“Get back!” Sabre points a handgun and shoots the wild man between the eyes. His body goes limp, and he falls into the sand.
Thomas slams the door. “Sorry.”
“What changed your mind?” Sabre sneers.
I shake my head and try to catch my breath. “Leave it.”
“You’re an idiot,” says Sabre.
I’m about to yell at the girl, when Tizona adds, “Popcorn isn’t just a regular idiot, she’s a brave idiot.”
“I was going to say selfless, but brave also works.” Sabre laughs. “At least I know why some people say you’re the favorite to win the Trials.”
My tongue darts out to lick my dry lips, and all I taste is salt. She’s probably talking about Mouse and Ambassador Pascale. If I can ally with the Amstraadi and arrange protection for my family, maybe I will survive these Trials long enough to win.
Chapter 15
With all the people on camelback safe, Sabre stops the truck a few hundred meters away from the gates to allow whoever is shooting at us to get rid of the wild men. The sand around the truck turns red with their blood. I swallow back my bile, wishing there was a better way to deal with these people.
I force my gaze away from a wild man slashing through the entrails of a female comrade and wonder if any other species eats its own dead. My insides have gone numb, the way they’re starting to become when someone who threatens my life dies.
Thomas whimpers beside me and flinches each time a wild man drops from the vehicle. Some of his camels have disappeared into the distance, but others lie dead on the ground, their broken and bloody carcasses dragged across the sand by the horde.
“Do you have wild men in the north?” I ask no one in particular.
“If we did, they probably froze to death,” says Tizona.
“Some think they traveled south to escape the nuclear winter,” says Katana.
I rub my temples. Until now, I hadn’t given these strange humans much thought. Bullets spray across the land, hitting a group of wild men who stopped to feast on a dead camel. When a pronghorn bolts out from the Great Wall, I squeeze my eyes shut and wait for the explosion.
Moments later, a blast sounds from far away, and I remember Gemini’s explosive death and Berta’s cheerful description of bunny bombs. Despair washes through my veins like sour milk, only broken by the roar of the engine as Sabre starts the truck and moves toward the opening gates.
The marquee is empty, save for a row of helmeted guards pointing automatic guns at the van. My insides deflate. What have we done, now?
“What’s happening?” Thomas’ voice shakes.
“I’m not sure,” I reply.
“But you’re the border guards.” His voice rises in pitch. “How could you not know?”
“It’s probably decontamination,” says Sabre.
“What?” he asks.
“They do this when people come in from the desert,” I reply, remembering everything I’ve learned today about the Foundling welcoming process. “It’s to make sure you’re free of radiation and diseases.”
Thomas relaxes, but one of the guards opens the door and asks him to step out. The truck’s back door opens, and the men we saved exit the van. There are eleven of them, and their faces are obscured by kerchiefs. One of them points at the van, presumably to ask about his bags, but the guard shakes his head and guides them through a door on the left.
Somehow, I don’t think these people will be allowed to keep their possessions, but that will be the least of their problems.
Sergeant Travis steps forward and guides us through the door on the right. Instead of a blast of light and heat, there's a shaded walkway that leads to our coach.
Byron stands by the driver’s seat and flashes his whitened teeth. The beds on the left sides are folded into the wall, their space now occupied by about thirty production assistants wearing sand-colored jumpsuits.
“Let’s have a round of applause for the brave team of rescuers.” Byron grabs my wrist and raises it into the air.
Ingrid and Constance, who are already seated, rise from their seats and stand in the aisle, blocking the camera’s view of our faces. They grin and wave at the applauding contestants and camerawomen.
Tizona leans into my side and mutters, “What’s so brave about shooting people from a tower?”
I snort. Before the Trials, I would have quipped that someone else did the shooting for Ingrid and Constance, but at least one of them has proven herself adept at killing humans.
When the applause dies down, Byron releases my wrist and lets us walk back to our seats. Emmera stares up at me with a smile and hands me a bottle of Smoky Mountain water. I flop down on the seat, so thirsty that I forget to check its label. She opens up a large packet of chipped vegetables and holds them under my nose.
Byron claps his hands together for our attention. “Those of you who completed this challenge will progress to the next level of the Princess Trials, and the rest of you will return to the palace for a farewell dinner before going home.”
Sucking in a sharp breath between my teeth, I turn to Emmera, whose eyes bulge.
A noble girl with a thick braid around her hair shoots out of her seat. “What bearing does rescuing Foundlings have on the suitability for becoming the next queen?”
Byron pulls at his collar. “I was clear about the rules—”
“When our guide asked if we wanted to help Calico and a bunch of Amstraad drones save some Foundlings, he didn’t say the consequences for refusing was elimination.”
“Villosa is right,” says another Noble. “This is completely unfair.”
Ingrid stands and places her hands on her hips. “Don’t complain because the rules won’t bend for you.”
“You’re one to talk,” Villosa
