The Gender Fall

by Bella Forrest

  I looked at Ms. Dale, trying to figure out something to say beyond the buzzing in my mind. “I…”

  “I know you’re looking for Viggo,” Ms. Dale said, nodding her head toward the barn. “He’s in there. He’s hurting. You should probably go to him. Dr. Arlan and I will take care of Cody for now, although we’d like everyone’s input later on.”

  Her suggestion was completely unnecessary, as I was already moving quickly across the dew-slicked grass. I had to force myself to slow down when my head started to throb and feel woozy. I had already pushed myself too far—skipping my nap earlier had been a mistake—but I couldn’t wait to comfort Viggo until I felt better. Gritting my teeth, I pushed through the feeling and continued my journey to the barn.

  The massive ten-foot-high door was cracked open wide enough for me to slip inside. Several battery-operated lanterns lit up the tables placed in there to organize the boxes of equipment, guns, ammunition, and other electronic devices. Far behind them, several rows of vehicles from Ashabee’s manor gleamed in the lantern light. I weaved my way through them, searching for Viggo, and encountered Thomas instead.

  He was sitting at the end of one of the tables in the second-to-last row, fiddling with something. Looking up as I approached, he met my gaze and then dropped his head back down, turning the object over in his hands. I slowed, then stopped, seeing how Thomas was also affected by Owen’s tragedy.

  I didn’t want to wait, but I needed to reach out to him, too. “Are you okay?” I asked.

  He blinked and met my gaze again. After a second, he shook his head. “I was making this for Owen,” he announced, his voice whisper soft. “For Ian, actually. For when he…”

  Trailing off, he set the object down on the table. I looked at it: it was a crude piece of electronics, with wires jutting out of it, but I could see it had been made in the semblance of a human. Although, its head and limbs were more square-shaped instead of round.

  “It’s a robot. A machine that looks like a man,” he admitted hoarsely. “It’s just a toy, and it’s not finished yet… I still needed some parts, but I—”

  I touched his shoulder. “I know,” I whispered, giving him a squeeze.

  He looked up at me, his dark eyes teary, and sniffled loudly. “Is Owen… Is he all right?”

  I shook my head. “No,” I said simply. “Maybe one day… but not today.”

  Thomas nodded, picking up the toy again. “Viggo is in the back of the barn,” he said. “He’s not all right either.”

  Swallowing hard, I removed my hand from Thomas and headed to the back, moving behind the silent rows of vehicles. The barn was large, bigger than the house, and smelled thickly of mold. My boots slipped over the damp boards underneath me as I walked. I wasn’t quite through the rows of cars when I began to hear the rhythmic sound of something hitting something else.

  I headed toward it, and in the back, inside one of the defunct animal stalls, I found Viggo. He was shirtless, his muscled torso glistening with sweat. As I approached him, I saw his arm whip out again and again, his bare knuckles striking a freshly cut log the length of my leg, which was swinging from a rope off a beam overhead. I didn’t need to see his fists clearly to know they were bleeding. If he kept this up, he’d have broken bones—if he didn’t have any already.

  Underneath the fury coming off him in waves, I could sense his desolate mood, and my heart broke for him. I came up behind him, not bothering to hide my approach, and laid a hand on his shoulder. He stopped striking the board, but his back heaved under my hand as he sucked in air.

  “I’m going to need some time,” he said after a long moment. “Please, just leave me alone.” He squared his shoulders and began hitting the log again, his fists slapping wetly on the wood. Even under the dim light of the lantern, I could see dark blood spattered and smeared across the bark.

  My need to accept his words at face value was strong, but not stronger than my need to find out the truth. I took a deep breath, then stepped in between him and the board.

  Viggo’s eyes narrowed, and he pulled up short. He reluctantly lowered his fists, his green eyes meeting mine.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “But I need to know what happened. Owen blames you for some reason, but I know you, and I know you would never—”

  “Owen is right,” Viggo breathed harshly. “It’s my fault.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t believe you. You would never do anything to hurt those boys. To hurt any child.”

  Viggo stared at me, then looked away, shaking his head. “I did this time.” He made no effort to hide the deep disgust in his voice, and I ached, knowing this was tearing him apart.

  “Viggo, please. Talk to me. Tell me what happened.”

  He reached up to wipe his nose, stopping as he realized that would just smear his bloody knuckles. With a grimace, he moved over to where his shirt hung over the stall wall and tore a long strip from the bottom. I watched as he fiddled with it a moment, and then moved over to him, pushing it aside and taking it in my left hand. “Let me do it,” I said, placing the fabric in between the fingers of my right hand, which I could now squeeze together a little, if I tried. It was awkward with the cast, but I managed to pinch it between two fingers, holding the cloth secure as I wrapped him up with my left.

  Viggo stood as still as a statue during a long span of silence. Then he began to speak, recounting the entire incident. I listened as he told me about his conversation with Desmond, and then Ian’s attack, and felt my heart fracture further.

  “He stopped moving,” Viggo said, his eyes flicking to mine, his voice hoarse. “I had my arm wrapped around his neck, cutting off his air, and he just went… still. I moved away, got off him, but…” He released a shuddering breath and ran a hand through his hair in agitation. “God, he was so still. We didn’t even know until… until Dr. Arlan told us. By then he had pulled off Ian’s mask. Owen had just realized who he was when… Arlan said it was impossible to know what exactly had caused his heart to stop. He said it could’ve been the sedative, it could have been the wrong dose or something, but I know it was me. It had to have been me. I was on top of him. It was my arm around his throat. If I could’ve just…” He trailed off.

  “It was my fault,” he explained, finally meeting my gaze. His hand was still in mine, loosely, but he gently pulled it away. “If I had been faster, made a better decision, I could’ve saved him. I should’ve saved him.”

  I wiped my eyes, more tears coming, and shook my head. “It’s not your fault,” I said, trying to reassure him but knowing how hollow it must have sounded. “You did everything you could.”

  “It wasn’t enough,” he snapped back. “I should’ve done better.”

  He pulled away, jerking his torn shirt off the wall and throwing it over his head. I watched as he stalked out, arranging the shirt over his midsection, feeling utterly incapable of helping anyone.

  28

  Viggo

  The night had faded away into a gray, overcast dawn, the threat of rain bearing down in the form of ionized air. Everyone else had gone inside at one point or another and gotten some rest.

  I hadn’t slept—I couldn’t even bring myself to try. Instead, I worked. I helped Lynne, Morgan, and Jay unload the vehicles they had packed up as a precaution. The work suited me just fine. I was in no mood to deal with human interaction, and our ceaseless labor didn’t really make talking practical.

  Once that task was finished, I moved on to another job, then another. I took the jobs nobody wanted: splitting firewood, digging out areas for people to relieve themselves and marking them with strips of yellow cloth, building more targets for the firing range… I did anything and everything I could to remain alone. The latest chore was laundry duty, which was probably the most annoying task in the camp, as it required me to fetch water from the rusted-over pump on the side of the house, heat it over a fire, and then dump it into a trough and scrub at the dirty clothes and bedlinens for grueling minutes. Even with the heavy plasti
c gloves I wore over my bandages to keep my raw knuckles from bleeding on the clean clothes, the heat of the water felt as though it was scalding me every time I put my hands into it.

  It was perfect.

  News of Owen’s loss had hit the camp hard, muting the normal sounds of a waking, bustling camp of over fifty people. A somberness seemed to hang over us, just as heavy and thick as the clouds overhead. I kept my head down as I worked, making it known that I was not in a mood for conversation, and, for the most part, people left me alone.

  Physical activity was a distraction, one I sorely needed to keep myself from going off the rails. I didn’t think I could ever explain my turmoil to anyone, not even Violet. It was like a poisonous sack of bile writhing under my torso. It wouldn’t do me the courtesy of letting me vomit, nor would it become less corrosive with time. It just sat there, periodically twitching, reminding me a boy had died, and I was more than likely responsible for it.

  I knew Violet and Ms. Dale and… well… everyone except Owen didn’t feel like I should blame myself. But I couldn’t help it. I was the one who had fought him. I was the one who had wrapped my arm around his tiny neck and squeezed. If I had just been able to…

  My gloved hand convulsively closed into a fist, and I had to swallow the urge to start hitting something again—a feeling I was growing more and more familiar with. I winced as my knuckles throbbed, almost able to feel the broken skin splitting further, and then relaxed into it, letting the pain roll over me, recognizing on some dark level that I deserved it. On an even darker level, I knew it wasn’t enough to make up for my failings.

  I released my clenched fist and exhaled before plunging my hand back into the soapy water, just shy of scalding, and beginning to rub the clothes against the washboard in the tub. I was engrossed in my work, but even so, time moved at a snail’s pace.

  There was a subtle clearing of a throat behind me, and my hands stopped in their vigorous scrubbing. Looking over my shoulder, I saw Violet there, her face somber. Her bruises had faded quite a bit over the past few days, but they lingered in yellow and green, almost fluorescent spots on the side of her face. I hadn’t stopped to look in a mirror, but I assumed I now had a set to match.

  “It’s time?” I asked, and she nodded.

  Swallowing the excess saliva that had built up in my mouth, I pulled the sheet I had been working on out of the water and dropped it into the next tub, which held cooler, clean water for rinsing. “I’ll be there in a minute,” I announced. “Just want to finish this.”

  I heard her sigh softly, but her shoes began to move, crunching over the soil and fading as she headed away. Exhaling in relief, I quickly rinsed out the sheet, wrung it out, and then threw it over one of the lines strung between two trees to dry. It took a few minutes, but when it was done, I felt just a fraction more mentally prepared for what was to come.

  I gave a dark, strained chuckle as the thought went through my mind. Who was I kidding? I was nowhere near prepared for this.

  Steeling myself, I turned back toward the house, where I could see Ms. Dale, Amber, Lynne, Morgan, Jay, Thomas, and, of course, Owen, standing on the porch. Owen held Ian’s small body in his arms, cradling the young boy, and even from this distance, I could see the sad draw in his mouth and eyes. The gray day, with low rainclouds drifting slowly across the sky, seemed designed to reflect our sorrow.

  Violet placed a hand on Owen’s shoulder, and together, they all started to move to the place where Violet had tasked a few of the refugees to help her in constructing a grave. She had picked a good spot for it: near the woods, just off the side of the barn, in the shade of the trees and out of the way of the daily routines of the camp. I watched as they moved, my throat tight.

  The entire short day, I had been riddled with indecision on what I should do about this funeral. On the one hand, I needed to go—honor demanded it. On the other, without a doubt, I knew Owen didn’t want me there. With how he felt right now, it would just be an affront to him if I were at the ceremony. It was a conundrum. I still felt strongly that I needed to be there.

  So I had come up with the next best thing. Or maybe it was the next worst, depending on one’s point of view. I waited for the funeral procession to make its way closer to the gravesite, and then moved around the opposite side of the tents, heading for the gap in between the tents and the barn. I moved quickly, businesslike but unassuming, not wanting to arrive late and draw attention to myself.

  I headed directly for the tree line, pushing a few yards into the wooded area, then hooked back around so that I could come from the opposite direction, the light lower canopy of saplings shrouding me somewhat from view. As I neared the site, I heard the soft sound of voices and slowed down, picking my path as quietly as possible through the dead leaves and twigs littering the forest floor.

  An old oak tree with gnarled branches was my destination. It sat far enough back that it blended in with the forest, but was close enough for me to watch the funeral without having to peer past dozens of trees. I approached the grizzled tree, coming to a stop next to it. From my vantage point, I was mostly out of view of the others, but I still had a clear view of the grave.

  I watched as Owen placed Ian inside a small wooden box, resting the young boy inside the bright, freshly cut lumber and taking one last look at him. After a minute, he and Amber closed the lid, and Owen began hammering the nails into it one by one. It was hard to watch. With each nail he drove home, Owen’s face grew more and more bleak.

  Somehow, he managed to finish the task, pounding in the last nail with a decisive strike from the hammer. He stood up and tossed the hammer to the side in one fluid motion, taking a moment to scrub at his cheeks. Amber and Thomas moved toward him, but he held up a hand and shook his head.

  “I’m all right,” he announced hoarsely, his voice carrying to me. I could hear in his words the tears he was fighting back. I reached out and rested my hand on the tree to steady myself, feeling the churning twist of guilt in my gut.

  Owen didn’t break down completely. He managed to pull himself together, and, at his nod, Ms. Dale, Thomas, and Amber helped him lower the coffin into the ground, using the two ropes draped across the grave. The box hit the earth, the ropes were pulled up and placed to one side, and then Owen moved to the head of the grave. I could hear his voice clearly from my spot, and though it was faint, none of the emotion was lost.

  “My brother was one of the gentlest humans I’ve ever known,” he said. “He cared deeply for every living thing. I was ten when he was born, and even as a baby, he was full of smiles. I promised to be the best big brother I could, but I failed more often than I care to recall. It was only after he was taken that I realized how much I really cared about him, and when our parents didn’t want to help him, I knew what I had to do. I became a better person for him. I started to care about the people around me, forced myself to, really, and after a while, I realized I liked it. And I have him to thank for that.”

  He stopped, his voice cracking. Looking away, he gave a shuddering breath, his body trembling. My grip tightened on the bark of the tree, the gnarled texture digging beneath my fingernails. There was a pause as Owen composed himself. When he looked back at the group, determination was stamped across his features.

  “My brother didn’t deserve what happened to him. He didn’t. He was too good for it, too pure. It wasn’t just, and it wasn’t fair. All I can hope is those responsible will be made to suffer for the injustice they brought him. And I hope that I’m there to witness it. I tried to save him, and now I will avenge him. This is the vow I make to him, in the hopes that someday, he will find peace.”

  I blinked as his words hit me, the cold, angry bite of bitterness in them setting my teeth on edge. I knew Owen was hurting, but I hadn’t realized that hurt inside of him was a seed of anger and violence. I thought of the past he’d mentioned to me while we were dangling from the heloship in the dark, the past he’d mentioned again now. Maybe the old Owen, whoever that was, was ree
merging. My heart was racing in my chest. I had played a part in creating this anger eating away at my friend.

  Sadness and anger mixed up in my blood, strangling my tongue. Vengeance was a dark path. I vowed, right then and there, that I would be there for Owen, in whatever capacity he needed me. I might not be able to join him on that path, not if it called for cold-blooded murder, but I would try to help him back from that, if he let me.

  Thomas picked something up off the ground and moved over to Owen, holding it out to him. As Owen reached out to take it, I saw it was a flat bit of metal with words burnt into the side. It took me a moment, and then I realized it was a makeshift gravestone. Thomas had probably put it together during the night.

  As one, the rest of the group began pushing dirt back into the grave, first with their hands, then with shovels. Violet stood by one side with Owen, holding his hand in a comforting way as he watched the dirt fall into the grave. Thomas brought over a wheelbarrow full of small stones. I watched as he began lining them up atop the newly turned earth of the grave, piling them into a mound.

  Owen let go of Violet’s hand and moved to stand above it, placing the grave marker against the small half-hill Thomas had created. He held it up while Thomas stacked more stones around it, bracing it from both sides. Once it was done, he stood up, placing a hand on Owen’s shoulder. He had to have said something too low for me to hear, because Owen nodded and offered him another attempted smile.

  Eventually, the task was finished, and everyone began to move back to the house, Owen between them. Violet remained behind, her head turning as she looked around the area, clearly searching for me. I took a moment to collect myself, and then emerged from my hiding place as her eyes moved across the tree line.