Fragile Chaos

by Amber R. Duell

  She nods and we drop our dice. Hers lands on a crown—king—and mine on a black dot—death. My win. But I pause. I had no specific question in mind when I suggested this. It was merely a way to hear her speak again. To learn something about her, maybe a clue about why she caught my attention. What she likes. What she hates. Although, I’m fairly certain the answer to the latter is me at the moment.

  “I don’t know anything useful,” she warns.

  “I’m not a spy.” I pull my winning die back before she can get any ideas of quitting early. “What’s your name?”

  Her shoulders rise and fall with each slow breath. “Why?” she asks, her expression pensive.

  “Why not?”

  After another moment of silence, she sighs. “Cassia.”

  “Cassia.” Like the flower, delicate and graceful. It almost suits her, but she seems tougher, able to weather harsher conditions. With a smile, I hold my palm out in the Kisken greeting and wait for her to touch it with her fingertips. “I’m Theo.”

  She scans the area again, ignoring my gesture. “I didn’t ask your name.”

  “That man didn’t ask to split the bread, either.” I pull back and rub my hand on my jeans.

  Cassia picks up her die and gives it a small flick with her fingers. “Love,” she says when it lands on an infinity symbol. “You lose.”

  “I haven’t rolled yet.” I drop the die but I had to hope for the same or a wave—water—to roll again. It stops on a flower—life. My loss. “Your question?”

  “There’s nothing I want to know.” She swipes up her die and shakes it in her fist. “Again.”

  Both iron pieces drop just as an argument breaks out near the fire. A low rumble of voices, unclear but distinctly unhappy, fill the air. The flames smolder in Cassia’s eyes as her gaze darts between two points behind me. Her chin jerks toward the table, and she snatches the dice with stiff movements.

  “Your win.” Her voice is light but the unevenness gives her away.

  “Why do you fear them?” I ask without thought.

  Her breath hitches, and I feel a small pang of regret. She doesn’t owe me her secrets. Not for winning in a game of chance. Before I can change the question, a shrill scream shatters the night. Jumping from the rubble, my hand falls to the hip my broadsword usually hangs from. I left it home tonight, expecting nothing a sledgehammer couldn’t fix.

  A middle-aged survivor claws at the face of a man in black while two others pull the attacking woman away. She screeches again, lunging forward, but they keep their grip on her arms. The rest of the group closes in.

  Blood runs from the man’s scratches as other believers drag him, shouting a string of obscenities colorful enough to raise my eyebrows, toward the stairs where Astra still stands. We lock eyes for a brief moment, before she darts toward the temple to avoid being run over. I fight against a shiver. Tensions run high in hard times, but it feels like more than a common squabble. Heavier.

  “What was that about?” I ask.

  But when I turn, Cassia is gone. I squint into the darkness but it’s still as death. Needles of disappointment scrape through me. I shake the sensation off. It’s better not to get involved anyway.

  That doesn’t stop me from glancing over my shoulder again before I rush up the hill behind the zealots.

  A halo of orange hugs the sun as it rises over the coastline, painting the sky pink. I watch the world usher in a new day perched on rusty monkey bars in the old park playground. It won’t be much different than the last, but in the first quiet hours of morning it’s easy to pretend there’s no war. That my parents aren’t dead and my brother, Oren, wasn’t hanged for treason. For a moment, I can forget how alone I am.

  I don’t blame the Kiskens for refusing to let me stay with them. Their loved ones are dead and their homes reduced to dust because of Oren, but I was only fourteen at the time. Fifteen when the bombs dropped over a year ago. It isn’t fair to make me shoulder his mistakes. But that’s the thing, nothing’s fair.

  Zipping my jacket against the chill, I slip between the metal bars onto solid ground. The others will still be tucked away in the remaining wing of the mall, sleeping soundly out of the elements. I have roughly thirty minutes to drop supplies and run. They know I’m the one leaving the scavenged items—clothes, shoes, photo albums. It doesn’t make them like me, but it’s not like I have anything better to do with my days. And, although I shouldn’t, I do feel a little guilty.

  I grab my messenger bag from where it hangs on the handle of the slide and make my way toward the old city center. The cracked fountain at the bottom of the hill is full of black ash, wisps of smoke still rising from tiny red embers. Vendors used to set up stands for tourists here, so there wasn’t much to destroy when the bombs hit. But the cobblestones are uneven now. The path to the cliff’s edge where visitors went for the ocean view is gone, but it’s still the closest thing we have to normal.

  I slip the bag off my shoulder and kneel, pulling out yesterday’s spoils. I would’ve left the ripped blanket and pair of socks last night after I won the bread if my opponent hadn’t tried to cheat me. And if Theo hadn’t delayed me.

  Theo.

  My head snaps to the aluminum table at the edge of the center, and I frown. Strangers don’t pass through, and they certainly don’t do it in the middle of the night. Not for any good reason, anyway. Not when the north, south, and east are crawling with troops that will shoot first and ask questions later. The only thing west is the ocean.

  Theo couldn’t be much older than me, but he was gorgeous. I don’t know who he’s fighting for or where he comes from, but I’ll give him that much. The sharp angles of his face, the slight stubble on his cheeks, the cords of muscle running through his forearms. That smile. I’ve never seen eyes so blue before. Maybe he’s one of the zealots, transferring from a foreign temple. Rumor has it they stockpile everything during times of peace in their fortress atop the hill—food, soap, razors, shampoo— to entice people to convert during wars. Theo was well-fed and smelled sharply of steel instead of rotting onions, so it would make sense.

  Except I’ve never seen the zealots recruiting. They hide in their temple, pretending they’re untouchable while the rest of us pay for our disbelief. Last night was the first I’ve seen of them in months.

  I set the things down beside the fountain with a sigh. The air shifts. An eerie stilling. The hair on the back of my neck rises as I stand. Before I can turn, a dark sack is thrown over my head. My heart slams against my chest and, for a moment, I forget how to move. Then my father’s self-defense lessons come rushing back. I twist my head to the side, bend my knees, and haul the attacker over my body. He lands with a grunt and I run, ripping the sack off as I go. Voices rise up behind me. They’re close and getting closer.

  My joints ache with fear. I pump my arms, refusing to give into the urge to freeze. If I stop…I can’t stop. Two men in black are almost on my heels.

  Zealots.

  The glance back throws me off balance, and I trip into thick debris. I grab a coiled pipe to stop from face-planting, but my hip crashes into a steel frame. Pain rolls over me like a wave. I swallow hard and shove to my feet.

  A wide arm hooks my waist, lifting me off the ground. I scream until my throat burns. No one will come though, no matter how much I cry for help. I swing my legs back. My heel cracks against a shin, and my captor staggers.

  “Hold her.” A man with jagged scratch marks on his face limps over to us. A silver handgun gleams in his hand, and my heart lurches. “I don’t want to use this, but I will,” he says.

  I spit in his face, and his smug look disappears. “What do you want?” I growl.

  “This isn’t about me, Cassia. It’s about Kisk.” He jerks the gun and a second man comes from behind to grab one of my arms. Together, the two men drag me toward the base of the hill. “Quickly. We can’t lose the dawn.”

  My pulse races. There’s only one reason I can think of to take someone like me to the temp
le. Sacrifice is illegal, but chickens and goats still came up missing from farms across the country before the war. There’s no livestock left now, but there’s also no police or government officials to hold anyone responsible for murder.

  And no one will miss me.

  No. I can’t think like that.

  I slam into the man holding my right arm, but, even though he staggers, his grip stays strong. We start up the grassy hill and I know it’s now or never. Kicking out, I slam the soles of my sneakers against an uneven stone step and press back, locking my knees.

  “Calm down,” the gunman says. “We’re offering you a way to earn a place among your countrymen again.”

  As a dead girl.

  No one holds a grudge against the deceased—not unless your last name is Stavros. Then they’ll curse you all the way to the grave and toss your family onto the street.

  My sneakers slip, morning dew still coating the ground, and I scramble to regain control of my legs. If I can kick one of their knees out, he’ll have to let go to stop us all from tumbling backward.

  “It’s a long way down,” the man adds as if he’s reading my mind.

  He’s right. We’re too far up the hill to end the fall uninjured, but broken and bruised is better than corpse. I’m more sorry than anyone can know that my brother brought us into this war, but I won’t die for it. I twist sideways and sink my teeth into the man’s upper arm. He screams and a fist lands on my jaw. My vision blurs and a deep throbbing pain takes over.

  “What are you doing? She’s not to be harmed.”

  “She bit me,” the man snarls.

  “Listen.” I fight to drag in a breath. “You don’t have to do this.”

  “The whole city agrees it’s for the best,” the gunman says.

  The whole city?

  It doesn’t make sense that the other Kiskens would agree to anything the zealots proposed. They may hate me but they think the believers are certifiable. Obviously, they’re right. Sane people don’t haul people off to slaughter. I stretch my jaw side to side and relax into them. All I need is one second with their guard down. One fleeting moment of distraction, and I’ll make a break for it.

  The hill flattens at the top. A round three-story stone building towers over us with two levels of roofs and five turrets evenly spaced around the perimeter. My breath catches when I notice the only windows are long narrow slits I would be lucky to fit an arm through, let alone my whole body.

  A pair of massive wooden doors groan open, the only entrance I see, and the men rush forward, dropping me in a dim inner chamber. Dusty red banners hang from the ceiling, following each solid stone wall to the floor. An altar is directly across the main chamber with a matching red cloth adorned with a black shield. A polished sword lies across the surface. I stay on my knees to hide how badly my legs are shaking and scan the rest of the room for an escape route.

  There’s a pit in the center of the floor. A circular opening, big enough for a large man to fit in with ease, seems to lead straight to the center of the universe. Bile rises in my throat. A mythology textbook in school painted a vivid picture of what happens there.

  Not to me.

  “Cassia, welcome.” A round woman with gray streaked hair shuffles forward in a flowing black robe. A small silver shield is pinned to her left shoulder. “I’m glad you decided to join us today.”

  A man slithers up beside her, his face deep-set with wrinkles, and takes the gun from the man with the marred face. I’ll need to get it before I escape. If I can get him alone, it shouldn’t be hard. He’s too old to put up much of a fight. Then I’ll have to find an exit without raising any alarms. I’ll only get one chance; I can’t rush it.

  “Decided is a strong word,” I say.

  The woman’s laugh bounces off the high-domed ceiling. “We won’t keep you long. This is High Priest Ciro and I’m Nessa, the Temple Mother.”

  “Yeah. Great.” It doesn’t matter who they are, only that they can shoot me. “What do you want?”

  “We thought you might like the chance to help Kisk.” Ciro motions a young boy with a wooden cup forward. “If you make tributes to the gods, perhaps they’ll listen.”

  “Me?” I rub a hand over the ache in my chest. They nod. Exit, exit, exit. I don’t remember seeing another door from the outside, but I never paid attention before today. What kind of temple devoted to a war god wouldn’t have the foresight to make an emergency escape? It seems like a lesson in War 101: In case of a siege, have multiple ways out. “I don’t even believe in your gods. This is the first time I’ve even been near this place. Why would they listen to anything I say?”

  “You will believe. It’s impossible to give tribute and not feel their power.” Ciro takes the cup from the boy and holds it out to me. “Drink this.”

  I blink, looking between him and Nessa. They can’t be serious. Yet, deep down I know they are. This is their life, as outdated as it is. Everything they do is to keep Theodric happy, and right now their God of War is angry with the island.

  Incense wafts down from a hanging metal bowl, a line of thin white smoke snaking through the temple. I struggle to inhale. “I’ll pass, thanks,” I say around a cough.

  “It purifies you for the tributes,” Nessa says. “You need to drink it.”

  I cross my arms. If these tributes really do end in sacrifice, I’m not going to be an accessory to my own murder. “I’m not thirsty.”

  Ciro raises the gun to my chest and my mouth runs dry. “This doesn’t have to be difficult.”

  My stomach lurches as the sandalwood smoke continues to saturate the cool, musty air. Saliva fills my mouth but I won’t throw up. They don’t get to see me weak. “I’m sure your War God would rather hear from one of his believers.”

  With a snap of his fingers, Ciro signals the men back to my side. “Last chance.”

  “I’m not drinking that.” There’s more attitude in my voice than I intend. Definitely more than is smart under the circumstances.

  The men shove down on my shoulders and press against my heels with their feet until my legs begin to slide out from under me. I reach out to grab them for balance, but they brush my hands away. Finally, I slip. My head slams hard against the stone and the room spins. Stars twinkle in front of my eyes. By the time things right themselves, Nessa is straddling my chest.

  Sweat rolls down my temples and tremors wrack my body. I have to get out of here now.

  “She bites,” one of the men warns.

  “Come on, dear,” Nessa says, ignoring him. I slam my lips shut and try to buck her off, but she’s too heavy. The hands holding me down are too tight. Nessa snaps her fingers. “The funnel.”

  The same boy that brought the cup rushes over with a blue plastic cone. A long clear tube curls from the end. I thrash under Nessa’s weight. My body tingles with adrenaline as I push and pull against them. The sound of Ciro pulling the hammer back on his gun grates in my ears. I freeze.

  “Open,” the woman says.

  I shake my head and she pinches my nose. The seconds tick on until my lungs scream for oxygen. Instead of gasping for it like I want, I crack my lips while keeping my jaw tight, but it’s all the opening she needs.

  The tube rams inside my mouth and slams against my molars. I fling my head sideways, but a pair of sweaty palms squeeze against my ears. A bitter liquid floods my mouth. I gag. Nessa yanks the tubing away and holds my jaw shut with the heel of her hand. I try to block the drink from slipping down my throat, but it sneaks around my tongue, pooling at the back of my mouth. Eventually, I have no choice but to swallow.

  “That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Nessa stands and the men haul me back to my feet.

  “Screw you,” I breathe.

  “Do the tributes and this can all end,” Ciro says.

  I straighten my back. “I won’t.”

  “You will.” Ciro gives me a little push toward the first of five stone arches.

  I plant my feet. “Touch me again and I’ll cut your h
ands off.”

  “With what?” he asks. “Now, go. We’re on a schedule.”

  I inch forward while keeping the weapon in sight. Inside the rounded alcove, Nessa waits at a small altar with an elaborately scrolled silver box. Something warm and round is pressed into my hand from behind, but I’m only partially aware.

  “This is the altar of Ebris,” she begins. “All you have to do is say the words: Ebris, King of Gods, please accept this tribute. Then leave the coin in the chest.”

  I glare at the box as static begins to crackle and pop in my head. “That’s it?”

  She nods. “Go ahead.”

  I sigh, my body prickling with heat, and repeat the words. Then I set the coin on a bed of blue velvet before shutting the lid. There’s no otherworldly sensation. No gusts of wind or clap of thunder. It’s too easy. Years ago a man saved a little boy from drowning in the town pool. His front stoop was littered with flowers, candles, and casserole dishes for a month. These are gods they’re talking about; the zealots will need more than this if they want to gain favor.

  There’s just as much non-reaction when I plant a peach pit in a pot of soil for Drea, Goddess of Life. When I rinse my hands in water for Brisa, Goddess of the Sea, I’m shocked to find I can’t feel the water. I see it gliding over my fingers but I can’t feel it. I tilt my head and examine the beads of water clinging to my knuckles. My pulse loses its rhythm. I want to panic, but my mind won’t let me. I pinch myself until blood wells beneath my nails. Nothing. I try to wiggle my toes in my sneakers, hoping to feel the rough fabric of my socks, but I can’t tell if I’m succeeding.

  “What did you give me?” I ask.

  “The robana bean is a traditional purifier for the gods.” Nessa smiles, silently guiding me to the fourth alcove.

  White-hot anger fizzles in my gut, but it won’t help; the zombie drug will make sure of that. It’s already latched onto my control. If I don’t find a way out now, I never will. But I can’t leave. Not now. Not without help. I’ll never make it down the hill alone. If I do, what then? I won’t be able to move without someone telling me to once it’s in full effect.