Children of the Kradle (Trilogy Book 1)

by Alexa Hamilton

  The doctor’s head fell back, and his eyes were barely open in slits. His mouth drooped agape, foamy saliva hung from the corners.

  “Eee-li.” Hersche struggled to breathe. On his neck there was a small red hole dripping with blood.

  He had been poisoned. “Who?” Eli asked, he stood in front of the doctor and moved his ear next to his mouth.

  “They….know,” he whispered.

  “They? Who?” Eli turned his head to the opened door. “Elyse! Somebody! Help!”

  “Eli.”

  He doubled his grip. “Hang on. I’m going to lay you down. I need to call the EMT.”

  “No,” The doctor whispered. He held onto Eli.

  Eli’s eyes filled with tears.

  Hersche looked up. “Listen,” he said. His voice was louder, as if using the last of his strength. His eyes rolled back and forth behind his lids, exposing the whites, dry and chalky. “Your parents…” He took a deep breath.

  Eli frowned. “My parent’s? What about them?” He took the handkerchief from his coat and wiped the doctor’s mouth.

  “Your parents…the shot…” He took a deep breath that lasted so long, Eli thought he wasn’t going to finish, but then Hersche reached up and touched Eli’s collar. “They didn’t…they didn’t infect you….they immunized you.”

  Eli fought to keep Hersche sitting upright. He lowered himself so his eyes were even with his. “What do you mean immunized? Against what?”

  And then the doctor surprised him by smiling the faintest of smiles. So slight, there was barely even a change. Dr. Hersche turned his eyes toward the computer and pointed, but then his arm went limp, falling on the desk, knocking off his row of pens. They rolled and scattered across the clean white floor. His breathing stopped.

  Eli was left holding the dead man, staring at what looked like a lab report. Two words caught his attention: food supply.

  Very carefully, he lowered Hersche to the ground, laying him in what he thought might be a comfortable position, away from the growing puddle of juice. He lovingly smoothed the good doctor’s hair and straightened his lab coat.

  Then Eli sprang on the computer like it was a life raft. Dr. Hersche was still logged in so he easily got into the mainframe and began downloading as many files as he could into Nino, one of his secure databases.

  There were footsteps coming down the hall. Eli left the program running but turned off the screen. He hustled to the door, knowing how suspicious it would look if the doctor lay dead on the ground while Eli was sitting at his computer. He nearly smacked into Elyse.

  Eli grabbed her by the shoulders and held her just outside the office. “Listen. Don’t go in there.”

  The whites of her eyes were huge, magnified by the glasses. “Why? What’s going on?” she demanded trying to push her way past.

  He held her firmly. “No. Listen for a minute. Hersche has been poisoned I need you to call somebody.”

  “Poisoned!?” she cried, her mouth curling down in horror. “Let me see him!”

  “Elyse—“ Eli begged.

  “Move!”

  Eli let her by. She ran to Hersche’s side and touched his neck before grabbing the desk phone and calling the EMT’s.

  “This is Dr. Elyse Grayson and we need an emergency transport on the 7th floor. Hurry!” She hung up.

  Eli was officially on the clock.

  He went to Elyse took her by the hand. “Listen, you need to go to the west entrance and wait for the EMTs.”

  “Why?” her voice came out wet and choked.

  “Because, they’ll need your access card to get in.”

  “But I want to stay here with the doctor.”

  “Listen Elyse.” Eli bent to her level and looked her in the eye. “Dr. Hersche was murdered. I need to stay here and guard his office, ok? I don’t want to put you in any danger, you understand?”

  Instantly her face lost all color. To his relief, she turned and ran to the west entrance.

  Eli whisked back to the computer. He allowed the file exchange to continue until he heard footsteps. Then, faster than a keystroke he shut down the entire process and turned off the computer.

  By the time the EMT’s walked in he was standing in the corner with his head in his hands.

  Eli remained in the lab for the next four hours, filling out paperwork and answering questions. Based on the detective’s demeanor and inquiries, Eli could tell he wasn’t a suspect.

  Just before he was excused, Eli pulled aside one of the detectives. “So do we know who’s responsible for the murder?”

  “Yep,” the detective answered plainly. “We have it all on the hallway surveillance camera.”

  “You do?” Eli’s eyes lit up. “Who is it?”

  “We don’t know yet, but we’ll find out.”

  Eli bit his thumbnail. “So, was there a camera inside Dr. Hersche’s office as well?” He reviewed what he would have to do to break in and delete the images of him on the computer.

  “Nope. Only in the hallway, and that’s all we need to solve this case.”

  “I see.” Eli tried not to appear relieved. “So Dr. Hersche was injected with poison by this guy, correct?”

  The detective nodded. “That is correct and it is also the only information I am privy to share with you. Do yourself a favor son and go home to bed.” He gave Eli a single slap on the back.

  “Will do,” Eli mumbled and sauntered away.

  He walked slowly all the way home, his mind spinning and heavy with guilt, certain that Hersche’s death had something to do with his visits.

  When Eli finally made it to his front door, he checked his handheld. It was after midnight. He leaned his head against the frame, not ready to go inside. He fought against his legs from giving out, but the battle was quickly lost and slowly he sank to the floor. He wasn’t sleepy or even tired—he was crushed, completely and absolutely defeated under an all-consuming weight.

  Life wasn’t supposed to be like this. His had started off so well it could have been a bedtime story. He was the healthy, happy kid of two intelligent, successful parents, living in one of the most prestigious Corps in the world. Wasn’t that the beginning of a fairytale? Once upon a time there was a little boy who lived in a beautiful castle. Except most stories didn’t end with: And because of the orphanage and the evil starvation curse, he lived a life of solitude. Struggling ever after. The end.

  “The. End.” He sighed, his head rolling along the wall. He closed his eyes against the white florescent light and before he knew it, had fallen asleep.

  Chapter 56

  Kilt

  The quiet of the night was dense, and claustrophobic. The sound cancelers in the walls were activated and Kilt wished he could turn them off. It was too quiet, like being cocooned in a blanket underwater. He lay with his eyes open in the dark, listening to the in and out of his breath which was becoming almost intrusive in the silence. He checked the clock, nearly midnight.

  He wondered where Eli was. Probably having a night out on the town—or whatever you called this place. Maybe he shacked up with one of those blonde petri-dish-princesses. If so, he hoped his junk got genetically mutated, the bastard.

  What are you, his old lady? Besides, it was probably better this way. The madder at Eli, the better.

  Things were in place for James; Eli wasn’t necessary anymore. Kilt had gone over every possibility in his head, but he still couldn’t call it a real plan; things were too complicated, too vulnerable to change. What if after Eli was gone, Bora demanded more money? Kilt certainly didn’t have any, unless Bora accepted varmint hides. What if Bora couldn’t find James and gave up? And what about his own neck? What if he couldn’t get out of town fast enough, what then?

  That’s not going to happen. All he would have to do is slit Eli’s throat in his sleep and make a break for it. Yeah, they would figure out Kilt was the one whodunit, but who the hell was Kilt anyway? He wasn’t a Corp, a Slagger or a Farmer anymore. Just a nobody lost in the woods. And
he could always refer back to his alias good ol’ Sloan Hissler.

  Yessir, he and James would be just a couple of clean slates living off the land. What’s there’s, was there’s. Plus Mevia might want to join them. Of course she would, she’d have nowhere else to go.

  Kilt threw off the covers and padded into the kitchen. He grabbed a medium sized knife from the drawer, went back into the living room, slid the blade under his pillow and sat down.

  Oh so you’re doing this tonight, are you? Maybe. Why? If he’s drunk it’ll be easier. Less painful for him. So you’re doing him a favor? What a guy!

  Kilt waited for the voice to say that Eli deserved it, but that voice didn’t speak. It hesitated and was overtaken by the silence. Kilt waited. He thought he heard someone outside the door, maybe Eli was finally home, but nothing happened so he lay back down, feeling the stiffness of the knife under his pillow.

  So what’s the plan hot shot? Easy. Kill Eli, inform Maxim, get James and Mevia, and go. It was very simple; kill Eli, report to Maxim, get J and M, and go. Kill, report, get, go.

  He repeated this mantra over and over again. Kill, report, get, go. Kill, report, get, go.

  If he said it enough it would permeate, solidify in his brain until it became hardened—concrete. He continued to repeat it, like counting sheep. Soon it just became letters, symbols in place of actions: K, R, G, G. KRGG.

  Math: that’s all it was, really. Everything had its order, nothing could be rearranged, or rerouted otherwise the entire equation would fall apart.

  But what does it equal? Freedom. Oh, really? The Eurasians could decide they need you again someday. They could come looking for you. They already found you once hiding in the woods and they could do it again.

  Kilt rubbed his damp forehead. You are such a fool. Yes. Yes, he was a fool. He used to think that because he had survival skills, knew how to make things grow, that he could escape the hold this world had on him, break away—except the world caught up to him, and now he was back among the Kradle brats playing a high stakes game of peekaboo.

  Wheeeere’s the rotten tomato? I don’t see a rotten tomato. Peekaboo! There it is! The perfect tomato! Yum-yum-yum. Then they played the game over and over again, trying to fool themselves each time. Wheeeere’s the injected chicken? Peekaboo! It’s takeout from SweeD! Nummy-nummy! Wheeere’s the heart defect? Peekaboo! It’s gone-gone!

  They were all kidding themselves, every one of them, living like children, getting spoon fed from their highchairs, having their little faces wiped before they went out to play games of King of the Mountain, and Eli Jackson was at the center of it all, or he would be someday soon. Programming the drones, beating the Eurasians, and for what? World domination? Exactly. That’s exactly what it all boiled down to. Domination. Someone telling someone else how to live their meager little lives. No, not telling—forcing.

  By killing Eli, he’d be doing the world a favor.

  There was no other way to look at it.

  Kilt lifted his pillow and looked at the knife one more time. Either kill or be killed, he thought. He set the cushion back down and carefully rested his head against it.

  He squeezed his eyes shut and repeated the equation until he began falling asleep. But just before he drifted off, some hours later, the muted voice from earlier rang through.

  You’re not cut out for this.

  Chapter 57

  Mevia

  “You’d think the clouds would be out of water by now.” Telly sneered at her muddy feet.

  Mevia looked at her own mud caked legs. She was almost ankle deep in the muck. “If this rain keeps up it’ll ruin the beans.” She stirred the pot full of white bean stew hoping the extra rain water would boil away.

  “Runny beans are the least of our worries,” Telly grumbled.

  Don’t I know it? Mevia looked up the mountain side. The wet, grey rock was a mirror image of the wet grey sky. If she stared at the scene for very long, it was almost as if she were transported into one of those ancient black and white movies, like the one with the tornado and the little dog. She was going to say this to Telly, but didn’t because she couldn’t remember the name of the film.

  A mother Guinea and her chicks were huddled close to a strawberry tree, their wet feathers puffed and fat. They waddled the circumference of the thin trunk trying to avoid dribbles from the leaves. The Clearing was one big mud hole and without any direct sunlight there was little hope for it drying.

  “Smells delicious,” Sandra said. She and Thomas walked out of the cavern carrying brown sacks stuffed full to the seams. “Maybe a hot meal is all this group needs to take the edge off.”

  Telly took a bite with the brown spoon. She swallowed it thoughtfully and then looked at Sandra. “Nope. Didn’t work. Still nervous as a tit mouse.” She smiled tightly. “But it does need garlic.”

  “No problem. I’ll go get some from the garden,” Mevia replied.

  Telly pointed to the brown sacks Sandra and Thomas were carrying. “Are you taking that out to the hideaway?”

  “We are,” Sandra answered. “Peas and beans.”

  “Well next time you go, I’ll have some sundried tomatoes for you, if we ever get any sun around here.”

  “Thank-you,” said Thomas. “Mevia, would you like to come with us? You’re the only one who hasn’t seen the hideaway.”

  Mevia looked at them longingly. Today the Clearing seemed foreboding, haunted even. She could use some time in hiding. “Are you sure it’s safe to leave?” she asked.

  Sandra nodded and looked out toward the mountain top as if it held answers. “We think so. This place is very well hidden. Besides, James is on patrol today, and the last time the Poachers were spotted—“

  “Like, forever ago!” Telly put in her two cents.

  Sandra continued. “They were heading in the opposite direction of the hideaway’s location. I doubt they completely changed courses.”

  Mevia looked down at the ground then back up at Sandra. “Yeah. You’re probably right.”

  “Yeh,” agreed Telly.

  They all grew quiet. A cool breeze passed sending shivers down her legs.

  “But, I need you here kid,” Telly said. “I gotta have my sous chef.”

  And that decided it.

  Mevia watched as Sandra and Thomas headed west, further and further away until they ducked behind the trees and disappeared. She continued to look until the branches stilled and all evidence of them was gone.

  “Don’t worry kiddo. They’ll be fine. They both had knife belts. I saw ‘em.”

  Mevia smiled weakly. “I’ll go get the garlic for the beans.” She headed to the east toward the garden.

  Ducking under the banana leaf canvas she and Sandra had rigged—a recent addition over the garden to spare the vegetables from heavy rains—she padded through the wet, fertile-black dirt, loose and piled. The garlic was in the far corner where it was darker. The little bit of sunlight that filtered through the leaves filled the atmosphere with a green hue that made the skin on her arms look reptilian and sickly. She was glad she didn’t have a mirror to see how the rest of her looked. After days of broken sleep and cloudy skies, she could just imagine the dark circles brewing beneath her eyes.

  She went to her knees at the garlic shoots. Kneeling behind the tomatoes with their tall tangle of leaves and vines she was suddenly overpowered with the sense of being cut off and alone. From a crack in the cover, a thick drizzle of water fell.

  With only her fingers, she dug at the base of the green shoots, advertising its goods below. To her back, birds chirped, a grackle craw-craw-ed, the wind shuffled through the trees, introducing the various species of plant life to their neighbors so nobody could get too comfortable. Cobana-meet-papaya-meet-palm. Be alert. Be alert.

  The gods of weather craved a restless world.

  She uprooted the first bulb, knocked away the dirt and dropped it into the bowl.

  She forked her dirty hand into the ground and grubbed after the nex
t one, her fingers scraping against the stray rocks bending her nails, biting at the tips.

  A goat brayed from somewhere behind her, a high pitched guttural call that carried. She recognized it as the desperate sound a nannie made when looking for her kid.

  Another snarled bulb went into the heavy pot.

  She looked down at her fingers. Snagged bright pink skin stuck out from all directions, the clear parts tarnished by soil.

  Stray hairs fell across her face. She pushed away the sweaty locks. Moving quickly, biting her lip through the pain, she went to work on the final bulb. Suddenly she had the urge to go after Sandra. The feeling crept upon her like a fanged, black spider dangling just over her neck. The hairs all over her body stood on end as she hurried to finish digging so she could get back to the Clearing.

  She swatted away the encircling flies buzzing around her dampened head. She could barely hear them over the locusts grousing from the wilderness. They had joined the chorus of birds, creating an orchestra of war calls, as if an invisible battle was raging just beyond her shoulders. She clawed into the earth with insistency, persevering through the pebbles and tangled roots.

  The last bulb was rooted deep into the ground and it didn’t seem to want to leave its home. She scratched at the papery ball and pulled again. “Almost there,” she whispered. Giving it a final tug she ripped it from the earth only to have it fly from her hand and land somewhere in the jungle behind her. “Damn.” Sighing she picked up the bowl and headed into the shadowy trees. It was darker in the jungle than it was underneath the canvas, louder too. Bending close to the ground she rustled through the vines and leaves. Her frustration was growing because she thought she saw where the bulb had landed but now there was no sign of it. Maybe it bounced. She pushed through some leaves, and stopped when she came to a fallen log. Kneeling to the ground, she set her hair behind her ears and then began pawing along the edge of the mossy wood.

  “There you are,” she whispered. It was resting against the log. Pressing her knee into the ground, she stretched out to reach it.