The Testing (The Testing 1)

My feet pound the hard-packed earth, my hands hold tight to the handlebars as I keep my eyes focused on the road. The bicycle wheels bang and jump as they roll over the harsh terrain, but I don’t look back to see if we have been noticed. That will only slow me down. If the animals and their vicious-looking teeth are in pursuit, I cannot afford the delay.

But Tomas does look back. I can tell by the way he sucks in air. The way he wills himself to go even faster as he yells, “Run, Cia. Run.”

I do. I run as fast as I am able. My calf and thigh muscles burn as I propel myself and the bicycle up the hill that leads to the road. To our hope for escape that lies at least another fifty yards in the distance.

With his longer legs and superior strength, Tomas pulls ahead of me. He yells for me to keep running, and I am, but I can only go so fast. And then I hear it. Panting. Branches cracking. Yips and whines. They’re close. Too close. And getting closer.

Fear, swift and fierce, helps move my legs faster. I climb the incline. Twice I almost lose hold on my bicycle as my feet catch in the underbrush, but I manage to keep climbing. Somewhere behind me the yips become growls. The sounds are closer. They are catching up, and I still have at least ten yards until I reach the road. A bicycle pedal catches on a bush, and I tumble to the ground. I look up and see Tomas at the top of the hill. He’s already seated on his bicycle, poised to take flight.

“Come on, Cia. Hurry.”

He doesn’t say it, but I know the animals are moments behind me. There is nothing he can do to help me unless I make it to the top. So I scramble to my feet, pick the bicycle off the ground to keep it from catching on branches and grass, and force myself up the last incline. My feet hit smooth pavement and I want to cry with relief, but I can’t. Out of the corner of my eye, I see them. A pack of them. Six or more. They are fast. Large, bulky shapes of gray and black matted fur. Ten or fifteen feet behind me. Jaws open. Ready to attack.

One leaps out in front of the others. Its wide, yellow eyes are focused on me as it closes the gap between us. I aim and fire. The thing growls in anger as the bullet hits it square in the chest. But it doesn’t stop. The bullet doesn’t even slow it down.

“We can’t take them out. Get on! We gotta go.”

Tomas’s voice snaps me into action. I throw my leg over the bicycle frame. My feet hit the pedals and push. The sound of claws on pavement and the snarls of our pursuers get my legs pumping faster. The rickety metal beneath me protests as it picks up speed. I pray my handiwork won’t give out on me now. Tomas is right. These creatures, whatever they are, are too strong for us to kill with a handgun or a knife. If we cannot outrace them . . .

Tomas yells encouragement back to me as the road slants downward. My wheels pick up speed. There are howls behind me, but they sound like they are dropping back. I keep pedaling. Willing the animals to give up the chase. To find a different, less speedy prey for their morning meal.

And they do.

The yips and growls grow fainter. When I no longer hear the sounds of the animals in pursuit, I brave a look behind and see in the distance that the pack is leaving the road. Heading north. Away from us.

Still we keep riding in case the creatures think to circle around and come at us from the other side. That kind of thinking takes higher reasoning and calculated determination. More than most animals are capable of, but there are stories told around campfires to scare children. Stories as well about humans who survived the radiation and the chemicals but were horribly changed. Never did I believe those stories were true, but I would never have believed the United Commonwealth capable of killing Testing candidates to aid in their selection process. So while the animals we are escaping showed no signs of human characteristics, we ride another fifteen miles before we stop and catch our breath.

I lay my bicycle on the ground and walk into Tomas’s waiting arms. Pressing my head against his chest, I hear his heart hammering hard and know mine is pounding equally fast. We are alive. Since being shot at hours after the test began, I have been focused on the dangers my competition might bring or the ones the Testing officials have put in place. I had almost forgotten to worry about the animals roaming the damaged plains. Although, now that I think about it, I have to wonder if they are out here by accident or design. The Testers erected fences. If they are high enough to keep us in, wouldn’t it stand to reason they would keep animals not welcomed by the Testers out?

Pulling away from the comfort of Tomas’s arms, I dig out a water bottle and swallow the bitter taste of fear and fatigue. I hand Tomas the bottle and unwrap the food we intended to prepare for our morning’s breakfast. Miraculously, the eggs, wrapped carefully in my clothing, have survived unbroken. Tomas suggests we make a fire and cook them since we need to rest for a while anyway. Our race to safety has left us both exhausted.

At least, that’s what I think when we first gather twigs and sticks for the fire. As Tomas kneels down to light a match, I notice the blood seeping through the back of his pants. The sight stops me cold, and I realize how bloodless his face has gotten now that the color of exertion has disappeared. The match trembles in his hand as he lights the twigs and coaxes them into a crackling fire.

I pull my medical kit out and order Tomas to lie on the ground.

He flashes me a pained grin. “Tell a girl you love her and she automatically gets bossy. Well, I guess I can’t complain since you’re asking me to take off my pants.”

I laugh, but a tear in the cauterized wound puts an end to my amusement. And once I wash away the blood, I can see a slight redness that speaks of infection. The infection isn’t bad—yet. But it could be if we aren’t careful. Seeing the possible contagion makes me decide to change treatment options. Not that this one will be any easier.

I make Tomas take several pain tablets and drink a lot of water before I sterilize a needle, thread it, and begin work. Tomas flinches as the needle slides into his flesh. Or maybe it was me who flinched. My heart thuds, my stomach clenches, and I grit my teeth as I push the needle back through tissue, pull the thread taut, and do it again. The tear is less than a half inch long, but each stitch is so small that it takes a dozen of them to complete the job. Tomas doesn’t make a sound, but every wince on his face makes my heart ache. Dr. Flint told me once that it’s hard for doctors to work on people they love, and that he hoped he’d never have to perform surgery on Dad or any of us kids for fear that love would get in the way of his training. Working the needle in and out of Tomas’s flesh, I understand Dr. Flint’s words. My fingers are slick with red when I make the last stitch and tie and cut the knot.

/> I am shaking and queasy as I slather the anti-infection ointment on the wound and place another bandage over it. Tomas is in worse shape. Traveling now isn’t an option. I wash the blood from my hands and tell Tomas to sleep while I get food ready. His eyes are closed before I can dig out the pan.

I decide to postpone cooking for a while. After all that blood, the idea of handling or eating food doesn’t appeal. Gun in hand, I do a search of the area for something to cook with the eggs and score some wild onion. I also find a patch of ripe wild raspberries.

I let Tomas sleep for more than two hours—as long as I dare. When his eyes open, I’m thrilled to see they are bright and clear and filled with annoyance at being left to sleep the day away. Although, when we finish eating, it’s obvious that no matter how much he might want to travel, riding isn’t a good idea. Tomas is weakened from the blood loss, and the injury is too tender. So we walk, wheeling our bicycles beside us for hours and taking short breaks for Tomas to rest. We find a river, but the water is poisonous and cannot be purified. At least, not with the chemicals in my bag. Our progress isn’t fast, but it is constant. And by the end of the day, we can see buildings in the distance.

An abandoned city. And the road we are traveling runs right through it.

Chapter 15

THE SIGHT OF the buildings makes me shiver. The streets in between the buildings could house anything—wild animals, other candidates, or worse. From here the city looks to go on for miles. Even without the threat of danger lurking around every corner, I do not relish entering its depths. Tomas and I have been foraging for plants and treating water from the ponds and brooks we have encountered along the way. I doubt we will be able to do the same in a world comprising decaying stone and steel.

With the threat of the city looming in the distance, I set out dinner and say, “The city would be the perfect location for the officials to add some additional tests. Most candidates will probably pass through the city instead of going around because it looks like the faster route.” I think of my father and his nightmare. Whatever happened to his friends took place in a city like the one sprawled out before us.

Tomas meets my eyes and nods. He understands what I am thinking and what I am careful not to say with the Testers listening in. “Or they could place traps on the roads leading around the city to make sure candidates have to travel through it. They’re going to want to see how we react when we come across other people. Look.” He points to the south, and I squint into the setting sun. “The southern fence line bumps right up against the city. I can’t see the northern boundary, but I’m betting it’s closer than we think.”

Weapons tight in our hands, we let sleep claim us and are up and ready to travel with the dawn. A survey of our supplies has us looking for water as the city looms closer. We find a small, murky pond coated with a black oily substance about a hundred yards from the road. Three of the purification chemicals are needed to treat the water, and even still I am concerned about its safety. Storing the water, I hope we find another source before we are forced to drink it. If not—well, we’ll have to take our chances. While I don’t relish being poisoned, I like the idea of dehydration even less.