by Shade Owens
Goddamn animals. Hadn’t their parents taught them any better?
* * *
“Don’t you ever wonder?” Melody asked, removing her glasses and staring at me with such intensity that I became uncomfortable. “I mean, he’s still your dad, and he’s out there… Somewhere.”
“My mom doesn’t like to talk about it,” I said, hoping this might end the conversation.
But it didn’t.
“Just because someone doesn’t like to talk about something, doesn’t mean they shouldn’t.”
I wasn’t sure whether she was coming to me as a concerned friend or deflecting feelings of her own. I knew she wasn’t over her father’s passing even though it had been seven years since it happened. I still remembered the night she’d called me through broken sobs and told me to turn on the news, where headlines read, “Police Officer Shot and Killed by Masked Robber.”
The worst part was, they’d never found the guy. I couldn’t imagine what that felt like: knowing your father’s killer was still out in the world and living his life after he’d destroyed the lives of so many.
“Look, I’ve tried—” I started, but the store’s welcome bell jingled.
“Welcome to Saint Marianna’s Thrift Store,” Melody said, a huge smile on her face. “If you need help finding anything, just say the word.”
She turned back to face me, her smile quickly turning upside down. “You were saying?”
I shot a glance up at the young woman who’d just entered the store, then shook my head.
I didn’t understand why Melody was so intrigued by my biological father all of a sudden. She’d mentioned him before, but only briefly. She’d never actually interrogated me about how I felt regarding the abandonment.
I hated that she’d asked me because I went home that evening mulling over every possibility in my mind. Had he died? Did he hate me? I thought about this often, but hearing Melody mention his existence only added salt to the wound.
Of course I was curious. Of course I wanted to know why he’d left and whether or not he still thought about us.
Did he even know anything about me?
* * *
I woke up to the sound of happy birds chirping away in the overhead trees and the feeling of dry mud caked to the side of my face and in my hair. I brushed my fingers against my cheek, causing little pieces of it to break away and roll onto the ground.
My pearls, I thought suddenly.
I jumped into a seated position. The sun had come up, and the air was cool and dry. When I’d first arrived on Kormace, the air had always been so sticky—warm and muggy. A few strands of grass poked out of the dirt by my feet, but they were yellow and withered, almost to a crisp. How long was this drought going to last? Was our water supply at risk? Without water—without our waterfall—we wouldn’t survive. And the thought of relocating over a hundred women in a jungle inhabited by savages and carnivorous predators was inconceivable. And what about the animals? What about our food? It was already becoming scarce.
I shook these thoughts away, stood, and approached the famous tree under which I’d been giving away my earnings on a weekly basis. They just sat there, looking so beautiful in comparison to the mold-encrusted rocks resting alongside them. Why hadn’t my bullies picked them up? Why would these two women risk losing money by not collecting their taxes immediately after payment? I pictured Hammer’s thick squared-off face and her stupid buzz-cut hair, and all I wanted to do was punch her.
I should have known.
I suddenly became conscious of the bow fastened to my back, and I realized I wasn’t the new girl anymore; I was a Hunter. Maybe they’d realized I was more dangerous to them than they were to me. Or maybe they were smarter than I thought, and they avoided collecting their pearls the night of payment, knowing far too well that should I decide to retaliate, I would wait for them after payment drop-off.
I debated coming back every night until I caught the culprits red-handed, but the itch on my face and my stiffening neck muscles persuaded me to reconsider this idea. For all I knew, they’d only be back days from now. And how was I to know how many women were truly involved? What if there were more than just the two? What if I didn’t stand a chance at all, even with my arrows?
Fueled by my pride and a new sense of self-worth, I reached down, picked up the pearls, and gently placed them back into my pouch. I was taking a risk, but I didn’t care. There was one thought that stood above all else—I wasn’t Lydia anymore; I was Brone, and if I wanted others to remember that name, I’d have to prove myself as a fighter, not a victim.
I hurried along a row of trees, as far away from the Cliff’s edge as possible, and returned to the jungle’s unkempt path toward the Village. I caught a whiff of something rank as I moved forward, but it wasn’t long before I realized the smell wasn’t just following me, it was me. I’d have to bathe sooner or later.
What time was it, anyway? Had I missed breakfast? It was usually served at the crack of dawn, and I could tell by the sun’s position that at least two hours had passed since sunrise. I’d been so caught up in my own mind that I didn’t even see her until she came rushing around a massive tree trunk.
“Shit, sorry,” Holland muttered, dodging me just in time to avoid our noses from touching.
“Hey,” I said awkwardly. I assumed her breakfast wasn’t settling well by the way she rushed in direction of the Cliff. “You okay?”
“Y… Yeah,” she said, a forced smile on her thin lips. “Really just have to go, if you know what I mean.” She tugged at the corner tip of her shirt before swinging around and rushing through the trees, disappearing around the forest path’s bend.
What a goof, I thought. I didn’t trust that girl.
I continued down the path on high alert. I’d grown accustomed to being mindful of my surroundings at all times, no matter the time of day. I considered walking past the Village and going straight into the Grounds, but my stomach was growling so loud I decided it wouldn’t hurt to check in to see if there were any leftovers. I’d have eaten dirty eggshells if they were offered to me.
But as I approached the Village, something felt off. I listened to the sound of dried-up vegetation crackle underneath my feet as I moved forward, and I prayed to hear the sound of a voice—any voice—in the distance. But there was nothing.
Even when everyone was stationed at the Working Grounds during the day, there were always a few women roaming in the Village: the elders, the sick, the disabled, and the Guards. And that’s when I realized it—there were no Guards. The front entrance was completely open and unguarded. Murk had assigned both Guards and Night Watchers to keep a close eye on the Village walls at all times, yet there I stood, mere feet away from free passage into the Village.
I swallowed hard, the bottom of my throat sticking together. I’d never paid much attention to my gut, but ever since being dropped on Kormace Island, I’d come to realize through unfavorable events that my gut was the only thing I could trust. I cautiously reached for my bow and crouched as I ran toward the Village’s outer wall, placing an arrow against my bowstring and pulling back slightly. I moved in toward the entrance, my breath quickening with every step. Maybe I was just being paranoid. I hoped to God that’s all it was.
I crept along the few final feet of weed-entwined wall separating the Village from the jungle, my body hunched over in hunting mode. I pulled back harder on my arrow, preparing to fire, and quickly swung around the Village wall and into the opening.
And then I saw it.
Please be dreaming, I begged.
I dropped my bow in the grass by my feet and froze in place, gazing out into the Village at countless seemingly lifeless bodies that lay around the breakfast fire.
EPISODE 4
PROLOGUE
First, I heard the screams.
Then, I watched in horror as the woman lying next to me reached for her throat, gurgling mouthfuls of gooey black blood while trying to remove an arrow from her jugular. But it
was only a matter of seconds before her gray-brown eyes glossed over and her head fell against the ground, her hollow stare fixed on me.
Women of the Village woke from their poisoned state. They stayed in upright positions, rubbing their heads and red eyes in confusion as smoke rose around them.
“Brone?”
It was Fisher.
She tried to stand but lost her balance and fell on her hands and knees. It was painful to see the biggest badass I knew—the toughest of the Hunters—struggling to stand on her own two feet.
“What… What’s going—” she tried, but another arrow cut through the wind and stabbed the dirt inches from her feet before bursting into a ball of fire.
“We have to go,” I said.
“But Trim,” she said. “And… and the others.”
I glanced back at the entrance where I’d stood only minutes ago. At first, it had appeared as though there were only a few women responsible for the attack. But as they drew in, stepping out from the hefty gray smoke, I realized there were far more of them than we were prepared to fight.
The Northers.
They wore grimy, devilish masks on the bottom halves of their faces—assumedly masks with makeshift antismoke-inhalation mechanisms—and chalky white paint smeared across their foreheads and around their blackened eyes. Some wore feathered necklaces, and others, necklaces made of small pieces of bone. As they moved forward, prepared to massacre every woman in sight, they pumped weapons into the air: katana-looking blades made of either wood or bone, knives, spears, and solid sticks. I could hear them chanting something gruesome from behind their monstrous masks, but I couldn’t understand a word of it.
I’d never actually come face-to-face with a Norther, but I’d always been told they were meticulous in their attacks. They’d poisoned us using a pawn on the inside, then attacked us with fire during Kormace Island’s drought, knowing that our dry land was completely vulnerable.
My lungs ached as the smoke spread, and it was difficult to make out anyone more than five feet away.
“We don’t have time.” I scanned the area. Women scurried in every direction in an attempt to outrun our invaders, but it was useless. They’d sealed off the entrance, trapping us inside the walls like a bunch of animals on the verge of slaughter.
I didn’t want to abandon the Hunters—the women I’d come to know as friends—but searching for them in the midst of an attack would only put us in harm’s way. Something hot suddenly grazed the skin on my arm, and I looked back to find a firelit arrow pointed into the ground as it combusted and spread a hot blaze across the crispy grass and up the side of a tent’s wooden structure.
I could now only see the Northers’ silhouettes as they moved in, raising their weapons above their heads and swinging down against innocent women who were trying to crawl away from them. The sound of women screaming and pleading for their lives was gut-wrenching. My stomach knotted, and I swallowed hard to keep the vomit down.
How was this happening? All I wanted to do was fight and defend our people, but I was completely helpless. I’d dropped my bow at the entrance upon first witnessing the countless bodies that lay motionless across the land, and moments later, the Northers had begun their attack. For all I knew, my own bow had been picked up and was now being used to slaughter our people.
I thought of Ellie, my best friend on Kormace Island, and wondered if she was hurt. If there was one person I wanted to find, it was her. But I couldn’t.
I remembered the cabins at the back of the Village. There was a hole in the vine-braided wall behind them. Ellie had pointed it out to me when she gave me a tour of the area, only to then shake her head and tell me, “They were supposed to fix that a long time ago,” as if our Builders—the women responsible for construction in our society—were as unreliable as the low-budget contractors you’d hire when trying to save a buck or two.
“This way.” I grabbed Fisher by the arm.
Suddenly, warm blood splattered across my face and chest. A Norther was standing right in front of me, a swordlike weapon in one hand and in the other, a head choppily cut at the neck hanging by its tangled golden-brown hair. She must not have noticed me because she threw the head to the ground and swung her blade in the opposite direction at someone else. I pulled on Fisher’s arm even harder and ran toward the cabins. All I could do was pray that the others would make it out alive. In that moment, the only thing I could think about was survival. I had to get out.
I looked back one last time, blinking hard to moisten my irritated eyes, when I saw her. She walked through the smoke, splitting it right down the middle with her broad, fur-covered shoulders. Although she too wore a mask over her mouth and white paint across the upper half of her face, there was something different about her. She wore bulky, knee-high boots and what appeared to be some kind of cape hanging from the fur on her shoulders. It flapped behind her back as she walked, her chin raised high. Her cold black eyes scanned the massacred bodies around her as if evaluating her people’s performance. Blood was splattered across every inch of her visible skin, and she held two massive battle axes, which were completely stained in red. What struck me as odd was that she wasn’t using her weapons. Instead, she moved quickly, stepping over bodies and kicking away pleading hands, making it evident that she was on the hunt for someone specific.
I knew precisely who this woman was even though I’d never seen her before—Rainer, the leader of the Northers.
CHAPTER 1
I sat upright, feeling like I’d woken from a coma. Dozens of seagulls circled above me, dancing to the sound of waves crashing against the shore.
Where was I?
I rubbed my eyes, immediately regretting doing so as debris and sand particles scratched my heavy eyelids.
What happened?
I remembered the bodies, the fire, the screaming; the sensation that I was dreaming… as though I’d begun to float outside of my body; the sight of blood and not knowing who it belonged to. And I recalled thinking, This is it.
How did I get here?
I searched the open water, seeing nothing but a perfectly straight blue line across the horizon. The sky was brighter than I’d ever seen it, but all I felt was gloom. There was dull aching on the surface of my shins and thighs where my skin had turned a bright red. I wasn’t sure how long I’d been lying here, but it was long enough for the sun to cause some damage. I didn’t even want to imagine what my face looked like.
Behind me was a mess of greenery, and around me, fallen tree branches and rotting logs. I was on a shoreline, but I couldn’t figure out where. There was no beach—only a few meters of sanded area around me in the shape of a square.
I could still smell the smoke as if it had glued itself to the inside of my nostrils. My throat burned and my lungs felt like they’d been poisoned.
And then I remembered it: the entire Village had been attacked by the Northers.
“Get up.”
I rubbed my eyes and squinted at someone’s silhouette towering over me, the sun’s warm glow forming a yellow aura around their head. I knew that voice.
“I said get up, Brone.”
It was Fisher. Of course—we must have escaped together. Why couldn’t I remember the details? Had I blacked out?
“I let you sleep long enough. You saved me, I saved you. We’re even.”
I raised an open palm to shade my eyes from the scorching sun, hoping to catch a glimpse of her face. “You saved me?”
She scoffed. “You’re weak, Brone. You collapsed after climbing out of the hole in the wall.”
“I did?”
She ignored me and turned toward the jungle, whipping her long black ponytail over one shoulder and throwing her nose upward. Out of all my fellow Hunters I’d come to think of as friends, how had I ended up with Fisher? Sure, she was young, brave, and incredibly well skilled in battle, but she was also arrogant, detached, and frightfully impulsive. I’d come to see her as a pit bull—short, muscular, lean, and feared by
most due to poor reputation. I couldn’t determine her ethnicity—she had dark features and her skin was golden brown, but most women on the island had dark skin due to the strong sun that blazed on the Working Grounds—the area in which women spent the entirety of their days working hard to maintain our civilization by filtering water, crafting weapons, growing fresh fruits and vegetables, curing meat, sewing clothing, and training for battle.
“Who else got out?” I forced myself onto my feet, limping to catch up to her. I must have twisted my ankle while running away from the attack.
Again, she ignored me. She was so unpredictable. Only days ago, I’d watched her slit a woman’s throat for mentioning her dead girlfriend.
Had my friends survived? Our friends? I needed to know if they were alive…
Ellie: a young, vibrant beauty with wavy brown hair and chocolate-colored eyes with whom I spent hours every morning around the breakfast fire just talking. She reminded me of my best friend back home—Melody—only much less in-your-face and far more patient.
Biggie: a charismatic soul bigger than life to suit her body type—big, bold, and spacious. I missed her twisted sense of humor even when her pranks landed me mere inches away from a school of piranhas, and I missed the way she’d throw her head back when she belly-laughed, revealing a set of perfectly white teeth that almost glowed in contrast with her dark brown skin.
Flander: a sixty-something-year-old woman with silver hair and leathery skin whose age didn’t define her. She was tough, but she was fair. She always had an answer to my annoying questions when others shot me glares, and her undefinable yet charming country accent drew me in every time she spoke.
Rocket: a young, small-framed woman with forest-green eyes and caramel-colored dreadlocks, who exuded gallantry and prided herself on her speed. She could outrun anyone, hence her name, and always made a point to tell anyone she met that she was fast, like a rocket.
