After the Living Have Lost

by Rick Wood

  She looked behind the sofa, behind the chairs, obvious hiding places.

  She rushed to the hallway, to the bathroom, to every room in the house, upstairs and downstairs.

  She opened the front door and looked around.

  “Boy!” she screamed.

  Christoph appeared behind her.

  “It’s no use,” he said. “The decision has been made. You may as well accept it.”

  She turned and looked at his face, his stupid face, his incredulous, twisting, twitching face, and rage coursed through her, that same rage that took her in the sanctity, with Dalton, and it was happening again, all over again, and Cia did not regret this feeling, she did not regret what she was about to do; it was all too much; she was going to explode going to burst going to, going to, going to…

  She tried to breathe, but her lungs couldn’t keep up.

  She grabbed Christoph by the throat and, despite his far greater stature, marched him into the house, into the living room, and shoved him against the wall.

  She opened her bag.

  Withdrew the knife.

  “Cia, please, I–”

  “Where is he?”

  “I—I don’t–”

  She dragged the knife down his chest.

  He did nothing to stop her; he wasn’t a fighter.

  “Where is he?”

  “I don’t–”

  She slid the knife into his gut, then quickly back out again.

  “Where is he?”

  “I don’t–”

  She swung the knife at his face and dug it into his cheek

  Christoph took to his knees. He didn’t run or fight.

  Cia had been correct.

  The people in here did not know how to survive.

  “Tell me where they have taken him.”

  “I—I don’t know, really I don’t…”

  Then you have no use.

  She swung the knife and buried it into the side of his neck until all that remained visible was the handle. She took the knife back out again and the walls, the fireplace, the furniture, her face, her clothes, everything was painted with the blood of the betrayer.

  She stuck his knife back into his throat a few more times and allowed his suffocating body to drop to the floor.

  She didn’t wait to see his death finish.

  She left the house, ready to kill anyone else who stood in her way.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Cia burst out of the house, an animal unleashed, scouring the surroundings with her dilated pupils, her fists curling, her body shaking, ready to do whatever she had to, once again.

  Once again.

  Always the same story.

  People underestimate her caring for Boy, undervalue it, think they could take him away and get away with it.

  She would willingly kill everyone here to get to him if she had to.

  A big, burly man walked up to her, putting his hand up.

  “Cia,” he said, but she heard none of it.

  He had a gun, but she didn’t care.

  He approached, full of confidence that he could handle her.

  But a gun and a set of muscles are nothing against a woman scorned.

  “I’m afraid I’ve had instructions to keep you in your–”

  She leapt upon him, landing on his chest and grabbing the back of his neck, digging her teeth into his gullet. He screamed out, tried to shove her off, but lost his ability to do so once she had scraped her knife down his spine. He collapsed to the floor, squirming and writhing as she stabbed him repeatedly in the back, over and over and over and over until she had just about begun to give him the punishment she deserved.

  His body throbbed.

  She knelt upon it and looked up at the voyeuristic eyes upon her.

  People doing chores, carrying vegetables, carrying meat, greeting friends and stroking puppies and going for a leisurely walk, all of them, every single one, stopped—all of them watching.

  Terrified.

  They had seen nothing like this before; they were not prepared for what this world produced, for what they had produced, and Cia didn’t care.

  No—in fact, she loved it.

  She relished it.

  She was small. She was young. She was an image of innocence.

  But they all underestimated the monster this world could create.

  She launched herself forward with both arms and both legs and charged and they scattered, screaming and fleeing.

  So many of them, so many that could take her if they all teamed up together, but they didn’t.

  Why?

  Because they weren’t like Cia.

  She paused, looked around for what next.

  Glanced over her shoulder at the body she had just created.

  Saw a mother holding a baby glance at her, see the body, and run.

  She didn’t care.

  In fact, she was a little proud for what she did to anyone prepared to hurt boy.

  “Boy!” she screamed and awaited an answer.

  There was no answer forthcoming.

  “Boy, where are you!”

  Nothing.

  One of the hunters she had been with the other day stepped out of his building to see what the commotion was. She ran up to him quicker than he could comprehend and shoved the knife in his belly.

  “Where is he?”

  “What?”

  He was so taken aback, so thrown off, so unaware of how to react, that he did nothing but accept the pain.

  “Where is Boy?”

  “I have no idea–”

  She stuck her knife into his chest, nestling it beneath his ribs and upwards and he wheezed, coughed up blood like an overflowing milkshake, staring at her.

  She would kill everyone here if she had to.

  But she had to think.

  Had to use her rage, but still have a clear plan.

  And, just as she willed herself to regain some clarity, just as she let the hunter slide off the knife and wheeze upon the floor, she decided she knew where to go next.

  She peered over her shoulder at Arnold’s office.

  There he was, standing in the window.

  He did not look afraid.

  He just stood there, like he had when she arrived.

  Arms behind his back. Not reacting to the death of two of his men.

  He retreated into his office.

  With a scream she ran, belted forward, searing through the street, leaping over benches, stomping over crops, ignoring those that fled out of her way, ignoring the shouts of shock over the two bodies she left behind.

  She barged into the doorway of the town hall and began the route down the corridor and up the stairs.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  The door was already open.

  Like he was waiting for her.

  Like he expected it.

  Like he saw her from above, watched her enter the building, and decided that he wouldn’t need any protection.

  Cia didn’t know whether to be pleased or cautious or humiliated by the idea that he saw her as such a little threat.

  Did he know what she could do?

  What she had done?

  She was prepared to slaughter anyone in her way, and just because he was the leader, the politician who had unlimited funds, it did not mean that he was exempt.

  If anything, he deserved it most.

  “Where is he?” Cia growled, standing in the doorway. She did not retreat, nor did she enter, not yet.

  Arnold turned from the window, slipped his hands casually into his pockets, and smiled as if she was a niece or nephew come to show him the picture they’d drawn.

  “Cia,” Arnold said. “I was waiting for this day.”

  “What do you mean,” she snarled, “you were waiting for this day?”

  He smiled again, that patronising smile, and he mosied over to his desk where he poured whiskey from a decanter into a crystallised tumbler glass.

  “I’ve already killed three of you,” Cia tol
d him, not quite believing that he understood the severity of the situation. “I am ready to kill you too.”

  “Oh, yes, I am quite aware of that.”

  “You should be scared.”

  “Yes, but, alas, I am not. And don’t think that’s because of your tiny stature. In fact, quite the contrary—I can see you are nimble and that the knife you hold in your hand, with blood of my people on it, is quite lethal. But you will not kill me.”

  Her blood coursed rage through her body. How wrong he was.

  “I will,” she said.

  “Oh, no, you won’t. Because otherwise how will I tell you where Boy is being taken?”

  She went to reply but didn’t.

  Suddenly, she thought, in a moment of clarity—could they be taking Boy to the podium where they killed Hades?

  Then again, there could be more than one podium. Or there could be other stations they sacrifice him at. Or they may not even need a podium—maybe they are to tie him up outside and leave him there.

  She couldn’t be sure. She had to find out where he was; she didn’t have time to search everywhere.

  She saw some rope in the corner of the office.

  Maybe that was the rope they used, and he was already dead.

  “He’s alive,” Arnold said, as if he could see Cia’s thoughts projecting into a bubble above her head. “Now sit.”

  He sat in his leather chair and sipped his whiskey, indicating the chair opposite.

  Cia had no intention of sitting.

  “Where is he?” she said.

  “I said to sit.”

  “You’re not the only one who’ll know. I bet Ryker will too.”

  “Sit, please. Let me explain why we have taken him.”

  “I am not sitting.”

  Arnold held her gaze for a moment, and Cia felt herself unintentionally sneering.

  “Fine,” said Arnold, standing up and moving to the window. “As you wish.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Cia, let me be honest with you, if you will. Is that okay? If I’m honest with you?”

  She flexed her fingers around her knife.

  She took a stride toward him.

  There was only so much patience she could manage.

  “You are a wonderful warrior,” Arnold said. “An excellent survivalist. Someone who knows what to do in a grave situation. You are a great asset to our society, and we greatly need you.”

  “Where is–”

  “But Boy isn’t. Ryker wasn’t even supposed to bring him here; he was only supposed to bring you—but there you were sauntering in on your first day with him at your side. It was there and then we knew he wouldn’t last. He wouldn’t have a place here.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Come to your senses, Cia! Think about it—he holds you back! He has held you back out there I’m sure, and he has no purpose here. There is no job, no role, nothing he can do. He is just mentally off.”

  “He’s autistic.”

  “He’s retarded.”

  That was all he needed to say.

  Cia charged forward, lifting the knife for his throat. He ducked to move out of the way, but Cia had expected that, and quickly lowered her knife instead.

  She looked deep, deep into his eyes as she slid the knife into him. This time it was easier, like pushing through butter, though it became tougher the more she pushed.

  “Tell me where he is,” she said, but it was no good.

  He couldn’t talk. His mouth was muffled by the red gunk dribbling down his chin.

  She swiped the knife out of him and he stayed on his knees, coughing, struggling, dying.

  She was covered in the blood of others now. Her feet, her trousers, her vest. Everything.

  Good.

  It was her war paint.

  No one would approach her without certainty of their fate.

  But it was still not enough.

  Cia wished to make a statement, and Arnold was not dying quickly enough.

  She fetched the rope from the corner of the office.

  She swung it around his neck. He tried to bat it away with a weak hand but he hadn’t the energy. He was struggling and coughing and writhing and Cia was gaining a substantial amount of satisfaction from it.

  She tied the rope as tightly as she could.

  She fetched a chair and stood on it, tying the rope around the top of the curtain rail above the grand window he used for his voyeuristic stares at the ants below.

  She used the chair to smash the window. It took a few attempts, but eventually it shattered.

  Arnold looked up at her.

  She was sure she made out the word please.

  She kicked him and he fell out of the window. His neck snapped, and he dangled there.

  Everyone in the street stopped.

  Some screamed.

  Some came from far away to see what was happening.

  They were all forced to watch as he hung until death, stuttering and grasping and reaching his arms out helplessly.

  She stood in the window behind him so they all knew who had done it.

  So they all could fear her.

  And, amongst the crowd, she saw him.

  Ryker.

  He met her stare and ran.

  But he ran into the village hall.

  She knew he wasn’t coming to find her.

  He’s going to the podium.

  He was trying to ensure she didn’t get to Boy.

  She wasted no more time.

  She turned and ran, retracing the steps she had snuck along to find Hades being murdered, hoping that Arnold was not lying, and that she was not too late.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  “Boy!”

  No point being subtle now.

  No point in anything but being loud and making her presence known.

  If he was on the podium, she wanted him to know she was coming for him.

  That he wasn’t alone.

  That he needn’t be afraid.

  She could see him already and it broke her heart. Not physically, of course, the stairs were steep and long, but she could fabricate an image of his face in her mind. Against her will, she saw his tears, his breakdown, his mortification—she saw him reciting their poem to himself, as if that would make a difference, until he’d recited it and recited it and she was still not there.

  He would be bound, awaiting the inevitable.

  He must be so scared.

  It must hurt so much.

  She stopped trying to resist the thought and used it instead, used it to fight the aching, to fight the fatigue the steep ascent caused.

  She could see the back of Ryker’s legs. He was faster than her, and he was getting to Boy quicker, and she had to speed up, had to use the adrenaline, use the rage.

  As she grew closer, she could hear Boy’s tears, his screams, his pleas.

  “Rosy! Rosy, please, where are you! Rosy!”

  It shattered her. Broke her. Destroyed her.

  She didn’t want to see any pain in him; she hated it—but this was beyond pain. He wouldn’t be able to understand. He’d thought he was safe here, that people were nice, that they let him stroke their puppies and let him say hello and taught him about body language and this—this he would not comprehend.

  As she neared the top steps, the sight of Ryker halted her.

  He stood there, blocking her way.

  Boy’s head turned, and he had to strain, but their eyes just about met. Circles and circles of rope bound him, so much he couldn’t move, couldn’t even shift his hand.

  “Rosy!” he screamed.

  “Boy…” she whimpered, and she cried, and he hated herself for it.

  Why did this have to be how things were?

  It was history repeating itself.

  It was the same problem she’d had.

  Separated by Masketes.

  Separated by Dalton.

  And now, separated by Ryker.

  The man who had introduced her to a com
munity where she could flourish, serve a purpose, and make a life worth living.

  She had already come to terms with that image fading, like a perfectly finished painting ready to hang on the wall only to rip it down and shred it, destroying any resemblance of what the image once was.

  Cia stopped.

  She paused, a few steps down from him.

  She had to think. Use her rage but use her mind as well.

  Ryker wasn’t like Arnold.

  He had been outside the walls; he had fought; he had seen the world for what it was.

  She had to be smart.

  “There’s no choice, Cia,” Ryker said. “I know you won’t take it, but I’m going to give you the opportunity to stop. To accept it. I know it’s tough, but this is how we live now. This is how our community works. We have no choice but to–”

  “Go to hell.”

  She took another step upwards.

  Readied her knife.

  Ryker sighed.

  “I’m stronger than you, Cia,” he said. “Remember our sparing in the gym? Remember how you lost? And that was me taking it easy on you.”

  Another step. She was three away.

  “That was me on a good day,” Cia said. “You’ve caught me on a bad one.”

  Ryker chuckled.

  As if it was a joke.

  As if it was all a joke.

  Another stab of aggression and Cia had to quell it.

  Two steps away.

  “Please, Cia,” he said. “See sense. If you want to be in our community–”

  “I don’t want to be in your community,” she said. “And once I have Boy back, I will make sure no one will ever be in your community again.”

  It was Cia’s turn to see anger meet Ryker’s face.

  “So you’ll make all those innocent people pay because you don’t like how things are done? They are people, Cia. Like you. People.”

  One more step.

  “People,” she said, slowly and spitefully, “are the worst. They are less deserving of life than those creatures. And I intend to do away with all of them.”

  She was being extreme; she knew it, but she could see her words crawling beneath his skin, pushing at it, provoking his fury.

  With a sudden breath, she swung the knife toward his throat.

  He caught her wrist.

  His grip was tight.

  So tight, she felt her hand go numb.