I glance toward the High Council. My father meets my eyes and gives a long, disappointed shake of his head. He saw me throw and miss. I have a feeling we’ll speak about it later, what a bad decision that was. I just hope it won’t be his fists doing the talking.
Quietly, I roll my shoulders and shake the tension from my hands. I fish out the next rock. It finds its mark, a boy who won’t stop trying to shoveLincolnson off his pole. He goes flying as payment for Lincolnson’s obedience earlier, when he moved so Thomson could stay close to me.
I throw another rock and then another. I don’t miss again. Seven fall. Arms flailing, feet scrambling in the air. Some cry out, but most don’t. Us boys have been taught silence, to swallow down our fear and pain. By the time I reach my last stone, I realize I’ve taken out every boy within throwing distance, which leaves the girls. Sam watches me closely, like she can read my mind. I meet her eyes, and she shakes her head furiously at me.Don’t.
I meet her eyes and shrug.You’d do the same.
The rock flies. Sam’s friend yelps, windmills her arms, then drops, screaming as she tumbles. Bracelets flash. A shoe flies off midair. She hits the ground hard. Sam’s eyes narrow, and her face flushes crimson. A flicker of guilt cuts through me, quick and sharp, but I ignore it. This is the game we were raised for, and I always play to win.
I can’t waste time dwelling on Sam because Jackson’s got out his rocks now. His first one sails in my direction, but I’m too far away. It lands thudding at my father’s feet. A few inches higher and it would’ve hit him in the face. I would’ve paid to see that.
The rest of Jackson’s rocks strike true. He knocks six kids off their poles, including Lincolnson. They go down like dominos.
Now there are eleven of us left. Sam and her girls make five. Me. Thomson. Jackson just out of reach. Three other boys are scattered, one in the center, two on the far end.
As I watch, one of them wavers. Slips. Falls.
Ten.
Thomson clicks his tongue, a quiet summons. When I glance over, he gives a subtle signal, hands rising halfway to his face. I nod, muscles tensing. I know what’s coming. No one else notices when he lifts his pinkies to the corners of his mouth.
They sure as shit notice the whistle.
It rips through the air, sharp, shrill, and awful. I’ve heard it before, many times. He likes to use it when we play hide and seek in the woods or when our fatherscome home drunk and he warns me to run. I’ve got my fingers in my ears before it even begins.
The others aren’t so lucky. Two of Sam’s girls flinch and fall, clutching their ears as they topple. Another boy loses balance and crashes down. Even Jackson stumbles, arms flailing, though he manages to recover, damn him.
Now there are seven of us.
I glance over at Thomson and raise my eyebrows to silently ask if he has any more ideas, but he frowns and shakes his head. That’s when it hits me that our greatest enemy isn’t the other kids. It’s time. How long can I stand here? How long can I survive in this precarious position? Already my feet are falling asleep, pins and needles shooting up my legs whenever I shift my weight.
I won’t give up, though. Not with everyone watching me. Especially not with my father here. I pretend this pole is my throne, and I was born to stand on it.
Minutes, hours pass. The sun sinks lower on the horizon.
One of the girls next to Sam falls.
Six.
The air cools as night creeps into the clearing. Below me, the fallen kids sit in clumps, their bodies slouched, their voices soft. Every so often, a trickle of laughter floats upward, a sharp contrast to the agony of those of us still standing.
Even the High Council has taken their seats now, nibbling on sandwiches and sipping water like this is a relaxing evening picnic. It irritates me, watching them eat like they’ve earned it. Like watching us suffer has worked up their appetite. I bet if more of us start dropping dead, they’d ask for dessert. The assholes.
Once the adults finish, they pass sandwiches and drinks out to the kids on the ground. My stomach cramps with hunger. It’s not just empty. It’s hollow, aching.
The council gathers a group of children and sends them into the woods. I watch, curious, until they return carrying branches and logs as thick as my arm. A fire is built, close to the poles, which I’m sure is on purpose. When the wind shifts, streams of black smoke waft our way, acrid and stinging. I gag, my eyes burning. I’m not the only one. Jackson hacks into his sleeve. The other kid sputters, coughing so hard he loses his balance and plummets to the ground with a screech.
Five left. Two girls. Three boys,including me.
Even from this height, I hear when the crickets begin their nighttime symphony. A pair of bats wheel overhead, looping through the twilight sky. I cheer them on, rooting for them as they chase and devour the mosquitoes that have plagued me all day.
I crack my neck and wiggle my toes to keep the blood flowing. We must’ve been up here six or seven hours by now. Jackson’s got his eyes closed, and his posture softens. His head dips to his chest, jerks up, dips again as he fights against sleep. It doesn’t work. He keeps nodding off. I watch him closely, praying for him to fall, until finally he does. For such a big guy, he has a quiet landing. It’s a soft thud, like the earth didn’t want to catch him.
A slow grin pulls at my mouth. That’s right.Sleep tight, asshole.
Time moves forward with excruciating slowness. Next to me, Thomson is a statue. So frozen I keep checking to make sure he’s still there.
The fire burns low, until it’s embers. Children sleep around it with hands flung out or tucked under their cheeks. The High Council is awake but not paying attention to us. They talk quietly among themselves, probably planning for world domination or destruction. It could be either with them.
