Chapter 16 #2
Thomson runs beside me at first, heading in the same direction, but he’s not as fast and quickly falls behind. Others sprint at my flanks. I glance at them, cataloging who follows, who doesn’t. Who’s my ally and who’s my enemy. I file the information away for later.
My target pole looms ahead. It’s on the edge, just three others adjacent. Less exposure. Fewer enemies. Easier to defend. I plant my feet wide at its base, chest heaving, and make it known that I’ve claimed it. This one’s mine.
No one challenges me.
I drop to one knee and scoop up a handful of medium-sized rocks.
The ground is cool and rough beneath my fingers.
My brain zings with adrenaline as I shove the stones into my pockets until they bulge.
Thank God I picked shorts with real pockets this morning.
That decision might’ve just saved my life.
To my left, there’s movement.
Jackson.
He watches me with narrowed eyes and a furrowed brow, face gleaming with sweat. He’s taller than everyone now, sprouting seven inches this past year. His voice dropped months ago into a deep, booming drawl. The kind that sounds like it should belong to a grown man, not a twelve-year-old sociopath.
His face, neck, and back are blotched with angry red acne. His favorite new party trick is lifting his arm to show off the hair growing there now, like it’s a badge of honor. Sometimes he grabs smaller boys and shoves their faces into it while roaring with laughter. “Wanna take a sniff?”
I’m lagging behind him, having only hit puberty a couple of months ago. It’s been a brutal year, losing to Jackson in almost every test. Races. Fights. Endurance drills. He’s faster, stronger, meaner.
My father’s beatings have increased accordingly.
The one time I protested and tried to explain how Jackson had an unfair advantage, my father didn’t even blink.
“No excuses, son. There will always be someone stronger. Your job is to rise above.” That was the end of it.
No discussion. No mercy. Just another lesson etched into my skin with blood as the ink.
Not very helpful.
Jackson’s face lights up as he realizes what I’m doing. He bends, gathers his own rocks, and shoves them into his pockets.
I glare at him and mouth copycat.
He flips me off and gives me an evil grin.
Other kids have started to climb. A few already crouch at the tops of their poles, arms out, bodies swaying, as they fight for balance.
Crap. I need to hurry.
Thomson reaches me, but all the poles nearby are taken. I stride two steps over and shove Lincolnson aside. He falters, giving me a wounded look, but I point to an empty pole two down from mine. A silent conversation flickers between us. Then he huffs and jogs to the spot I indicated.
Thomson claims the pole beside me.
We climb.
The wood is coarse beneath my palms, the grain sharp, no doubt intentionally. Within seconds, splinters bite into my hands. They drive beneath my skin and lodge there. I grit my teeth. Keep going, gotta keep going. If I survive this, I swear I’ll never run my hand over bare wood again.
I force the pain into a quiet corner of my mind and shift my focus, activating my muscles in sequence. One hand after the other, smooth and mechanical. There are no real footholds, so I press my feet against the pole to brace myself and push upward in bursts.
I’m somewhere in the middle of the pack when I reach the top. I shuffle onto my bottom, straddling the narrow perch, lungs dragging in breath. I give myself five seconds, ten max, to center my balance.
Then I swing my feet beneath me, crouch low, and rise until I’m standing.
The view is dizzying. Below, the High Council stands in a half-circle, gazing up. What little I can see of their faces is dispassionate. Blank. Detached. They watch us like we’re a chore, less engaged than they were during the puppet show at last year’s harvest festival.
Ignore them.
I shift my focus inward, making sure my feet are centered, my weight is balanced, and my knees are slightly bent but not locked.
I feel the height now, not just in my body but in my bones.
The pole sways. The wind on the ground was a gentle breeze, but up this high it tears at me with greedy hands and sets me wobbling.
I’m only up for one minute when the first body flies to the ground.
I whip my head just in time to see Jackson push another boy off, the kid next to him.
One by one, every kid surrounding Jackson topples.
Girls, boys, it doesn’t matter. They fall.
Some land on their feet and scramble away. Others don’t get back up as quickly.
Henryson is the last.
He hits the earth with a sickening crunch. A sharp crack, like a single shot fired into still air. His neck twists like a snapped stem, and his head lolls at an impossible angle. His mouth gapes open in a frozen scream. His eyes are wide, bulging, staring up at a sky he’ll never see again.
“Oh my god,” a girl close by cries out. “Is he dead? Is Henryson dead?” Her voice lifts high, wavering with horror, on the brink of hysteria.
She gasps and slams her hands over her mouth, like she wants to cram those words back inside, but it’s too late. She spoke, and we all know the consequence.
My father makes a motion to her, flicks his hand.
She obeys immediately. Jumps down and lands light on her feet.
In a blur, she rushes to Henryson’s side.
Her scream, when she sees him up close, rips through the clearing.
It pierces the air and scatters the birds.
The sound echoes, high and broken, long after one of the Mothers drags her away, sobbing and thrashing.
Together, they vanish into the trees and silence once again falls, thicker and heavier than before.
I stare at Henryson, too. I don’t make a sound, but internally I’m screaming as loud as she did. So many tests and trials we’ve been through that ended with us injured, bleeding, with broken bones, but never like this.
Never dead.
I used to think we mattered to the High Council. That we were important. Precious. Carefully chosen. I had naively assumed the Fathers and Mothers would never push us this far, but that illusion shatters as I realize just how expendable we are, how little they care.
A flurry of movement breaks out across the clearing as the remaining kids follow Jackson’s lead. They turn on those closest to them. Shoving. Elbowing. Clawing at their neighbors. Kids knock each other from the poles with the kind of ruthless instinct that makes my stomach twist.
One after another, bodies hit the dirt.
There are no more deaths, but bones crack and a few kids scream as they land wrong. Arms, ankles. One girl limps away clutching her wrist, her face pale with shock.
Ten minutes in, and over 60 percent of the poles are already empty.
That’s when I understand the truth. This isn’t a game. It’s not really even a test.
It’s a culling.
I remain still. Unmoved. This is exactly why I chose this position, on the edge, surrounded by those I trust. Allies. Not friends necessarily, but boys who respect me or fear me. Either works.
None of them try to push me off.
In return, I don’t strike either. Not yet.
Sam’s ahead of me, surrounded ten deep by girls I know are her friends.
I catch glimpses of sparkly bracelets, of tiny diamond earrings that wink in the sunlight.
They wear hearts on their T-shirts. Glitter on their cheeks.
Hairbands in every shade of pink. An unwavering fortress of pastel and chipped nail polish.
Smart.
Sam picked her spot just like I did. Chose her circle just as carefully.
I turn to Jackson, who sits alone, a solitary vulture on a bloodstained perch. No one is left within reach of his long arms. When he catches me looking, he smirks, like this is just a game, and I’m his next move.
I keep my expression blank, bored, as I reach into my pocket. My fingers close around the biggest rock I have, jagged and heavy. I hold it up so he can see, then toss it lazily into the air and catch it one-handed with practiced ease.
A boy two poles down, Nelson, someone I’ve never liked, sees what I’m doing.
He lets out a low, shaky whimper, guessing correctly that one of my stones is for him.
The noise is soft, but I hear it, and I must be my father’s son, because that sound, fear mixed with helplessness, fills me with a sick kind of satisfaction.
It curls warm in my chest. The taste of power.
My first throw goes straight toward Jackson. A stupid, emotional shot. It misses and lands with a pathetic plink ten feet away.
Jackson laughs, low and smug, just loud enough for all of us to hear.
Loser, he mouths to me.
My hate for him grows, multiplies.
I glance toward the High Council. My father meets my eyes and gives a long, disappointed shake of his head. He saw me throw and miss. I have a feeling we’ll speak about it later, what a bad decision that was. I just hope it won’t be his fists doing the talking.
Quietly, I roll my shoulders and shake the tension from my hands. I fish out the next rock. It finds its mark, a boy who won’t stop trying to shove Lincolnson off his pole. He goes flying as payment for Lincolnson’s obedience earlier, when he moved so Thomson could stay close to me.
I throw another rock and then another. I don’t miss again.
Seven fall. Arms flailing, feet scrambling in the air.
Some cry out, but most don’t. Us boys have been taught silence, to swallow down our fear and pain.
By the time I reach my last stone, I realize I’ve taken out every boy within throwing distance, which leaves the girls.
Sam watches me closely, like she can read my mind.
I meet her eyes, and she shakes her head furiously at me. Don’t.
I meet her eyes and shrug. You’d do the same.