Children of the Kradle (Trilogy Book 1)

by Alexa Hamilton

  Mevia followed blindly as they tore through branches and papery leaves. She checked the sky to try and see if they were going south, but then it didn’t matter in which direction they were running, they just had to get away.

  One of her sandals slipped off, but she didn’t slow. She felt Grunt crashing through the woods, gaining on her.

  How far or for how long they went, she didn’t know, but they didn’t quit until James grabbed his chest and fell to his knees.

  “Stop!” he heaved.

  Mevia fell beside him. His back was turned, head hanging, invisible behind heaving shoulders, his pathetic little pack shifting up and down with his breath like a fishing bobber riding the waves.

  Mevia crawled away from the sound of his gasping to try and listen for the Poachers, but the tousle of trees was silent, as if a great beast sprang up from the earth and swallowed all jungle the creatures in one gulp.

  “I think we lost them,” she whispered, laying a hand on James’ thin shoulder. “It’s ok. Take deep breaths. That’s right. Deeeep breaths.”

  Slowly the intervals between James’ gasps lengthened and his breathing returned almost to normal.

  “Come on.” She nudged his arm, taking his pack and loading it around her own shoulders. “That’s south. I think.” She pointed through some trees.

  He struggled to his feet.

  They walked quickly and quietly. Warm blood flowed down her leg and onto her only sandal. She hoped they had enough water to last them. She touched her belt, grateful she still had the knife. Removing it, she gripped it in her fist. Ready.

  James on the other hand was shoeless and knifeless.

  They struggled deep into the night, pushing their way through tassels of snarled vines and splintered branches. It was hours from dawn and they were miles from home, but they pushed on until they were within inches of collapse. The fear of what could be at their backs was their only source of fuel pushing them to get out of the jungle. Adrenaline had long earlier run out and exhaustion took over.

  As their bodies and minds degenerated with fatigue, so did their senses. Multiple times one of them stopped the other, thinking they heard something: a scream, a roar or even the phantom buzz of a motor. “I don’t hear anything.” The other would say, and then they would continue.

  Finally, who knew at what time, they found themselves in a space among the jungle that wasn’t overgrown. The little plot was just large enough for the two of them to lie down. Neither had to say a word before they both collapsed, falling into a deep sleep.

  ***

  Morning’s rays commanded Mevia to open her eyes. She awoke, blinded by the angry sun that had been screaming at her for hours. She pulled herself into the sitting position feeling like she’d been dragged down to hell and then climbed her way back. Her body was stiff, her head was pounding.

  Mevia studied her legs imagining how the rest of her looked. Blood caked cuts spread across her skin like she’d been splatter painted by a whip. Dirt and grime had burrowed its way into her wounds. A soft red frame surrounded each scab, the beginnings of infection. It would do no good to wipe the mud away, her hand and nub were so coated in filth. Even her clothing was too dirty to use. “Can’t clean dirt with dirt,” she muttered.

  Mevia rolled over and crawled to James. He looked long dead except for his ribs fanning beneath his shirt, rising up and down, reminding her of a fish on land, desperate gills splayed, gasping for air.

  Her throat hurt too much to speak so she nudged him.

  His eyes opened and she watched as he remembered where he was. With Mevia’s help he rose to his feet, a salty, soupy smell wafting from his dirty body. She imagined she smelled the same. “I think we’re close,” she coaxed.

  They picked up from where they left off the night before, staggering through the foliage, lost as a pair of ants without a colony. They came upon a muddy creek filled with tousled brambles. James let out a soft groan.

  “Come on. I’ll help you.” Mevia went ahead.

  The crossing wasn’t as bad as she feared. They were able to balance on a sturdy log and make it over without falling.

  “Let’s check our supplies,” said Mevia, opening the pack. There wasn’t much, only the module, one egg and empty canteens. She sighed and stood up, not bothering to ask James if he needed a rest before they went on, with no water and no hope for rain, they didn’t have that luxury.

  Hours later, just about the time Mevia was about to give in that they were hopelessly lost, they spotted their mountain due southwest. They managed to glance at one another and smile through cracked lips as they drunkenly shifted direction toward home.

  By the sun’s position, it was nearly two hours later that they reached the foot of the hill. The afternoon heat was like a pillow pressing down on her face. They stopped in some shade to rest before attempting the climb.

  James pulled the boiled egg out of his pack and peeled it. “Lot further than it looked,” he said swallowing his half. He handed the other part to Mevia.

  “And we still have to climb,” she said thickly.

  “Yeh.” James wiped his eyes with the back of a grubby forearm, smearing his already dirty face.

  Mevia hung her head between her knees as if she were searching for strength.

  The next moment of awareness came sometime later as she was on the ground, laying in the fetal position, half-waking from sleep. Knowing she needed to climb, that she needed water, she tried to make herself open her eyes, but as if pleasantly buried alive, like a hibernating larvae, the sweet suffocation pushed down until she relented and released herself into a blanket of warmth so inviting she might never leave.

  And on she slept, her subconscious shifting among dimensions as she was pulled by the undertow of spiraling dreams, hauled across the dark ocean floor, water up her nose, drowning, but powerless as she was moved through scene after scene of her past, a slideshow of her life.

  She saw Eli, sitting at his computer, shoulders hunched, hands moving in a blur. She was watching from outside, on the balcony with the garden, dirty, thirsty, banging on the glass screaming at him to let her inside, but he didn’t seem to hear.

  Then she was back in the pit with Flora on the day they first met. She knew because her pink hair was still straight and was shining with a lingering silkiness, but when she looked down, her legs were hot with oozing bedsores. They were talking, but she couldn’t hear what they were saying until she realized Flora was saying her name. “Mevia.”

  “Yes?”

  “Mevia.”

  “I’m here.”

  “Mevia!”

  She opened her eyes. It was James. Then she heard voices. Her head popped up and there they were: Cree, Wil and Thomas.

  Wil and Thomas were helping James to his feet, but Cree stood over Mevia. She squinted up into the sun sitting just behind his shoulders. He grinned. “I can’t tell whether or not you’re happy to see me.”

  She could only imagine how grungy she looked. “I’m smiling. Can’t you see?”

  He perched his hands on his hips, leaned back, raising his chin to the sky and belted out a hearty laugh. “Ha!” Then he extended his hand. “You ok?”

  With their help, and a canteen of water, Mevia and James made it over the mountain and down into the clearing where they were greeted by some very relieved Tritons.

  After eating, they were washed, doctored and sent to bed. Throughout the resurrection process they were questioned left and right about their journey. Mevia remained silent, allowing James to tell the stories, including Flora’s.

  After a while everyone except Sandra left the two travelers alone to rest in the cave. Sandra continued to fuss over Mevia like a mother hen, combing her tangled hair, adjusting bandages, her brown, motherly eyes never still, always searching for anything out of sorts.

  Sandra checked over her shoulder, “James isn’t just asleep, he is out.” She wore a satisfied smile. Mevia took this to mean that he would be ok. “Are you comfortable de
ar?”

  “Actually, I am.” Mevia was lying on top of a makeshift examining table of scavenged plywood. “After sleeping on the ground for a night, this thing is like a feather down.”

  Sandra ran her hand over the cuts on Mevia’s wrist and her smile faded. “Are you ok?” She met Mevia’s eyes. “About Flora I mean?”

  Mevia looked away.

  “You did everything you could,” Sandra said thinly, as if it were something someone once said to her. “At least she died with a friend.”

  “Yes. I’m glad I tried. At least she’s not hurting anymore.”

  At least. At least. That was the thing about tragedy: it made it was easier for people to rejoice in bottom of the barrel blessings. At least it was painless. At least we said good-bye. Well, maybe Mevia wasn’t so grateful. All she could think was: You know she shouldn’t have been here in the first place. You know this is wrong. You do know that, Congress, don’t you? Don’t you?

  Nausea climbed up into Mevia’s throat. There was something else bothering her, conflicting with her resentment.

  “Sandra?” she asked softly. “What do you think is going to happen?

  “With James?”

  “No.” Mevia swallowed. “With them.”

  “Oh.” Sandra’s hands stilled. “The Poachers.” She took a deep breath and slowly released it. “I’ve been thinking about that ever since I learned you had left.” She sat with her knees crossed and her hands on her lap as if in meditation. “They will be angry. They will be vengeful. And they will come after us.”

  Mevia’s tasted acid splashing the back of her tongue.

  “But,” Sandra said, “we will continue to use our greatest defense against their evil.”

  “Which is?”

  “The Clearing.” She gestured. “They’ve never found us. They’ve tried, but we are in the best hiding place on the island, of that I’m sure.”

  Mevia closed her eyes. For the sake of the others, she hoped Sandra was right. She hated putting them in the position of being in hiding, going underground, always looking over their shoulder. She knew what it was like and was never any good at it.

  Sometimes she wished she could be like everyone else—keep her head down, her nose clean and out of the GovCorps path. Even when she was miles away and out from under their thumb, she still found herself reverting back to her old ways.

  But then again, wasn’t there always going to be someone like the GovCorps or the Poachers? Someone bigger, stronger, wealthier? Power hungry and pushing their boundaries? It was the way of the world, the design of nature.

  Mevia clenched her fist and tightened her mouth. Yes, she felt bad for putting the Tritons at risk, but she was not sorry.

  Mevia’s slumber was deep and plagued by nightmares. The heaviness of exhaustion was like an incubus, sitting upon on her chest, its claws clasped around her throat. She could no more break free from its grip than a corpse could escape its casket. The last dream was of Grunt, chasing her. Never tiring, never quitting. Somehow she knew that even if she managed to turn around and kill him, there would be another one closing in right behind.

  Chapter 40

  Eli

  The night air was thick and stale as Eli waited alone for Mevia outside of The Underground. He could barely breathe under the blanket of smog, cigarette smoke and sewer steam. He told himself to enjoy it. The air would be even more polluted once they went downstairs into the club.

  The Underground was a famous not-so secret hangout, a favorite among the bohemian Slaggers.

  Eli didn’t care for the place, but he played along for Mevia.

  He paced around in a two foot circumference, watching the people pass in their cigarette drenched pleather jackets, a beer buzzed glow radiating from their eyes. He wondered if they could see his leper sores.

  He stepped out of the way for a greasy rat which scurried across the quaked sidewalk before disappearing into a trash-heaped alley.

  He had been standing outside in the chilly night air for ten minutes feeling out of place, like a stray integer in a sequence of code, his presence an error, ruining it for everyone.

  There was nothing worse than feeling like an exile, a pariah cast out into the cold. Except, they were the real outcasts, the artists, pushed underground, their craft not only unappreciated, but practically illegal. In the universe of programs and networks, he was never, ever an outsider. Oh, he was a misfit, an unwanted nuisance, absolutely, but never an outsider.

  As he watched the crowd hustling by, somebody pushed him. “Watch it,” he snapped, catching himself.

  “My foul, man. My foul.”

  Eli was mad until he saw who it was. “Oh hey, Traim.”

  Traim was a street kid, twelve, maybe thirteen years old. He was a mooch and a pickpocket but everyone cut him slack because of his hair lip.

  “Eli! My man!” They slapped hands. “Hey, you got any creds?”

  “Yes, but only a couple.” He reached into his pocket. “I just got a card, you know?”

  “Oh yeah. I know you Cardman.” He spread his right palm.

  Eli touched his card to Traim’s hand chip and then verified the amount on his hand held.

  “Thanks man!” Traim yelled as he ran down the sidewalk, dodging the crowds.

  “Stay out of trouble!” Eli called.

  Two girls came staggering up the walk, bumping into one another, their heels clicking against the pavement. They were singing a song Eli didn’t recognized, and continued to belt it out in their breathless, off tune voices even as they entered the dilapidated building that housed the Underground.

  Mevia’s laughter echoed from somewhere up the street. Eli’s head jerked up, searching for her in the crowd. She had a fantastic laugh, a twittering little bell. Eli wasn’t the funniest guy in the world, but at least once a day, he was able to squelch one out of her, and when it happened he got such a rise out of it. Inside jokes were the best, and easiest. They had a million of them.

  Eli didn’t see her at first because she was coming from around the corner, but then as she came into view he was taken aback. She was laughing again. And not just a generic ha-ha, she was actually, mouth open, bent over to the side, holding some guy’s arm and tripping over her feet, laughing.

  Eli’s blood pressure rose, but he gritted his teeth and smiled.

  “You look nice,” he said, as she approached—and she did. She never got dressed up, neither did he for that matter—even if they had nice clothes, where would they wear them?—but she always managed to look better than a holiday.

  “Thanks!” She kicked away a piece of trash that blew up against her leg. “This is Drew.” She linked arms with Drew.

  “Nice to meet you,” said Drew, extending his hand. Eli shook it. They were the same height, but Drew was thinner, less built than Eli. He wore a black knit cap over his dirty blonde hair which poked out over his eyes.

  “You too,” Eli muttered. This guy was a joke. “You’re late,” he said to Mevia before he could stop himself.

  “I know. I’m sorry.” Mevia smiled and then playfully punched his shoulder. “You forgive me?”

  Eli half-grinned. “You’re about as sorry as old Seever on a Sunday morning.”

  Mevia laughed, her pearly teeth glistening in the light. She’d had a few drinks, he could tell, but still, she thought it was funny and that’s what counted. “Cut it out.” She looked at Drew. “Inside joke.”

  Then Drew grinned like an idiot. “Oh. I get it.” Then the dip-shit had the audacity to laugh, and worse Mevia laughed with him.

  Eli stopped smiling.

  “Ready to go down?” Mevia asked.

  “Sure. After you.” Eli gestured and followed the two of them in.

  The Underground was a kind of artists club in an old tunnel-train line that ran under a derelict condominium called “The T” because of the giant, gold letter “T” that hung on the front. Nobody knew what it meant or used to mean and no one really cared. It was now a squatter’s den tha
t doubled as a landmark for the club below.

  They passed through what once was probably an ornate lobby. Now the large, high-ceilinged room was dank and dark, lit only by the street lights filtering through the dirt coated windows. Its walls wore tatters of chipped, faded paint that in yester-years might have been a deeper royal green. The floor was now a quilt of concrete and carpet, ripped and rotting, littered with burned out campfires. In the dead center was a rotted security desk that was patrolled by a strung out bum.

  “Officer,” Drew saluted as they passed the empty eyed sentry.

  Eli inwardly rolled his eyes.

  He followed them down a set of stairs and through a shadowy, cramped hallway, hugging the sides as they passed huddles of kids, white arms exposed, needles exchanged, eyes smoked, the base of their skulls rolling side to side over the cracked, pea green walls.

  The swarthy music grew louder as they got closer. He trailed just behind Mevia. She had on her black combat boots, fishnet hose, and a flowing skirt, complete with a slouchy leather jacket. He liked to watch the way the hem of the grey opaque dress swished when she walked, tucking in and out of the crevice where the stockings met the plump parts.

  The intense music battered his senses as he stepped out into the open station. He took a step back feeling as if his brain was being hurled into the rear of his skull.

  The locals were hanging from every corner like communal monkeys: drinking, dancing and of course, spray painting. “Great party, huh?” Mevia said in his ear, her warm breath leaving a powdery scented on his cheek.

  In preparation for the night, Eli had dressed in his definition of “party wear:” rumpled jeans and a plaid shirt. Even in such understated clothes, he still stuck out like a neon sign: I don’t belong! However, he was granted the status of marginalized acceptance because of the fact he was escorted by their queen. Mevia was an empress surrounded by a gaggle bohemian peasants with piercings, Mohawks, rainbow hair and body art.

  Eli had only been in the Underground a few times before. The windowless former tunnel-train station was dimly lit by burning barrels and scattered LED lights. Its outer walls were lined with musty old couches mostly used to hold up the slouching ar-tists, laying around waiting for inspiration. The graffiti—ahem—Urban art with its blocky phonetics, chromatic caricatures, and symbolic calling cards, crawled up the once pea-green tile walls, and gathered like roaches in every free corner. The word “HOLLOW” was stenciled in the dead center of it all. It was the former name of the stop, back when it was a working tunnel-train station. It was also the only place that wasn’t painted over; instead, the word had been crookedly framed with squared stripes of multi colored bands. No one touched the name even though easel space was limited.