There Are Only Four (The Competition Archives Book 1) Read online

  “Now.” He gestures to the men and women seated at the tables flanking him, disappointment at our lack of participation clear in the pinch of his brow. “You will come up team by team to the next available attendant. They will check you in and assign gate numbers as well as insert a tracking device into your forearm. There is nothing to worry about; they are solely for monitoring your progress and for your protection in the event of an emergency. They are also biodegradable and will dissolve and pass harmlessly through your system shortly after the race’s conclusion. So without further to do, row one if you please,” he concludes, stepping backward and extending his arm toward the waiting attendants. The unlucky competitors unfortunate enough to be the last to find seats hesitantly stand and shuffle to the front of the hangar. With each group’s completion, they are sent down the hall behind the tables, and another group is motioned onward until it is our turn.

  We step out into the aisle, and Luka ushers us forward. We are directed to a table manned by an official looking woman in a tan pantsuit, and she angles a tablet toward us with bored proficiency.

  “Place your thumb on the designated box until the scanner flashes,” she says, matter-of-factly, and Luka steps forward and presses his thumb against the screen.

  “Arm,” the woman demands when it signals its completion. Luka extends his forearm to her, and with an ease that only comes from practice, she seizes a massive metal syringe and plunges it into his soft flesh. Luka doesn’t flinch as the needle rips through his skin, and with a loud click of the trigger, she withdraws it from him. She tilts the tablet to face her and then gives him a once over as he wipes a small trickle of blood from the entry point.

  “You’re live,” she says, staring expectantly as he falls back into line. Luka nods his head at Jude, who shuffles forward like a beaten dog, cowering before his aggressor. He scans his thumb quickly and extends his arm, a visible tremble affecting his extremities. Undeterred by his shaking, the woman punches the needle through his skin, but unlike Luka, Jude flinches in obvious pain. The moment the syringe slides from his forearm, Jude retreats to the safety of the group, not waiting for confirmation that his tracker has gone live. Serene rubs his shoulder blades comfortingly as he settles next to her, and then with a deep breath, she steps to the table to register.

  When it is finally my turn, I place my thumb on the screen. Its rhythmic flash signals my acceptance, and I extend my arm as the sacrificial lamb and brace for the pain. The woman wastes no time injecting me with the tracker, and I take care not to show my discomfort as the massive metal needle punctures my flesh. It is over in a heartbeat though, leaving a dull bruising echo, and as with the others, she tilts the tablet back to herself to verify mine is online. She nods slightly in affirmation, and I return to stand among our ranks.

  “Your team will enter through gate eight,” she says, glancing up quickly. She has resisted lifting her sight to meet us this entire time, and not having anything but us to occupy her gaze seems to annoy her. But just as she is about to dismissively look down to her tablet in preparation for her next victims, her brow furrows. Her eyes flick up, staring at me and only me, and then gripping her tablet with a clenched fist, she furiously begins navigating unseen menus. A few silent moments pass, her fingers tapping glass the only sound. Her eyes scour the screen, and suddenly she must find something of interest. With a glance back to me filled with unnerving scrutiny, her hand lifts into the air like a student asking a teacher for a bathroom break. It hangs with stubborn persistence until the man in the suit notices. His bulky body struts over and hovers above her small frame as her finger jabs at something we cannot see. The woman then turns her head to whisper in his ear. I strain to catch her secretive words, but she is a master at concealing her voice. From the muted conference, I only make out ‘eight’, or at least a word that sounds similar to it. Eight has no meaning to me besides our gate number, so I peer intently at her, hoping to capture another snippet of conversation, but her lips barely move, making it impossible for me to even read them.

  After a minute, the man looks up at me with his leering gaze and then straightens to his full height. I want to shrink under his glare, to reach down and zip up my jacket to hide my body, but I remain still as he appraises me. After a tense moment, he breaks eye contact and turns down to the woman.

  “It shouldn’t be a problem,” he says and stalks off down the line of tables to the next attendant who requires his attention. I exhale a relieved breath, and Luka’s pinky finger gently hooks around mine in solidarity.

  “Gate eight,” the woman finally continues, gesturing to the walkway behind her. “Go through that exit and make a right. At the end of a hall, a shuttle is waiting. Gate eight is on the opposite side of the maze, and once all the teams have registered, it will take you there.”

  Luka nods in understanding and herds us toward the exit. Our path forces us to walk past the man in the suit, and as I stride before him, I feel his crooked smile directed at me. Luka must notice it too, for with a large step, he pulls up beside me. His head turns defiantly on the lecherous offender, and with an icy menace that seems too harsh for a boy his age, he plants his palm on my back and angles his torso to block me from view. I peer up at Luka in relief, my skin crawling as if the man’s gaze physically caressed my body.

  “Keep walking,” Luka commands as I open my mouth to thank him. He pushes me forward harshly, all the while angling himself as my shield. “Don’t give him the satisfaction of saying anything. Just walk,” he whispers, and I obey without question, continuing toward the exit, refusing a sideways glance even though I know the man in the suit is following my every move.

  Once out of sight, Luka drops his hand, and we make our way down a lengthy corridor, flanked by the other teams destined for the opposite sides of the maze. After a good five minutes, we round a bend and come face to face with the transport. It is a long, tarnished silver tube, rust and dents peppering it like a Picasso. The panels of welded metal that form its body are in different stages of decomposition, as if it has never left the track, its only maintenance a hasty patchwork done in the darkness of this tunnel.

  A young man stands by the shuttle’s yawning door, and despite watching our approach, he does not meet any of the contestant’s gazes. After the suit-clad hulk, though, I am thankful he won’t look at me as we file past and claim four seats next to the windows. They open to nothing but the dark concrete tunnel ahead, and I’m suddenly claustrophobic, like a bullet about to be expelled from a barrel. I want to ask Luka or Serene to switch spots with me. I know I can’t ask Jude. Having to witness the shaft walls careen by might be more than he can bear at the moment.

  “It’s the best seat to have,” Luka whispers to me as if he knows what I’m thinking, and I wonder how he does that, always seems to know how I feel. “There is no one to your left, so you don’t have to look out the window; all you have to do is look toward us.”

  I nod. He makes a valid point, and my back settles against the glass, my eyes ignoring the wall of concrete inches from me as we wait to be delivered to our gates.

  Chapter Two

  Boxed in on all sides by metal and concrete, fear clogs our throats, rendering conversation impossible. Time crawls at a torturously slow pace, yet the transport fills to bulging capacity with rapid waves of this pulsating crowd. I sit welded to the hard surface with my hands clutching each other for dear life, forced to either stare out the window at the gray walls or watch the solemn children flooding by. I can’t bear to look at the bleakness only inches from my nose, its cracked facade mocking my sanity, so I opt for studying the seemingly endless sea of identically dressed competitors. They are an unending wave of sameness; all clothed in the black uniform that hangs on my frame, yet their faces mark a stark contrast from each other, from myself.

  Two red-haired girls pass my seat, and my anxiety-riddled brain cannot help but fixate on the fact that while both are considered redheads, their different coloring rips a chasm between them. The
taller girl’s hair shines with an orange tint, all fire and bold brightness, while the second’s deep crimson is luscious and dark. She is beautiful, a magnet for the boys’ appreciative eyes. All except for Luka, who stares straight ahead, stoically paying no mind to our competitors.

  The boarding crowd surges on, and they blend together in a seething mass until two identical blondes dominate my vision. My mouth gapes slightly, and my brain instantly electrifies with the overwhelming belief that my eyes must be playing tricks. Identic in every respect, their features are mimicked so exactly that even their mannerisms are carbon copies of one another. The way they move and shift through the throng is eerie, each a duplicate shadow of the other. I wonder if having your twin compete on the same team is an advantage, or if their likeness of body and thought will only hinder the group.

  My questioning thoughts die as they continue toward the open seats at the back of the transport. The first sister breaks from the crowd and turns left to sit with a group of three while her twin shuffles onwards until I lose sight of her in the swarm. They aren’t on the same team? Realization shocks me, and my mind instantly conjures their parents. How difficult will it be for them to watch the race, not knowing which team to cheer on? No matter their choice, they will have to pray for one daughter’s triumph and the other’s defeat.

  A nagging thought worms its way into my muddled brain as I stare at the spot where I lost sight of the second twin. When the first girl broke from her sister, neither of them spared a single glance at the other, instead moving to their own destination as if they didn’t know the other was there. Surely, twins would have exchanged a look upon parting, a small glimmer of solidarity and luck among bonded sisters, but these identical teens appeared to be unaware of the other’s existence. Observing them, one would think they were complete and utter strangers if it weren’t for the fact that they are replicas.

  My thoughts ground to a sudden halt as the seat beneath me shudders. I whip my head around just in time to see the doors slide shut with a resolute and confining click. The hiss of releasing breaks rises through the floor, and the shuttle lurches forward, careless of the children who have yet to find seats.

  The gray concrete outside the windows blurs as we pick up speed, and within moments, the transport is flying through the dimly lit tunnel at a neck-breaking pace. The air falls silent as we careen over the tracks; most of us anxious to arrive at our gates while praying we never make it. Yet a half hour later we are still racing through the tunnels, the transport showing no signs of stopping.

  I turn to Luka, and after a moment he seems to feel my gaze on his skin. He twists his neck slightly, meeting my eyes, and I can see my concern mirrored on his face. How vast is this maze that after a half an hour the shuttle is still hurtling into the darkness? How far do they expect us to run?

  The deeper into the concrete we travel, the more restless the tone of the crowd becomes. I am not the only one to notice the size of this tunnel, and some of the competitors push themselves to their feet despite the racing speed of the floor beneath them. They crane their necks forward, as if by sheer force of will they will see our destination, but the darkness is all-consuming, a suffocating blanket covering us all.

  A broad hand on my thigh brings my attention back to Luka, and I can see by his expression he thinks I should stop gaping at the crowd. I don’t know how a man of so few years has such intense discipline, but I’m thankful for his focus. Without it, our team would fray at the edges.

  It is at least another fifteen minutes before the brakes finally squeal into effect, and the transport slowly grinds to a halt. The doors slide open, and we are herded out like cattle. I cling to Luka’s arm as we elbow our way through the crowd while my free hand tangles with Serene’s. I drag her behind me, my fingers choking hers, desperate not to lose her, as I am sure she is doing with Jude.

  Minutes fly by as we cram our sea of bodies through the shuttle’s exits and onto the unadorned concrete platform. Armed guards stand ahead of us at the fork in the tunnels, and hanging above them are two signs. One points left for gates one through eight, the other right for nine through sixteen. As Luka hauls us toward the leftmost tunnel, my eyes snag on the guards’ frigid forms. My gaze lingers on their rifles, and I cannot think of a reasonable explanation for why men guarding teenagers would need such punishing weapons. I am no expert, but it is obvious the guns gripped tight with white knuckles would punch a hole through our flesh with deadly force.

  The crowd behind me pushes onward relentlessly, forcing me forward into the left tunnel, and I lose sight of the menacing guards in a matter of seconds. Swallowing the uneasy bile rising in my throat, I clutch Luka and Serene, letting the wave of competitors carry me around the first bend in the corridor. A few minutes pass, footsteps of thirty-two teens the only sound echoing off the walls, and suddenly a gate looms ahead. The giant cracked and rusting Eight above the small alcove in the tunnel’s wall is our signal that my team has reached our destination. Angling our bodies, the four of us push diagonally through the masses, and by the time we burst from the pack, they have forced us past our gate. We backpedal and enter the alcove as the rest of the contestants continue their stampede.

  A harsh, plain woman waits for us in the shadows’ recesses. Her hair is slicked back so tight it pulls her sallow skin with unsettling tautness, and she looks as if she hasn’t seen the sun in years. She grips a clipboard, checking something off with bored efficiency, and not once does she look up, not even as we stumble heavy footed into place. Her taut lips refuse to speak, and the five of us hover in utter silence for what feels like an eternal wait.

  “You are to stand abreast on that line until the gate opens,” she says suddenly in a pinched voice, still not bothering to visually acknowledge us. “All participants are entering from different gates, but each team has the same distance to travel to the finish. Once the gates open, you will run through the maze using your athleticism and intelligence to navigate. The team that accomplishes the task first will be crowned the winners and released from the game.”

  She leaves without making eye contact once or even wishing us luck as the red digits of the clock above the gate tick the long minutes down.

  It reaches 5 seconds.

  “Good luck,” I whisper.

  3… 2… 1…

  Chapter Three

  Luka is first out the gate, but I am hard on his heels. Jude reluctantly bolts behind me with Serene bringing up the tail. We are spit out into the pale and towering maze. Its desolate concrete walls dominate the horizon like drab and oppressive giants. The floor is worn and dirty, as if it has seen decades of children carelessly vaulting over its pavement. The air above the impossibly tall barricades is almost as bleak as the dingy and all-consuming concrete, and wariness tickles the back of my mind like that elusive fly who darts against your skin but never remains long enough to be vanquished.

  Collectively we slow our pace as we are vomited into this grayness. Contrary to our assumption, there is nothing maze-like to this entrance. A single empty path stretches before us in a lengthy downward slope before it rounds a corner and disappears behind chipped walls. Massive slabs rise in the distance, impressive and menacing, assuring us that this journey we have set our feet to is not confined to the earth alone but will defy nature and gravity.

  Luka surveys our path and looks at me with slightly raised eyebrows. His confusion is meant for me alone, and I am the only one who witnesses his subtle facial movements. I meet his eyes and shrug, knowing without words he feels the same as I. This entrance feels off. It is not a maze, but a descending straight track. Where are the clues? The puzzles we must solve to progress through the challenges?

  When it is clear I have nothing more to offer, Luka juts a hand toward me, halting inches from my hip as if he means to guide me without the intimacy of his comforting touch.

  “We should get moving,” he says with a bravado I am sure he does not possess. “We need to find our first clue… outsmart the
others.” He launches into a jog, spurring us forward by his sheer determination, and as Jude and Serene catch up, I study their faces for any sign that they are alert to the absent challenges. They seem oblivious to everything except their nerves, and I am unsure if that is a blessing or a curse. Only time will tell, and so I pick up my speed and settle comfortably beside Luka.

  We run easily down the long decline, and when we reach the curve, I am drowning in a sea of gray claustrophobia. The walls loom ever higher as we careen around the bend, and the sight of never-ending bleakness renders me dizzy and disoriented. Panic blooms in my gut like a carnivorous plant at the thought of what this overwhelmingly consuming sameness will do to our sense of direction when we are finally removed from a straightforward path and thrust upon choice driven crossroads.

  So when we round the left hooking bend, I am almost thankful to find another stretch of barren walkway that eventually curves to the right, absent any twists and complicated turns. I am disoriented despite our obvious route and cannot tell if it is because of the walls or my growing discomfort.

  “Hey.” Luka’s fingers catch the soft crook of my elbow, and the warmth of his skin and gravel of his tone ground me. I realize I am running frantically ahead of the group, and I allow him to rein me in. Luka tucks me into his side, and his broad shoulder brushes mine as he leans down slightly.

  “You need to keep your head,” he chastises low into my ear. “Jude and Serene are terrified and won’t be much help, at least not at the moment. You are all I got.”

  “I’m sorry…”

  “Don’t be sorry,” he cuts me off. “Just have my back. You know I’ve got all of yours, but I need someone to have mine.”