Chapter 3

Clinging to the railings until my knuckles turn white, I drag myself up and bite back a cry as the scorching sensation returns to my throat. The platform rattles beneath me and begins its descent back to the stage. I spot Sierra from the stands for surrogate children, and she gives a hesitant wave before a Sentinel drags her away. Our seniors stand to the side, dressed in formal blazers and pants. Medals on their attire are arranged in straight, neat rows, turning them into walking billboards of their successes.

"Next, all graduates will receive the Civil Mark and are now of legal age, according to the laws of the Kyrosian Republic." President Finley declares.

I pry my gaze away and face the man with the microphone. My identification bracelet vibrates with a low hum meaning that we've passed the evaluations. The chorus of mechanical whirrs fills the space, and I glimpse a few smiling faces from the crowd. President Finley glares at us until a hush descends on the area. Only a few daring whispers test the silence.

Sentinels comb the crowd and pick out those who failed the final evaluation. Soon, a small group is pushed into a quiet corner. Their identification bracelets are snapped and tossed in a black trash bag.

From the corner of my eye, there's a flicker of movement as Sierra waves me over to the observation panel. Instantly, the brooding figures behind her snag my attention. Her surrogate family is here. Their porcelain-white skin and silver eyes are mutations, and they quickly pull their cloaks back on. Her new father offers Sierra a tight smile and holds out a hand to her. A knot forms in my stomach. I'm tempted to look away, but my gaze is still stubbornly stuck on her.

A stricken expression crosses the surrogate father's eyes when he sees me. Standing stiffer than a stick, the mother draws her lips into a thin line. Sierra pounds her fist against the window, but I can't hear her through the soundproof barrier. Instead, I watch the movement of her lips.

"When will we meet again?"

Next year. The words never leave my mouth as the Sentinels guide her away with her new family in tow. As the door clicks shut, I'm left with a scowling Sentinel. Sierra's fading palm print on the glass is the last thing I see before rejoining the group. While the others are still saying their teary goodbyes, I stare at the ground like it's the most interesting thing I've ever seen.

Jax squeezes my hand, and we face the front again. President Finley starts giving a lengthy speech about conduct and being hardworking citizens. I know that he'll end his rant by saying that the Sanctuary is a place for everyone to thrive. Eventually, most people will settle permanently there, and it'll be converted into an industrial hub as the economy expands.

While he speaks, I watch the movement of his mouth while blocking out his voice. My gaze trails down to his suit, and it's a reminder of who he was in the old world.

Zander Finley used to be a slave of the nine-to-five office job, grabbing bagels and espresso to power through the day. He was a drop in the ocean, one of the many people cramming in the trains every morning. Fleeting, insignificant, and therefore, invisible to the others on board. All he wanted was to make a decent living, just like everyone else.

Then, the bombs hit.

With many world leaders and their subordinates dying from the effects of radiation, immunes like us took matters into our own hands. We clamored for the chance to run a country on our terms and create our laws. In our case, Zander Finley shared power with Melanie Wright.

While other countries came up with fancier names for their provisional governments, ours just stuck with the title, Proxy.

President Finley talks about our new lives, repeating old information and rehashing it. "The orientation begins tonight. Attendance is compulsory, so rest up, and we'll meet again soon." He nods tersely and disappears behind the wall of bodyguards—the Sentinels motion for us to follow them, leading us to the hall's back exit. I give them a once-over, taking in their khaki uniforms and the ammunition slung across their chests. They wield rifles, and their pockets are full of gadgets I don't recognize. One of them carries only a taser.

Drudges take our belongings, sliding them off our shoulders with practiced ease, and they stack everything onto the back of a courier truck. Climbing onto the monstrous vehicle, they tip their caps off to us and disappear into the distance.

With an impatient grunt, the Taser Sentinel leads the way to a Skytrain station. It sits on the Sanctuary's fringes, atop a section of dead grass that never seems to grow back. Once, it was reserved for politicians—ministers and foreign representatives—and for several years before that, celebrities and tycoons rode their private Skytrains to lavish vacations.

Peasants like us could only stand and stare.

I take in the beast that awaits us on the tracks, and it's a vision of sleek beauty extending for the whole length of the platform. Inside, the interior is an impossible dream. I can't stop looking at the scarlet carpet or the ambient lighting peeking out from the sandalwood beams. The restrooms are fitted with gold basins and marble floors. Even the shower curtain is made of some silky material, and while it isn't a practical choice, at least it's not a sore sight. I swallow the lump in my throat and step aside for the others to gawk. All this calls me poor in a thousand languages.

On the cabin's far side, vending machines carry instant meals and energy drinks. My gaze follows the floor lighting to the pool table, arcade, and a narrow hallway that leads to a cozy cinema. A gold plaque sits near the hydraulic doors to the next cabin. Inscribed on it are some words in cursive lettering.

Property of Elixr.

"That's the rapper with the crazy nails and pink hair?"

A girl plops down in the seat next to me, her eyes still twinkling with humor. She gives my hand a firm shake. "Krystal Bales, one of the Chosen from Birmingham."

"Chosen? What does that mean?"

"Have a gander." She shows me the insignia on her wrist. It's a creature with a sharp snout and seven horns. I cringe internally.

"They assigned you as a Drudger?"

"I guess that's what you guys call it. Since I moved here, those crazy scientists keep saying we're survivors and throw some flippin' nonsense about specializing and rebuilding. If you ask me, I'd rather spend my last days doing anything under the Sun before the bucket list dies with me," she huffs.

Stealing a glance at her tattoo-ridden arms, it's then that I notice the scars on her skin. Though the ink is denser in those areas, anyone can tell that her old injuries are from cutting flux rocks at the mines. That's the newest kind of stone we discovered, and we're stocking it up since the coal reserves won't last for long.

Drudges can work as anything, depending on what their mutations are. If it gives them high intelligence, they could work as investigators, teachers, or architects. Once they pass the required tests, the world is their oyster.

I've only seen foreigners occasionally in the three years since the Nuclear War. Most countries have safe areas like ours, but those are now packed to the brim. Eventually, the other provisional governments agreed to have the Chosen—or whatever they call the other mutants—sent to the Sanctuary in small batches while building more safe zones.

As the Skytrain jolts upwards, a seatbelt fastens across my body, and the front seat pocket chokes up a brown paper bag. Seeing that already makes me queasy. My heart thrashes in my chest as I watch the camera feed showing a view of the platform. Families gather by the nearby observation decks, their expressions impassive as they stare at us. I keep looking for Sierra and the surrogates, squinting through the window while the Skytrain lurches forward.

Their faces vanish in a blur of tunneled bleakness. I grip the armrests and chew on my lips to keep from screaming. Daylight soon pierces through the lightly tinted windows, and I swallow the bile that burns my throat. Krystal gives me a strained smile, but that quickly fades as the train picks up speed.

I recognize the graffiti on a rusty structure sticking out in the snow. Though I'm tempted to look away, my gaze is stubbornly glued to the morbid design of skulls and death. I dig my nails into my hand until a burning sensation takes over my palms.

That's the place where my parents were shot dead. Jax's father and brother met the same fate when radiation messed with their brains. It made them violent, sick, and bloodthirsty for anything that moved. There wasn't any other way to protect us, so the Proxy officers launched bullets through their heads. That was before the Sanctuary was finished, so I saw everything happen from the safe zones. Their bodies would remain outside, buried in the snow, and preserved in their madness.

A castle-like building looms ahead, and it's covered in overgrown creepers and mutated plants. Its polished bricks once sold the illusion of princesses, magic, and knights in shining armor. Childhood fantasies are dead now, snuffed out by the harsh winter. The arching entrance is split down the middle.

Walt Disney World.

"Where dreams come true," I murmur. Krystal offers a hum of agreement and slumps back into her seat. Rusty remains of rollercoaster tracks dip beneath the snow, buried in surrender. I bite my lip and look away, pressing random buttons on the control panel until the window is tinted.

As the chatters start up again, the Skytrain slows to a grinding halt. Darkness engulfs the cabin. Red warning lights appear on the top. Several faces stare back at me, carved into sharp edges from the shadows. Screams echo off the walls, followed by a sickening crack and a low growl. Our breathing grows heavy. A deep flush crawls up my neck and heats my face, and I silently curse the seatbelt that won't come loose.

Through the tinted windows, frantic conversations waft down the aisles. Someone grabs me by the sleeve. "I think he's dead." Krystal points to the boy in the seat across from us. His eyes are still open, but they're black and crusted over. The others behind him seize up in their chairs. They scratch their bodies, yelling and screaming as crimson streaks flow from their ears. Screeches and guttural sounds erupt from their throats, and they rake their claw-like fingernails through the seats.

Their gnarly hands curl around the seatbelts and rip them apart. A purple-haired girl barrels down the aisle. There's a blur of motion when she rips my seatbelt off and slams my head against the walls. I flinch when her breath hits my face. It smells like rotten flesh.

My fists connect with her stomach. Stumbling back, she lunges for us again, catching my arm between her teeth. I start kicking and thrashing, glad my movements are nothing like a fighter's—just a girl who doesn't want to die. A harsh blow knocks the wind out of the crazed attacker, and she backs down while foaming at the mouth. She wipes her lips with the back of her hand. Stalking towards me on all fours, her pupils narrow into slits as she leaps at us.

Krystal tackles her to the ground. A cry of pain escapes the girl's throat while Krystal struggles to keep her down. Sentinels storm the cabin, waving to the Drudgers to carry the false immunes away on the stretchers. As a Healer, my skin mends itself naturally, and by the time we step outside, all that remains is a shallow slit where the girl scratched my arm.

We gather in front of the stage, waiting for President Finley to deliver his welcome speech. Krystal stumbles after me, bleeding from the cuts across her arms, and her cheek is split to reveal a tracking chip beneath. Running my hands over her arms, I watch as her skin mends together, joining like moving fibers until the cuts are sealed. She hisses and nearly flinches away but mutters a quick apology before letting me do the same for her face.

"That confirms our suspicions." President Finley stares at the prompter, his lips quivering slightly with each word. "As it turns out, those who attacked you are false immunes, and the radiation has already gotten to their brains. Initially, we brought you here for a fresh start," he pauses and sweeps his gaze over the crowd, "but that can't happen anymore."

"I don't understand," Krystal breathes.

"False immunes are a mistake. They're a miscalculation on our part, and they've already contaminated this place."

Seth raises his hand. "So, what happens now?"