The Testing
Page 31

There are other Testing candidates traveling this way. With the fence lines so close together, there are few if any places we can hide that will ensure our safety. The only answer is to get him across the finish line as soon as possible.
Folding several strips of fabric, I create pads to absorb the blood and press them to Tomas's wounds. While he helps hold the pads in place, I dig out his other shirt, wrap it around his torso, and tie it tight. Handing him a bottle of water to sip, I say, "We have to get you to Tosu City. Can you walk?"
"I can try."
But it's clear after a few stumbling steps that walking is not an option.
Tomas sinks back to the ground and shakes his head. "It's no use. I'm not going to make it."
"You just need time to rest," I say, but I know that isn't true. Time is our enemy. Every second that ticks away means more blood loss. More chance of infection. Fellow Testing candidates approaching with weapons in hand. A greater chance of dying.
He takes my hand and pulls me closer. "I know you don't want to hear this, but you're going to have to leave me here. Once I get some rest, I might be able to walk the rest of the way — "
"I'm not leaving you." I try to pull back my hand, but Tomas isn't letting go.
"Yes, you are. You're going to finish this test for both of us. I want you to go. Please. Before another Testing candidate comes along."
Tears bubble close to the surface, but I choke them back because I won't give in. "I can't. This is my fault. I told you to trust Will. I have to make this right." I kiss him firmly on the lips to quiet whatever argument he wants to make and give him the last three pain pills so he can rest easier while I think. He closes his eyes, and I start to pace.
Tomas can't walk.
If he doesn't get to the end of this test soon, he won't make it at all.
Even though one bicycle is broken, the wheels still function. There has to be a way to use them. Tomas can't operate a bicycle. Not in his condition. But maybe, if I work it right, he can sit behind me while my feet do the work.
With the possibility of other Testing candidates nearby, I hate the idea of lighting a fire, but the night is cold. Tomas needs the warmth, and if I'm going to turn our bicycles into something that can transport him, I need the light. Tomas is asleep on the ground as I dig through his bag for matches. I find the matchbox at the bottom of the bag along with something metallic. From the feel of it I'm guessing it's a Testing identification bracelet. Briefly, I wonder if Tomas took the bracelet off the bag of the girl we buried. Perhaps, like me, he wanted something tangible to remember her. To keep the bracelet from getting lost, I shove it deep into my pocket. Then I turn my attention to the fire. My brothers showed me how to bank a fire to minimize the amount of light it produces. I try my best to replicate the process, but I'm not sure how effective it will be. Keeping my gun within reach, I drag the two bicycles close to the light and get to work.
I jump at each snap of a stick. Every howl of the wind sends me reaching for the gun. But no one disturbs us as I assess my supplies and decide on a solution. A cart for Tomas to sit in would be ideal, but the metal and tools I have at my disposal make it hard to create one, especially if I want to do it fast. The most likely option would be to modify the one working bicycle into something that the two of us can ride. And I have an idea.
My eyes are grainy and my hands caked with grease when I finish. The moon has shifted, telling me dawn is near. The bicycle seat has been wrapped with Tomas's extra pants to give him a slightly wider and more comfortable perch to ride on behind me. To accommodate the extra weight on the back of the bicycle, I have salvaged the two back wheels from my broken bicycle and screwed their assembly slightly behind and to either side of the back wheel. The training wheels I used as a kid inspired the plan, but it took hours and a lot of wire, screws, and bolts and six test rides to get it to work. Of course, the real test will be the ride to the finish line. I only hope my handiwork will help us get there.
Tomas's forehead is feverish, but not scarily so as I rouse him from his sleep. I cut up some pears and leftover meat and make him eat as I explain what I've been working on. "All you have to do is put your arms around my waist and hang on. I'm going to do the rest."
I don't give him a chance to protest as I empty out all but the essential items from our bags. When I'm done, there is a pile that includes a pot, a pan, the bow and arrows, several empty water bottles, the book of maps, the gray-haired man's burlap sacks, and the now-empty medical kit. I wince as I put Tomas's tool kit in the pile, but I have my pocketknife if I need basic tools and, really, if the bicycle breaks down, I'm not certain any tool would help fix it. At this point, I just have to hope for the best. Putting my hand in my pocket, I remember one final chore and shove the vial with its unknown drug into my spare pair of socks. I don't know what will await us at the end of this road. Whatever it might be, I know it is best to be prepared.
With everything ready, I help Tomas to the bicycle. I don't bother to douse the fire. If someone finds our camp and the supplies there, so be it. The two new wheels help keep the bicycle upright as I maneuver Tomas onto the seat. I get on in front of him and have him wrap his arms around my waist. As an extra precaution, I've cut my other shirt into strips and braided them into a rope, which I now loop around the two of us. If we go down, we'll go down together.
The gears groan as I push my feet forward. The extra weight makes it hard to gain momentum. Tomas leans his head against my back as I shove my right foot forward. Then my left. Inch by inch we move. I am not discouraged. Moving at all is a victory. Right foot. Left foot. I push with all my might, and we begin to teeter forward. After several more pushes, we start to coast. The road slants downward, and we gain momentum. Not as fast as we traveled before, but faster than I dared hope as I worked through the night.
Zeen's Transit Communicator is strapped with wire to the handlebars.
Seven miles left.
Six.
Five.
The sun is high in the sky. Sweat drips off my forehead as I push forward. Tomas's grip around my waist slips, and I stop the bicycle to check on him. He's shivering, and hot to the touch. I make him drink half of our last bottle of water before starting back up. Somewhere behind us there are gunshots. I use the fear they bring to keep my feet moving.
Four miles left.
The fence lines have narrowed so that there is only about ten yards of space on either side of the road between them. There is no sign of Will or his skimmer. I know I injured him, but it must not have been enough to stop him. Unless . . . Could he be well enough to lurk near the completion mark, waiting to finish what he started?
Three miles.
I ask Tomas if he can balance on the bicycle without hanging on to my waist. When he agrees to try, I unfasten the rope and stand to apply more force with each push.
Two miles.
Tomas starts to lose his balance, and I sit back down. I reattach the rope and keep pedaling.
One mile.
I see purple and red in the distance. Testing officials are waiting for us. The end. They have to be standing at the end. Behind the people the buildings of Tosu City sparkle and shimmer as they climb into the sky. Tomas's head slumps against my back. I feel his weight pull against the rope, but I can't stop. If I do, I might never get him back onto the bicycle. I doubt he could survive me dragging him to the end.
With one hand, I balance Tomas's unconscious body as I use my other to steer. My arm, my muscles, every part of me is on fire. But I won't give in to the pain or the fatigue. My feet keep moving. The people in the distance come into focus. I see smiles. A few concerned expressions. They all stand behind a white line. The finish line.
I ignore the people and focus on the line. I will it to come closer as I push my feet over and over again. We are so close when I feel Tomas slide to the left. My injured arm doesn't have the strength to catch him and pull him upright. Because we are strapped together, his momentum pulls me off the seat and we crash together to the ground. I hear gasps. A few cries of worry. I see Dr. Barnes standing at the front of the group, wearing an expression of mild interest. Not one person comes to our aid. The white line is less than fifty feet away, and from their place behind it the Testing officials stand and watch.
I know I am tired and scared and in pain, but at this moment all I can feel is rage. It is white and hot and powerful. I look at each face and vow to make them pay for Ryme and Malachi and all the others. For the girl whose name I don't know but whose body I buried. For the watchers who were gunned down without provocation. And for Tomas and these fifty lousy feet that are so damn important to the Testing officials that they would watch him die after all he has survived.
Untying the rope, I push myself off the ground. Carefully, I unstrap the bags from the rack, sling them both over my shoulder, and on shaking legs walk over to Tomas. I refuse to look at our audience as I roll him onto his back. He moans as I slide my hands under him. The sound tells me he is alive. I plan to keep him that way as I grab his arms and pull. I lean backward to use my weight as leverage. Inch by impossibly slow inch I slide him, my eyes fixed on the hard black pavement. Twice I have to put him down to catch my breath. When I look up, I see another Testing candidate appear on the distant horizon. The sight urges me on.
And then I see it. A solid snow-white line slashing across the black of the asphalt. The finish line. One last pull. I watch Tomas's feet cross the threshold and sink to the ground next to him as Dr. Barnes's smooth voice says, "Congratulations, Malencia Vale. You and Tomas Endress have passed the fourth test."
CHAPTER 20
ONE HUNDRED AND eight candidates entered the Testing Center in hopes of attending the University. Today twenty-nine of us sit in the dining room, although the whispers we hear in the halls tell us there is still a chance more will arrive.
Testing officials tell me it has been nine days since I crossed the white line and passed the fourth test. I've been unconscious for most of those days. Turns out, the poison in my arm put me in far more danger than I realized. Had I not squeezed most of the toxin out of the wound, I would be dead now. As it was, it took the doctors several hours to determine whether the medications they pumped into me would clear the remaining poison from my system. An accelerated healing tool helped close the wound, but the damage the contamination caused to the tissue prevented the tool from also removing the scars. I will be forever marked by The Testing, as if that was ever in doubt.
Tomas fared better with his wounds. Whatever medical advancements they used left him free from scars. Although, from the way he and Will look at each other, I wonder if more scars aren't inevitable. I'm thankful Testing protocol dictates that all weapons be removed from the candidates' possession immediately after the completion of the fourth test. This rule is the only reason I can close my eyes at night.
I see Will's eyes following me from across the room. When he notices me watching him, he gives me a smile and winks. He's seated with a group of candidates, most of whom I've never spoken to. One is Brick. He has yet to speak to me and I am glad because I am not sure I could speak without seeing the massacre he wrought in my name. I wonder if he understands that the lives he took were human and if their bloody faces haunt his dreams the way they do mine.
On the other side of the room is Stacia. Her face is just as unreadable as it was during the test. She doesn't sit with her travel companion, Vic, but instead is seated alone. Redheaded Vic is seated far across the room. Tracelyn, the girl who missed her boyfriend and so badly wanted to be a teacher, is nowhere to be found. I can only guess that whatever happened to her is the reason for the haunted look in Vic's eyes and the knowing smile on Stacia's lips.
Tomas and I do not talk to the others as we wait for the fourth test to end and the final interviews to begin. We spend mealtimes together and, when allowed, walk the grounds outside. In between talk of home, Tomas whispers in my ear that he might have found a way to retain our memories. While he was in the hospital, he overheard his doctors talking to a Testing official about the medication he and some of the other wounded candidates were taking. The Testing official was concerned because the medication had been known to interfere with the upcoming Testing procedures. He insisted Tomas and the others be strictly monitored so their systems will be clear of the drugs by the time the final University selections are made.
"They thought I was sleeping. The next time the nurses brought my medication, I pretended to take it. I managed to save one of my pills. I'm going to try and get a few more during the next couple medical checks. Some of the nurses are more easily distracted than others. It'll depend on which ones I get."
I'm not surprised that Tomas's dimpled smile and clear gray eyes could distract the nurses from their duties. His kisses are certainly a distraction to me. Over the next two days, Tomas adds one more pill to his stash and five more candidates cross the white finish line. Each time one walks in, I feel my heart lift — hoping the last of the Five Lakes candidates has made it back. But it is never Zandri's face in the doorway. And when an announcement comes during dinner, telling us interviews will begin tomorrow, I know she won't be returning.
That night Zandri joins the cast of my nightmares. Her blond hair is spread out on the cracked brown earth. Her mouth open with surprise as birds peck away pieces of her eyes.
My eyes snap open as I bite back a scream. It takes me several minutes to realize I'm in the Testing Center. No longer on the plains. No longer in danger. Then I remember.
The interviews are today. The danger is far from over. I stare at the ceiling, holding my Testing bag until dawn breaks. Without a roommate, I don't need to sleep with the bag, but old habits die hard. When light streams through the window, I slide my legs over the edge of the bed and head to the bathroom. I take a shower and then dig through the pocket of the pants I wore yesterday. My fingers close over the vial containing the liquid I was instructed to drink before my interview. As promised, it was among my possessions when I was released from the medical facility.