Page 63

It’s a creaking sound that wakes me, and I blink into the dark room. Knox’s room, I remind myself. I rise up but a gloved hand wraps around my mouth. “Don’t fight,” someone whispers in my ear, before wrapping a blindfold over my eyes and cinching my wrists with a tie. The words remind me of what Knox said to me in the parlor, telling me not to fight as he pushed inside. I bite down on a cry as the plastic cuts into my skin, but don’t struggle as I’m hauled out of bed and dragged into the hall.

Footsteps echo in the hallway, but other than that, there’s no sound. I’m lifted off the ground by two strong arms and carried down the stairs. It’s gentler than I’d expect, and I wonder if it’s Miller or Knox. I say a silent thanks that whoever it is didn’t just kick me down the stairs.

A moment later we’re outside, the crickets loud in the rural night. I hear the unmistakable sound of a van door sliding open, and I’m tossed in against the hard floor. Other than the sound of my body slamming into the floor, the men kidnapping me are completely silent. I wait, catching my breath, for other goats to get thrown in the back with me. After a beat, there’s nothing but the sound of the closing van door, followed by the two front doors slamming shut.

I wait for anything—something to clue me in on what to expect, but the driver cranks up the car and the radio and blasts the music so loud that the walls of the vehicle shake. I can’t see anything or hear anything. I’m alone, but maybe this is part of the initiation. We go at it solo? We meet our new brothers at the end?

Gravel crunches under the tires and the van lurches to a stop, music cutting off at the same time. Outside I hear muffled voices—the first since I was told not to fight. I can only make out the scattered word…stupid. Bullshit. I told you…

The door is thrown open, slamming into the jamb and, to my surprise, I feel my feet stuffed into my shoes, then I’m yanked out. The air smells clean. Fresh. Like nature.

“Your mission tonight,” someone says, voice disguised so I can’t make it out, “forty-seven is to climb the mountain of brotherhood. The path, like life, is filled with obstacles. Overcome those, climb to the top and you’ll be rewarded for all your hard work and efforts this week.”

Someone touches my chin, and the scent of bitter alcohol assaults my nostrils. “Drink up,” I’m told, the rim of a glass—a shot glass—pressed against my lips. I open my mouth and accept the liquor, swallowing it down. It burns and I cough. For the first time, I speak. “Can I take off the blindfold?”

“Once you get on the trail.”

A hand grips my forearm, and I take uneasy steps over the rugged terrain. Other than our footsteps, it’s hauntingly quiet. If there are other goats out here, they’re either silent or we’re doing this in shifts. That or this whole thing is some stupid prank. Whatever it is, I know this journey is the way out of here. It’s a means to an end.

“Count to twenty and you can take off your blindfold. Follow the trail. Go off it, and it’ll be a long fucking night. There’s a pitstop halfway.” I’m not sure, but I swear I feel the ghost of fingertips graze the inside of wrist as they cut the binding. “Good luck, forty-seven.”

The voice and the person vanish, and while I rub my raw wrists, I count to twenty.

“Fourteen, fifteen…” I say it loud enough that there is no way they think I’m cheating. “Eighteen, nineteen, twenty.” I push off the blindfold and, although it’s pitch black, it’s clear that I’m in the woods. I look up and around, trying to acclimate my eyes to the natural light. Overhead, in the spots where the trees have thinned out a little, the moon is bright. Otherwise, I have no light, no flashlight, no lighter, no torch of any kind.

Fucking assholes.

Taking a deep breath, I start up the trail, navigating the uneven ground step-by-step. The incline is steep, rocky, and filled with roots and other obstructions. I trip over a thick root, landing on my knees and palms. “Son of a bitch,” I mumble, wiping my scraped and muddy hands on my thighs when I get back on my feet.

Throat parched and with sweat running down my back, I’m almost convinced that I’m lost when I see a flickering yellow light up ahead. It’s the first pit stop. I cry out in relief, picking up my pace until I reach the table. There’s water bottle and I lift it to my lips taking a huge swallow.

“Oh my god,” I say, gagging on the liquid. I spit half of it out. It smells and tastes like rubbing alcohol. 100% proof, I imagine. Royer obviously doesn’t care that the reason they’re in all this trouble is for this very thing. I spot a note on the table.True brotherhood is full of sacrifice, followed by reward.Drink the entire container and you can take the lantern with you.

Catching my breath, I consider it. Drunk in the woods or blind. Which is worse? Both seem suicidal, but my hands and knees are throbbing from the fall, and it’s taking twice as long for me to go without a light. I lift the bottle and wrinkle my nose, my stomach already rebelling from the idea. Slowly, I drink the rest of the grain alcohol. My stomach aches and my head feels woozy, but I take the final swallow.

“Halfway there,” I remind myself, grabbing the lantern off the tree branch. My first steps are wobbly, no better than if I’d been in the dark. I steady myself and try to clear my mind, taking the path one step at a time. I make it several yards before my stomach gurgles.

“Oh no.” I bend over and wrap an arm around my middle, desperately trying to hold it together. I fail miserably, falling to my knees retching up half the bottle, not making an attempt to move off the trail.

I become vaguely aware, as my skin turns clammy and my vision impairs and my body rejects the poison I’ve ingested, that I may become one of them. One of the recruits that dies during the gauntlet.

I’ll die out here of alcohol poisoning, dehydration and from the elements and it won’t be Theo Hart, but Reagan Lake. I’ll die as I lived; as a fool.

I yank off my pledge button and hold it to my face. “I don’t know if you can see me. I’m pretty sure you can’t hear me. But chances are I’m going to die out here, Grayson. Please don’t let them get away with it.”

Saying the words out loud is the motivation I need to continue forward. I drop the button and crawl the rest of the way to the top of the trail, dragging my body up on my hands and knees. I don’t know exactly know how I know that I’ve made it, other than the trees are no longer overhead. The moon is visible and I’m in a clearing, the surface is made of hard, smooth rock.

“Forty-seven!” a voice booms and I look around, searching for the source. A figure cloaked head to toe in black emerges from the darkness. His voice is muffled behind the mask. “Congratulations. You made it through the gauntlet.”

Other figures shift behind him, dressed the same. I rub my eyes, trying to get an exact count. One seems smaller than the others, and it’s still eerily quiet. Where are the other goats? Am I the first one up here? The last?

Someone strikes a match, and it glows nearby, building until it forms a roaring fire. The yellow-orange flame provides brighter light, and carefully, I lift myself off the ground. “Am I done?” I sway and grab my head. “Is it over?”

“Almost.”

The figures move toward me, each taking off their masks. The first is Royer, then Knox and Miller’s cut cheekbones, defined by the light. Rat shakes his head out, hair spiking in a dozen directions, grinning with amusement. I squint at the final person, and a wave of uneasiness rolls through my stomach when they finally reveal themselves. Andrea.

“Love what you’ve done with your hair,” she says, smug expression in place. “How much did it hurt to shave it all off, Reagan?”