The Monster (Unbound Trilogy Book 2)

by J. D. Palmer

  I run a hand along the stubble on the side of my head, gingerly probing the cut that winds its way back behind my ear. It’s a dull throb now, the pain helping me focus myself as I wait for Harlan and Theo to return. And as I plan for what to do when they arrive.

  I’m content being used as bait. To play the part of the damaged girl, too traumatized to cause any problems. It pleases me knowing that this isn’t true, anymore. For the most part. And I’ll have to hope the others can see what I’m doing.

  People will die.

  So be it.

  Maybe this should bother me. Maybe I should be bothered more about what happened in the last forty eight hours. A lot of death. A. Lot. Of. Death. People met and befriended. People met and murdered. People who I didn’t get a chance to know before their time on this earth was over.

  But I don’t care. I’m more bothered by the people outside. I listen to the girls chatter, about things they miss and things they used to do. Phones and computers. Fast food, of all things. I pity them, even as I’m filled with disgust. They are stuck in an old way of thinking. They haven’t awoken to the true nature of things, haven’t seen the world for the beauty as well as the horror.

  The world that was. They talk of nothing else, it seems. How everything was documented. Or photographed. Or put on social media. They wonder if that’s all gone now, or if it could be recovered. Resurrected. As if that’s important.

  I pity them, even as I recognize the pangs of jealousy.

  I spent my whole life waiting for someone to take a picture of me. Tag me in a group photo. Just hanging out. Me and my family.

  “You need, like a toothbrush, or some face cream, or anything?”

  One sticks her head into the tent and asks me in a voice far too loud.

  “No.”

  “Gotcha.” And she winks and cocks her finger at me, an imaginary gun firing as she smiles.

  You have no idea.

  She returns to her friend and I hear whispers, then titters, as if there was something funny to be found in our brief encounter. As if we are still girls in high school clawing and pecking at each other in some hormonal-driven attempt to establish a hierarchy. I remember those days all too well. Odd to find them here.

  There’s this universal feeling that we’re better. That we’re stronger. Perpetrated by Harlan. He wouldn’t have us think anything less of ourselves. I think.

  And I don’t think we could… Think less. We’ve been through a lot. That we’re still here is meaningful.

  But it’s not always accurate. Theo thinks of me as a pure woman. A pure woman defiled and tormented and now…

  I try not to think about what he sees now. But I see his devotion. And I love him for it. But it’s a devotion to put me back together again. The female Humpty Dumpty. To protect me. Fuck, he has protected me.

  But I’m not who he thinks I am.

  And I can’t convey that to him. Or I won’t. I could, for lack of better words, spell it out for him.

  I never had a big brother.

  Am I twisted, wrong for wanting to hang onto it?

  Eesh, I’m drunk.

  Pike’s head pops up and he looks outside. A couple seconds later I smell cigarette smoke. Sheila’s derisive laugh breaks the silence not too far away from my tent. I wonder who she has found, at this time of night, to pick on. She is angry. Something I understand. Sheila gets the harshness of the world. The strong live and the weak survive. But to her those rules should be concrete. How dare they make exceptions? When we die she will fuck death and tell him how bad he sucks at his job.

  Theo and Josey try to get her talking, sometimes, after a long day of walking and a bottle of some liquor or another has made an appearance. They’re curious… Some of the survivors still wear the remnants of their past, the tattered clothing of old personalities, old habits. Not Sheila. And so they all try, however quietly and hushed, to figure out what she was like before “this.” Is she the same?

  Probably. Hard to imagine her any other way.

  But I was different.

  Different than what any of them might think.

  And I don’t want to tell them.

  I don’t want to tell them.

  I don’t want to tell him.

  When you’re passed around a lot, you pick up on human behavior. You notice the little things, the tics, the way people stare or don’t stare, the way they remark or stay silent, the way they touch…

  My mind un-focuses and I am fourteen. I sit across from Jim Bob and Hilda, both grandparents in their sixties. Retired. But fit. Still mobile and lucid and wanting to give a home to a wayward child. A discarded child in her early teens.

  And they talked to me. They asked questions and, of course, I had a rep from the city there to observe. But it was when Jim Bob asked if I needed any new clothes.

  I knew.

  The way you do.

  I had become pretty. I didn’t know what to do with it. I hadn’t known anyone long enough to really talk about it. But the looks changed. The glances, the way my representation from the state emphasized the word “problematic.”

  I realize that people spend a lot of time ignoring the unwritten languages thrown their way… Body language and sideways glances and smiles that mean anything but mirth. When people stare at you and when people stare at anything but you.

  But I understood.

  And, to my shame, I loved it.

  Forgive me for being a teen, a young teen, who had never been loved. I thought I saw a way into staying. STAYING. So I’d play into the attention. And someone, I’m assuming the wife, would make a phone call, and I’d be shipped elsewhere.

  You use what you have. And when you’re young… It’s desperate. And then apparently it calms until you’re seventy. Then you’re desperate again. Desperate to make a human connection.

  So I’d sidle up to potential dads. I’d wear halter tops and I would talk about dance when, to be honest, I just wanted to talk about how I wanted a dog.

  I wanted to be loved that FUCKING bad.

  I don’t like who I was before.

  I was so far behind.

  I never had a boyfriend.

  Fuck, I hadn’t really had a friend, unless you called the case lady who looked out for me for four years a friend. But it’s not the same. It’s not the same. It’s not.

  I existed in a permanent form of waiting. Waiting for my first… Prom? First… Date? First… Family?

  Purgatory manifest.

  I waited, and I struggled. Not really, as it turned out, because I was in school and didn’t have it all… bad. But I couldn’t let go of the fact that I had been forced to wait my whole life.

  For nothing.

  And then I received a crash course in just how bad it could be.

  I was taken by a man who wanted to be a father and a lover at the same time. I was taken by a man who kept me hidden from the world while telling me everything that was happening in it. I was raped, and tortured, and coddled, and loved, and choked.

  I killed.

  I killed him.

  I killed it.

  Where was I?

  I received a crash course on… everything.

  I am angry, but not like Sheila. I share her rage at the injustice of the world. But my fury also comes from fear. In many ways I’m no different than the dog who growls at every hand, not knowing the difference between the one that pets and the one that beats.

  I hold onto my anger, for it not only brought me back, but it allows me to carry on. To survive. But now, after today… The flames of my ire have subsided to the glow of hot coals. I’m just tired. And worried. Worried, rather than fearful. And one doesn’t have anger at the winds that howl. One doesn’t bemoan the heat of the sun or the brightness of the moon. One endures, or one does not.

  I am broken. This, I know. I am a monster. A broken, silent… suddenly horrified… monster.

  Where was I?

  Pike moves farther up onto my lap, eyes staring up at me with worr
y. As if he can see the dark spiral of my inebriated mind. I close my eyes and try to steady myself, fingertips resting on Pike’s belly as it slowly rises and falls in a steady, comforting rhythm.

  Okay. Okay.

  Everyone looks at each other, looks and tries to see what came before. Is the person weaker? Stronger? Warped? Too much the same?

  I became who I was meant to be. I finally belong. I belong.

  I belong.

  Two words that I can say unequivocally. I have a family now. Orphans. Like me.

  And I don’t… need.

  I don’t need to break things, or steal. Or clamor for attention.

  These survivors… These… Warriors… are enough.

  I love. Even if I haven’t before.

  I know it.

  I don’t care that I’ve never done it before.

  Everything is new…. A wonder.

  And I am calm. I am calm.

  NOT SILENT.

  Placid.

  I am…

  Black and white.

  Harlan worries so much. Worries… And I know this is from John, about his humanity. He thinks he is a monster. He isn’t.

  I’d know. I would fucking know.

  Fuck, I’m drunk.

  I can kill now. They try to get to know what we were before… Fuck, everyone was scared of death. Of killing. We’ve all changed.

  For me, I will kill to protect my family. I will kill to protect myself. And I don’t feel……….. Remorse.

  Remorse is a word that I feel needs to be separated into twenty.

  Regret.

  Sadness.

  Penitence.

  Guilt.

  These are words you equate with remorse.

  I don’t have them anymore.

  HARLAN | 17

  I RIDE IN the car. Silent. Still. And the men in the front seat don’t say a word. When I approached at daybreak they looked surprised. Perhaps that I was back so soon.

  So soon?

  It had been less than a day. A day in which an eternity of horror had happened. Another day to add to the rest. Days that I won’t forget. Perhaps if I have enough of them they will blend together. Dissipate. Cancel each other out. Or perhaps I’ll just go mad.

  They don’t remark about the absence of Theo. I’m covered in blood and soot. Hair and body burnt. Clothes burned or stained or gone.

  Words are not needed.

  So we drive in silence. And I almost sleep. Doze. But not quite. I simply enjoy the time in between dark moments. The hours in which I have some small control, or at least comfort, of nothingness.

  It’s over far too soon. We pull into the camp. A camp that’s almost the same. Except this harmless animal has sprouted fangs. Guns and dark looks.

  I guess I wasn’t wrong.

  We stop and the men are anxious to get out of the car. To get away from me. To report to their leader.

  The car is in an empty area. Empty, but surrounded. Cyrene approaches, her ladies-in-waiting flowing behind and around her. The men gather around the taillights of the car. A yin and yang of solitude.

  I get out, stretching my limbs as I move. I roll my neck up and turn my face into the sun. As if it, instead of water, can rinse me of the layers of blood and grime that coat me. And I stand like that, waiting for her to speak. As if I, for once, am the one communing with unseen forces and her the mere mortal.

  “You have returned. This makes me happy. But… Your friend?”

  I turn my gaze to her. At the edge of the group Beryl, Josey, and Sheila, are escorted to join the circle. I shake my head.

  She grimaces, as if this truly injures her. “I’m so sorry. He struck me a good man.”

  “The best.”

  Sheila and Josey look shocked. Incredulous. Beryl doesn’t meet my eyes, her head still facing the ground. Arms wrapped around herself.

  What happened here?

  My anger, kept in check, bubbles close to the surface. “What did—”

  “Were you able to complete your task?” she interrupts. A queen speaking to a knight. Knowing he’d only return if the deed was done.

  I pull the paper towels from my pocket. Spotted with blood. I slowly unwrap them. Pull out the flap of skin, the ink stark on the pale scalp. I hold it up, show it, before tossing it at her feet. “It’s done. Now we will leave.”

  She nods, not bothering to look at the flesh at her feet. “Blood has been paid.”

  I’m almost fooled. Just for a second. My hope that it will be this easy overriding my reason. But none of the people move. None make a way for us to go… anywhere. Not to our car. Not away from here.

  “But…” Cyrene raises a finger. “I’ve been told that you did more than just kill this man. I’m told you set fire to their town. That you have potentially brought ruin…” She trails off. Hands go to her head and she grimaces dramatically. Her coterie step forward in concern. Silence as they watch her. Slowly, she drops to a knee. “A child. A woman. Anger. They come for us. Vengeance. Cold. Fire. Bees. Crows. Bones. Birds. They come.”

  The women around her try to help her up. She waves them away, forcing herself to her feet. “It has been seen. You have brought their wrath upon us.”

  “Lies. They believe we came from the north.”

  She hisses at me. “It has been seen.” Slowly she gathers herself. Makes a show of recovering. “I will require another service of you…”

  There it is. The craving for power. The way in which she works. The lure, the trick, the wrapping of herself around someone. Once she knows how to have power over someone, she keeps it at all cost. And that cost for me is Beryl.

  “My binoculars are in the car.”

  She looks at me quizzically, sensing the lack of surprise. “Why should I need them?”

  I turn and point to a distant hill. “You’ll want to look.”

  With a flick of her finger a man trots to the car and brings out the binoculars. She doesn’t break eye contact with me as he hands them to her, doing her best to divine my intentions before bringing the lenses up to her face.

  I hope Theo had enough time. C’mon Theo…

  Only the slightest parting of her lips, the slight exhalation of breath as she finds the target.

  “We picked him up yesterday. I’m surprised that you didn’t notice he was missing.”

  She lowers the binoculars, tossing them behind her to one of the men before stepping closer to me. “You think to use my father as some sort of pathetic blackmail?”

  I give her a smile. “You didn’t foresee that? Surprising.”

  She spits in my face, the benevolent facade fading away in an instant. “You think just because you have my father that I won’t kill you all?”

  Cyrene stalks back to her group, pausing in front of Beryl. A finger gently lifting her chin as she makes a show of pulling her close in an awkward embrace. She fondles her face. Beryl does nothing. Cyrene smiles at me over her head, triumph in her eyes, before roughly shoving Beryl backwards. A man catches her, and he holds up a knife, brandishing it smugly. Cyrene looks to me, arms held out wide. “You are so lost. So simple. You have no power here.”

  “No.” I can feel myself starting to shake. Suppressed rage and exhaustion and the desire to kill her and be done with this utterly stupid scene. “You are the fool. You misjudge me. And worse, you misjudge us.” I raise my voice. “You don’t know who we are.”

  I don’t see the movement but I hear the sound it makes as Beryl’s knife plunges into the thigh of the man holding her. She whips it out and holds it to the throat of the person to her left. Sheila whips her head back, cracking it into a man standing a hair too close. She puts her hand on his gun, a smile on her face, and I hear Cyrene whisper “no.” Sheila takes his gun and drops to a knee, scanning the crowd. She shoots once, red blossoming above the knee of a man foolish enough to rush her. Josey, in his relaxed way, finds it all too simple to take the pistol away from the stunned man next to him.

  And then a silence in which the
y don’t move. None of them. Because as Cyrene turns to look I pull the odd, crooked blade from my hair and hook her throat. I reel her back and into me, rough, and I pull the knife up so she has to stand on her tiptoes. A small trail of blood runs down over her collarbone. But I still pull. I pull until I feel the moment that she knows who is in charge of this moment.

  “You knew,” I whisper. “You knew about the child. About the town. You knew. And you think there are no consequences?”

  I’m holding her too tight to let her speak. Gods I want to kill her. To wash this dusty road with her blood. And I know I wouldn’t feel a bit of remorse.

  A boy’s blue eyes look up at me from in front of Cyrene. The blue blanket and the pajamas covered with trains. “Why?” He says.

  I close my eyes to him. Feel the moment. Feel the thud of Cyrene’s heartbeat fast against my hand. The hand that holds the knife. Count the people in my mind. Count how many more will have to die if I spill Cyrene’s blood.

  But what if you don’t? What about those consequences?

  I wonder what Mickey would do. What John would do. Mostly I wonder what is the right thing to do.

  Kill her. Kill them all.

  That’s what I want to do. Is it right? No. Is it wrong? No. Burn the field to get rid of the weeds. Kill them to save others from their devices. Theirs? Or just her?

  Kill her. But what comes after? Blood. Blood and more blood. Do I care anymore?

  No. Yes. No.

  Yes.

  I want to, someday, be able to look my own child in the eyes. And I don’t want him to be afraid of what he sees. I want to hold onto the small, barely-lit coals of humanity that are still inside of me.

  “Put all of your guns in the trunk of this car. Now. Or she dies.”

  They do. They file past us, escorted by my friends, and suddenly they are the helpless, harmless, pathetic wastrels that we first encountered. Except for the angry eyes. The eyes that look away from mine, that drop their gazes after looking into my face.

  I shove Cyrene to the ground. “Your father will be let go tonight. First sign that we are followed, I kill him.”

  A croak. A laugh from the queen on the ground as she holds a hand to her throat. A laugh as she looks at her own blood on her fingers. “We will see each other again, Harlan. It has been seen.”