“I do not need to introduce them, since we all know each other,” Commander Lee says. “But I will say that two of the candidates are part of my family. Nothing new, since we are a community of only three thousand and many Commanders over the decades have had to deal with the same situation. This is why the Commander does not make the final decision. It is left to the Team Mates to decide who will join them.”

  As soon as she says that, eight men and women come into the Gym from a side door. Denver Team Alpha. Dead Team Alpha. DTA. They take positions off to the side and stand at attention.

  The crowd gets to their feet and salutes, waiting until the salutes are returned by DTA before sitting back down.

  “Denver Team Alpha has been given the unfortunate, yet accurate, nickname of Dead Team Alpha,” Commander Lee says. “More Mates from DTA have died than from any of the other Teams combined. They are our front-line defense, our strike force, and our best refugee retrieval unit.”

  “Every person counts!” the crowd yells.

  “Every person counts,” Commander Lee says. “Of the eight candidates, two will move into DTA while the rest will take on new roles in their respective Teams or be assigned to a new Team. The two chosen will need to show not just that they are physically strong, but also mentally and emotionally strong. This is why we have the Trials. Today all eight candidates will be beaten and humiliated. Those left standing will be the ones DTA picks from. On this day, and this day alone, only two people will count.”

  The Gym is silent.

  “I give the floor to Team Leader Margaret Lafferty,” Commander Lee says, nodding at a tall, broad-shouldered woman stepping from the row of DTA members. “From here on, until the two have been chosen, TL Lafferty is the law. What she says goes. Any who argue, whether candidates or spectators, will be removed from the Gym. There is no argument.”

  “Only the TL has the say,” the crowd says.

  “Rightly so,” Commander Lee says. “Let’s begin.”

  “Candidates!” TL Lafferty shouts. “You will drop and give me infinity push-ups. I will tell you when to stop, if ever. The first to fail will get off their worthless face and leave without argument. Understood?”

  “Sir, yes, sir!” the candidates shout.

  “Then what the fuck are you waiting for?” she roars. “Fucking drop and give me forever!”

  As one, eight men and women fall to the floor and begin with their arms out to the side and their legs and backs straight, as if a line had been drawn from their shoulders to their heels. The movements begin in unison, but soon some fall behind while others seem to move faster and faster with each grunt and push. Sweat beads, drips, pools.

  The crowd watches in silence, enduring the monotony of movements with rapt attention while DTA Mates begin to circle the candidates. Without a word, not even a nod, TL Lafferty gives the order and the Mates move in on their distracted victims.

  Boots come down on backs hard, not to add weight but to deliver brutal, spine-cracking blows. The candidates don’t cry out, well aware that the violence was inevitable, having all witnessed the Trials since they were small children. Instead, they push on and on, swallowing the torture with each stomp.

  Thirty minutes, then forty, fifty, a full hour goes by before the first candidate fails, unable to keep up the pace while enduring the endless torture of boot to back. The man lies there for a few seconds and then painfully gets to his feet. He stumbles to the side, straightens himself and his uniform, and walks proudly out of the Gym, his left leg trailing slightly as he winces with each step. The crowd silently gets to its feet as he leaves and then promptly sits back down.

  The rest of the candidates continue until number two falls. And she falls hard. Her arms give out, slipping from fatigue and the sweat that’s pooled under her palms. Her face slams into the Gym floor, and the loud crunch of broken bone is heard as blood explodes from her nose. The DTA Mates are about to lift her and drag her away, but she is able to get control of her shaking arms and ease herself up onto her knees. She wipes the blood from her nose with the back of her hand.

  The crowd stands again, but no one watches her as she staggers outside, all eyes focused on the rest of the candidates as TL Lafferty begins walking between them. She sees them struggle to keep pushing, sizing up the ones she thinks are next to fall.

  “Stop,” she says. They do. “Get up.”

  The six candidates left, their bodies shaking and spent, help each other to their feet. TL Lafferty briefly smiles at this. The lone wolf can never be a Mate. It is the Team or nothing. Every person counts.

  She points. “You, Hoffman. You, Baptiste. Center up.”

  A man built like a gorilla moves onto the mat and watches as Val joins and faces him. They nod at each other.

  “Clank? Teach them,” TL Lafferty says.

  Hoffman and Val frown and then turn in time to see a massive mountain running toward them. Morgan “Clank” Withers is six feet and eight inches and has actually been witnessed lifting the husk of an old automobile off a refugee before. The muscles on his muscles have muscles on their muscles, and every inch of him quivers with deadly intentions.

  Val bounces on the balls of her feet while Hoffman plants his heels firmly into the mat and squats, lowering his center of gravity. Clank gets to the mat and slides to a halt, his hands reaching down and grabbing the edge while the two candidates look on, stunned.

  Hoffman doesn’t stand a chance. In fact, he doesn’t stand at all as the mat is yanked out from under the candidates’ feet. Val, staying nimble, jumps at the last second, avoiding the embarrassment her fellow candidate suffers. Hoffman falls back onto his ass with a “woof.” He is too surprised to see the attack coming.

  Clank throws the mat aside, and it sails across the Gym like an overgrown Frisbee. The first two rows on the bleachers all scurry out of the way as the canvas comes right at them. Before it touches the ground, Clank is straddling Hoffman, his right fist raised.

  “Night night, gorilla boy,” Clank says, his voice surprisingly melodic, not the rumble or growl one would expect from a man his size.

  The fist connects and Hoffman does as he’s told, all conscious thought gone as the back of his head slams into the floor. Clank scoops him up and throws the concussed man over his shoulder. Not a sound is made as Clank walks the man outside and tosses him onto the slightly overgrown grass in front of the Gym. He casually walks back in and nods at Val. She nods back and looks to TL Lafferty.

  “Pick your partner,” TL Lafferty says. Val is about to speak when TL Lafferty holds up a finger. “Not your cousin.”

  “TL Wright,” Val says.

  Cole nods and steps to her side.

  “TL Moore, Mate Lee,” TL Lafferty says. “Kill them.”

  Stanford glances over at a woman who is half his size. Bordering on being a little person, Holly Moore is the TL of Denver Team Beta One. Light brown skin with almond-shaped eyes and blazing red hair, she shows her heritage of a mix between Scottish, Thai, and Cherokee. Even though she is Val and Stanford’s Team Leader, today she’s just one of the candidates, ready to take a beating, or dish one out, as necessary.

  “Today!” TL Lafferty barks.

  Stanford walks up to Cole and blows him a kiss just before he sends an incredibly telegraphed right hook at the man’s head. Cole easily ducks under it, which blocks his view from the left knee that’s coming toward his ribs. The air escapes his lungs and he looks at Stanford with complete surprise.

  “You… fuck,” Cole gasps as he stumbles back. His side feels like broken glass and he knows at least three ribs are cracked.

  “Sorry, buddy,” Stanford says. “All’s fair and that shit, ya know?”

  “Fuck off,” Cole says and comes in hard.

  He tries to protect his wounded side, but when he does he takes two stunning blows to his head.

  While Cole struggles with Stanford, Val studies Moore’s movements. The smaller woman moves from foot to foot, her arms loose at her sides, swinging, swinging, and swinging, in an almost hypnotic fashion.

  The movement is carefully crafted, designed to keep the attention of a flesh-eating Z, but being the daughter of a drunk and junkie, Val knows misdirection when she sees it. She watches Moore’s core, keeping her eyes on the spot right above the woman’s belly button. When Moore goes in for the attack, it’s already over.

  Afterward, when the Trials are finished, no one in the crowd can say for certain what happened. One second Moore is spinning in with a roundhouse kick, and the next second she’s down, her leg pointing in a most unnatural direction.

  To her credit, and the reason she’s a TL, she doesn’t cry out. She swallows the pain and stares at Val as she is helped off the Gym floor and carried by two spectators toward the hospital. Val feels bad for her TL, but that’s as far as the sympathy goes. She wonders who will take the woman’s place.

  A loud grunt behind her gets her attention quickly, and Val spins around in time to see Cole puking blood all over the floor as Stanford buries his fist in the man’s stomach.

  That’s not good, she thinks.

  Stanford is thinking the same thing and kneels down immediately next to his fallen friend.

  “Fuck, Cole, what did I do?” Stanford asks. “I didn’t hit you that—”

  A forehead smashing into his teeth cuts off Stanford’s sentence. The skin across Cole’s brow splits and bleeds as Stanford tumbles onto his back. Cole is up, blood dripping into his eyes and on Stanford in a flash, both fists hammering down again and again.

  Unable even to get his hands up to block, Stanford just takes the beating until he hears TL Lafferty call out.

  “Enough,” TL Lafferty says. “Back in line, TL Wright.”

  Cole gets to his feet and moves next to Val. He avoids the look she gives him, knowing his attack was overkill for sure.

  “Please leave, Mate Lee,” TL Lafferty says. She waits, but Stanford doesn’t respond. “Mate? You will remove yourself from the Trials.”

  Rolling onto his side, his face a bloody mess, Stanford vomits onto the Gym floor. He reaches out and drags a finger through it until the words, “Fuck You” are written in the sick. Each movement is excruciating, but Stanford manages to get his hands and knees under him. He takes deep breaths, blowing bloody snot bubbles out of his smashed nose, and looks up at the TL.

  “You… quitting… on me?” he asks the woman. “Because… I… ain’t done.”

  TL Lafferty raises an eyebrow and nods. “Back in line then, Mate.”

  Grunting from the effort, Stanford gets onto shaky legs and starts to shuffle to the other candidates.

  “Tiny D?” TL Lafferty asks, quiet enough that most of the spectators don’t even know she’s spoken.

  Dorothy “Tiny D” Peters walks slowly toward Stanford. Her hair is in tight black cornrows which stretch into braids that go all the way down her back. The tips shine from the small, barbed blades that hold the ends of the braids together. The bright white of her teeth splits the pitch black of her face as she gives Stanford a shark grin.

  “Oh, come on,” Stanford says as he tries to brace his feet. “Give a guy a break.”

  “Breaks are for bones,” Tiny D says. “And for those without stones.”

  To his credit, Stanford is able to block the first blow. And, again to his credit, he doesn’t pass out when the second connects to his temple. But, to Tiny D’s credit, he’s unconscious before his body hits the floor after the third blow.

  “Damn,” Val whispers.

  “Something to say, Mate Baptiste?” TL Lafferty asks.

  Val wisely doesn’t answer.

  The crowd watches as Stanford is dragged outside, while the candidates keep their eyes on TL Lafferty.

  “Only three now. Even though this has gone much faster than anticipated, I’m thinking a break,” TL Lafferty says to the crowd. “I believe water, as well as canned fruit has been set up outside. If you will join me, we will resume in thirty minutes.”

  The spectators get up and all walk quietly from the Gym, while the candidates stay in place, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  “As for you fucks,” she sneers. “There are three of you left. And three pull-up bars against that wall. Get to it. Do not stop. You can quit when I return from my snack.”

  She turns and walks out of the Gym, joined by Commander Lee, while the rest of DTA stays behind. They all fold their arms and glare at the last three candidates.

  “Fuck,” Cole says. “My fucking ribs.”

  “Shut up, pussy,” Leslie Hawks says, member of Silo Team Beta and one of the three candidates left. Bald scalp with a horse face that’s been said to scare even God, Hawks marches over to the far wall and jumps up, grabbing onto the pull-up bar above her.

  “You okay?” Val asks. “You puked blood, dude.”

  “Bit my cheek,” Cole smirks. “Hard. He fell for it.”

  Val shakes her head then punches Cole on the shoulder and goes to her own bar. The metal bar is cold to her hot, sweat-slick palms, and she worries more about keeping her grip than her arms giving out. She starts her pull-ups, keeping mental count, making a game of the torture, trying to see if she can beat her personal best.

  Cole is close behind and chooses the bar only feet from Val. He grabs onto the bar and manages one pull-up without crying out, but he can’t stay quiet for the second.

  DTA smells blood in the water, and they stomp over and form a semi-circle around Cole.

  “Shame about Mate Lee,” TL Lafferty says as she plucks a peach from a jar and pops it into her mouth, offering the jar to Commander Lee. “I was hoping to have his eye on my Team.”

  “You have other good shooters to rely on,” Commander Lee says, taking a peach from the offered jar. “You’ll make do.”

  “I’m tired of making do, Maura,” TL Lafferty says, lowering her voice so those around can’t overhear. “I need someone on overwatch who can cover the whole Team. That’s fucking why I’m down two Mates, because Zs got through and my sniper missed it. If we are going to accomplish what the Mayor has planned, then I can’t worry about losing people to Zs, let alone the strange increase in Z herds hitting Denver.”

  “I know, I know,” Commander Lee replies. “But the Trials are what they are. If you’d wanted him so bad, you could have held off.”

  “I didn’t actually think Wright would take him out,” TL Lafferty shrugs. “And if my Team ever got wind I was trying to sway the outcome, they’d gut me in my sleep and toss me down the mountain.”

  “That’s why the Trials decide for us,” Commander Lee says.

  There’s a shout of pain from inside the Gym, then another. And another. The crowd all go quiet and look over at Commander Lee and TL Lafferty.

  “Sounds like Wright is down,” TL Lafferty says. “We better get back inside. The last two will have to spar for pecking order. No one wants to be bottom turd in the pile.”

  “No, they do not,” Commander Lee replies as the spectators file back into the Gym.

  “You two are the last,” TL Lafferty says to Hawks and Val. “Welcome to Dead Team Alpha!”

  The crowd cheers and jumps to its feet, while Commander Lee frowns at the use of the nickname.

  “Hold on, hold on,” TL Lafferty calls out. “HOLD ON!”

  The crowd quiets quickly and takes their seats.

  “Thank you,” TL Lafferty says. “Before these two are welcomed into the DTA fold, they have to work something out. You see, in DTA, as well as all the Teams, there is a hierarchy beyond just the chain of command. The lowest on the totem pole gets the shit jobs. That’s just life.”

  Val and Hawks turn and look at their new Team Leader and frown.

  “Crap,” Val says. “I hate this part.”

  “I’m not worried,” Hawks replies. “I’ll break you.”

  Val snorts as she listens to TL Lafferty finish.

  “First three shots landed wins,” TL Lafferty says. “I’d let them really fight it out, but I’d rather the rookies not be beat to shit when we hit the field tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?” Hawks whispers. “That soon?”

  Val shakes her head, just as confused.

  “Quiet, rookies,” one of the DTA Mates, Junior Hoal, says.

  “Yes, please,” TL Lafferty grins. “Mates? First three shots. You lose, you’re on shitter duty until you move up in the ranks.”

  “Fuck that,” Hawks says as she whirls on Val and elbows her in the throat.

  Val goes down, her hands around her neck as she gasps for breath. Hawks comes in for a kick, but Val punches her right in the crotch. A squeak escapes Hawks’s lips, but the blow only makes her stagger back.

  “You think I have balls?” Hawks laughs. “Do you even know how to fight?”

  Her legs are swept out from under her as she takes one final step back, putting her right where Val wants her. After the leg sweep, Val launches herself at Hawks, her fist coming down full force onto Hawks’s gut. The woman’s eyes go wide as all the air rushes from her lungs, her diaphragm almost paralyzed by the blow.

  Keeping her momentum, Val straddles Hawks’s hips and gives her a wink.

  “Welcome to shitter duty,” she grins and then flicks Hawks’s nose.

  “Bitch,” Hawks says.

  “That’s it, folks,” TL Lafferty says. “We have our new Team Mates for DTA. Thanks for coming, and I hope to never see you here again.”

  “Every person counts,” half the crowd says.

  “We always remember,” the other half responds.

  Val helps Hawks to her feet and the two women hug. Then their new Team sweeps them up in a group hug, which quickly turns into semi-playful slaps, smacks, kicks, and headbutts.

  “Okay, new Mates, listen up. Move your gear by 1700,” TL Lafferty says. “Until then, you have the day to yourselves. Briefing is at 0400. We move out at 0500, so I’d leave the drink and drugs for another night. You two may have won, but we don’t celebrate this, you hear? Two Mates died to give you your spots.”

  “Yes, sir,” Val and Hawks say as they salute TL Lafferty.