by Lydia Hope
Gemma smiled at him with confidence. “I’m stronger than I look.”
She shifted her weight from her left foot to the right, and her bad ankle responded with a pang so sharp she almost winced.
The gate opened, and the guy in the mushroom hat shuffled out. He gave the line of people a critical appraisal and, after consulting his notes, began yelling out tasks that needed help today. The line came alive, people stomped their feet and shuffled. Some shouted questions to the mushroom man wanting to know the particulars. Gemma didn’t understand much of the dock lingo, but at every opportunity, she dutifully raised her hand indicating availability and desire to be recruited. To do anything.
But either her smaller stature worked against her, or the fact that she was a female didn’t sit well with the mushroom recruiter, but he consistently ignored her.
The guy in front of Gemma had long been called, and she was still standing there past lunchtime, in the cold, hungry and desperate in her too-tight coat and damp knit hat that kept sliding down to her eyes. It didn’t matter how straight she held her back to appear taller, how covertly she kept her weight off the right ankle, for God forbid her limp showed, or how eagerly she responded to the offers she knew nothing about. None of that mattered. She wasn’t wanted.
She stayed until the day began to wane, hoping that her persistence would pay off. When the recruiter left and the gate closed after him, the line dispersed as the City quietly absorbed its hapless residents who disappeared without saying a word to each other. Gemma left, too, going by the market before heading to her grotto.
Another disappointment awaited her - she was too late, and market stalls had already closed for the night. Swallowing her hunger, she went to the grotto and squeezed in. Her eyes felt gritty and dry. Her coat was still damp, as were her other bundled up belongings, but she made a nest out of them anyway for it was better than lying on bare brick.
She managed to fall into a fitful sleep listening to the sweepers’ motors grinding in the distance. Once, one passed right down the street waking her up. She pressed her back deeper into the crevice out of fear of being detected. Her teeth chattered from the cold and nervousness.
And then she heard footsteps and whispering. Close.
Her eyes and ears open wide, she froze, barely breathing.
She heard more furtive steps and sounds of something being dragged on the ground. More shuffling, and then the banging clung of metal against stone.
Someone kicked her tin can!
“Damn it, why don’t you ring a church bell!” she heard an angry whisper.
“Sorry, I didn’t see it!”
“Watch where the fuck you’re going.”
“Watch what? It’s pitch black.”
“What was it?”
“I don’t know! A can.”
Gemma heard the men - she was positive the whisperers were men - stop and listen. One had heavy labored breathing.
“Where did it come from? Is anyone here?” The whispered questions held a thin thread of fear.
“No one’s here. But keep thrashing around, and there will be,” the one with the labored breathing wheezed angrily. “Come on, check his pockets, and we’re out of here.”
Again, there was shuffling and rustling of clothes.
“I like the shirt.”
“Well, take it, but be quick. That sweeper’s about to come back.”
Sounds of something being handled reached Gemma’s oversensitive, focused ears. Then she heard quiet hurried steps, and her night visitors were gone. The unmistakable whine-and-clunk of an approaching sweeper came from afar.
Gemma wasn’t able to close her eyes for the rest of the night.
She stumbled out of the grotto when the darkness thinned out enough to be able to move about. Dropping her eyes to the rocky ground, she searched for her tin can. Curse them, whoever they were. That tin can was the only container she could use for water.
There it was, badly dented now on one side, lying next to a… body. Gemma whimpered as she stumbled backwards, unaware of doing so until her rump hit the wall. Her mouth dry, she worked to get a grip of her fright while looking at the shirtless dead Perali alien laying in front of her.
Stepping carefully around him, she snatched her precious can and cradled it in her hands, examining the body.
The alien’s head had been smashed mightily with something heavy, creating a small cave on one side of his skull and forcing his ear to fall in. Blood liberally smeared his face and shoulder on the injured side. One eye was closed, but the other one was not, and it stared, glassy and unseeing, at Gemma.
She shuddered.
She couldn’t leave him here, could she? He wouldn't be found for days. Her grotto’s location out of direct access from the street was its main attraction, but in this case, it presented Gemma with a problem. She imagined coming here every night and stepping over him. Sleeping in her cave with the decomposing body keeping her company.
Amazed at how complicated her life had become in mere days, she bundled up her possessions like she did every morning and stuffed the bundle into the grotto. She had to stop and take several deep breaths to gather her courage and her strength.
Then, taking hold of the Perali’s legs, she started pulling him toward the street like a horse pulling a sleigh. He was heavy as hell and his head made sickening sounds as it bumped against the rocks on the ground.
Reaching the corner, Gemma carefully peeked around to make sure no one was around. It was still relatively dark, and the street was deserted.
She dragged the body into the street and left it there to be found, fading away as fast as she could. She felt small and cowardly for not seeking justice for the poor killed and robbed Perali, yet very protective of her grotto. Like a small wild animal, she was anxious to protect her territory. Even from the dead.
Weak from the lack of sleep and hunger and winded from her morning activities, Gemma took her place in line at the docks. As before, the man in the mushroom hat came out and read aloud open assignments. People responded. Gemma responded too, to all, though today it was hard to pretend to be eager. She squared her shoulders as she raised her hand and tried to make eye contact with the recruiter whenever he passed near her. She stubbornly stayed almost to the end.
Eventually, she had to admit defeat and leave for the market before it closed. She bought a slice of hard bread, a small chunk of cheese, and a pint of goat milk. She gulped the milk down first careful not to let a single drop escape.
Food wasn’t a luxury. She had to have the stamina to work when selected.
The dead Perali disappeared by the time she came to the grotto, no doubt picked up by the militants to be buried in a no-name alien grave behind the City’s sewers. Here today, gone tomorrow. Like he never existed. Gemma wondered if he had a family. Would anyone on this earth notice that he never came home? She knew nothing about Perali home life. Perhaps they were solitary, lonely creatures without attachment, roaming this world all on their own. Gemma felt like that about herself.
That night, the dreams came. Of the prison with its smells and sounds, the regulated routines and squeaky buckets. Of aliens. Of Simon.
She woke up in her cold, dark cave in tears. She wouldn’t allow her mind to turn to Simon during the day and kept the debilitating memories under the lock and key. And there were other things to occupy her thoughts, her entire life to worry about. But seeing the dead Perali had provoked the dreams.
She dreamed of Simon’s huge black eyes, shiny like the blackest onyx. His mass of hair she so lovingly braided and a smooth, graceful way in which he moved, his limbs almost lazy in their rising and falling, in performing mundane tasks, in killing…
I won’t leave Earth without you, he’d said.
He’d meant it at that moment, she was sure, just like Zeke had meant to send for her from Meeus. But distance dulled feelings, righted bias, and put things into perspective. Simon and she were too different. They weren’t meant to be…
Gemma spent the next two weeks going to the docks and standing in line, moving not an inch closer to being employed. She watched people getting picked and couldn't help but notice that the lucky hires were almost exclusively men, strong-looking but not rough, unlikely to turn into troublemakers. The mushroom man had an eye for selecting quality goods, she had to give him that.
There were women in the line, of varying ages and sizes, but like Gemma, they usually waited in vain. She had seen a few receive assignments, but they were an exception to the rule.
Only once the mushroom man looked down his nose at Gemma and asked if she could drive a monorail trolley.
“Not that particular trolley, but I am an exceptionally quick learner. Very mechanically inclined.” She produced a bright smile, but it was lost on the man; he’d already moved on.
She continued to buy her food at the market where the lady at the dairy stall now recognized her. They smiled at each other and engaged in small talk.
Gemma’s money was dwindling at an alarming rate. She finally had to resort to eating only every other day. She didn’t mind. Besides the savings she’d realize, her need to go to the bathroom would also diminish, and that alone was hugely appealing. The grotto boasted no amenities, and even after so many days of practicing it, baring her buttocks to the wind while crouching behind buildings was torture to Gemma’s senses. Yes, she was ill-prepared for her new circumstances. Blame it on her parents.
She wondered what mom and dad would have thought had they seen her as she was today. She knew they would have been sorry for her and heartbroken. But would they also be disappointed at her inability to adapt? What would Foy have said? Sudden tears filled her eyes. Every time she thought of Foy she wanted to weep, and he’d been dead long before her world had crumbled. She’d come to terms with her parents’ deaths, but not with Foy’s. Her beautiful, capable brother. He would have known what to do now. Unlike her, Foy had been a fighter. He had been resourceful. He had been their future.
A sick feeling crept up on Gemma with the thought that if one of them had been destined to die, it should have been she, not Foy.
Gemma angrily wiped away her tears. She wouldn’t let Foy down. He’d sacrificed his life in battle against aliens so that people like Gemma could go on living. And so she would. She must.
It was raining again today, a slow cold drizzle, monotonous and morose. After standing by the docks all day, Gemma’s clothes were thoroughly wet, and by the time she left the market, she started shivering. Nibbling on her customary bread and cheese, she slowly made her way back to her grotto, thinking about everything and nothing in particular. She hadn’t noticed them approach.
Suddenly, someone grabbed her by the arms and brutally spun around. Another set of hands caught her and wrestled her arms behind. Her bread and cheese fell on the ground.
“What the hell? Let me go!” she screamed.
The man holding her laughed, a mean, evil sound. “Just wait a bloody minute.”
When the other attacker appeared in front of her, she saw a dark coat sleek with rain and a hat pulled low. His hands, when they reached for her, were gloved up.
“No, don’t touch me!” Gemma thrashed and tried to kick him in the stomach.
He caught her foot and gave it a good yank. Her bad foot. She whimpered and sagged, supported by the strong hold of whoever was at her back.
Gloved hands fumbled with the buttons of the coat at her chest. She wiggled, but the man holding her from behind twisted her arms tighter, stretching her tendons to the breaking point, making her cry out.
“Stand still. Nice titties, but maybe next time.” A fat mouth leered close showing a missing tooth. He palmed her breast and squeezed once before letting his hands roam. He was checking her pockets.
Gemma went insane, bucking like a stung bronco. “Get your hands off me! Let me… ”
The man groping her gave a soft exclamation of success and pulled the money out of her pocket. She was shoved down roughly, and they took off, leaving her on the wet dirty ground with a hole in her knee where her pants caught on the rocks.
She flopped to her back and stared at the leaden evening sky, feeling the misty rain on her face. She thought of the Perali whose body had ended up near her grotto the other night. They had both been robbed, except he had also been killed. Was it insensitive of her to envy him? His suffering, at least, was over.
Gemma didn’t know how long she lay there, wet, hurt, and numb. Finally, she got up cursing the pain in her arms and a consistent throb in her newly injured ankle. She picked up the dropped cheese from the ground and made a weak effort to wipe the dirt off before stuffing the whole piece in her mouth. The bread, flattened into a mushy patty by her attackers’ boots, could not be saved.
Another week passed and brought about no change in Gemma’s luck. Or was it a month? She could no longer be sure. Days blended into one long string of hunger pangs and despair. She kept going ‘round town looking for employment, but the action had become more of a useless habit on her part than a proactive search with goals. Potential employers gave her appearance one look and shook their heads, taking in her sunken cheeks and dirty clothes. She didn’t need a mirror to know she looked like a starving homeless woman she was. She smelled.
Sometime recently - two days ago? three? - she had woken up in the morning and had given in to the heavy lethargy permeating her body and spirit. She wouldn’t find any work. She wouldn’t be able to work in her present condition. Even lifting her hands had become an effort.
The cold front had moved in and the temperature outside dropped. The chill shrouded the City like a stiff prickly blanket. All the slush on the streets turned to solid ice, and the air was crisp and thin, glacial. Gemma stayed holed up in her little cavern huddled under all the clothes she possessed, venturing out only to pick up small chips of ice to suck on.
She slept most of the time. There were no dreams. In her short periods of wakefulness, a feeble will to live forced her mind to run through possibilities. Could she return to the McKinleys? They wouldn't accept her. She knew with absolute certainty that had she gone to them for help, they would turn her down and feel she deserved her fate.
And the prison? If she approached OO, would he take her back in exchange for you-know-what? Gemma laughed silently. Not looking like this, he wouldn’t come near. The last few weeks had cost her all the residual attractiveness she might have possessed. The greasy hair and the musty smell of her unwashed body were far from what OO was looking for. And deep down, Gemma knew she wouldn’t be able to go through fucking him. She didn’t have it in her to whore herself out for food.
She took a shuddering breath that filled her lungs with piercing cold air and drifted off.
It was cold. So cold that the very blood seemed congealed in her veins. Thick, it flowed slowly, and her heart had difficulties pushing it through her body. Every beat felt forced. Lub-dub. Lub-dub. A pause. Gemma mulled it over. The pauses weren’t good.
Ice crystals formed on the hair that escaped her hat. She could see the whitened tendrils that lay along her cheeks out of the corner of her eye. Pretty. She wiggled her toes to get some feeling back in them. Her head pounded, had been for days. Her stomach felt light and dry on the inside, but she no longer suffered from hunger, a relief after weeks of battling it.
The grotto’s walls pressed on Gemma, cold, hard, and unwelcoming, as far from being a home as could possibly be. Even the prison seemed more inviting. Suddenly, she felt suffocated by her cave. Crypt. It was going to become her crypt.
She stirred, fighting the layers of the musty rags under which she’d been nesting. Sticking her feet out, she slid off the ledge and stood up. Her head spun sickeningly, and her legs threatened to buckle. Fighting the weakness, Gemma grasped the roughness of the old brick wall and forced her body to obey, to move. She started walking.
She wandered the streets without direction. Shapes of the buildings looked hazy. She bumped into fellow pedestrians. Coming across a l
arge group of migrants clustered around the fire, she stopped in indecision. They blocked her path. Should she go around them? The fire threw off a delicious warmth; it drew Gemma like a magnet and held her in place. She stood there until a voice called out, “Hey, come over and sit down! You look tired.”
Gemma turned to the voice but couldn't discern who invited her.
“Excuse me,” Gemma stepped on someone’s limbs in her stagger to get to the fire.
People rippled and shifted making room for her. A woman smiled, and Gemma wanted to cry from gratitude. She gingerly lowered to the ground and made herself comfortable. The orange glow danced in front of her eyes, and the fire’s heat reached out to Gemma in caressing licks of warmth. To be warm, she’d almost forgotten what it felt like. Soothed by the unusual sensations of coziness and comfort, Gemma let her eyes close and her mind drift…
The familiar cold woke her up.
At first, Gemma didn’t know where she was and couldn’t remember how she got there. Everything looked different. The fire was no longer burning, and the coals afforded no more protection from the chill. The dense crowd of migrants had dispersed with only a few people still lingering, huddled together. The day had gone by, and the early winter dusk was gathering force.
A man was sitting across from Gemma, and his eyes were glued to her over the dying embers. Sharp, watchful eyes, like the City’s harsh winter, they made Gemma uneasy. She staggered to her feet, her body weightless and all but numb from the lack of nourishment. Sweepers would be out soon, and she needed to go hide.
Did it matter? She huffed a small puff of air. Nothing mattered. She was going through the motions.
The man stood up with her.
Gemma slowly went in the direction of her uninviting brick abode. The steps echoed loudly against the frozen ground, and she was almost at her grotto when she realized they weren’t her steps. She stopped and turned. The man with the watchful eyes stopped with her.
“Why are you following me?”
Upon closer inspection, he looked all wrong, sickly, as if rotting. His pallid face was peppered with open sores oozing pus.
