Read Online The Elect: Malevolent, a Dystopian Novel by Tamryn Ward - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Tamryn Ward
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mental.
“Follow me,” Jay says as he opens a door at the far end of the area. We travel through a maze of dark, narrow tunnels. The ceilings are sloped, and it feels like we are descending lower, lower, into the bowels of the earth. Lanterns punch weak yellow holes in the darkness every twenty feet or so. Between gold areas are stretches of thick blackness. As we weave up and down, right and left, I see more of the same, branching off the corridors we take. I hope that everywhere we need to be will be close. I can’t imagine finding my way around this maze on my own. It’s like a groundhog’s den.
We stop in a big, open room with a soaring ceiling and white-tiled walls. After being in such dark, confined spaces, it feels bright and open. I smell food. Long tables with benches attached fill half the area. People, all of them wearing black shirts and pants, are laughing, talking, eating. Silverware clatters. No one looks our way as our group stands there, watching, like a line of tourists. “This is the cafeteria. It’s open around the clock.” Our guide leads us down another corridor. At an intersection, he points. “This is the recruits’ dorm room. We’ll come back this way when we’re done. Follow me.” We continue down the same tunnel, stopping at the end. There, a room about twice the size of the cafeteria is packed with strange-looking machines. Most of them have cables attached to flat plates. People are standing or sitting near them, pulling, pushing, straining. Their faces are red, teeth gritted, muscles tense.
Jay tells us, “This is the gym. You are free to use it whenever you are not in class.”
A gym? This is nothing like the gym we had in our school. It was a wide-open space with a polished wood floor.
We move on. Our next stop is in an even larger room. This one is filled with desks. And on each desk is a glowing screen. People sit at the desks, staring at the screens, fingers tapping what look like small, flat typewriters.
I’ve seen pictures of these machines in books. They’re computers.
Oh. My. God.
I inch closer to a desk and look over the shoulder of a woman working nearby. The white screen seems lit from behind. Black type runs in strings across the page. I try to read the writing but it’s gibberish.
“This is our computer lab, where we study and practice programming,” Jay tells us.
If I have to learn programming to pass initiation, I am doomed.
The doors behind us open. I hear the squeak of a hinge. All the tap-tap-tapping stops. The room falls silent. And every head turns our way.
Someone nudges me and I step aside, glancing over my shoulder.
I recognize the young man standing inside doorway. It’s the one who was talking to Jay. Up close I realize there is something about him that makes me uneasy. He isn’t particularly scary-looking. Some might even call him handsome. His blond hair is cut shorter than I like, cropped close to his head. His jaw is strong, cheekbones carved with sharp edges. His eyes pale blue-gray. A neatly-trimmed beard covers his chin. Everything about him is very cold and hard. His icy gaze sweeps the room.
“Jay,” he says as he walks past us. “Would you like to introduce me to the new class of recruits?”
“Sure,” Jay says, his voice a little sharp, as if he isn’t so happy to introduce this man to anyone. I wonder why. Jay motions to him. “Recruits, this is George, director of the NDA.”
George, the director of the NDA, looks at me. His gaze wanders up and down my body. Feeling vulnerable, I cross my arms over my chest. “Welcome. A couple words of warning. Any trainee who is incapacitated for more than twenty-four hours will be immediately removed from the program.” Great ice-breaker, that is. Then he says directly to me, “Interesting selection of recruits this year. We’ll see how long you last.”
Talk about a slap in the face. He doesn’t know me.
I open my mouth to tell him that I’ll be staying to the end but no
“Follow me,” Jay says as he opens a door at the far end of the area. We travel through a maze of dark, narrow tunnels. The ceilings are sloped, and it feels like we are descending lower, lower, into the bowels of the earth. Lanterns punch weak yellow holes in the darkness every twenty feet or so. Between gold areas are stretches of thick blackness. As we weave up and down, right and left, I see more of the same, branching off the corridors we take. I hope that everywhere we need to be will be close. I can’t imagine finding my way around this maze on my own. It’s like a groundhog’s den.
We stop in a big, open room with a soaring ceiling and white-tiled walls. After being in such dark, confined spaces, it feels bright and open. I smell food. Long tables with benches attached fill half the area. People, all of them wearing black shirts and pants, are laughing, talking, eating. Silverware clatters. No one looks our way as our group stands there, watching, like a line of tourists. “This is the cafeteria. It’s open around the clock.” Our guide leads us down another corridor. At an intersection, he points. “This is the recruits’ dorm room. We’ll come back this way when we’re done. Follow me.” We continue down the same tunnel, stopping at the end. There, a room about twice the size of the cafeteria is packed with strange-looking machines. Most of them have cables attached to flat plates. People are standing or sitting near them, pulling, pushing, straining. Their faces are red, teeth gritted, muscles tense.
Jay tells us, “This is the gym. You are free to use it whenever you are not in class.”
A gym? This is nothing like the gym we had in our school. It was a wide-open space with a polished wood floor.
We move on. Our next stop is in an even larger room. This one is filled with desks. And on each desk is a glowing screen. People sit at the desks, staring at the screens, fingers tapping what look like small, flat typewriters.
I’ve seen pictures of these machines in books. They’re computers.
Oh. My. God.
I inch closer to a desk and look over the shoulder of a woman working nearby. The white screen seems lit from behind. Black type runs in strings across the page. I try to read the writing but it’s gibberish.
“This is our computer lab, where we study and practice programming,” Jay tells us.
If I have to learn programming to pass initiation, I am doomed.
The doors behind us open. I hear the squeak of a hinge. All the tap-tap-tapping stops. The room falls silent. And every head turns our way.
Someone nudges me and I step aside, glancing over my shoulder.
I recognize the young man standing inside doorway. It’s the one who was talking to Jay. Up close I realize there is something about him that makes me uneasy. He isn’t particularly scary-looking. Some might even call him handsome. His blond hair is cut shorter than I like, cropped close to his head. His jaw is strong, cheekbones carved with sharp edges. His eyes pale blue-gray. A neatly-trimmed beard covers his chin. Everything about him is very cold and hard. His icy gaze sweeps the room.
“Jay,” he says as he walks past us. “Would you like to introduce me to the new class of recruits?”
“Sure,” Jay says, his voice a little sharp, as if he isn’t so happy to introduce this man to anyone. I wonder why. Jay motions to him. “Recruits, this is George, director of the NDA.”
George, the director of the NDA, looks at me. His gaze wanders up and down my body. Feeling vulnerable, I cross my arms over my chest. “Welcome. A couple words of warning. Any trainee who is incapacitated for more than twenty-four hours will be immediately removed from the program.” Great ice-breaker, that is. Then he says directly to me, “Interesting selection of recruits this year. We’ll see how long you last.”
Talk about a slap in the face. He doesn’t know me.
I open my mouth to tell him that I’ll be staying to the end but no
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