by Aral Bereux
Chapter 7
1ST MAY, 2018, 0000 HOURS.
CAMP 2.2.1.
Katherine Deveaux graduated top of her class the same year the New World Order came into its existence. She was eighteen then, and that was four years ago. Now, at the ripe age of twenty-two, she found herself sharing the bed with one of the most infamous men on the West Coast of the United States. She dared not refer to the NWO as that, though – the repercussions were huge, and she was constantly fearful Taris would discover her Rebel sympathies.
Katherine always had the ability to play things close to her chest. Her mother, rest her soul, had nicknamed her ‘Poker’ – sometimes ‘Pokerdot.’ It was a gesture to her pokerface for lies about raiding the cupcakes after bedtime, or flooding the floor trying to clean spilt food packets, after playing shops while her parents slept soundly.
She smiled at the memories – fond, beautiful memories that warmed her heart and touched her soul. They were the memories she lived for, safely locked away so no one could steal them.
But for him.
She watched him sleep beside her and the radiant smile that beamed moments ago faded into a frown. Her blue eyes twitched and narrowed; her pouty pink lips, stained with red lipstick, thinned into pressed lines. She deliberated the ruggedly handsome man who slept soundly on his stomach. One hand firmly grasped a knife under his pillow, waiting for an enemy who never had the courage to show themselves for who they really were.
Katherine was not a normal girl. She was the first to admit – though they labeled her a norm. Katherine was cunning. She knew the things in life that gave her comfort and the ones that caused her pain. She knew from experience how to achieve the things she needed for herself and for her sister. She had no choice; the New World Order had stolen her childhood in the blink of an eye. Her parents; butchered in the community library one sunny morning, because they read literature daring to criticize the impending Militia rule.
Then it was her against the world, protecting the only thing she had left, the one thing she would die for. The only thing that held any semblance and meaning was her one and only Sarah. She imagined Sarah’s eyes giving her a twinkle of bravery; it was all she saw until he rolled over and opened one sleepy eye.
He frowned – ever so slightly. It was visible by the moon casting its yellow haze through the drawn curtains. The light sheets, lazily draping him more than her, moved away as he touched her lower lip with his first finger, lightly tugging it down to a pout as he dragged it gently down to her chin. He took it in his grasp, firm and in control, and then leaned in to kiss her with his cool lips and wet tongue. Katherine dared to pull away, repulsed by his touch – but for the mission she was sent to complete, she let him go, let him roll her onto her naked back to make his climb over her more accessible. She faked her smile and let out a small groan of false pleasure. He liked it when she made her small noises; his hands moved lower with the rhythm and he made his own sounds as his hand abandoned the underneath of his pillow.
How easy for her to reach beneath his pillow and take the weight of his own knife into her hand. She envisaged it sliding into the crook of his back, perhaps severing the vertebrae as it entered the muscle, rendering him powerless to her. She would torment him as he lay in his own blood surrounded in the crisp sheets; have him begging for mercy, him calling her by her first and last names, instead of…
He whispered, ‘Sweetheart.’ He gave her left breast a squeeze before tracing the length of her side with his fingertips, down past her ribs and along her waist, where it curved deeply. He lingered across her leg before settling between her thighs, where he curled his fingers gently to caress her skin in silence. Her body released a sigh and he kissed her again with his tongue, tasting her with his insatiable drive.
She was his conquest.
Her real name unknown to him.
Would he tie her again to the bed, she wondered, as he circled the folds that made her shiver. It was after midnight; the fight had exhausted him. The day had been long and the hot bath relaxing. Taris collapsed onto the bed beside her in exhaustion, falling into a deep sleep almost instantly while she rubbed his tired shoulders and aching back.
A moan escaped from her parted lips and he echoed it with his own noise. She felt him against her leg. He rocked gently, brushing himself against her and waiting patiently for the final moan to escape. She arched her back, sighed, and grabbed his arm, clawing at the ancient markings that inscribed into his pale skin. It was their routine. Their dance.
He’d tire of her soon. She knew her time was running out.
He grabbed her waist and scratched her skin until it bled, and she whimpered. Her heart pounded against her chest as she opened her eyes and looked into his. His hand stopped. It froze where it rested, taking in her bold move against his watcher presence while his knee parted her legs; to place himself between them, and she felt the dampness as he slid along inside her. Katherine arched her back again and hooked her legs around his waist to meet with his rhythm and curb his temper.
No rope tonight. No handcuffs, no wire, no belt. Yet she still waited and anticipated for the act of cruelty to follow. It always did.
Maybe he’s too tired…
And the pain! She cried out from beneath his weight pressing roughly against her naked body. His slow suffocation moved into her limbs; clawing at her insides as he pushed harder to hurt her. Her chest, her arms, her legs, her face, felt his wrath as his eyes melted black. His hands circled her throat for advantage.
He raised himself higher, and a stifled cry broke away as she begged him to stop. His eyes danced with excitement at her panic, all the while grunting as her body gave way to his violence.
* * * *
Sergeant Sweetheart didn’t know it, but it would be the last night she’d spend in the camp. It would also be her last night with a man. Taris smiled at the very thought before he reached down and pinned her fighting hands to the mattress below them.
How he would make her suffer at the thought of the knife slicing though his back. How he would make her cry for the ultimate betrayal she had committed unto him.
How he would make her pay for the escape of his prized prisoner, Julianna Rae.
Sergeant Sweetheart...you stupid bitch.
Chapter 8
SECTOR #4.
A new earpiece sat inside her ear; invisible to the crowds she stood amongst, screeching in time with her steps and the bouncing scrambler pendant around her neck. The tracker inside her earpiece worked, Isis watched her over the CCTV and her knife pressed against her wrist. She tucked the pendant under her jacket again and the screeching stopped. Isis asked if she had anything causing the interference, and she answered with an emphatic no, their argument from the previous night continued between them.
People moved out of her way, not willing to argue with the scowl she gave to those who looked. The streets were busy and the crowds interfered with her mission’s short timeframe. The people didn’t understand her urgency. She hurried along the broken path on the side street. Bikes screamed by, hovers danced above the streets, bobbing and searching for their next prey, and Isis nagged in the form of her conscience about the security codes, Taris, and especially Caden’s offer. She regretted her stubbornness, regretted her misfortunes, which she seemed to inflict on herself, and Isis agreed.
‘If only you weren’t so stubborn,’ he said.
She shrugged her shoulders and studied the worn road and when he finished his tirade, she mentioned it was Isis himself and the Rebellion that held her in the Sectors. He’d laughed at the comment. A mocking, false bellied laugh, and had said, ‘Don’t be absurd,’ before ending their conversation again.
The exact location of the brothers and the limited knowledge of the latest comms didn’t help in her search. Usually Caden coded his next location into the rare comms he couriered and she’d handed that rare information over to the Militia. Isis had said that, too. So much for Isis playing nice guy. Save my ass only to kick it. She�
��d reminded him again the word of his choice was reckless.
Caden said you said I was reckless, and, by the way, handed the comms over? Handed them over, how dare you!
Isis had snapped back, calling her ‘reckless.’ He’d emphasized it with raised brows to sting.
Now she searched in the busy area of Sector Four, with Isis ignoring further earpiece communications. She abandoned the screeching, taking the earpiece out and shoving it into her pocket. The scrambler was returned under her black singlet, for it to bounce out again on a step over the filthy gutters.
The “someone” who might know, at the slightest chance, was the person she searched for. Isis gave rise to a small slither of hope. That someone, who lived in Sector Four, might help if she asked nicely. It was an impossible task to track the movements of a watcher if they didn’t want to be found, and Caden was elusive with his own clan in the Rebellion.
She pulled out the scrunched five-dollar bill Caden had tucked into her garter to study it. Caden’s hint at his location was a riddle to decipher. Telling her blatantly in writing to head east wasn’t his style. It wasn’t practical to establish his stronghold in the direction of Central Command, and the monopoly of processing camps. He was telling her to move west. His words scrawled in heavy ink, over a compass imprinted on the money. The word west rested on the east point of the compass. It was a clever thought – one she’d almost missed.
The west end was expansive countryside, undulating hills and woods, mountains and rivers. For a watcher who didn’t want to be found, the task on a tight deadline was impossible.
Julianna pushed through the village crowds. Sector Four housed the worst hit by the New World, who still possessed the instincts to survive. Locals were dangerous, with nothing to lose and everything to gain.
She ducked the crisscross of wires overlapping in the streets, draped with drying sheets, stained more from the water that washed them, than dirt. A woman crouched over a filthy, shit-infested gutter, another hid the illegal contraband they drank in their torn rags for clothes, and a child scrounged for leftovers with a rat, chasing the rat as it escaped with a moldy scrap of burnt bread. The water flowed along the gutters from their washing of clothes against the old steel washboards used a century ago. Knuckles bled, and women cried – most of their husbands dead.
Julianna lowered her head as a hover drone flew past. It didn’t compute the change in hair color. The black dye she used in the safe house last night, would buy valuable time. Everyone searching for her, searched for a blonde.
Last night had been messy for more reasons than black hair dye in a white bathroom. Her ribs hurt after healing, and Taris’s determination to hunt her down, terrified her and worried Isis. The humiliation from her escape would enrage his resent. Forgiveness wasn’t his nature, and the bond they shared, was her curse.
The New World Order arrived before the masses realized their society was changing. Pre-New World, Taris had been happy with her, and she him.
Then he changed.
His ambitions, and her reputation as strong-willed, hindered his chances to advance in the Militia. The Militia groomed him, the Council and Senate doted over him like a spoilt child, and she stood in his way.
Taris running his own camp didn’t surprise her. It showed the Senate still held hope for him. His scientific expertise and dictatorial attitude provided the Militia with a lethal weapon, and as she splashed more filthy water into her boots, she shuddered to think what happened to the prisoners behind his walls.
Isis narrowed his eyes when she mentioned it. He worried about the situation. If his entire face were visible, his lips would have pursed tight, too. Intelligence suggested Taris was Commander of camp 2.2.1, though supposedly should have been run by General Rosewalt. It displayed the ominous picture, with Isis suggesting she might serve the Rebellion well by remaining in-country – to study under a Master watcher.
It wasn’t a discussion she was entering into. The sheer weight of the suggestion purported madness, not sense.
Freakin’ asshole. He’d heard her curse, and returned it.
The hover drone followed from a distance, its eye blinking as she weaved through the people moving against her direction. Julianna crossed over the busy street, stepping onto the side lane. She didn’t see the wooden crate in the middle of the path and tripped over it. No one looked; she was just another face in the crowd lying on the concrete, staring blankly at the broken patterns of ground beneath her, waiting for her breath to return.
The hover drone had noticed. She stayed down, pressing her face against the ground, and waited. It hovered over her, its black disc spinning in the air while it probed, measuring core body temperature, noting distinguishable features – height and weight ratios, gender, species, and hair color. She wondered if they verified hair dye and brand. It hovered a little longer, before its next victim drew its attention.
It was a man, and at the sight of the drone, he started to run. She wanted to yell at him to stop, but it was too late. The hover’s interest was caught and it flew at him. The mechanical voice issued a warning to stop, but the man continued his flee. He didn’t look out of place or in the wrong. He dressed as the others in the crowd, and he carried a rolled-up Bulletin and a shirt in his hands. The laser shot a single blast as he turned into it, his eyes full of terror as it hit him between the shoulder blades. It knocked him face-first into the pavement; she could see the glasses he had worn, smashed into tiny fragmented pieces on the ground.
It was then she realized that the man shot down was an intellect. A free-thinker. The Bulletin leaflet danced on the wind and a second paper loosened, blowing sheets of Militia damnation across the street.
She scrambled to her feet. The Militia would be over the body in minutes, and she needed to be fast in leaving the street unnoticed. She stepped over the gutters, skimming the filthy water with her boots again, and turned onto the closest street away from the murder.
Militia ran past, two of them, with more across the street following in aggressive pace, holding out their stun batons and their firearms. The tips of her fingers flinched over her blade. When she felt it, she stretched her sleeves down, and did a double-take at the backs of the soldiers turning the corner with their weapons extended.
The address that Isis gave her of the Old Gatehouse wasn’t far. Since the takeover, it had developed into a drinking haven for those who remained hidden. A meeting place for those who dared to take the risk. Isis had warned it wasn’t for the uninvited.
She walked towards the sign hanging over the path in the distance. Its once flashing neon lights were smashed and missing and only the letters, ‘ATE US’ remained straight. They glared over her where she stopped. Isis’s warning looped in her mind. Uninvited, ATE US, Uninvited ATE US, tempting her to run, to abandon the idea and to search for Caden alone. Julianna’s stomach danced at the prospect of having her ass handed to her again for a second day running; the dance was getting a little old for her liking.
The sign hung precariously on rusted hinges and over the stairs leading to its entrance. They horseshoed below street level, to a stained glass door enclosed by concrete walls. Silhouettes of men in the frosted tavern windows sat at their tables. She ran her hands along the flaking black paint roughly covering the iron banister and took the first step.
She peeled more paint and rubbed it between her fingertips while she listened. It was quiet from where she watched through the glass door. An old man leaned over the counter inside, wiping it down, and others sat around tables with drinks in their hands, playing poker at eight in the morning. Creatures of habit. Watchers and card games – where there was one, there was usually the other. She half expected to see a thick waft of cigarette smoke rise from under the door, and plenty of alcohol for their addictive natures.
Her knife reassuringly pricked at her fingers as she swung the door open. A bell above it chimed, sweetly, echoing over the deathly still silence. The card game stopped, beer bottles lowered, and they st
ared as she approached the counter.
‘The door’s that way, sweetheart.’ The old bartender pointed. ‘We don’t want no trouble from yer.’
She stood at the counter. ‘I know. And don’t call me sweetheart.’
He threw the cloth down. ‘I said we don’t want no trouble, ‘ere?’ The bartender was grey around the beard; the corners of his eyes creased with his glare. His neck jutted out and a vein throbbed on its side.
‘I’m looking for someone, a friend.’ The mirror behind the bar reflected the men from the poker table moving up to surround her. ‘I’ll leave when you tell me where I can find him.’
‘We have no friends ‘ere, missy.’ He pointed to the door. ‘I’ll tell yer one more time, there’s the door. We can’t help yer kind.’
‘What kind would that be?’
She dropped her knife into the palm of her hand, still concealed by her sweater and jacket.
‘The kinds who bring in Militia-issued weapons to our space. The kinds who are asking too many questions.’
‘You’re a watcher, then. I need to find Caden Madison and his brother. They’re in trouble, I have to warn them.’
‘Cliché,’ the counter man said. ‘Don’t know who yer talking ‘bout. Everybody’s in trouble these days.’ He paused and began clearing the counter. ‘Don’t know ‘em, don’t care for ‘em, now get out while I’m asking yer nicely.’ His eyes flickered.
The men in the reflection closed in. She pulled her knife, twirling it between her fingers before stabbing it into the wood grain of the countertop.
‘My whole goddamned life is a cliché right now.’
The man watched the handle shudder back and forth, quivering under the force slammed into it, and his eyes narrowed.
‘I’m unarmed, but I can add a notch to the blade if you piss me off enough. Now, Caden Madison...his camp is in for an ambush by Militia and I’m done playing nicely.’
