by Shade Owens
“Sorry,” I mumbled, though I wasn’t sorry at all. I had every right to be reluctant to the idea of ingesting a mind-altering substance.
“Look,” Sumi said, her shaded eye darting from side to side, “take it or leave it. It’s not like I’m offering you heroin. It’s all natural. It’s coca leaves. Mashi plucks what she can when she goes out cultivating.”
“She works at the Food Station?” I asked.
“Yeah,” Sumi said. She raised a hand to her shoulder’s height. “Little Asian lady, about this tall. Short hair that looks like a black ball on her head. Looks frail overall, but she’s pretty fuckin’ healthy for a sixty-year-old.”
I knew who she was talking about. I’d seen the woman come in and out of the jungle carrying baskets of vegetation. Most of what she brought were foods I’d never seen before. I’d had to ask Alice Number Two, who had basically become a team leader figure, to help me out when it came time to cut the food open. Some had nuts inside, others, thousands of seeds.
What was Rainer’s policy on drugs, anyway? Murk had fought long and hard to keep them out of the Village and the Working Grounds. Did Rainer even care? She must have if Sumi was whispering about it.
I stared at Sumi’s partially bubbled face, then down at my hand. It looked like a deformed balloon you’d find lying around after a kid’s birthday party—swollen but not round, and full of mismatched colors, which, in a kid’s birthday party, would likely be the result of cake, snot, and sticky hands. In my case, it all boiled down to plain old bruising.
The pain was nearly intolerable, making me frustrated and irritable. Every time someone so much as looked at me, I wanted to swing my good fist at their face.
But I couldn’t get Gary out of my head.
I’d rather suffer in pain than alter my mind. Especially in this place. I needed to be clear-headed.
“No thanks,” I said.
She cocked her crisped eyebrow and tightened her lips. “Suit yourself, but the offer stands if you need it.”
“And if I change my mind,” I said, knowing I probably wouldn’t, “is this a gift, or is there a price?”
She scoffed. “Brone, nothing’s changed. We’re still living with a bunch of wild women. The one difference is management. There’s a price for everything. You of all people should know that.”
A price for everything, I thought.
My stomach sank. Rainer hadn’t truly forgiven me. It was only a matter of time before someone came after me, whether in the middle of the night or through a brainwashed Peasant. I’d seen the way she looked down at me—the way those hateful, soulless eyes sat over her elevated cheekbones, gazing into me as if I were nothing but a piece of dirt on the tip of her leather boot.
I had to get out of here.
CHAPTER 12
“Are you insane?” Coin hissed, leaning over a pile of bright yellow pineapples.
“Do you have a better idea?” I asked.
“You think you’re the first one to have this idea, chica?” Arenas asked. “You heard what they do to Death Sprinters. They hang you up for them Ogres to cut open. You really wanna take that risk?”
“What’s more insane?” I asked. “Risking our lives to get out of here to live a somewhat decent life, or staying here?”
No one said anything.
“As slaves,” I continued. “Is that what you want? We’re already prisoners on this island, and now we’re prisoners to these savages.” I waved my one good hand in the general direction of the mountain.
“What about Franklin?” Johnson asked, tracing a line through the dirt with her cutting tool.
She was the last person I’d have expected to mention Franklin’s name.
“Yeah,” Hammer cut in. “We can’t leave her here.”
I bit the inside of my cheek, carefully contemplating how to best approach this situation. I had two choices: I could either attempt to be a hero, which would most likely, if not ultimately, lead to some of us dying. Or, I could be realistic in my approach, even if it meant coming across as heartless. I thought of Murk, and although I didn’t know whose story to believe anymore, I still respected her. Her having banished a pregnant woman—if it was even true—didn’t take away from all of the good she’d done for her people. In this situation, the Murk I knew would have set her feelings aside and saved the majority, even if it meant sacrificing a life.
And although I didn’t want to be the kind of leader who took that route—I would have preferred to find a solution to save everyone—there was one thing everyone seemed to have forgotten.
“Franklin’s already dying,” I said.
There was a heavy silence—the kind of silence that follows a heartfelt eulogy at a funeral. I prepared myself for retaliation, but none was received. Instead, everyone stared at the ground, and a few women shared brief nods.
“I don’t mean to be morbid—”
Coin cut me short with a stiff hand in the air. “You’re right, Brone. You don’t have to apologize for sayin’ the truth. Franklin could be dead in months, for all we know. No idea how bad the cancer is by now. Besides, tryin’ to get inside those gates would be a suicide mission.”
“You have no idea,” I said, remembering all that I’d seen: women battling with all kinds of advanced weaponry, dozens of Northers gathered around a fire, and cabins lined up along the base of the mountain. These Northers, aside from their trained Fighters, were heavily equipped from head to toe. Going up against them with the limited resources we had would have been equivalent to citizens attacking a SWAT unit. “If we can get out of here… We can come back for others when the time is right.”
“So…” Arenas said, fidgeting with her legs crossed in front of her. “You gonna tell us what you saw in there? What’d she look like? How’s she doing?”
“Not now,” I said sharply. I’d tell them all about Murk when the time was right. The one reason I’d told them was to give them hope. Seeing her had done the same for me. Zsasz wasn’t going to kill Murk—she was full of shit. I wouldn’t fall for her mind games. Murk was the only leverage the Northers had. And keeping it a secret wouldn’t help me, or anyone for that matter. These women needed encouragement—motivation to want to do something instead of sitting around and waiting to die. The fact that our leader was still alive meant we had a chance to rebuild our society. I glanced around, noting all the eyes that kept darting my way. “Why does everyone keep staring at me?” I said, and it almost came out as a shout.
Johnson let out a snort. “Why do you think, genius? You killed a Norther and you’re still alive.”
“For now,” I mumbled. “At some point, someone will come after me.”
“Well, we have your back, Brone,” Hammer said. “If anyone tries—”
“Never seen anything like that before,” came a woman’s voice. I craned my neck to catch her standing behind me. She wasn’t chubby, but she wasn’t thin, either. She looked solid enough to take someone out with one swing of her fist. She had short, messy pinkish blond hair that I imagined had once been hot pink or lilac purple, arms covered in colorful tattoos, and a septum piercing that made her look like a bull. I was surprised she still had it with how barbaric women were here—why hadn’t anyone tried to tear it out to use the silver? It wouldn’t have been the first time I’d heard about piercings being ripped out.
“Like what?” I asked.
“What you did… You fought back. No one’s ever done that before.”
I turned around in the dirt and looked up at her. She stared at me with big blue eyes, and for the first time, I didn’t think of this place as us versus everyone else. Maybe there was only us.
“Listen,” she said, “me and my girls camp out over there.” She pointed toward the biggest tree at the edge of the city. Its trunk reminded me of Redwood, and around it were hammocks hanging from its massive branches. “You got a bed anytime.”
A bed? As in, a hammock? This woman was offering me a comfortable sleeping arrangement? All for havi
ng killed one of the Northers?
“You and your girls,” she clarified, eyeing my little crew.
Coin’s face lit up like a Christmas tree and she smacked Hammer on the back. “Yo! You hear that, Ham? We finally get to sleep!”
Hammer gave her the stink eye and rolled her shoulders back. It was apparent that Coin was getting her strength back. That may have had something to do with the fact that we worked in the Food Station. I’d seen her sneak nuts into her mouth every chance she got.
“Name’s Quinn,” the young woman said, both hands on her waist.
Johnson’s jaw hung loose and her eyelids went flat. “As in Harley?”
“Who?” Quinn asked.
“You know, Harley Quinn,” Johnson continued. “Seems to be a Batman thing going on here…”
Quinn cocked an eyebrow. “It’s my last name,” she said as if Johnson was too stupid to understand the concept of a last name.
“Oh,” Johnson said. “I assumed you were into comics and stuff, ’cause, you know—” she pointed at her own nose, then at her arms, as if indicating invisible tattoos.
Quinn’s eyes widened, and I stuck my good arm out toward Johnson. “What Johnson means to say is thank you.” The last two words squeezed through my gritted teeth.
Johnson cleared her throat. “Thank you.”
Quinn nodded slowly, her gaze leaving Johnson and landing on me. “What’s your name, anyway?”
“Brone,” I said. I extended my good hand, but I pulled it back when a dull pain set in my other one.
Quinn smirked and threw her chin out at me. “No worries, Brone. Listen, if anyone gives you a hard time around here, tell ’em you’re friends with me. They’ll back off.”
“Oh,” I said. “Um, thank you.”
“You in charge around here?” Coin asked.
Quinn looked at her, but her head didn’t move. “No one’s really in charge here, n’case you haven’t noticed.” She looked around, and the loud cacophonous sound of the market suddenly filled the air as if for the first time. Women scrambled past us; others yelled while waving fabric—it was always the Clothes Makers who yelled the most.
I didn’t mean to stereotype, but as I watched the women wave fabrics of all colors and textures and even some necklaces made of precious stones, pearls, or plain old plants, I thought, leave it to women to pursue something as trivial as fashion on a remote island full of murderous convicts.
“But some of us have more… say,” she continued. “I run the Resources Station over there.” She pointed toward the hammocks. I hadn’t noticed, but behind them was a shelter made of wood. The structure resembled the cabins I’d seen inside the gates, in the Northers’ domain, only it was entirely open and had no walls. Had she built their cabins for them?
“Wood, stone, metal, plant… A lot of bone, too, but your station usually brings it over to us,” she said.
I shot a glance at the small group of women handling the meat. Blood covered them from head to toe, and they always looked tired, wiping their foreheads with the backs of their hands and panting in the hot sun. By doing so, they smeared more blood on their faces, but they didn’t seem to care. In a wooden crate to the side of their station were clean bones forming a pile. The old Russian woman—the one with the orphanage tattoo—hovered over them, sticking her fingers inside. I never knew what she was doing. Most of the time, she sat around or circled her station. Maybe they were taking it easy on her because of her age.
“And these resources,” Arenas asked, “you use them to create weapons?”
I didn’t like where this was going. Her tone was cold, and the way the skin on her face tightened made me think she was ready to snap.
“We don’t,” Quinn says. “But yeah, Smith over there”—she wiggled a finger into the market, though with all the hanging sheets and clothes, I couldn’t see her—“does all that.”
“But you still provide the stuff,” Arenas said, her mouth hanging loose. “So really, you contributed to Alice’s death.” Her head moved from side to side now with a fierce Latina attitude.
“Who’s Alice?” Quinn asked. She didn’t seem bothered by Arenas’s reaction.
“My fuckin’ friend!” Arenas shouted.
“Easy,” Quinn said. “First of all, I don’t know your friend, and unless you feel like dying today, I suggest you lose your attitude. Second of all, I do what I’m told. I’m still pushed around by the Beasts as much as you—”
“Beasts?” I cut in.
“You haven’t heard that around here?” Quinn asked.
I looked around the group to make sure I wasn’t the only one who felt like they were missing something.
“You know,” she continued, “the Orphans… the Originals.”
“You guys call ’em Beasts?” Coin asked.
Quinn shrugged, crossed her arms over her stomach, and made her eyes go wide. “Um, yeah. It isn’t always easy to differentiate the two. They’re all just Beasts to us.”
Johnston snorted. “You know, with all that hair they wear over their shoulders, they kinda do look like—”
But she stopped talking when my eyelids went flat.
“Just saying,” she mumbled.
Hammer slapped two hands together to clean them off. “Well, that made my life way easier.”
Quinn stared at us, evidently not understanding what was going on.
“We’ve always known you as—well, not you, anymore… but them. We’ve always referred to them as Northers.”
Quinn let out a short laugh that sounded more like a bark. “Northers…”
“If that’s so funny, what’d you call us?” Coin asked.
“Who’s us?” Quinn asked.
“Murk’s people,” Hammer clarified.
Quinn tilted her head back. “Ah, so the stories around here are true. You are from that southern Village. I heard you were the biggest colony on this island.”
“Where else would we be from?” Arenas asked. She hadn’t entirely lost her attitude, but she’d mellowed out quite a bit.
Quinn shrugged. “Number of places. I don’t know all their clan names.” She uncrossed her arms and pressed a flat hand against her chest. “Me and a few of my girls come from a small colony that used to live on the island’s western shoreline. A lot of women here are Newbies, though.”
“Clans?” I asked.
“Newbies?” Coin cut in, but Hammer leaned in and whispered, “Drops, I’m assuming,” and Coin nodded with her mouth open.
Quinn scoffed, and I couldn’t tell whether she was amused or shocked. “You didn’t honestly think the only people on this island were you and the Beasts, did you?”
“What? No…” I stammered. “We knew there were others…”
“Didn’t realize there were whole clans,” Hammer cut in.
“So, what?” I said. “The Beasts”—I gestured an air quote with my one good hand—“are plucking people from other clans? I thought Rainer’s hatred was for Murk and Murk only. Why’s she going after everyone?”
Quinn smiled a set of crooked yellow teeth, but I could tell it wasn’t a genuine smile. “She’s a psychotic bitch. What do you think she wants?”
“To rule the entire island?” Coin asked.
Quinn formed a gun with her hand, pointed it at Coin, and made a clicking noise with her tongue. “Bingo.”
CHAPTER 13
“You’re relieved—go eat something,” said Alice Number Two.
“Go eat something,” Arenas mocked when we reached a safe distance away from Alice Number Two.
“You do realize it’s just a name, right? She didn’t ask to be named Alice,” Johnson said.
Arenas crossed her bony, dark arms over her chest. “I don’t care. And it’s Alice Number Two.”
I ignored the back-and-forth bickering between Johnson and Arenas and focused on making my way to the Cooking Station as fast as possible and without landing myself in a fight. The last thing I wanted was to get stuck in line waiting
for a hot slab of meat and to be told there was no more food left when our turn was up. Wouldn’t have been the first time it happened.
“Back o’ da line,” came the Cook’s voice.
She was as grumpy as Sumi had been in her old job but much older and less tolerant of back talk. Every day, this woman moved about her shack as slow as a tortoise, her back round and her eyelids heavy. She wore the same hat every day—a square cap made of pliable-looking suede that sat still in her short salt-and-pepper hair. She sliced through meat and tore apart tendons like she’d been trained to do it wearing a blindfold.
The moment we took our place in line, whispers broke out all around us.
“How long have they been here?”
“A few months, I think.”
“And what about her? The Beast Killer? Where’s she from?”
Beast Killer? Was this what they were calling me? A soft whistle suddenly caught my attention. It was Quinn. She was standing a few places up from us with a group of women who looked like they belonged to the Middle Ages—filthy faces, white-powdered hair that was undoubtedly being cleaned with nothing but salt, torn clothes, and fingernails as black as coal.
I gave her a brief nod, but she didn’t let go of her stare. Instead, she jerked her chin sideways as if to say, Get over here. Was she trying to get me killed? The last thing I needed was to start a fight over cutting someone in line.
“Brone!” she shouted, and all I wanted to do was cower away in a corner. I didn’t need more attention. But then, something extraordinary happened. The woman standing in front of me—a middle-aged Peasant with chicken legs and a round belly—stepped back with her head bowed. Then, the woman in front of her did the same thing, and this pattern continued until a clear path was created for us, leading all the way to Quinn.
She hung two open palms by her sides and grinned at us as if she’d orchestrated the whole thing.
“Beast Killer eats first,” she said.
I couldn’t believe it. Had killing that Norther—that Beast—really earned me respect among these Peasants? I hadn’t done it for respect. I’d been trying to save my life. As I walked with my small crew of women, I realized something: these women, or at least most of them, hated the Beasts as much as I did.
