I force my hands to open, flexing the soreness out of them a few times. Then I relax my shoulders, allowing them to droop just a little. “What’s next?” I ask, trying to keep my voice pleasant.
“Have you ever even fired a gun?” Buxton asks, with a note of sarcasm in her voice.
“I only learned how to fight with staffs and bows and slingshots,” I say. “But mostly we focused on hand-to-hand combat.”
“Yeah, we noticed,” Brody says, winking. I wonder why he’s being so nice to me. Maybe he’s just a nice guy. I wish Buxton were more like him.
“You trained with your mother?” Buxton asks, sounding relatively interested in me for the first time since I met her.
“No—my father.”
Her head jerks back in surprise. “That’s interesting,” is all she says, and I want to ask her why, but I don’t, knowing she won’t give me a straight answer. “All right, soldiers, time for target practice!” she announces, once more deafening anyone within earshot.
I follow the stampede of uniformed men and women as they move further down the gray ore slab. A few of them slap me on the back and nod encouragingly, but no one tries to talk to me, and most just ignore me.
I hang back, letting Tawni and Trevor catch up. “Took you long enough to finish her off,” Tawni says.
I laugh, feeling all the pent-up tension slip away upon hearing my friend’s sarcasm. “Yeah, I paid for it, too,” I reply, rubbing my shoulder.
“You got lucky, kid,” Trevor says, smirking.
“Whatever you say,” I reply, desperately wanting to smack the smirk off his face. “But don’t call me kid.”
“Whatever you say,” he mimics, “kid.” Now I really want to punch him, but I’m sure it will land me some sort of undesirable army punishment, so I manage to just flash a fake smile.
Tawni doesn’t let it go, though. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Trevor,” she says. I give her a real smile, and finally I think maybe she sees why I hate this guy so much.
“Oh yeah? Then educate me.”
“Just let it go, Tawns,” I say.
“No, really, I want to know,” Trevor insists. “Why do I not know what I’m talking about?”
“No, Tawni,” I say, warning her off with my eyes.
“Because she doesn’t look so tough,” Trevor continues, raking a hand through his chestnut curls. “Hell, I wouldn’t trust her to cover my as—”
“Adele killed Rivet, Trevor,” Tawni blurts out, her eyes brimming with tears.
I look away and swallow hard, trying to choke down the bad memories that well up every time I think of Rivet. Because when I think of Rivet I can’t help but think of Cole. Cole. No. No. No! God, no! Why did it have to be him? I ask in my mind. No one ever answers me.
Blinking furiously, I fight off the tears and try to think of something else, anything else. It’s harder than fighting Han, but I manage to win the battle.
I glance back at Trevor, whose face is ashen, as if dusted with chalk powder. Luckily, we arrive at target practice and he and Tawni are forced to move to the side, out of the line of fire. There are six guns, three handguns and three rifles. Each black, each foreign to me. My weapons are fists and rocks and sticks and feet. Hot metal bullets are used by Enforcers and prison guards. Bad people. Not me.
But I know I have to do this if I want to be a part of the rebellion.
“Line up, even numbers in each line!” Buxton barks.
The platoon moves somewhat haphazardly into relatively equal, straight lines. The soldiers don’t seem to be the most disciplined—not like the sun dweller troops we saw anyway—but they get the job done. I choose a line on one end that seems to have fewer people than the others.
Brody raises a hand in the air, his thumb and forefinger extended in the shape of a gun. Not surprisingly, it’s Buxton who shouts, “Fire!”
Pop, pop, pop! The first rounds are fired by the front soldiers in the lines on my half, the ones with the handguns. They are smaller and lighter and presumably quicker to prepare and aim.
Crack, crack, crack! The rifle fire thunders through the low-ceilinged cavern, echoing off the walls and roof.
“Hold your fire,” Brody says sternly. “Dom—check ’em.”
One of the soldiers in my line breaks away and jogs to the other end of the slab, where a row of canvas targets are set up. He checks each target, and then pulls the canvas upwards, removing the old target and revealing a fresh target underneath. They must have a big old roll of targets strung behind.
The guy named Dom lopes back, calling, “One, three, five, six—out! Two, four—in!” as he approaches.
“Brady, Wong, Henderson, and Raine—bad luck,” Brody says. Four soldiers—three girls, one guy—step out of line and sit on big stone benches erected to the side, near where Tawni and Trevor are standing. The two who apparently had the best aim move to the back of their respective lines, to wait their turn again.
The cycle continues on, as more and more soldiers are defeated and forced off to the side, and the lines get shorter and shorter. As I slowly move up the line, my legs stiffen and I can feel my shoulder bruising under the sleeve of my tunic.
The guy in front of me is up and I watch him carefully, trying to memorize his every movement. He places his feet shoulder-width apart, steadies them, holds the gun at approximately shoulder-height using both hands, his elbows locked but not tightly. He stares down the barrel and—
Pop! I see a flash in the dim cavern and then a finger of smoke curls from the gun. The bullet is invisible, but I see the canvas visibly flutter near the edge about the same time as I heard the gunshot.
They check the results and the guy is out, trotting off to the side to join his comrades.
It’s my turn. I’ve never held a gun until that morning, when my mom handed one to me, and I’ve certainly never fired one, but I hope it’s like shooting a bow and arrow, or a slingshot. You know, point, aim, shoot. Simple.
I step up and grasp the gun and feel all eyes on me as I stare at it, trying to position it right. The handle—is that what it’s called?—is cool to the touch, but also a little moist from the previous shooter’s sweaty hands. There’s something weird about the gun, but I can’t figure out what and I don’t have time to think about it. I mimic my predecessor’s positioning, although maybe I shouldn’t because apparently he didn’t do very well. I take aim, trying to get the end of the gun even with the target, while I wait for the command.
One second—I’m too high. Two seconds—I’m aimed dead center. Three seconds—“Fire!” Buxton yells.
I squeeze the trigger with my finger, surprised at how easily it pushes in. Dangerous, if you ask me. The gun explodes back into my palm, and, despite my locked arms, my elbows bend and it bucks upwards, forcing me to take a step back and out of my shooter’s stance. The target doesn’t flutter, but I hear a zing! as the bullet ricochets off the wall behind, sending splinters of rock in every direction.
“Oops,” I mutter.
“Pathetic,” Buxton scoffs. “No need to check that one. Rose—out!”
Staring at the ground the whole way, I walk over to the rest of the eliminated soldiers, taking a seat without looking at anyone. I feel a tap on the shoulder from behind. I’m not in the mood to be ridiculed, so I don’t turn around.
Tap, tap. The fool isn’t giving up, so I raise my shoulder sharply like I’m trying to get a pesky fly off of it.
Tap, tap. I whirl around. “What?” I hiss.
A young guy is looking at me, mouth open. He looks around my age, with thin black stubble, full lips, and swirling gray eyes. His brown eyebrows are arched in surprise. He’s not bad looking, but I’m not interested in that right now. “What do you want?” I ask again.
“I was just going to say that I missed on my first attempt, too.”
My shoulders droop and I feel bad right away. The poor guy was trying to make me feel better, was probably one of the ones clapping when I defeated Han, and yet I was so rude to him. I can’t let even a tough situation like this turn me into one of the bad guys. “Oh. Thanks.” I manage a crooked smile although I know it’s not very believable. I turn back around, trying to calm down.