After the Fear (Young Adult Dystopian) (30 page)

THE NEXT MORNING, as I make my way to the spinner, Dylan catches my eye. We don’t dare say a word. Our gaze plays out a conversation that in my mind goes like this: we kissed last night. Let’s kiss again. Don’t die so we can kiss some more.

Even when Shepherd Fines tucks my hand into the crook of his elbow and guides me away, I turn back, watching Dylan. I’m smiling and wishing and loving so hard that my chest feels full and on fire.

The spinner is already waiting for us on the landing pad. Coral stares out of the gap as Shepherd Fines climbs in beside her. He taps the other seat next to him, and I pull myself into it. Even knowing I have to fight alongside Coral today won’t extinguish the excitement that tingles through me. I’m still imagining my and Dylan’s next kiss when the spinner hovers over Juliet.

Home.

We descend onto the hospital roof. After two months, I breathe in the smell of my home city. The sights rush back to me, familiar and crooked at the same time. Everything looks askew, as if it’s been knocked down and rebuilt wrong. Was it always this small?

Scaffolding leans against new buildings like climbing frames. Something’s different. The place seems less like home and more like the cities I’ve visited since being chosen. . . .

A glance at Coral tells me she’s noticed too. She breaks her cool facade to lean out of the gap, gasping at our home. An unwelcome pang of jealousy hits me. Coral gets to go back today. Everyone knows the Shepherds are going to give her an easy twist. In the lead up to this final fight, Coral’s followers overtook mine, and no one has bought tickets to see her die. The crowd want their hero rewarded.

It will be me soon. Just seven more Demonstrations before my final fight. I’m not sure if that thought delights or terrifies me.

Coral’s out of the spinner faster than if her seat were alight. We don’t say one word to each other as we’re led by a thick group of Herd officers through the hospital and the city streets. I’m too busy standing on my tiptoes, desperately searching for Dad. People stare back, and a crowd slowly forms, following us to the Stadium with whispers and squeals of excitement. I catch sight of a new digital billboard I’ve never seen before.

To my surprise, both my and Coral’s faces fill the pixels. We’re smiling. I recognise the pictures as school photos taken before we were chosen.

I look so . . . young.

Underneath our faces reads:
the heroes of Juliet, chosen for you by the Shepherds.

Then I understand. The scaffolding, the vibe that something has changed. It
has
.
We’ve
changed it. Two of the most popular Demonstrators and both from Juliet.

To me,
heroes of Juliet
equals
we’re making people rich
.

I don’t look up again until we’re led through the depths of the Stadium. I’ve gotten accustomed to the interior of these places; each one’s built the same. So my suspicions rise when we walk past the usual room with the archway. I recognise soundproof walls as we scan into our waiting room. If it’s anything like the room in city Hotel, that door opposite us will open to reveal a staircase to the archway.

Thankfully, the Stadium workers don’t strap any clamps onto us, just hand us the usual leather belt, sword, and for Coral, gun.

As we wait for the workers to open the door, Coral lets her hair down. Right then, I wish I had let the makeup girl work her magic on me, too.

The stuff plasters Coral’s face; she has dark liner rimming her eyes and stark powder bronzing her cheekbones. Her long hair has been curled at the ends. The red ringlets bounce down her back and contrast with the white uniform, which sets off her crimson lips.

I, on the other hand, am dressed in a tighter version of my school uniform. My face is untouched, and my hair’s scraped back into a pony tail with the pin sticking out of it like I’ve been caught in a game of darts.

It’s a good job we’re on the same side. Otherwise, I know who the crowd would be rooting for.

I wonder how many people from school will be in the stands tonight. Not that it matters now. That life belongs to someone else. I’m not Sola ‘tease me and laugh and pretend you can’t hear anything I say’ Herrington anymore.

I’m a Demonstrator.

The thick silence is punctured by the workers scanning the door open. Coral stares ahead, shoulders back, head up, sword ready. Tall, toned, and beautiful. The loaded gun on her belt sways with her hips. Before we step out of the room, she looks over her shoulder at me.

‘I’ve got your back, sis.’ Even though her tone isn’t sarcastic, I know she’s laughing at me.

I grip my sword, breathe deeply, and follow her out into the open.

The Stadium has transformed since my tryout. Yellow lights lick the edges of each stand, barrier, and gate. Dramatic music blasts as we enter, and outdoor heaters droop over the crowd like super long walking sticks hanging from the ceiling. Through the incoherent screams and general buzz blurting from the stands, I hear the audience chanting, ‘Ju-li-et, Ju-li-et!’

In all my visits, I’ve never seen the place so packed. People squeeze into every available space. The steps are no longer clear aisles that run up and down the stands but seats to anyone who can fit onto them. It reminds me of the cash machines in old arcades. One more penny and the people leaning over the barriers would spill onto the sands and never stop falling.

Coral looks up at her fans through thick eyelashes, smiling and drinking in the applause. I turn to the gate, crouching with one foot forwards. Let’s get this over with so Coral can go home, and I can finish my tour in peace.

The familiar clicking sound causes the audience to hush and the music dims. Up on the screen, Coral bites her lip and grins at the gate. I may not agree with the Shepherds’ way of enforcing their power, but right this second, I see that Coral was born to do this. To kill others and make herself feel good. I put another step between us and calm the raging fuzz that overtakes my mind.

More clicks.

Breathe, breathe, breathe.

Iron, death, dirt—the stench of my tryout comes rushing back. I look to Coral, but I see William. I didn’t want this today. Not when I have to be ready for whatever comes out of that gate. After my last Demonstration, I
know
there’ll be a twist.

I say William’s name and feel him squeeze my hand, reminding me he was stabbed on these very sands.

I swear, and the sound of it pulls me back. I’m swaying forwards, listening to Coral scoffing beside me.

My vision clears in time to see the gate finish its upward slide. Just before two opponents step out onto the sands.

My mouth goes slack.

I stare at Mr and Mrs Winters.

THE FOUR OF US stare across the arena in silence. I gasp, and it sounds like a can being opened. The colour slips from Coral’s face. She drops her sword, takes two running steps towards her mother, but stops.

Seconds go by so slowly, the stillness so tangible that I can taste the excitement emitting from the crowd. They take in the scene greedily and in their expressions is knowledge. I wonder how many bought tickets purely for this moment.

Mr Winters straightens up. He’s thinner than before. His skin so grey it’s almost see-through. He doesn’t drop his scythe. Coral’s mother looks to her daughter, then to her husband. She grips her staff, holding it in front of her chest like a baby.

That’s when Coral begins to back away. Without taking her eyes from her family, she bends down and gropes around in the sand for her weapon.

Even seeing Coral’s face—desolate and empty in the screen—I can’t bring myself to feel anything less than loathing for her. But no one deserves this. Not even her.

I walk over, breaking the stalemate.

‘Coral, I can do this. You don’t have to,’ I shout. It seems to travel through the whole Stadium.

She turns to me, venom in her eyes.

‘You’d like that. Kill my parents while I watch? Take all my glory? Go stab yourself, Sola.’ She spits at me, and I jump back to avoid it. The audience hiss and boo but I don’t know who for. Perhaps it’s just because no one has died yet.

Coral advances. A thin lipped determination settles onto her features. Her mouth moves as she talks to herself. They form the same words over and over. ‘They’re already dead. They’re already dead.’ Her parents separate, and Coral looks lost over which to follow.

My throat goes dry. I shiver just standing still in this flimsy uniform. So I do the only thing I can do well in the Stadium.

I overtake Coral, and I fight.

Coral’s mother is first. She’s no good with the staff. I knock it from her hands in seconds. She keeps looking behind me to her daughter. I can’t tell whether it’s for help or in—

Pain splits across the side of my head. My knees scrape against the sand as I fall forwards. I rush to get up. My left eye throbs where I was punched. I look around, and Coral takes my place in front of her mother, turning her back on me. So much for trying to help.

‘Isn’t she beautiful?’

That voice which triggers my automatic retch reflex creeps over the sands. Mr Winters stands paces away, watching the two women in his family stare each other down.

‘I think she’s going to kill us.’ He speaks leisurely, as if the whole thing is some mix up and we’ll all have a good laugh later. Eventually, his cold eyes settle on my face. There’s the scent of decaying soil in the air. Is it possible for someone to smell like death?

‘I’ve always liked you, Sola.’

Ha! He practically chokes on my name. I keep one eye on him, one on Coral and her mother.

‘Perhaps you could take her on? If you kill her, they might cancel the Demonstration.’

A horrible crack rings out. Coral has broken her mother’s neck. I gag.

‘Please, Sola. I always rooted for your father. I was going to promote him.’ He speaks faster now, backing away despite Coral not moving from the spot where she sits cradling her mother’s shoulders.

It’s up to me to finish this fight. I breathe deeply, ignore the throbbing pain from the side of my face, and leap forwards to attack.

Mr Winters is a surprisingly good fighter. His narrow eyes take in everything while his arms dart to deflect my blows. His scythe allows him to block from a distance, and he glides backwards, not letting me an inch closer. Yet this kind of parry is hard to sustain—a perfect example of Gideon’s words:
if you can’t run this field forty times before you go out to fight, you’ll lose.

Mr Winters’ moves become less definite; his arm slower, less precise. My sword collides against his curved blade and his face twists as he tries to push me off. I throw my weight forwards. He stumbles back, panic and desperation breaking his usually calm gaze. He keeps looking behind me although I know no one is there.

I press on, waiting for that weakness in his defence. Eventually, his thin head shakes, and his cold stare finds its way into my eyes.

‘I always helped you, Sola. I could have told Shepherd Fines about the sword that boy gave you in your tryout,’ he says, and his words resonate within me. ‘That night I saw you sneaking around at Zulu, I could have reported you.’

My hand wavers in the air. He’s right. I stare at the white grains of sands below as if they could give me answers. Could he have cared, all this time? Shepherd Fines already knew about the sword, but my creeping around—

The crowd gasps. There’s a red hot burning in my belly. Far too late, I figure out the ruse.

Stupid, stupid!

Blood seeps through my school uniform, spreading like a river over my shirt then down my leg. It’s dark. Darker than it should be. I see the large slash to my stomach in the screen and then up close. It doesn’t look real. It doesn’t even hurt. Just burns. Mr Winters draws his scythe back, the blade now painted crimson.

All I hear is silence. Mr Winters swings for my neck. I block him instinctively. My body works for me, deflecting and attacking, not letting his blade come close again. I’m persisting, but resisting is much harder. The slow burning churns into a searing torment deep in my gut. I just think of injections. It’s like the sickening pain as someone roots around with a needle inside of you, trying to find your vein. All you can do is sit there, waiting . . . waiting.

Energy is seeping from my body. I stagger forwards, the scene before me blurring.

Mr Winters’ scythe clatters to the floor, the sound like claws tapping a table. I didn’t even realise I’d knocked his weapon away. My limbs are so heavy. Sleep calls to me. Why is the sand so unsteady? I draw my sword back. Mr Winters doubles in my vision and all four eyes widen in terror.

‘Sola, your father. He’s watching. You don’t want him to see you do this, do you?’ Even now, his voice seems full of authority. I’m not sure if he’s alluding to the fact that
he
could be my father. My feet stumble to keep me upright.

‘My dad would understand,’ I say. Using both hands, I swing my sword down and separate both of Mr Winters’ heads from both his bodies. The last I see of him is a flash of memory: him standing in my kitchen the day I was chosen for the Debt.