Graduation Day
Page 11

I close the folder and place it on top of my bag. Then I stack the piles of paper from my earlier work onto the table. At the last minute, I take the three pages that contain information on Five Lakes Colony University students. Why? I don’t know. Maybe it is just because I cannot bear the thought that this information is in the hands of anyone who does not know or care about them. Or maybe I need a reminder of where I came from and who I am. My parents raised me to believe in my fellow citizens and in the United Commonwealth. To fix things. I wonder what they would say if they knew I had been told that in order to fix the country they have worked so hard for I must now deliberately take lives.
The world spins around me. Nausea stirs in my stomach and sears my throat. I shove the folder into my bag and stumble over a crease in the carpet as I hurry to the door. The president has given me a week to choose what I will do, but I don’t see how I can make this choice. To allow The Testing to continue, or to do what I could not when I was Tested and kill. I am not like Will or Roman or Damone. I cannot commit murder to push myself forward. But can I end lives to ultimately save more?
I don’t know.
And still, I find that instead of climbing down the stairs, I go up. I hear voices coming from offices on the third floor, but no one is in the hallway as I quickly climb the next two sets of stairs. The fifth floor is quiet. I stop in front of the door with a red-lit keypad at the end of the hall and turn toward the stairs to check if anyone is coming. I see no one. After pulling the paper out of its folder, I punch in the seven-number code, watch the light go from red to green, and slip inside. I wait for the door to close before feeling around the wall for lights. When I find them, my heart begins to hammer.
Guns both large and small.
Stack upon stack of boxed ammunition.
Knives of varying shapes and sizes.
Bulbs filled with an explosive powder that my father and his team use to loosen sections of rock in unrevitalized areas.
After a moment, I notice the room contains more than weapons. Long-range transmitters. Pocket-size pulse radios. Tracking devices. Recorders made in various shapes. Some look much like the ones I remember being used in our Testing bracelets.
And I realize that this room reminds me of the one Michal brought me to before the fourth test. During The Testing, I looked at the weapons provided and saw tools to aid in survival. Now I see them as so many of my fellow Testing candidates must have—as a means of taking lives.
I slide four of the smallest pulse radios inside my bag. Beside them I place several recorders and tracking devices as well as a small monitor that must be used to display the location of the transmitter. I look at the other shelves and consider taking one of the larger knives. But their serrated edges remind me too much of the weapon Tomas carried during The Testing. The one that killed Zandri.
Telling myself I have no need of the weapons since I do not plan to carry out the president’s directive, I walk back to the door and turn off the light. In the darkness, I listen for sounds on the other side. When I hear none, I slip out the door, wait for the light to turn back to red, and head downstairs.
One of the officials who brought the files spots me as I reach the third floor. She asks if I need help with my work, and I tell her I finished the assignment and am going home. With a wave, I continue down the next two flights, hoping she isn’t one of Symon’s rebels.
More officials are in the halls on the first floor than when I arrived. I keep my head down and walk to the exit. The fresh air feels cools and wonderful against my skin as I grab my bicycle and begin to ride. I try not to think about the president’s request, but it is impossible to forget what she has charged me to do. Dr. Barnes. Professor Holt. Symon. Raffe’s father. All people who have had a hand in killing Testing candidates either by active participation or passive acceptance. They deserve to be punished for their parts in the deaths of those who came here in hope. But do their actions mean they deserve to die? And if so, can I bring myself to kill them?
My stomach heaves as I recall the feel of Damone’s blood running over my hand while life drained from his body. If the president has her way, his will be just the first blood I shed. I try to tamp down the nausea, but after three blocks, I jump off my bike and run toward a group of bushes huddled near the side of a sandy-colored brick building. My bike clatters to the walkway behind me as I empty my stomach onto the ground. I wipe my mouth and try to stand up straight. But my stomach tightens again and I hunch over. My legs feel like jelly. Sweat breaks out, and I start to shake as the images of those who have died run through my mind. Ryme’s empty eyes. Roman’s bloody body. Michal’s face as it drained of color just before he crumpled to the ground.
Slowly, the shaking subsides and I straighten. I take careful steps. The weakness I felt seems to have passed, but when I pick up my bike, I choose to walk with it down the city street instead of riding. I fumble with the fastenings on my bag and dig out a bottle of water. The water cleanses my mouth and throat of the taste of bile, but it cannot wash away the cause. I wheel my bike north while taking sips of water, not paying attention to where I am headed. When I come to a small fountain in the middle of a grassy area surrounded by a small square of shops, I set my bike on the ground and take a seat on the stone lip of the fountain.
It is cool, but the early evening light has encouraged many to come out of doors. Children play a game of tag. Several couples sit on benches along the walkways that surround the park. Everything seems so normal. No one here feels the tension of the power struggle that is about to threaten their world.