Then two more men came in from the entrance.
“GRRROOOWWW!!” She stabbed the air.
“Listen to us. We helped you. We won’t hurt you.”
She thought of going on the offense and running at them, maybe slice one or two and escape through the hole, but then she heard a woman’s voice coming from behind the group.
“Boys. Boys. You’re only making it worse.” The crowd split and out walked a deeply tanned woman. She calmly floated across the ground. Her black hair was parted down the middle and draped heavily over her shoulders. She was smiling, her hands raised at her waist as though she had an offering. “Welcome.” She looked into Mevia’s eyes. “My name is Sandra.”
In her captivity, all of the tribesmen had names like Roach, Spider or Grunt—made up labels they adopted for their new lives on the island. But Sandra was a birth name. A human name.
Mevia wanted to calm down, but her hand refused to drop the weapon.
“Please.” Sandra took slow, deliberate steps. Mevia’s muscles tensed, but she did not run away. “My dear,” Sandra soothed, “I can only imagine what those men did to you, but that’s all over. You’re safe here.”
Mevia had no way out and no options except to trust this woman, and so she slowly lowered her weapon.
“That’s right,” Sandra encouraged. “We want to take care of you. You’re safe now sweetie.” She reached into a fold of her dress and revealed a canteen of water.
Mevia understood that if she wanted the water then she’d have to give up the clay piece. Slowly she opened her hand and let it fall. Sandra moved close enough to touch her.
“Good girl.” She was still smiling. “Now, why don’t you sit back down on your bed and we’ll redress your wounds?” She looked her up and down. “And it looks like you’ve acquired a few more since you woke up. Here. Drink.” She removed the lid and offered the entire canteen.
Mevia grabbed it greedily, pressing it to her lips, gulping the summer warm liquid as fast as her throat would allow. She drank until she could no longer hold her breath. Gasping for air, her headache was already dissolving. Her adrenaline was dissipating bringing forth fresh pain from her wounds that she did not notice before.
“Sit,” Sandra encouraged, gesturing over the bed.
Mevia glared at the four men ogling in the doorway. Sandra must have picked up on her concern. She turned to the group and waved them away. Obediently, they started back out the entrance.
Sandra evaluated the wounds, and then called over her shoulder. “Thomas?”
“Yes?” replied the salt and pepper haired one who appeared to be the oldest of the group.
“I think I might need your help with the ointment. Can you stay?”
“Of course.” He joined Sandra’s side. “As long as it’s all right with our friend here.”
Her first instinct was to shake her head, “no,” but then she remembered that bad men didn’t ask permission, so she nodded once before limping over to the bed.
“Good.” Sandra seemed genuinely pleased.
Mevia lowered herself onto the bed which was actually a patchwork blanket made from a towel, and two men’s shirts—one red flannel and the other a white cotton tee with a strange logo—sewn together over a cushiony spread of pine needles and dead leaves.
Mevia tucked her knees tightly to her chest, her eyes darting between Sandra and Thomas. “May I?” Sandra gestured to Mevia’s arm.
As Sandra examined her arm, Mevia noticed that her hair was streaked with silver webs of grey. She held Mevia’s wrist and noted each scrape and bruise. “No sign of infection yet. That’s good news, but we’re going to need more ointment.”
“Sure,” said Thomas
“And see if you can salvage any of those bandages over there.” She winked at Mevia. “What’s your name sweetie?”
“M-Mevia.”
“Mevia,” Sandra repeated as though she were given a secret password. “That’s wonderful. Nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you too,” Mevia responded automatically. This surprised her as much as it pleased Sandra. Funny how old habits and pleasantries bubbled up automatically.
Sandra pulled a basket full of cloth bits into her lap and then busied herself removing the old bandages. Mevia watched as this woman, who apparently had some amount of authority seeing how all the men had left, carefully untie the tiny twine bows that held the bindings in place.
Thomas returned. “We had a small bowl of ointment left, but we’ll have to make some more soon.” He sat down. “I brought some clean water too.”
“That’s fine, Thomas. Thank you. Here, you can help me clean off her old bandages.”
Thomas and Sandra worked together in silence, each taking a rag to meticulously wipe the old oil from the bandages, rinsing the rag in the water basin, then repeating the process, while every so often making light comments about the weather or the day’s chores, their hands moving efficiently and in sync, never once bumping into one another or fumbling in each other’s way, moving as one mind and body.
Mevia judged them to be around the same age, perhaps late forties or early fifties. Thomas had black hair, but his beard held hints of red and flecks of grey. Even through his hunched shoulders, he was visibly strong, with a wide upper body that could probably lift a tree trunk, while his hands, although large and suntanned, were soft, perhaps from making ointment.
“There. All clean,” Sandra announced wiping her hands on a new rag from the basket.
Thomas did the same. He then cupped his fingers and took a large swab of greasy ointment from the bowl. He moved over to Mevia’s right side. “May I?” He asked gesturing to her scabbed over arm.
She nodded and held out her elbow. Softly, starting from the top of her shoulder and working his way down, he dabbed the grease on her wounds. Mevia clenched her jaw. He was being very gentle, so she tried not to flinch, but every fresh wound turned to fire under his touch.
Sandra worked on arranging the bandages and twine but kept looking back and forth between Mevia and her task. Finally she set down her project.
“I’m sorry, but I just have to ask.” She reached over and touched Mevia’s twig thin arm which had about as much muscle as a bird’s leg. “How on earth did you win your Demonstration?”
Thomas stopped what he was doing and looked up with the same curious expression.
Mevia’s eyes shifted from one face to the other. “Tired,” she finally said and lay back down on her bed. She turned her head away, facing the wall and closed her eyes.
Chapter 9
She did not fall asleep as she lead Sandra and Thomas to believe, instead she shut her eyes as they continued to redress her wounds and thought about their question. She wasn’t quite ready to talk about her Demonstration, because even now, she was still unclear as to what had gone wrong.
When she won her Demo match, she remembered looking up into the white-hot arena lights glaring down from above the stands. She had just fired off a magazine from her automatic directly into the Drone reducing it from a ten foot, whacking, hacking killing machine into a lifeless pile of shrapnel.
Out of all the Kradle prisoners sent to the Demos, she had outlived them all, the last one standing. The other Demonstrator lay dead in the adjacent fight-zone. She was momentarily stunned by the scene on the other side of the bullet proof glass that separated their matches, his body was twisted as he lay decapitated in the dirt, his head propped against his foot, facing his mangled torso. She recognized him from the cafeteria.
“And the winner is,” came the loud, molesting voice from the speakers, “Mevia Freestand!” Applause erupted from the stands which were filled with the men and women of Congress, starched and stiff in their business suits, high above the blood and guts of the now red pond arena. She ignored them knowing their enthusiasm was centered on the drones and not her.
Exhausted, she dropped her weapon like it was a piece of garbage. She had defeated the S-Drone 5.5—CorMand’s latest an
d greatest super drone, the match-up they had “all been waiting for,” at least that’s what they announced to the congressmen, who were already shaking hands or on their phones, talking, sending e-messages, making deals and buying votes. The more impressive and expensive the drone, the more taxes they could justify demanding from their districts. More taxes meant more funding for CorMand, and more funding meant more impressive and expensive drones. Oh, and of course the good members of Congress had to take a little off the top for all their troubles—it would only be right. And just to make sure the taxpayers stayed good and loyal to the war effort, they aired the matchups on television. The best kind of war was a profitable one.
She stood in the middle of her half of the arena—a large dirt floor dotted with boulders and fake rock formations. It was among the largest rock structure where she had found the weapon pod and the automatic rifle in a locked case. On top there was a screen with a math equation she would have to solve to open it.
“Eli?” she said into her hidden microphone, making sure the tiny camera in her sweat band was focused on the computer screen.
“I see it,” his voice came through her earpiece she kept hidden under her hair. “Hang on.”
“Hurry.”
After a moment his voice came back. “1,020.” he said. “The answer is 1,020. Hurry! The drone is coming around the opening. It’s going to find you.”
She plugged in the number, opened the case, and grabbed the rifle. Behind her the entrance had darkened. She turned and faced the drone, multi-legged and crouched like a spider on the attack. She cocked the trigger, just as she had learned that week in Training, aimed and fired.
BAM!
A direct hit! The metal monster flew back, its appendages splayed as if it were accepting a hug.
Mevia charged forward, knowing that the drones were designed to take multiple hits and it could rebound soon. She fired her rifle again and again, trying to hit it in different spots and completely dismember it. She kept going until her weapon clicked and was empty.
That was when she was announced the winner.
Mevia turned away from the dismembered head and blood splattered glass. Already a cleaning crew was hustling in. She was weak, breathless and terrified. Things were about to happen, and fast. If they didn’t act soon she would be taken back into custody. She scanned the perimeter of the arena in search of Eli. Where was he?
Finally she spotted him behind the drone. He had opened a hidden door into the arena and was waving her over frantically. His black, wavy hair stood out against the white arena walls.
With dwindling energy Mevia ran toward him, not knowing if she was being chased by guards, but not looking back to find out. She had done the impossible, going three rounds and finally defeating the super drone, thanks to Eli. Now, he would take care of the rest, if she could just get to him, and jump into his arms.
Mevia began to run past the drone, no longer afraid, not bothering to slow down. It was dead after all, but as she raced by, her foot hit something hidden in the sand. She flew forward, crashing into the ground. Dust flew, choking her.
Mevia pushed herself up on her hands and knees and looked to Eli, but he wasn’t paying attention to her. Instead, he was fixated on the drone, his eyes feverish.
The ground was shifting. Stray, appendage-like sections lifted from below the dirt, making the panicky movements of an insect on its back, the drone convulsed violently, attempting to resurrect itself.
“Run, Mevia!” Eli shouted.
She jumped to her feet and sprinted. As she closed in, only feet from the door now, Eli extended his arm, still looking up at the monster.
Mevia began to reach out, but then she heard the horrific, screeching of metal against metal.
The drone was bringing its arm around and a sharp piece of steel was heading right at her. She jumped to the side, but instead of landing on the ground, she hit a boulder. Her ankle twisted painfully.
There was the sickening whoosh of the blade as it whipped by, just inches from her face. She threw herself to the ground, barely escaping with her head. Suddenly, all around, there was blood pooling in muddy red streams, flooding the dirt. Only then did she feel the iron hot burn radiating from her left wrist, up her elbow, and through her shoulder until it tripped an alarm in her brain that screamed and raged.
Mevia brought her hand up to her face. She had no thoughts, no expectations, which was just as well, because she had no way of preparing herself for the damage.
Her left arm now ended at her wrist, the horizontal cut was caked with mud and blood. This couldn’t be her body. No. This was a prop. This was a horror movie.
She opened her mouth to breathe, to scream, to gasp, to have some carnal reaction, but no sound came. Had Eli not pulled her into safety she probably would have been trampled by the rampant, living-dead drone.
There was a break in her memory at this point. When she reconnected it must have been just minutes later because she was lying on her back looking up at Eli’s pale, hysterical face. She remembered thinking that she had known Eli her entire life but almost didn’t recognize him. He looked toxic, his skin a yellowy-green, the shade of a smoker’s tooth, his face sagged, pulled down by his mouth, opened in a horrified half-moon. The corners of his eyes were pink and looked to be falling from their sockets.
He was looking at someone. Who? A woman. A guard. She recognized Officer Dixson, from the Training Center. She was helping them. Why? Eli must have convinced her somehow.
It wasn’t until Dixson made the ssh-shing sound, her index finger pressed to her lips that Mevia realized she was screaming.
There was a blue band wrapped above her elbow. It was tight and her skin above it was bulged, thick and shiny from the clogged blood flow.
Mevia opened her mouth to speak. “Eli!” The curdled, rasp of her own voice was jarring even in her own ears. “Let’s go. We have to go.” But his face was turned away. “Eli!”
He looked down at her. “We can’t.”
“Wh-a? We have to!”
He didn’t answer.
“What are you saying?” she demanded. He looked away as if he didn’t hear. “Answer me!” She no longer knew him. Before her eyes, the handsome young man from her youth, had deteriorated, all the fight in his features gone.
“You’re wounded, Mevia,” he said. “We’ll never make it.”
That was when it clicked and she understood what was happening and what was about to happen if she didn’t stop it.
“Wait—no! No. Eli don’t!” She kicked trying to get up, but Eli held her down.
He shook his head. “Your ankle is twisted and you’ll bleed to death out there in the woods. You need medical help.”
“No. No don’t. Don’t do this.” She was hitting him. “Please!”
“Here,” Officer Dixson said to Eli. She handed him what looked like a medic’s kit. “If you take this, she might have half a chance of surviving out there.”
Eli studied her. “What are the odds?”
Dixson looked down at Mevia’s bloody stump. “Slim. It will be extremely painful, and you’d risk infection, but there is still a chance.”
“There Eli see?” Mevia grabbed the collar of his navy blue shirt and pulled him closer. “Come on. Let’s go.” She tried to hide the pain, but her face was cringing with every wave of agony.
He said nothing, only looked back and forth between her deformed arm and swollen, purple ankle.
“Eli.” She jerked his collar so hard the threads popped. “Look at me.”
He turned his eyes to her. They were full of tears. “Mevia, you’ll die out there.”
“No!”
“You need surgery.”
She hated his calm, calculating tone, like he was speaking to a child. “I need to get out of here! Please. I’ll be ok.”
“Mevia…”
“DON’T SEND ME TO THAT FUCKING ISLAND!” Then the anguish became overwhelming. “Oooh ooh,” she groaned, trying not to throw up.
From somewhere came the echo of footsteps running toward them. The officers were coming. Eli’s head popped up.
“Oh God. Eli no-o.” She was crying hysterically. “Please,” she whispered. “Please don’t let them take me.” But his head was down and he was no longer facing her. “Please Eli. I can make it. But I’ll die on that island.”
“No you won’t. You’ll die if we leave,” he said hoarsely.
“That would be better than being taken away.”
The boots were getting closer. At any second they would come bursting through the darkness.
“You don’t want me. You just want your precious CorMand,” she accused.
“How can you say that?” He looked pained. “I don’t want to let you go.”
“Then don’t.”
“I have to.”
“Please, if you love me.” She dug her fingernails into his shirt.
The footsteps were almost upon them. He looked into her eyes and was about to say something.
“There she is! Grab her!”
As their hands closed in, she must have screamed. She didn’t remember but she must have fought viscously against their shackling grip as she was taken away to her new island jail, because later, before she was taken into surgery, the doctor had to peel away a blood soaked section of Eli’s shirt from her clenched fist.
Chapter 10
Eli
It was exactly 12:00pm when Eli logged off his computer and headed out for his lunch break. He had precisely one hour. Most recruits were allowed to log back in at 1:05 or 6, but not him; Villus was always watching.
He went into the empty break room and grabbed his “meal” from the tiny refrigerator: bits of coconut from the day before. He’d be angry if he had the energy, but that morning when he awoke and checked his delivery slot, finding it empty, he nearly collapsed on his kitchen floor. He was planning to go see his guardian angel Margo again, but that errand would have to wait until after work, right then, he had some business to take care of.
He ate standing up and finished his last bite of leathery coconut at 12:06. He threw the peels in the trash and dusted the fine brown powder off his hands.
Children of the Kradle (Trilogy Book 1) Page 5
