Steven Santos - The Culling

He catches me staring at him now, and I look away.

“I wonder what they have in store for us this time?” Gideon mutters into my ear, over the hum of the craft’s engines.

The Squawker’s hatch springs open and Slade is standing there, smirking. “What the hell are you sorry lot waiting for? Get your asses on board.”

No sooner do we finish scrambling aboard and strapping ourselves in than the Squawker takes off again. I’m practicing my deep breathing techniques, trying to get a grip on my nerves while my mind races with the possibilities of what today’s final exercise will be.

“There’s no reason to get bent out of shape,” Digory whispers to the Recruits, as if reading my mind. He shoots a look my way. “It’ll probably be just another Sim.”

I’m just starting to relax when, instead of landing at the main compound, the Squawker soars over the sonic fences that protect Infiernos and heads deeper inland, further and further away from the coast.

“Where the hell are they taking us?” I mutter, more to myself.

I can’t help but remember the conversation I overheard between Styles, Renquist, and the pilot of that troop carrier. Whatever’s out here beyond the perimeter fence, it has the entire base on edge. From the day of the bomb diffusion Sim, when I noticed the look of worry on Slade’s face, it’s been spreading. The furtive glances among the officers, the tense, weary expressions of the enlisted whenever they return from perimeter patrol … those that do return, that is.

What is it they’re not telling us?

Ophelia and Gideon look nervous as they gaze at the barren landscape whizzing past the windows. Even Digory looks ill at ease.

Only Cypress’s face burns with excitement. Our eyes meet and she smirks at me before pressing her face back against the glass.

This is what she’s wanted, all along. To be outside the safety perimeter.

But why?

Slade emerges from the door of the cockpit, and everyone turns away from the window and snaps to attention.

“Now listen up!” she growls. “A situation has arisen. It seems we’ve lost contact with one of the recon patrol units led by Commander Cordoba. Your mission is a search and rescue Op.” She holds up a small handheld screen and tosses it to Gideon. “Using the team’s last known coordinates, you’re to track them, ascertain their whereabouts, and bring any survivors back to base.”

“Excuse me, Sergeant,” Digory says. “Will we be provided any ground backup? Any supplies? MREs?”

As awful as those pre-packaged Meals Ready to Eat taste, they’ll sure beat an empty stomach after a long day of being out on the field.

“No ground transport shall be provided, Recruit. You’ll be traveling on foot with no survival packs or med kits, and only a limited supply of drinking water. Anything you eat you’ll have to pick or kill. Among other things, an important part of this mission is for you put the skills you’ve hopefully acquired during your training to the test.” Her expression softens. “I advise you not to dawdle, and to make your best effort to get back to the barracks before sundown.” She gazes out the window. “If you aren’t afraid of the dark now , you will be … ”

A look of stark terror settles on Gideon’s face.

As much as I’ve grown accustomed to Slade’s melodramatic embellishments during our training exercises, there’s an edge to her tone now, and a hardness to her expression, that sends a chill through me.

Just how much of this exercise is a Simulation?

“Drop point ETA thirty seconds,” a voice blares from the cockpit speakers.

“Get your chutes on!” Slade commands. “This is your stop.”

As we strap into our jetsail harnesses, Slade grips the handlebar overhead with one hand and presses the hatch release with the other. Wind rips through the open cabin. “Good luck!” she shouts.

One by one we leap through the hatchway and into the sky-first Digory, then Cypress, Gideon, and Ophelia, and finally me.

Adrenaline rushes through my veins as I free-fall after them. The ground’s coming up fast and I resist the urge to kick in the thrusters.

Remember the training. It’s not time yet.

“One … two … three … four … five,” I mutter to the wind before jamming my thumb onto the button that activates the jetsail’s steam propulsors. Using the toggles on my handgrips, I maneuver the steering lines of my pack’s sail until I’m knifing down in a reasonably smooth arc. Before I hit the surface I catch one last glimpse of the Squawker, disappearing into the morning fog. Then I hit the surface, rolling on the ground alongside the others.

After eight hours of tracking the missing recon patrol’s troop carrier signal through sparse, rocky terrain, we finally clear the last of the trees and emerge into a clearing-and what little breath I have left is torn away.

The bowl-shaped crater in the earth must be at least a mile in circumference. Just below us is the battered hull of the troop carrier we’ve been searching for. And scattered throughout this canyon, as far as the eye can see, are large mounds about twenty feet high, shimmering under the dying sun. They remind me of giant versions of the ant hills behind the old power plant in the Industrial Borough. But instead of being composites of sludge and weeds, these symmetrically perfect knolls are made up of hundreds of pale faces-staring back at us, eyes black, mouths agape …

Skulls.

My own mouth drops open. But before I can make a sound, a collective moan erupts from the leering faces.

I stumble backward into Digory. The groans build in intensity until each skull’s shrieking its fury into the sky in a maelstrom of despair.

Ophelia clamps her hands over her ears. “What’s that terrible sound?”

“It’s only the wind whipping through the eye sockets.” Cypress’s voice is just as haunting.

Gideon steps forward. “We gotta get a closer look.”

Using the trunk of a dead tree, the five of us manage to roll it into place, at an angle from the rim of the canyon to the floor, so we can shimmy down it for ten feet until we hop off it at the bottom.

Even though we don’t find any survivors in the carrier, a quick survey of the grid yields rust-colored stains throughout, a grim indication of what must have happened here.

“So where are the bodies that go with these skulls?” I finally ask the question that no one else dares to.

Gideon’s staring right into a pair of dark sockets on a skull in the nearest mound. “I’m more disturbed by why someone took the time to arrange these in neat little piles … ”

Digory’s nose wrinkles. “Maybe it’s some kind of burial rite.”

I hear Cypress slam something closed inside the cockpit of the troop carrier. “Even though this baby’s pretty banged up, she’ll still fly,” she says as she climbs out.

I nod. “At least we won’t have to walk home.”

“I found something!” Ophelia’s squeal breaks the tension.

We all turn to see something glistening in her open palm.

Gideon’s eyes grow wide. “Let me see that.” He stumbles over to where she’s waiting and scoops it from her. One hand holds the wobbly frame of his glasses in place while he inspects a dangling chain.

“What is it?” I call.

Gideon’s jaw drops. “It’s an identification tag. A Recruit ID tag.”

Cypress lunges for it, but he rips it away.

“You sure?” Digory asks.

Gideon pulls out his own tag from around his neck and compares them. “Same size, same shape. You tell me .”

I clutch my own chain, the one that’s holding me hostage for my brother’s life. “Is there a name on it?”