The Culling (The Torch Keeper) Page 3

  “Yeah, like I’d be stupid enough to hide us down here and make a grand entrance on the other side.” I can hear his eyes rolling off his tongue as he splashes through the muck, oblivious to the septic wake he creates that’s sprinkling me with slime.

  “Digory! Hey! Wait up!” I slog up to him and grab his arm, twisting him to face me. “What’s your problem?”

  “Let go of me!” he snaps. “I’m trying to get us out of here.”

  I glance above us. “Look, if it’s about that guy up there …

  there’s nothing you could have done. He was a Worm. You saw the IDs. They were going to take him no matter what.”

  He rips free of my grip. “You don’t get it, Lucian. It’s my fault. They wouldn’t have been in that alley if it wasn’t for me. I’m the one they wanted. That unlucky guy just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. I might as well have sicced the Canid on him myself.”

  He slumps onto one of the pipes, burying his face in his hands.

  For a second, I’m not sure what to say. The Digory I never really knew at the Instructional Facility always seemed cool, in control, as though nothing could ever faze him. Seeing him like this makes me feel like an intruder, as if I’m spying on him naked. Even the Establishment’s idols aren’t immune to its corrosive touch, I guess.

  I settle down beside him, resting a hand on his arm. “You had no way of knowing what would happen. I’m sure whatever you were doing with those flyers was important to you.”

  He uncovers his eyes, which smolder in the tunnel’s hazy light. “What I was doing is important to everyone, not just me.” He pulls the crinkled poster from his coat and unrolls it. I sidle up to him, then take it and read:

  RECRUITMENT IS FEAR.

  RECRUITMENT IS CONTROL.

  DOWN WITH THE ESTABLISHMENT.

  PROTECT YOUR FAMILIES.

  The words are accompanied by a silhouette drawing of Recruits, watching as a group of people, their Incentives no doubt, are being slaughtered by armed Imposers. One of the victims is the outline of a little boy. I shudder, but not from the draft stealing through the catacombs. Quickly rolling the poster up, I stuff it in my own jacket, against my heart.

  “You really think you can stop them?” I whisper.

  The spark on his face ignites. “Not by myself. But we can all stop them if we stand together. We can change it, make it better.”

  I remember what it was like to dream, once. Before my parents died. “It’s not so simple, Digory. They’re strong, organized. They’ve got weapons.”

  “We have to try.” He grabs my hand. “Don’t you care? Is this how you want to live the rest of your life? In a slum? Dead by forty, starvation and disease fighting it out for first dibs? Your little brother—”

  “What about Cole?” My body stiffens.

  “Is this the kind of life you want for Cole, assuming he gets the chance to grow older?”

  “Stop it.” I turn away.

  But he persists, like an insect in my ear. “If he survives, he’ll be drafted into the military—or worse. Recruited as a potential Imposer. Forced to undergo the Establishment’s mind games.” He squats on his haunches in front of me. “And you’ll be standing by helpless as he’s forced to choose whether you or any other person he dares to love dies.”

  “That’s enough,” I say, turning off the mental images. “I don’t want to hear any more about it. Your insurrection, or the Establishment … I have to handle things my way so that Cole’s neck isn’t on the line.”

  Digory’s grip tightens on my hand. “His neck’s already on the line—as are all of ours. That’s what Recruitment Day is. The Establishment’s way of spreading fear and breaking us … by making us have to choose which one of our loved ones is the most worthy to continue living. If you call this living.” The muscles in his jaw clench. “Do you know the Establishment’s been manufacturing biological weapons, testing them on innocent civilians? Genetically re-engineering them? I even hear that Reaper’s Cough is some kind of population-control experiment. There’s no limit to what they’re capable of.”

  My mouth goes dry. “I don’t know how you know any of these things, and I don’t want to know. I have to think about my brother—”

  “Maybe you’ll get recruited, Lucian.”

  “That can’t happen … ”

  “Maybe you’ll have to decide whether or not Cole lives or dies.”

  “Digory, please—”

  “Unless you run out of options, and one of the other Recruits bests you during the Trials. Then Cole dies no matter what.”

  “No!” I shove him to the ground.

  He just sits there in the putridness, staring at me, the fire in his eyes now embers.

  “The fear controls us,” he says softly. “Makes us weak. And choosing which one of our loved ones has to live or die—”

  “Keeps us isolated … alone,” I finish.

  He rises to bended knee and clasps both my hands in his. “It doesn’t have to be this way.”

  “I’m sorry I pushed you. It’s just … Cole … this day … so much is riding on it.”

  Digory shakes his head. “I’m the one that’s sorry for pushing you. You were right. What happened up there”—he cocks his head toward the surface—“it messed with my head.”

  “I understand. You don’t have to be ashamed.”

  He looks confused. “Ashamed ?”

  “Yeah, you know. Not wanting to reveal yourself to the Imps, admit you were the one hanging these flyers instead of that poor guy. Anyone else would have been afraid too.” Though if it’d been Cole, I wouldn’t have hesitated an instant.

  His eyes register shock and indignation. “I wasn’t scared for myself, Lucian. If I’d have climbed out and accepted

  the blame, the Imps would have swarmed the sewer.” His gaze pierces through me. “And I wouldn’t have been the only one they found.” He looks away. “I couldn’t let that happen.”

  I stare at him through the flickering shadows, not saying a word.

  Not knowing what to say.

  “We should go.” I stand, pulling him to his feet and

  letting him go before I can become too conscious of the warmth radiating through his skin.

  Digory clears his throat. “It’s just up ahead.” He walks past me, avoiding eye contact.

  We tread through about a hundred feet of muck in silence before reaching another ladder.

  He turns to me. “Once we get up there, it’ll still be curfew. Even though they think they nabbed the conspirator, we can’t take any chances.”

  “Got it.”

  He pulls himself up two rungs at a time.

  I clamber up after him. As soon as we’re topside and split up, I have to make sure the Imposers spot me. The only thing is, I conceived my crazy plan before I witnessed that Canid tear someone apart. My sweating palms almost slip off the next rung.

  By the time I catch up to Digory, he’s already sliding the manhole cover open, peering left and right just over the edge, and offering me his outstretched hand.

  Gripping it, I scramble up the rest of the way and join him on the surface.

  “This street’s clear for the moment,” he says. “I know some shortcuts we can use to double back, and from there I can get you home.”

  “I can find my own way back, thanks.” From the look on his face, my words might as well be stingers.

  “But it’s dangerous. Let me just—”

  “I’ll be okay, really.”

  “Suit yourself.” He kicks the manhole cover back into place. “Besides, I can’t waste any more time here, with the lives of so many others at stake.” He storms into a side alley.

  Damn it. “Digory, wait!” I race after him.

  He stops and pivots toward me. “Yes?” The word strikes like hail.

 
“Thanks. Thanks for everything.”

  His expression softens. “One thing. You know what I was doing out here breaking curfew. You never told me what you were doing.”

  I can’t tell him. Especially knowing how he feels about the Establishment. He’d never understand. I shrug. “Just making sure I get ringside seats for the procession.”

  Digory shakes his head. “I’m sure you’ll take care of yourself, Lucian. Maybe someday you’ll realize this is bigger than you.”

  He disappears into the maze of alleyways before I can say anything.

  The only trace left of him is the rolled poster he’s forgotten, nestled against my heart.

  I reach inside my coat and trace it with my fingertips. Though it’s made of paper, it feels more like lead. I need to get rid of it before—

  “Halt. Hands where I can see them.”

  The blood frosts in my veins. My heart feels like it’s going to burst through my rib cage. As much as I thought I prepared for this moment, the reality of it eclipses any notions I’ve deluded myself with. The terror is overwhelming, stifling my breaths.

  I don’t want to die.

  “Turn around,” a sharp baritone voice commands.

  I can’t move. It’s as if I’m not in my body anymore. Digory. Why didn’t I listen to him?

  “I said turn around.”

  If I don’t turn around, they’ll shoot me from behind. And my brother will be all alone.

  The signal from my brain finally reaches my feet, and I turn around to face my fate.

  A squadron of Imposers is facing me, weapons drawn, a wall of black death.

  Remember what Digory said … the fear controls us, makes us weak.

  No. I won’t be weak. I have to be strong for my brother. He’s all that matters.

  The lead Imp lumbers toward me, a tall, massive man with close-cropped pale yellow hair and winter-gray eyes. He shoves the barrel of his gun into my forehead.

  “You’re in violation of Government Statute F.4312—Observation of Ordinance Regarding Public Assembly. State your name, citizen.”

  “Spark,” I manage, though my mouth is dry. “Lucian Spark.”

  “Mr. Lucian Spark. You will be detained and remanded into the Custody of the Citadel of Truth, where Honorable Prefect Cassius Thorn shall pronounce judgment and sentence you for this infraction. Do you understand?”

  Not that they care if I do or not, but I play the game nonetheless. “Yes. I understand, Sir.”

  “Search him.”

  What little courage I’ve mustered dissipates in the crisp morning wind. Digory’s poster. It’s still hidden inside my coat pocket.

  Two other Imps slither from the shadows and start to frisk me.

  Getting detained for breaking curfew is one thing. Being arrested for an act of treason is not part of my plan.

  I squirm at their touch. “Wait … please—”

  It’s no use. One of the Imps rips the poster from my pocket, unrolls it, and displays it to the commander.

  His eyes look like silver gashes on his face. “Looks like we have us a traitor scum here,” he hisses to his comrades.

  “Please, it’s not mine. I found it—”

  He presses the gun harder against my head. “Shut up. I say we don’t wait for the Prefect and carry out your sentence now.”

  Then there’s a searing pain in my forehead, and—

  Black.

  Six

  I’m sprawled on a floor of sodden earth. It’s barely bigger than a box. The air’s heavy with dust and death, as if I’m breathing through a thin layer of rotting skin. There are no windows, no chair, no bed. Nothing. In the center of the floor, there’s a small dark hole that reeks of human waste. There’s only one way in or out—a rusty door that looks like it hasn’t been used in years. From beneath it, a dim light squeezes through, my only source of illumination. At the bottom of the door is a slat, the kind that’s supposed to slide open to slip the prisoners food.

  My body’s aching all over. I’ve been stripped to just my underwear. Aside from some cuts and bruises, I seem to be fine, except for the throbbing in my forehead. I touch my head, wincing at the jolt of pain. Apparently the only thing that connected with my head was the butt of that Imp’s weapon.

  Pulling myself to my feet despite the jabs of betrayal from my cramped legs, I stagger the two feet to the door, my palms slapping against the cold iron.

  “Open up! I need to see the Prefect!”

  My voice sounds like a stranger’s, dry and hoarse. I rub my throat, willing the fear back into its nest.

  When I get no response, terror drills into my pores and taps into a geyser of adrenaline that fuels my pounding fists against the door.

  I’ve heard rumors over the years about how Imposers treat prisoners.

  The skin on my hands is on fire. I can feel it growing raw, slick with blood.

  A loud whine pierces my ear. The sound of a rusty bolt straining through its housing.

  My hands drop to my sides. My breathing is heavy, competing with the sound of my heart pulsating in my ears. As the bolt completes its labored journey and the door gives an inch, I can’t help but take a step back and brace myself.

  The door pushes inward, unsettling dust and plaster. My eyes squint against the orange light now streaming into the cell. Probably just flickering gaslight lighting the prison corridor, but still bright to my light-deprived eyes. Then the light is eclipsed by a huge form in the doorway, which snuffs out the small flicker of hope before it can start to burn.

  “Finally awake, huh?” This Imposer is the biggest I’ve seen yet—tall, broad-shouldered, legs like tree trunks. The name Styles is stenciled on the breast pocket of his uniform. Perhaps more unsettling than the rumble of his voice is the way his eyes slither over me, a mixture of contempt, hatred, and something else … something which makes me want to soak for hours, rubbing my flesh raw until it’s clean again.

  I clear my throat. “I need to see the Prefect.”

  The brute lets out a long laugh that almost sounds pleasant, except for the fact that I know he’s mocking me.

  Another shape appears at the door, shorter but just as hulking. His ID reads Renquist.

  He leers at his companion. “What’s going on here?”

  Styles hikes a stubby thumb toward me. “Not too much. Pretty boy here is demanding to see the Prefect.” He chuckles.

  Renquist turns to me and snorts. “Is’e now? Would’ja like some tea an’ biscuits first?”

  This elicits another hoot and holler from Styles. His eyes flit to the hallway outside the cell, then to me, then back to his companion. “But first, don’t’cha think we ought’a get him cleaned up real good?” I can’t miss the unmistakable wink he gives his cohort.

  Renquist squeezes into the room. With these two massive brutes in here, there’s barely enough room to retreat. I can feel the heat of their bodies, sniff their sweat, which smothers what little circulation of air there is. They both turn to look at me, the laughter gone from their lips and eyes.

  My mouth goes dry.

  “Take me to the Prefect,” I repeat.

  Renquist ignores me and turns to Styles. “It’s a shame to let this one go to waste. Has he been logged in yet?”

  Styles nods, not taking his eyes off me. “We can always do a little creative bookkeeping before it gets to HQ. This pretty boy will fetch a nice stash on the market.”

  My stomach tightens. The Emporiums. Hellholes run by traffickers in human flesh who peddle the poor like cattle to slake the decadent appetites of the elite. The slaves’ bodies and minds are used until there’s nothing left and then they’re discarded without a second thought, leaving no trace of their existence. I grit my teeth. I’m not going to end up in some heap of crushed dreams.

  The two move closer. Renquist leers at me,
his tongue running across his lips. “Just as long as we get to sample

  the merchandise before we hand it over. I’ve been pulling double shifts for the past two weeks on account of this Recruitment and I need to blow off some steam.”

  Styles nods and takes another step. “Of course, partner. And I’m sure Pretty over here isn’t going to tell a soul.”

  They close in on me.

  I back away until the cold concrete of the cell wall presses against my spine.

  I’ll die before I submit.

  “Styles! Renquist!” a new voice blares.

  A female Imp is standing in the doorway, glaring at my captors. I recognize her from the alley.

  Both Imps snap to attention.

  “Captain Valerian,” Styles barks. “We were just interrogating the perp.”

  “I know what you were doing.” Her mouth and nose crinkle. Does she actually have some compassion flowing through her blood?

  “Just give us a few more minutes,” Renquist mutters.

  “That’s a negative, Officers. Your presence is requested in debriefing.”

  Styles’s eyes dart between me and her. “But we can break him—”

  “Stat!” There’s no mistaking the authority in her voice. She obviously outranks them.

  The two move away from me and skirt either side of her, practically bumping into each other as they exit the cell. I lean an arm against the wall and steady myself.

  Valerian stares at me, her eyes cubes of ice. “Don’t think for a minute I have any sympathy for a traitor. Your kind make me sick, spreading your poison. Filthy ingrates. You deserve the treatment you get, but we have laws, a system in place. Sometimes my colleagues let their … patriotism … get the best of them.” She smirks. “I’d shoot you myself. Don’t you forget that.”

  I nod. “I won’t.”

  “You don’t have to worry about that … yet.” She sneers at me. “Seems like you’ve gotten a reprieve, traitor.”

  She tosses me a dirty old blanket, which I drape over my body.

  My vision is now sharply in focus. “What do you mean?”

  “Retinal scan confirmed you as Lucian Spark. Seems when the custody manifest got circulated, the higher-ups requested you be taken up for a personal interrogation.”