The Feral Sentence- Complete Box Set

by Shade Owens

  Hawkins, standing taller than everyone, patted me on the cheek. “Good girl.”

  And as she did that, I slapped her hand away so hard the sound echoed around us. “Don’t fucking touch me.”

  Out of nowhere, Collins wrapped her fist around my collar and raised me up. If she was trying to intimidate me, it wasn’t working. I’d potentially lost one of my best friends to save their lives. Now, my blood was boiling. Grunting, I shoved her as hard I could and she fell into her women with her lanky arms swaying over her head.

  Fucking idiot.

  Everyone stiffened at the same time, and Jack, being the first one to always have my back, pointed a small shiv at Hawkins and her women.

  “Whoa, easy,” Hawkins said. “We’re all friends here.”

  She gave me a rotten smile and moved passed me. With shoulders drawn back and arms swaying too far away from their bodies, she and her women marched their way into the cave. The strays must have been watching the whole ordeal from the beach; one by one, they ran toward us, arms folded in front of their faces as the strengthening winds swept their hair into the air.

  “C-c-can we?” one of them asked.

  I nodded and pointed at the cave. “Get inside. All of you.”

  CHAPTER 6

  I sat at the edge of a rocky surface with my knees bent and my forehead resting on them. In most cases, I enjoyed dipping my toes into the water, but as the storm picked up outside, it sent a gust of wind into the cave, making the air around us damper and cooler than usual.

  At the center of the sea cave, where a beam of sunlight typically warmed the water from overhead, was dull, gray water—something I would never dare jump into. I peered up to where moss and countless trees decorated the cave’s circular opening, all I could see were dark clouds and a fuzzy mist caused by a light drizzle.

  It was only reaching us now—any moment, the storm would fill this space with heavy rain from overhead, and the women at the center, swimming about as if nothing was happening, would come rushing out of the water.

  “Get over here!” one of them shouted, slapping at the water in front of her.

  Her voice carried up the walls and echoed several times. Most of us, including Hawkins and the bulk of her women, sat on the rocky platform surrounding the pool of water. And despite our bodies being so close to one another, no one spoke—no one but a few of Hawkins’s women whispering in the corner.

  “Shut up,” Hawkins hissed, her voice reminding me of a snake rattle.

  At once, the two women fell silent, and everyone seemed focused on the three Asian women in the water who appeared to be having the time of their lives.

  In a sense, I hoped that having everyone confined in one place would eliminate trivial conflict. We were all in this together, weren’t we? So why was everyone pouting as if they’d rather have stayed outside and faced nature’s wrath?

  I glanced at the far back of the cave, where darkness dominated. Somewhere within the blackness of it all, I caught a glimpse of Fisher’s face—or at least, half of it. The one eye I could see was narrowed into a resentful slit and aimed right at me. To make matters worse, she sat alone as if everyone had abandoned her.

  Where was Rocket? Flander? Biggie? Proxy? And then I heard Proxy’s voice.

  “Actually,” she started, and although she was mixed up in the crowd, I was certain she was pointing her index finger up toward the sea cave’s ceiling, “hurricanes can travel up to speeds greater than 160 miles per hour.”

  “Hurricane?” someone shouted, their voice an explosion amid the silence.

  “Most likely,” Proxy said, matter-of-factly.

  “That’s—” the same person started, but she let out a grunting noise and fell silent. Someone must have elbowed her in the ribs to get her to shut up.

  “Did you know that September 22, 2065, is known as National Reporter Day?” Proxy said.

  A few scoffs were exchanged as if the idea of a National Reporter Day were even more stupid than a national cheesecake day.

  “To commemorate all the reporters—” Proxy started.

  But then, someone shouted something and a crack resonated around us.

  “What the fuck!”

  “Get off me!”

  Another crack, followed by a whimper.

  “Enough!” Hawkins growled, and the two women quarreling let go of each other, though their eyes remained glued to one another.

  “Well, that was unnecessary,” Proxy pointed out. “I was only trying—”

  “None of you bitches has the right to laugh at that date,” said the woman who’d thrown the first punch. “Lost my fucking house. My kids. My husband. My parents. Everything.”

  A heavy silence weighed down on everyone.

  * * *

  September 22, 2065

  “More devastating proof that global warming is—” the news reporter shouted over the blowing wind. She pressed two fingers up to her ear, opened her mouth, and closed it again as a wall of rain came pouring down on her.

  The screen switched over to a man wearing a blue collar, a black tie, and a Red Cross pin. He was so clean-shaven and well-groomed that it wasn’t hard to imagine what he smelled like—crisp aftershave with a hint of citrus.

  As I sat in my room, playing the historic event online, chills ran down my back as if I were standing right there with the news reporter. It must have been terrifying for everyone all those years ago.

  “Allison? Allison?” said the news anchor. He cleared his throat and stared intently at the camera. “We seem to have lost connection. We have reports coming in that Hurricane Winston has set a new record in the United States as being the deadliest hurricane in US history. The death toll is expected to reach over 50,000 American citizens, though we won’t know until the devastation is over. If you’re anywhere near what remains of Miami, you’re asked to leave as soon as possible. Now, if you’ve been following us these last few weeks, you know Hurricane Winston is the fourteenth hurricane to hit us within the last ten days. Meteorologists are describing this phenomenon as beyond catastrophic and attributing this streak of destruction to the rapid progression of global warming. Despite reports flooding in on the matter, President Reed has yet to change his decision about cutting government funding for global warming research. Have a look.”

  The screen flickered to President Reed standing at what looked like a rally. I wasn’t born when President Reed was in power, but Mom told me he was President Seth’s father, and that although less cruel than Seth, he was as equally ignorant, stubborn, and unfit to be president.

  The old president—a round-faced man with light brown hair combed backward, overly-long sideburns, and skin so sun-damaged it looked like he’d spent his entire life on a beach—stood tall with his arm wrapped around a thirty-year-old version of future President Seth.

  Cameras circled him and reporters yelled questions his way.

  “Is it true, Mr. President, that you’re unwilling to reverse your decision regarding cutting funding for global warming research despite a decade of profound advancements on the subject? Water-fueled vehicles are about to be released to the general public. Millions of citizens are prepared to make lifestyle changes in support of—”

  Arrogant as always, President Reed raised a stiff-fingered hand. “I understand your concern, I do. But the truth is, global warming isn’t to blame for this. Our problem is bad people. Wars. Chemicals. It’s obvious, God isn’t happy with the way we’re doing things, and he’s punishing us for it. We need to put our government funds to better use.”

  Young Seth rolled his eyes, and although no one knew it at the time, it was his hatred for religion that made him so irritable. The moment he became president, he illegalized any form of public practice. I’m certain that if his father had been alive to see it, he’d have wondered where he went wrong.

  “Are you suggesting—” the female reporter continued, but President Reed raised his famous hand and turned away.

  “Thank you, thank you,�
�� he said, offering a rancid smile.

  The screen switched back to the blue-collard news anchor whose expression remained flat.

  “And there you have it,” he said, smacking his hand on his desk. “We have more coming later this evening on the new Aquastone vehicles, which have been placed on hold. Please stay with us as we continue to report live on Hurricane Winston.”

  * * *

  I’d turned off the video clip soon after that, but I did remember seeing the final death toll in other videos that were released several weeks following the devastating event: 75,893. I wasn’t often good at remembering numbers, but I’d seen the number so many times that it became glued in my mind.

  After that hurricane, several more hit—they weren’t as deadly, but in comparison to hurricanes from the early 2000s, they were catastrophic.

  I stared at the woman who’d thrown her fist at the few laughing women. I couldn’t imagine how much she’d suffered during that time. Was that why she was here? On Kormace Island? Had she snapped and gone after someone following her loss?

  She pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. Then, I noticed the marks. They ran from her palms all the way down the insides of her forearms. It didn’t take a genius to know she’d attempted suicide, and chances were it was more than once.

  Whatever she’d done to get here, she’d probably done it in a moment of impulse. How was life so unfair? This woman had lost everything, while others seemed to have everything yet did nothing but complain about the few problems in their lives.

  She caught me staring, so I looked away and turned my attention onto Hawkins. She sat still—quieter than I’d ever seen her before—with her legs crossed in front of her and her head resting against the dark gray stone wall behind her.

  Was she thinking about her plan in three days’ time? Maybe it wouldn’t happen. Not if the weather persisted or damaged all of their weapons. Oh God… How long was this storm going to last? Were we even safe in here? If extreme, the storm could very well flood the inside of the cave. What would we do? Swim to the top opening? Best case, the rain would be over within a few hours. Worst case, it would last several days and destroy the Cove.

  “Hey,” I heard.

  I turned to find Flander, slowly crouching down beside me. She looked exhausted and weak. Was it her age? Was it catching up to her at long last? Her silver locks, still wet from the rain, hung in waves on either side of her saggy-skinned face. The first time I’d met her, her hair had been short and cut into messy spikes. She must have grown too tired to groom.

  “You okay, kiddo?” she asked.

  I shrugged.

  “You know…” she said, “if ya ever wanna talk about what happened out there, I’m here, okay?”

  What did Flander have to offer me as life experience? She’d told me how she’d landed on Kormace Island—she’d spent all night drinking at a bar and left with her keys only to wake up in the hospital the next day; she’d driven drunk and killed two little girls and their mother.

  But as I looked into Flander’s eyes and at the hundreds of wrinkles on her face, I knew she’d endured far more than she’d initially revealed.

  What was her story? Why did she drink so much?

  She smirked at me. “World War Three,” she said, watching my curious eyes.

  My jaw dropped. We’d learned all about it in school—it had occurred from 2042 to 2051, and it was even more devastating than the first two world wars with over 100 million casualties. The majority of the deaths had included innocent citizens killed by Korean and Chinese nuclear missiles. The one reason America came out of it alive was that Russia got involved.

  “I was in the marines,” she said. “Got captured and tortured… Pretty ironic, ain’t it? That I’d end up on a remote island after all that bullshit?”

  It all made sense now—she’d probably been abandoned by the government after her years of service and forced to live off lousy funding.

  “Ya know,” she went on. “I know now that I shouldn’t’a been blowin’ the tiny pension I had on booze, but what else was I supposed to do?” She shook her messy-haired head and sighed. “I was miserable. The things I’ve seen, Brone… The things I’ve been through…”

  For a moment, she disappeared. But not for too long, undoubtedly because she’d trained herself not to dwell on such violent memories.

  “So, if ya need to talk about it…” she said again, patting my thigh.

  Although I didn’t want to talk about any of it, knowing I had someone capable of understanding reassured me. “Thanks, Flander.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Over twenty-four hours had passed since we’d all rushed inside the cave—at least, I thought it had been a whole day. Without clocks, watches, and even the sun, it was impossible to know. Had the sun been shining, it would have resurfaced through the cave’s overhead opening.

  All that came through that opening, however, was rain.

  Rain, rain, and more rain.

  The water levels had gone up, reaching halfway up the cave’s ledges. If this continued for another day, we would no longer be able to stay dry.

  Fisher had barely moved, other than to urinate in the water. It grossed me out—everyone was doing their business in the water, and although they’d go down the cavern toward the entrance to do it, it would end up in our shelter’s circular opening at one point or another.

  How were Ellie and I supposed to enjoy our time in here knowing hundreds of women had urinated and possibly even shat in the water?

  “This is bullshit,” someone said, shifting from side to side.

  Without a doubt, she was sore, like everyone else.

  The surface beneath us was hard and cold, and most women had resorted to sitting against each other to keep warm, especially overnight. A few sat by themselves, like Fisher, preferring to freeze over being touched by anyone.

  Nightfall was approaching again, and women shivered in the darkness. The clouds were still so thick overhead through the cave’s opening that not even moonlight entered, making it difficult to see anything at all. So I closed my eyes and attempted to block the noise of women whispering, snoring, and shifting their positions.

  I barely slept at all that night.

  By the time light entered the cave again, my eyes were dry, my lips were cracked, and my stomach was so empty I was nauseous.

  When would this end? Women became restless, oftentimes snapping at one another over nothing. Several times, Hawkins and I shouted at women to stop fighting, and every time, we’d glance at each other, no doubt sharing the same thought—who’s really in charge?

  I supposed the crowd was an even split: half the women looked to me for guidance while the other half looked to Hawkins. In this case, however, the cave was my territory, not hers.

  “I’m fucking starving,” someone said over the downpour.

  It splashed hard at the center of the cave, making the entire pool look like boiling water inside a witch’s cauldron.

  “Shut up,” someone responded. “We’re all starving.”

  Without warning, a woman was pushed so hard that both arms flailed above her head. She took several steps backward until she stepped into nothingness and fell into the water. But there was no plunging sound—instead, something loud cracked, and everyone nearby stood up, necks craned like a crowd of city folk around a dead animal’s carcass.

  “Where is she?” someone hissed.

  “She fell right there!”

  Several women pointed down, where a hidden, ragged-edged platform protruded from the wall. The rocks looked sharp—sharp enough to split someone’s head open.

  Fuck.

  “That was Allister! Go get her!”

  “You go!”

  I hesitated, staring at the blackness of the water. What lurked deep down was anyone’s guess. How deep did it go, anyway? The longer I stood there, the farther she’d sink.

  Why wasn’t anyone jumping in?

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck
,” someone said, pacing back and forth.

  I glanced toward Hawkins. She sat at the opposite end, playing with her bone-carved knife without a care in the world. The flat look on her face said, Clean up your own mess.

  What a bunch of cowards, I thought, glaring toward Hawkins and her women.

  Swallowing hard, I pushed my phobia away and dived headfirst into the oil-like fluid, chills running down my back the moment I slipped into the water. The water was unusually cold, causing my muscles to tighten.

  Just find her.

  But how could I? It was pitch black. I blinked several times in the water, and I saw nothing.

  My heart pounded so hard I was certain the entire pool of water was vibrating with every beat.

  This was the worst feeling ever, but I couldn’t focus on that. This was about saving a life. I dove a bit deeper, kicking my arms and legs out in hopes of making contact with this woman, Allister.

  Where was she?

  I swam sideways, then the other way.

  Nothing.

  The pressure in my ears felt like my head had been put in a vise.

  How deep was I going? I looked upward—or at least, I thought it was up—and saw a widespread lightness I assumed was the surface.

  I was running out of breath. I had to go back.

  But, I also had to find her; I was afraid that if I swam back to the surface, I’d jump out of the water in a panic and refuse to come back inside.

  I pressed my legs together to make myself as straight as possible and descended a bit farther. That’s when something slimy touched my foot.

  Fuck. A shark? An eel? It had felt like silky skin.

  My heart racing, I almost launched myself all the way back up to the top. Any second now, some giant mythological sea monster would awaken and its eye would split open right in front of me.

  You’re being ridiculous, I told myself. It had to have been seaweed. Then, I felt something hard and slimy beside me. A wall? It was definitely a wall.

  I touched it, grimacing. It was cold—colder than the water itself—but it was hard and covered in algae.