Through The Valley by Yates, B.D. (the best motivational books TXT) 📗

"We have to draw for the next Provider, and with Muddy gone, your odds of survival, unfortunately, aren't great."

  He noticed Emmit's wide-eyed stare and offered him a pained smile.

  "Yes, Papa, you've been left out of the loop. That's by design, not dishonesty. You've noticed that there are no animals in this place, I’m sure?"

  Emmit pretended to consider it, then performed his best "I hadn't thought about it" shrug.

  "It's nothing new.  I promise you that.  The Donner Party, that rugby team that survived the plane crash in the Andes mountains, lots of other stories. In times of extreme need, you must do extreme things to survive."

  He extended his hand, offering the cup to Emmit. He was careful to keep his fingers wrapped around the little wooden slivers inside, to make sure Emmit couldn't inspect them before he drew one.

  "I decided a long time ago that it's only fair to let fate decide. This is why we don't use our real names; we don't get to know each other. We don't become family. We function as a team and every man and woman who comes here is equal, and an equally important part of that team. No one gets targeted simply because we don't like them, except for the undesirables I mentioned when you passed your initiation."

   Emmit lifted his hand to draw his wooden stick, then faltered. Roy pushed the cup up against his fingers.

  "Providers are heroes, really. Sacrificing themselves so that others might live. In fact," he said, turning to address the rest of the watching room, "In the new camp we'll build a shrine to honor each and every Provider, past and present."

  He was waiting patiently. Emmit held his breath, closed his eyes, and selected the first piece of wood his fingers touched.

  He opened his eyes and looked at the object that held his fate in limbo; it was just a twig. A stupid, simple worthless twig. He held it between his fingers; it was about the length of a pencil. That was long, right? Surely the short stick was much shorter than this.

  Or was it?

  If he spread his pointer finger and thumb apart, he could comfortably hold it between the two. Maybe it wasn't as long as a pencil. Maybe none of them were really all that short. Maybe they had been cut to be remarkably similar, almost indistinguishable, to discourage cheating?

  Emmit was left to stare at his twig, paralyzed with helplessness, as Roy turned to Pup.

  "Your turn," he said gently. Pup's hand lashed out like a striking snake, snatching his twig and stuffing it under his arm. It looked like he was trying to rescue some small treasure from the hot embrace of a fire. He didn't look at his.

  The Rev had been praying with his fastened hands resting on his knees. He untangled his fingers long enough to draw from the cup, looking up at Roy defiantly. He held his stick between the palms of his hands and lifted them to his face, resting his thumbs just under the tip of his nose.  Emmit was not the praying sort, not even in the face of death, but he leaned his ear slightly to listen.

  "I pray to you, God almighty, my light and my savior. I walk through the valley of the shadow of death. I fear no evil, for you walk with me. Your rod and your staff, they comfort me..."

  Emmit listened to his soft voice reciting the prayer, but he felt no comfort from it like he’d hoped he might. God, if he were anywhere, was not in this room while they decided which of them would be murdered and eaten.  He was asleep on some golden throne, blissfully unaware of the violence and destruction his creations were inflicting upon one another.  On the other hand, perhaps he was leaning forward eagerly with a bowl of heavenly popcorn, watching the drama play out like a TV addict binge watching a vicious reality show.

  Roy was extending the cup to Poke now.  The nasty little man's eyes, bloodshot and resting on purple bags under the lids, were locked on Roy's icy ones. Poke smirked as he drew his, his expression sly and secretive—

  Wait just a minute.

  It had happened so fast that Emmit wasn't even sure he had seen it, but it had looked...

  No.  They can't be that blatantly cruel.

  It had looked like Roy had deceptively separated one stick out from the others, with the tiniest flick of his pinky finger, and that had been the one Poke had chosen. The scrawny, badly tattooed scumbag certainly looked more confident than the rest of them as he palmed his twig, trying, and failing, to look nervous.

  "Hate this part," he said, for good measure.  There was no faking the mortal terror a person felt when they knew they could be seconds from a dirt nap.  Poke simply wasn’t afraid, because he knew it would not be him.

  "Everyone, one by one, bring me your sticks," Roy said. "Please do it calmly."

  I can't let this happen.  It's just not fair.  I can't let them lie to us, a lie that will get one of us killed.  It's not fucking fair.  After everything we've gone through, everything they've put me through, I cannot sit here on my hands and let this go.  I cannot let them kill me.  What if it's that kid?  What if it's Tim? What if it's me?  No.  Not fair.  Not fair, at all, no way, no how, not going to happen.  Not fair.  Not fair.  Not FAIR.

  "Not fair," Emmit rasped, his lip curling.  The rage was taking hold now, the delicious toxic substance spreading through him like a steroid, a nourishing venom.

  "Fuck me," Poke sighed, tossing his free hand in the