The Test(6)

The man in the blue sweater wants to get back on the floor.

—No! No! No! Get your—I was gonna say fat again, sorry. Get your ass back up, Andrew Andrew Shaw. This is for your benefit, too. Where was I? Oh, yes. The police, the government, they also need motivation to do things, so . . . I provided some. I told them that I would kill one person every fifteen minutes if I they didn’t do what I asked them to do . . . Oh, and it’s been fifteen minutes. And they didn’t do what I asked them to do.

—Please don’t do that. Please—

That’s why he picked me. He wants to kill me in front of everyone! I don’t want to die. Not like this, not in front of my children.

—Samaritan! I’m not gonna kill you! Look at you, all shaky and shit! What kind of asshole would I be, helping you with that test, if I put a bullet in your head halfway through? No, I’m not gonna kill you. I’m gonna kill who you tell me to!

I don’t know what he’s saying. There has to be a way to stop this.

—You don’t need to kill anyone, sir. There’s no need for that. I can talk to them, tell them—

—Tell them what? That I’m going to kill someone? I already told them that. Are you someone important? Do you think you’re more important than me?

—No, sir. I’m not. I don’t.

—That’s what I thought. Now who’ll it be?

—Be what? I don’t understand.

—Who. Do. You. Want. Me. To. Kill? Do you have a hearing problem, Samaritan?

—I—No. I don’t want you to kill anyone.

—Sure you do! You wanted to make decisions for me—you didn’t think I forgot about that, did you?—well, now’s your chance. You can either pick Graham, the accountant—

—No, not me! Please, sir!

The redhead. He wants to kill the redhead.

—Shut the fuck up, Graham. Or Andrew Andrew Shaw and his designer shit. Your choice.

He wants to kill the redhead or the kid. I don’t know what he expects from me. I won’t do what he asks.

—I won’t do that. I won’t choose.

—Goddamn it, Samaritan! THERE ARE RULES! Tell me what the rules are.

—I . . .

—The rules! Oh, you haven’t heard the rules yet, have you? My fault! I apologize. It’s just—there’s a lot going through my mind right now. You know how it is. Anyway, here are the rules. Every fifteen minutes, I pick two people and you tell me which one to kill. I kill that person. Simple enough!

—I told you. I won’t do that. I’ll do everything you want, but not that.

—Oh, come on! I’m doing the hard part. I’m the one with the gun. We can switch if you want, but I tell you: I’d rather be in your shoes. You just pick someone. It’s a simple thing. Door number one, or door number two. That’s it! You just tell me who to kill, and I do it . . . OR . . . I forgot about that part. It’s kind of important. OR, I kill them both. . . . See! You’re saving someone, really. . . . Who’ll it be? Older guy with boring job, or fatty here with really bad taste in clothes. Is that fucking cashmere?

—I won’t choose.

—Why?

—I can’t. I can’t tell you to kill someone.

—What do you mean, you can’t? You can’t just now, or like ever?

—Yes.

—Yes, ever? Like on principle?

—Yes.

—That’s bullshit! Like, if someone’s holding a gun and he’ll kill two people unless I tell him to kill one of them I won’t do it? That’s not a principle. That’s just . . . some shit you came up with right now. Come on! Stop wasting my time.

—I’m sorry, sir. I—

—Now you’re just pissing me off. I’m going to make this easy on you, Samaritan. I’m going to count to three, then I’ll pull the trigger if I don’t have an answer. Did you get that? One, two, three, then they die.

—No, I—

—Here we go. One.

The hostages are looking at me, not him. I can’t look at them. They look at me like I’m really deciding which one of them will live. I’m not. I can’t help them. He’s in control, not me. He’s taunting me, messing with my head. He just wants to know if I’ll do it or not. I won’t. I’m not a killer. I won’t make that choice.

—TWO!

He won’t do it. He won’t. . . . Even if he does, even if he kills them both. That’s him, not me. I’m not responsible for this. It’s his choice. Not mine. He wants to kill people. I choose love. I choose life.

—Three. Did I say on three? Oh, fuck it.

Don’t d—

**TAK**

**TAK**

—NOOOOOO!!!!

The sound of bodies hitting the floor. I can’t look.





3.


DOZENS OF COMPUTER SCREENS light up the control room. In the back, behind a glass wall, four people are sitting at their stations, viewing 3D scans of Idir’s family and mapping their faces onto mesh bodies. In the centre, two people—a woman and a man—are sitting at a desk. Both are staring at a large screen showing Idir crawling on the floor, tying his shirt around the injured man’s leg. On a smaller screen to the left, Idir is lying in what looks like a hospital bed, immobile. There are electrodes on both his temples. His eyes are closed and his eyelids are twitching.