finish line."

"You're right. I could do that." Will smiles. His tone is affable, but I can see in his eyes something flat, dark, and angry. "I wouldn't, but I can understand how you might not trust my word given the circumstances. Even if your girlfriend here does. I'm also guessing you won't trust me to stay with her while you go scouting."

"You guessed right." Tomas's mouth curls into an answering smile. I can't help but notice the way his hands are clenching at his sides. "There's no way I'm leaving Cia alone with anyone. Not even you."

Will stops in his tracks. His eyes are cold. His hands ball into fists. "So, where does that leave us, Tomas?"

Before Tomas can respond, I say, "It leaves the two of you idiots here sweating out our last drops of water while I go in search of more." If the words come out harsher than I intended, I'm not sorry. Will and Tomas look ready to fight, and while I'm grateful that Tomas wants to keep me safe, this whole macho thing is out of place considering our circumstances. Even with the hidden bottle of water, our chances of survival decrease every mile that we don't find another water source.

Taking out the near-empty canteen, I throw it at Tomas and say, "I'm going to bike about ten miles ahead, set a couple of snares, and then go off the road to look for water. I'll leave a marker by the side of the road near the snares in case you get there first. Try to act like the adults you're supposed to be while I'm busy keeping us all alive. If you can't handle that, you both deserve to fail this test and we all know what punishment that brings."

I throw my leg over the bicycle and start pedaling. Tomas shouts for me to wait, but I don't turn back. The two of them will have to work out their differences on their own. The fact that they both have weapons concerns me for a brief moment, but I shove the worry aside and keep pedaling. My anger fades as my wheels propel me farther from my friends. This test is designed to help us learn about the land we need to restore to health, but it also gives us and the Testing officials a strong look into our character. Yes, the boys were out of line, but I overreacted. While I'm not proud of it, I have just learned not only that I have a temper, but that I would happily run headfirst into whatever danger I might find alone just to prove a point. Perhaps I have a bit of growing up to do, too.

When the Transit Communicator says I've traveled ten miles, I tie a piece of sheet to a bush near the side of the road, walk fifty feet beyond it, and set several snares. With that task done, I start pedaling over dirt, grass, and rocks to the northwest in search of water.

The sun is hot as I canvass the landscape. The air is thick with moisture. If we're lucky, it will rain. I'm grateful for the secret bottle of water as I zigzag across the cracked earth, and I'm still annoyed enough with both boys that I eat the hunk of cheese and part of the bread for lunch without any guilt.

I get off the bicycle and walk while studying the ground for signs of animal tracks. While my fellow Testing candidates and I are only passing through, the animals live year-round in this barren stretch of land. They must have a source of water in order to survive. I find what looks like raccoon tracks and follow them west. After about three miles I am ready to give up when I see a small dip in the terrain nearly two hundred yards to the north. The grass around the dip looks marginally healthier than the brown, crackly stuff I've been traveling over, making my hopes rise as I ride to check it out. And I'm glad I did. The dip I saw is the bank of a shallow stream. A couple of tests, the additions of the right chemicals, and I'm able to fill my water containers. I'm tired but triumphant as I return to my bicycle, consult my compass, and begin the trek back to the road.

I am so pleased with my efforts that I don't register the sound of something moving behind me. When I do, I barely have time to pull my gun free of my bag's side pocket before my bicycle is hit from the side, sending me careening to the ground.

Scrambling out from under the bicycle, I see an animal leap and I roll to the right. Whatever the thing is, it hits the ground with a snarl. Before I can blink, it is up and launching another attack. This time I don't move fast enough. I scream as the creature's claws slash deep into my left arm. Whatever this thing is, I know I cannot outrun it. Even if I could get back on my bicycle, it's doubtful I'd be able to outdistance something with such speed. The animal snarls as I roll out of its grasp, push to my feet, and race to put distance between us. I turn and extend the gun in front of me as it barrels toward me. As I aim, I finally get a look at it. Long legs matted in a tangle of brownish hair. Long arms that are extended toward me with three-inch claws I already know are razor sharp. A hunched back. Curled lips revealing blackish teeth. More brownish hair on the torso and back. And the eyes . . .

My finger pulls hard on the trigger, and I barely keep my footing as the gun jolts. The eyes of my attacker go wide. There is anger and fear as the wound in its chest blossoms with bright red blood. My enemy sinks to the ground and with its last breath lets out a cry that sounds like a call for help. Which it might be. Because now that I have looked into the dark blue eyes of my attacker I know this isn't an animal. The eyes are too intelligent. Too much like the ones I see looking back at me in a reflector. The body was twisted and deformed, but there is no doubt. I just killed a human being.

There is no time to deal with the swell of emotions I feel as an answering call sounds from somewhere to my right. Near the water I collected. Which only makes sense. If I had to pick a spot to make my home in this wasteland, that would be a logical place. My arm is on fire. Blood streams down it, but I don't have time to tend to the injury. Not with the guttural sounds of other mutated humans coming closer.

Racing to where my bicycle fell, I yank it upright and straddle the seat as three more clawed humans appear over the rise. My feet push hard to gain momentum, and I can tell the minute the one I killed is spotted. There is a cry so filled with pain and loss that it makes me blink back tears. Then the cry is replaced by a snarl, and I know they see me and have begun their chase.

They are much faster than I am. Whatever chemical reaction warped their bodies and twisted their fingers into claws has also given them incredible speed. They run with their bodies bent at the waist. Their arms hang low to the ground. Their all too intelligent eyes are fixated on me. The sight of my three attackers closing the space between us is terrifying. Sweat pours down my body, stinging the wound on my arm, as I force my legs to pump up the incline. Years of playing games with my older and faster brothers has taught me that the top of the hill will give me the best vantage point from which to defend myself.

The closer they come, the louder their snarls. And something else. Something more human — words. None that I understand, but the sounds are too clear and purposeful for them to be anything else. The three are communicating with language and using it to plot their attack even as I am plotting mine.

The heat, the loss of blood, the exertion to make it up the steep hill all make me dizzy. The world swims in and out of focus as my heart pounds loud and hard in my chest. I know that if I slow up for even a moment I will die. That alone keeps me pushing the pedals around and around. I rise up off the seat for the last stretch of hill, using my whole body to propel the bicycle up, up, up. The minute I hit the top, I jump off, let the bicycle clatter to the ground, and spin to take aim.

For a moment my finger stills over the trigger as I watch the three travel up the hill toward me. My throat tightens as I hear them shout guttural words back and forth. I straighten my shoulders and set my aim on the one on the left. The trio is getting closer. Only twenty yards away. But still I don't shoot. I don't want to kill them. They are human. Maybe not the same version of human that I am, but we come from the same ancestry. Everything I've been taught makes me want to find a way to communicate with them. To help them.

Instead, I pull the trigger.

The one on the right clutches its leg and hits the ground with a yelp. The middle one turns back to look at its fallen comrade, and I fire again. This time I hit the torso and the second attacker goes down in a heap. The last lets out an anguished cry and lunges up the hill with its teeth bared. I spot the wetness of tears streaming down its face as my bullet enters its skull.

The last is dead. The other two have been injured enough to keep them on the ground, but for how long I do not know. Part of me wants to bury the dead one, like I did the Testing candidate we found, but there isn't time for that. I need to get away before the other two rise or more take their place. Stumbling, I remount the bicycle and pedal away, barely noticing the tears that threaten to blind me.

Traveling downhill is easier, but I am aware of the blood streaming from my wound. I do not look at it, for fear of what I will see. I just keep pedaling and coasting until I spot the road. When I reach it, I can barely stand, let alone pedal. Sitting on the hard, hot surface, I finally fish out the medical kit and strip off my top to assess the damage. The five parallel cuts on my upper arm are jagged but shallow and at least seven inches long. It's bad, but not as bad as I feared. While the injury hurts, I can still move my arm. None of the muscles or tendons has been cut, and my stomach churns with relief.

Some animal scratches can fester if not treated properly. While my attacker was human, I'm careful to clean every inch of the wound and apply lots of anti-infection ointment. The ointment hitting the wound sends blazing pain up and down my arm. My eyes water. My nose runs. I can't wipe either because my one good hand is working at securing a clean bandage around the injury. Once that is done, I struggle into my other shirt. The fabric catches on my identification bracelet and I vaguely wonder if the people listening were excited to hear the gunshots. Do they think I killed another candidate? Does that raise their opinion of me as a leader? Do they understand that I am injured? Do they even care?