Subfloor Six

Jocelyn was awakened from her nap by a chirping alert.

“Apprentices: Report to Subfloor Six.” The metallic voice clicked off.

Even after 18 months, Jocelyn still wasn’t used to life in the dormitories.

She tossed her uniform shirt over her tank. Before striding to the steel door, she laced her boots.

“Lights,” she said. The lady in the wall responded, darkening the room.

Subfloor Six was two levels down. The dorms sat on Subfloor Four, already 100 feet below what used to be ground level. Cameras followed her—tiny hawk eyes tracking rabbit-fast steps.

Nine were already there—some sitting on a bench, most leaning. Snyder sat cross-legged on the floor, twirling a shoelace.

The scent of lavender hung in the air. In evacuation preparation, the First Ones had stocked only that kind of soap and deodorant. A deal or a mistake?

The rest filtered in, including Caldon, Jocelyn’s best friend, rubbing red-rimmed eyes.

“What do you think it is this time?” Jocelyn muttered. Drills had become more common lately. Evenings blurred into midnight without warning.

“Who the hell knows?” Caldon grunted, tugging on a loose boot.

Two Senior Apprentices, Alden and Graft, strutted in, faces split by cruel smiles.

“Well my favorite tunnel-dwelling rodents,” Graft oozed, “do we have a drill for you today.”

“Oh yes – have I won the lottery, you might ask? No – just the lucky chosen ones,” Alden quipped.

They were sorted into pods: three groups of three, one of four. Jocelyn, Caldon, Snyder, and Laine made up the four. Each pod loaded into a tube, rocketing upward toward the training center.

When the doors opened, the drill would begin.

Each group had its unique mission – this round, her pod’s was to capture an opposing officer.

The tubes slowed, and Jocelyn tensed, preparing to pounce into action. Caldon and she had taken the lead, setting up the plan in the short time the tube had ascended.

“GO!” The gate flipped outward like a DeLorean.

Laine and Caldon snapped right toward the highest point, while Snyder and Jocelyn swung left around the long, flat side of the terrain.

Snyder stuck his shoulder into her side, pointing and mouthing: “There.” Jocelyn followed his finger to a tall, tan boy with a red stripe: Captain.

With a blunt nod, they sprinted stealthily toward the mound when a red stripe appeared on Snyder’s thigh. A startled squeak slipped through his lips. Quickly, the stripe spread to the size of a baseball, drops multiplying to fill the fabric from knee to groin.

He ran a few more heavy-footed steps before falling, his body like one of papier-mache, flapping.

Jocelyn pulled him aside, his body becoming limp.

Eyes wide, trying to take it in, slow it down. Snyder stared at her while Jocelyn looked helplessly at the brick circle on his leg. The blood was slowing.

She scanned the field. Two others were down: a fourteen-year-old and a fresh twelve-and-a-halfer. She couldn’t remember his name.

And that’s when Jocelyn realized - this was no drill.