The Sowing

He chortles and claps me on the back, nearly sending me through the cabinet. “I hear you. Those things are getting out of hand. You must be part of the reinforcement squadron.”

“Uh-huh.” I zip my satchel shut.

His fingers remain on my back, pressing into my flesh like iron. “What did you say your name was?”

My stomach sinks. This is it. It’s all been for nothing.

“Wahoo!” Bartesque’s companion bellows.

Styles releases me and I can feel him turning away. “What’s up?”

“Seems like the little lass has lost her grip, which means I win, double or nothing!” the Imp says. “Pay up, Barty!”

Recruit Drusilla has been eliminated. Recruit Cage, you have emerged victorious in this Trial. You must now select which Recruit will have to make their selection in the next sixty seconds.

Styles shuffles away from me. “How about a little wager as to who he’s gonna choose?”

“You’re on, buddy!” Bartesque snorts.

Without wasting a precious second, I grab my bag and slip out the door, trying to move as fast as I can through the corridors without arousing suspicion before Styles decides to sound an alarm.

Then I’m in the utility room and scrambling up the shelves into the ceiling, pushing the satchel containing the weapons ahead of me as I crawl as fast as I can back toward my cell. Breathless, I flick on the hand-held as I scuttle through the ducts. Cage has been lowered to ground level and a drone is just finishing spraying off the last of the vermin from his body. His face is a struggle of emotions.

Recruit Cage. Make your selection now.

I reach my cell.

Cage’s eyes are glistening with moisture. “I’m so sorry. I can’t eliminate Crowley. He’s too weak to even talk—it’ll mean his death. And if I choose Boaz and he chooses Leander this round, then Corin dies if Boaz fails again. Can’t chance that. I’m sorry. I have to choose you, Dru. Please… forgive me…” Anger flashes across his face as he wipes his eyes.

“It’s not fair…” Drusilla sobs.

I tear off my uniform and drop down from the vent shaft into my cell, emerging into the holding area and rejoining the others just in time to see two Imps grab Arrah and Mr. Ryland, shove them into their cells, and strap them into chairs.

Then that terrible, familiar rumble as the entire cell is lifted and disappears, reappearing on the holographic projection of the trial field.

No. We’re not ready yet. And if we try to escape now, we’ll be caught before we even get started.

“It’s all right, baby,” Mr. Ryland calls to Drusilla. “Whatever you decide, I can accept it. I’m proud to have you as my daughter.”

Drusilla is sobbing uncontrollably. “Daddy… I love you so much…” She turns to Arrah.

“Oh, Arr… I love you too… I can’t… I can’t do this…” She looks up to the sky. “Please… don’t make me do this…” Drusilla sinks to the floor. “I… I choose…”

Mr. Ryland clears his throat. He gestures toward Arrah. “The one thing I want more than anything else is for you to get out of here and live your life. You have a better chance with her, Drusilla. Choose me.”

Arrah’s sobbing, too. “No, Dru. He’s your father. I understand. I love you too much to make you choose him.”

Recruit Drusilla. Make your selection now.

Drusilla’s eyes bounce between them. “I choose… my father!” she screams, burying her face in her hands and collapsing to her knees. “Daddy, I’m so sorry… I’m so sorry,” she wails over and over again.

Cage tries to hug her, but she shoves him away.

Metal spikes thrust from the ceiling above.

Mr. Ryland smiles. “I love you, honey.”

Then the metal slams down, impaling him. His head slumps over as a fountain of blood erupts from the wounds.

The holo fades, and we’re herded back into our cells in silence.

TWENTY-ONE

My eyes and nostrils are stinging from the stench of the rotting corpses filling the cart. Every bone in my body aches from all the stooping and lifting.

For hours, we’ve been wading through the heaps of dead inmates that litter the stockades. We drag them into the wagon, haul them to the crematorium, and pile them into the incinerators. Back and forth, back and forth—a grisly conveyor belt of human tragedy.

If we don’t get out now, those of us who are left will be making this journey very soon.

Arrah finishes shoving the body of a middle-aged woman on top of the pile. The woman’s arm swings off the side, swaying from side to side like a grayish-blue pendulum warning that time is running out. No rigor. Must’ve been dead for a couple of days already, from the look and smell of it.

Arrah turns, smearing the sweat and grit from her brow with her forearm. She looks at me with eyes so dark they’re like twin black holes that have swallowed the light, after everything they’ve seen.