After the Fear (Young Adult Dystopian) Page 3

  ‘Listen!’ A sharp shout snaps everyone to attention. The voice is full of authority and kind of familiar. A Herd officer I’ve crossed before, perhaps?

  ‘If you look down, you’ll see a red cross painted across your chests. This means you’re in the red team. You’ll fight the blue crosses. Whoever is still standing when the other team is completely wiped out becomes a Demonstrator.’

  What? No . . . My body shakes. I look down. The cross painted over my school shirt bleeds lines of crimson. That old saying from school jumps to mind, ‘X marks the spot’.

  The man speaks again, and with his words it’s as though he’s reached into my chest and stolen any hope I had left.

  ‘Welcome to city Juliet’s Demonstrator tryouts.’

  His voice is flat and trimmed with sad sarcasm . . . it’s the same tone Dylan used to tell Coral he would be pleased to stay.

  Dylan’s here.

  If I had the strength, I would be excited to see him again. Or scared. Or whatever I should be experiencing right now. Yet all I can do is hold back my tears. Others, however, aren’t following suit. I hear someone’s shouts to try and rally us all together, but mostly grief-stricken sobs filter through the room. The group shift in their terror, and I glimpse a look at Dylan.

  He’s standing in the space between the bars and the gate, dressed in the tooth-white uniform of a Demonstrator, his sword hidden in its scabbard. I dart behind a well-built man who’s stretching his neck muscles. I don’t want Dylan to see me. Not yet.

  ‘There’s a weapon for each of you on the bench. As you exit into the Stadium, be sure to pick one up.’ Dylan’s unusual accent carries over the bawling.

  Another voice echoes from the distance, and I assume it belongs to Ebiere Okiro, commentator for most Demonstrations. I imagine her standing on the sands, spinning a tale of why the Demonstrations are necessary to raise money and pay back our Debt, dramatising the event in her smooth, low tone.

  With a clang, the metal bars slide out of place. Nobody moves. After a second, one man breaks from the group and ducks underneath the ascending bars, towards the bench. Like a rush of water through open floodgates, the group surges forwards. I stumble with the force, crying out in frustration.

  Then I’m really yelling because someone’s gripping my arm.

  ‘Let’s look after each other, yeah? Look out for me, all right?’ A girl nods frantically in my face. I muster an ‘okay’ and pull my arm from her. She latches onto the man in front. I bite my lip. If she dies early because she’s panicking, she’ll reduce our chances of winning as a team. I wonder if she’s from Foxtrot; they’re supposed to be cowards down there.

  As soon as I think it, I curse myself. How can I be contemplating people’s deaths as though they’re nothing to me? I memorise her blonde hair and vow to look out for her.

  Now that the bars have disappeared, the gate begins to rise. It cranks upwards with clicks, counting down to the big reveal. Cold air rushes in from the outside, and I clench my teeth to stop them chattering violently.

  The open gate reveals a stone archway, and beyond that, a sight I’ve seen a hundred times before, only from a very different view.

  The sands of the Stadium floor. They spew out before me, endless yet enclosed. The deafening screams of the crowd outside invades our little room. My fingernails scrape against the metal wall beside me; I didn’t even know I was trying to grab hold of it.

  From here, tucked out of the sight of the audience, I peer upwards. The inside of the Stadium is like an inverted dome, the wide circle of the edge facing the open sky. I’m standing before the apex, the furthest point from the escape, and it’s as if the eager spectators are climbing up the curve, jeering as they make their way towards freedom.

  I realise I’m shaking. Those around me have fallen quiet, too. We stand, letting the clamour of the Stadium wash over us. The panic has been replaced with a weird kind of calm as we look out onto the place where we fight, or we die.

  ‘This is it!’ Dylan shouts. ‘Don’t be put off by the cameras around the Stadium. They’re projecting your image onto the screen so the people far away can see it. And don’t dawdle in here, whatever you do. The blues will corner you. Remember that the whole blue team must be killed before you can survive. Look out for each other.’

  I’m not ready. I can’t do this. My mind is telling me one thing, yet my feet move forwards. Until I hear the whimper behind me.

  The child I spotted before is still folded up like a foetus in the corner. Light weaves around the other moving bodies and flutters onto his pale, unmoving face. I dawdle, needing to get to the bench but unable to look away from the boy.

  Each clang of metal tells me another weapon has been taken. I have to go. I can’t help him. I turn away just as Dylan’s words about being cornered by the blues force their way into my conscience.

  Already regretting this, I run over to the boy. A horrible roar emits from the Stadium, and I know the other reds must be stepping through the archway.

  ‘We have to get out of here, come on,’ I urge. He doesn’t respond. His body bobs up and down with his sharp, shallow breathing. When I look down, I notice he’s sitting on a patch of darkened, wet earth.

  ‘Come on,’ I say again, softer this time.

  I lower my hand, palm upwards, and he looks up. Even his eyes are shaking.

  More screams from the spectators. The blues must have been released. I bite my tongue so I don’t scream at the boy. Every moment I stay, with my back to the arena and bent down to his level, goes against my instincts. Still, I unwind his hand from around his knees and hold it tight.

  Finally, he allows me to guide him up. I resist running to the weapons bench. Dylan faces away from us, herding the last of my team into the arena.

  ‘No.’ I let out an involuntary whisper. Only two weapons remain on the bench: a ragged, wooden staff which looks as though it would snap before doing any damage and a short spear. Despite my urge to hang onto it, I hand the spear to the boy. He takes it with a violently quivering hand. I wonder if he’s more likely to stab himself before he has a chance to use the knife for defence.

  ‘Sola?’

  Dylan. He stands frozen, mouth wide, with a strange expression across his familiar face. It’s something like surprise and realisation all at once. Despite everything, I glance at his lips before looking away. They were once on mine.

  ‘Don’t say this is because of me.’ His voice is halfway between a growl and a breath, his face so full of pain that I can’t possibly tell him he’s right. I shake my head.

  ‘Are, are you fighting?’ I manage to ask, hoping that he isn’t despite knowing he could more than protect himself. A flick of his head tells me no.

  ‘Then, could you do something for me?’ I don’t give him time to respond. ‘If I . . . if the blues win, could you tell my dad that I’m sorry. And that I’m—I’m—’ the words won’t come. Why won’t they? This is my chance to tell my dad that I love him and that I’m proud and that he’s done everything so well since Mum was killed even though he thinks he hasn’t. But I can’t, and my window of opportunity disappears along with my resolve. A loaded sigh escapes my lips.

  ‘The blues won’t win. Here, take this.’ He drags his sword from its hilt and passes it to me. It pulls my arm down as soon as he lets go.

  ‘It’s too heavy. I can’t fight with this,’ I tell him, even more desperate now. He glances out to the Stadium, the fear in his eyes making my heart panic.

  ‘Just take it! It might intimidate the blues.’

  I don’t know what to say and evidently, nor does he. So I take the sword with my bad, needle-injected arm as the boy grips my right hand, and hold Dylan’s gaze. I need to see those sharp blue eyes for a moment more.

  At the back of my mind, a stupid, not concentrating, girlish part of me thinks that at least I had a first kiss before I was chosen.

  I turn towards the archway. Walk underneath the threshold.

  The sands are alr
eady ruined with blood. Contestants scramble past us. I can’t see whether they’re reds or blues.

  The child’s grip tightens. I squeeze once.

  Here goes.

  I step out into the Stadium’s thick air.

  There’s only a second to register the sickening sight of death, the smell of rust and iron, and the crunch of the sand before a dagger hurtles towards me.

  No time to scream.

  No time to react.

  I just stare. Stare as the blade whizzes past me, missing my arm by inches, and plunges deep into the boy’s stomach.

  We’re losing.

  THE BOY shudders next to me. He looks down at the silver handle poking out from his small body. His desperate eyes plead for me to help.

  Never in my life have I been so completely lost.

  I go to pull him back into the metal room and away from the violence but I remember Dylan’s words. We can’t get cornered in there. I hook my arm underneath the boy’s shoulders, tucking my hand into his armpit, and glance around the Stadium. Darting figures ruin my frantic search for a Shepherd or Liaison. I know when the authorities see him they’ll understand how bad this is, how much of a mistake.

  Bad things only happen to people who deserve them.

  How can anyone think this boy deserves to die?

  But no one will help us. We’re alone with dancing bodies and manic shouts. In the stretched second it takes to scrutinise the Stadium, everything seems to lock into place. Leaning over rails, the spectators curse and yell. The cold air stinks like an overflowing rubbish bin left out too long; it circles the sands in a slow breath, making me shudder. Painful strokes of white light reflect in the blades of metal which clash together. The floodlights buzz above me; beyond that, the sky looks dark and purple, deeper than I’ve ever seen it.

  Colour and light flicker. I squeeze the boy’s hand with panic, but the colour is just the screen high above broadcasting the fight. That screen I’ve watched so many times before as a spectator. Now, it looks bigger, more threatening, as if it’s mocking everything happening to us. It’s saying this doesn’t matter, this isn’t true.

  I almost trick myself into believing that. I’m safe and nothing is real. Not the sand which whips up between people’s feet or the rips of flesh tearing. Not the blood which congeals in clots on the ground or the climactic music blaring from the speakers.

  Then I see my own face staring back at me from the screen, gazing slightly off centre.

  I snap into reality. This, down here, is the truth. And I’m in the middle of it.

  The boy is heavy, his weight practically dead as I try to put more space between us and the main fracas. Dylan’s sword drags my arm down and the tip makes a little line in the sand as I haul the child away.

  That’s when I see him.

  On the screen, a bulky figure presses towards us. I whip my head around and the huge man is even closer than he appeared. A wide blue cross sprawls over his shirt. It creases as he stealthily avoids a would-be punch from an attacker and backs away from a neighbouring duel. My stomach flips, letting me feel each painful clench. I should be running away but I’m frozen still. A girl near him falls, and his gaze wavers as he blinks the specks of sand from his eyes. Before long, his glare settles back onto the tummy of the boy who holds my hand.

  He wants his weapon back.

  It’s not this man’s fault. I know he’s trying to survive like everyone else. I just don’t care. I listened enough in biology class to know that if he pulls that dagger out, this child is dead.

  I lurch forwards. The boy falls back behind me. In the corner of my vision, I see my image on the screen run too. She bends as I bend to slice through the air faster. I focus on the bouncing cross on the man’s chest as he hurtles towards me. I don’t know what I’m planning to do but my body works for me, pulling the heavy sword up to chest height.

  My first mistake is thinking the man has overlooked me. In a neat blow, his fist jabs into the hilt of my sword. There’s a sharp snap, like conkers colliding together in a game, and my fingers bend back unnaturally. I think that unearthly scream comes from me.

  I’m still cursing, searching the floor for my weapon when pain fractures the side of my face, shooting up to my eye. I imagine a vein bursting, sending agony through all the rivulets like a tree growing in fast motion. My body twists as I reel backwards; sight blurred and with my eyes, head and nose all throbbing.

  The man’s already off, sprinting towards the boy now curled on the ground.

  I don’t even know the child’s name. Why didn’t I ask his name?

  I’m running. The stinging pain from my hand goes numb and I force on through hazy vision. My eye’s swelling too, the lid closing over it, yet I keep pushing my legs over the sand.

  The man skids. Leans over the boy. His hand reaches out, and I do the only thing I can.

  I jump.

  My leap closes the distance between us and I land on his back, locking my hands around his neck. He jerks backward, his body twisting as we tumble to the ground. My knees and arms smack onto the sand, the force wrenching my hands from his neck. For a terrifying second, his arm swings for my face, but I roll away just in time, and his fist meets air. Almost as soon as we’re down, we’re both clambering to get up.

  We scramble together in a frenzy. Somehow his kicks don’t hurt, they’re just stopping me from getting to my feet. My breath screams with exertion, like a siren in my ears with everything else dulled into a muffled roar. Let. Me. Go! The maniac’s trying to grab my neck. I’m a trapped animal, scratching and scraping, using my fingernails, my teeth, every speck of strength and determination I have left to break free.

  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.