Ugh, just make this goddamned nightmare end already! Seriously, just fuck it all, I think, because if there's one thing I hate, it's singing. I can't sing for shit. Still, I always have to make sure to sing extra loud on Founder’s Day.

  You see, if I don’t pretend to be the most loyal to the organization’s anthem, there’s a bullet with my name on it, and I don’t want to die. So I always sing the anthem even though my words come out off-note and gritty, like there’s sand in my throat.

  Feels like there’s sand in my eyes too, but I can’t help that. The lights in the bunker’s auditorium are usually dim but are set to mimic the daylight we rarely ever get to experience.

  To offset the heat, the vents blast cold air but whoever’s in charge of the underground maintenance overshoots it tonight. The air’s so damn cold it leaches the moisture from my eyes and nose.

  A few members who’ve gotten a head start on the festivities fight off the cold a little easier than myself, courtesy of rice wine and God knows what else. But those who have opted to wait huddle together like penguins, causing the four lines of fifty people anchoring the steel stage to merge.

  That is with the exception of the die-hards. You know, the members who are so firm in their love for the anthem and all it stands for they remain cemented in position?

  Mirroring their passion, I jut my chin in the air and scream the last verse of the anthem also being blasted on the speakers overhead.

  In the Anti-Fallen Party, we trust. To the death and back.

  Till freedom come tomorrow. Angels be damned.

  And finally,

  Till freedom come today. Angels be ruined.

  I close my eyes, pretending to truly savor those last few lines but they’re total bullshit. Freedom hasn’t been ours for the past ninety-six years, ever since God’s twisted fallen angels, jealous of humans, saw fit to rearrange His totem pole.

  The fact that we now live a pitiful existence below the Wastelands of what used to be the Americas?

  Irrelevant. Tonight is to celebrate victories no matter how small, nothing else, which is exactly why I maintain my smile as we wait for the speech that will officially ring in Founder’s Day.

  “Look at her. Makes me sick!”

  So does your overbite but you don’t hear me complaining.

  “The fucking nerve to show her face at a time like this.”

  Trust me, not by choice.

  “Relax. She won’t be here for long. Bet my right eye they’re gonna send her upstairs.”

  Bet my left eye you’re, well, not wrong.

  Chatter only stops as Jackson, our leader, walks across the stage, dark eyes glinting with a hope they only do on nights like these. A few of the younger children shy behind the adults as they ogle that corrugated mound of brown flesh that works its way down to his bottom lip. But those who have been unlucky enough to see what’s on the surface look on with wide eyes in admiration.

  Hard not to. Word has it Jackson got the injury going hand to hand with one of the Fallen, and while it hasn’t been confirmed, I wouldn’t doubt it. If there’s anything as deadly as those monsters on the surface, it’s him.

  I stiffen my stance as he begins his spiel.

  “My fellow resistance members, as you all know, tonight isn’t just any other night. Rather, it marks the ten-year anniversary that none of our units scattered below the God-forsaken Earth has been compromised. The ten-year anniversary that our members haven’t been subject to the Fallen’s mass slaughter.”

  Slaughter is one hell of an understatement. It’s been ten years since droves of members have been nailed to crosses, dismembered, eaten, burned…worse. Still, cheers reverberate around the auditorium before everyone quickly simmers unanimously for Jackson to note how advancements in technology and changes to mission protocols have revolutionized our operations…increased the number of humans who remain alive to fight, and celebrate, the AFP’s creation ninety-six years ago.

  Lies. The enemy attacks have decreased only because the Fallen no longer see us as a threat. But since saying that here right now is taboo, I let my eyes mindlessly trace the grooves in the auditorium’s domed walls until Jackson gets over with it and calls my name.

  “Unfortunately, in order for everyone to enjoy the festivities safely, two individuals will have to make the noble sacrifice to sit this celebration out and assume guard duty. Maxene Faye Alden, per the system’s draw, you will be required to make your way to the exit chambers for guard duty within the next fifteen minutes.”

  He calls another name, someone who must only be a few spots behind me because I can hear bitching over all those sighs of relief.

  “While you two won’t be here to partake in the celebration, you will be given your meal to take with you to eat if the moment allows.”

  He gestures to everyone in the auditorium with raised arms. “Now let us all thank these members for foregoing the event. Hopefully, the system’s draw will be kinder to them next year.”

  Next year, my ass! The system first randomly assigned me this shift when I was thirteen and, per the AFP guidelines, was old enough to perform inner-dormitory duties. It’s been six years since then, and I’ve been randomly assigned to it each year.

  Honestly, they should just declare it an official assignment already; the celebrations don’t pertain to me…or anyone like me. It’d save me time and everyone else a boatload of anxiety. But alas, I’m not the one who wears that golden band on the sleeve of their gray jumpsuit. No, that would be Jackson, the youngest person to commandeer an AFP unit at forty-eight.

  Upon his instruction, to show appreciation, everyone salutes me and the person the system actually selected. But as soon as the hands go down, someone punches me in the back.

  I bite back a groan as my eyes spring tears and legs threaten to buckle. My right palm is itching to turn around and give whoever it was a beating they’ll remember for a long time coming. However, I continue facing forward, listening. Not to Jackson, but the guy who just laid his hands on me, who’s whispering behind me right now. "Think of that as a taste of what to expect upstairs, rotten bitch! Your kind lost us the war.”

  What a dumbass! I mean, the fact that the Fallen won the war by cursing a quarter of the human population, fating them and their descendants to become their mindless killers, is old fucking news. And, last I checked, I also didn’t ask to be born with a curse much less in this shit hole. Which is why the slithery undertones in the voice? The smell of rum and malice? I pin them to the older drunkard who lives in the west corridor, level three, and smile. Any other time, he’d get away with his transgression, but tonight I’m gonna make sure to put him on his ass if it’s the last thing I do.

  After all, he might not know it just yet, but tonight is special for more reasons than one, and it has everything to do with Founder’s Day, when everyone will be too busy getting drunk off their asses to notice me doing the only other thing that can get me killed aside from succumbing to my curse—defecting.

  I reign in my anticipation as I step out of line and grab the rucksack pristinely set aside for me at the auditorium’s exit, reminding myself that I can't looked too excited. Best to focus on the bag for now.

  Equipped with tasty goods only ever served on Founder’s Day, heat seeps through its straw cloth, making my stomach growl, but I don’t reach into the bag until I’ve trekked up the main staircase and entered the safe confines of my room on level two.

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  Little less than a metal shoe-box, two steps from the door and I’m already sitting at the edge of my bed, reaching my hand into the bag to find the sweet potato. There’s no need for luxuries like butter. I scoff the entire thing down in four bites before inspecting the rest of the bag’s contents.

  Unlike the potato, the salted beef won’t grow mold any time soon and neither will the picked fruit. I force them back into the rucksack before raising up the mattress, where a hole on the underside is only noticeable if you run your hands along the bottom right.

  I shove the rucksack inside it, pushing extra hard so the other goods I’ve hoarded can make way, then grab my dagger, the only weapon I’m allowed on my person without pre-authorization.

  I press the blade against my right wrist, where a blinking green light can be seen through my tawny skin.

  Article 101, which is the so-called revitalization to the AFP’s protocols that put an end to the Fallen’s siege, leaves no room for misinterpretation, stating clearly: In the event that a tainted person expends their use, they will be executed, no discern for their curse’s activity level. A peaceful departure into the Wastelands is not permitted. 80 % of Tainted individuals defect to territories to have their curses removed in exchange for AFP coordinates. In other words, a bullet is the only way out.

  Two hard knocks on my door snap me out of my reverie. They’re followed by the hummed words, “Are you knitting in there or something? We’re gonna be lateeeee, Maxene.”

  I open the door and that muscle tension winding me up like a jack in the box dissipates as I lock eyes with Alex—in a gray combat uniform, chestnut brown hair slicked back neatly, gray eyes playfully ready for duty.

  His lips curl into a half smile. “Happy to see me?”

  I am. However, tension returns with a vengeance as I get a hold of myself. Knocking the old drunkard on his ass then jabbing a sedative into his neck? I imagine I’d have no qualms with doing such but now that it’s Alex…

  No. It doesn’t matter. I have a plan and I’m sticking to it!

  “You good?” Alex asks, a brow arched.

  I step into the hallway and cock my foot so he can see the dagger in my boot. “No. Call me Maxene again and I’ll put you on your ass. You know I hate it.”

  “Fine. Fine,” he says, and he takes a long dramatic pause before winking, “Max.”

  I roll my eyes and brush past him, annoyed. “Shouldn’t you be in the auditorium, celebrating with the others?”

  He speeds up so he’s a step ahead of me. “Can’t celebrate while you’re working. Leaves a bad taste in my mouth. So I begged the other guard to work their shift. Was all too happy to give it.”

  “You shouldn’t have, ” I say, irate at the thought of what I must do now.

  “Well, I did, and I’d do it again.”

  Still, irate or not, I can’t help but smile. Because Alex? He isn’t like me…doesn’t have taint running through his veins. Yet ever since we were kids, he’s shouldered my fate as one of the unlucky souls cursed to become a mindless killer as if it’s his own, defending the Tainted’s right to celebrate and be treated with respect. I love him for it, truly, but I hate him for it, too.

  My soul, cursed as it is, is the only thing that’s truly mine in this organization and he does things to it when he’s this nice. Like make me not want to use all that food I’ve been hoarding…like making months before attempting to leave turn into years.

  But no more. Most of the Tainted die in their early twenties—the cause is usually overwork—and I’m already already nineteen. Leaving is no longer an idea. It’s a requirement, even if doing so might also get me killed in the process.

  Thankfully, Alex doesn’t say much more as we navigate the bunker, a gridlock of metal silos that converge on a main staircase. It gives my heart time to stop doing that fluttery beating thing it does by the time we get to level seven—the highest level of the underground dormitory.

  Home to the armory, it’s jam-packed with racks of guns, bombs, and crossbows. We maneuver past them, only stopping once we get to monstrous iron doors where a girl about our age named Josie waits.

  Here we go.

  She passes me her M4 carbine before readjusting a square black cloth over her right eye. It’s bedazzled with little paper studs.

  “Like my new patch? I made it for the celebration. You know, the one you won’t be attending?”

  I sign the electronic tablet on the wall with my pointer finger.

  I’m not the boy who took her right eye ten years ago, but she often treats me as such, fore-fronting insults while I’m in the hallways and flaunting her injury when I’m around. It’s a pitiful waste of energy. I don’t need a reminder of what I might—will—do if I succumb to my curse, which is why as soon as she and, don’t get me started on her "Death to all Tainted" mentor Wolfgang, exit, I remind myself that leaving is for the best.

  Alex pulls out a deck of cards and a satchel of rice wine once he’s confirmed we’re alone, even though drinking, when we’re supposed to be protecting the two-hundred and forty-eight souls in our bunker, is a crime.

  I don’t give him shit for it, as I would usually. I down the sour drink, earning a wide-eyed grin.

  “Looks like Maxene can hold her liquor.”

  I get up and extend a hand, the thought of tonight being our last night together invigorating me with a confidence I’m usually lacking when it comes to expressing my feelings. “Dance with me.”

  Alex arches a brow. “Actually, I take that back. You can’t hold shit.”

  Maybe, but neither can he, because before I can rescind the offer, he’s interlaced his fingers with mine.

  At first, it’s all giggles, the two of us dancing to no music, just like we only ever did when we were kids and he’d try to cheer me up.

  I rest my head against his chest, looking up to glimpse the flush in his cheeks. I have always kept him at arm's length. The only time I haven't was when we were both seventeen and a moment of consolation turned into something more. Turned into...

  I ignore the giddy feeling that threatens to become a burning heat below my navel. I refuse to think of that moment as much as I have refused to speak of it.

  “Okay, you definitely can’t hold your liquor,” Alex goes on but his breaths are measured. Mine are too.

  I swallow hard. I’ve always wanted to hold him this close. . . closer, ever since that moment. And goddamn it, even though I know I shouldn't, I do, letting that unspoken heat between us drive my movements as he arches his head downward, his lips inches away from mine.

  But they don’t ever touch. No, I imagine if they did, I wouldn’t find the strength to do what needs to be done. What I can't take back. I pull the syringe from my pocket and jab it into Alex's neck.

  His eyes widen in pure confusion, as do mine by way of some reactionary wavelength.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, sinking to my knees with his weight so his head doesn’t touch the ground. And, with a stomach churning up all that blissful heat, I swat away tears. This isn’t how I planned to say goodbye. However, it’s the only way. After all, if Alex knew that I was defecting he wouldn’t try to stop me. No, he’d try to give me a head start and that in itself would earn him a punishment I can’t begin to fathom. So, taking him by surprise is the only way.

  Luckily, I don’t expect him to forgive me for it. How could I when I don’t even have plans to forgive myself?