I Become Shadow (11 page)

I took two deep breaths of fresh air before sprinting off into the trees. A couple hundred yards in I realized I was smiling. For the first time I began to think, to believe, I could do this. I’d be the first. I was careful where I ran, trying not to break twigs or leave an easy trail to follow. I started moving faster, slicker. I was water. I was free—

I jerked to a stop. A chain-link fence, a fifteen-foot beast, suddenly appeared in front of me. I grabbed it and started climbing before I saw the massive coils of razor wire at the top. Climbing was not an option. My lungs heaved. I dropped to the ground and looked around, desperate. I was so close. If up was out, under was the only other option. I grabbed a stick and began to dig.

“Nearly there,” came the familiar, soft, accented voice behind me.

Not thinking, I spun around to face my enemy, clutching the stick like a club.

Luka was leaning against a tree not ten feet away. He smiled kindly at me. “Fair enough. I’ll play.” He smoothly flipped up a fallen branch with his foot and snatched it out of the air with his hand. As he spoke he ripped off the smaller twigs, fashioning his own club. “No one’s ever gotten this close. I’m honored to have found you, Ms.… ?” He lifted his eyebrows for help.

“Sharpe. Ren Sharpe.”

“Beautiful. I’m honored, Ms. Sharpe, and thus compelled to offer you another chance at your freedom. Strike me cleanly and I will turn around and leave you be. Strike me cleanly and freedom is yours.”

“And if I don’t?” My mind was coming around to the situation. There was always a catch.

“Then you don’t, and you will return with me. We both believe that is punishment enough, am I right?”

I nodded.

“Now, we haven’t all day. Your freedom awaits, Ms. Sharpe.” He bowed to me and I did the same. Bowing was a reflex now.

I went after him with all I had. I’d had no training in any weapons other than guns so I swung at him like I was trying to cut down a tree. He easily spun around my hacks, blocked a few others, and then rapped me on the knuckles with his stick. “Aggressive, but clumsy. Again.”

The result was a harder crack to my knuckles that drew blood and made me drop my stick. I clutched my throbbing, bleeding hand to my chest. Continuing was pointless. I’d lost.

He sighed. He wasn’t the slightest bit winded. “I was hoping for a different outcome,” he murmured. “I mean that.”

I honestly believed him.

“Alas, a deal’s a deal. Come with me, Ms. Sharpe.” He nodded for me to follow.

I hung my head, too tired to protest. But as we walked, he kept talking. “It really is impressive how far you got, Ms. Sharpe. Do please remember that as your studies continue.”

It was hard not to like this guy. As we walked I noticed that his footsteps made no sound whatsoever. It was eerie. I watched him; his movements reminded me of a panther.

Something big was crashing through the woods to our right and instantly Luka was in front of me, as if protecting me. Tom, eyes wide with terror, came running at us.

“Help me,” he choked out. Blood dripped from his lips. His face was ghostly white.

All at once, something shiny popped out of the middle of Tom’s chest. I knew what it was, but I didn’t want to believe it. The tip of a knife. He stumbled forward a few more feet before falling to his knees and revealing the smaller, shaved-headed Hunter with the cold grey eyes behind him. His body was still positioned in a throwing motion. He straightened up with a smug grin as he saw us.

“No!”
I wanted to cry. No sound came. The word died in my throat.

I fell to my knees and caught Tom in my arms. He was so big and so heavy he knocked me onto my butt. I clutched at him as he began to cough, his eyes full of fear, staring up into mine.

“You’re going to be okay,” I lied.

“I want to go home,” he managed, his mouth now full of blood. He began to cry. “I want my mom.”

“Help!” I cried at Luka. He was gone. My head whirled.

And that’s when I saw them: Luka and the stocky Hunter were locked in an all-out battle. It was a blur of action. Punches, kicks, throws. Watching them, a weird thought occurred to me: how fake combat was in every action movie I’d ever seen. This was moving death. But it was like ballet, in a way. I was mesmerized and frightened by it. Frightened for Luka and frightened by what might happen to me if he lost.

Tom’s body gave a violent heave in my arms. I tore my eyes off the fight. When his body relaxed, his eyes were blank. He was still. This was no fake death, like Katie’s. This was the real thing.

“No, no,” I whispered furiously, shaking him. “Come on, Tom, no.”

“He’s gone, Ren,” came Luka’s voice.

I looked up. He had wrestled the other Hunter to the ground and had him pinned.

“I’ll kill you,” gasped the other Hunter as he struggled, “and then I’ll kill her.”

With barely as much as a glance, Luka struck the man in the throat and he went limp. Then he stood, gracefully strode over to me, and gently pried my arms off of Tom’s body. I allowed him to lift me to my feet. My arms and shirt were covered in Tom’s blood. I couldn’t stop shaking.

“I’m sorry for this,” he murmured. Once I was steady, he let go and motioned toward the unconscious killer. “He will be dealt with accordingly, you have my word. You must go back now. Walk around the building until you find a door. Enter the code. Three nine zero four. They will come for you. Now please go.”

“What about Tom?”

“Tom will be handled with honor.”

He put his hands on my back and gave me a soft push. At first my feet didn’t seem to work, but they figured it out after a few steps.

“And Ren? Should you try to run, you will find out what it truly means to be hunted.”

I turned to him, and then turned back. I picked up my
pace. Once more I was flying through the woods—only this time, back to captivity. And strangely enough, as awful as it sounds, I no longer thought of Tom, even though I was soaked in his blood. My only thought was: They make mistakes here. They’re human, just like me. Which means they have a weakness because there’s always someone better to punish you for your mistakes. So that’s who I had to become.

Okay, so let’s imagine we’re in a movie, and this is the sweet montage sequence in the middle of it. So flip through your music collection. Queue up your favorite “Eye of the Tiger”-esque, inspirational, I-am-becoming-a-badass song. Crank the volume and hit play.

Here I am getting my butt whooped all over the place by dozens of different kids and instructors in every form of martial art and fighting style on the planet. Cole, of course, is a recurring butt-whooper with his smarmy grin. But wait; I’ve got this hard, determined look about me. A never-say-die, blow-the-bangs-out-of-my-face, get-up-and-keep-fighting mug. And what’s this? I’m doing push-ups and sit-ups in my room. I’m training harder in the gyms and dojos. I’m all sweaty and gross as I shadowbox, perspiration dripping off my brow. But it’s all paying off, as I get better, stronger, faster. Next image: I take out five masked attackers at
once. Oh, and I just knocked out Cole with a spinning something-or-other kick.

Now I’m failing to put together a gun. Shameful. So I practice in the gun room. My hands and fingers are caked in black gun oil as I get better. Failed attempts turn into successes. I do it blindfolded in under five seconds … with one hand cuffed behind my back. Wassup.

I’m driving a car, backward, shooting at targets as I go. I jump out of perfectly good helicopters, airplanes, and hovercrafts. I slide a motorcycle under a moving semitruck and then keep moving. If it’s got an engine, I can drive it, crash it, and escape from it.

Oh, and since this is a Hollywood movie montage, I’m getting better-looking by the shot, naturally. I grow out of my awkward, gangly body and fill out as only a hot, Hollywood leading woman can. I can kick butt but still look good doing it. I’m totally smokin’, kids.

Don’t picture the countless nights I spend in the fetal position in absolute agony from the fire. Ignore the seven broken bones and over 300 stitches I get over four long years of my training. Don’t squirm in your seat at the various forms of torture I suffer through. Ignore all of that and see me becoming an absolute beast.

This montage has officially concluded. Now’s the time we test your memory and see how well you’ve paid attention.

Milkshake.

I splashed warm water on my face and looked at myself in the mirror, the first I’d seen in four years. My own reflection was still a stranger to me. I hardly recognized the hard, emotionless face that stared back from the glass. It wasn’t the same Hollywood hottie from my montage. It was just me, only older now. The short bangs sticking to my forehead were a surprise at first; then I remembered the decision to cut. It came about a month into my time here when they kept dangling in front of my eyes and screwing with my shooting. A pretty funny reason to cut your hair. I fingered the small scar under my left eye.
Thanks for that one Cole
. But other than that I looked like an older, thinner version of myself. No more baby pudge, but the freckles were still there.
Lord, have they gotten worse?

I scratched against the hard-shell bandage on my chest. Whenever you got badly hurt the hospital smeared this strange gel on the wound. The gel would seal up the skin
and then harden into a protective shell. It allowed you to heal faster and let you keep training without worrying about the wound ripping back open. It didn’t hurt, just itched like crazy.

When the most recent batch of kids had arrived, I was tasked with trying to make a run for it. The kid who had tried to do it in my year had given them the idea. It had worked so well on us that they did it every year now. But instead of giving me a beating, they shot me. It served as part of my final mark of training, and it terrified the kids into obeying without question.

It was hard not to smile as the guards dragged my “dead” body past the kids in the hallway. I tried to find someone in the hospital to give some advice to like Katie had done for me, but there was no one. No regular like myself to give a good old pep talk to. Besides, I was only in the hospital for a day before I was brought here.

I still couldn’t quite believe my new digs. To avoid complete culture shock when we were unleashed into the real world, we spent the time here before we got linked to our FIP. It was a regular apartment, complete with a TV and computer. I was surprised at how little I cared about the TV. I used to obsess over shows. What happened on TV just seemed silly and sad now.

But oh, how I’d missed music.

I walked over to the stereo and flipped on the radio. I didn’t care what was on. I stopped at the first station I found. Classic rock. I sat on the couch, which was surprisingly comfy, and closed my eyes as the radio let the Led out. I zoned to the music; yeah, zoning out is still one of
my top five things I do. It was no longer accompanied by texting, playing the cello, being annoying, and loving horror movies (with an asterisk). No, its top five companions now included: killing, feeling no pain, the ability to drive anything, and being really sneaky.

Alone in my new apartment, with no schedule to follow, I stretched out on the couch and let the time pass. After four long years it was a little disorienting to know I had nowhere to be and nothing coming up. I could eat what and when I wanted and sleep as long as I wished. I was free until they assigned me my FIP. And that could take months. Of course I would keep up my training, but for now I could recharge my batteries.

Of the 313 kids who’d started with me, only 29 of us had made it through to the end. Some had died in various accidents that occurred during training. Big Tom was killed for reasons I’ll probably never understand. Mary, the gerbil-like girl, had crashed a motorcycle going about 180 miles per hour. Others had been shot, some stabbed, and a few were blown up from faulty explosives. And sadly, most had lost the battle with their sanity from the fire and were never seen or heard from again. Of course, they were studied and used in other ways. Waste not, want not, right?

It was never a pretty sight when someone “turned,” as we survivors called it. Something flipped in their heads. Some kind of wild animal aggression took over and they blindly attacked anyone and anything within reach. The younger the kid, the less damage there was, but when someone older and bigger turned, the damage could be awful.

I once saw a burly seventeen-year-old kill three guards
before being killed. After Tom, I’d been inconsolable. But eventually I became immune to it. It was just another part of training. Their deaths served to teach me how to be better, to be constantly in control. They had been foolish, or too risky. They were weak. But I only half-believed all of that to keep myself from falling apart.

And lying there on the couch, with the guitars blaring, something strange started to happen. I began to cry. I hadn’t cried in years. Where had this blubbering girl come from? I was a hard-edged killing machine now. Tears were a waste of hydration.

Not here. Not anymore
had been my mantra, carrying me through those endless days and nights. But why not
here
? I had made it, right? I’d defied the odds and done it, so why not give the armor a true break? So here, finally at the end, I allowed myself to grieve properly.
All right, tears. Have at it
. And no, the classic rock didn’t help.

My watery eyes found the large sliding door to the balcony. I could see buildings and a park outside. It had been four years since I’d seen the real world. Watching the trees, real ones, sway in the wind calmed me.

I got up, walked across the living room, but paused when I reached the sliding glass door.
What if the air isn’t as sweet as I remembered it? What if the cool breeze doesn’t feel right?
I’d lived on memories for four years, depended on them. What if the real thing couldn’t compare?

Summoning my courage, I slid the door open. The wind hit my face and I took a deep, intoxicating breath. It tasted like a mixture of dirt and rain. It was
better
than I had remembered. They should bottle this stuff and sell
it. I plopped down into one of the patio chairs. The wind played with my hair, gently tossing it around. I closed my eyes. I could get used to this.