The Bone Roses

by Kathryn Lee Martin

  “You’re not usually this reckless. Jumping into the square to fight someone like Henrick. Brave, but also extremely risky and could have gotten you killed.” Sadie pulls back the goat hair above the damning Crops number and dabs the wound with a cloth. “It’s because of Matthew, isn’t it?”

  I hiss at the sting, both feet bracing against the tile floor.

  “I said I don’t want to talk about it.” And I don’t. I did it because I can’t lose another family member to the Kingdom. Especially not one like Sadie. I have other problems right this second though. One that’s halfway back to his base to swing at us again.

  “Something’s on your mind.”

  “No.”

  “You can tell me. I promise not to tell Tracker or even Frank.”

  The cloth again dabs at the wound. Fresh blood replaces what’s wiped away, turning the fabric bright red and bringing tears to my eyes.

  I try to focus on the small painting hanging on the wall. A white stag stands in a snowfield. One long, slender leg bends, as if pointing to the ridge behind it. Its head is raised, a pair of rich, cobalt-blue eyes staring into my soul. The stag’s silver antlers curve high against the gray sky as snow falls around it.

  Sorrow makes me look away.

  Matthew painted that picture. He’d take his sketchbook with us and capture the animals on paper. He was always good at that sort of thing when he wasn’t helping on the farmstead.

  Sadie notices me looking. She places a hand on my shoulder and gives it a reassuring squeeze.

  I can trust her. She’ll understand. She always knows what to do when I come to her with a problem. This time should be no different.

  “Henny said something to me,” I finally whisper. “Something about the truth.”

  She stops cleaning the wound. A haunted look creeps across her face.

  “And what exactly did he say?”

  “He knew Matthew’s name.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “Both names. He knew them. Said if I knew the truth, I wouldn’t think so highly of him anymore. That he’s been lying to me about something.”

  Sadie sighs. “It’s not like you to let yourself be bothered by the enemy’s words. You and I both know Hyperion’s watchdogs lie.”

  I want to believe those words. I want to believe them more than anything. Henny was convinced there was something important I don’t know, and it involved Matthew.

  “I know, but, Sadie, I just don’t know. What if Matthew’s murder was more than that?”

  “Oh Rags.” She places a hand on my shoulder. “It was an unfortunate accident.”

  “There are no ‘accidents’ in the Kingdom. He had two choices for that bullet, Sadie. One of us deserved it, but he took Matthew instead. I want to know why.”

  She hands the bloody cloth to me. “Here, hold this over the wound.”

  “It doesn’t make sense.” I press the cloth over the bleeding gash. “He never did anything to anyone. It wasn’t him raiding the settlement—he never set foot in one of Hyperion’s military bases. He never hurt anyone in Hydra.”

  Sadie pauses, the small snow-packed icebox by the sink open. “Rags, this is not your fault. No one could have known.”

  “We should have. It’s my job to make sure no one gets into Rondo. That we stay safe from the other rustlers and Hyperion.” Tears burn my eyes but don’t fall. “Last night and today shouldn’t have happened. I failed, and Matthew and a lot of other people paid the price. I almost lost you today too.”

  “Rags . . . What you did was very brave. Reckless, but brave and I’m thankful beyond words for it, but this isn’t your fault. You couldn’t have known.”

  “He asked me to run away with him, Sadie,” I whisper, close my eyes, a single tear dampening my cheek. “Yesterday—at the storehouse. Leave Rondo behind for good.”

  “Oh Rags.” She closes the icebox.

  My chest tightens. “We were going to leave Rondo. Find a safe place, a better place to start over. And then come back and get those closest to us so you could all be safe too. For a brief, small moment, Sadie, I had a chance at a future.” I look at her. “Something other than dying a rustler’s death. But that’s gone now.” My hand trembles. “Henny took it away.”

  “I’m so sorry.” She gathers me in her arms, holding me close. “I’m so, so sorry.”

  “What do I do, Mom?” the word slips. I’ve never called her that out loud before.

  Her grip tightens.

  “I wish I knew, sweetie.” She trembles, trying to hold back her own tears. “But we’ll figure it out. I promise.”

  We don’t say anything for what feels like minutes. Sadie slowly removes her arms from me. Her gentle hand lifts my fingers away from the wound. Burning cold replaces them as she rests some ice against it. “Does Tracker know?”

  “No.” He’d be hurt if he found out. I have duties here that take priority over anything else, none of which involve running off with the preacher’s son, much as he liked Matthew. And thanks to Henny, those duties will be mine for the rest of my life.

  The sharp, acidic rubbing alcohol odor fills the air. The ice lifts away for a moment, the numb wound cleaned again.

  “I won’t tell him.” Her fingers chase something around on the table. “But I want you to do something for me.”

  She dips the item into the rubbing alcohol a few times. A heavy pressure stings the wound.

  “What?” I force my eyes shut, praying she’ll hurry.

  The needle jags in and out, her skilled fingers working in steady rhythm, knitting my flesh together. After several seconds, the thread draws taut.

  “Don’t die.”

  It sounds like such a simple request. That’s like telling the snow to stop falling. It’s as easy as it is impossible. Yet I can’t bring myself to tell her that I can’t promise her that.

  Deep down, I think she already knows.

  I open my eyes. Shivers wrack my body as she ties the thread and trims it.

  She winds a cloth bandage around the wound. Her dark-brown eyes forgive and plead for me to offer her some comfort. Even if my words will only help her to sleep for a night. I owe her more than I could ever honestly offer.

  “You can’t kill a ‘witch.’” I tell her. “Hydra hasn’t managed to. Hunter and Rondo couldn’t even do it. What makes you think Hyperion’s luck will be any better?”

  A thin smile graces her lips. She finishes tying the bandage in place. “He’s bigger than you are, for one.”

  “Yeah?” I slip the jacket back over my shoulders and give it an extra tug to set it in place. “Say that again when his precious Kingdom is little more than a garden of ashes.”

  Sadie offers a polite, encouraging nod and collects her sewing kit. The cupboard door taps against the paneled wall.

  “Just be careful, Rags. Don’t make us mourn you too.”

  It’s quiet permission to leave.

  She doesn’t follow me from the kitchen. I feel bad about leaving her under these terms. Even though she hasn’t said it, she doesn’t approve. Never has. If it was up to her, I wouldn’t be a rustler at all.

  But it’s not up to her and never will be.

  I don’t look back as I walk by Frank, who offers a sad smile, no doubt having overheard. He’ll keep quiet. He’s always been good about that sort of thing when I talk to him about my old life sometimes.

  The door squeaks on its hinges, warmth replaced by raw mountain air.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I cut across the backyard to the woodpile reinforcing Frank’s chain-link fence. Blocks of wood clack and shift under the snow-covered tarp. My knees scramble over the pile’s top and the hidden chain-link fence pressed up against it.

  The old “road” from Rondo’s glory days narrows.

  A knot twists in my stomach to match the exhaustion starting to creep in. The brick walls close around me.

  I slip over the packed snow and ice from the building’s crumbling roofs, emerging behin
d the church cemetery. I hop the low stone wall and bolt for Witherwood Lane.

  The air is thick with a smoky haze. Rondo’s been devastated. We’ll be fortunate if even half of us survived today. That won’t so much as make a dent in anything he throws at us. This is bad—really bad.

  I reach the farmhouse in record time . . . and find a war zone.

  Drawing a long, slow breath, I tiptoe over the splinters riddling the floor. Puddles of water saturate the kitchen floor, no doubt from the snow that blew in while we were gone. From the look of it, some of it even managed to make it to the living room, held back only by the smoldering woodstove’s fleeting warmth. The kitchen tile will be fine, but the hardwood is already starting to warp.

  Tracker’s gonna be pissed when he sees this. I place a hand on the doorframe and survey the living room.

  They tore what few pictures we had from the shelves and sprinkled the shattered glass across the floor. Our lamp didn’t fare much better, having been thrown from its small wooden stand. Knife marks mar the small table beside Tracker’s rocking chair; its drawer removed and left lying upside down on the braided rug. The bookshelf was cleared, what few precious books the K. C. didn’t have time to grab and burn scattered. Even the couch looks like it’s been thoroughly searched.

  The K. C. didn’t just go looking for things. They completely violated our house from top to bottom and then some; upstairs is probably worse.

  My left foot swipes across the hardwood, clearing several broken photo frames away from the door. Kneeling, I run my fingertips over the floorboards until I find the one with the uneven groove in it.

  Good. None of them tampered with this. I work my short fingernails under the slightly raised edge. It takes a few tries before I manage to lift the board away from the others, revealing the most valuable tool I don’t own.

  Its stock is a warm, dark-cherry color inlaid with tiny silver vines not too unlike the gold ones on Henny’s rifle. Mine are smaller, less pronounced than his, but still visible to anyone who dares get close enough for a quick glimpse. They are the trademark symbol of the Damascus series, along with the small, golden hare branded on the stock’s left side above the platinum trigger.

  I rest the rifle across my knee and ensure it’s loaded.

  This rifle’s not sniper grade like Henny’s though. The barrel is shorter. The scope not as fine as the one on his despite having infrared capabilities and limited night vision. It’s lighter and handles more like a normal semi-automatic Kingdom Corps carbine, but it’s also a Damascus, far more accurate and advanced than other rifles. It’s not mine though and won’t be until Tracker feels I’ve earned the right to call it my own.

  I reach into my pocket and withdraw the bone roses. My thumb worries them against my palm. Henny knows the “truth” as he so claims. There is only one truth in Rondo at the moment.

  He’s a threat and rustlers handle all threats.

  The bone roses return to my pocket. I slip through the ruined kitchen, grab my goatskin gloves from the countertop and head into the cold.

  Gunshots wane to a distant, sporadic popping of Rondonian carbines from what little “militia” we still have. The falling ashes mix with snow over Witherwood Lane, pushed out over the snowfield by an eastern breeze.

  The ground slopes just beyond the cottage’s woodpile. In the distance, snow drifts curl over sagging chain-link. From the hilltop the snowfield resembles a frozen labyrinth. The trail snakes around warehouse shells, their roofs collapsed, walls partially felled by a combination of Rondo’s citizens desperate for anything of use and the brutal elements.

  Two-thirds of the way across the snowfield, the trail splits in a clumsy fork at a sparse pair of genetically altered, hybrid “millow” trees. Their sweeping gray branches dangle like a dead willow’s and massive, twisted maple roots embed in the snow. Left goes to farmer Addison’s farmstead and the Western Ridge. Right takes you uphill to the North Ridge and the anthracite mines.

  My trail is even smaller—a half-buried footpath midway down the slope. The endless snowdrifts collapsed most of it but that doesn’t stop me.

  Several towering pines border the snowfield and form a natural path, offering some relief from the drifts. The snow is littered with broken branches. Kingdom Corps boot prints flatten the terrain.

  I shoulder through the needle-laden branches. Snow shakes free from the upper canopy, snapping twigs and landing on my head. I hold back a small growl and continue moving. Not far into the forest though, a sudden, swiftly moving brushing sound disturbs the nearby undergrowth.

  My fingers tighten around the rifle stock.

  The brushing intensifies. Faster. Stronger.

  I reach for the rifle’s safety, every sense on alert. That doesn’t sound good.

  In an instant, pine branches heavy with snow explode in a brown and white flurry. Cloven hooves thunder and rip snow high into the air. With a shout, I scramble sideways in a frantic effort to avoid being kicked but it’s not enough as the terrified doe collides with my shoulder.

  I roll over, elbow deep in sticky snow, and watch the creatures bound through the forest. Their white tails flag in the air. The small doe herd makes no effort to stop and soon vanishes. I push myself onto my knees.

  Even when the wolves moved into our territory, I never saw a herd that spooked. I retrieve the rifle and continue trudging through the forest, looking over my shoulder for signs of what spooked the deer.

  Sharp wind rattles the forest around me. I hug the buckskin jacket closer to my body and try not to shiver. This place gives me the creeps sometimes.

  A lone boulder, glazed with ice, marks an invisible intersection of natural deer trails and a labyrinth of exposed, twisted roots and upturned hybrid millow trees. A loud clang followed by a metallic ping rattles the air. I pause, every muscle going rigid at the sudden sound. For a moment, I listen, eyes drawn to a nearby branch. It quivers and shakes but it’s not the wind moving it. No. This is something else.

  A heavy growl canvases the forest. I press my back against the nearest tree trunk and clutch the rifle tighter. That doesn’t sound like any animal I’ve ever heard. I look back.

  Nothing.

  The sound weaves around the tree trunks, louder now.

  I part some pine needles with the rifle barrel. Slowly, as if stalking a winter buck. Each footstep breaks the snow’s surface with hardly any sound.

  The clanging hesitates.

  I stop, one foot hovering above the ground. Dull gray light spills through the thick branches as my fingers part the brittle needles, revealing a nightmare.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Kingdom industrial backhoes creep back and forth at the gully’s heart.

  Their treads grind and squeal through the cloudy mountain stream. A metal claw swings the old oak log Matthew and I used to sit on off the ground. Large muddy gashes mar the embankment where our favorite squirrel family lived. Their home’s now a broken pile sticking out of a snow heap.

  I think I’m gonna be sick.

  Our favorite place is being destroyed right in front of me. Those horrid machines show no mercy as our log splinters as it lands on the pile.

  A soldier runs up from the rapids. He holds a hand up. One of the backhoes grinds to a halt at the stream’s center. Out leans a K. C. member.

  I shelter under a pine’s shaggy branches and duck into the snow.

  The soldiers exchange looks before he leans back into the machine. It belches oily black smoke and creeps backward.

  More K. C. are situated farther up the gully where the deer bed. Their thickets are gone, replaced with a series of thin metal poles stretching out of the gully and into the Western Ridge where the Millowwood Forest takes over. A metallic, chain-link net strings between them.

  A fence? Why would they need a fence?

  The first K. C. soldier once again runs to the one in the backhoe, waving his arms. This time he makes a swift slashing motion. The gully goes quiet.

  Its master sl
oshes into the water. The K. C. face the rapids.

  I rest the rifle across my knee and lean closer.

  One soldier raises his arm in the beginnings of a salute but doesn’t complete the motion. Instead, he holds it there. Watching. Waiting.

  The sound of a horse’s hooves fills the air. A familiar stallion, black hide frosted with ashes, lifts its legs high. Snow cakes his feathers as he glides on the stream bank.

  A low growl rumbles in my throat. I balance the rifle and peer through the scope.

  Henny fills the cross hairs.

  Soot smudges his pale face like he wiped it away in a hurry. His jacket and olive-green pants are coated in ashes. His blond hair hangs in a loose ponytail, strands wildly drifting every which way in the breeze. He twists the reins taut.

  Those awful amber eyes remain fixed ahead, not so much as looking at his men. He halts the spirited horse in front of the first soldier.

  No one from this division dares ask what happened to him.

  He pans the area before finally staring down at the man. “Estimated completion on this fence. When?”

  His deceptive, soft voice carries through the gully. The unfortunate soldier holds a staring contest with the stallion, too scared to speak or step out of the way.

  My finger brushes the cold trigger and toys with the safety.

  Henny’s brow furrows. “I asked you a question, soldier.”

  “About two weeks.” His words tremble in the cold air.

  “Make it one.”

  “That’s not possible.”

  Henny wrestles the horse until it stands broadside the man. Reaching down, he embeds his fingers into the man’s uniform collar and hoists him halfway off the ground. Rabid anger flashes in his eyes. “Did I stutter?”

  “N-no, sir. But it’s not possible. With the snow—”

  “Listen and listen well, soldier,” Henny seethes. “This fence will be complete in a week or it’s going to be this squad doing a round on the Threshing Floor.”

  Threshing Floor? My finger pauses on the trigger. That was always a threat thrown around with the adults at the slave pens. None of us knew what it meant, but it sure scared the hell out of them.