Steven Santos - The Culling

A flicker of hurt in his eyes flames into a glare. He signals the Imps, who jerk me to my feet to face him.

“I hope you enjoy your time with this Digory. Especially since you’ll be competing against each other to save the ones you love from the Culling.” He leans in closer, his hot breath like irons on my cheeks. “Tell me, Lucky, is he worth Cole’s life to you?”

I spit in his face.

His eyes are green skewers. Nostrils flare. He flicks away the foamy trail trickling off his chin.

Valerian slings a metal collar around my neck and clamps it tight. I gasp. Then the other Imps hook a leash to it.

The last thing I glimpse, as I’m hauled away from the archway, is my face plastered on the jumbotrons right next to Digory’s.

The freighter bulldozes through the black sea, smashing against the crisscrossing whitecaps.

“Attention,”a voice blares from the ship’s com system. “We have arrived at the Infiernos training installation. Prepare to disembark.”

My joints are stiff from days of solitary confinement in a cramped stateroom; the Recruits were separated right after we boarded the ship. Steadying myself against the railing, I take in a lungful of salty sea air and peer over the bow, searching through the patches of early morning mist.

An island looms directly ahead. A huge, steel, domed structure squats on the horizon, pockets of smaller buildings and turrets spreading away from it. One tower rises hundreds of feet above the rest, its peak an oval of clear glass that observes all. Jutting pillars, resembling horns and lined with teeth-like spires, form a perimeter around the complex, which stretches from the shoreline to what appears to be miles deep inland.

“Let’s go.” A tall, thick Imp shoves his weapon into my back and I double over. Clutching the railing, I regain my balance and trudge on as he prods me the rest of the way.

The freighter deck is a whirlwind of activity as the crew bustles about, guiding the vessel into the shadows of a huge hangar-bay hewn out of a natural cave formation. Overhead, stalactites mix with gleaming steel girders and catwalks, resembling a massive set of fanged jaws that swallow us whole.

Once we’re moored, I get a glimpse of the other Recruits as a squad of soldiers hustles us down the gangway. The girl with the raven hair-Cypress-is followed by my former IF mate Gideon, and then Digory.

He smiles at me, but I look away and brush past him.

When the time comes to vie against the other Recruits for my Incentives’ lives, Digory’s the last person I want to compete against. After all, he’s probably the strongest and most skilled Recruit. But that’s not the only reason. I can’t even imagine what it would be like if by some insane miracle I best him in one of the Trials and have to stand by while he’s forced to choose which of the people he loves must die. It would be like I’d murdered his kin myself, even though it was to save my own. How could we ever look each other in the eye after something so horrid?

No. I can’t do that. I won’t. Let someone else bear that horrible burden.

The only Recruit missing from our group is Ophelia. Not sure where she is.

But there’s no time to speculate.

We’re herded through a maze of corridors that take us past a crowded mess hall, an indoor stadium where soldiers are engaged in a slew of hand-to-hand combat exercises, and a vast parade ground where squads march and run in formation. From the color and cut of their uniforms, it’s apparent these soldiers have been separated into distinct groups: the black-clad Imps, the blue hues of standard infantry, and the more recent, inexperienced draftees clad in telling green. Should we have any doubts which way to go during this tour , Imps stand sentinel, station after station, graciously pointing the way with the barrel of their weapons.

I’m almost out of breath by the time we emerge into an oval-shaped chamber filled with half a dozen personnel clad in stark white medical uniforms, hovering over shiny metallic instruments and data screens.

The medic who appears to be in charge sweeps us all with a contemptuous look. “Strip,” he says, stifling a yawn.

Once we’re all naked, I make sure to keep my eyes glued straight ahead as we’re subjected to bio-scans and all sorts of physical examinations. I feel like every inch of me is being poked and prodded. They check pulse, blood pressure, brain wave patterns, and vision, and then extract blood samples. At least they let us go behind a partition to provide them with a urine specimen.

After the invasive med exam is over, we’re issued black jumpsuit uniforms and duffel bags, and given “physical assessment” tests.

“Drop and give me twenty push-ups,” the Chief Medic says when it’s my turn. He holds up a digital chronometer displaying one minute and activates it.

I drop to the ground and begin. But my best effort proves to be pathetic. By the fifth rep, my arms are buckling so much I feel like my joints are going to pop free of their sockets. By the sixth, I’ve collapsed on my chest and I’m rasping for breath-humiliated at first, and then terrified by what it bodes for my chances of making it through the Trials.

The medic shakes his head and jots something down on his clipboard.

The push-ups are only the beginning of the ordeal. These are followed by sit-ups and a one-mile run, both of which I fail at miserably. At least most of the others aren’t much better, with the exception of Digory, who not only completes each task but manages to elicit a grunt of “Not bad” from the doc.

I look away before Digory can catch me staring at him.

When the physical examinations come to a merciful end, we’re escorted to the next station, where each of the guys is strapped in a chair while hovering spheres use laser tech to shear our hair until it’s neatly cropped. Only Gideon opts for a full buzz cut. Cypress is allowed to keep her hair pinned back.

“Time to meet your drill sergeant,” one of our armed escorts barks.

The Imps lead us down another corridor and take flanking positions by the door as we file into the briefing hall, with me bringing up the rear. By the time I’m through, Digory’s already standing on a long red line between Cypress (and her intimidating eyes) and Gideon. Still no sign of Ophelia Juniper.

As I walk past her, Cypress eyes me as if I’m some annoying insect just out of reach, which she’ll allow to exist as long as I don’t get too close. I really don’t see that happening.

“Traitor scum,” she mutters through perfect rose lips.

The words sting, but I try not to break my stride and give her the satisfaction. Unfortunately, I’m not smooth enough, and the falter in my step spawns a smirk on her face.

Crossing Digory’s path, I can’t help but send a quick glimpse his way. But his eyes stare blankly ahead as if I don’t even exist. That bothers me more than Cypress’s contempt. Can’t say I’m surprised, though, after the way I snubbed him when we got off the freighter. It’s still sending a pang through me, no matter how much my brain screams it’s for the best.

I step into the spot next to Gideon, and I’m finally rewarded with a half smile. At least someone doesn’t want to swat me and knows I’m alive … for now, anyway. I extend a hand, but Gideon just stares at it as if he’s not sure what it means.

“I thought it was you they called last, Spark. How’ve you been?” he whispers.

My hand drops back down to my side. “You just thought it was me, Warrick?” I whisper back. “What? I thought you were smarter than that. My Recruitment too subtle for you?” I punctuate the last with a wink.