Burning Day

Chapter 2

"Subject 23!" Trainer Nelson spat, cracking his whip against my shoulders and ripping me from my daze. His voice was muffled through the headphones over my ears. "Focus!"

I tried zoning back into reality, but the throbbing slashes across my back demanded all my attention. Without even glancing back, I knew Subject 28 was frowning at me in disapproval.

Trainer Nelson's livid face emerged from the side of my glass cubicle as I raised my rifle, aiming at the target hanging thirteen feet in front of me. Fifteen-foot-long glass cubicles lined opposite sides of the room, with weapons, equipment, and workout gear in cupboards or racks on the walls in between. The hardwood flooring and blue walls used to be much darker, but their colour had faded from the constant washing of blood, sweat, and spit.

I shook my head, brushing away the stupor I'd been trapped in. That was the worst part of Burning Days; even after their agony was over, you couldn't shake away the after-effects for hours—sometimes even days. If only my stupid Gift would form already, I wouldn't be so damn dizzy.

I wouldn't be so terrified with each passing day either.

Stop. You still have a few months before the Cutoff. You aren't one of them.

The doctors won't take you away.

Trainer Nelson bent so his red, bull-like face was mere inches from mine and ripped off my headphones. The booms of other bullets ripped through my eardrums, but it didn't drown out his voice. "If I catch you slacking off again, I'll send you to the Chamber overnight. Understood?"

Come on, I thought, fear spiking at Trainer Nelson's threat. Just a couple hours, and you'll be in the lounge again.

I nodded and Trainer Nelson thrust my headphones back to me, marching away to torment someone else, muttering, "Won't even be ready for Osipyan at this rate."

That comment would've given me pause if we hadn't been hearing about "Osipyan" for years. Sometimes "Osipyan" took the name "those bitches" or simply "them." Over the years we'd formulated our own theories about its meaning, but with no change our entire lives, we gave up trying to decipher the staff's mumbling or whispered conversations.

God, I hated the Ungifteds. Why'd I have to be the last Ungifted Subject left?

Today was a Weapon Circuit, and I'd already made the mistake of losing concentration. Slipping my headphones on and raising my gun's scope to my eye, I aimed at the bullseye. My finger hovered over the trigger a moment, then pulled. The bullet hit its mark, but it wasn't something to celebrate. Anything less was cause for punishment. I guess I should just be grateful we weren't using live targets this time. It never got easier, but the death of defenceless animals...you quickly learn not to dwell on such things.

I numbly fired bullet after bullet until Trainer Nelson finally blew his whistle.

"Switch over to knives," he barked from the centre of the room, gesturing toward the shelf of throwing knives. "Put your rifles away and grab three knives each."

I allowed my eyes a second of rest before stepping out of my cubicle, the one labelled 23, and strode toward the gun rack. Coming from across the room, I was the last to arrive in the flock of Subjects surrounding the stand, returning their weapons and headphones. Resting my gun over my shoulder, I waited at the back for an opening.

On the left of the rack, Subject 28 stood and marched toward me.

"Be careful," she mumbled, eyes trained on the shelf of knives as we brushed shoulders.

28 had a face that was difficult to read when she chose so, and it wasn't her thin lips, high cheekbones, or round nose that made it that way. Her emotions hid beneath iron walls when it wasn't safe for them, but having known her all my life, I picked up on the worry and disapproval in her expression like it was a radio.