Children of the Kradle (Trilogy Book 1)

by Alexa Hamilton

  He cupped handfuls of water and splashed his face. At the bottom of the clean crystal there was a group of thin fish gathering around his ankles, their slick brown, speckled bodies whipping in the current. Kilt smiled at the life forms, and then like a hawk he swooped face first into the water and submerged his body. Underwater, he sat down on the river bottom, fingernail scrubbing his beard.

  Rising to the surface he let out a whoop! With clean clothes and another meal in his belly he’d be a new man, like pushing a “restart” button. Those dusty months in the Valley of the Shadow of Death, were over, and he was feeling so fresh, so reborn, that it was as if they never happened.

  Kilt rubbed the water out and opened his eyes. Up on the bank there was a man aiming a shot gun in his face.

  Chapter 18

  “Woah. Hey,” he sputtered.

  The man was standing, bent at the waist with an old rifle pressed against his cheek. He had a redish-blonde beard with long, tangled hair, wore faded overalls, and his eyes were as black and round as the hole of the gun barrel.

  Kilt gave him a placid smile. “Hey, listen I’m, uh--”

  “Hands up!” the man demanded.

  Kilt obeyed although, where would he be hiding a weapon? “Listen. I’m a friend of--”

  “Quiet!” the man spat. “You know where I live boy?”

  Kilt frowned. “Well, sort of…I think.”

  This seemed to momentarily faze him, but then he picked up his speech. “I live up

  river--”

  “Listen, I’m a friend of Senior’s. And Jack’s.” Kilt didn’t know why he mentioned Jack, but he couldn’t think of the wife’s name.

  “Now I know that’s not true.” He took a step closer, easing his foot sideways along the sloping bank, his boots leaving streaks down the molasses-like mud.

  “How else would I know their names?” Kilt looked around. “Senior! Joe!” He yelled, his voice swallowed by the forest.

  The man jerked his rifle. “How do you know their names?”

  Kilt gestured toward the trail. “That’s what I was just saying.”

  “Hands!” His shark eyes honed in. “You do somethin’ to ‘em?”

  “Wait…No. Of course not.”

  “You’re lying!” He jerked the rifle again and then there was the click of the hammer.

  “No…please!”

  “You know how I know your lyin’?”

  “I’m not.”

  “Because if you were a friend of Senior’s I know for a fact he wouldn’t have you bathing upstream from my camp and dirtying up my drinking water.”

  Kilt started to speak but the words were knotted in his throat, so instead he stood there with his mouth hanging as if he were afflicted with chin weights.

  Then the man broke into a smile which graduated into a chuckle. He lowered his weapon and belted a throaty horse laugh.

  Kilt slowly lowered his arms back into the water. He was freezing now and still too stunned to speak.

  Senior walked up looking confused. “Hey-o Jep. Whatcha doing there with your Winchester?”

  “Oh just out an’ about doing some hunting.” He grinned at Kilt.

  “Is that so?” Senior said, getting in on the joke. “Thought I heard someone calling my name.” He cleared his throat. “Kilt, you about done in there? You look whiter than a pink eyed mule.”

  Kilt shot them a peeved look and slapped some water on the bank. He climbed out of the river and went over to his dry clothes.

  Jep whistled. “Hoo-wee boy, I didn’t mean to scare you that bad.” He laughed looking down at Kilt’s crotch.

  “You like it?” Kilt said mockingly, which brought more whoops of laughter. “All right,” he said with a smirk. No one ever accused him of lacking a sense of humor. “You got the new guy. Ha. Ha.” He threw on the spare clothes Senior had left him. “So,” he said, zipping up the pants. “Was this whole spectacle a joke? Or were you really planning on shooting me?”

  Jep shrugged. “Eh. Little of both.” A crocodile grin spread across his course features.

  “Great,” Kilt said. “Just try not to aim that thing at my face anymore, alright?”

  “I wasn’t aiming it at your face.” Jep released the lever action, removing the bullet from the chamber. “I was aiming at the back of your head, son.”

  Senior slapped Jep on the shoulder. “Be nice to my guest here, ‘ol buddy.”

  Jep offered a hand to Kilt. “I knew something was up when I was fishing and the stream turned cloudy. You must have been one dirty son of a gun!”

  Kilt shook his hand. “No hard feelings. And sorry about the river.”

  Jep waved it away. No harm done. “Where you come from, stranger?”

  Kilt buttoned up the shirt. “Most recently, the Valley.”

  Jep let out a whistle. “Now, why would you be out there?”

  Senior spoke up. “He was hiding from the Corps. Like us. But why don’t we talk about it over dinner this evening?” He nudged Jep. “We have a lot to discuss.”

  Chapter 19

  Mevia

  Her mother—Icona Freestand—was sleeping soundly the day they came and arrested her. Four of them entered her hospital room. They ignored seven-year-old Mevia who was watching the scene unfold through a window from the Observation Room.

  At first Mevia did not react because she thought they were more doctors. After all, they were wearing the same yellow “Astro-snot” suits—the plastic ones with the clear square at the head that looked just like a picture frame, but with their faces as the picture. She knew the right word was “Astronaut” but she liked hers better.

  On days when she was feeling less playful, she called them “Germ-suits.”

  “And my mommy’s the GERM,” she would say smartly to the nurses with her chin jut out. They would look down at her with a mixture of disgust and pity, as though she were a rabid pup.

  “There’s something wrong with that Freestand child,” they would whisper loudly enough so that she could hear. Adults did that a lot. But she didn’t care. Her mom was sick. Her dad was sick. And her home was now Medi-Corps Hospital, Wing 8, Observation Room C.

  She missed her real home. But not the fighting that went on inside. She hated that both of her parents got infected at the same time, but she was glad it had at least put an end to the arguments that were getting worse in the weeks before they got sick. Sick like everyone else.

  When the military police—as Mevia eventually learned who they were—entered the room in their yellow “Germ-suits” and surrounded her mother’s bed, Mevia absently looked up from the doll she was busy undressing and redressing and made eye contact with her mother through the thick glass separating their rooms.

  Icona Freestand, or Captain Freestand as the military police addressed her, had her head limply slung over like a worn rag doll, her jaw perched against her shoulder causing it to twist against the weight of her skull, giving her mouth the appearance of a broken nutcracker’s.

  Her mother’s pale, sweating face peered through a gap between two of the yellow suits standing over her. Her dirty blonde hair was now light brown and clung in thin, wet strands across her forehead. Icona’s dark eyes held Mevia’s, relaying a message. The look contained a conflicting mixture of anguish and apathy. Then she weakly lifted a hand from on top of the white bed sheet and held up her palm to Mevia. She understood; her mother was saying good-bye, but Mevia frowned and refused to wave back, refused to release her mother, wanting her to try, to fight.

  Her mother used to be a fighter. She fought for what she loved. She loved her husband, her family, and her military job. At work she advanced quickly and often. Mevia could tell because each time she got promoted they had a boring ceremony followed by a not-so-boring celebration.

  Her father was also military, but they didn’t have too many ceremonies for him. To young Mevia, even though her wavy haired father was the strongest man in the world, she could see how her mother was the better of the two.

/>   She could never articulate it, but her mother always seemed more solid like a boulder. Not in build. Depending on the circumstances, Mevia could either thank or curse Icona for her petite frame.

  Not only was Icona solid, she was also quick. She moved without hesitation and completed every task to perfection. She was flowing lava, carving through mountains. She was never static, always moving forward, never back. She never swayed side to side or in any other direction for that matter. Getting distracted by side projects was not in Captain Freestand’s nature, but the same could not be said for Second Lieutenant Freestand, her father.

  Mevia was happy the day her mom became a “Captain,” She got to leave school early to attend the boring ceremony, followed by the not so boring celebration, but, also the word meant something to young ears. It sounded like she was the Captain of her own ship like Captain Hook. Except good. All those other military names didn’t sound so exciting.

  But, it didn’t take long for Mevia to connect the dots: the stripes may have meant a new name for her mother, but it also brought a change in her father.

  At the medal ceremony, Jonathan Freestand stood by his wife like a good husband. His hands were folded in front of his body. His large chest was inflated and his chin held high like the perfect soldier. But he had this grin. Wide and toothy with clenched teeth as if he were trying to keep his tongue from escaping. Second Lieutenant Freestand kept that smile plastered across his unshaven face all day right up until the moment they passed through their front door.

  Then the corners of his mouth drooped just like the rest of him. He loosened his tie, undid his belt and mumbled something about a nap. Then he shut the bedroom door louder than normal.

  For a little while, things were quiet at home. When her dad wasn’t on base, located in the underground of their condo, or sleeping, he was parked in front of the television sipping on a glass of brown stuff he referred to as a “grown up drink.”

  Gradually the atmosphere in Mevia’s home changed. It started casually during a dinner time conversation.

  They were eating their Wednesday night rations of baked salmon—dry and overcooked by the NRP—kale, and brown rice.

  The three of them sat in their dining area, barely large enough for a table and three chairs. The television, which was always on at dinner, was situated on a small table, just beyond the entrance way. Mevia often thought it would be funny to draw a picture of her dad watching TV from the table with his fork perched, hanging in mid-air. She would make it like one of those shadow silhouettes—the ones that were all black and only showed what the person looked like from the side. Even to this day, that was how she remembered her dad, just a sideways glimpse of a man.

  Their silverware made busy sounds that could barely be heard over the music from the news show, but then Icona spoke up. “So, Jonathan, how was your day?”

  Mevia dropped her fork.

  Her dad must have been taken off guard too. His knife froze in place just as he was about to cut a piece of salmon, but his face was still honed in on the television.

  Mevia’s neck rotated slowly back toward her mom. For a moment a thick, itchy silence hung in the air. Her parents never talked at dinner, at least not that she could remember.

  Her dad dragged his eyes away from the screen as if he were being pulled chin-first. “Fine.” He swallowed his dry salmon with noticeable effort. “Yours?”

  Icona smiled tensely, glancing at Mevia before she answered. “Interesting. It was…interesting, I suppose you could say.”

  “Interesting?” He took a sip of water. “How do you mean?”

  Her mother paused and looked down at her plate. Her eyes flickered back and forth as though she were solving a complicated equation. Finally she cleared her throat and set down her fork.

  “I-uh. Well,” she cleared her throat again, “Jonathan, you know that with my new ranking comes a new security clearance, right?”

  “I’m aware.”

  “What I mean is, well, although I knew I would be learning some...new…things about the government I..uh…” She looked up at her husband. His expression hadn’t shifted. “Anyway,” she continued, “I was handed a new file today.”

  “What was it?”

  “I…I can’t really say.”

  “What do you mean you can’t say?” Her dad’s voice contained just enough bite to make Mevia shrink into her chair.

  “I mean…well you know what I mean Jonathan.” Her eyes begged him to cut her some slack, but his stony expression plainly stated he would give her none. “It’s…it’s…classified.”

  Mevia didn’t understand the meaning behind “classified”, but she figured it must have been a bad word because as soon as her mom said it her dad’s face turned red.

  “Then, WHY bring it up?”

  “Because, what I discovered in that file…well those files, there were hundreds of them…it scared me.”

  “Scared you?!”

  “No, that’s not it. It disturbed me.” She turned her face away and buried her mouth into the back of her hand. Her mother was not one for tears, but she was sweating, which was her form of crying.

  Her father looked at her mother like she was a pesky bug he was considering swatting. Mevia wanted to scream. Instead she began sniffling away the tears stinging the back of her eyes. She was upset, but didn’t want to cry because she was afraid the conversation would stop and she wanted to know what had disturbed her mother.

  “Icona.” The look disappeared from her dad like magic and he seemed calmer. “I just don’t see why you brought it up, if you weren’t going to tell me about what you read. You start a conversation and then you insult me by pulling this ‘classified’ bullshit.”

  Mevia’s eyes blurred. It was no use, the tears were coming whether she was ready or not.

  “I’m sorry, Jonathan. I didn’t mean that. I just…I just…”

  “What?”

  “I just don’t know if I can handle…this…intel I was given today.”

  At this her dad threw his knife down on his plate. “Christ!” He rolled his eyes and wiped his mouth with a napkin. He mumbled something about “women in uniform.” Then they all went quiet except for the television mixed in with Mevia’s rhythmic whimpers.

  “Isn’t that the reason they promoted you to ‘Captain Freestand.’ Huh? Isn’t it your goddam job to handle things?” He stood up, knocking his glass over spilling his grown up drink. It spread like a dark cloud across the table.

  “Jonathan. You don’t understand what I’m dealing with here. What we’re dealing with.”

  “Who?”

  “All of us. You, me, Mevia. The country. The world.”

  Mevia choked on her tears. Her mother leaned over and wrapped an arm around her. “Don’t cry. I’m sorry. We’re just having a grown up discussion.”

  Mevia would have leaned over and nestled into the crook of her shoulder to get a complete embrace, but she didn’t allow it yet. Her dad would have to calm down and say “sorry” too.

  But the apology never came. Her dad stomped out of the dining area, went into his room, and slammed the door.

  Mevia glared at the shut door. How did he so easily reduce her mother to a sniveling mouse? She was a force and he was just dead weight, dragging her down.

  Droplets hung from her mother’s lip, fat as tears. Her eyes were drawn downward, safely affixed on her wilted kale. The fight was over, and that was when Mevia understood. It wasn’t all her father’s fault. He may have been holding her back with his spite and his tantrums, but she was the one who allowed it.

  After several more weeks of shouting and door slamming, the fever struck, followed by the vomiting and groans from behind closed bathroom doors. Mevia was confined to her bedroom with her dolls.

  Although only a child, she was able to connect the two instances: her parents fought and then they got sick. She couldn’t interpret what it meant, but it was there in her mind all the same, a splinter in the back of her eyeball, scratc
hing, blemishing the lens through which she viewed the world from that day forth.

  In the hospital, when the Germ-suits placed the handcuffs around her mother’s bony, veiny wrists, Mevia knew she was being arrested and understood that it had something to do with the fight from that night. Later, when she was older, Mevia realized that the arrest had something to do with what was in those files her mother had been so upset about. Maybe her mother did something the authorities didn’t like or perhaps she just knew too much. She also began to suspect that those files explained why her mom, dad and the rest of the world got sick.

  Icona kept her eyes glued to Mevia, sitting in the Observation Room holding her doll. Mevia didn’t move but she understood that this was the last time she would ever see her mother again.

  But still, she refused to wave.

  Her parent’s deaths came within days of each other. The doctors and staff offered no words of condolence. And why would they? They were being burned alive in the wild fire that was Medusa. Bodies were piling up, first in the morgues, then the landfills, then the streets.

  Mevia was just another case among a budding generation of orphans.

  For a while after her parents died, she had slipped through the cracks and had managed to stay with neighbors and friends from school. Everyone chipped in and took care of the sweet little girl with strawberry ringlets. But soon, a social working came poking around and she was discovered. No she cannot stay with your family. You would have to go through the adoption agency and it’s a long process. Lots of paperwork. Expensive too. Are you prepared to pay all the administrative and court fees? No, it doesn’t matter what the child wants. There are processes for these sorts of things. Background checks, home investigations, interviews. Are you prepared to go through the grueling adoption procedure? We understand your hesitation. The girl will be fine with us. The sisters at the orphanage will take very good care of her. And she’ll have lots and lots of other children to play with. Hundreds actually. Doesn’t that sound nice?