Page 21 of Striker

The scream stops abruptly, but the lashes keep coming.

I don’t think I like my name anymore.

My focus shifts to the row of trees blocking the village from view. In the winter months, the leaves fall, leaving the branches naked, and we can see the smoke rising from distant chimneys over the tree line. But I like the summer months better when the trees have bright green leaves. I like the trees. I like the red flowers and the green grass. The birds that fly overhead and how the sun turns the sky a dark purple before it sinks below the horizon. How after it rains, the entire school smells like damp earth and clean water. How puddles form in the training yard and we have to jump over them so we don’t get our boots wet on the way to classes.

During the warm months, if we’ve had good behavior all week, we get to go to the village market with Cook. I like the market too. We get to see girls. Viper likes to tug at the braids of the schoolgirls in line at the venders. He really likes the older women who wear the pretty dresses and the fancy gypsieswith bells on their ankles and chains around their waists, their clothes a rainbow of colors.

In the village, Cook will give us little coins and paper bills and we can buy sweets. I love the shaved ice and Viper likes the heavy cakes with white frosting. If Breaker comes, he will always buy the sweet candy from the gypsy wagons. Sometimes Reaper and Hunter come too, and they buy bottles of vodka from the old man that makes it in his barn. They sneak the alcohol into school under their uniforms and later drink straight from the bottle after lights out. Even us younger ones will get to take a few shots. Hunter thinks it’s funny when Viper gets drunk. He gets friendly, telling everyone he loves them and always wants to play cards.

“Striker!”

My body jolts violently back to the present. My gaze lands on Fallon, his tall frame slowly bleeding into focus. His brows knit and I wonder how many times he’s said my new name.

“Where did you go, son?”

“To town,” I say, then realize I’ve not actually left, so I just lied and need to correct myself. “I was thinking about the village.”

He nods and his eyes slip down. He gestures to the boy on the ground, but I don’t look. I know better. “Take him to the infirmary,” Fallon tells Commander.

Sniper doesn’t make a sound as Commander pulls his limp body up. I keep my eyes trained on Fallon, so I don’t have to see.

“You did well,” Father says. His long fingers trail over my check then he pets my head. “When you return from church, we’ll continue your training.”

My stomach churns with slickness, hating myself that his praise makes me smile.

“Go to your quarters and change, mysyn,” Fallon says, dragging his thumb over my cheek again.

I look down at my chest. Long lines, like finger streaks of red, slash across my clean shirt. Unease crawls over my skin, skittering down my spine, stabbing through my back and burrowing in my gut like tiny venomous spiders. My hand shakes as I lift it, lightly touching a scarlet smear. It’s thin, dark, still warm. Sticky like the sweat on my back.

The need to be out of my clothes slams into my chest. I need to bathe. Now. Remove these clothes and sweat and sticky red off my skin.

Fallon wipes my cheek again, his finger coming away with a smear of red. He wipes it on his thigh and I notice the scarlet splashes smattering his pants.

Blood, silly boy,I hear Maxim say in my head.All that red is blood.

No. Striker. My name is Striker.

And that’s Sniper’s blood.

Bile rises in my throat, but I bite back the urge to vomit. My vision moves in and out of focus like the old projector Cook sets up in the cafeteria on Friday nights.

“Give your clothes to Maxim,” Fallon instructs, patting my cheek. The sharp slap centers me, my vision returning to normal.

“Yes, sir,” I say, squaring my shoulders and shoving the rising wave of horror down. Further until I feel nothing.

Father nods in approval like he can see the blackness that was trying to drown me recede. I watch his back, my mind blank, as he leaves before returning to my room to change.

After Maxim retrieves my clothes, I pretend I don’t see him walking toward the incinerator.

When we return from Sunday school later that afternoon, I find Maxim talking to Fallon in the yard. I dart behind the bleachers, crouching low, careful not to dirty my pants.

“Some dogs just can’t be tamed,” Commander says. “It’s easier just to put them down.”

Later that night, Viper tells me that Sniper didn’t make the cut, and they removed him from the school. There’s just thirteen of us now.

Viper pats my back, saying my name over and over and I’m reminded of the strikes to Sniper. I feel now like my name came at his expense.

Maybe I should have missed. Maybe I should have shot more to the left or not shown off at all.

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