Chapter Eight

“For many of you, death is imminent.” says Taylor Jones. Her hair is tied back in a tight bun, and her face is sharp like a rat’s face, despite her muscular but defined frame. She nibbles on the tip of a blade, which shines in the light of the room.
This room is almost identical to the one from this morning, only it has a wall full of knives and guns rather than weights and punching bags. In my head, room 904 is the room of endless pressure on the body. This room, 905, appears to be a room that could be associated with a slaughter house given the chance.
“Many of you will die with a bullet to the head, others with a blade in the gut. Some will die alone, others will die with a friend holding your hand. In here, I will teach you how to use these two weapons to the best of your advantage. You will hurt in here; blood will be spilt. Some of you may even be killed. Sector One is a place of Breakage, you all know that, and some of you won’t break easily. Killing is the last resort.
All sessions here are linked. In a few months, the pain of a knife in the thigh or a bullet in the shoulder will be nothing more than an inconvenience. In a few weeks, you will be able to move and attack before you can even process what you are doing. In a few days, a week at the most, you will be able to throw a blade or fire a gun at a target and hit it without trying. My job is to get you comfortable holding a weapon, comfortable enough that it becomes a part of you.”
We stand in silence, and I can hear my own heartbeat pumping in my ears. It’s steady, beating strong. My body is beginning to ache, yet it is a dull pain. Tilly stands by my side, her gaze hard and her hands clenched into fists. She looks determined, almost frightening.
“But first,” Taylor continues. “You must not fear death, but rather embrace it. You need to think of it as a friend, that one person who will take you away from everything bad, but only when it is too much. Energy is wasted when someone’s heart is pounding during a life threatening situation, and that means that the subject doesn’t think clearly. This is not an option. Your lives are of no value anymore; you are all tools! A weapon! Your alliance lies with this country, not your own wellbeing. Silver’s transmitting sessions will help with this, but they can only do so much. It is up to you to let go of your fears and face life for what it is; a world of destruction and decay that needs to be defended and rebuilt!”
I wish I could ask her what we are defending the country from, but I would rather keep myself from being locked away in a cell for another seven days. Besides, Ethan is watching me with an eagle’s eye, as well as Cole. We were the only ones to point out what is off about this place, so naturally we are the prime targets of surveillance. I glance at the young man, who is leaning against the wall of weapons, his pad in hand yet again. He looks less frustrated, at least.
“How many of you fear the prospect of dying?” Taylor asks, and in the same moment our devices are activated. They must be some kind of lie detector, too, since those rely on the state of the heartbeat.
We all raise our hands.
“I’m not going to lie, your honesty impresses me.” she smiles. “Nothing pisses me off more than a handful of fresh recruits who claim they don’t fear getting killed.
To overcome such a fear, the best way to face it is not to think about it. Easier said than done, I know. However, whether you’re here for a few months or years at a time, you will become too distracted to even think about dying. Many of you will form friendships in the early stages, but soon you will also form the mind of a killer. Killers don’t fear the very thing they inflict on others. That combination alone is certainly enough to distract you.”
“How long have you trained with weapons?” someone asks in the group, a girl.
Taylor offers a partial smile, and I know it is a look of pride. “When I was twelve, my father threw a blade at my head. It missed me by mere inches, and he told me that one day I would have an aim just as good as his. He had me practice with knives for a long time, and when I turned sixteen, I became one of the Selected. I flew through this particular training in just three weeks, and the other sessions only sharpened my view of weaponry.” she flashes a toothy grin. “I am one of the best weapon handlers here. Everything you need to know, you are learning from the best.”
“She taught me when I was here.” Ethan interjects, his eyes raking the wall of weapons. “She’s not lying about being the best.” Taylor gives him a smile, a proud smile at that, and turns back to us.
“Will we fight against one another?” someone else calls out.
“Only when I see fit. I will not pair someone up with another who is not ready; I’m not a fan of needless, unfair fights.” She says this like she means it. “Anyone who attacks without my permission will suffer�"painfully.”
“I like her.” Kyle whispers to me, and probably the others. I smirk. So do I, she has the kind of attitude I wish I could obtain.
“Behind me is a wall of weapons.” Taylor tells us. “Each one weighs different, is built differently, and is built specifically for each one of you. A gun and a knife have been assigned to you by us, your mentors, and it is your job to figure out which one it is. Should you fail to find your weapon, some of you will have to find whoever possesses it, or put up with one that is simply not built for you. When I call your name I want you to select your weapons.”
I stare at the weapons as the first four people are called out. Some knives have a jagged edge, others are sleek, designed to cut through bone in one swipe. The guns range from small handguns to rifles, double or single barrelled. I know for a fact that my gun will be a handgun, possibly a .22 or .44. My bet lies on the .22. As for the blade I am not sure, and I will have to rely on my instinct for that one.
One by one, guns and knives are pulled from the wall, their weight tested by their handlers who try to decide which one is made for them. I find myself somewhat excited; my feet won’t keep still. With a weapon, I won’t feel as small here. I may be an average height, but my skinniness is what people judge me by, especially people like Tony.
“I call the shotgun in the top right corner.” Mike says, biting his lip in anticipation. Kyle protests for a moment, but then gives in. Mike is bulkier than him so a shotgun is more ideal.
“Felix, Harper, Mark and Warren.” Taylor calls, and I walk forward a little too quickly. Ignoring the three boys, I skim the wall with my eyes. I find what looks to be a black .22 handgun and pick it up, and I instantly feel powerful. Not too heavy, not too light. It sits in my hand with purpose, my finger caressing the trigger as if it were meant to be. Holding it by the barrel I search the wall for a knife, which is a little trickier.
But then my eyes land on it. A blade, shining a beautiful silver that reflects my face, and I reach out to take it off the two hooks it sits on. The handle is engraved with markings that resemble flames, embedded in the silver that glistens up at me. It feels like the same weight as the gun, perhaps a little lighter, but I am confident that it’s mine. I walk away from the wall.
“Well done.” Taylor praises. “Those are now yours to keep.”
Twenty minutes later, everyone has their desired weapon. Mike ends up with the shotgun, but his knife if that of a butcher’s. He looks frightening but incredible useful. Kyle has a .45 handgun and a long, thin blade which has a divided point like the tip of a snake’s tongue. Tilly is assigned a .38 revolver and a pocket knife, Cole an automatic .45 carbine rifle, which surprises me�"I always saw him as a shotgun kind of guy. DJ is given a handgun similar to my own, but his knife is thick and blunt, designed for damage rather than death. Finally, Max is given a .22 pistol revolver and a blade that folds out from its handle.
A few swaps are made, but nothing drastic. As Taylor remarks on how well our instincts define what we will use, I can’t help but look around the room. Everyone armed, everyone deadly. It’s happening; we are losing sight of who we are, instead associating our intentions with deadly objects. I stare at the gun in one hand and the knife in the other, and I finally wonder what the hell is wrong with me.
“You all have a locker to put these weapons in; we’re not stupid enough to let you take them to your dorms, especially when we already have two rivals in here.” Taylor barks, and her eyes shift from me to Tony who stands on not far away, fiddling with his shotgun. I smile at the thought of him shooting himself in the leg. “Do that now as today you are not practicing with them, you shall begin that during our next session.”
Along the wall by the entrance is a number are square doors, all compact and laid out like the bricks of a wall. They all have a name and a key, which Taylor says is ours to keep on us at all times. I find my locker in the middle of the five rows and lock away my weapons, pulling out the key and stuffing it in my pocket.
The next hour consists of Taylor demonstrating basic attacks, occasionally calling a few of us up. Jay is one of them, and she looks weak and useless next to this skilled woman. Taylor does a slowly demonstrated move, where she points out the best places to attack with a knife; the throat being the number one spot. Jay is still throughout the whole exchange, and returns to the group with stiff legs.
She dismisses us which an upbeat tone, clearly impressed with us. For what, I’m not sure. For listening? For choosing correctly? I don’t think about it for long, as I know where her real praises will lie; who can draw blood first. I shiver.
Everyone is in a good mood after this session, all rushing past me to return to their dorms and discuss their day. I linger, looking behind me. With the door being that of pure glass, I see Ethan rush up to Taylor and frantically tap at his pad, speaking with urgency. I don’t listen in as it would be too obvious, but I somehow know he is talking about me. In the same moment they look towards the door, towards me, and Taylor quickly turns Ethan away with an encouraging hand.
“You coming, Harper?” DJ says, and I am jerked back to my normal frame of mind. My dorm members are waiting in the now empty corridor, heads cocked. I smile and nod, joining them as we head towards the elevators, but my heart feels erratic in my chest.

***

“You know, I think we’ll be okay in here.” Tilly says, lying on her belly below DJ’s bunk. She looks at ease, her legs in the air and swinging left and right behind her.
“It’s only day one.” DJ protests as he emerges from the bathroom, his hair damp. He wears a grey t-shirt and black tracksuit bottoms, a towel draped over his arm. He is the last to finish his shower. There is just one shower in the dorm, but since there was somewhat chaos in the corridor as people fought for a cubicle, we took ours in turns.
I’d spent a long time in the bathroom, even after I’d finished washing. The mirror was hard to avoid since it covers the entire wall above the two sinks. I look... different. I want to say I look terrible, but I know I don’t. The short hair and fringe gives me a morn angular look, and the fringe somehow makes my eyes look bigger and sharper. The cut on my cheek has scabbed over, but it doesn’t look like it had been done with care. The flesh is rough, not clean, and sways slightly out of the smooth curve I first thought it had obtained. It generally looks like I have been attacked with the swipe of a blade across my cheek.
“So? The food’s good, the living areas are cosy, and some of the teachers are actually nice.” Tilly shrugs.
“You won’t be saying that when you have someone trying to cut your throat.” Cole mutters on the bunk above mine. I lie on my back, staring at the wooden planks of his bunk above me, and sigh.
“And the teachers aren’t nice.” I say somewhat bitterly. “They don’t do nice. You heard Taylor, we’re merely tools. I like her, but she’s not nice.”
“Who got your knickers in a twist?” DJ says, smirking as he tosses a towel at me.
“Sector One.” I say, throwing it back at him.
“We’re never going to like it here, Harper, but you said so yourself; it is what it is. Just be grateful you’re alive.” Tilly tells me softly, her legs now doing kicking motions.
“Part of me wishes I was shot in the Line Up.” I say truthfully.
“You don’t mean that.” Cole snaps.
“I do mean that. I don’t want to change. I don’t want to become a tool. At first I thought coming here would be an escape, but in actuality it’s just a bigger version of hell.” I say, gritting my teeth. My eyes glance to the camera in the corner, and I wonder if people are listening. Then I decide I don’t care.
“I know what this is about.” DJ snickers. “You’re sulking because you got a telling off from Ethan.” I should have known that he’d bring that topic up; when I’d explained to him before Taylor’s session, some kind of spark lit his eyes. Mischief. I make note to keep my mouth shut about people like Ethan in future.
“It has nothing to do with that, Jefferson.” I snap, sitting up. As expected, his surname hits home as annoyance twists his features. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist.”
He glowers at me, but his anger is short lived as he smiles. “Whatever. Look, this is our life now. We have to deal with it rationally. You never know, maybe you’ll come to like it here.”
“I’ll believe that when you sound convincing.” I tell him. His voice gave away his doubt. As I look at him, I know he is still grieving for his girlfriend from the Line Up, and I let the subject go. They’re just trying to get by, and accepting this life is the only way to do it.
“Could you kill anyone?” Tilly asks, staring off into space.
“Does it matter? It’s not like we have any choice.” Cole answers. DJ and I say nothing.
“I bet something will go down between you and that Pierce guy, though.” she adds, raising a brow at me.
I laugh. “I’m counting on it.”
“What did he do to make you slice his skin open?” DJ asks.
“He ambushed me one day on my way home from school. He’s been beating me up ever since I can remember, so he had it coming sooner or later.” I say.
“My bets on you.” Cole says, the smile evident in his voice.
“Thanks.”
“I hope it’s a public event.” Tilly mutters, grinning. I grin, too.
“So do I.” The mere thought of humiliating Tony in front of a crowd excites me. He is easily threatened, so imagine his face if I drew blood from him with my own knife�"again? I laugh to myself again.
Just as DJ settles himself in the sheets of his bunk, the lights of the room go out. Since there are no windows, we are plunged into pitch blackness. That is our cue to shut up and go to sleep, so we mutter out goodnights and settle down. I still feel out of place in this bed, the mattress too soft, the sheets too warm. The pillow embraces my head like a bag of feathers, and I feel like I don’t deserve such comfort. None of us do. We’re all on the route to becoming murderers now, after all.