Extracted

Tyler

We go back to our varying stations to finish out the rest of the allotted training period. Training for what? I wonder because this seems a bit much for regular physical education. With all the notes the trainers load into their tablets, it feels more like we’re all being evaluated for some new and improved training protocol. Then again, considering the mysterious plague, that’s probably not too far off the mark. Of course scientists would want to study the after-effects of this kind of a disease, especially since the after-effects seemed to be improved stamina and strength. Unless all us survivors were already pre-disposed to superhuman strength and brain power, which accounts for why we all survived, while hundreds of others didn’t. I’m living in a comic book.

Cecelia snags my arm, giving a little pinch. “Don’t do that again.” Her whisper sharpens with anger. “I don’t need any trouble.” She strides away.

How am I giving her trouble? Because she’s my roommate?

I go back to the ropes course. The trainer gives me a strange look, but doesn’t say anything. He cants his head toward the ladder, indicating I should start while he brings up my statistics on his tablet again. I would love to know what that says about me, well, Katherine, and decide to ask the director later if I can see it.

I finish the rope course like it’s equipment on a kindergarten playground and am told to go to the knife throwing targets.

That I’m not so good at. Apparently eye-hand coordination is not my thing. I don’t even know how to hold a knife to throw it. I look at the guy next to me to see how he does it. Half of my throws sail beyond the target and smack into the wall beyond. Well, if I ever have need of taking out a hanging mannequin, guess I’ll climb a tree instead. Like this will ever have real world application. We’d be better off throwing darts. Now that’s a skill I could use back home at Jeffries Point Super Bowl-a-Rama.

My muscles tighten and my next throw flies so off-mark it hits the mannequin next to mine.

The guy throwing blades at it glares at me. His eyes narrow and his lips lengthen in such a Tyler way that I freeze, shocked.

Then the similarity is gone and he snickers, throwing three blades one after the other, all penetrating the mannequin’s stomach around my blade.

He walks over to the target and pulls my blade out, leaving his there, and drops my knife on the floor before walking away.

By the time we’re released to go to dinner, I’m exhausted, more emotionally than physically. The different stations grew more difficult as I moved to each one. I had no idea what to do during sparring, so quickly went to Wyoming wrestling style and pinned the other girl.

It feels good, powerful, to be able to make my body respond how I want it to.

I see Mitchell walking just ahead. I want to corner him about what he’d said in the infirmary about pretending memory loss that I speed up automatically and have to make myself slow down. I can’t assault him with questions in front of everyone. He looks back over his shoulder as though he knows I’m staring at his back. I don’t look away.

Dinner consists of a kind of meatloaf, baked potatoes and several choices of salads. Where I didn’t eat much at lunch, I’m starving and practically inhale everything on my tray.

Lawrence is noticeably absent from our table, but no one says anything about it. Cecelia is stiff beside me, probably tensing to cut me off if I attempt to bring him up or whatever that chanting was about in the gymnasium.

My gaze strays toward Mitchell, hoping he’ll look my way, but he pointedly looks everywhere else.

I also search the tables for the boy who was at the knife throwing station and hitch in a breath when I spot him, staring with direct intensity at me.

“What is it?” Lillian asks.

I shake my head. “Nothing.”

She frowns. “The first day is the hardest. It will be better tomorrow.”

Hopefully I won’t be here tomorrow. I haven’t had a chance to search for an email program. I look back at the guy. He’s still staring. His dark eyes seem depthless.

I’m not going to let him intimidate me. I raise my brows high in a what’s-your-problem expression.

One side of his mouth quirks into a half-grin. What can I say? Even here there’s bound to be jerks.