I assess the man, noting his thinness, his stringy, unwashed hair. It looks as though he hasn’t had a good meal or bath in a month. A testament to life in a detention camp.
“There will be no fourth attempt for him . . . no more innocent guards killed. Mercy for him ends here and now.”
Harris pulls a gun from his belt. I flinch at the sight of it even though I handle a gun every day during drills at the firing range.
My stomach bottoms out as he points the barrel at the target. The man stares straight ahead at all of us with unblinking eyes, his lips moving rapidly, saying something under his breath. I strain to hear. Is he praying? Begging for his life?
I glance around me. Everyone watches, transfixed, eyes glazed brightly.
I look back at Harris, tense, waiting for the sound of the shot. Instead, he lowers his arm.
Air slips out past my lips, relieved. Maybe he changed his mind.
He stares out at all of us, scanning the crowd until his gaze lands on me. “Hamilton,” he calls.
Everything inside me seizes, my skin snapping with sudden cold. Picking up the target’s rope, he walks toward me. Guards accompany him. My fellow carriers part until he stands in front of me. He’s very tall. I have to drop my head back to look up at him.
His eyes assess me coolly. “I believe I mentioned a reward for the winning team. Since your team came out on top today, why don’t you do the honors?”
I frown, hearing his words but not understanding.
Somewhere near me, someone gasps and I turn my head, looking for the source. I can’t identify the person, but everyone stares at me with wide eyes.
Sean looks at me intently, his eyes full of something . . . sorrow, pain?
Bewildered, I look back at Harris. “I don’t—” My words fade as I notice his hand. The gun that he now stretches toward me.
“Take it.”
I shake my head.
He sighs in exasperation and grabs my wrist, pushing the gun at me. “Take. It.” There’s no flexibility, no room for argument.
My fingers close around the heavy metal. It’s cold in my hand. Hard and unyielding metal. My least favorite part of each day is the firing range. The noise. The tension coursing through my body as I take my shots. I always feel faintly achy after leaving, my head shrouded in cotton.
I sense as much as see the other carriers back away from me like a receding tide.
“Stand close to him,” Harris instructs, taking me by the shoulders and positioning me in front of the man. The target stares at me now, his brown eyes stark, defeated. No, not “target.” A man. A human. A life.
Harris’s voice rolls softly near my ear. “I know you’ve been practicing with the others, but I don’t expect you to be an expert marksman yet. A simple shot to the head at close range is sufficient.”
My breath falls in sharp, little pants. My chest actually hurts. I look around desperately, as though a way out, an escape, is going to present itself.
Harris looks at me dully, like he’s asking nothing from me.
Sean steps forward as if to reach me, but a guard stops him with a hand on his chest.
“I’ll do it,” he volunteers, his lips grim, his jaw set. He looks from me to Harris. Holding out his hand, he flicks his fingers. “Give it to me.”
Harris glances at him, arching an eyebrow mildly. “I’m sure you would, O’Rourke. But Hamilton here will do it. Won’t you?” He looks back at me, his eyes challenging . . . threatening. I’m expected to follow instructions, but how can I do this?
I stare at Harris, searching his face, looking for something in him that I might touch. Any softness that I might appeal to.
Nothing.
“Take aim,” he instructs.
I lift my arm. It trembles so badly that I lift my other hand to grip my elbow and hold myself steady. Still the .45 shakes, but not so much that I’ll miss. This close in range, there’s no chance of that. I’m so close I can actually see the flecks of gold in the man’s brown eyes . . . the pulse throb in his forehead.
“Safety’s off. Fire when ready.”
I curl my finger around the trigger. Like I’m going to do this. Like I can.
“Fire,” Harris snaps.
He’s a carrier. Who knows all that he has done?
You’re a carrier. You’ve done nothing.
Until now.
Silence falls around me in a thick shroud. Everything slows. Almost like in a dream. No one makes a sound as they watch the scene unfold. I can feel Sean’s eyes on me, hot and desperate, willing me to . . . to what? Shoot?
But I don’t want to be that. This—the monster the world claims I am.
With a shuddered breath, I lift my trembling finger off the trigger and drop my arm. It’s no use. I can’t. I’m not a coldblooded killer. They can’t make me that.
Head bowed, I choke out, “I won’t. I can’t. Do your worst. Send me to a detention camp.” I shrug weakly. “You can’t make me do this.”
Harris sighs heavily. “Very well.”
I hear the slide of another gun from a holster.
I lift my head, frowning, wondering with an odd sense of detachment if he intends to shoot me. Maybe they won’t even trouble themselves with sending me away. Maybe they’re going to kill me, end it all right now.
Harris moves. I track his actions vaguely, still feeling as though I’m trapped in a dream. He stops directly beside Sean. And lifts his arm. Presses the gun barrel against Sean’s head. Gasps ripple through the crowd.
He nods at Sean. “You shoot or I shoot him.”
My chest constricts. “W-what?”
He digs the barrel into Sean’s temple, forcing Sean to lean to the side. He tries to hide his wince, but I see it. It’s as though I can even feel it myself.
I reach out a hand. “No! Stop—”
“You said ‘do your worst,’ Hamilton. Somehow, for you . . . I think this is it.”
Hysteria bubbles up inside me. “Sean . . .”
His lips move, mouthing the words at me: it’s okay. And he means that. His eyes look directly at me, accepting and understanding . . . inviting me to let this horrible thing happen to him.
It’s okay? To do as Harris commands and put a bullet in his head? That will never be okay. Heat burns through me, followed by a wash of bitter cold. I will never be okay if that happens.
My lips tremble, tasting the saltiness of tears. I didn’t even know I was crying. “P-please.”
“On three,” Harris announces, his eyes cool as ever. “One.” My heart lunges to my throat as his finger curls around the trigger.
“Please!” I shout even as I fumble to lift my weapon and aim once again at the carrier. I focus on his face for a split second. The brown eyes fasten on me, deep with resignation. And I realize that’s always been there. Defeat. Resignation. Ever since I captured him, he’s known this was inevitable.
“Two.”
He’s muttering those too-quiet words again . . . prayers or pleas, I don’t know. I don’t hear them. I can’t hear them.
“No!” I scream, my voice rising up from deep inside me, shrill and wild as my finger squeezes the trigger.
The bullet bursts from the barrel with a loud crack, echoing on the night. My arm jerks from the recoil. The body drops in front of me. Dead weight. Dead. Just a body now. Not a life. I took that. Snuffed out his existence with the slightest touch.
My mouth parts on sawing breath, and I take a halting step, peering down, my attention fixing on his eyes. Still open. Glassy. The life behind them gone, vanished. The color changes. Like a curtain dropped, the brown dulls into something flat . . . makes him appear mannequin-like.
Several carriers let out loud whoops. No doubt, they wouldn’t have hesitated or required manipulation and threats to fire. They wouldn’t feel the bile rising up in the back of their throats. They wouldn’t have to bend over to empty their stomachs.
The gun slides from my hand and thuds to the ground as I retch until there’s nothing inside me to purge. Throat raw and aching, I lift my face.
Sean’s there. So is Gil. Both pat my back. Sean makes small shushing sounds.
“See, Hamilton. That wasn’t so bad.”
I look up, breathing harshly, covering my mouth with the back of my hand. Harris smiles benignly, and it’s a clawing swipe in an already bleeding wound.
I did it. I killed.
Exactly what he wanted me to do. Exactly what they all thought I would do. Everyone in here. Everyone out there in the world. A world so afraid of carriers, it makes killers out of the innocent.
“All right, people. Turn in your packs. Show’s over for the night. Return to your rooms. Lights out in ten.”
I rise and slide my pack off my back with numb movements, letting it drop where I stand.
“Davy,” Sean and Gil both say my name. I ignore them. In my periphery, I glimpse Sabine, watching me, wringing her hands like she’s too afraid to approach me. After what just happened, it’s no wonder. They used Sean, threatening to shoot him if I didn’t kill the target. Because they knew I cared about him. She’s probably questioning whether being my friend is a good idea. I don’t blame her.
Sean and Gil fall in step beside me. We start for the building, passing Sabine. Their presence is a comfort. At least I still have them. Right or wrong. For their well-being, I can’t help thinking that it’s wrong. Not that I can do anything about that anymore. It’s too late. We’re always together. Everyone knows I care about them.
I move one leg after the other, eager to close myself up in my room. To hide from what I’ve done—what I am. Even as this enters my mind, I know it won’t work. I can’t ever hide from this night. No matter that I did it to save Sean’s life, I am what everyone always thought.
A killer.
HTS Detention Camp Code 11B:
Any child born to a carrier shall be tested for HTS at birth. Infants found positive shall remain in the detention camp of his/her birth. If found negative of the gene, they shall be remanded to the state for placement with relatives or an appropriate foster agency.
TWENTY-EIGHT
I TAKE A QUICK SHOWER, INDIFFERENT TO THE ten-minute warning. I just killed a man. Those brown eyes are all I can see. I could have let him go over the wall. If I’d known who he was . . . what was going to happen. Yes. I could have let him escape. I would have given him a boost myself. If I had only known.
I stand beneath the spray of water, letting it beat down on my flesh, wishing—there I go again, still senselessly wishing—that it could wash away the day. Undo everything that happened. I search inside myself, reaching for the music that’s always there.
Silence.
I try harder, struggle to find the familiar notes, lyrics, anything, some whiff of a song, a tune. It’s no use. There’s nothing there except silence.
Dusty’s voice inside the bathroom startles me. I lift my head from the spray. “That you in there, Hamilton?”
“Yes.”
“It’s almost lights-out. Get out of there now.”
With a sigh, I turn off the water and step from the shower onto the cool tile, wrapping a towel around myself. I face Dusty numbly, gaze dispassionately at her sun-weathered face.
“That was good work today.”
Winning the challenge. Taking a life. For her, it’s one and the same. “Yeah. All in a day’s work,” I hear myself reply.
She frowns, and I’m guessing she doesn’t care for my flippant tone. I should be properly flattered at the praise. I had wanted to do well and impress them so much before. Too late, I know the price of doing well in here now. She looks me up and down where I stand, dripping wet.
“I’ll give you another thirty.” Then she will lock me in my room for the night. Another cage.
I nod. “Thanks.” She leaves the bathroom and I dress quickly. Going through the motions thoughtlessly. Clothes. Hair. Teeth. I pause at my reflection. The bandage is gone. I removed it while in the shower. All that remains is a short, jagged tear in my cheek. A bright scratch of red in my otherwise pale face. My dark blonde hair looks almost black plastered wetly to my head. I tie it in a quick braid, my fingers moving as nimbly as they once did over the piano or guitar strings.