Chapter 1

Sometimes I wonder what it's like to be an adult.

What it's like to be hunted and not know it.

What it's like to be free from killing, but not from death.

What it's like to lose children from their families, only to be killed by them.

They don't know that we, the children, are the causes for the losses of humankind.

They don't know that their own children are responsible for their deaths.

Being an adult means you're stupid, oblivious to the crisis.

Being a kid means you're a murderer, responsible for the crisis.

'Live your best life' is not an option when you belong to Caulifah.

I'll be eighteen in 235 days. An adult, right?

 Not an adult when you were raised in this country.

Not on her terms.

I'll be a 'child' forever.

A murderer forever.

As long as I live in Caulifah.

The knife rips through my skin, breaking through the veins and arteries there.

It hurts.

I smell the blood before it trails down my face.

The metallic flavor hits my tongue.

It leaves a tangy taste in my mouth, making me want to gag.

But I can't.

I can't give him a reaction.

 I feel the blade in my hands again.

I can't control it.

I can't control my own body.

The ripple effect runs through my brain.

He's doing it again.

My body perks up as he grins.

"Stop." I manage to croak as he raises his own hands.

My hands follow, mimicking him.

My blood is dripping down my chin now, onto the concrete floor.

Dried blood is there.

From someone else.

His ice-blue stare sends shivers down my controlled spine.

They prickle with the insanity I can't imagine having.

He has the job to manage us.

Kill us.

But with us killing each other.

He's crazy.

Mentally disabled.

But so, so powerful.

I speak one wrong word, and I'm perished.

Done.

 I can't move unless he says I can. 

I can think.

Speak.

Judge.

But not stop him.

He's in charge of that.

My hands are holding the blade that cut through my face. The same blade with my blood on it.

The crimson is still beating down my face, into my eyes, but somehow I can still see through the sheet of red.

I can still see his ugly face. I can still see his devious smirk he has on.

Those icy eyes that bear into mine with an intensity of power.

I want to look away, but I can't turn my head.

Even if I could, I wouldn't.

Looking away would show fear.

I cannot show him anything.

I cannot give him the reaction I know he wants.

The knife is now raised to my neck.

I swallow.

The tip connects with my flesh, but doesn't cut through.

I'm scared to breathe.

I'm scared to swallow again.

"Please." I regret my words.

I'm turning desperate.

"What have you given me for me to stop, young Zaemon?" His deep voice is menacing, startling, as he speaks.

My name seems to rumble through my head.

We're all called numbers here.

I'm 96.

I haven't heard my birth name in so long it almost brings tears to my eyes.

My birth name.

Zaemon. 'Protector'.

The name I was given by my mother.

The name I was supposed to hear as I grew up.

The name I was supposed to hear every morning as my mother woke me up for school.

But instead it was taken from me, deceased as I was raised in a warehouse.

A warehouse in which we were trained to kill. To murder our parents. To murder friends and family.

It isn't fair.

It's not fair how young we were taken in.

How young we were when we first learned how to fire from a gun.

It's not fair that we'll never see our families again.

We'll never see the outside world carelessly, walking through the wonder of creation peacefully, without a single care that we'll be hunted down.

Instead of pursuing our big dreams as kids, we end up being murders, crushing others' dreams.

     "Anything." I answer. 

 "Poor, vulnerable little boy. So desperate. So naive. So…young." His cold, veiny hands grab my bloody chin, and hold my face to look up into his freezing stare. His breath smells as it comes from his chapped lips.

I try not to grimace as his mouth quirks into a creepy smile.

      "Please." I moan. "Please." My hands are still with the knife, holding it to my skin.

It burns.

It burns so bad.

My cut, my eyes, my lungs, my hands, the knife.

I'm on fire.

My hands start to shake with anger as I look him in the eyes. "Stop." I whisper.

His grin is savage as he makes my hands progress towards my throat.

I feel the blade slowly dig into my skin.

Out of the corner of my eyes blood blossoms under the metal.

It's almost sickening.

I've seen blood so many times, but it's sickening how much I'm losing.

      "Please st–" The blade sinks deeper, blood effortlessly pulsing down my clothes.

Flames flicker up my throat, pain seeping deeper and deeper into me.

I've never felt so much pain.

He's killing me.

I wait for the knife to sink the deepest it can go, but my hands don't move.

        "Finish." I croak. "I'm done."

"You're not done," He murmurs. His breath is in my ear, hot as hell. "until I say so."

He wants me to struggle.

I deserve it. This is the pain I make innocent people feel. I deserve to die, not them.

I nod ever so slowly, careful not to let the blade cut me again.

I'm pretty sure I've lost half of my blood. And it keeps going.

My body may heal, but my mind never will.

This will traumatize me.

Just like last time.

He scarred me on my shoulder when I was fifteen.

I've never been the same ever since.

I was taken in when I was fourteen.

I was so happy before this 'camp'.

I was so happy before they lied.

The government told us it was just a camp. A camp where all kids from the U.S. stayed in a strange, suddenly powerful country. Caulifah was supposed to be a small, subtle country. But then they took over all of Europe, now almost all of America.

It started out as a small piece of land moving out from Greenland. Then the land got bigger, and started expanding towards Europe. The new country decided to take that advantage and take control of them. Now it's become the biggest continent known since the 9th century. 

When you were six, you probably thought the world would be wiped out by zombies or aliens.

No. It happened by our own mankind.

We destroyed mankind. Kids.

Children.

How sickening to know your own kid is gonna kill you.

How scary it is to know you're no longer safe.

Before Caulifah, the countries were finally at peace.

Now we've torn them apart.

Before Caulifah, America used to be free. Now we've taken away that privilege.

No one's safe.

Not as long as children live.

⤌⤍

Life is scary. Not just because I'm living in a crisis, but because I'm supposed to be a part of it.

I was supposed to be a part of the countless murders.

I was supposed to be a part of the blood and misery.

You'd think I'd be happy I don't have to kill for a living.

No.

It's scary knowing you're hunted.

It's even more terrifying to know you were supposed to be a murderer.

To be a part of the loss of humankind.

It's September 23. That one day of the year.

Not my birthday. Not my mom's birthday. None of my family members' birthdays.

Not my anniversary with my boyfriend or friendships.

I have no boyfriend.

I have no friends.

It's Execution Day.

That one day where it's worse than it sounds. That one day where everyone can suspect who's in charge of this crisis. The day where you're killed by the people around you instead of the people you can't see. The children you can't see.

That one day where you're not safe at all.

We're not safe at all as it is. Execution Day makes it worse. 

It was made up by the government. The government that doesn't know what they're doing.

The government that makes this messed up century worse.

Execution Day produces more blood spilled than on a daily basis.

There's more people rotting on the streets than a week of the life we live in a day.

Not even a day.

Execution Day lasts an hour. 3:25 right on the spot. 4:25, there's more lives dead than the Civil War; our army and our opponents combined.

That hour is happening in twenty minutes.

That hour where I either survive another year, or I'm done with this world.

I'm fine with death. 

About four years I've been doing this. There's a spot right near Jauliah's

farm. In the woods near his old warehouse he doesn't live in anymore.

Because he's dead.

I've claimed his shelter.

Because he told me to. His words, "Take my shelter when I die," scripted in my head since he said them.

He's the only adult that knew I was here since the Taking.

They missed me. I don't know how, but I wasn't Taken. I'm the only child left on planet Earth that does not live in Caulifah.

I've taken in his golden retriever Oakley. Oakley's a quiet boy. He's a good dog.

I've never met such a loyal, calm animal. He's so patient it gets me mad.

How can such a perfect animal be so okay since his owner has died?

Since the world hasn't been different since his first birthday?

Poor puppy. He's only two years old, and has seen more blood than I have.

Blood from his own owner.

I promised to take care of him. And I'll do just that.

I bring his raggedy leash with me as I rummage through Jaulifah's stuff.

There's not much to take. Some dog food. Canned peaches and spaghetti.

A small photograph of Jaulifah, me, and Oakley.

We took the photo as a remembrance if any of us made it out alive.

It's not a happy photo. None of us are smiling. Not even Oakley.

I shove it in my tote bag I got just before the crisis.

I've had it for almost four years.

Crazy how it hasn't broken yet.

It has a picture of my deceased cat.

It was a present from my dead best friend. Just before he was killed before my eyes.

I miss him. But I have no time to grieve.

He's gone. I just have to deal.

His van smells like pinewood and bad smelling cologne.

He was old, but he still had a sense for the new mens' fragrances.

I still have the memory of when he asked me if I wanted to wear some. I laughed at him and shook my head. "No, Jaulifah, I'm not a guy." He then said it didn't matter. "It still smells gross." I laughed. 

Sometimes I wish I did wear it that day. His fragrance is now the only thing I have of him.

I sit back in the driver's seat and gaze out into the mass of trees ahead of me.

They look so peaceful. Like no one had set foot in them. So mesmerizing.

But I wouldn't dare wander in them. It's not safe.

Nowhere is.

Oakley looks lost in his seat. He's up front with me.

Maybe he thinks I replaced his owner.

Technically I did.

I feel bad for him. He's such a sweet dog. So quiet.

His head turns towards mine and he meets my eyes.

"Hey, Bud." I stroke his soft golden fur.

His eyes avoid mine as I reach his ears with my fingertips.

"Jaulifah used to do this." I whisper.

I stop petting him as grief swallows me.

Poor dog. 

He lost the one he loved. Just like I did.

My baby brother.

My parents.

My grandma.

My best friend.

Jaulifah. 

I've held it in for too long.

I miss them.

I want to cry. But I can't cry.

Crying would feel so good.

My emotions are mixed as I reach for the precious dog again.

I feel so weak and vulnerable.

I feel so miserable.

I don't understand. Why can't I be happy? Why can't I live a normal childhood?

It's not fair.

I've lost everyone but Oakley.

Oakley's lost everyone but me.

We're both grieving.

We both understand.

My tears fall into his fur as I grip him tighter with desperation.

He's the only thing I have left.

The only thing worth dying for.