by Shade Owens
I glanced at her spiked silver hair, and I wondered if it had once held color while on Kormace Island. If so, how much time had passed? She must have sensed my curiosity because she let out a faint laugh and cocked her head to one side.
“You know,” she said, “that’s usually the first thing every woman wants to know… How long I’ve been here. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
I smiled as if to say, ‘Try me.’
A narrow crease formed in between her eyebrows and her lips tightened. “There’s a lot that happened behind closed government doors that no one knows about…” She sighed. “I was a foster kid, way back when… I was in and out of foster homes. No one wanted me. I was too angry. By the time I hit sixteen, I managed to get myself involved with the wrong people.”
She extended both arms, her palms facing the ceiling of my tent, and said, “Black Blood Gang.”
There were two matching tattoos on both of her arms. At first, I thought they were infinity symbols, but on second glance, I noticed the two large letters—Bs, which I assumed represented Black Blood, tattooed in black ink and surrounded by dozens of small red birds.
“Just being a kid,” she said.
“What happened?” I was shocked at how easy it was to speak to her. For a moment, I forgot she was Chief.
She averted her gaze for a moment. It was evident she regretted what she’d done.
“Initiation,” she said. “I was asked to lead a robbery… Some shabby little gas station run by a family of Mexicans. It was supposed to be in and out.” She turned her head to the side as if reliving the moment. “There was a kid—maybe eleven or twelve—who came running out from the back when he heard his dad at the front cash. One of my boys got spooked and shot his gun. Killed him on sight. I just remember the mother… How she collapsed… I couldn’t move. I was being pulled at, told we had to leave, but I just couldn’t move. By the time I finally snapped out of it, I was alone, and the police were cuffing me.”
I stared at her unsure how to respond.
She sighed. “Funny, isn’t it? The way life happens? I wasn’t even the one who pulled the trigger, yet here I am… forty-two years later.”
* * *
“I’ll see you later, okay?” Ellie said. “Maybe at bath time.”
Bath time, I thought. I couldn’t recall the last time I’d bathed or showered (which, believe it or not, was considered a luxury given that you had to purchase handmade soap to shower). It was much easier to float in the waterfall’s pool and let the salt do the cleaning for me.
I’d been so busy trying to perfect my archery skills and attempting to kill prey in order to feed our people that I completely gave up on hygiene. What did it matter, anyways? Clean or dirty, I was still going to die.
I remembered Murk’s last words before she left my tent that one morning. “It’s never going to be rainbows and sunshine here on the island. It’s not easy, and I didn’t come here to lie to your face—to tell you that everything will be okay. I came here to tell you what you already know: your life on the outside is over, and the sooner you accept that, the sooner you can go on living as part of our society.”
She stood and slowly made her way toward the exit, then turned around. “I understand how you’re feeling, Brone, I really do. As a woman who’s been through what you’re experiencing right now, I’m deeply sorry. As your Chief, however, I’m giving you three days to pull yourself together. If you can’t contribute to this society, then your presence here is useless.”
And with that, she left. Although her words initially angered me, it wasn’t long before I realized Murk was just doing her job. She couldn’t have women lazing around, refusing to contribute to the Village’s sustenance.
If I couldn’t linger on the fact that I’d be spending the rest of my miserable life secluded from advanced civilization, I’d simply have to hold on to an abstract ideology that one day, I’d find my way back home.
CHAPTER 2
“Do you see it?”
I stood closer to the fast-moving river, leaning forward to see what Rocket was pointing at. The water had a green tint to it, most likely the result of its forest surrounding, and from the looks of it, it was quite deep. I wondered where it led. Across the river was a jagged stone wall, and above this, countless slanted trees and bright green bushes leading up a mountain.
I noticed a lot of fish moving along with the current of the water. Their bodies were rounder than those of other fish I’d seen before, and there was an orange hue cast from underneath their bellies.
“So Murk was right,” I said.
Since we’d been attacked on the western shoreline during a fishing trip, Murk had advised us to steer clear of this shoreline and to fish only from the jungle’s fresh waters.
Rocket laughed. “Sure was.”
I glanced back at the others, who had also joined in on the laughter.
“What’s so funny?” I asked.
Fisher smirked. “They’re piranhas.”
I carefully turned to catch another glimpse of the sharp-toothed fish, but something hard suddenly hit me in between the shoulder blades. I was propelled forward, mere inches from the water, before quickly being pulled back to safety.
Adrenaline burst through me. I swung backward in an attempt to knock my attacker, but what I found was not an attacker at all—it was Biggie, and she was laughing so hard she’d fallen over.
“Oh, man… Every time,” she said through broken laughter. “Girl… You shoulda—”
I stared at her as she slapped her belly and pointed at me. How did she think this was funny? Fueled by pent-up anger, I tore an arrow from my quiver and lunged forward with all I had, knocking her flat on her back. I knew she was twice my size, but I didn’t care.
“Fucking do that again,” I said, my knuckles whitening around my arrow as I pressed its sharp point into her neck.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I heard.
Several hands grabbed me, and I was pulled off of Biggie, whose eyes I thought might just pop out of her head.
“You good?” Fisher asked, holding an open palm out to me.
The moment I realized what I’d done, my muscles loosened and I dropped the arrow. My hands trembled at my sides, and my legs shook so hard I thought they might give out.
“I… I’m sorry.” I feared that Biggie might kill me.
But she didn’t. In fact, she burst out into a full-blown belly laugh.
I shot a glance at Trim, whose lips slowly curved upward, and at the others, who’d joined in on the buffoonery. How was this funny?
Biggie rolled sideways onto her hands and knees and stood up, dusting pieces of dry mud from her knees and back. She moved in toward me, and I flexed my ab muscles, certain she’d tear a hole right through me. But she didn’t swing or kick. Instead, she raised an open hand and waited for me to grab it.
I reluctantly reached forward, and the moment our hands met, she pulled me in hard against her chest and tapped me on the back, knocking the wind right out of me.
“You’re finally feral,” she said.
I stood there, dazed. Was I being celebrated for having finally snapped? I felt ashamed of what I’d done, yet I was being praised for it.
The others chimed in.
“Welcome home, Brone.”
“Way to go, girl.”
“You’re one of us now… a savage.”
“Good job, kid.”
Trim stepped forward, and I noticed the smile disappear from her face. She reached out and squeezed my shoulder. “We’ve all done it, and we’re proud of you for finally standing your ground, but I don’t want to see that happen again.”
I nodded quickly, my cheeks reddening, and the laughter subsided. I remembered Trim banishing that woman—Marlin—from the Village for having attacked a fellow Battlewoman.
I knew I’d been given a freebie, but I also knew I’d have to control my temper no matter how much rage or sorrow I kept tightly bottled up inside. Trim wouldn
’t tolerate a loose cannon in her crew.
“Over here,” Rocket said, pointing toward the flowing water. I followed her index finger to where a school of silver-backed fish swam just beneath the current.
“Come on, hurry,” Fisher waved a hand at Biggie, who dragged a large leather bag to the fishing spot.
From it, she pulled a mesh net of sorts—it looked like a giant spider web constructed of yellow grass blades or dry weeds.
Together, Fisher and Biggie cast the net into the water, allowing roughly a dozen fish to swim right into the trap, before pulling their catch out of the water and dropping it on the stone ground.
“I’ll do it,” Rocket said, moving in.
She reached into the net and pulled a fish out by its tail.
“May wanna turn around,” she told me and smashed the fish’s head hard against the ground. The sound of the impact made my stomach churn and I quickly turned away.
I wondered if I’d ever get used to seeing these women kill or tear animals apart. I knew that killing was our means of survival, but I couldn’t bring myself to watch—especially not during the gutting process.
After Rocket finished smashing every fish in the net, Trim ordered, “Again,” and the empty net was cast back into the water.
They did this several times until a large pile of lifeless, shiny-skinned fish formed by the water.
“All right, wrap them up,” Trim said.
Biggie reached down and began tossing the dead fish into the net they’d used to catch them with in the first place. “Don’t worry, Brone,” Biggie said, winking up at me, “No piranhas in here.”
I faked a smile, not finding any humor in her remark.
Once the fish were collected in the net, Trim filled her water bladder from the river, then said, “Let’s go.”
She led us away from the river and back toward the Village. I wasn’t sure how far we’d journeyed in search of fish, but it must have been far because I felt a dull ache in my legs and feet. I glanced down at my rotting sneakers. I’d have to part with them soon, I knew. I just wasn’t ready to wear leather slabs… or nothing at all.
“So what other animals live in this jungle?” I leaned in toward Rocket.
She smiled sideways at me. “Well, I’m sure there’s a lot more than what we’ve seen so far. Couldn’t name all of ’em…”
“Guys!” Trim glared back at us. “Stay close and be on guard. There could be Northers anywhere… Or Ogres.”
The last thing I wanted to think about was Ogres, but they were a threat, and as a Hunter, my job was to be on the lookout for potential threats. It still blew my mind that human beings could turn out so appallingly uncivilized, so cruel and inhuman. Did they even speak a word of English, these Ogres? Rocket had described them as the most barbaric of people you’d ever encounter—carnivorous women who lived like animals and behaved as monsters.
Then I thought about the Northers. Although more civilized than Ogres, they were, in a sense, worse. They were methodical in their attacks—eager to strike us down from every possible angle. Ogres, on the other hand, kept their distance from the Village and the Working Grounds. Sure, they’d slice you up into pieces and pile your remains by an altar, but only if you happened to set foot on their territory. They weren’t out to gain power or land like the Northers.
A soft whistle caught my attention. I glanced up to find Trim making some sort of military signal with her index and middle finger. She pointed at her eyes, which looked more like brown slits, then straight ahead. I followed her hand, still unable to make out what she was pointing at.
I slowly drew an arrow from its quiver and rested it against my bowstring. Had she spotted an animal? My eyes narrowed and I moved forward, careful not to step on any fallen branches. What was she looking at? I eyed Trim for guidance, but all she did was quickly swirl her finger in a circular motion, and everyone instantly separated, scurrying away in opposite directions. Was I supposed to move? Why hadn’t I been taught these hand gestures? I stood there, a loose grip on my bow and arrow, feeling like a complete moron. Everyone disappeared from view, and I moved to Trim’s side, not knowing where else to go.
“They’re sweeping,” she whispered.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
She pointed straight ahead toward a hollow at the base of a dramatically slanted tree. At first, I didn’t see anything other than darkness in the hole. But then I caught a glimpse of blonde hair, so I looked closer, realizing there was someone curled up in a fetal position, her face buried between her knees.
CHAPTER 3
It was obvious she was new on the island by her brand-name clothing—something I’d been advised against keeping when I was first caught by Trim and the gang.
“What’s your name?” Trim asked.
The girl grabbed her scraped knees and pulled them in closer. “Br… Breanne.”
She had scraggly shoulder-length hair that hadn’t been dyed in months. The tips of her hair were almost yellow, while the rest of her hair, including her roots, was dirty blonde. She had a quirky square-shaped nose that didn’t suit her features at all. Her skin was white as snow, and she had coffee-colored eyes, which matched the dirt smeared across her clothing and neck. It looked like she’d fallen face-first into a puddle of mud.
“How long have you been here?” Trim asked.
“I… I don’t know.”
“We haven’t heard a drop in days,” Rocket said.
Trim glanced at her, then back at Breanne. “How long?” she repeated, her voice hardening.
The young girl was shaking—the last thing she needed was to be interrogated by the bad cop, but I didn’t feel bad for her. Not because I didn’t care, but because in comparison to the initial greeting I’d received (being knocked on the head), this woman’s initial contact with the gang was a walk in the park.
“Days, weeks,” she said. “I’m not sure.”
“Have you eaten?” Trim asked.
Her sunken cheeks and pale blue lips were a clear indication she hadn’t consumed adequate amounts of food or water for quite some time.
“Come on,” Trim said. “We’ll get you fed and cleaned up.”
Fisher quickly grabbed Trim’s arm.
“You know we always hear the drops,” she whispered. “This could be a setup.”
“She needs our help,” Trim said.
Fisher didn’t question her. She reached down and helped Breanne to her feet.
I was surprised to see Trim dismiss a potential threat to save a complete stranger’s life. Trim—the leader of the Hunters—had been methodical and analytical from the moment she’d found me on shore. She’d never acted on emotion. Did she know this woman?
We led Breanne toward our Working Grounds, where women were busy with their daily chores: cooking, carving weapons, filtering water, drying leather, and hacking away at wood. Breanne received the same welcome as I did when I first set foot onto the Working Grounds—frowns formed above primitive eyes.
I felt sorry for her. I remembered how afraid I was and how I wanted nothing more than to vanish into thin air. I remembered feeling as though my state was merely a dream, as though I would awaken any moment, safe from the island’s barbarism and filth.
But I didn’t wake up. In fact, I spent most nights tossing and turning, wondering how my life had taken such an awful turn. How would I ever survive on this island? I’d contemplated this horrific thought over and over again, all the while visualizing my lifeless body being torn by hungry panthers, or worse…
“Brone, you’re dismissed.”
I glanced up. I realized that most of the Hunters had left our group, and only Trim and Fisher remained, leading Breanne to meet with Murk inside the waterfall. She was to be assessed for a position among our people—a job. I only prayed that for her sake she wouldn’t be assigned the task of Battlewoman. No one deserved that. But Murk had made it clear that the Northers posed too great a risk for our people not to be prepared for battle, w
hich meant there were plenty of openings.
I remembered her speech following the attack on our Village and how she’d said, “We need more Battlewomen to protect our people—to fight for what’s ours and to defend what we’ve worked so hard for,” before initializing another Assessment to recruit more Battlewomen.
Voices grew louder around me, and I watched as several women left their posts to gather closer to the waterfall’s edge.
“I bet you two pearls Murk’s gonna give’r Battlewoman,” someone said beside me.
It was a tall lanky woman with shoulders curved forward in such an exaggerated fashion, I was reminded of the Hunchback of Notre Dame. She looked down at me when she caught me staring and said, “Whad’ya think?”
I’d been about to say, “I have no idea,” even though I knew Murk’s intention was to increase the size of her army, but a young Latina woman beside me stepped in. “Yo, count me in on that bet,” she said. “Double or nothin’. I say she’s givin’ her Archer.”
She threw her thick black hair over her shoulder and rubbed both hands together.
“That’s the same damn thing, you twit,” came a familiar voice.
It was Hammer—the woman who ran the Tools tent. She still had the same big belly as she did when I first met her.
The Latina woman pursed her lips and moved in on Hammer, her hips swaying from side to side. “How da hell is Archer and Battlewoman the same thing? You need me to build you a dictionary? They’re two different fuckin’ words.”
I took a step back not wanting to get caught in the crossfire. To my surprise, Hammer threw her head back and laughed. “Relax, taco. What I’m sayin’ is, they’re all related. An Archer is technically a Battlewoman with a specialty. That’s like saying Murk’ll assign her Archer instead of Hunter. They’re all connected, and it’s confusing to try to differentiate the three terms.”
“Whatevs,” said the young Latina woman.
The tall one was curiously eyeing Hammer and the Latina woman. She then made eye contact with me, smirked, and said, “Women.”
