Group Hex Vol 1

by Andrew Robertson

  “I tried. Tell them.” Her labored breathing separates each word. “Tell them I’m sorry.” Her chest rises and falls one more time before stopping.

  “Mother?” I ask, grabbing her by the shoulders and lightly shaking her. “Mother!” I shake her harder.

  I close my eyes, but tears still escape my lashes. I wipe them away with the back of my hand. I’m not sure if I’m crying because she’s gone, or because I have failed to get her to grow enough. If anything, I am thankful that I can bring back enough fruit to last the village until the end of the season. But after that?

  The Mayor will know what to do, I think, rising to my feet.

  I look down at my basket, still wiping tears from my cheeks. My hands freeze in midair. The strawberries have turned black and are rapidly shriveling. I blink and the decomposing fruit disintegrates, leaving behind a pile of black sand. The same thing is happening to all the plants around me.

  Dark clouds of sand blur my vision as I stumble backwards a few steps before turning and breaking into a run. I pitch forward, falling to the ground and rolling before the basket across my chest stops me. I don’t give myself time to catch my breath. I start running.

  The heat of the sun is unbearable, and the air feels thick and heavy as I force my body to keep moving. The stone buildings of the village appear hazy to my watery eyes. The villager’s faces are a steady blur as I rush by. My presence does not go unnoticed, as I have returned without my carts. Whispered speculations trail after me as I run through the busy streets.

  “Where’s the Mayor?” I shout at the Baker, busy sweeping his storefront.

  “The Village Square!”

  I make a sharp left. My legs are burning. Sand flies up around me, burning my eyes and throat. It takes all my concentration to just put one foot in front of the other.

  When I reach the Square, the Mayor approaches me as I try to tell him what has happened between gasps for air.

  “Why have you returned without the food?” he says, pitching his words so low I can barely hear him. He uses his hands to smooth his slick dark hair to the side before resting them on his wide hips. He has never spoken to me in this tone before. It startles me. “The festival is tonight, in case it slipped your mind. Come back at sunset like you’re supposed to.”

  “She’s dead!” I manage to say in between gasps for air. My voice is too loud; it echoes off the surrounding buildings. I notice the villagers are beginning to trickle into the Square, watching us with wide eyes. “All the food is gone. Look!” I shrug my shoulder out of the strap and swing the basket to the ground. The Mayor leans forwards as I open it. He reaches inside and pulls out a handful of black sand. He opens his palm and lets it filter through his fingers until the wind carries the last grains away.

  The Square erupts with sound and motion.

  “What are we going to eat?”

  “She was the last one of ‘em left!”

  “We’re all going to die! All of us!”

  “Nothing will grow without her. Nothing!”

  The Mayor’s attention remains fixed on me. His chin tilts downward, eyes darkening beneath his hooded brow. It makes the hairs on my arm stand on end.

  “What’s this?” he asks, grabbing my hand and turning it over so that my palm is facing him. Red stains cover the tips of my fingers. The Mayor’s eyes narrow as he looks from them to me. The corner of his mouth twitches upwards. “Have you been eating strawberries, Elijah?” The words sound sickly sweet.

  “What?” I reply, staring at him. “You ordered me to get some from Mother.”

  The Mayor grabs hold of my chin and jerks my head to the side. His thumb trails the corner of my mouth, down my chin. The path the strawberry juice had taken hours before.

  “You did it, didn’t you?” he says, spraying my face with spittle. “You asked too much of her and now she’s gone!” He turns to the crowd, grabbing me by the front of my shirt. I can feel the energy of the crowd shift with each word. There is a large crowd now, and he is the center of their attention. I swallow hard. “Elijah the Glutton, the Murderer, has condemned us all to die!” The Mayor yells, making wild gestures with his hand.

  “No!” I cry out, struggling against him. “Why would you say that?” I have to shout to hear myself over the crowd’s outrage. “I have always brought back what you asked for. When you wanted two servings per person, I got Mother to provide.”

  “Quiet,” the Mayor snaps.

  “When you wanted grain to replace what the bugs had ruined, I roused the Mother in the middle of the night and brought you back twice as much!”

  “Stop. Now!” he hisses through clenched teeth. “It’s too late.”

  A rush of understanding overwhelms me. I want to strike him. Anywhere. But my entire body feels as though it’s paralyzed. The Mayor’s betrayal is almost as effective as poison.

  “I did everything you asked, Jacob!” I manage to yell. “I followed your orders!”

  “Enough!” the Mayor shouts, holding up a hand. As if it were a magnet, the crowd’s eyes lock onto it. They quiet, listening. “Elijah has taken everything from us. He deserves to die. We deserve to eat!” The villagers erupt in cheers and more taunts. He twists the material of my shirt with his other hand, holding me in place.

  “We all know the great legends of pigs and cows. This is no different.” The Mayor snaps his fingers. “Bring me a knife. We will have food tonight!”

  The crowd quiets. No one moves forward.

  The Mayor tightens his grip. “Go ahead. Pity this monster,” he yells, shaking me. “But know that he has none for your children! Will you choose to do nothing and watch them starve?”

  “I’ve done nothing wrong,” I call out, but no one will meet my gaze. The murmurs have increased in volume. Shouts soon echo around the square.

  The Mayor releases me. The villagers surge forward with outstretched hands and fury in their eyes. I scramble forward a few feet before they swarm me. I lash out with my limbs, striking anyone who touches me. There are too many of them. I am helpless. They tear off my clothes. Scratch my skin. Tear out handfuls of hair. There is dust and sand everywhere. It clings to my sweat-drenched body.

  “Stand back!” The crowd parts to reveal the Mayor. He holds up a long knife. The sun glints wickedly off its edge. The villagers fall eerily silent. “Hold him.” Hands clamp down on my wrists and legs. I twist my hips and shoulders. Thrash my head from side to side. The hands press down harder. Stilling me.

  The Mayor kneels down beside me. Puts his hand on my cheek.

  “Sorry, Elijah,” he says. The corner of his mouth quirks upwards. “But I’m hungry.”

  BLEEDER

  (excerpt from Chapter 5 of the novel ‘Bleeder’)

  Monica S. Kuebler

  Pain. That was the first thing I felt. It was eclipsing. It was all of me. Then came the cold. Bitter and unforgiving. Violent shivers rocked my body; my teeth chattered relentlessly.

  My left arm, the one I’d been lying on, was numb and unresponsive from lack of circulation. When I tried to move it, something dug into my wrist. My hands were bound behind my back. I shifted my legs; they were tied together too.

  Though my eyelids were as heavy as concrete pillars, I forced them open.

  It was dark. Why does it always have to be dark?

  Since I couldn’t see anything, I closed them again.

  Maybe it would be okay to sleep a little more, I reasoned with myself. I was so tired and sore that part of me wanted nothing more than to drift back into the unknowing bliss of unconsciousness.

  But I shouldn’t.

  As my awareness returned, so did the details of my situation. Raw, fresh grief blossomed in my chest.

  Fredrick was dead. And I’d been kidnapped, and gravely injured, by the feel of it.

  I tried to stretch my body out straight but my head and feet smacked into a thin but sturdy metal mesh, only identifiable because my boots were missing.

  Also, I was moving. Or rather, wh
atever the cage was in was moving.

  I concentrated on the motion and listened. The drone was dull but distinguishable. I was in a truck, a well-insulated one, like one of those refrigerated big rigs. That would account for the cold. Or would it?

  The pounding headache, raging fever and searing pain extending out from the base of my neck made it hard to think.

  I was almost certain, the wound – bite! – was infected. And it was all my fault. I had to try to be a tough girl and look what it had gotten me: a slow, painful death.

  I was debating whether I should stay quiet or call out when one of my captors noticed I’d woken up.

  “Boras – the girl, she’s with us again.” The man’s voice sounded far away as if he was speaking from the bottom of a deep well, but that didn’t stop me from wanting to correct him. Uh, I’ve been with you ever since you attacked and kidnapped me.

  When I failed to find the energy to form the words, I let myself drift as the men spoke.

  “Good,” said a husky voice more suited to voice-over work than crime. “Harck did an idiotic thing back there. Nearly got all of us killed. Still likely might.”

  “So what now?” the first man asked. He sounded younger than his companion. I guessed mid-twenties.

  “We talk to her.” My fever-addled brain warmed to that idea. I could lose myself in his rumbling cadence.

  “I’m not talking to that,” the younger man snapped as if the idea disgusted him. That was also fine by me: he wasn’t the one with the voice. That was the one I wanted.

  You’re in danger! my brain screamed, but it didn’t seem very important. I was cold and exhausted and the seeping neck wound completed the holy trinity of discomfort. You’re in shock! it tried again, still not breaking through the fog.

  “Fine, I’ll do it,” Boras said, “because apparently I’m the only one around here who cares to see next week.”

  The other man mumbled something unintelligible before stomping off to the far end of the truck. Boras, meanwhile, dragged what sounded like a metal folding chair over to the cage.

  “Hey, girlie,” he said. Why did they all have to call me girlie? It was seriously icking me out.

  When I didn’t reply, he continued, “You’re sick. But if you promise not to pull any stunts, I’ll clip your restraints and allow you to heal yourself. Do you understand me?”

  I didn’t. In fact, I was pretty sure I was hallucinating. No one in their right mind would think someone could treat a wound like mine by themselves. What I needed was a hospital.

  “Do you want to die?” he asked when I failed to acknowledge him.

  Did I? I was scared to look too deep within myself for an answer. What if I didn’t like what I found there?

  “Because you will.”

  I coughed, clearing my throat. “I need to see a doctor,” I rasped. “Take me to a doctor. Please.”

  “No can do, girlie, so you can stop putting on that act right now. You’re going to have to take care of this yourself.”

  “What are you talking about?” I said. Velvet voice or not, if he was going to spew nonsense at me, I might as well allow the soothing ocean of sleep to pull me back into its depths.

  “Your powers,” he said. “I’ll free you up so you can do your little ritual spell thing and heal that mess Harck made of your neck. “

  A course, pitchy giggle erupted from my parched throat, as if I was a lifelong smoker.

  “What powers?” I chortled, so delirious I was uncertain whether this was a dream or reality – either way, it was hilarious. “If you think I have powers, you either kidnapped the wrong person or you’re freakin’ insane. This isn’t some dumb comic book.”

  The chair squeaked. I still couldn’t see anything, but it sounded like Boras had stood up.

  “Anton, come here for a second,” he shouted, and a moment later a familiar set of stompy, impatient footsteps approached. Anton was the guy who wanted nothing to do with me.

  “What is it?” He sounded annoyed at being called back over.

  “She says she has no powers. Is it possible she doesn’t know what she is?”

  Anton chucked. “Don’t be a fool. It’s another trick.”

  “But what if it isn’t?” Boras said. “Do you think the king won’t kill us all if we fail to deliver her alive? Even if he doesn’t, how do you think we’ll be treated when it gets out that we’re the ones responsible for screwing up the most important royal manoeuvre in centuries? We’ll be pariahs, left to suck on rats until we die. So we damned well better consider the possibility that she knows nothing.”

  “Don’t be so dramatic,” Anton said with a sigh. “Cut her restraints and then watch her. See what happens.”

  Their conversation had taken on a murky quality, as though I’d drifted off on the couch in front of the television and snippets of its programming were invading my dreams.

  The rattle and pop of the lock on my cage opening pulled me a bit closer to lucidity, but it wasn’t until Boras flipped me over to cut the ties on my wrists that the agony of the motion yanked me rest of the way out of my fugue. I wailed, unleashing an unholy sound that echoed off of the truck’s metal walls and ceiling, and reminded me of the plaintive cry of a cat in heat.

  Then I was free. I tried to massage some feeling back into my left arm, while Boras retreated and snapped the lock back into place. He took a couple more steps, then I heard the tell-tale creak of his chair.

  He said nothing, but I knew he was watching me. Somehow. In the dark.

  As the minutes ticked by, the silence and the gentle rocking motion of the truck made it harder and harder to stay awake. A short while later unconsciousness claimed me once more.

  When I came to, everything was different.

  The first thing I felt – after my raging, angry wound, that is – was a cool breeze blowing over my already frosty skin. The air smelled fresh and crisp; it was likely what had woken me up. I was so cold but I’d dreamt of fire, that I’d been set ablaze a half dozen different ways: in bed while I slept, doused in gasoline at the public library, burned at the stake in some bygone century. I wondered if the nightmares were a symptom of the infection.

  When I opened my eyes, which were even more boulder-like than before, I saw I was no longer in complete darkness.

  I tilted my head to get a better look at my surroundings, but I could only crane my neck a little. Even the smallest movement was agonizing. If the initial attack had been the worst pain I’d ever experienced, this trumped it tenfold. The infection must be worsening.

  The light spilled in from some streetlamps outside. The truck was parked. Its rear doors wide open. All around my cage – actually a large metal dog kennel – stood my captors. I hadn’t noticed them at first; their black garb and drawn hoods melded them into the shadows.

  “Karn,” Boras said as yet another man climbed into the trailer. “You need to see this.”

  Karn’s boots pounded their way towards me, stopping just outside the cage.

  “You said she’d heal herself, sir,” Boras continued. “But as you can see, she hasn’t done anything.”

  “Curious,” said Karn. He was the one who’d led the assault in the cellar: Mr. Nose. I recognized both his voice and his imposing silhouette. “What do you make of it? Is she being stubborn? Is this self-sacrifice?”

  “I don’t know,” Boras said. “This is the first time I’ve encountered one of them. The king is the expert. Is it possible she doesn’t know what she is?”

  “I suppose anything’s possible,” Karn said. “If she won’t take care of herself, we must.”

  A burst of heated, hostile whispers broke out around the room. The troops disagreed with their leader’s decision.

  “You have your orders, Boras,” Karn snapped with a ferocious finality that shut them up. “We have one mission here and we will complete it. The rest of you, clear out. “

  The men piled out of the truck. None of them seemed to want to be near me any longer than they ha
d to be. Their commander followed them, slamming the double doors shut behind him, and casting us into darkness once more.

  “You sure you don’t want to do this yourself, girlie?” Boras asked as he unlocked my cage.

  “My name’s Mills,” I said. My mouth was so dry the words were practically inaudible. “Thirsty,” I choked out.

  Boras stepped away from the cage. When he returned, he pressed a bottle to my mouth. The cool liquid stung as it slid down my throat.

  “I need to get you up on that table over there,” he said when he pulled the bottle away from my lips. I couldn’t see the table, or where he was gesturing, if he was gesturing at all. “So don’t try anything. I don’t know what your game is, but I have orders to help you, so don’t make me regret it.”

  As soon as he started pulling me up, I knew I wouldn’t be able to walk on my own. Every time I tried to put any weight on my legs, they wobbled out from beneath me. Thankfully I didn’t need to. Boras lifted me up as if I was no heavier than a sack of feathers. When my head came to rest on his chest, I got another whiff of that sickly odor from back in the cellar. Too weak to turn away from it, I breathed through my mouth instead.

  Boras deposited me on an icy metal table. Cold and metal seemed to be key themes around here. He stretched me out on the slab face-down, then secured my hands and feet with what felt like leather restraints. I wanted to kick at him, fight back, but my limbs had become anchors, so I settled on growling.

  “You planning on making this difficult?” He asked as he tightened the last shackle.

  I wished I could, but I didn’t have the energy – until he began assessing the wound. Each poke and prod was a rusty nail hammered between my shoulder blades. I shrieked and bucked against the restraints with a strength and vigour I assumed long gone.

  Then I blacked out.

  My life was turning into a series of excruciating vignettes.

  I was still strapped to the table when I rejoined the world of the waking.

  The cold remained ever-present, as did the pain.

  The truck was stopped again, but this time, the rear doors were shut.