The Culling Read Online Free PDF

touch. “Wait … please—”
    It’s no use. One of the Imps rips the poster from my pocket, unrolls it, and displays it to the commander.
    His eyes look like silver gashes on his face. “Looks like we have us a traitor scum here,” he hisses to his comrades.
    “Please, it’s not mine. I found it—”
    He presses the gun harder against my head. “Shut up. I say we don’t wait for the Prefect and carry out your sentence now.”
    Then there’s a searing pain in my forehead, and—
    Black .

Six
    I’m sprawled on a floor of sodden earth. It’s barely bigger than a box. The air’s heavy with dust and death, as if I’m breathing through a thin layer of rotting skin. There are no windows, no chair, no bed. Nothing. In the center of the floor, there’s a small dark hole that reeks of human waste. There’s only one way in or out—a rusty door that looks like it hasn’t been used in years. From beneath it, a dim light squeezes through, my only source of illumination. At the bottom of the door is a slat, the kind that’s supposed to slide open to slip the prisoners food.
    My body’s aching all over. I’ve been stripped to just my underwear. Aside from some cuts and bruises, I seem to be fine, except for the throbbing in my forehead. I touch my head, wincing at the jolt of pain. Apparently the only thing that connected with my head was the butt of that Imp’s weapon.
    Pulling myself to my feet despite the jabs of betrayal from my cramped legs, I stagger the two feet to the door, my palms slapping against the cold iron.
    “Open up! I need to see the Prefect!”
    My voice sounds like a stranger’s, dry and hoarse. I rub my throat, willing the fear back into its nest.
    When I get no response, terror drills into my pores and taps into a geyser of adrenaline that fuels my pounding fists against the door.
    I’ve heard rumors over the years about how Imposers treat prisoners.
    The skin on my hands is on fire. I can feel it growing raw, slick with blood.
    A loud whine pierces my ear. The sound of a rusty bolt straining through its housing.
    My hands drop to my sides. My breathing is heavy, competing with the sound of my heart pulsating in my ears. As the bolt completes its labored journey and the door gives an inch, I can’t help but take a step back and brace myself.
    The door pushes inward, unsettling dust and plaster. My eyes squint against the orange light now streaming into the cell. Probably just flickering gaslight lighting the prison corridor, but still bright to my light-deprived eyes. Then the light is eclipsed by a huge form in the doorway, which snuffs out the small flicker of hope before it can start to burn.
    “Finally awake, huh?” This Imposer is the biggest I’ve seen yet—tall, broad-shouldered, legs like tree trunks. The name Styles is stenciled on the breast pocket of his uniform. Perhaps more unsettling than the rumble of his voice is the way his eyes slither over me, a mixture of contempt, hatred, and something else … something which makes me want to soak for hours, rubbing my flesh raw until it’s clean again.
    I clear my throat. “I need to see the Prefect.”
    The brute lets out a long laugh that almost sounds pleasant, except for the fact that I know he’s mocking me.
    Another shape appears at the door, shorter but just as hulking. His ID reads Renquist .
    He leers at his companion. “What’s going on here?”
    Styles hikes a stubby thumb toward me. “Not too much. Pretty boy here is demanding to see the Prefect.” He chuckles.
    Renquist turns to me and snorts. “Is’e now? Would’ja like some tea an’ biscuits first?”
    This elicits another hoot and holler from Styles. His eyes flit to the hallway outside the cell, then to me, then back to his companion. “But first, don’t’cha think we ought’a get him cleaned up real good?” I can’t miss the unmistakable wink he gives his cohort.
    Renquist squeezes into the room. With these two massive brutes in here, there’s