The Testing (The Testing 1)

Wind blows the leaves on trees. A rabbit races through the underbrush. Otherwise, I see and hear nothing, but I know Raffe is out there. Where? Even without the Communicator to guide him, he should have found the fence and followed it to this location long ago. Something must have happened. Could one of the rebels keeping guard have caught him? Did Griffin or someone else from the University track us to this place?

Fear pricks the back of my neck. I turn toward the fence and Tomas grabs my arm. “What are you doing? We have to get to the University before people know we’re missing.”

“I can’t leave Raffe.” I can’t be responsible for another death. “You’re a fast rider. You can get back before breakfast if you go now.”

“I’m not going without you.”

“You have to,” I insist. “If anyone wonders why I wasn’t around this morning, I can tell them I was working at the president’s office. A Biological Engineering student doesn’t have that kind of excuse. It’s the only way you’ll be safe.”

“I don’t care if I’m safe.”

“But I do. I love you.” Tears tighten my bruised throat. One falls down my cheek, but I keep the others back and say, “You have to go. If something happens to me, I need to know you’ll get word to my father that Zeen is here and that you’ll help get him out of harm’s way. Please.” I stand on tiptoe and press my lips against his. In the kiss I put all my love, hope, and fears. Tomas pulls me close and deepens the kiss. I feel the heat of passion mixed with despair and know he will do as I ask.

Stepping back, I say, “I’ll signal when I get back to campus.”

With one last kiss, he places the Transit Communicator into my hands. “I’ll be waiting.”

“I know.” I race toward the fence and once more begin to climb. As I jump to the ground, I catch sight of Tomas heading toward the road. Back to the University and the dangers that lie there. I hope he stays safe.

Alone, I retrace the path we took toward the rebel camp, looking for signs of Raffe. I can hear laughter far in the distance. The rest of the camp must be waking up. Without the cover of darkness, I don’t dare venture closer. Instead, I turn and search to the east.

Thirty feet from the path we originally traveled, I see a freshly broken branch hanging from a bush. Several feet to the north, I spot patches of recently trampled grass. I follow the trail past a pile of rusted metal that must have once been part of a small airplane and stop dead in my tracks. Twenty feet ahead is a five-foot-wide fissure in the earth. The trail I’ve been following leads right to it.

For a moment, I can’t breathe. With small, trembling steps, I cross the barren earth and look down into the gaping hole. I am prepared for the worst. Instead, I find two wide, very blue eyes looking up at me. Standing on a thin ledge about nine feet below is a dirt-streaked Raffe.

“What are you doing here?” Raffe asks. “Where’s Tomas?”

Relief makes my knees go weak, and the bafflement in his voice makes me laugh. “What’s it look like I’m doing? I’m rescuing you. I sent Tomas back to the University so no one would realize he or the bike he borrowed was missing.” I realize helping Raffe out of the hole would be much easier had I let Tomas stay. Frowning, I add, “Give me a minute to decide how I’m going to get you out of there.”

I take the bag off my shoulder and study the contents. Nothing I brought with me will help Raffe reach the surface. I shield my eyes from the early morning light and spot a weeping willow tree. The branches are both flexible and strong. When my brothers and I were younger, we used to weave them into ropes and swing from the trees in our backyard. They were helpful then. Maybe they will work just as well for me now.

Climbing the tree, I use the pocketknife my father gave me to cut a dozen long branches. The branches are less pliable than the ones back home. Still, after pulling on them to test their strength, I’m pretty sure they’ll do the job.

I tell Raffe to hang on and begin weaving the branches together. In no time, I have a makeshift rope of twelve feet. I loop one end to a squat but sturdy-looking brown bush just above where Raffe waits. I tug on the rope several times to make sure the knots will hold and then throw the rope down.

Lying on my stomach, I peer over the edge. “Grab the rope and climb up.”

“You want me to use that?”

“Do you have a better idea?” I ask.

Raffe’s answering smile is grim. “If I did, I’d already be out of here.” He grabs the rope, wraps it around his right hand, and tugs. “Okay. Here goes.”

I glance back at the bush as Raffe lets the rope take his weight. The bush shudders. The knot shifts, but holds. For now. How long the little bush can withstand the force of Raffe’s weight is questionable.

Determination colors Raffe’s face as he pulls himself up inch by agonizingly slow inch. Below him, the dark, deep hole threatens. His feet search the hard dirt wall for leverage, but the dirt crumbles under his boots, making it almost impossible for him to gain a foothold.

Leaves rustle. Something snaps. A gasp rips from my throat as the rope shifts. The bush bends, and the roots begin to pull free of the ground. I grab the rope to alleviate some of the pressure, but the bush shifts again. Half the roots are showing. A glance over the edge tells me Raffe is still several inches from the surface.

“You might want to hurry,” I say.

Raffe grunts and pulls himself up another inch. The edge is just above him. One more pull, maybe two, and he will be close enough to reach the top. If the rope holds.

Raffe’s hand crests the edge. Instinctively, I scramble to my feet and grip his wrist with both of my hands and then lean back and pull. Raffe’s head appears. I feel a surge of triumph that is quickly replaced by terror as my boots start to slide across the dry earth toward the ravine. Raffe outweighs me by at least sixty pounds. While years of physical activity back home have m

ade me stronger than most of the University candidates, I cannot hope to support Raffe’s weight much longer.

Sweat runs down my back. I fight to dig into the ground with the front of my boot. Raffe’s shoulders appear. His left hand grabs hold of a seedling as the bush holding the rope gives way. He lurches downward a fraction of an inch, sending me pitching forward. I hit the ground inches from the edge and scramble back as Raffe heaves himself up and over.