by J. Rock
7.
One Month Later.
A cloaked figure moves about the streets of Krakelyn at night. We call it night in Eversummer, but there is actually nothing to distinguish it from day because the sun never leaves the sky. We call it night, because it’s the time when everyone usually sleeps. Sleeping hours, we call them more often than not. But lately, people haven't been sleeping so well. Of course, it doesn’t help that over half of Krakelyn is dead.
Suicides mostly.
The cloak I'm wearing is oversized–it was my Father's–but that's kind of the point. It covers my face and body completely. I'm not the only one who goes about like this these days, though we're fast becoming a minority. I've been in hiding since the Final Judgment–that's what people are calling the day that Traylor opened the Box–but since my return to Krakelyn, I've been hearing rumors of a gang that doesn't take too kindly to people masking their deformities. Children of Mutanity they call themselves. A play on the words ‘mutant’ and ‘humanity’, I guess.
I've yet to see them for myself.
If the rumors are true, then this supposed gang would sure be anathema to all that the people of Eversummer previously stood for. It makes sense though, in a twisted sort of way. After all, after centuries of believing we were doing the will of the gods by weeding out the imperfections in our bloodlines–the True Body Plan–the gods turn around and do this to us. What are people supposed to think? Perhaps we had the TBP all wrong. Maybe mutations are the will of the gods, and what we think of as perfection is actually ugly and evil.
Maybe, but I don't believe it.
I'm angling my way toward the Manse, taking an indirect route so it’s not as obvious as to where I'm headed. Just in case. Our house has been at the center of a lot of hatred and violence since the Final Judgment. People want answers, and my Father has none. I still remember my Father's face, starkly gaunt and fearful, pocked with bleeding tumors and peeling skin when he ordered me to go into hiding after the Final Judgment. He told me to stay away as long as possible, to hide somewhere no one would think to find me. He had the servants pack rations in a tote and sent me away before things got really bad. I slipped off our property into the woods, never experiencing the devastation of Krakelyn firsthand. I could faintly hear the screams as I left though, accompanied by black smoke and the warm glow of massive fires off in the distance.
Krakelyn was burning.
Leaving was the hardest thing I've ever had to do, but I kept my back turned and made my way to the beach. There was nothing else I could do. The first few days, I constantly second guessed my choice of hideout–a small cave just off the shoreline. I thought for sure someone would come looking for me. But no one did. In fact, I heard not a sound from the direction of Krakelyn the entire month I was in exile. It was hard, but I stayed away as long as I could.
A month was all I could handle.
I kept clinging to the hope that Jude might find his way here. Surely he would have asked my Father where I was.
But Jude never came.
I'm pretty sure now that he's dead.
I've been back in Krakelyn for just a few days now, but I’ve scoured the city high and low, sniffing for rumors where I can find them without giving myself away. To no avail. If Jude was still alive, he'd be doing the same thing that I'm doing now.
I'd already cried about it a great deal.
I'm alone on the street now, walking slowly up a deserted stretch of Main. Well, maybe not totally alone. My mind is playing tricks on me, making me think that the dead bodies strewn all over the ground are moving. Just a twitch, here and there. It makes me shudder. These corpses are either murders or suicides, victims of the chaos of the Final Judgment. Victims unable to grasp the notion that their religion was a lie.
Thou shalt not suffer a mutant to live, remember?
I'm sure many who took their own lives felt they were doing the gods' will, afforded a place in Paradise for doing so.
I'm hardly that optimistic.
"Bloody ashes!" I curse, tripping over an old man with large bulbous growths all over his face. There's no trauma visible on his body, so maybe he just had a heart attack.
Maybe.
I carry on and almost trip again. In the name of the gods! Why doesn't somebody clean up these–
HHHHOOOOONNNNKKK!!!
I whirl just in time to witness a massive mechanical hulk barreling toward me. The machine honks again and I bolt out of the way, diving headlong to the dirt, scraping my palms. The machine takes its own dive, veering away to avoid hitting me and smashing directly into an abandoned storefront. The resultant crash is ear splitting. It should have attracted onlookers in seconds, but no one shows up.
People are scared.
The machine's engine is still rumbling, laboring, shooting forth great jets of black smoke before finally dying. The thing reminds me of REX, only on a larger scale. A box on wheels. I've seen one like this before, near the docks, used to load and unload freight. As the engine dies, the machine sags and a latch at the back of the box pops open, releasing the tailgate and spilling its contents.
Bodies.
I nearly vomit.
I hear cursing from the front of the vehicle, followed by an attempt to refire the stalled engine. It doesn't work. A hatch at the side suddenly plops open and a man–tall, fat, and covered in blisters–emerges, seeing me and cursing louder.
"What in the name of the gods were ya doin' in tha middle of the street?" he scolds, shaking a fist at me. "I coulda run you down! Then you'd just be another stiffy to throw on the pile!" He ambles toward me and I consider bolting. But this man is the first person I've actually seen doing something productive since I came back to Krakelyn. It makes me trust him somehow.
"You... You're cleaning up the bodies?" I ask, dumbfounded.
"Yup," the man replies. He has the husky air and burly chest of a sailor; or a dock worker at the very least. It seems he hardly notices the deformities on his face. "Deacons are offering ten credits per stiffy," he continues. "How could anyone pass that up?" He looks me up and down slowly. Though my hood is pulled up, obscuring my face, I feel like he can still see right through me. "Help me get these stiffys back on the wagon,” he says, “and I'll make it worth your while. We'll split 'em, seventy-thirty. Whataya say?"
"I say I better be gettin' the seventy portion," I reply cheekily. He laughs, finally letting his guard down a bit.
"You got a wagon of your own?" he retorts cockily. I shake my head. "Then seems only fair I get the lion's share," he smirks. "Don't it?" I shrug, thinking it unwise to point out that this wagon likely doesn't belong to him either. "So? How 'bout it?" He inches closer and I consider bolting again, but there's a very good chance now this man could catch me. He's more limber than he appears. I let my gaze fall uncomfortably, and it comes to rest at the man's hip where he has something clipped to his belt. Something I've only seen a handful of times in my life.
"Is that a shooting iron?" I ask, amazed that this uncouth miscreant possesses it.
"Yup," the man answers proudly. "Got it off a stiffy after the Children of Mutanity took care of 'em. They didn't even know he had it! Can you believe it? They thought the poor guy was still pure."
"Pure?" I ask, glad of the diversion in topic.
"Yeah, you know. Not mutated. The Children are out to take care of anyone who was untouched by the Final Judgment. They say that the gods have spoken, and that the True Body Plan is no longer the norm. Maybe it never was."
My heart skitters in my chest. "And have they actually found any, um, pure people?"
The man shrugs. "Who can say? Oh, they think they have, but I've collected the bodies afterward, and it’s always people who haven't had their faces marred up too badly. They might have only a few poxes on their face, but their bodies are always ravaged. The Children don't seem to care much 'bout that though."
"And just who are these Children?" I ask, keeping the diversion going.
The
man inches closer. "You've really been outta the loop, haven't ya?"
I nod. "I... I was scared. I hid for nearly a month."
The man nods. "Aye, ya wouldn't be the only one." He's really close to me now; so close that I can smell the foul odor emanating from the sores on his face. "Some say that the Children are former Deacons, given their fervent zeal. But who knows? Times are strange. So, how 'bout it?" he asks. "Help a brotha out?" He leans down suddenly, trying to look into the deeper recesses of my hood. A sudden noise–a bang–issues from the front of the man's wagon and, spooked, he pulls his shooting iron, aiming it directly at my chest.
I throw my hands up immediately. "Hey, wait!" I say.
With the iron still leveled, he turns and stares at the wagon. Then when he's sure there's no threat, he turns back to me. "Sorry," he says, "just a little jumpy." He pauses, still aiming. "But if we're gonna work together, I gotta be sure..."
He steps toward me and, in that moment, I know it's all over. The man reaches up and throws back my hood.
"In the name of the gods!" he gasps, letting his weapon hand fall to his side. "Juno Quinn?"
I nod, eyes wide. "Uh, yeah," I reply.
The man shakes his head. "My gods, it really is you! Of course I know who you are! Who in Krakelyn doesn't? But... How is this possible?" He lifts his empty hand, filthy and work torn, up to my face, caressing the unmarred flesh of my left cheek.
My eyes are still on the shooting iron.
"My gods," he says again. "My gods!" He raises the iron once more. "Lift up your shirt.” My eyes bulge. "Nah, ne'er worry, Miss Juno," the man says, "I ain't gonna force meself on ya. I just need to be sure is all."
I nod, feeling tears well up. I lift my shirt. My stomach is just as pristine as my face, lightly tanned and glassy smooth. It's the man's turn to bulge his eyes. "Satisfied?" I ask.
He nods, then shakes his head. "My gods, Juno, you might be the only pure human left! Do you know what that means?" He lifts the iron so that it’s pointed directly at my face. "I could get a thousand credits for you! Maybe more! Oh yes, your Father or the Children of Mutanity would pay handsomely for a prize like you!"
"You're going to sell me?" I ask indignantly, unbelieving where this is all heading.
The man shrugs. "Times is tough, young Juno. Who knows when an opportunity like this might come along again?" He wags the gun toward the wagon. "Walk that way," he orders.
Defeated, without recourse, I do as he asks, my anxiety rising to fever levels. We get to the hatch of the machine and I see the small driver's cab within, cramped with only two seats. He urges me inside and forces me into the driver's chair, pulling a thick length of cord from a nearby cubby. I want to convulse, knowing what comes next.
"Please don't take offense, Miss Juno," the man pleads as he binds my wrists to the steering column. "This is business, nothin' personal."
I say nothing, biting my tongue.
He steps back out of the wagon. "Now, you hold tight while I get these stiffys back on the cart. Won't take a sec." He disappears, closing the door behind him. The sound is like the final nail driven into my coffin. I want to sob.
"You okay, Juno?"
I whirl about–as much as I can with my wrists bound–and there's Traylor, hidden inside an oversized cloak much as I am, a huge grin plastered across his face.
"Where in the name of the gods have you been?" I curse at him. "I've been worried sick!"
"I got held up at the docks," he says, shrugging sheepishly. "It wasn't easy asking around about Jude without giving myself away." He throws back the hood of his cloak, revealing a face very similar to mine–we get our looks from our Mother–and just as unblemished as mine. Traylor and I might be the last pure humans left, in Krakelyn anyway, but we don't know for sure.
We have to find our Father.
Traylor pulls a small utility knife from one of his pockets and sets to work on my bonds, releasing them quickly. Immediately, I start examining the control panel in front of me.
"What are you doing?" my brother asks. A stupid question.
"What do you think?" I retort, finally finding a switch labeled 'ignition'. I flip it and the machine sputters, coughs, then roars back to life.
"You don't know how to drive this thing!" Traylor extols.
I shrug him off. "Would you rather take your chances out there with that slave trader? He wanted to sell me, you know."
Traylor huffs, plopping down in the passenger seat of the cabin. "I didn't know that," he replies.
I find the gear shifter and slam the vehicle in reverse just as a loud banging issues from the side door.
The slave trader is trying to get in.
"Don't worry, I locked it," Traylor says.
Grinning, I hit the gas pedal and the machine lurches backward with a death shriek, pulling out of the smashed storefront. Through the windscreen I see pulverized shelving and the goods once contained therein, scattered about like dead leaves. This had been old Mrs. Cromarty's shop. I feel a pang of sadness, but I realize I don't even know if Mrs. Cromarty survived the Final Judgment.
The accelerator is touchy and the vehicle literally flies in reverse, slamming into something behind us that I can't see. There's no mirrors. I've driven a loading cart at the Glass Gardens, but this is a bit more complicated. The fat, deformed slave trader appears before us, waving angrily for us to stop and get out.
"Fat chance," I sneer, shifting into drive. I wave back, indicating he should get out of the way. I hate the man, but I won't kill him if I don't have to. Then I hit the pedal and the vehicle blasts forward, barreling down the streets of Krakelyn, the slave trader diving theatrically to the dirt to avoid getting smucked.
