TWENTY-SEVEN
SWIVELING ON HIS HEELS, HARRIS RESUMES HIS place at the front of the group. From the corner of my eye, I mark Jackson’s progress back to his team. Sean remains near me. Forty-eight of us stand, waiting as Harris stares out at us, assessing. I fidget impatiently, anxious to be released back to our rooms before anything else happens. Suddenly, the day feels endless.
“You are all here to prove that you are worth something. That you deserve a future with freedoms and privileges.” His voice rings out over the pulsing night, floating across the stagnant air. “That you can be trusted, that you’re better than your scum brethren in the detention camps. Carriers like him.” He points to the target we captured.
My eyes widen. He’s not a volunteer then? He’s from a detention camp.
A guard shoves the man forward. He stumbles, catching himself. It’s a wonder he doesn’t fall. He’s still bound with rope.
“This man has attempted several escapes from a camp in Colorado. He incited his fellow carriers into attacking and killing two guards in order to provide a distraction for his third escape attempt.”
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.”