elimination

I feel like running right now. Like running myself into oblivion. Yet instead I am being carried along the hall by shuffling feet as I near the door to the Practical Training room. I can still remember the first time I saw this door. If only I didn’t know now what I didn’t know then. My hands move robotically as I turn the doorknob and file in to join our dwindling ranks. I have given up counting the casualties. It requires too much mental exertion.

The familiar coldness of Doomsday’s voice echoes through the room. “Today the activity in question is not so much a test of willpower as it is a test of physical stamina pertaining both to past events and current societal standards.” The words are oddly familiar, yet I can’t seem to conjure the memory. 12 and 14 both fix their eyes on me, foreheads wrinkling. The rest of the room follows suit, Doomsday and Apocalypse included. I can feel the energy of all their eyes on the back of my neck, and begin to stir uncomfortably. I look at the reflection of my face in my wrist port. It appears normal. I’m not bleeding to death or anything.

I grow gradually more uncomfortable as my right leg starts to twitch. Did I black out? Did I do something? Did I kill someone? I begin to slowly hyperventilate. My mind finally connects Doomsday’s words to a fleeting memory as the gazes around me intensify. The day they gave us the black pills that caused the allergic reactions; they told us that was a test of physical stamina. My breathing slows down as begin I to rationalize. I am better than this. This time I am not saving anyone. Level Three.

Despite everything that has happened the burning desire that I have had all of my life to make it to the golden gates of Level Three somehow remains. We are made to stand in a line against the back wall. The energy and angst in the room is tangible and fills the room with electric charge. Rectangular slabs of ceiling slide back to reveal gaping holes. The holes proceed to vomit up a thick cloud of putrid black smoke that begins to rapidly diffuse through the room until I can no longer see more than a foot in front of me.

The smoke tickles at first, a funny itchy feeling. Then the feeling becomes less funny as the smoke singes my nose hairs and punctures every centimeter of my lungs. I double over coughing. I am instantly blinded and the screech that is drawn out of my chest only ricochets off of the dense smog surrounding me. I instantly close my mouth, but it’s too late because I can already feel the smoke burning holes through my insides. I will myself to die, anything, anything is better than this. Yet my body refuses to listen, somehow I stay alive slumped against the wall.

The noise is deafening, screams and coughs and splutters, the screech of a clammy hand sliding downward against the wall. I refuse to open my eyes, I refuse, I refuse, I refuse. But the screams grow louder and my heartbeat grows louder until I can’t take it any longer. My eyes flicker open. I anticipate the burn, yet it doesn’t come. The black smoke is gone, replaced only by a thin grey haze. The ground is covered in bodies; soiled and pale, living and dead. I search for 12, 14, Switch, Tight Rope. They are inseparable from the rest. Only Doomsday and Apocalypse stand entirely unscathed, smoke circling their ankles like friendly snakes. They shake their heads looking disappointed at our utter lack of stamina. Doomsday’s voice rings across the deserted battlefield. “All report to the showers.” No one moves. Apocalypse returns from one of the many doors with about a hundred biohazard bags. Doomsday speaks again, “Report to the showers.” Nothing.

Apocalypse opens the first bag with a loud plasticky rip. He walks over to the crumpled up figure of 12 and moves to shovel her headfirst into the bag. For a second my heart becomes one with the bile in my stomach. Yet as soon as he lays a finger on her hair I see her move at inhuman speed. She stands with such a sudden jolt of movement that she head-butts Apocalypse and sends him stumbling backward, falling on the body of 14 who on impact, follows suit and scrambles to his feet. Suddenly the room is full of rising corpses, myself included. Our postures are slumped and our gaits uneven as we slump our way out of the room, eyes downcast. On our way out we step over the bodies that didn’t rise, our toes nimbly searching for the tiny patches of bare ground.

The water from the shower turns black when it touches my body and runs into the drain in an inky black river. My fingers are wrinkled and pruned and I have been under this icy jet for what seems like hours. Yet the water that streams from the tips of my hair retains the same ebony stain. Every five minutes I retch again leaving thick black liquid on the tiled ground. My eyes sting but I can see. I am surrounded by a ceaseless chorus of coughing which I heartily contribute to. I look over at the girl in the stall across from me. She is still coated in black dust as well, as is the boy in the stall next to her.

The familiar shape of 12′s hand passes under the wall of the stall next to mine. She leaves a cylindrical container next to my foot. Leave it to 12 to remember to stop at the medical table during the death march. I eagerly open the cylinder to find a grainy white substance. I proceed to rub it over my entire body, yet am stopped by a surge of pain. Everywhere the balm touches seems to catch fire for about a moment before a film of black bubbles to the surface. This I scrape off to reveal normal skin. When my skin is finally clear of the toxin I ingest a small amount of the white stuff and hope for the best.

I slide what is left in the container to the girl across from me who has been staring longingly at the tiny cylinder. After painfully retching what I hope is the last of the black stuff in my system, I proceeded to put on a clean uniform and head for the door. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and am stopped in my tracks. I don’t know how long it has been since I last looked into this mirror yet the reflection in front of me has changed. The whites of my eyes are covered in red spiderwebs and the lines on my forehead are now valleys. Under each cheekbone is a black hole. My hair—usually my only saving grace—looks utterly defeated. I giggle inwardly. Oh well, that’s that.