The Season Trials

C H A P T E R T W O

               I force myself to concentrate, the edge of the steps harsh and unremorseful. My eyes widen at the sight in front of me. From the outside, it's huge, pristine and most extravagant than anything I've ever seen in my life. A soldier jet. The only time we ever see them is when they fly over us. At those times there's no time to gawk at the jets. You're too busy worrying why they're there—to drop bombs? Send down a firing squad? In the first few months of the take over both had happened twice. Now they aren't so frequent, yet the fear still remains.

               The wings are easily twice the size of me, thick and strong. Fear shoots through me before I can stop it. The whole thing looks too heavy, too strong; how does it fly? Surely, it'll crash. Maybe, though, that's the plan. Stage a crash to kill us all before we even get sold. Considering the lack of knowledge, on what happens once you're taken, it's probable.

               The fear must jar my body in place, because I'm shoved forward with rough hands. My legs collapse from under me, as pain explodes in my ankle. My cry is something I hear loud and clear. I'm not even sure if it's because of my ankle or the unforgiving ground crashing into me. The static is gone, gunshots and screams filling the space. I shut my eyes, willing them away. Jaylee's voice breaks through all the noise, my name hoarse and pained. Fresh tears fall.

               Blissfully, the doors close and all that's left is silence. Balancing my weight on my arms, I try to push myself up. A foot in the middle of back stops me, pressing into my spine. Letting myself collapse, I resist curling into a ball and sobbing, like I want to do. Instead, I stay down, peeking off to the side. The interior is just as extravagant as the outside, three compartments from what I can see, though a large screen door blocks my view of the other two. The front compartment has seats lining the sides, a large table in the middle. Other than that it's bare . . .

               Except the people sitting on the seats, eyes wide and fearful. I stare at them, recognising only a few of the other's chosen. Refusing to let the guilt sink in too deep, my eyes cut to Aril, a boy who'd given me food a few times when I'd been starving. The last time I saw him he'd been working with the town butchers, just ten years old. Now, seven years on, he's almost unrecognisable. His once short blonde hair, is now past his shoulders, almost brown. He's bulkier, the muscle of his arms clearly defined. I can't say I'm surprised. Generally, hard labour builds up bulk and Aril is no different.

               Aril seems to sense my eyes on him, his own looking over. Blank, that's all I can describe it as. He looks emotionless. Sympathy shines in his eyes as he stares at me and I have to look away uncomfortably.

               Avoiding his eyes, I stare at Cyril, one of the many kid's I've grown up with. I can't say I'm happy to see him either. The last time we'd met, it hadn't been much of a meeting. In his struggles, he'd concerned me into an alley, before beating me until I'd given him all the food I'd been holding. It hadn't been much, but it had taken me a month to save up for. Looking at him, I see that he hadn't changed at all. He's still scowling darkly, completely ignoring everyone in the room. He's scrawny compared to Aril, blonde hair wispy and thin.

               Brianne is the next person I see, someone I've only ever seen in passing. She's one of the better off, living in the wealthier part of town. Her house doesn't have a caved in roof, nor does it have smashed windows. She doesn't struggle to find food on a daily basis. It surprises me that she'd even here. Generally, they avoid choosing the wealthier, picking the poor. Her eyes cut to mine, hand reaching out to fluff her blonde hair. Despite the fact that she'd now just waiting to be sold, she seems to not care.