Children of the Kradle (Trilogy Book 1)

by Alexa Hamilton

  Roach squeezed Flora’s pulsating throat and held her at arm’s length. “Yo Grunt! Get up here. Help me with my slut.”

  Grunt tried to pull himself up but in the process was kicked in the face by Flora.

  “Goddammit hold ‘er!” His scarred head was red with fury.

  Mevia was helpless. She wished that Flora would calm down or shut up or do anything besides fight. Play dead for God sakes!

  No, thought Mevia, I wasn’t this bad my first session.

  Grunt rose to the surface, reared his hand and landed a hard slap against Flora’s jaw. Her head flung to the side, resting limply on her shoulder, a crumb of a broken tooth dangled from her lip. Her dirt caked legs turned to water, falling limp against the ground.

  “Go. Hurry,” Grunt ordered. He reached down and dragged the bamboo back over the hole, but as he began to roll the stones, Flora started up again.

  “No! No!” she screamed, flailing her arms. Roach was holding her by the waist now.

  “Ow!” he cried as her heels dug into his shins. “Grunt!”

  “Dammit.” Grunt turned around and snatched her legs, wrapping them under his arms. “C’mon. They’re waiting.”

  “No. No! Nooo!” Flora’s cries faded into the distance as they carried her away.

  Mevia crawled to the corner and threw up.

  As she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, something about the bamboo flicked the back of her mind. She went and stood by the wall. Digging her fingers and toes into the claylike dirt, she pulled herself up. With only one hand to work with, she nearly fell but managed to claw her way just high enough to reach the edge. Using her left wrist, Mevia pushed on the bamboo. It budged, an inch of daylight passing through underneath. She pulled her arm back as if it were burnt, her mind blank except for one thought: Grunt forgot about the boulders.

  Chapter 5

  Eli

  After Eli left Agent Jensen and his little cohort Agent Hobbs, he went down the elevator and back out into the third floor common area, home to the civilian cafés and shops. Although he should have been going to his computer and clocking in, he didn’t want sit at his desk with an empty belly and a head full of steam. He needed to go for a walk and scrounge up some food.

  He stepped out into the bustling main concourse which at any hour was filled with shoppers, shop owners, families and stir-crazy soldiers fresh off the night shift.

  Growing up he had always imagined how things would look on the inside of CorMand, but never in his daydreams did he imagine what this place was really like.

  The interior of the giant, one-hundred story sky scraper was a fusing of two worlds: the one that CorMand designed and the one that the people of CorMand were designing. On one hand, the architecture was surging, Episcopalian, with its white stone walls, lined with gold molding, and bulging columns crowned with gold, gothic spires, subliminal arrows, drawing the eye up to the point of pride, or what everyone called The Point—CorMand’s official symbol: a giant, gold medallion positioned in the middle of the congregation. Above it sat an impressively large painting of their leader, Premiere Loxley Kradle—the highest ranked officer in the country and the engineer of the Sphere, which most people now referred to as The Kradle.

  The painted Premiere, dressed in his formal uniform, towered over the common area. His chin—beardless, but lined with blonde side burns reaching just below his thin lips—was jutted out. His cold blue eyes were trained on some unseen point in the distance, as if he were overlooking a conquest of his making—perhaps the building of his Sphere.

  It was a secret joke among the people that the artist must have been paid a hefty purse for smoothing out the crow’s feet of the forty something Premiere. His expression held the gaze of a battle tested officer, yet having it set atop the creamy skin texture of a baby gave it a gawky look.

  In stark contrast to the grandiose, classical architecture were the businesses that everyone called civie-shops. They lined the common area selling everything from buttons to eyeballs (Brown is boring. Go green!). Every shop owner had a gimmick, and every gimmick was amped with energy as the owners strived to be the loudest, flashiest shop on the strip. Neon lasers sliced through the air; miniature robotic animals barked and mewed and brayed; canned music blared from thumping speakers. Along each shop the battle lines were drawn, their careless merchandise falling over each other like a drunken parade making it hard to tell who was selling what. Vegas meets Vatican—Eli had learned about the two from history shows.

  There was a large group gathered in the middle of the concourse. Eli recognized it as an orientation tour, the same one he had sat through upon his arrival.

  The guide, a little man in a brown and red blazer, his pupils dilated unnaturally large, was speaking loudly, singing his praises to CorMand, “You see, CorMand is more than a business, it’s a belief. And our leaders want the people to rest easy and believe that we are here standing watch, protecting them against the Eurasians in this time of war. War? What war?” He mimed throwing away a piece of garbage. “Let the drones fight it out on the battlefield, while we relax at home, shielded from the violence.

  “Under the Medusa virus, the people endured the death of their family, friends and neighbors. During that time, they also endured the destruction of their homes by the Eurasian nuclear bombings which of course were followed by the thick nuclear cloud which covers the majority of our country today. People from all over left their burnt up houses and came here, to the clean air and safety of the Sphere—what we now call the Kradle. With six inches of breathable glass complete with solars, sprinklers, and ventilation fans for weather control, stretching for a ten mile radius, the Kradle is not just a dome of protection for our vast city. It is also, a true feat of engineering—and the only of its kind. And when the refugees, your parents and grandparents, arrived at the Kradle, the employable dispersed and joined many of the Corporates. Some went to work in the Slag factories manufacturing drones, while others found their place growing food on the Farms. However, the best and brightest found their place here at CorMand where they discovered something they thought they lost forever—a renewed belief and a brand new home. We’ve learned that the world is a frightening place where nothing is for certain. And that is true…with, of course, one exception.” He stopped, held up a finger and smiled. “CorMand isn’t going anywhere. CorMand is here to stay.”

  The audience erupted in applause.

  Yeah, thought Eli as he maneuvered his way past the crowd. Because all the Corporations bought out the government after it went broke. Even the military was owned by a pre-Rebuilding company, a weapons manufacturer with deep, dark pockets.

  Eli kept his face stoic, revealing nothing of his thoughts. Saying such things, even thinking such things was highly illegal and dangerous.

  Besides, he was happy here. Where else in the world would he rather be than in the Corporates? He was happy here.

  His stomach grumbled.

  As he rounded a corner, heading toward the Cano Café, a tropical island themed smoothie-bar-slash-breakfast-diner, he was blasted with a fresh set of music blaring complicated, bone vibrating rhythms. He pressed his fingers to his temples and went inside.

  At the counter was Margo—a university aged blonde with bubblegum pink lips that Eli shared a mild flirtation with. Upon seeing him, she smiled and reached under the counter, handing him a to-go container. He took the box, his mouth already watering. “Thanks, Margo.” He winked. “I owe you.”

  “I might have to take you up on that.” She smiled before turning to help the next soldier in line.

  As Eli crossed over the bustling concourse, he tried to restrain himself the way an enlisted man was expected, but he was famished. He reached into the box and grabbed a broken chunk of coconut, removed its hairy brown crust and devoured it, already grabbing for the next one.

  He gorged on his brittle breakfast, ignoring the onlookers giving him the strange eyes.

  Back in the Slags, he and Mevia had ma
de their own patio garden off his balcony. Their produce was the only thing that sustained him ever since the injection he received at age seven—the same night his parents jumped off the building. Now, anytime he tried to eat a Corp ration the results were never good: violent headaches, cramping, vomiting. He had a similar allergic reaction when they tried to implant his ID/Banking chip. Living without the chip was an inconvenience, but life without a reliable food source had become a crippling handicap.

  Whatever the Corps were putting in their food was like poison to him. They claimed to send all produce to a factory to have it infused with vitamins; however that didn’t seem to be the only thing they were shooting in there. He had always assumed it was something like antibiotics, preservatives or dyes. Mevia was convinced it was a mind control drug. Eli was convinced she was paranoid.

  Now that he lacked access to a garden, his day to day life had degraded into a hand to mouth scavenger hunt. The NRP—Nutritional Ration Program—couldn’t seem to get his special food deliveries in on an even fairly consistent basis. Thank goodness he discovered coconut, a fruit perhaps too rarely eaten or too hard to tamper with. If only he could find more foods like it.

  He cut through the CRQ—Civilian Recreational Quarters. Although it was early, the sex shops and bars were filled with off duty enlisted men as well as families and friends from other Corps given a day pass. With all the music, lights and dazed looks passing from every direction, Eli couldn’t tell if people were coming or going.

  As he passed one of the vibrating lounges, sardined with wasted bobble heads, rotating their rhythm-less bodies over the dance floor, he thought he heard some yelling through the open windows. Despite his hurry to get back, he paused and glanced inside.

  Over by the bar, in the middle of the fuss, was Rex—a short, skinny red head with a face full of freckles. Rex was in the Robotics Maintenance Unit. For whatever reason, he gravitated toward Eli, and eventually they sort of became friends.

  There seemed to be a conflict brewing between Rex and some muscle-bound gym rat with shoulder length dark hair. The gym rat was red-faced standing over Rex, jabbing a finger between his eyes. Rex was looking up at him, hands open, a peacemaking gesture. Three more equally bulky brawn heads surrounded their buddy, each with the same blonde buzz cut and tight black t-shirt.

  Then through the crisscross of dancers, bended elbows and curved necks, the look of panic on Rex’s face came clear, and that was when Eli saw red. The gym rat’s crew moved in closer, egging on their buddy, taunting an out numbered Rex, dipping their chins as they shouted, daring him to take the first shot. One of the blonde triplets reached up and shoved Rex, causing him to stumble back.

  Then the Slagger in Eli took over, razor whittling his instincts into a raw weapon. He’d fought off thugs like this his entire life, ever since he was old enough to bust bottles. Self-appointed alphas that thought they owned the streets, thought they ran the schools, convinced they’d won some genetic pissing contest. These were the kind of trash heads that needed to be snuffed.

  Eli pulled off his jacket, hanging it on a fake tree outside the entrance. He charged into the bar, pushing past the fat bouncer, running across the dance floor, directly into the tussle. He had to get back to work, so there was no time for small talk.

  “Pardon.” He tapped the closest triplet on the shoulder.

  “Huh?” And as he turned, Eli landed a rocket punch to his jaw, sending him sprawled to the ground.

  Opponent #1 neutralized.

  The second triplet was so stunned that Eli had enough time to swipe a one-two punch right into his nose and jaw before the guy could even form a fist.

  Opponent #2 neutralized.

  By now both the third triplet and the gym rat had snapped to it and were coming at Eli. He turned to the side, narrowly missing the triplet’s fist. As he passed, Eli swung his elbow up, landing it in the guy’s temple.

  Opponent #3 down for the count.

  The gym rat hadn’t caught up to Eli’s speed, and floundered when he tried to fake-high and then land a punch in his gut. Eli moved right, avoiding the hit, and brought his leg around to the rat’s knees, knocking him off his feet.

  A circle of cheering onlookers had formed around the brawl.

  By now the first two triplets had recovered and were up, coming in at full force.

  Here we go.

  As the first guy moved in, Eli reached over, grabbed Rex’s blue and yellow striped drink and tossed it at the ground, right where the thug was setting the weight of his foot. He slipped sending his legs flying from out beneath him in a stream of yellow and blue spray that reflected off the club’s flashing lights.

  As he crashed to the ground, Eli stepped across his chest, leaving behind a wet foot print on the skin-tight shirt. He met the first triplet mid-punch and this time grabbed his arm, twisting it as hard as he could.

  “Gaaah!” he cried as Eli warped his arm, the crack of his shoulder loud, even through the music. Eli shoved him into the crowd.

  These guys may have had fifty pounds of muscle on Eli, but they were no fighters, each coming at him with the same, slow moves. It was like a seasoned housefly dodging the little old lady with a swatter.

  Eli whirled around only to receive a one-two punch in the face from the gym rat. He staggered back, his head vibrating. The rat lurched forward, trying to advance on a shell-shocked Eli, but it wasn’t the first time this Slagger found himself on the receiving end of a trajectory fist. Eli shook away the stars and shifted, narrowly missing another face smash. He ducked to the side, and rammed a couple of kidney shots into the rat’s back.

  Then Eli was grabbed from behind by the arms. He struggled to pull away but they had him pinned, his wrists twisted painfully between his shoulder blades.

  “Rrrrr!” He twerked his body, trying the wrench out from under their steely grip.

  “Cut it out, man. PoDrones are on their way.”

  The guy threw his weight onto Eli. His shoulders screamed, pinched and burning; sweat dripped into his eyes. He turned his head, expecting to get slammed by the three sets of fists hungry to pulverize the sitting duck, but to his surprise, the other guys were rolling around on the floor wrestling with the bouncers.

  The fight was over, arrests would be made, and he was in big trouble.

  “C’mon man,” he said through his teeth. “I was standing up for a friend. Let me go back to work.”

  “Yeah right.”

  “You gotta be kidding.” Eli hung his head. It was no use. Trouble had found him once again. The Colonel would rip him apart like cheap gift wrap. He’d be tagged a “dishonorable,” or maybe even demoted.

  “PoDrones’ll be here in two minutes,” somebody from the crowd said.

  He couldn’t let one of those stupid robots drag him across CorMand in handcuffs. Eli eyed the exit through his tousled hair. The dance floor had cleared, the bouncers were occupied and there was nothing between him and the door except the ape on his back. He lashed around a couple more times for good measure, but the guy had him good and tight.

  “Hey! Wha--?” the bouncer suddenly cried out, his grip loosening from Eli’s wrist.

  Eli jerked away, releasing his shoulders from their contortion. He swiveled and saw that the ape now had a monkey on his back—Rex. Pint sized Rex had his arms wrapped around the bouncer’s thick neck and was getting swung in circles like a piggy back joyrider.

  “Run!” Rex yelled. He didn’t have to say it twice.

  Eli ran unimpeded out the exit, skidding to a stop on the main concourse. He checked his surroundings. Four PoDrones, with their thin, Segway shaped torsos, leaning forward as if they were going to topple over, were wheeling toward him from the left. As people noticed their flashing blue and red headlights they jumped out of the way.

  Eli took off to the right, then stopped short, double backed, and grabbed his jacket from the plant.

  He found the nearest elevator and hopped in. On the ride back up, he used the mirror to try
and clean up: fingers through the hair, a hanky for the sweat. He licked the cut on his lower lip.

  Nothing like a good bar fight to start the day.

  Chapter 6

  Kilt

  Kilt stared at the quivering red dot that seemed to be burning into the wall. For a moment, it held him in a hypnotic state. Snap out of it. He stood still, wide-eyed, waiting for something to happen. Run dammit!

  The front door was close. Blown shut, most likely. At any moment the drone’s missile was going to fire and then he and the house would be blasted into sawdust. Everything was shaking. Pots and pans clanged. A lamp fell over. The living room window cracked. Even the skeletons in their feather beds were shaking. The rattling of their bones was like a chorus of canastas.

  Kilt took off down the hall, his dehydrated legs moving like bricks.

  He reached out to open the front door, but suddenly everything turned red. The house bled from a million pores. He stumbled back, disoriented.

  “Wha--?” He slapped his hands over his eyes. Facial recognition technology! The drone wasn’t going to missile the house. It had sighted him out on the porch and honed in. Now it was scanning for life.

  He looked up. Red, horizontal lines came sliding across the ceiling, slicing down the wall, one after the other in uniform distance.

  “Oh no.” Kilt looked for a place to hide but the lasers reached every crevice. Even under the bed wouldn’t be safe.

  He looked at Pa, lying down in the bedroom. The vibrations had moved his head and he was staring at Kilt.

  Kilt hesitated, taking a deep breath. Then he ran back in and jumped into bed between the two bodies. He shimmied under the covers and just before the lasers reached him, he grabbed Pa by the rib and pulled himself underneath. He lined his forehead with the base of the skull among tufts of wiry black hair scattered over the soiled sheets.

  He wanted to hold his breath but his heart was hammering against his chest. He tried not to think about the smell of the old skull pressed against his nose, marrowy and fermented.