Qualify (68 page)

Just as I reach the railing, the screams come.

“Hot!
Hot!
It burns!”

The Candidates in the middle of the concrete basin and those who have almost reached the opposite sides are instead screaming in pain, and some jumping from foot to foot, others stumbling and waving their limbs. An unfortunate few have fallen down, and their bodies are contorting on the concrete floor amid the discarded city trash and the trickle of water that runs in the central gutter ditch that is nothing more than a thin groove gully that has been cut from the concrete.

“It’s hot! Oh crap! Burning!” Teens closest to our side of the railing begin experiencing the whatever the heck it is, and start racing back to the railing and climbing back out of the river basin—that is, those of them who
can
.

The others—it’s hard to describe the awful thing we get to witness.

Because the bodies of the Candidates still in the basin begin to smoke, and then their screams are cut short as they are engulfed in flames.

Ethan, who’s only about five feet down-slope from the railing, exclaims in sudden pain, flails his arms and immediately turns around and runs back toward me. . . .

Zoe and Jared don’t need to be told to move. They’ve just managed to swing their feet over the railing, hop off, take a few steps, and are paused near the edge—and immediately back they come, climbing like crazy.

“What is it?” I cry. “What’s down there? What is burning?”

“Me! Everything feels like it’s on fire!” Ethan yells back as he climbs the railing, moving wildly.

The moment he’s over and back on the level of the street, he stops, frowns as though “listening” to something, to his own body, and suddenly it’s over.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he says. “
Now
I am. All right, this is insane! The pain is gone and the burning sensation all over my body, my shoes even—it’s all gone.”

“What the hell is it?” Jared stands rubbing his elbows. “I swear, I could begin feeling it too, a sudden warmth, and it was growing with every second the longer I was down there. But because it was gradual, it was easy to ignore, attribute it to the heat of the sun or exhaustion. If not for those other people screaming, I’d have kept moving across until it was too late to get back.”

“I felt heat coming through my shoes,” Zoe says thoughtfully. “And through my clothing, the sleeves, pant legs, everything. . . .”

Meanwhile, Candidates are climbing out of the basin all around us. Faces are flushed, and some look like they’ve been running for miles. They wave their hands to cool off, stomp their feet. Those who have come from deepest in the river basin, look the worst. They have what looks like sunburn or first degree burns on their neck and around their sleeves. For some, their skin is starting to blister.

Everyone stares at the half a dozen bodies left in the basin, now charred and smoking.

“Okay, this is bad,” a boy says. “Whatever’s down there—a force field or reactive chemicals or something—there’s no way to cross.”

And so we stand, looking over the basin, as minutes tick. More of us arrive, and the news of the danger below gets passed on.

As others mill about, I put my fingertips on the railing. It feels warm to the touch, hot even, but in a way indistinguishable from being the usual sun-heated metal and concrete stuck outside on a hot L.A. day.

I think. . . . Or I
try
to think through the fog and sluggish nausea that fills my mind.

“What time is it?” someone behind me asks.

“Close to two o’clock.”

“That really blows,” a Candidate mumbles. “Is there any way to go around this, maybe climb the barricade wall on the bridge?”

I stand and stare out at the river basin expanse. Sterile concrete rises for endless miles in both directions, interrupted only by thick bridge supports. A few birds circle occasionally, then land briefly to drink from the trickle running in the gully.

I glance to one side and see a pale moving spot that draws near and resolves into the shape of a stray dog running along the incline of the basin. My heart immediately feels a twinge of painful pity for the poor stray. The animal appears unharmed, and it has definitely been in the basin long enough to be affected by whatever forces that generate the killer heat.

Except, it is not.

Neither the dog nor the birds are in any way experiencing the warming effect.

I touch Zoe’s arm and point at the dog. “Look, it’s been running for some time and is not getting burned.”

Zoe stares at the dog.

Meanwhile I take a deep breath, put my hands on the railing, and with some effort climb over.

“Wait! What are you doing?” Ethan says.

I stand on the other side, a couple of feet down the incline, and take off my yellow ID token.

“Hold this for a moment, Zoe,” I say, handing it to her.

For just a few seconds I feel nothing different.

And then there’s a warmth. It is definitely there, gathering around me, as though a gust of hot air has risen to sweep along my skin, underneath my clothing, inside my shoes.

And it is growing warmer.

“Okay . . .” I mutter. “So it’s
not
the token.”

I take another deep breath, as the warmth rises around me, becoming unpleasant. And then I begin to strip.

First, I ask Jared to lend me his knife, and I use it to cut off the length of cord that’s been tied around my arm to stop the bleeding. As soon as the pressure of the cord is gone, my arm pulses with a sudden agony of restored circulation.

I grit my teeth to hold back the moan of pain. . . . And then I hand the knife back to Jared, and use my good hand to untie the Atlantean yellow armband.

The heat continues to rise around me as I drop the armband on the concrete floor of the L.A. River. Then I carefully set down the automatic rifle.

Candidates on the other side of the railing are gathering, staring at me, voices are raised in curious discussion.

I untie my uniform belt and drop it on the ground, together with the lasso cord weapon still attached. Then off comes my shirt that I unbutton with numb fingers, too tired to be embarrassed about being seen in my underwear by millions of people. Good thing I wear a tank top, and a bra underneath. The shirt falls on the ground. Then I pull down my uniform pants and remain only in my practical cotton briefs. Down go the pants, to lie on top of my shirt.

As soon as the uniform is off I feel an immediate relief from the stifling heat. It dissipates immediately. I don’t even have to pull my socks off, or my shoes.

So, it’s definitely the uniform, then
, I think. And that makes sense—the uniform has to be made from some kind of Atlantean specially treated fabric, possibly orichalcum-based. After all, it “magically” displayed those Standing Scores, so it is definitely reactive to things.

Candidates stare at me as I stand in my underwear, holding my numb arm and watching the trickle of blood resume from the bullet wound.

I glance at all of them and say through my teeth, “It’s the uniform that’s causing the burn. You guys might want to strip. Zoe, can I get my token back?”

Zoe nods, watching me intently, and tosses me my token ID.

I catch it. Then I pick up my cord lasso, unravel it and tie up my uniform clothes in one bunch, handling them as quickly as possible before my fingers start to burn. Making sure that none of it comes in direct contact with my body, I carry my uniform bundle swinging from the cord attached to the end of the rifle and walk across the river basin.

I step over the gully at the halfway spot, glancing at the tiny bit of running water. I try to ignore the charred bodies lying every few feet. . . . At one point I turn to see if the poor lonely dog is still there, but he’s gone far along the riverbank.

And then I keep walking coolly to the other side and up the incline.

At the end, I slowly climb over the railing and pause, looking back.

Behind me, Candidates in their underwear, some carrying their uniforms at the ends of swords and rifles, others suspended on cords just like me, are beginning to cross the river basin.

Chapter 39

“I
did mention previously that you’re absolutely nuts, didn’t I, Gwen?” Jared says, walking up to the railing on my side of the river. His uniform is swinging from the end of his knife blade, and he’s in nothing but his baggy boxers.

“Yeah, you did.” I give him a pained smile as I start putting my clothes back on.

“Well, let me repeat it. You’re way more cray cray than anyone I know.”

“Thanks, I think. . . .”

“It’s a compliment.”

I smile again, weakly.

A few minutes later I am dressed, with my armband once more around my sleeve, tied awkwardly with one shaking hand. And then I cannibalize another piece of my cord weapon to tie my arm off again, using my good hand and my teeth. This time I nearly pass out from the pain.

Zoe, who’s gotten dressed while I am still fumbling, watches my slow and difficult movements. “How are you hanging in?”

“Okay.” Because, really, what else can I say?

But Zoe steps closer to me and looks into my eyes, so that I am staring down at her very young face with its angular jaw and fierce blue eyes framed by the brown bangs.

“No, you’re not, I can tell.”

I shrug.

Zoe takes my arm—the good one that’s not hurt. And then we begin walking together, with Zoe supporting me lightly.

I admit, it does help, a little.

B
y now, we’ve pretty much nearly there.

We walk a couple of blocks, heading slightly north toward the Arts District section of downtown. Why? Because that’s the general direction of the spot over which the Atlantean shuttles seem to be hovering in the skies. At this point, I admit, my mind is a muddy mess, and I am only thinking about putting one foot ahead of the other.

Other Candidates soon overtake us, and I watch the more athletic ones again take off at a light run. But Jared and Ethan continue walking next to Zoe and me.

“Why don’t you guys go on?” I say, nodding tiredly at the way ahead. “I am only slowing you down.”

“Are you kidding?” Ethan flashes me a slightly crooked smile. “Without you we wouldn’t have made it even half as far. I’m not dumb enough to go off on my own when I’ve got a good thing going here. Right, man?” And he glances at Jared.

Jared just nods tiredly. “Oh, yeah. Gwen’s the man.”

“Besides, we have plenty of time.” Ethan checks his gadget for the zillionth time. “Looks like it’s only two-thirty PM. We’ve only got a few blocks.”

At the corner of South Alameda and East Sixth Street, we see familiar four-color beacons and only a light, short picket-height concrete divider fence that runs just a couple of feet off the ground. It serves more as a marker boundary than a way to keep us out. And the red stripe that indicates a hot zone is drawn on our side.

Candidates ahead of us race up to the fence, and easily step or jump over it. Everyone’s unharmed, and apparently they’re out of the hot zone.

When it’s our turn, I put my foot over the concrete line and my yellow token flashes as soon as I scale the boundary.

I glance back, and this side is not painted red.

So, a safe zone.

Zoe exhales with relief. “Good. We definitely could use a break.”

I look up, squinting from the sun, and the Atlantean shuttles are hovering there, a dozen silvery disks, not too far off the ground, just about the height of the venerable Westin Bonaventure Hotel with its cylinder towers looming in the vicinity and out of our way.

“The pool must be thataway,” Jared mutters. He then almost gets knocked over by a big bulky runner with a red armband who passes us.

“Hey, watch it!”

But the hulking teen gives him a hard glance. He’s got a heavy, mean-looking blade attached at his belt.

On the other hand, I’ve got an automatic rifle hanging over my shoulder.

The Candidate sees my rifle. And he wisely keeps going.

He has no idea I can barely stand upright, much less fire.

A
few more blocks, and we’re in an area that used to be Skid Row.

This is where the city homeless had their own makeshift city-within-a-city, and there were several missions and other charitable organizations located within these blocks.

Now, it’s still Skid Row. But it’s also something else. And in some ways it’s even more desolate, hoary, trash-filled. Even more run-down. . . . A place of despair. Even the once-vibrant graffiti murals have faded, and it has grown neglected, now that the taggers no longer bother to ply their art here.

Instead, the homeless residents shelter here like shades, stooped human figures sitting in alleyways, watching us pass with dull hopeless eyes.