Eversummer: The Forerunner Archives Book 1

by J. Rock

  13.

  I've got my hood pulled up all the way, obscuring most of my face, and I'm not the only one disguised in such a way. Plenty of others at the vigil are covered up. Though from what I can see of them–hands, chins–their skin is blemished and pockmarked. 

  Mutated.

  I suddenly feel naked, but I'm already at the center of the throng and no one has given me a second glance. I gently push my way to the freestanding rock spire around which everyone is grouped, finally discovering the truth of this silent vigil.

  It's a vigil for the dead, for a world that no longer exists.

  Around the fifty foot base of the spire, laid out with care, are flowers, wreaths, incense, and burning candles. Above these offerings, either carved into the rock or scrawled with chalk, is the names of hundreds of people–dead people–along with messages from their loved ones. 

  "Why would the gods do this to us?" I hear a voice ask in despair. "Thou shalt not suffer a mutant to live... Ha!" A woman has just finished scrawling a name onto the spire, crying. "If the gods wanted us to kill ourselves as these people did," the woman gestures to the spire, "then why make us do it ourselves? They know the stubborn nature of humanity." She points theatrically to the heavens. "I won't do your dirty work for you! You hear me?" She yells it, but the crowd only murmurs, falling back into their self-deprecating stupor.

  With a gasp, I realize that this is a monument to those who had killed themselves in accordance with our religion, the True Body Plan, after the mutations occurred. 

  Thou shalt not suffer a mutant to live. 

  These people killed themselves because of me, I think, squeezing my eyes shut to hold back the tears. 

  What would these people do right now if they knew the truth?

  "It was all a lie," I say, surprising myself.

  The pissed off woman whirls on me, her icy eyes seeming to bore a hole through my disguise. "That's kind of what I was getting at with my little speech there," she snaps at me sarcastically.

  I shake my head, realizing all eyes in the immediate vicinity are on me. "Uh, yeah, I know," I stammer. "I just... I meant that sometimes it’s easier to believe a lie than to accept the truth. Religion is a form of control. Somebody in the distant past, probably one of the Forerunners, had a hate on for mutations and created a doctrine to reinforce that belief. Unfortunately, a lot of other people started believing it too."

  The woman's face appears to melt before my eyes–and not because it's covered in tumors. The scowl she’d formerly been wearing morphs into a mask of pure astonishment. Sometimes I forget that I'm not like ordinary people. I'm the High Deacon's daughter! And as such, I’m privy to just a little bit more of the inner workings of our religion than most. 

  I forget that sometimes.

  "That," the woman manages to stammer from a slackly hanging jaw, "is very perceptive," she says. "One of the smartest things I think I've heard anyone mutter since the Final Judgment."

  "Um, thanks," I say sheepishly.

  The woman steps boldly toward me, hand outstretched. Her dark hair is falling out in patches. "I'm Bruna," she says as I take her hand timidly.

  "June," I reply without thinking, modifying my real name slightly.

  "Good to know you, June," Bruna returns in kind. She steps even closer, peering now directly into my dark hood. "You have the tune of a northerner in your accent," she says. "Are you from Krakelyn?"

  I shift uneasily. "Near there," I reply, offering nothing further. Why is Bruna scrutinizing me so much?

  "There is no longer a need to hide your face, June. Here especially. Having said something so profound earlier, I am surprised that you continue to do so. From your words, it is clear that you do not follow the old ways. Do you believe mutations to be an abomination?"

  "No," I answer immediately, blunt and firm.

  "Then, please, do not hide your face! It is so rare to find someone with such a high level of thinking. Think of the good you could do! If you were to preach your message about the faults of the True Body Plan, all the while keeping your face fully exposed, others might be inspired to abandon the old ways as well!"

  Bruna stops talking, but I do not respond. I don't know how.

  "Please, June," she says, "do not continue to perpetuate the lie. That is what got us in this mess to begin with!"

  For the first time since meeting Bruna, I now notice the other people around me as well. They are mostly silent, but as they were all enveloped in their own personal griefs earlier, now they are enveloped in me. Staring at me. Looking back at all those expectant faces, something inside me lets go. 

  These people need me...

  I reach up to the hem of my hood, letting the rough spun material glide gently over my fingers–

  KRAKOOOOM!!

  A whip crack of sound, all too familiar to me now, cuts through the silence like a diamond bore. Every eye at the vigil is drawn to the source of the shot, where a now steady rumble similar to that of an oil-fired engine echoes toward us. Indeed, half a minute later, two yellow spinning lights, sitting atop two bizarre wheeled contraptions, appear through the leafless trees that line the road leading out of the canyon, headed straight for us. The vehicles are unlike any I'm accustomed to, but who knows what kind of Forerunner tech they've exhumed in the south? Father always says southerners are too lax when it comes to avoiding the old ways. The vehicles are identical, each with four wheels–two large ones at the back, two smaller ones at the front–green, tall, and fronted by a massive metal scoop which the pilots appear to be manipulating from the open cab behind it.

  The fast traveling conveyances leave the road at the edge of the gathering, slowing not a bit, forcing the revelers to leap out of the way, cursing and screaming. I'm on the other side of the pillar, but my outrage at this disturbance is equal to theirs. The machines force their way to the pillar, pulling directly up to the natural object and placing their scoops against it, one next to the other. The cab of each vehicle contains two people, and I stand on tip toe in the now surging throng to see one of them raise a hand, yelling something. The engines of the machines whine loudly and spew forth great billowing black clouds as their scoops are rammed full bore into the pillar. 

  My first thought is that there is no way these relatively small machines can topple such a massive natural feature. But within moments, it becomes clear that that is not the case. The rock near the base of the spire splits, then cracks, then topples over, sending more people trampling out of the way. It might have been my imagination, but I think I actually see someone try and push back against the other side of the pillar, trying to hold it up.

  And then the person is gone.

  With their cruel task over and done with, the four pilots of the two machines power down their engines, disembarking from their respective cabs. They're people, like any others I'd met in my life, three men and one woman, all covered in boils and tumors.

  And they all carry shooting irons. 

  The largest man, carrying himself like a leader, leaps atop the remains of the toppled spire and raises his hands to the sky like a preacher addressing a congregation.

  "You people cling to the past!" the man announces without preamble. He gestures to the remains of the scrawled names on the rock. "You mourn for those that took their own lives when the gods turned their backs on us, but you should be rejoicing! The weak have weeded themselves out! Thou shalt not suffer a mutant to live? Ha!" 

  I get a cold sense of déjà vu at this proclamation; Bruna and I lock eyes momentarily. This man is saying pretty much everything we’d talked about moments earlier.

  "If the gods truly wished for a mutation free world, why would they create one that is full of them? Why not just start over? Why not destroy us? Such a thing makes little sense. No, what has become clear to us now, the Children of Mutanity, is not that we are being punished by the gods, but rewarded!" I should have known that these psychos are Children, I curse to myself. "The True Body Plan is muta
tions," the speaking man continues. "Brothers and sisters, it is our mission to ensure that the old world, the pure world, is left for dead, forgotten and buried. Thou shalt only suffer a mutant to live!"

  Confused murmurs erupt from the crowd, the speaking man staring at them expectantly. Did he really think that little speech would be enough to make them forget where they came from? Until now, I'd had some hope that the Children of Mutanity were a local phenomenon, confined only to Krakelyn.

  Some diseases travel faster than others, it would seem.

  "Come!" the speaking man admonishes once more. "Brothers and Sisters, join us! Have no fear! You have only to embrace what you are! You are mutants! Do not hide it! If you wear a mask or hood, remove it, so that we may revel in what the gods have made us!" The speaking man gestures to his counterparts. Shooters raised, they move into the crowd, pulling away disguises with force where necessary.

  I'm in trouble.

  There are only so many people in the crowd, and few are willing to defiantly keep themselves masked against the Children. I watch them, striking an old man in the gut with one of their irons, ripping away his cloak. The man's face is weathered and severely wrinkled, but he has little more than a rash on his face. The Final Judgment was easy on him, it would seem.

  "Now see here!" the speaking man announces, bringing all eyes to the old man. "A remnant of the pure blood! This man has hardly been touched by the Final Judgment!"

  The crowd murmurs their angry disapproval of the speaking man's appraisal, but none are willing to stand up to those shooting irons. Not that I blame them.

  "I condemn thee, pure blood! I cannot allow your purity to be passed on. Thou shalt only suffer a mutant to live!"

  And with that, the speaking man levels his iron and pulls the trigger. The old man drops like a wet sack, horrified screams issuing from the crowd at the same instant. Without pause, the Children are back to work on the crowd. Nearly all the remaining holdouts have removed their disguises.

  I'm the only one left. 

  "You there!" the speaking man calls out, pointing directly at me. "Don't move!" I'm panicking. All eyes are on me. Bruna is urging me to remove my hood and be done with it.

  Either way, I'm dead. 

  The realization hits me like a ton of bricks.

  My anger surges.

  Haven't these people taken enough from me already?

  They killed my Father.

  My anger boils. Bastards!

  "No!" I scream, bolting from their advance. I leap atop the fallen spire and, in one deft movement, let my cloak slip from my body, fully revealing my unblemished face. "You bastards killed my Father!" I scream. "You just try and take me without a fight!" The Children approach and I ready my legs to strike out. It's my own fault I'm in this mess, so I might as well try and make it somewhat worth it. 

  The speaking man and his two cronies stop when they reach my vantage, staring up at me with wide grins. Their weapons are lowered, however. "You are a feisty one, aren't you?" the speaking man comments with a sneer. They don't move. What are they waiting for?

  There's only three of them in front of me! I realize.

  "Bloody ashes!" I murmur. "Where's the fourth–"

  My words cut off as something hard, cold, and sharp presses into my throat. A blade. The sweet breath of the lone Child woman snakes into my ears: "Don't move, pureblood."

  I don't.

  Seconds later, the speaking man is next to me, staring intently at my face, running his dirty fingers across it. "Impossible!" he asserts. "This must be some form of trickery! A new method of painting the face, perhaps?" To my disgust, he spits on one outstretched palm and smears the result across my cheek, trying to remove the disguise he thinks I'm wearing.

  The knife presses harder so I don't protest. 

  He frowns at me deeply. "Release her," he orders the woman. I can feel her reluctance, but the woman finally relents, allowing full breath to enter my lungs again.

  "What are you, pureblood?" the speaking man asks, his fingers running restlessly over the butt of his iron. "We have never found one so pure." He pauses, stepping close but keeping his hands to himself. "Are there more of you?" The lust is clear in his stare.

  "No," I state, simple and blunt. "My name is Juno Quinn, and I am the last human." I step back from the speaking man and, hardly believing I am doing it myself, lift the bottom of my tunic top upward, revealing my flat, pale belly, and small, budding breasts.

  All unblemished.

  The gasps that issue from the crowd at that moment are nearly deafening. My eyes fall to Bruna, who's smiling up at me like I've just saved the world. A massive crash mutes the crowd, and I lower my shirt to see the speaking man snarling, holding a smoking shooting iron skyward but now leveling it straight at me.

  "The last human must die," he says without emotion. In that moment, some of my Father's last words to me flash through my mind...

  "We're sterile, Juno."

  "You mean everybody, don't you?" I say. "Everyone who was affected by the Box is sterile."

  Father nods. "Yes, Juno. It was confirmed at the Krakelyn Hospice about a week ago. Unless we find a way to reverse the condition, humanity as we know it will cease to exist within a century. Now you know why you and Traylor are so important..."

  These people don't know the truth. 

  They are doomed without me!

  I open my mouth to speak but find no words. I have to impart how important I am to these brainwashed dummies!

  "I... You... Don't..."

  The speaking man's finger twitches on the trigger, my entire body shuddering in mimic with horrible anticipation. My only consolation is knowing that I am not really the last human. I have a brother. There's still Traylor, and as long as Altair gets him to this Ursa woman, there is still hope.

  The speaking man's trigger finger has stopped twitching.

  I squeeze my eyes shut around the tears. 

  Here it comes.

  THHHHUUUNNNKKK!

  I hear a metallic clanking noise, followed by a brief but sharp exaltation of pain, neither having to do with me.

  I open my eyes.

  The speaking man has both hands on his neck, trying to stem a tide of blood leaking from a small but deep incision at his throat. On the ground in front of him, both the shooting iron and a familiar looking silver metal star lay like corpses drenched in blood. The speaking man's cohorts approach him with guns drawn toward the onlookers, demanding to know what happened.

  I smirk. 

  Altair's throwing star had been silent. Nobody knows what's really going on yet.

  The speaking man, growing paler by the second, finally collapses from blood loss, falling face first off the fallen pillar. 

  "Who did it!" the lone woman among the Children of Mutanity demands of the crowd. "Tell me who killed him or I swear to the gods I will open fire on–OW!"

  Something, it looks like a rock, comes sailing out of nowhere, falling to strike the woman above her right eye. She swings her shooter in the direction of the attack, causing everyone in the vicinity to scream, run, and duck for cover.

  "Who bloody did it!" the woman curses. Shouts erupt behind her, and she whirls once more to find her two remaining companions on the ground, being beaten savagely by a now rioting mob.

  "NO!" the woman screams, opening fire, sending shot after shot into the nearly defenseless crowd. Bodies fall, blood spurts, screams erupt. The riot has turned into a stampede, but I'm out of the flow, still standing atop the toppled spire. The crazy woman's eyes find me and she snarls, swinging her weapon up in a last ditch effort.

  Except it never gets there.

  Another silvery star streaks from the edge of my vision, slicing directly into the woman's hand, causing her to scream and drop the weapon immediately. Altair is there seconds later, holding more stars and a small, three pronged weapon. 

  Where had he gotten that?

  The woman sees Altair, bellowing in r
age, and comes at him swinging, blows which the trained Assassin dodges with ease. She kicks and he lowers his body, raising his pronged weapon at the same time, her shin crashing into the sharp, unyielding metal. She screams and drops, holding a now gaping wound in her leg. She curses at Altair but he kicks her under the chin and she goes limp.

  Unconscious, not dead.

  The crowd has mostly dispersed, scattering in all directions into the desert, leaving everything in their camp behind.

  Altair whirls from his defeated foe and stalks directly toward me, eyes blazing. "What in the name of the gods is wrong with you!" he roars, grabbing me harshly by the shoulder.

  "Hey!" I protest. "Take it easy!"

  "This is the least I should do to you!" he retorts, beginning to drag me back toward the canyon mouth where we’d been hiding earlier. A small, completely cloaked figure emerges at our approach. I sigh in relief to see that Traylor is safe. "Get over here, Traylor," Altair orders. "We have to leave... Now!"

  "Way to go, Juno," Traylor quips, mocking applause. "What was that all about anyway? There wasn't really a spider on me, was there?"

  My mind is the opposite of blank, a thousand million excuses flitting in and out of focus. The truth is, I really don't know why I snuck off to join the silent vigil. I really don't. I just... 

  "These people were mourning their dead," I finally come up with. "They're the first people we've seen outside of Krakelyn that aren't Children of Mutanity. They had no agenda other than sharing their suffering, easing each other's pain. I needed to be a part of that. I..." I pause, tears welling then spilling down my face. "I haven't grieved for Jude yet."

  The floodgates open.

  The last thing I'd said was the truth.

  I hadn't grieved yet, creating an emotional dam inside me, waiting to burst.

  I love you, Juno Quinn… 

  Jude's last words to me, again. 

  I break down and cry, leaning against a nearby boulder as my legs turn to jelly. I feel Altair's close looming presence and turn, hoping to find some comfort or at least some empathy from the man. But all I'm rewarded with is a cold, hard stare.

  "We don't have time for this, Juno," he says. My heart freezes, anger swelling. "Your little stunt will soon alert other Children within fifty wheels. We have to move. If we're lucky, we can stay ahead of the rumors this incident is likely to spread." Altair pauses, eyes downcast. "But I don't think we will be that lucky. Not now. We'd need to travel at racing horse speed and– What? What is it?"

  I'm smiling now, my eyes having fallen on the area around the fallen spire. "Actually," I say, "I think we can do better than a racing horse." Altair and Traylor both follow my gaze.

  "No way," Altair says. "Our goal is to remain anonymous, not bring more attention onto ourselves."

  "Do you want to stay ahead of those rumors or not?" I retort with a smirk and a head tilt.

  Altair sighs and Traylor lights up excitedly, seeing that the man has acquiesced. "Are we gonna get to ride in one of those Forerunner machines?" he asks with childlike glee.

  Altair just stares at the tall, green machines with their heavy scoops on the front. "Bloody ashes," he curses.