by Shade Owens
“You heard the stories… Don’t act like you have all the answers.”
“Shut up!” Zsasz snapped, slicing her knife through the air.
The women all lunged backward at the same time, avoiding Zsasz’s blade by mere inches.
“Make way,” Zsasz ordered, and the crowd split apart, their heads bowed and their eyes aimed at the ground.
One old woman stepped out of the crowd, a water bladder in her trembling hands. She rushed to the back of the line, where Hammer swayed from side to side and pressed the bottle against Hammer’s lips.
But I didn’t have the time to appreciate her kind gesture because all of a sudden, an arrow pierced right through her tiny thigh. She let out a scream so loud that I flinched.
Rebel, who was holding her bow in one hand, grabbed the woman’s water bladder and threw it into the crowd, water speckling onto a few faces. She grabbed the old woman by her throat with her free hand, and as hard as she could, threw her into the crowd. The woman fell back into the arms of the crowd, her eyes sealed shut in agony and her veiny hands clasped around the arrow in her thigh.
“When Zsasz says make way, you fuckin’ move!” Rebel growled. Her menacing eyes shot at everyone around us, who were now all bent forward even more than before, their heads nearly at the height of our waists. “Next person to step out of line gets an arrow in the eye!”
No one spoke—they stood like statues, avoiding eye contact with us at all costs.
There was a tug on our rope, and we were led through the narrow path of women and alongside the market. I crunched my way through dead branches, pieces of bone, and decaying vegetation. How did these women live here? The conditions were abysmal. It looked like they’d torn down a bunch of trees several years ago and had never bothered to clean up after themselves.
I hopped and nearly tripped when I saw my foot coming down on a dead bird’s carcass. Unfortunately, Coin hadn’t been so lucky. I heard the crunch before she let out a disgusted grunt.
My eyes darted over the crowd and toward the market-like living space to get a closer look. There were mesh nettings hanging from tree to tree; huts positioned so close together it was a wonder how anyone got around them; cotton blankets and leafy vines hanging in between the huts; cages filled with turkeys flapping their wings against one another; women carrying jugs of water at each end of long sticks over their shoulders; baskets filled with fly-infested fruit; and women yelling over one another to market their products.
The clothing these women wore wasn’t what I’d have expected a Norther to wear. They weren’t dressed in battle gear as our attackers had been, nor did they carry any weapons. They wore scraps for clothing—pieces of rags and leather held together by string and slim sheets of cotton wrapped around their breasts and groins.
They looked like slaves.
I stared at their grimy foreheads and filthy faces as their eyes remained locked on the soil at our feet.
Is that what they were? Slaves?
“Back off!” Zsasz yelled again as we moved to the outer edge of the city, and the women scattered like vermin, revealing a cage-like contraption big enough to fit dozens of women—a prison cell.
It was difficult to see through it because the walls were built of a braided bamboo, giving off a fence-like texture with tiny diamond-shaped holes. Shapes and colors moved inside, but I had no idea who was trapped behind there. Zsasz reached for the latch at the front—something made of solid wood that was inaccessible from the inside—and opened it up.
Not even bothering to untie the ropes behind our backs, she grabbed Johnson by the base of her neck and threw her inside, propelling the rest of us forward.
I landed on my knees in what felt like dirt, my face against Johnson’s back, then fell to my side when Coin tripped over me. Zsasz stood at the entrance, her rough shape outlined by the gloomy gray sky behind her, before slamming the door shut and darkening the prison cell almost entirely.
I slowly crept back up to my knees, my eyes rolling up to meet our prison mates.
CHAPTER 4
Was I hallucinating?
She was sitting in the dirt, her rag-like chestnut hair masking one eye and her thin stick arm cleaning a young woman’s leg wound.
“Is that…?” Coin mumbled.
“Tegan,” I said, matter-of-factly, even though on the inside, I wanted to scream.
She wasn’t dead. The one person left who held enough knowledge to help Fisher wasn’t dead. She’d know exactly what herb or plant was needed to save Fisher.
“Tegan?” I asked.
She didn’t respond. She kept rubbing a leaf over the woman’s leg, her hair swaying back and forth over half of her face.
“Don’t bother,” the wounded woman said, her face contorted in pain. “She’s broken.”
“Broken?” I asked.
As my eyes began to adjust, I noticed the markings on her arms, her shoulders, and her neck. She had cuts that had recently scabbed over and bruises so dark it looked like she’d been in a paintball fight.
“What happened?” I asked, awkwardly trying to get back on my feet.
Someone grabbed my wrists, and the sound of sharp material against rope scraped behind me. My hands came loose, and I brought my wrists up in front of me, rubbing the hot inflammation. The woman behind us—a short, tiny thing who could have easily been mistaken for a teenage Mexican boy—went on to remove everyone else’s ropes.
“They beat her,” the short woman said from behind. I knew her face, but I couldn’t pinpoint who she was. I must have seen her in the Working Grounds or in the Village at one point.
“And tortured her,” said the wounded woman.
Tegan didn’t budge. It was like she was deaf.
“Why?” I breathed.
The short woman came around us after having untied the entire crew. She placed two hands on her shapeless hips. “They call her the Witch. Said somethin’ about her knowing magic. They forced her to help a few Northers with their wounds after the attack, but she said no. So, they beat her over and over and over until she turned into this… Poor chica.”
“But she’s not a Medic,” I said. “She’s not Navi. How could they have expected her to heal them?”
“Doesn’t matter,” said the wounded woman, her eyes sealed shut. “She’s the best they have right now. Apparently, their Medic died a few weeks ago. Something about the flu.”
Franklin scoffed. “How ironic.”
It looked like she was back to her old self.
“And what about us?” I asked. “Why are we alive? Why’d they kill so many of our people, but not us?”
The short woman shrugged. “We don’t know, man. We’ve been trying to figure that one out since we got here.”
“How long have you been here?” I asked.
“Tres noches… Three nights,” the short woman said, her Spanish accent forcing r’s to roll off her tongue. “They’ve been feedin’ us scraps and forcing us to sleep in our own piss and shit.” She pointed at the far back corner of the cell—which wasn’t all that far considering the small space—where a small brown pile had formed. It looked like plain old dirt, so I assumed they’d attempted to bury their feces.
And then, as if my nostrils had woken from a deep sleep, the smell hit me. It stank of fresh shit and dried-up urine—a pungent combination that smelled like an overall sickness. It didn’t bother me much, though. I’d grown accustomed to rancid smells on Kormace Island.
“So, they haven’t let you out since?” Franklin asked, crossing her sticklike arms over her chest.
The woman on the floor with the leg wound shook her head, her fingernails clawing at the skin beside her wound. “Locked us up in here and left us to rot.”
Coin let out a sigh and brushed a rough hand through her short fuzzy hair, which had started growing in. “That don’t make no sense. Why wouldn’t they have killed you? Killed us? Man, this is fuckin’ bullshit. They kill our people, burn down our home.” She started pacing b
ack and forth, making agitated hand gestures near her face. “And for what? To capture the survivors like damn animals? We ain’t no animals. We’re human beings! This is bullshit!”
“Coin,” Johnson said, resting a hand on her shoulder.
It was all Coin had needed, because her rapid breathing slowed, and she gave Johnson a brief nod.
“I don’t know what’s going on,” I said, “but they’re obviously trying to hurt us somehow.”
“You think?” Franklin said, rolling her eyes. She made her way to the side wall—something that looked like it was constructed of mud or clay.
There were little bits of grass and weeds sticking out of it. It reminded me of the bird’s nest I built in fifth grade. The teacher had brought us all outside at the edge of the schoolyard and into the forest. She’d allowed us in a few meters to gather dirt, sticks, leaves, and clay from a hole she made.
I thought of my young self—the shy kid in class who’d cry every time someone got hurt—and wondered, who would have thought this is where I’d end up? On an island with a bunch of psychos, having to kill to survive?
I let out a long breath and slid down on the wall beside Franklin, my back gliding against the cool lumpy texture. I grabbed the hair on the sides of my head and pulled, causing my temples to stretch out, and it brought me immediate relief. A piece of dirt broke off from the wall behind me and rolled down my arm and onto the damp earth by my feet.
“Couldn’t we break through this?” I asked, reaching a hand up to touch the surface.
It was hard and dry, but it wasn’t cement. With enough force, or with enough fingernails, couldn’t we find our way past it?
Hammer limped toward me, obviously hurting from the ten-hour trek we’d endured, and pressed a chubby hand flat on the wall behind me. She scratched it with the tip of her index finger, and I looked up, seeing her wide nostrils flare and her chin form two rolls.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I’m sure with the right tools, you could. But I don’t see the point.” She took a step back, turned around, and dropped down beside me, a loud sigh blasting out of her lungs as she hit the ground. “You guys realize this is probably a game to them, right? See how long we last?” She threw her head back in frustration, and a soft clunk bounced across the room. “Besides, even if we did manage to get out… Didn’t any of you see the hundreds of filthy ladies out there? They might not be wearing masks or carrying weapons, but they’re still Northers.”
Tegan placed her leaf into the dirt beside the wounded woman, rose to her feet, and walked to the other end of the cell. She sat at the very corner against the gate, the outside light forming diamonds on her arm, and closed her eyes.
Everyone went quiet, hoping she might say something. But she didn’t. She sat still and silent.
The wounded woman rubbed her shadowed face and said, “They might be Northers, but they’re not them.”
“Them?” I asked.
“The ones who attacked us. Those filthy Northers”—she made air quotes with her fingers—“are the one reason we’re still alive.
“What’s your point?” Franklin said. “Spit it out.”
The wounded woman’s eyes rolled up at Franklin as if contemplating whether getting up and strangling her would be worth the pain in her leg. “My point,” she spewed, “is that they’re not all the same. Some of these women have been pushing pieces of bread through the holes in the gate.”
We turned our heads toward the gate, where there was movement on the other side.
“Only at night,” the woman continued. “One of them got caught during the day, and, well…” She waved a finger at the gate and everyone’s eyes followed. At the very center was a bloody patch of braided bamboo.
“They killed her?” Coin spat out.
The woman nodded. “I’m Alice, by the way, and this is Arenas.” She stuck a thumb out at the tiny shapeless woman.
Arenas gave a brief wave of a hand and joined Alice against the back wall. Everyone else followed suit, sat down, and introduced themselves.
“So, what?” Franklin said, scooping a handful of dirt and throwing it into the air. “We’re supposed to sit here and rot? Starve to death?”
Alice picked at something in her wound. “That’s the thing… They’re not letting us die. They’re making us suffer.”
Franklin let out a forced laugh and threw her thumb in Hammer’s direction. “I realize some of us might not be affected by starvation, but there are some”—she pointed at her chest—“who don’t handle no food very well.”
“What’re you, hypoglycemic?” Coin asked, curling her upper lip over her front teeth.
Franklin barely had any meat on her as it was, so I could understand her anxiety about inadequate caloric intake. She glared at Coin, then shifted her gaze out through the gate. “None of your business,” she mumbled.
What was she hiding from us?
“We have to be smart about this,” Alice said, grinding her teeth. “We can’t let them tear us apart.”
I stared at Alice as she spoke. Her bottom lip was swollen, most likely due to a blow, and her scraggly auburn hair had been cut messily into uneven lengths. It looked like straw more than anything—dry and crispy strings that wiggled atop her head as she spoke. She was so worked up, her eyes round and hands moving about sporadically as she spoke.
“We need to plan,” she went on.
She looked like a mother on the verge of a mental breakdown—a fragile woman containing a dangerous amount of bottled-up anger.
That was it.
That was what the Northers were doing.
They were trying to break us.
CHAPTER 5
Warm, muddy water splashed my face before I heard her voice.
“Wake up!” Zsasz shouted, her dark figure towering over us.
Behind her were two of her goons and Rebel, whose beady eyes remained glued to me the way they had in the jungle. What the hell was her problem?
I wiped my face and sat upright.
“Now!” Zsasz growled.
Franklin was the first to stand up, and the moment she did, Zsasz grabbed her by the arm and pulled her out of the prison cell.
“Franklin!” I shouted, bouncing to my feet.
But the door was slammed shut in my face, and all I could hear were Franklin’s feet kicking the ground as they dragged her away.
“Get off me, you f—” she went on, her voice slowly fading into the distance.
The sound of something hard hitting flesh exploded and Franklin instantly went quiet. I swung around, my hateful glare fixated on all the cowards in the cell, not understanding why no one had bothered to try to help.
“She’ll be back,” Arenas said calmly as if human emotion were too volatile to express.
“Be back?” My shoulders bounced up and down, and I tried to catch my breath. “They dragged her away! For what? To torture her?”
Alice, who was waking up at last, stretched her lips into an upside-down smile while clasping both hands around her leg again. Her skin was as white as chalk, and there were beads of sweat sliding down her face and leaving trace marks on her dirt-stained skin.
She grunted in pain. “There’s nothing you can do.”
“Man,” Coin said, her gumball eyes popping out at Alice, “you don’t look so good.”
“No, she doesn’t,” Johnson added.
“It’s this—this damn spear wound…” Alice said and threw her head back against the wall.
I could tell she was in excruciating pain. Her leg was entirely swollen, and the wound, a crusty, pus-infested hole that was oozing out a clear liquid, looked worse than it did the day before.
“Sepsis,” Tegan mumbled from her dark corner.
Everyone’s eyes turned toward her. She poked a finger against her temple, then poked again, and again. What the hell had the Northers done to her?
“Sepsis,” she repeated.
“I’m assuming she’s talking about Alice,” Johnson s
aid. She got up, crouched beside Tegan, and looked her square in the face. “What can we do?”
Tegan shook her head, her rag hair dropping forward and masking her face entirely.
“Don’t bother,” Arenas said.
I kicked dirt from the ground, flinging bits and pieces into the air by Tegan, who flinched and cowered even farther against the wall.
“Will someone tell me what the fuck is going on?” I snapped. I hadn’t meant to, but I couldn’t help myself. Everyone was acting like we were sitting on a rollercoaster from hell, waiting for our next stop. Why wasn’t anyone doing anything? Why were we sitting there like caged animals?
“Where are they taking Franklin?” I asked again, widening my eyes on Alice and Arenas.
I realized they didn’t have all the answers, but they had a few days on us—they knew more than we did.
“They’re beatin’ her,” Arenas said, her eyes fixated on my crocodile boots.
“That’s it?” I asked. “Just beating her?” I laughed. “Well, I’m glad to know it isn’t anything serious. I’m glad to know she’s having a good fuckin’ time!”
“Jesus, Brone,” Johnson said.
“Shut up, Johnson!” I shouted.
I was exhausted, I was hurting, I was starving, and I was dehydrated to the point where I was barely able to swallow. I wasn’t in the mood to be told to calm down.
I threw my head back, pulled at my hair, and screamed until my lungs ached and my voice cracked. The silence that followed was almost too much to handle. I stood there, breathing heavily, absorbing the energy around me: a combination of fear, anxiety, and angst. What was wrong with me? I looked around, and no one made eye contact. It was like they were afraid of me.
Is that who I wanted to be? Someone they feared? Trim wouldn’t have wanted…
“Pssst.”
I swung around, prepared to swing a fist at the next person who told me to calm down, but when I realized the noise hadn’t come from inside, my eyes darted to the gate. There was a dark finger wiggling through one of the holes.
“Pssst, over ’ere.”
