The Elect: Malevolent, a Dystopian Novel (7 page)

I still remember, more vividly than I wish, my first day of school. I was nervous. I recall standing outside, in line, looking at all the other kids’ faces and wondering if they were nice or mean. Would they be my friends? Or would they tease and torment me? I remember my teacher, her warm smile and sparkling eyes. She made all the butterflies in my belly settle down.

I’m just as nervous today as I was then, though for different reasons. And the butterflies? Well, Jay is stirring them up. It feels like the whole swarm is spinning and whirling and whipping through my insides. It’s his eyes. They are so sharp and penetrating. I feel like he can see straight to my soul.

I know in my head that I need to get a grip on my fascination with him. First, there are my feelings for Sam. I love Sam today as much as I loved him yesterday, even though I probably won’t marry him. But even setting the issue of Sam aside, Jay is my teacher. I am his student. There is a lot I need to learn. I need to be focused, to concentrate. Making matters worse, the consequences of failing isn’t just a bad grade. It might be…it could be…death. We do dangerous things. We are training to go to war. We are training hard so we don’t die. Not everyone will make it through this. I may not make it through.

Somehow I need to get my head out of the clouds and pay attention.

Like now. It’s our first full day here. We’re all dressed in identical black uniforms. I’m sitting at a table in our classroom, Mattie to my right and Tom on my left, I haven’t been listening to what Jay has been telling us. I haven’t been taking notes like Mattie. Or listening attentively like Tom. I’ve been watching Jay move. Noting the flex of his arm muscles when he lifts his hand to write on the chalkboard behind him. I’ve been thinking about Jay’s eyes. And about how fast those butterflies are somersaulting through my belly.

“…hand-to-hand combat,” Jay says.

Hand to hand combat? As in, fist fight? Really? We have to learn how to fight?

Around me the other recruits mumble and grumble.

“What do we need to learn that for? We’re fighting with computer-controlled drones,” Alice says. She’s sitting at the table next to ours, with Paul and another girl I don’t know.

“Because we will be fighting hand-to-hand sometimes too,” Jay informs us.

“I’ve never heard of such a thing. Hand-to-hand fighting? It’s uncivilized.” Alice rolls her eyes. “And unnecessary.”

Jay glares at her. “The first lesson all recruits need to learn is to keep their mouths shut. If you don’t agree with our training procedures, you’re free to leave. Any time. Be my guest.” He jerks a thumb toward the nearest exit.

She remains frozen in place, except her eyes. They flick around as if she’s searching for something, probably some help.

No help comes.

“What’ll it be?” our trainer asks, sounding impatient.

“I apologize,” Alice murmurs.

“No apologies necessary. Just shut your mouth and learn. It could save your life.” Satisfied he has gotten his point across, Jay continues, “Like I was saying, during level one, you will learn the basics of hand-to-hand combat. Afterward, you will be tested and ranked from highest to lowest before moving on to the second level of training. Only the top three graduating recruits will be allowed to select their positions within the agency. They will also earn a bonus. And you heard what George said about anyone who is injured and can’t train. Twenty-four hours and you’re out.”

“What happens to the ones who don’t make it?” someone shouts.

“Do you want to find out?” Jay counters.

No one responds.

He moves to a door, opens it. “This way.”

We follow him into a room that is empty. A black circle is painted in the center of the grimy tiled floor. The walls are blank, a greyish white that had probably been pure white a long time ago. The weak light of lanterns suspended from the ceiling do a poor job of illuminating the space. Off to one side are several tall soft-sided cylinders, suspended from the ceiling. Jay points at them.

“Pick a punching bag,” he tells us.

Punching bag. I’ve heard the expression but had never seen what one looks like before. I stand next to one and give it a poke. It’s firm but not hard, covered in brown material.

Jay stands next to me, feet set wide apart, arms crossed over his chest. “We will be teaching you how to defend yourself. The purpose of this exercise is two-fold. You must be prepared for any act of aggression, physical or mental, if you want to survive. Also, you must train your body and mind to respond to threats, instead of freezing like a bewildered deer caught in headlights.”

I understand the bewildered deer reference. But headlights?

“I will teach you several techniques this morning and this afternoon you will fight each other. Pay attention. Some of you will get hurt.”

I will have to fight someone? And I might get hurt? My breakfast threatens to retreat up my throat. I’ve never hit anyone or anything in my life. This is nothing like what I’d expected. Granted, knowing that I was walking into a world I knew very little about, I didn’t really have any specific expectations.

After teaching all of us several moves, Jay instructs us to practice with the punching bags. I punch and kick the bag as hard as I can, but it barely moves. The impacts hurt. My hands and feet become sore. But I keep going, afraid that if I don’t keep at it I’ll be thrown out. I see the others around me, their bags swinging from the force of their strikes. I’m weaker than all the guys.

As we keep working, Jay wanders through the room watching, giving instruction and critique. When he stops beside me to watch, I become flustered. I almost topple over as I swing a kick and miss the bag. He grabs my arm to stop me from falling on my ass, and a rush of heat blasts through me. He tells me, “Focus on your target. And use your knees and elbows. You’re small, quick. Use those to your advantage, not disadvantage.”

I try poking the bag with my elbow, but I can’t see how that’ll do me any good.

“No, like this.” He demonstrates a move that looks deadly, but when I try it, it looks more like a dance move. “No,” he says quietly. “You’re too far back. Face me.” He swings his elbow up and I duck backward. “You see? If you’re too far away, your opponent has time to react. And you’ll either miss completely or hit him too softly.” Before I realize it, he cuffs the back of my head and pushes it down. His elbow contacts my cheek, but it isn’t a hard strike. It’s a soft nudge. Now we’re standing really close. Very, very close. Close enough that I can smell his sweet breath. Close enough that I can feel his heat. “Do this and you’ll not only stop him from dodging you, but also maximize the force at the point of impact.” He waves in his direction. “Try it.”

He wants me to hit him.

My heart pounds. I hear the blood rushing through my body. My head spins. He’s too close. I can’t concentrate. And there’s no way I can hit him.

“Do it. Now,” he demands.

Reluctantly, I jab my right hand out and grab a handful of satiny curls. I freeze.

“We’re not dancing,” he whispers.

I want the earth to open up and swallow me. “No. Right,” I say, yanking my hand back like it’s been burned. I feel like a complete idiot. Since when did I become such a spineless sissy? I want to cry. Or run from the room. I want to do anything but what he’s asking me to do.

“This isn’t a game, Eva. Try it again,” he says.

He isn’t going to let me fail. I hate him for that.

I close my eyes and suck in a deep breath. Then I let it out slowly and try to focus. I’m not doing this for fun. It may save my life. A lot of people are counting on me. Mother. Father. I can’t forget them. I have to do this.

Feeling slightly better, I jab out my right arm again. But his fist clamps around it and before I realize what’s happened, I’m pinned to the floor and the world is spinning around me. As I blink his face comes into focus.

“Get your head together.” He steps over me. “The next time you won’t be facing someone who is so nice. And when I say you don’t want to know what happens to anyone who doesn’t make it through training, I mean it.” He says louder, to the entire class, “You have thirty minutes for lunch.”

Absolutely humiliated after having just been thrown to the ground, and frustrated by my embarrassing lack of skills, I push myself to my feet. Mattie stops next to me, gives me an encouraging smile, and together we head to the cafeteria.

“I saw what Jay did to you. You looked like you wanted to die,” she says as we take our place in line.

“Yeah, I did want to die.”

She leans closer. “He’s scary,” she whispers. “There’s something about him. The way he looks at you.”

“Yes. There most definitely is.” My fingers tingle, the sensation of those smooth curls still vibrating along the nerves. And the memory of his eyes as he stared down at me makes me jittery. I shift my weight and focus on breathing.

Tom comes up behind Mattie and pokes me in the ribs. I jump like a cat startled by a bulldog. He chuckles. “Sorry, Eva. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I’m not scared,” I say, sounding like a defensive, whiny little girl. I clear my throat. “I mean…I’m not used to people touching me.”

“That’s too bad,” he says, winking. He’s flirting with me. Me. That makes me even more uncomfortable. No guys ever flirted with me in Riverview. No guys except for Sam, of course.

I’m so caught off guard an awkward, uncomfortable silence follows. Fortunately it’s my turn to order my food. By the time I’ve ordered Mattie, Tom, and Paul are busy chattering among themselves. We all sit together and talk about this afternoon. I don’t say much. I know already that it’ll be a complete disaster.

Knowing we would be fighting each other, I had kept one eye on the other recruits this morning. If I’m paired with Paul, Tom or any of the other big boys I don’t stand a chance of winning. If I end up fighting Alice or Mattie, there might be some hope.

Might.

“I wonder how they’ll pair us,” Mattie says, voicing my question.

“Jay has seen us practicing. He’ll probably pair us based on our skill level,” Tom reasons.

I hope he’s right.

“Then again,” Paul says, “if they’re just looking for a way to get rid of some of us that would be easy. All they would have to do is put the weakest of us with the strongest.”

Everyone looks at me.

Alice chooses that moment to stop at our table and look at me too. “Nice dance moves this morning,” she taunts. “Where did you learn those? Ballet class?”

I would love to come back with some really funny retort. But my mind draws a blank. My face is burning. I’m humiliated beyond words. And yet I’m so freaking weak, all I can do is sit there and stare at my half-eaten sandwich.

What am I doing here? I don’t belong.

“I didn’t see you busting any jaws either,” Tom says, coming to my rescue. “Afraid you’ll break a nail?”

“Give her a break,” Mattie says, laughing. “Those gel manicures cost a pretty penny, I know. And I’m willing to bet there aren’t any nail technicians in the agency, so she won’t be able to get it fixed if she chips her polish.”

Glaring, Alice says through gritted teeth, “You’re so immature.”

“Well, what do you expect?” Mattie taunts, “We’re just kids.”

Alice flips her hair and stalks away, scared off by our laughter.

I realize--as I watch her skulk away--that it feels good to laugh. Really good. Everything that has happened is so surreal, and scary, and weird that I feel like I’ve been trapped in a nightmare. I even wonder if maybe I’m actually at home, in bed, sick with the flu or something and dreaming this whole thing. All of it. Including the scary parts.

A big part of me hopes I am.

When we return to the gym after lunch Jay isn’t waiting for us. George is. And he’s smiling.

I don’t like the way he smiles. It’s an empty expression. Soul-less. Nothing like Jay’s.

“Welcome back, recruits,” George says. “It’s time to cut the wheat from the chafe.”

I know that expression well.

Jay’s warning echoes in my head.
You don’t want to know what happens to the ones who don’t make it.

Am I about to find out what that means?

“Paul. Helen.” George calls.

The first two fighters? One male. One female.

Based on what I saw this morning it isn’t a fair match at all. Paul is big, thick everywhere. His size might work against him, but probably not enough to give the smaller, weaker Helen any chance of winning.

George points at the circle.

Holy shit. They’re going to fight.

Hands held up to protect their faces, they take their positions and circle each other. As they shuffle around, their gazes flick toward George, as if they’re hoping he’ll stop the fight before it starts.

“This isn’t a ballroom boys and girls,” George taunts. “Either fight or leave.”

My heart is pounding and I’m not even in the ring. I can’t believe I’m watching this, two kids, forced to hurt each other. They aren’t even wearing any kind of protection. It’s insane.

Finally, Helen jabs her right fist at Paul’s chin. She strikes it but the blow is so soft Paul doesn’t react.

George sighs.

The door opens and Jay steps in, stopping next to George. He crosses his arms over his chest, his gaze jumping from the pair in the circle to George and back.

Helen tries again, this time a left hook aimed for Paul’s chin. It has the effect of a tap.

“Dammit, this isn’t fighting. Do you think those love taps are going to save your life?” George points at Paul. “And you. What the hell are you doing? She’s wide open. Hit her.”

Paul’s mouth gapes. “But…she’s a…a girl.”

“She’s a girl,” George sing-songs, mocking Paul.

“Yeah.” Paul crosses his arms. “I don’t hit girls.”

“So if she was the enemy, and she had a gun pointed at your head, what would you do?” George demands. “Would you give her a big squishy hug, a bouquet of roses and ask her to marry you?”

“Well, no, but—“

“Fight, dammit. Fight or leave.”

Two sets of eyes jump to Jay.

Jay doesn’t move. He doesn’t speak. He just continues to stand there with his arms crossed and a blank expression on his face.

Helen and Paul look at each other.

Paul whispers, “Sorry, Helen.” His arm juts forward and his fist makes contact with Helen’s cheek.

Helen shrieks and falls on her butt. Her hand claps over the red mark. Her eyes are dazed.

“There. I did it,” Paul shouts as he stomps toward the outer ring of the circle. “It’s done. Next!”

George shakes his head. “No. It’s done when I say it’s done.”

Paul throws his hands in the air, his pale skin red. “And when will that be? When she’s unconscious?”

“Yes,” is George’s answer.

“Or when she concedes,” Jay finally pipes in.

George turns his ice-cold stare on Jay. “No terrorist concedes. Ever. They fight or they die fighting.”

The two teachers glare at each other, a silent battle. One challenging the leadership of the other. I hold my breath. Who will win?

“I said, it’s over when I say it’s over,” George enunciates. “I am the director of this agency, am I not?”

Jay’s jaw clenches but he says nothing else. He has lost. But I respect him for trying.

Paul’s eyes are dark. His red face pales as he looks down at Helen. She’s still cupping her cheek. Her eyes are watery and bloodshot. She’s fighting tears.

So am I.

This isn’t right, forcing kids to beat each other. If nothing else they could at least make the fights more evenly matched.

“Fight!” George shouts.

Helen hesitantly pushes to her feet and lifts her hands to guard her face. She’s terrified. I can see it in her eyes. They flick back and forth, from Paul’s face to his hands, fisted in front of his chest. He’s leaving himself open for her, giving her a chance to hit him. I respect him for that.

“Finish it,” George yells.

“Remember,” Jay says, “think about your strengths. Take advantage of them.”

Helen hits Paul again, this time in the nose. His head bobs back slightly from the force. I hear her knuckles pop. Helen cringes and shakes out her hand.

“Now!” George shouts.

Paul strikes. He lands a punch to Helen’s belly and she cries out and doubles over. Her face turns gray. She’s struggling to catch her breath.

“Finish it,” George repeats.

“I’m sorry,” Paul whispers. I’m not sure if Helen can hear him. She’s too busy trying to inhale.

I jump into the ring and scream, “Stop!” 

Too late.

Paul slams Helen’s jaw with his fist, sending her sailing to the floor.

I stare down at her. She’s unconscious. Death-like still. Her face is already swelling. Blood is running from the corner of her mouth and staining her lips. It’s such a horrific sight that my lunch surges up my throat and I have to swallow it back down. I fall to my knees and bend to listen to her chest. She’s breathing, isn’t she? She looks so…still.

I hear a gurgling inhalation and tears of relief spring to my eyes. I don’t know this girl at all. She hasn’t spoken to me. Not once. But I can’t stand to see her like this. Beaten unconscious. It’s wrong. So wrong.

What kind of place is this that they force kids to beat each other mercilessly? They aren’t teaching us anything useful. What did Paul learn? How to beat up someone smaller and weaker than him? Doesn’t everyone know how to do that already? Isn’t that one of the first things children learn on the school playground?

What did Helen learn? Absolutely nothing. And the rest of us? What did we learn? That these people are sick, twisted. That this isn’t what we expected…or at least not what I expected. I thought I was here to learn how to fight terrorists, not kids. I thought I was here to learn how to protect human beings. Not attack the weak, the defenseless.

“I can’t believe this!” I shout, glaring at both trainers. Why is this happening? Why isn’t anyone stopping it? “You call yourself leaders, but this isn’t leading.”

Jay steps up, scoops Helen into his arms. I stare hard at him as he carries her away to wherever. Then I glare at all the other recruits. Are they really going to just stand there and let these people treat them this way?

Really?

No one moves. No one speaks.

It seems they are going to just let these people get away with this. They’re following along, like a bunch of sheep. Un-fucking-believable.

A horrible thought makes my breath catch. Driven by panic, I sprint after Jay. “Helen won’t be dumped in the woods somewhere because she lost the fight, will she?”

He turns and gives me a sad look. “No, of course not. I’m taking her to the infirmary.” He shakes his head and says, lower, “If it makes you feel any better, I agree with you.”

I was hoping he would say that. I’d witnessed it in his body language, in the spark of challenge in his eyes when he’d fought with George. Before I could respond, he tipped his head toward the gym. “You’d better get back to training.”

I nod. “Okay.”

When I return to the room, I see two boys are fighting each other. Pound-for-pound it’s a more even match. But it doesn’t take long to see that skill-wise the boys are on different levels. Within minutes the bigger one, who I would have expected to have the upper hand, is on the ground, a hand cupped over his bleeding nose. He raises his other hand and says, “I concede. I concede!”

The winner looks at George for instruction.

“Finish it,” George snaps.

The loser’s eyes bulge. “I concede!”

The winner looks at his opponent then at the instructor. Back and forth. Back and forth, several times. The instructor is shouting at him, but he doesn’t make a move. He doesn’t know what to do. I know what I would want to do. I think he wants to do the same thing. But is he brave enough to find out what the consequences will be?

He stretches an arm to his opponent, offering a hand up.

“I said, finish it!” George stomps up to him, crowding him so that their noses almost touch. “Do you think the enemy will show any mercy?” He pokes a finger at the injured boy on the floor. “If that
little girl
is out there, fighting like that, he’ll be killed. You’re doing him a favor.”

“That’s why we’re here,” the winner barks back. “To be taught how not to be killed. So teach him.” Pushing George out of the way, he helps the dazed boy amble out of the circle.

George’s face turns a deep purple-red shade. It isn’t pretty. Neither is the cold fury in his eyes. I see something move and then in a blink, the winning fighter who dared to refuse his command flies backward and lands on his back.

He is still.

Another unconscious student. Sucker punched.

It takes several seconds for my mind to grasp what just happened.

It was George. Fucking George!

Then fury blazes through me. The boiling rage sends my blood pumping through my body in scalding waves. My fingernails dig into my palms. I charge at George as he’s turning to face us, pull back my arm, and aim for his chin.

If he didn’t anticipate my attack then he’s well-prepared for one. He catches my wrist and within a blink I am flat on my back, fighting to reinflate my imploded lungs. It doesn’t work. Panicking, I gasp, trying to pull some air into my chest. My eyes squeeze tight. Sounds amplify. The blackness behind my eyelids turns sparkly. I’m going to pass out. Can’t breathe. I gulp, swallowing the air I want, need, desperately in my lungs.

At last I inhale. Exhale. Inhale deeper. I open my eyes. Everything is blurry. All I see are shapes. After blinking a few times the images start clearing. Someone is standing over me, looking down. He is speaking. To me? Yes, to me.

“Are you okay?” His hand extends toward me. “That was a fucking stupid thing to do.” He smiles. It’s the kid who had refused to knock out his opponent. He’s conscious. And helping me now. “But I gotta say… I respect you for it.”

I place my hand in his and let him pull me to a sitting position. Little black splotches block my vision. “Whoa. Give me a minute.”

“Sure.” He sits next to me. “I’m Roy.”

“Eva.” I breathe for a few minutes.

Finally he nudges me in the side with his elbow. “Come on, Eva. Let’s go. Training’s done for the day.”

“And nobody died? That’s a first,” I say as I stand on wobbly legs.

“Hopefully it won’t be the last.”

I grimace. “I doubt that.”

“Yeah, me too.”