After the Fear (Young Adult Dystopian) (20 page)

A smile flickers on Shepherd Fines’ face and his body inflates slightly.

‘Yes. Yes, okay. Just this once.’

I try to look enthusiastic, but the Gekruide tea is too hot and he’s keeping me up too late in this office. I have to fight tomorrow. One tired mistake and I’m dead.

‘Sir, I’m sorry, but I—’

‘Sola, don’t call me Sir—it’s so formal! Call me . . . Shepherd Fines.’

I resist the urge to tell him that’s far longer and just as formal. He tops up my tea, and I struggle to keep my heavy eyelids from drooping.

‘I really should—’

‘That reminds me! I never told you about that time I was in Geneva. It’s where Dr. Frankenstein’s monster went, you know. You’d love it there. The whole place is blue and wondrous, and I was so extremely blissful. I wanted to bottle up the lake and bring it with me.’ Shepherd Fines moves over to the armrest of the sofa, where I’m leaning back against the soft cushions.

‘How come you were safe there?’ I murmur, closing my eyes for a minute. If we aren’t even safe from the cities in our own country, how come Shepherd Fines can travel the world?

‘Well, it’s not like that over there. In fact, never mind. Let me get you a blanket.’

‘No,’ I think I say. Images are dancing in my mind which I didn’t invite. Shepherd Fines’ voice is far away, and these cushions are so cosy. My fingers loosen as someone takes my mug out of my hand. Something is placed over me, warm and comforting and smelling of lavender. Maybe I’m home again.

I smile and snuggle down, pulling the blanket up to my chin before serene calmness claims my mind.

***

‘WAKEY, WAKEY!’

An irritating voice infiltrates my dream. I groan and bury my head in the soft darkness. A hand on my shoulder. I jolt awake, grabbing the unwelcome wrist, ready to twist when—

‘Ouch! Sola, it’s me.’

Shepherd Fines?

I blink, pulling my hands away. Sure enough, the blurry image of Shepherd Fines’ office solidifies.

I jump up, the blanket falling around my feet.

‘What the—? Am I late? I have to fight! Why am I here?’ My head spins round just as my mind spins like a tornado inside it.

‘Relax, dear.’ Shepherd Fines keeps a couple of paces away from me, holding his hands in front of him like he is calming a wild horse. ‘You fell asleep last night, but there’s no need for panic. I woke you with hours to go before the spinner comes. There’s time to go to the Wetpod, get your clothes from the medic and even have a little extra training if you want. See? I wouldn’t let anything happen to you.’

The memory of last night trickles into my mind. How could I let myself fall asleep here? Did Shepherd Fines sleep here, too? That thought makes me shiver. I nod, avoiding his eyes and stand pointedly in front of the door. There’s a beep as he runs his finger over the scanner. I’ve never been happier to see the sight of tarmac.

‘I bet you slept well last night, didn’t you?’ he asks as I’m about to leg it down the staircase. I open my mouth to protest, to recall my nightmare . . . and falter. I
did
sleep well. No horrid visions, no dead eyes, no fragmented dreams.

Surprised, I nod before sweeping down the steps.

As I round underneath the steps and head for the Wetpod, I freeze. Demonstrators who are already training parry and shout screams of exertion. Right in front of them, at our usual meeting place, stands Dylan.

His face says it all. It’s as if the seconds which go by count down to the assumption he’s making.

I stare back, the cold creeping up on me like a painful realisation, cementing me to the spot. I’m exactly halfway between him and Shepherd Fines’ office. I don’t need to wonder whether he saw me coming out of there. My hair’s rumpled, clothes creased, and my sudden shame must show in my expression.

Dylan doesn’t acknowledge me, just turns, kicks the soil in front of him, and sprints away, joining the others. I take a step towards him, then reconsider. Today, the most important thing is to try and stay alive. Thinking of my diminishing preparation time, I run instead to the Wetpod.

Could this day get any worse?

I laugh at my own thought.

‘THIS AFTERNOON, we have a first for you, loyal subjects of the Shepherds. Let me tell you a tale. One of hardship and determination. One of a woman who was so desperate to prove her loyalty to the Shepherds that she trained night and day on how to kill. Yet I am not describing today’s Demonstrator. Oh no.’ Ebiere Okiro lets out a dramatic chuckle amid her speech.

I’m hidden from the crowd underneath the open archway. Ebiere is on the sands, her voice projecting through the Stadium. I wipe my lips with my sleeve, leaving a bright red lipstick stain on my uniform. I had to resist the urge to knock the makeup girl out when she tried to cover my black-eyes with foundation. Someone should explain to her that purple skin equals a lot of pain and should NOT be touched. Behind me, a man stands grumpily by the plastic table. He tried to persuade me to take the gun, evidently afraid his job as comforter, counsellor and all round patroniser was on the line. I can only assume I’ll have to deal with the same type of person twenty-three more times before I get home.

‘I am describing our contestant! ‘ Ebiere continues. ‘Yes, that’s right. Tonight we have only one criminal daring to take on the power of the Demonstrator. This contestant claims she was arrested solely for a chance to prove herself as a fighter. She shouts through the prisons that she will win her fight and with it, her chance to be trained as a Demonstrator. Will she be silenced tonight?

‘But first, ladies and gentlemen, please welcome, for her second Demonstration and by choice without the safety of a one-bullet gun, your defender and Demonstrator, Sola Herrington!’

I step out of the archway to city X-ray’s silent crowd. The rows of bitter faces glare back at me. I guess it’s true that they haven’t paid back much of their Debt back. Their hatred of me shows that. I blink them away and watch Ebiere bid the crowd goodbye while gliding over the sand as only she can do.

I watch the gate opposite me, knowing my enemy waits behind it. Ebiere’s speech has at least warned me this woman isn’t to be messed with. In training, Gideon mentioned that you come across people who actually
want
to be Demonstrators, but never get chosen to pay back the Debt. Some of these train, then get arrested on purpose. The prize for a criminal who kills in their Demonstration is to become trained themselves, so it’s kind of a replacement service. Even after knowing this, the idea of wanting this lifestyle is so crazy that I hadn’t honestly expected to face one of these hopefuls on my tour.

My feet shuffle on the spot as I wait. Shepherd Fines was right about my sleep. I’m refreshed, ready. It’s as if I’ve peeled all of my senses, taking away the old battered layer and replacing it with alert new skills. I grip my sword and, for once, my hand is dry. The air smells like a mixture of stale water and blood. My lips taste like salt. I only have one person to kill today. That thought fills me with confidence. If I could kill three before, I can kill one now.

I dart my head up.

The gate clicks into life. That sound, it’s like a trigger in my brain I can’t control. It pulls me from the present and into that dark memory.

Not today.

Not with this woman who wants me dead.

I clench my eyes shut. Breathe, Sola. Breathe.

Stop squeezing my hand, William
.
You’re not here
.
You’re not real
.

I pinch my eyes tighter. The first man I ever killed ogles at me. There are more now. Four sets of dead eyes—

My knees hit the sand.
That’s
real.

I open my eyes just in time to see the ground sway towards me. My back collides with the floor, but I roll away, using both arms to push myself up. I have to survive.

That final click resonates through the arena. Heavy footsteps of a contestant step out. She doesn’t rush me, which is surprising, seeing as I’m still forcing my body up. I’m frail and woozy, yet she doesn’t press the advantage; in fact, the footsteps stop.

There’s this
whooshing
sound, like the faint howls of the wind. As it picks up its pace, the audience’s cheers grow in time with the noise. I open my eyes, a bit annoyed now, if I’m honest.

The woman—or, should I say, warrior—stands facing the stalls, seemingly unconcerned about me. Her hair is shaven, her skin tanned, and she’s quite clearly torn her own brown prisoner’s uniform to make it look like she’s been in a fight before she came out. She’s also
big
. Bigger than me in every way: taller, stockier, more muscular.

The
whooshing
comes from her weapon: a short stick which is extended to body length with wide, sharp blades. She’s waving it in front of her in some kind of salute to the audience.

They
love
it.

Someone shouts her name and I catch it in the air. ‘Bronach.’
Well, Bronach, it was a really stupid thing to do to get yourself arrested just so you could fight me
.

Recovering from my moment of weakness, I drop into my fighting stance, sword over my head. If she’s putting on a show, so will I.

Bronach takes her time, stretching her muscles and inspecting her staff before she eventually turns to me. The crowd titters. I stand like I’m about to pounce while my enemy is acting positively bored by the whole thing. To be honest, I’m relieved it’s daytime and the floodlights aren’t on. If they were, her shadow would engulf me, and the audience would probably cackle themselves to death.

‘I thought they would do better than you, after all the commotion I caused,’ she says once she’s looking down on me. Her ‘th’s sound like hard ‘t’s, reminding me of Dylan’s accent, but its ugly coming from her snarling mouth.

‘Come on then,’ I say, surprised by my own eagerness.

Her insults uncurl that sleeping monster, and I welcome it. Take me over. Act for me,
please
.

She drops down.

I strike.

My sword cuts into her staff with a chop. It sticks, and Bronach wrenches me towards her with a yell. She aims a kick to my solar plexus.

In a flash, I let go, swerving the kick and sliding out of range. Bronach smiles. She pulls my sword from her staff and launches it across the arena without taking her smug eyes off me. She already thinks she’s won.

Maybe I should tell her I’m used to being weaponless. That the sword only slows me down.

Her blades flash as she swirls her stick, taunting me with a grin that’s no longer for her fans. Thinking back to my last training session with Dylan, I twist so that I’m leading Bronach in a circle instead of getting backed against the edge.

My breath is coming fast and ragged, my backward steps scuffing the sand below.

I hear Dylan’s voice in my head.
Read her.
Use her strength against her. Don’t get into close range.

I dart forwards. Bronach is quicker than I give her credit for, and she angles her blade towards me. I drop to the floor, skidding up sand and grit as I slide underneath her. I dart my hand up, still jerking out of the way of her frenzied jabbing.

The blade nips my wrist, but my heart pounds when I grasp onto her staff. She tries to steal it away but that only helps me to my feet.

As soon as I’m up I yank her weapon towards me—just long enough to make her do exactly what I want.

She wrenches it back, and boy, do I let her take it. I shift all my weight and launch forwards, toppling on top of her.

Her eyes go wide with panic as her own force pulls her backward. Those huge feet shuffle as she loses balance.

I twist away, also falling,—but I’m still holding her staff.

Once my hip thuds onto the sand, I roll back up to my feet. She’s up in the same moment, but that cocky look in her eyes is gone. Sand sticks to her arms, and her brown uniform is darkened with sweat. I give the double-bladed staff a little swirl before breaking it in half on my knee and throwing one piece behind me. Perhaps that was cruel, but it’s worse if she thinks she has a chance of surviving.

The viewers roar, although I’m not sure who it’s for. I think Bronach will retreat, but she puffs her chest out and balls her fists.

I swirl the blade one more time before leaping in to close the space between us, eager to finish the fight. Bronach spins, avoiding my jab. I see a wide elbow, but don’t have time to react.

 
I swear I hear my skin split as agony slices into my eye.

Jeez! I reel backward. Why the face? Why is it always the face?

There’s the sound of metal on metal, and I barely register that I’m blocking her attacks as they cascade down on me. She must have found my sword because she uses that and her brute strength to force me to the ground. My knees buckle. Her face looms over me.

We both realise I’m losing at the same time. She lets out a strange, guttural sound and her attacks become stronger. My energy is zapped with every block. I know how this works. It’s just a matter of time.

The sound of the onlookers dulls. My arm aches. Her face, contorted with the hope of victory, begins to tunnel in my vision.