Thirty-One
Carefully I shifted my grip and turned, so that I faced the way I’d come. I walked my hands backward one at a time. Instead of being grainy and easy to grip, this rope was slick. And when I lifted my legs to curl my feet around it for additional support, the entire thing bounced.
I swallowed, hard. Slick and not especially taut. Perfect.
Then, letting my head fall back, I stared up at my hands and started picking my way toward the far wall, one hand at a time.
I was only a few feet out when a flicker of orange caught my eye. Before I could stop myself, my head rolled to the right. For three agonizingly long seconds, I watched as Mom struggled against the tape while the fire writhed before her, much closer now. Then I squeezed my eyes shut and continued, concentrating only on the steady rhythm of my hands.
Pull. Pull. Pull.
Halfway to my goal, I heard the first clicking noise. qct My head rolled left, too quickly, and the entire rope swayed. A window in the wall had slid open, allowing a black barrel to poke out. One that was aiming at my shoes.
I unhooked my feet, just in time. The laser missed, but even so, I could feel the scorch of the heat it left behind, and my stomach turned. Another of Holland’s special modifications, no doubt—laser guns that would actually inflict damage.
I couldn’t afford to get hit.
Without wasting precious time to rehook my feet, I worked my way toward the other side, muscles taut as I listened for another telltale click. The rope bounced way too much for comfort. Was this how the regular soldiers performed the Run? Why did they tolerate it? Why did Lucas? All of my conjecture vanished when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the rope to my left dip.
Three. Behind me and coming on fast.
The gleaming steel wall loomed ahead, like something out of an industrial nightmare. So much closer now. I surged forward with my right hand, then my left, shrinking the distance one grab at a time.
Click. Click.
Windows flying open, on both sides.
My threat came from the right. I had only an instant to see the barrel aim for my hands and less time to react. Arching my back like a gymnast, I swung my legs up hard and released my grip at the same time. For a terrifying moment, I was flying through the air with nothing to stop me from plunging into the murky water below. I whipped my head down, and the laser streaked past. Right by the spot my hands had been just moments before.
The rope jerked hard as my feet locked around it. The laser had nicked the rope.
From my upside-down and backward position, I saw Three emerge unscathed. She was lurching her way toward me at an impossibly fast pace. I swung back and forth, gaining momentum until finally my hands curled around the rope again.
Click, click.
My hands kept moving while my gaze darted right, then left. Not a window in sight. The rope jerked, hard. And then it went slack. As I plummeted backward toward the far wall, I saw the other severed half swinging for the opposite side.
Nice shot.
That was my last thought before I slammed headfirst into the steel wall. The impact reverberated down my spine, jarring the rope loose from my hands. I rebounded, slid two feet in midair before regaining my grip, then braced myself and slam! hit the wall again.
I slid until my left hand was holding air and I was dangling like some kind of offering to the patient water below. It would have to wait.
I reached up and grabbed the rope with my empty hand, carefully turned myself around to face the wall, and braced my shoes against the metal. When I reached the top, I allowed myself a brief backward glance and elation rushed through me. Three was clinging to her severed rope, but her piece was connected to the far wall, and I realized I could actually beat her.
Now, I just had to finish the course in time.
From my perch, I saw that yet another wall blocked my path, about eight, maybe nine feet away. Rocky instead of steel. But the rocks extended all the way up to the ceiling. The only way through was via two round metal tunnels that protruded a good twelve feet above ground. And they weren’t especially wide.
As I started my descent, the choice flashed through my mind, quick as lightning.
Climb down this wall, run across, climb back up, or . . .
Climb down to tunnel level and dive.
I skidded down the rocky face, the tunnel’s dark mouth drawing my gaze like a moth to the flame.
Safety or time, safety or time?
“Six minutes.”
Decision made.
I didn’t give myself time to second-guess. I balanced on a rock that protruded slightly above the level of the tunnel’s floor, wishing once again that my android measurements weren’t jammed. Then I lifted my arms overhead, bent forward, and, with a silent prayer to whoever might be listening, dived.
There’s nothing like realizing you’ve miscalculated a split second too late. Wind whistled through my ears while panic filled me as I dipped too low and saw the rocks jut out to greet my face. I twisted, threw my left hand up, and managed to grab a handful of metal with little more than my fingertips.
After a wild swing during which I almost lost my grip, I hoisted my body up onto the cool metal surface of the tunnel. Then I was inside.
Besides darkness, the first thing I noticed as I started crawling was the fetid, rank smell. The deeper into the tunnel I went, the stronger it got. The aroma matched something in my memory banks.
Flesh. Rotting flesh.
I shook my head, as if that could banish the terrifying thoughts of what might be lurking ahead.
Don’t think. Just move.
I rounded a corner, and what little light penetrated the narrow hole vanished. The air inside was chilly, the metal slightly damp under my hands. In here, it was like I was sealed away from the rest of the world. Just the dark and the sound of my own breathing and the rhythmic strike of my hands and knees. But I knew somehow, somewhere, Holland was watching, just waiting for me to falter.
I turned another corner, and it was like the floor fell out from under me. I was sliding, sliding, my hands scrabbling for something to slow me down, but the walls were too slick. I landed with a thud.
As if pressure-sensitive, a tiny, dim light flickered on in the middle of the tube. The space narrowed ahead, so much so that I could no longer crawl on my hands and knees. Without pausing, I plopped my forearms down, gritted my teeth, and moved as quickly as possible.
The stench grew stronger.
Ahead, the tunnel curved sharply to the left. I rounded the turn, hoping the end would appear. Instead, I saw feet. Bare feet, attached to a body—a body that reeked of death. I wasted precious seconds staring at those soles, the same size as mine, and breathed through my mouth to lessen the stench.
Had Holland planted a dead person as part of the challenge?
Don’t think about it. Just go.
My head swam with borrowed dizziness as I pushed forward. I reached the body’s feet, realizing with dawning horror that the tunnel was so narrow here, there was no way to pass without touching it. My chest dragged across the unmoving legs, the T-shirted torso. She was a girl, with a tangle of long brown hair. And then I reached her face, and my entire body went rigid.
This girl was my age, my height, my complexion. And her eyes, which were wide open, were startling green.
Three. Had she gotten ahead of me somehow to trap me? But wait—that was impossible. Then my gaze fell to the side of her head, where a wicked incision traveled the entire length of her hairline. That, and a bullet hole.
Oh my god. Not Three. One. Only not the version from my shattered memory. That girl had been vibrant, alive, whereas this girl . . . she was an empty shell. Vacant. And in her terminated state, so obviously not human.
A buzzing filled my ears, so loud at first I thought it was emitting from a speaker. But no, it was coming from inside my head—a phantom emotional reaction. I choked back the scream barreling up my throat at the last second.
Regret, sadness, and anger: they swelled into a bitter symphony in my chest as I left my predecessor behind like a discarded toy. I hurried past the slaughtered rat a few feet later—the source of the stench. Another one of Holland’s tricks.
The tunnel curved again, and finally a circle of light showed.
When I neared the exit, the lights vanished, but I couldn’t let that slow me down. I surged forward and plunged into empty space, but I didn’t land on the dirt floor.
No, I landed in a pile of lumpy, loose parts—firm and awkward, but not too hard. And as the lights flickered back on, I knew.
Body parts, everywhere I looked—android, not human. Holland’s pile of junk.
For a second, disbelief held me in place, sprawled belly down on top. Then I pushed to my feet and jumped, wobbling on the uneven surface. I barely cleared a haphazard cluster of arms.
If only I could vomit. Maybe then this sickening twisting of my stomach, this unrelenting nausea that made my mouth fill with unnecessary saliva, would finally cease.
But I couldn’t vomit. I couldn’t run. The simulator was here, somewhere—buried in a sea of discarded limbs. Limbs just like mine.
“Three minutes remaining.”
The computerized reminder jolted me into action. I leaned over, grabbed an arm. Forced myself to glance inside. Hollow, except for a few left-over wires. I shuddered at the shell and tossed it aside, grabbing an abandoned lower leg next. The skin felt artificial, desiccated, as if separating the leg from the rest of the body had dried up any residual traces of humanity.
I dropped it and grabbed a torso. A thin incision split the body into two halves, and with grim determination I separated then, scanning the contents as fast as possible. Wires, and metal plates, plastic. But the thing that captured my attention was the small, fist-sized object. Not the simulator, but a pump. Black, smooth. Mechanical. A fake heart for a fake person. And nothing at all inside that resembled a soul.
I drew in a harsh breath. I might not have a soul, but if they existed, then Mom surely did.
Fueled by renewed determination, I became a parts-screening machine. Beyond the pile, I heard a whisper of a noise, then banging. The other tunnel. Three.
I had to find that simulator, fast.
The sea of parts grew shallower and shallower as I discarded hands, feet, arms, and legs, even as the banging grew louder. Despair clenched me in an unyielding grip. I wasn’t going to find it in time. Three would get here, and then—
I moved yet another useless limb and saw it—a small, round, red device, about the circumference of the coffee mug Mom used to guzzle from each morning. A picture of a dynamite stick was etched into the top.
Above me, I heard Three reach the end of the tunnel. My fingers curled around the sphere at the same instant Three hit the ground, sending parts smashing into my legs when she landed. I gripped the simulator protectively, Holland’s warning all too clear.
If I dropped it, I lost everything.
I whirled and pushed forward onto my right foot, ready to sprint my way to the finish.
A viselike grip on my arm yanked me back.
