After the Fear (Young Adult Dystopian) (5 page)

He’s stronger, but I’m faster. I escape his grasp and right away I’m on my feet. I dive towards the discarded spear I gave to the boy moments ago.

With horrible agility for his size, the man rolls onto his front and pushes up with his hands.

That’s when I see it.

The soft, exposed side of his neck.

I can’t think. I just thrust the spear in a savage arc through the air and don’t stop until the man’s flesh hits the side of my fist.

Hot, sticky blood pulses over my hand and in between my fingers. It seeps into my balled palm. Blood which smells of iron and rot.

I didn’t cause this. This is nothing to do with me.

I stare down at my hand and his neck. There’s a droplet of sweat below his hairline. A constellation of freckles across his nape. He shudders and it runs from him to me through the spear which connects us. And just like that, he falls. Where there was a running, breathing man, there is now a dead mass of bones and flesh.

I snatch my aching fingers away from the spear as if it were aflame.

Screams. Cheers. Hoots. As though I’ve just popped my ears, my hearing bursts back.

There’s drums. First a few, then the sound multiplies like the beginnings of an avalanche. I realise the spectators are stamping their feet—a Mexican wave of appreciation washing through the stands.

Is Coral one of those twisted-mouthed people? Does she want me to live or die?

Another thought paralyses me. Dad was asked to work at this event. He’ll be watching me right now. Waiting to see whether his only child will survive. So that answers my question. Coral wants me to die, and she wants my dad to watch.

I swallow, unable to take my eyes from the adoring crowd. Why are they cheering a death? Did I do that when I was in the stands? I can’t remember. All I see is the dead man in front of me. The spear sticks out from his neck, the wooden end bobbing up and down as if nodding its approval.

The unsteady sand rubs at my knees as I crawl away and towards the boy. I drag my guilt behind me; although I can’t believe what I’ve just done, I’m sickeningly glad the spear isn’t in
my
neck. What kind of person does that make me?

I don’t want to touch the boy with my bloodied hand even though his own wound pumps blood nonstop. I place my clean palm on his forehead in what I hope is a soothing way.

‘You’re going to be fine.’ I have to shout to make sure he hears me. ‘What’s your name?’

His mouth moves into an ‘o’ before he manages to croak out what I think is ‘William.’

With no idea why, I smile. His hand shudders into life and in sudden, quaking movements he raises it towards me. I want to take it, but there’s a note of fear in his eyes. They’ve lost focus, rolling backwards as though he is looking over my shoulder. It’s obvious it takes all his effort to move and as his finger extends, I catch on to what he’s trying to say.

There’s someone behind me.

A woman slick with grime towers over us. In an instant her mace crashes down, missing my calf by an inch. Before I can react, an arrow from nowhere pierces her middle, spilling blood onto her brown shirt. Her back arcs with the impact; her face contorts with surprise. I crawl out of the way just in time for her twitching body to slump to the ground. On her chest, just above her wound, there’s a thick red cross.

I want to cry, to scream out that she lost her life trying to kill members of her own team, but nothing will come from my mouth but heavy, laboured breaths. I wonder how many others she’s killed in her hysteria.

My clothes are sticky with sweat although the air’s still cool. I push the woman’s body away from William’s legs, ignoring the stained sand which creeps towards us.

The ground is plagued with bodies now, but I can’t tell which team they belong to. Through the disturbed sand which shrouds the dead, I make out six people still left. Two of them are women, locked in a weaponless duel, grappling and pushing with their hands. My tummy flips as I recognise the blonde girl who panicked earlier. That’s one more red.

On the other side of the arena, another two red men have ganged up on a huge-looking blue, and the only other figure stands farther away, fumbling with a bow and arrow. He must be the one who protected William and me. That makes him a red too, surely?

For the first time since I stepped onto the sands, I let myself wish. The man finally strings the bow and as he aims at the duel hope surges through me, flooding my body and mind.

We’re going to win.

We’re going to win! If only I could tell William. His coiled body shivers beside me. Despite his pale face, he’s full of life compared to the murdered woman by his feet.

I look again at her red cross, nearly lost in her crimson blood. Then comes the realisation I should have made long ago.

If she was red, the man who shot her must be blue . . . he’s going to shoot the blonde girl and the red men and there will be two blues against us—a half-blind school girl and a near-dead boy.

I jump to my feet. My mind is buzzing with a hundred thoughts. I’m darting towards the fighting women so fast my feet seem to bounce off the sand. Launching into the air, I wrap my arms around the blonde’s waist and throw all my speed behind the grapple. There’s a tug as she’s wrestled away from the other woman’s grip, followed by a sharp crack as my hip hits the ground. Blondie lands on top of me. I suck in air through my teeth.

An arrow whizzes above us, through the space where the blonde was standing seconds ago, and into the shoulder of the blue-crossed woman.

Blondie looks down at me, the incidents obviously connecting in her mind. There’s a flash of understanding in her eyes, and she leaps up and turns on the woman, leaving me to flop back to the floor. Side-on, I watch the three pairs of dancing legs which signify the red men are still trying to take down their foe.

I sense, rather than see, Blondie finishing the fight. My right eye is now swollen completely shut, my hip sending biting pain through my side, and my fingers hang limply from my hand. All I can do is lean up on my elbow to recover my breath. The man hurtles towards us—thankfully out of arrows—but I can’t respond. I have nothing left. Instead, I involuntarily spit what tastes like blood from my throat.

Blondie steps over me and meets the man head on with a knife she must have stolen from someone else. Once upon a time, I would have been disgusted with anyone prising a weapon from a dead person’s hand, but I have lost all sense of that now. All perception of who I was, what was right, how I would act in a deadly situation.

Turns out, I would kill to save myself. The man I murdered still stares at me with bulging eyes when I close my own; his image bright under my lids.

I lean my head back down on the sand. Blondie and the blue man are grunting with exertion. Far across the arena, the two reds have their blue backing away. It won’t be long until they bid him goodbye.

Something dashes past my face and hits the sand. It’s Blondie’s knife. She’s unarmed. The crowd’s jeers echo around me like the rumble of thunder. The girl’s gaze scurries over the sand to find another weapon.

‘Please find one,
’ I think in my head but it comes out as a whisper. Blondie backs away, the man slowly advancing, eager to press his sudden advantage. I’m going to die if I don’t help, I realise. I try to clamber up, but my legs won’t obey, and I stumble. Just as I close my eyes to stop myself from seeing Blondie get killed, there’s a sharp tug at my hair. She’s leaning over me. When she swings round, my silver hair pin glints in her hand.

With a sickening squelch, the large pin plunges into the man’s eye.

He falls. The crowd erupts. This time they don’t stop cheering.

I take in the remaining people on the sands. Me, Blondie, William and the two men.

All reds.

My next breath fills my body. It’s glorious in my lungs, gliding down my burning throat and running into every swollen finger. We’ve won.

‘FIFTY-TWO PEOPLE were chosen to pay the Nation’s Debt from twenty-five cities this month. Ten have already gone on to work at the Demonstrator camp. Forty-two battled for their lives. And only five have survived the Demonstrator tryouts!’ Ebiere Okiro’s satiny voice glides through the Stadium as she steps delicately around the bodies with her head held high. The trail of her elegant purple dress sweeps across the sand in her wake.

‘The tryouts will return to Juliet in two years. Meanwhile, enjoy your tax-free month everyone, as I can reveal that one of the winners is from this very city! Ladies and gentlemen, please give it up for your new Demonstrators!’ I tune out as she reads the names of the two men, one of whom leans on the other for support up on the big screen. Then the image changes to William’s twisted body.

‘William Wilson from Echo!’

I want so much to get to him, but my body won’t move. So instead I lie here, watching Ebiere weave her magical voice through the crowd.

‘Alixis Spires from Alpha!’

A close-up of Blondie appears on the screen. She’s still standing near me, and it’s weird seeing her silhouette in the corner of my vision, yet her face so huge on the screen. I didn’t think the crowd could get much louder, but they manage, shouting down praise and adoration for my fellow team member. Blondie must have fought really well, or maybe they just loved the hair pin ending.

She’s looking at the screen, and the camera must be in the same direction because her image is staring straight ahead, her mouth arcing in a sad smile. She nods to receive the applause and I want to slap her. To say,
people have died, you know. You’ve killed someone and so have I
. But then the sound of the Stadium doubles. I worry that something’s happened—that there’s a sick twist and we’ve got to fight again. The spectators are screaming, whooping, stamping their feet. The vibrations run through my body from the ground. What are they cheering for?

‘And finally, Sola Herrington from Juliet!’

My own bewildered image is already on the screen, every shade of my black eye amplified to the Stadium. The camera pans out, revealing my matted hair, dusty face and neck, askew tie, and limp arms—one soaked in blood so that it looks as if I’m sporting a lacy red glove.

Ebiere applauds me too, but I notice she stays well back, her team of Herd officers ready to rush out at the slightest sign of danger.

That’s almost funny.
We’re
the dangerous ones.

I do nothing to acknowledge my praise, and the cheers finally die down. Ebiere wraps up her little speech and waves the crowd goodbye as if she were a queen on her coronation, blowing little kisses here and there.

I lay my head down on the cool sand and stare up at the floodlights.

What happens now?

I’m not sure; I’m just trying to forget that sound of the spear piercing the man’s neck. Trying to ignore the way his blood sticks to my arm like some kind of alien organism which will keep spreading up to my shoulders, over my chest, into my mouth, my ears, my nose.

There’s a scuffle of footsteps.

I heave myself onto my elbows, looking through my good eye over the dead bodies to where William lies. He’s still. Three medics hurry over with a stretcher from one of the gates which line the edge of the arena. They’re followed by another cart. I close my eyes a second too late as the first limp body is hoisted onto it.

More footsteps. The clatter of the crowd becomes a low hum. I guess only the most dedicated fans stay to watch the clean-up.

‘Sola, you have to stand.’ Dylan sounds firm and urgent, as if he were talking through his teeth. I know I should respond, do as he says, but I need to lie down for one more minute. Agony and fatigue claim me as adrenaline flees my body.

‘Is she in need of care?’ Another voice, this one muffled.

‘No. We’ll treat her at the camp.’ Dylan again, his tone deadly. The word ‘camp’ breaks through the foggy haze, and I force my eyes open.
That’s
what happens now. I go to camp.

‘See, she’s conscious,’ Dylan says to a medic who wears a sanitary mask around her mouth and nose as if she could contract death. The medic runs her gawking eyes over me before turning back and following the stretcher bearers from the arena. Although I would love for my wounds to be treated, for the pain to go, I breathe out in relief to see her leave.

Pushing myself up on my elbows, I catch a glimpse of William. He’s been pulled out of his foetal position to lie down straight on the stretcher. His hand poises over the edge in a half curl, like he were beckoning me closer. If I wasn’t so exhausted, I would run over and hold that hand just like I did before, but I don’t, and soon William is hurried off the sand and his body disappears under the great archway.

I cry out as Dylan hauls me onto my feet. He loops his arm around my waist and calls to Blondie, who’s wandering around the arena, peering down at the bodies as if she had nothing to do with the carnage. The two men follow with their heads down. With Dylan’s help, I manage to limp over the sand, ignoring the four pumped-up looking Herd officers which flank us. We march through shadowy corridors and out through a small, back door. None of us speak. I’m glad; hobbling is taking up all my energy.