After the Fear (Young Adult Dystopian) Page 4

  We’re going to win.

  We’re going to win! If only I could tell William. His coiled body shivers beside me. Despite his pale face, he’s full of life compared to the murdered woman by his feet.

  I look again at her red cross, nearly lost in her crimson blood. Then comes the realisation I should have made long ago.

  If she was red, the man who shot her must be blue . . . he’s going to shoot the blonde girl and the red men and there will be two blues against us—a half-blind school girl and a near-dead boy.

  I jump to my feet. My mind is buzzing with a hundred thoughts. I’m darting towards the fighting women so fast my feet seem to bounce off the sand. Launching into the air, I wrap my arms around the blonde’s waist and throw all my speed behind the grapple. There’s a tug as she’s wrestled away from the other woman’s grip, followed by a sharp crack as my hip hits the ground. Blondie lands on top of me. I suck in air through my teeth.

  An arrow whizzes above us, through the space where the blonde was standing seconds ago, and into the shoulder of the blue-crossed woman.

  Blondie looks down at me, the incidents obviously connecting in her mind. There’s a flash of understanding in her eyes, and she leaps up and turns on the woman, leaving me to flop back to the floor. Side-on, I watch the three pairs of dancing legs which signify the red men are still trying to take down their foe.

  I sense, rather than see, Blondie finishing the fight. My right eye is now swollen completely shut, my hip sending biting pain through my side, and my fingers hang limply from my hand. All I can do is lean up on my elbow to recover my breath. The man hurtles towards us—thankfully out of arrows—but I can’t respond. I have nothing left. Instead, I involuntarily spit what tastes like blood from my throat.

  Blondie steps over me and meets the man head on with a knife she must have stolen from someone else. Once upon a time, I would have been disgusted with anyone prising a weapon from a dead person’s hand, but I have lost all sense of that now. All perception of who I was, what was right, how I would act in a deadly situation.

  Turns out, I would kill to save myself. The man I murdered still stares at me with bulging eyes when I close my own; his image bright under my lids.

  I lean my head back down on the sand. Blondie and the blue man are grunting with exertion. Far across the arena, the two reds have their blue backing away. It won’t be long until they bid him goodbye.

  Something dashes past my face and hits the sand. It’s Blondie’s knife. She’s unarmed. The crowd’s jeers echo around me like the rumble of thunder. The girl’s gaze scurries over the sand to find another weapon.

  ‘Please find one,’ I think in my head but it comes out as a whisper. Blondie backs away, the man slowly advancing, eager to press his sudden advantage. I’m going to die if I don’t help, I realise. I try to clamber up, but my legs won’t obey, and I stumble. Just as I close my eyes to stop myself from seeing Blondie get killed, there’s a sharp tug at my hair. She’s leaning over me. When she swings round, my silver hair pin glints in her hand.

  With a sickening squelch, the large pin plunges into the man’s eye.

  He falls. The crowd erupts. This time they don’t stop cheering.

  I take in the remaining people on the sands. Me, Blondie, William and the two men.

  All reds.

  My next breath fills my body. It’s glorious in my lungs, gliding down my burning throat and running into every swollen finger. We’ve won.

  ‘FIFTY-TWO PEOPLE were chosen to pay the Nation’s Debt from twenty-five cities this month. Ten have already gone on to work at the Demonstrator camp. Forty-two battled for their lives. And only five have survived the Demonstrator tryouts!’ Ebiere Okiro’s satiny voice glides through the Stadium as she steps delicately around the bodies with her head held high. The trail of her elegant purple dress sweeps across the sand in her wake.

  ‘The tryouts will return to Juliet in two years. Meanwhile, enjoy your tax-free month everyone, as I can reveal that one of the winners is from this very city! Ladies and gentlemen, please give it up for your new Demonstrators!’ I tune out as she reads the names of the two men, one of whom leans on the other for support up on the big screen. Then the image changes to William’s twisted body.

  ‘William Wilson from Echo!’

  I want so much to get to him, but my body won’t move. So instead I lie here, watching Ebiere weave her magical voice through the crowd.

  ‘Alixis Spires from Alpha!’

  A close-up of Blondie appears on the screen. She’s still standing near me, and it’s weird seeing her silhouette in the corner of my vision, yet her face so huge on the screen. I didn’t think the crowd could get much louder, but they manage, shouting down praise and adoration for my fellow team member. Blondie must have fought really well, or maybe they just loved the hair pin ending.

  She’s looking at the screen, and the camera must be in the same direction because her image is staring straight ahead, her mouth arcing in a sad smile. She nods to receive the applause and I want to slap her. To say, people have died, you know. You’ve killed someone and so have I. But then the sound of the Stadium doubles. I worry that something’s happened—that there’s a sick twist and we’ve got to fight again. The spectators are screaming, whooping, stamping their feet. The vibrations run through my body from the ground. What are they cheering for?

  ‘And finally, Sola Herrington from Juliet!’

  My own bewildered image is already on the screen, every shade of my black eye amplified to the Stadium. The camera pans out, revealing my matted hair, dusty face and neck, askew tie, and limp arms—one soaked in blood so that it looks as if I’m sporting a lacy red glove.

  Ebiere applauds me too, but I notice she stays well back, her team of Herd officers ready to rush out at the slightest sign of danger.

  That’s almost funny. We’re the dangerous ones.

  I do nothing to acknowledge my praise, and the cheers finally die down. Ebiere wraps up her little speech and waves the crowd goodbye as if she were a queen on her coronation, blowing little kisses here and there.

  I lay my head down on the cool sand and stare up at the floodlights.

  What happens now?

  I’m not sure; I’m just trying to forget that sound of the spear piercing the man’s neck. Trying to ignore the way his blood sticks to my arm like some kind of alien organism which will keep spreading up to my shoulders, over my chest, into my mouth, my ears, my nose.

  There’s a scuffle of footsteps.

  I heave myself onto my elbows, looking through my good eye over the dead bodies to where William lies. He’s still. Three medics hurry over with a stretcher from one of the gates which line the edge of the arena. They’re followed by another cart. I close my eyes a second too late as the first limp body is hoisted onto it.

  More footsteps. The clatter of the crowd becomes a low hum. I guess only the most dedicated fans stay to watch the clean-up.

  ‘Sola, you have to stand.’ Dylan sounds firm and urgent, as if he were talking through his teeth. I know I should respond, do as he says, but I need to lie down for one more minute. Agony and fatigue claim me as adrenaline flees my body.

  ‘Is she in need of care?’ Another voice, this one muffled.

  ‘No. We’ll treat her at the camp.’ Dylan again, his tone deadly. The word ‘camp’ breaks through the foggy haze, and I force my eyes open. That’s what happens now. I go to camp.

  ‘See, she’s conscious,’ Dylan says to a medic who wears a sanitary mask around her mouth and nose as if she could contract death. The medic runs her gawking eyes over me before turning back and following the stretcher bearers from the arena. Although I would love for my wounds to be treated, for the pain to go, I breathe out in relief to see her leave.

  Pushing myself up on my elbows, I catch a glimpse of William. He’s been pulled out of his foetal position to lie down straight on the stretcher. His hand poises over the edge in a half curl, like he were beckoning me closer. If I wa
sn’t so exhausted, I would run over and hold that hand just like I did before, but I don’t, and soon William is hurried off the sand and his body disappears under the great archway.

  I cry out as Dylan hauls me onto my feet. He loops his arm around my waist and calls to Blondie, who’s wandering around the arena, peering down at the bodies as if she had nothing to do with the carnage. The two men follow with their heads down. With Dylan’s help, I manage to limp over the sand, ignoring the four pumped-up looking Herd officers which flank us. We march through shadowy corridors and out through a small, back door. None of us speak. I’m glad; hobbling is taking up all my energy.

  Stepping onto the familiar streets seems wrong. Everything should be different. I’m different. With each distant cheer, I startle, sinking away from excited passers-by who eye the group hungrily. For the first time in my life, I’m glad that no one will mess with a Herd officer.

  I grit my teeth against the pain which comes in pulses now that the fight’s over. My hand is the worst. It’s as though someone has injected pins into every nerve ending. I’m almost glad when we turn into city Juliet’s hospital, but then I remember what Dylan said about treating me at ‘camp’. Why are we here?

  ‘Dylan—what?’ I manage to get a few words out as the lift we’re all huddled into passes the 23rd floor and keeps going up, up, up. Blondie, or Alixis as I should say, looks at me, chewing on her bottom lip. The medicinal scent makes me feel faint.

  Dylan doesn’t respond, but I think his grip around my waist tightens for a second. Then the lift beeps and the doors fly open and we’re not looking at a ward at all but we’re high in the night sky, the roof of the hospital spreading ahead of us like a desert.

  And just like a mirage, Dad stands at the far end, next to a huge metal spinner which I’ve only ever seen miles high in the air before. I can’t help myself. I wrestle from Dylan’s hold and attempt to scramble over to my father. My shouts must be stifled by the spinner’s whir because he doesn’t respond, just stands there stoically, un-loving and unknown. The blades slice through the air, casting a foggy wind around the vision of Dad. It wavers for an instant, and I pause, blinking away grit from my one open eye. The image begins to distort, as if the atmosphere is manipulating itself, and I see him. Not my father. Only needles and pain. Mr Winters stands in his Liaison’s coat, looking at me through grey-ringed eyes.

  All my instincts tell me to run, but my body and mind have disconnected. Dirt crisps away from my face as my hair whips at my cheeks, the wind urging me forwards then pulling me back. Alixis strides past me, followed by the two men. Then Dylan passes with a tap on my back, his silent way of telling me I must follow. It might be my imagination in hyper drive and tainted with delirium, but I imagine there’s a warning in that tap. A threat. So I move.

  Mr Winters follows me with his eyes. I wonder what will happen to Dad now; whether Mr Winters will sack him; whether he struggled to get to me in the Stadium; whether—a flurry of self-loathing battles in my stomach—he saw me spear that man in the neck.

  Clambering onto the spinner, I sit next to Dylan and strap myself in with a wince. The machine only seats seven so the Herd officers stand back, shielding their eyes with their hands while Mr Winters climbs beside the pilot in the front.

  There are no windows, just huge gaping holes on either side—open doorways which I’m still hoping will close even when the engine roars louder and I know we’re about to ascend. Dylan places cool, soft pads over my ears. I catch his eye. It’s the first time we’ve really looked at each other since before the tryouts. I want to smile, to do anything so he’ll show a flicker of emotion about the fact that I’ve survived, but he gives me nothing. Those never-ending blue eyes have become hard pools of frosty water. Without warning, Dylan darts his attention to Alixis.

  We’re setting off. The aircraft lurches upward, swaying as though we’re dangling from a piece of string before we rush into the sky. The force pushes me against the back of my chair and my fingers whiten as I cling to my seat with my good hand, convinced I’m about to topple out and squish on the hospital roof. One of the men who sits in the back of the spinner lets out a ‘whoa’ as we ascend.

  I’ve heard people say that when a bomb detonates, you feel the impact before you hear the explosion. Well, right now I’m feeling that bomb, waiting for the explosion to catch up with us. The constant roar of the engine rumbles into one long continuous noise.

  Despite the lurch in my stomach, I inch my face closer to the gap in the side and gasp. The city is below us, expanding and yet shrinking with every passing second, as if I’m zooming out on a camera lens. The wind stings both eyes in different ways but I strain to keep one open. I want to drink this sight in. I’ve never noticed just how beautiful Juliet is. I see now why the Shepherds are so proud of this city. It’s a place worth fighting for.

  The many pavements twine around each other, lit up by the street lamps like illuminated grey letters scribbling words around tall buildings. Through the blanket of night, the bull’s eye image I always pictured when thinking of the rail has vanished, replaced by moving light from the rail carriages. They run circles around the city, each one a giant glowing insect guarding a section of Juliet, which gets smaller, and smaller, and—

  We’re leaving the city.

  I don’t know where I thought we would go. I’ve seen the spinners flying around before and knew Demonstrators came in from other cities, but I thought it would be through some kind of mythical guarded gate somewhere around the border. Despite everything, this is what panics me. It goes against years of instinct. Wherever I go, I won’t be welcome. No one is.

  It’s all explained in the Book of Red Ink. With each city trying to pay back their Debt, competitions arose. People began fighting. Now, we’re only safe in our own city. With our own people. The Shepherds protect us from each other.

  Unfortunately I’ve learned that being afraid of something doesn’t stop it from happening. I lean farther out of the spinner and as we rise, I see it all. My breath is stolen by the sight and the choking wind. The night above us is pure, untainted by the thick mist of pollution. I swear I can taste the clouds. Everything is salty. Cold and crisp and clear. It’s as if I’ve been cured of cataracts, or tuned the digiscreen so it’s no longer fuzzy around the edges.

  For that second, I’m hovering in the apex of the world. It’s one of those moments where everything stops and the city inhales, about to wish me goodbye. I suddenly see Juliet as one big, puffy cheek; a cheek which blows me away with a great huff as the spinner angles and zooms higher.

  I’m thrown sideways. Alixis nearly falls through the gap on her side and our eyes meet in joint terror. Thankfully, we straighten up, and by the time I can breathe again we’re no longer in Juliet.

  Even as we fly away, I look back, straining to keep the city in view. When it finally disappears into nothing but a collection of sparkles in the distance, I breathe out a long, slow breath. I know it’s time to look ahead. But I’m scared. Because I know that once I stop staring at the world through a layer of pollution, everything will become clear.

  HOURS INTO THE JOURNEY, I spot the first clues of sunrise. Time has gone all too fast, and I’ve spent most of it peering out of the side of the spinner. My face is pretty numb right now, which is exactly the opposite of how I am inside. Everything has come alive; each sight sending waves of excitement right down to my toes.

  I’m the only person who seems to be enjoying the view. Alixis has somehow managed to fall asleep, her head occasionally lolling onto Dylan’s shoulder. He ignores her, spending the whole journey staring ahead. When I notice another city on the landscape, maybe Bravo or Foxtrot, I can’t hide my excitement. I tap Dylan’s shoulder ferociously until he turns to look. He nods a stony acknowledgment, but when he glances at me I see a sudden, genuine grin. I’m aware that my expression is probably similar to an astonished monkey, and I think he’s laughing at me, but I don’t care. It’s the first time I’ve seen him smile sinc
e Coral’s party. It’s enough to make me feel as though I’ve drank a hot drink. It’s like that second before your body gets used to it and the heat travels right down your throat.

  After that, I become acutely aware of how close we are sitting. Our shoulders are practically squished together, and my crushed hip aches from being pressed into his side.

  Part of me knows I could blame him for all of this. Our kiss brought this on, after all. Yet I can’t hate him. His eyes change so frequently; one second they’re cold—hard around the edges—but then he looks at me, and all I see is a warm intensity. Anyway, Coral is to blame, not Dylan. Even her name makes me want to spit on something. I contemplate spitting into the air and chuckle when I visualise it coming straight back at me. That would really impress Dylan.

  I catch sight of another city in the distance. It sits like a globule of phlegm on the charcoaled landscape of what used to be England. After everyone relocated to cities, the Shepherds burnt a lot of the countryside to stop us from travelling so we would be protected from each other. At the time, there were a few rumours that the fires were to massacre anyone who refused to move, but Dad said those thoughts were quickly quashed by the threat of becoming a contestant in the Demonstrations.

  I don’t really understand how people can be so different in each city. Just as I don’t know why the Shepherds have to raise money by charging people to see others get killed, but it’s that kind of thinking which gets someone in the Stadium in the first place. So I try to remind myself that there’s a reason for it all. That the Shepherds are right and there cannot be order without sacrifice.

  As we head over the sea, the air begins to change; a shy, pink blush creeps over the cheeks of the sky while red freckles of light streak through the clouds. Then the tip of the orange sun peeks into the world. It hovers momentarily, as if deciding whether to surface or not, before rising with such strength it’s as though it never wants to take its sight off me again.