Meredith McCardle - The Eighth Guardian

“Hands up,” the woman says.

And there it is.

I raise my hands and go right for the gun. I jerk it up, then twist it down so it’s hanging by the woman’s side. Disarming is a really simple skill. You redirect the assailant, control the weapon down, attack the assailant, then finally take away the weapon, which usually involves broken fingers. I did steps one and two, but I really don’t think I’m supposed to punch this woman in the face or break any bones. So I go for an easy elbow strike and let the woman deflect it.

She drops the gun into my hands, steps back, and raises her hands. “Well done,” she says. She nods toward the exit of the maze.

I fling the gun over my shoulder and run. Adrenaline courses through my veins. I round to the left. I’m almost there. I take the last left I can into a long corridor. There are a number of lefts in this corridor, but I race past all of them.

Right . The way out is a right.

I see it ahead. I sprint down the corridor. My footsteps pound against the wood, making a slapping sound. I’m almost there. One more right, and I’m—

My arms fly out to the sides, and I skid to a halt. The floor is different. The grain of the wood. The height. There’s a large square section that was cut from a different sheet of plywood and is about a quarter inch higher. I peer around the corner. The exit is right there around the bend, but this section is so big and in such a tricky spot that I can’t jump over it. I drop down to all fours to look at it. I bet it’s one final obstacle. A bomb.

It is. It’s a simple pressure-plate bomb. You step on it, you’re done.

I take a breath of relief. I’m good at pressure-plate bombs. Most women are. There are two hooks on the side, and all you have to do is unlatch them; but you can’t move the plate more than a quarter of an inch or it’ll trip. Men usually use too much force. Macho BS or something that blows up in their faces. Literally.

I slip off the first hook, then shimmy myself backward to get the second. And then my hands start shaking. The exit is right there. I can see it. I want this to be over so badly. My hands jump so much that my teeth start chattering. I breathe and clench and unclench my fingers. I’m close. I can do this.

I suck in my breath and steady my hands as much as I can. My fingers grab the metal hook, and I let out my breath one second at a time as I press down on the hook.

It sticks.

No! I release it, and it snaps back up. My body shakes from my teeth to my knees. Why won’t this day end? I blow out whatever air is still in my lungs. Pull it together . I press down on the hook, just barely, then wiggle it to the side. It gives way, and the plates are disarmed.

I think.

I stand up and take three jumps to get the blood pumping. So close. And there’s only one way out. I leap onto the bomb.

Nothing happens.

I exhale. I did it! Not that they’d actually blow me up or anything, but I’m sure there would be consequences of some sort if I didn’t diffuse it correctly.

The exit is only a few feet in front of me; and I hurl myself forward, out of the maze, and onto the ground. A gong sounds.

I’m lying in the dirt, panting and trembling, when the woman with the stopwatch appears over me. “Seven minutes, four point three-eight seconds,” she says.

I push myself to a seated position. I have no idea whether that’s a good time or the worst time ever recorded. My gallery is there. Most of them have already turned away and are walking back toward campus. A few stragglers are hunched over clipboards. But that man is staring at me. Again. Making a note in his Moleskine.

I look away and get to my feet. Every muscle in my body protests. I would kill for a hot bath and my bed right now.

“You’ll be escorted back to campus,” the woman with the stopwatch says. Like all of the other test proctors who showed up on campus yesterday—or is it two days ago now?—I’ve never seen her before in my life. But in this moment I hate her.

I can’t believe I have to do this again next year.

My escort arrives. I know her. Katia Britanova. She’s a sophomore who lives in my dorm, on the floor below. She has an impossibly large array of Hello Kitty crap, although that pales in comparison to her Bowie knife collection.

“How was it?” Katia whispers as we start the long walk back to campus.

I shake my head at her. My left foot makes contact with the pavement, and soreness races up my body. My right leg makes contact with the pavement and wobbles. Katia hooks her arm under my armpit and steadies me.

“Is he done?” I ask her.

“I’m not really allowed to talk about—”

“Katia, come on. Is he done?”

Katia nods her head. “Finished about an hour ago.”

We trudge on in silence. Testing Day is over for me. Until next year. Dear God, help me. I have to do this again.

I really shouldn’t complain. I’ve known this was coming since I was fourteen, ever since I got a letter congratulating me on my acceptance to the Peel Academy, which was surprising considering I’d never applied. Or had even heard of it.

But my mom had. After the letter arrived, she locked herself in the bathroom and cried for three days straight. That’s not an exaggeration. She’s been known to do that. Plates of food pile up at the door. The phone rings for hours. Begging is pointless. Bargaining goes unanswered. Worry turns to anger, sours to contempt.

When a trustee of the school showed up a week later, dressed in a red skirt suit with an American flag pinned to her lapel, she whispered two magical words that made the decision easy for me: legal emancipation. I didn’t care who she was or what the school taught at that point. All that mattered was that it was my ticket out of Vermont. And then the woman told me that the school was run by the government and was by invitation only for a select group of students whose bloodlines looked promising, and I knew .

I was chosen because of my dad.

Katia and I pass through the iron gates leading to the main part of campus. She walks me past the building that houses science labs, past one of the dorms, past the administration building, and into the dining hall. Another sophomore, Blake Sikorski, stands guard at the door. He checks my name off a list pinned to a clipboard and nods his head toward the hall. Katia gives my shoulder a squeeze and trots down the stairs.

The dining hall is littered with sleeping bodies. Juniors and seniors lie around the room like fallen dominoes, their bodies twisted and broken into sleeping positions that can’t be comfortable at all. But when you’ve been awake for as long as we have and been through what we have, comfort is an afterthought.

I spot Abe in the back corner, sitting with his back against the wall. He’s awake but staring straight ahead like a zombie. My heart flutters. He didn’t have to stay awake for me. But of course he did.

He doesn’t hear me until I’m a few feet in front of him. His head turns, recognition dawns, and his mouth twitches upward.

“I’d get up, but—”

“Don’t bother,” I say as my legs buckle, and I fall to the floor beside him. “Holy cornflakes, that sucked.”

Abe chuckles. “What, no expletives?”

“I’m too tired.” I fold my hands over my chest and close my eyes. Abe hates swearing. Always has. He says it’s a sign of a small vocabulary. But I grew up in a house where four-letter words were pretty much standard protocol, so Abe’s used to hearing them from me.

Except now. I’m not kidding about the too-tired thing.

I crack open one eye and glance at the clock on the wall. A few minutes until four in the afternoon. So that makes thirty-four hours that I’ve been awake.