The Testing (The Testing 1)

I throw my leg over the bicycle and start pedaling. Tomas shouts for me to wait, but I don’t turn back. The two of them will have to work out their differences on their own. The fact that they both have weapons concerns me for a brief moment, but I shove the worry aside and keep pedaling. My anger fades as my wheels propel me farther from my friends. This test is designed to help us learn about the land we need to restore to health, but it also gives us and the Testing officials a strong look into our character. Yes, the boys were out of line, but I overreacted. While I’m not proud of it, I have just learned not only that I have a temper, but that I would happily run headfirst into whatever danger I might find alone just to prove a point. Perhaps I have a bit of growing up to do, too.

When the Transit Communicator says I’ve traveled ten miles, I tie a piece of sheet to a bush near the side of the road, walk fifty feet beyond it, and set several snares. With that task done, I start pedaling over dirt, grass, and rocks to the northwest in search of water.

The sun is hot as I canvass the landscape. The air is thick with moisture. If we’re lucky, it will rain. I’m grateful for the secret bottle of water as I zigzag across the cracked earth, and I’m still annoyed enough with both boys that I eat the hunk of cheese and part of the bread for lunch without any guilt.

I get off the bicycle and walk while studying the ground for signs of animal tracks. While my fellow Testing candidates and I are only passing through, the animals live year-round in this barren stretch of land. They must have a source of water in order to survive. I find what looks like raccoon tracks and follow them west. After about three miles I am ready to give up when I see a small dip in the terrain nearly two hundred yards to the north. The grass around the dip looks marginally healthier than the brown, crackly stuff I’ve been traveling over, making my hopes rise as I ride to check it out. And I’m glad I did. The dip I saw is the bank of a shallow stream. A couple of tests, the additions of the right chemicals, and I’m able to fill my water containers. I’m tired but triumphant as I return to my bicycle, consult my compass, and begin the trek back to the road.

I am so pleased with my efforts that I don’t register the sound of something moving behind me. When I do, I barely have time to pull my gun free of my bag’s side pocket before my bicycle is hit from the side, sending me careening to the ground.

Scrambling out from under the bicycle, I see an animal leap and I roll to the right. Whatever the thing is, it hits the ground with a snarl. Before I can blink, it is up and launching another attack. This time I don’t move fast enough. I scream as the creature’s claws slash deep into my left arm. Whatever this thing is, I know I cannot outrun it. Even if I could get back on my bicycle, it’s doubtful I’d be able to outdistance something with such speed. The animal snarls as I roll out of its grasp, push to my feet, and race to put distance between us. I turn and extend the gun in front of me as it barrels toward me. As I aim, I finally get a look at it. Long legs matted in a tangle of brownish hair. Long arms that are extended toward me with three-inch claws I already know are razor sharp. A hunched back. Curled lips revealing blackish teeth. More brownish hair on the torso and back. And the eyes . . .

My finger pulls hard on the trigger, and I barely keep my footing as the gun jolts. The eyes of my attacker go wide. There is anger and fear as the wound in its chest blossoms with bright red blood. My enemy sinks to the ground and with its last breath lets out a cry that sounds like a call for help. Which it might be. Because now that I have looked into the dark blue eyes of my attacker I know this isn’t an animal. The eyes are too intelligent. Too much like the ones I see looking back at me in a reflector. The body was twisted and deformed, but there is no doubt. I just killed a human being.

There is no time to deal with the swell of emotions I feel as an answering call sounds from somewhere to my right. Near the water I collected. Which only makes sense. If I had to pick a spot to make my home in this wasteland, that would be a logical place. My arm is on fire. Blood streams down it, but I don’t have time to tend to the injury. Not with the guttural sounds of other mutated humans coming closer.

Racing to where my bicycle fell, I yank it upright and straddle the seat as three more clawed humans appear over the rise. My feet push hard to gain momentum, and I can tell the minute the one I killed is spotted. There is a cry so filled with pain and loss that it makes me blink back tears. Then the cry is replaced by a snarl, and I know they see me and have begun their chase.

They are much faster than I am. Whatever chemical reaction warped their bodies and twisted their fingers into claws has also given them incredible speed. They run with their bodies bent at the waist. Their arms hang low to the ground. Their all too intelligent eyes are fixated on me. The sight of my three attackers closing the space between us is terrifying. Sweat pours down my body, stinging the wound on my arm, as I force my legs to pump up the incline. Years of playing games with my older and faster brothers has taught me that the top of the hill will give me the best vantage point from which to defend myself.

The closer they come, the louder their snarls. And something else. Something more human—words. None that I understand, but the sounds are too clear and purposeful for them to be anything else. The three are communicating with language and using it to plot their attack even as I am plotting mine.

The heat, the loss of blood, the exertion to make it up the steep hill all make me dizzy. The world swims in and out of focus as my heart pounds loud and hard in my chest. I know that if I slow up for even a moment I will die. That alone keeps me pushing the pedals around and around. I rise up off the seat for the last stretch of hill, using my whole body to propel the bicycle up, up, up. The minute I hit the top, I jump off, let the bicycle clatter to the ground, and spin to take aim.

For a moment my finger stills over the trigger as I watch the three travel up the hill toward me. My throat tightens as I hear them shout guttural words back and forth. I straighten my shoulders and set my aim on the one on the left. The trio is getting closer. Only twenty yards away. But still I don’t shoot. I don’t want to kill them. They are human. Maybe not the same version of human that I am, but we come from the same ancestry. Everything I’ve been taught makes me want to find a way to communicate with them. To help them.

Instead, I pull the trigger.

The one on the left clutches its leg and hits the ground with a yelp. The middle one turns back to look at its fallen comrade, and I fire again. This time I hit the torso and the second attacker goes down in a heap. The last lets out an anguished cry and lunges up the hill with its teeth bared. I spot the wetness of tears streaming down its face as my bullet enters its skull.

The last is dead. The other two have been injured enough to keep them on the ground, but for how long I do no

t know. Part of me wants to bury the dead one, like I did the Testing candidate we found, but there isn’t time for that. I need to get away before the other two rise or more take their place. Stumbling, I remount the bicycle and pedal away, barely noticing the tears that threaten to blind me.

Traveling downhill is easier, but I am aware of the blood streaming from my wound. I do not look at it, for fear of what I will see. I just keep pedaling and coasting until I spot the road. When I reach it, I can barely stand, let alone pedal. Sitting on the hard, hot surface, I finally fish out the medical kit and strip off my top to assess the damage. The five parallel cuts on my upper arm are jagged but shallow and at least seven inches long. It’s bad, but not as bad as I feared. While the injury hurts, I can still move my arm. None of the muscles or tendons has been cut, and my stomach churns with relief.

Some animal scratches can fester if not treated properly. While my attacker was human, I’m careful to clean every inch of the wound and apply lots of anti-infection ointment. The ointment hitting the wound sends blazing pain up and down my arm. My eyes water. My nose runs. I can’t wipe either because my one good hand is working at securing a clean bandage around the injury. Once that is done, I struggle into my other shirt. The fabric catches on my identification bracelet and I vaguely wonder if the people listening were excited to hear the gunshots. Do they think I killed another candidate? Does that raise their opinion of me as a leader? Do they understand that I am injured? Do they even care?

My entire body wants nothing more than to stay seated, but I slowly rise to my feet, store my Testing bag on the bicycle, and check my Transit Communicator. I’ve traveled more than forty-five miles today. Will and Tomas are somewhere on the road to the east. And they need the water I’ve found. Knowing their survival depends on me makes me move the pedals round and round. And if I am totally honest with myself, my reasons for backtracking are much less noble. I’m scared to be alone. Scared to face the things that might come in the dark. Scared to face my own conscience after taking human life.

But I might not have a choice. My legs are sluggish as the sunlight fades. I eat the rest of the bread and some of the raisins, sip water, and check the Transit Communicator again, trying to decide how long it will take to reach Will and Tomas. If they stopped to search for water or food, they might be miles away. Too far for me to reach before the sky turns black.

My muscles are heavy as I scan the sides of the road, looking for a place to camp. Something that is defensible, but still has a good view of the road just in case Tomas and Will keep walking after dark. After another two miles I see a clump of trees, oak or maybe elm, near the fence line about seventy yards off the road. I tie a piece of the white sheet from the cot to a branch and stick it into the ground as a marker. If Tomas and Will see it, they will know I am nearby.

The leaves on the trees are a yellowish brown, but the trunks and branches look sound. While I might sleep more comfortably on the ground, I decide to climb the sturdiest-looking of the trees and hope to find a place to camp in the branches. Of course, much depends on whether my left arm is strong enough. I stash my bicycle in some tall brown grass and decide to try. As I jump to catch a low-hanging limb, my left arm sings with pain. I bite my lip to keep from crying out, but I don’t let go. Instead, I grit my teeth, pull myself up, and climb the way my brothers taught me.

The tree I’ve chosen is thick with heavy branches. I find a spot where several limbs are close together and perch with my back up against the trunk. Not the most comfortable bed I’ve ever had, but one I’m fairly certain I won’t fall out of if I manage to sleep tonight. The moon comes out. I yearn for my mother’s hands stroking my hair through the night the way she did whenever I was sick. Thinking of home, I keep my eyes fastened to the road in case Tomas and Will are still traveling, but somewhere during the course of my watch I fall fast asleep.

Hands reach for me. Slash my arm. Instead of screaming unintelligible words, the person I shoot calls me by name. Tears stream from its intelligent eyes as it begs me to take pity. But I don’t. I shoot and kill again and again.

I jolt awake, my face wet with tears. My heart slows as I realize I am not on the hill. There are no eyes filled with pain accusing me with their dying stares. I am alone.

The moon is still shining, but I can tell by the haze of gray in the sky that daylight will not be far behind. Squinting toward the road, I see my makeshift flag still standing on the sidelines. Tomas and Will are nowhere in sight.

My injured arm protests as I shift around on my branch, preparing to descend. It screams the minute my boots make contact with the ground. I swallow several more pills before once more cleaning the cuts. The wounds don’t look any worse than yesterday, which makes me feel a bit better as I apply more ointment and struggle to rewrap the bandage. A thud on the ground behind me makes my heart stop, and I leap to my feet with my gun held firm in my hand. I turn my head back and forth, looking for the source of the noise, and find it. On the ground near the fence is another coarse brown bag identical to the one given to me yesterday. This time I don’t hesitate before opening it. Water. Two apples. Another loaf of bread and cheese. And what looks like a piece of roasted chicken. No note. No sign of my benefactor. Just the food and the water and the hope they provide.

Breakfast consists of chicken and an apple. I feel better after the meal, and after shoving the rest into the bottom of my bag, I break camp. The pain pills take the edge off the agony of the wound. My arm is still sore, but the pain is manageable. Pulling my marker from the side of the road, I climb onto my bicycle and set off to the east in search of my friends.

I find them two miles down the road looking tired, but alive. I can tell the minute Tomas spots me. Even at this distance I see his face light up. My heart swells with love as I race down the road, dismount my bicycle, and throw myself into his waiting arms. His mouth finds mine, and for a minute I forget that Will is standing next to us. I abandon myself to feeling alive and in love. When I do remember, I walk over to Will, give him a kiss on the cheek, and hand him a canteen filled with water.