CHAPTER 12
WEDNESDAY IS A CARBON COPY of Tuesday, and Thursday makes it a hat trick. I’m settling into a routine. Wake up, coffee and breakfast, barely survive our daily run—which seems to be increasing by exactly one mile every day. Then spend my day sparring with Ghost and practicing mnemonic memory techniques. I spend my evening in the game room, tailing Maverick like a needy puppy. He doesn’t seem to mind. Or maybe he just hasn’t noticed my interest in him.
By the time Thursday’s training nears the end of the day, I’m ready to get through Friday and head into the weekend. What will a weekend here in The Program be like? Will we even get to take the two days off from training, or is this a seven-day-a-week regimen?
“Fall in, recruits,” Ruger calls from the front of the training room. This is the first time anyone has instructed us to “fall in,” and I wonder if it speaks to a military background before he became a super-secret-spy-school instructor. “It’s time for a practice run.”
Run? I never want to run again.
“By now,” he continues, oblivious to my despair, “you should all be improving in memory with the help of the mnemonic memory methods you’ve learned.”
Oh, he’s not talking about an actual run. I relax and breathe a deep sigh of relief.
“Tomorrow morning, you will all participate in a scored memory exercise much like the one you did on the first day. Today, we’re going to do a dry one. This way, you will all get a pretty good idea of how you will score tomorrow. Consider this one last opportunity to improve. This will be more important for some of you than for others.”
We begin much the same way we did Monday morning, except now the first recruits to go are remembering almost twice as many panels as before.
Then it’s my turn. Mine and Ghost’s.
Again, the first test is reminiscent of a Rorschach test. It’s a desk or table of some sort, I realize just in time for Matrix to call, “Time.”
We move on to the next one. This time it’s the word light in heavy print. I think of a desk lamp, and I imagine it in my bedroom on my desk.
“Time.”
The next panel is a wolf face, and I hold the image until the next “time.” Now I’m able to combine the image of the wolf with the number eight in my mind to make the image of a sled team led by eight wolves instead of sled dogs. And I imagine myself meeting them in my front yard.
“Time.”
We go through thirty cards, and I pair them all up the same way. I imagine myself walking to school and seeing each of the images I use for paired cards along my path. A penguin at the stop sign at the end of my street for a circle, which I perceive as a period, and the word wedding—where the guys wear tuxes; my best friend Casey in front of the gas station at the entrance to our neighborhood is what I make of a stick figure and a car. Before I know it, we’ve reached the end of the panels, and it’s time to recite them back.
“Desk, light, wolf, eight, circle, wedding, stick figure, car, dollars, family, desert, rope, button, stars, computer, work, broom, river, doctor…” I make it all the way to the last set, but I can’t remember what the other half of a first-aid kit in the student parking lot was supposed to signify. I’m done. With thirty-one. I’m one away from a perfect score, and Ghost’s smirk says he’s impressed. But I could have done better; I’m certain of it.
Maverick and Recall do great, with Recall getting every panel correct without even breaking a sweat—surprise—and Maverick doubling his score for a final tally of forty-four. I already knew going into this thing that they were going to beat us, but I’m most interested to see how Cipher and Prodigy do. If Ghost is right and Prodigy is the pick—or the other pick—with maximum potential, it’s possible he could get as many right as I did. Or one more, for that matter.
He twists his hands nervously in his lap when he and Cipher take their seats across from one another on the floor. Cipher goes first and gets fifteen right. Not bad, but not the biggest improvement we’ve seen so far. And then Prodigy does exactly what I expected he would, and secretly hoped he wouldn’t do. He lands a perfect score. Combined with his bonus points from the other day, and his first score, he and Cipher are shoo-ins for top spot on the murder board tomorrow. A sliver of disappointment snakes down my spine, but I stifle the feeling by reminding myself that I don’t need to be number one—I just need to stay above the red line.
Prodigy is all flushed cheeks and averted gaze as several recruits congratulate him on his win. It’s easy to be happy for him when the exercise isn’t being counted on the murder board. Even with the knowledge that he’ll likely do it again tomorrow hanging over our heads. I’m genuinely happy for the kid. It can’t be easy being so much younger and smaller than the rest of us. At least he’s earning respect from his older, larger peers.
“Okay, recruits. Go enjoy your evening. Tomorrow morning, six of you are going home.”
Half of the group heading back to our house is somber, and the other half seems unfazed by the impending elimination. It’s easy to guess from attitudes who is worried about going home and who isn’t. I’m pretty much safe, and that feels pretty great. Sim, on the other hand, was much closer to the wrong side of the line on the murder board this afternoon, and it shows in her slumped shoulders and shuffling gate.
“Hey.” I sidle up next to her. “Want to chill in the game room when we get back to the house?”
“Nah, I think I’m just gonna grab a quick a quick bite and go to bed early. I want to make sure I’m well rested for tomorrow.” Her voice is flat, like she’s purposely holding back any sign of emotion.
“Eat some ice cream,” Ammo chimes in cheerfully as we step up onto the front porch of Sever house. She pulls at the hair tie holding her tight black curls in a loose ponytail, and they cascade around her head to bounce around her face. Like this, she’s soft and dark and pretty, and I try to picture her as some sort of munitions expert as her name would suggest. The image finally fits into place for me when I realize the grace in her movements, and suddenly I can picture her disassembling and reassembling a rifle in record time.
“Why ice cream?” I ask her.
“I read about a study once where they fed some kids ice cream in the morning before a big test, and the ones who got the ice cream performed better. Something about reward centers of the brain and all that. Seems like it would be worth a shot. And really, why not. I mean, ice cream.” She moves past us and into the house.
Inside, Sim gives me a weak smile and heads off presumably to find herself some dinner. My stomach grumbles, but all I’m really interested in right now is a shower. I’m still wearing the sticky film of sweat from the morning’s run and the later combatives training, and I feel gross.
By the time I head back downstairs, an incredible smell is wafting out of the kitchen promising amazing things for my taste buds. I follow the scent. Apparently, I’m not the only one drawn by the prospect of a home-cooked meal. Ammo, Figment, and Bug are seated at the island staring patiently into the main area of the kitchen where Sim and Houdini are dancing around each other like a well-practiced team of chefs. Sim is far more cheerful than when we parted ways earlier. Does Houdini have anything to do with her improved mood? And what sweet ambrosia are they cooking? I send a little silent prayer that they are making enough to share and nab the only remaining vacant seat next to Bug.
“What are they making?” I whisper.
“I think something Italian,” he answers just as quietly.
“Guys, it’s just eggplant Parmesan and spaghetti, with garlic knots and a salad,” Houdini announces like he’s speaking to a room full of overexcited children.
“Just tell me there’s some for us,” Figment begs, practically drooling as Sim pulls a hot pan from the oven and sets it to rest on the stove.
“There’s enough for everyone.”
“Yeah,” Houdini agrees. “We figured we should have a real meal, since it’s going to be someone’s last dinner.”
The room is silent for a beat following Houdini’s announcement. Until now, I’ve almost managed to block out the fact that someone’s going home tomorrow. Several someones, in fact. But Houdini says it like they’re going to be wiped from existence. I’m torn between the urge to chuckle and the urge to wince.
“Here, you mean,” Ammo corrects. “Someone’s last dinner here in The Program.”
“Yeah.”
I’m not the first one in line to dish up when Sim announces it’s ready, but I make sure I’m not the last either. Once I have my plate in hand, I head for the dining room. I don’t know why; it’s not like anyone said we had to have a formal dinner or anything. But it feels right tonight. I guess I’m not the only one who thinks so because Sim, Houdini, and Bug are already there, and Prodigy and Figment enter as I’m sitting down.
Then Maverick joins us. Suddenly, I’m more aware of him than my rumbling stomach. And when he sits down next to me, it’s all I can do to keep a giddy smile from spreading across my face. Get it together, Infinity. You’re seventeen, not seven. I pretend not to notice how close he is and busy myself instead with cutting my food into small enough bites that I, hopefully, won’t drop any in my lap.
“How’d you guys learn to cook like this?” Figment asks around a mouthful of food.
Houdini swallows a bite of food before answering proudly. “My mom’s Italian. I’ve been watching her cook like this pretty much every night since I was born.”
“I’m the oldest of nine. I learned real early how to cook for a big family.” Sim sounds considerably less proud.
“Family,” Prodigy repeats. “I guess we’re kind of like a family now, huh?”
Bug snorts derisively. “People don’t get eliminated from a family, kid.”
“Some do.” Maverick’s response is so low, so barely there, that I almost miss it. Is that what happened to his brother? Did he get kicked out of the family when he got kicked out of The Program? Did his family employ some weird spy version of an Amish shunning?
#
I’m already awake when I hear commotion down the hall. Too many errant thoughts hovering at the edges of my consciousness pulled me from sleep well before our 5:30 a.m. alarm went off. But I’ve been hanging out in bed ever since, dreading everything the day will bring once I pull myself from between these sheets. When the voices grow louder, more panicked, I finally crawl out of bed, wiping the sleep from my eyes. Then I lumber toward the sound, out of my room, across the landing, and into the boys’ wing. A group of recruits, maybe everyone assigned to this house besides me, is filling the doorway to Maverick and Prodigy’s room and the surrounding area. I peer over shoulders and through gaps between bodies, but I can’t tell what’s happening.
Disembodied whispers and soft voices float through the small crowd, and I catch snippets.
“Cut him down.”
“Check… pulse.”
“He’s blue, dude; he’s gone.”
“…CPR.”
“…tell Sever…”
Then people shift around me, and I’m absorbed into the group. Just enough to see past the doorframe, through the room, and partway into the bathroom. Movement, something swinging. It takes a long moment for me to register what I’m seeing: the tiniest sliver of a profile view of a body. Prodigy’s body hanging from the shower curtain rod. His skin is so pale it’s almost gray. My blood becomes ice water in my veins, and my stomach rolls.
Maverick comes into view, grabs Prodigy under his legs like he’s giving him a boost, and someone else cuts him down, out of view. “Go get Sever,” Maverick instructs someone, and a heartbeat later, Figment squeezes his bulky frame through the tight press of people. His footsteps are a heavy thumping on the stairs as he races to the first floor, but he curses when he gets to the bottom.
His curse reminds me that he can’t go any further than the front door. We’re still locked in until 6 a.m. sharp. “Take him to where the cameras can see.” It’s my voice, but I don’t feel the words come out of my own mouth.
“Cameras?” someone asks, but I ignore them. Instead, I search the ceiling for the camera covering the boys’ hall. When I find it, I wave frantically. I’m tipping my hand, letting the instructors know I know they’ve been watching us, but something’s wrong with Prodigy and that outweighs what little advantage my knowledge of the cameras might have afforded me.
Within minutes, the keypad at the front door beeps, and several voices enter at once, likely all four instructors. Soon, they appear in the hall behind me.
“Move, recruits,” Sever calls out.
“Out of the way.” Ruger’s voice booms.
As the group surrounding me starts to disband, I get my first good look at what’s going on. Maverick is on the floor of his room, kneeling over Prodigy, pressing into his chest rhythmically with crossed hands. The boy is pale, his lips and fingertips tinged blue. His face is swollen, and his eyes bulge wide, staring lifelessly up at the ceiling. The air in my lungs shrinks, pulling my chest inward almost to the point of implosion, and my stomach threatens to roll out onto the floor through my throat.
He’s dead.