The Girl Who's Made of Leaves: Post Apocalyptic Science Fiction

by H. R. Romero

  Moving her hand to her forehead, she grimaces, gingerly pulling at the tape that secures the gauze dressing to her skin. It’s reluctant to peel away. She pulls insistently at the edges to loosen the gummy adhesive. The tape makes a gentle tearing sound as it separates from her epidermis like an old scab, glued to her skin.

  Dried blood paints the inside of the gauze. A mad-minded psychiatrist had placed a Rorschach inkblot there for her to decipher. The patch of dried blood bears a resemblance to a twisted tree, rootless, and leaning too far over as if it means to fall to the ground.

  The light bulb, hanging on the hook, is lit again. It hasn’t been turned on from the inside of the room. There’s a flat piece of metal bolted snuggly over the place where the switch should be. The light must be controlled from somewhere outside.

  The dog continues to bark and whimper, the one that woke her this morning, and someone outside on the other side of her door says, “Shaddup Rex!”

  After that, it’s quiet again for a long time, but Rose finally hears the noise again, she listens carefully. It becomes increasingly louder, she imagines it must be the sound of doors opening; doors to the other locked rooms, one at a time, one right after another. She listens carefully as each door is unlocked. Some have squeaky hinges, some do not.

  Each time a door is opened, a green man calls out a specific room location, such as, “Wayfinder, R – Zero – One – E, Lily” now, Rose knows, R – Zero – One – E, is the Wayfinder assigned to someone named, Lily. She learns that R – Zero – Two – E is Aster’s Wayfinder, and, R – Zero – Three – E, is Cane’s.

  Rose is most interested in discovering who resides in the two rooms that bookend her own and put a face to the names. She waits silently until she hears the soldier call, “Wayfinder, R – Zero – Four – E, sibling: Hawthorne.”

  The next ‘Wayfinder’ to be called out is hers, and she listens as her name is called. Her door is unlocked and opened. She hopes the brown dog will be there again. She envisions, for a moment, how nice it would be if she and the dog could be friends, but it’s not the brown dog this time.

  The dog in the corridor this morning is black with a white muzzle, and its front left paw has some silvery tufts of fur on each of its toes. The dog backs away from her, slowly, nervously. Lowering its head, but never taking his eyes off her, it half-growls, half-whimpers, forcing a high-pitched whining sound through its nose. She decides she doesn’t like this dog as much as she did the brown dog from last night.

  Rose is taken from her room under heavy guard. The weapons pointing at her head are so close to her she can smell the brassy, gun oil the green men use to keep their rifles in tip-top operating condition.

  When she emerges into the hall, there’s already a line of children, the exact number she had counted inside her head. It’s made up of boys and girls. Some older than her, some younger.

  The children are collected and put into their group, or, what the soldiers refer to as a ‘section,’ every morning. You must do everything with your ‘section’ while you’re not locked in your room, or bad things might happen to you.

  She’s moved to the line and tied to the others in the ‘section’. Her hands are cuffed, awkwardly, behind her back, like the other children, in various restraints; cuffs, ropes, wire, or whatever could be scrounged up from around the base.

  Rose doesn’t like having her hands behind her back, it makes her shoulders ache, and after a while, her hands start to tingle, just like before, when Dr. Shaw had her secured to the gurney.

  Each of the children has their feet shackled together, making it almost impossible to walk. They’re forced to adopt a shuffling gait, making them look less like children, and more like deranged primates. Metal rings fitted around their ankles rub the skin raw so that they are scabbed over and bleeding.

  Rose, for the time being, is secured to the front of the line, all the while she is face-to-face with the business end of an M1 carbine.

  She manages to smile at the green men. They do not smile back. They only return an icy stare. They glance to one another, shaking their heads. Rose doesn’t like the way they treat her and the other children. She wants, more than anything, for people to like her… someone to love her. She feels so lonely and sad in this strange place.

  One of the green men rolls his eyes and groans. They don’t like her, or any of the other children here, and they make it very clear by the handing out the roughest treatment possible, during the morning line-up. She wonders if they even like themselves. Probably not.

  She’s shoved towards the next door in line, so the child kept there can be retrieved, and fixed into the section. Rose’s teeth rattle, and her breath is forced from her lungs, as the butt of a rifle impacts, soundly, on her scapula. It’s followed by the barrel digging painfully between her cervical vertebrae, to emphasize the green man’s intent for her to get moving. She guides the section forward.

  She can feel resistance in the section as they go. She figures its Hawthorne who’s pulling, ever-so-slightly, backward, as she’s trying to move the section forward.

  She turns to look back to him, and she’s met by the boy’s face; his affect is flat, but even so, she can sense the turmoil and sinister nature of the boy worming beneath his skin. She can observe no more because suddenly her head is turned back, to face forward, by the tip of the green man’s rifle barrel.

  The green man who carries a heavy ring of keys calls out, “R – Zero – Six – E, sibling, Ivy.” He steps aside as Ivy cautiously leaves the safety of her room.

  More of an abused animal than a child, Ivy steps into the hall, moving no faster than cold pancake syrup flowing up a steep hillside.

  A green man becomes impatient, and shoves her, causing her to stumble. Rose reaches out, to keep her from falling, and receives a rifle butt in the ribs for her effort.

  This girl is the one who let her little fingers roam under the door last night. The green man said ‘sibling’, once before, referring to Hawthorne, and now again with Ivy.

  Her features are much the same as Hawthorne’s. It’s enough for Rose to see them as brother and sister; twins to be more accurate. Greasy, coal-black hair, thin, crooked noses, and ivory skin veiled in a sickly pallor. A brother and sister, here together in this awful place. She finds herself envious of them, for having each other, when she has no one.

  Ivy raises her eyes from the floor just long enough to get a quick look at Rose and lowers them back down. When Ivy is added to the section Rose is no longer the leader, so a green man digs the rifle barrel into Ivy’s back, instead, to guide her along. Rose breaths more comfortably now that the rifle is no longer boring into her, but nevertheless, she feels no safer.

  The same process of gathering children into a section is being repeated on the other side of the corridor, and another group of six children is secured into a section of their own.

  A small, frail, blonde girl is the last to be brought from a cell. Rose watches closely as a soldier kneels to place something cylindrical around one of the girl’s hands, completely encasing it. The cylinder is padded on the inside and rusted on the outside because it’s made from some sort of inferior metal, hastily riveted together. A green man locks the cylinder into place, tightly, around one wrist. It must be very tight, and painful when worn because the little girl frowns in discomfort as the lock is fastened.

  When the green man goes to place the second cylinder on the girl’s other hand something awful and unexpected happens. He accidentally brushes against her palm. That slight caress gives him immediate pause. He rises from where he had knelt, stiff as a board, his foaming mouth and agape as if he is trying to scream. Nothing comes out, not a sound. He’s in too much agony to scream.

  His eyes are as large as dinner plates. He’s sweating heavily, skin growing pale, and struggling for breath. He’s going into shock. Tears stream from his eyes. His rapid pulse can be timed by each beats of his bulging temples. The carotid artery in his neck swells with each strained and d
ysrhythmic beat of his heart.

  The black dog barks, jerking firmly at its leash, twisting and turning to escape its handler’s hold. Steadily it backs away from the unusual commotion.

  Rose’s section jostles from side to side. The children shift, and waddle, in line to see what’s happening. Nervously they anticipate the hell-storm that’s sure to descend upon them.

  Green men loft their weapons, and they mean to use them, too, until something dies from lead poisoning. They each draw a bead on the blonde girl’s skull. Tension heightens.

  The bitter scent of fear fills the air. Collectively the green men move their fingers from the safe position, which rests beside the trigger guard and place them on the crescent moon-shaped triggers. Each man stands eager and ready to apply enough pressure to the trigger to pop the little girl’s head open, like a pumpkin. Green men shout for the blonde girl to lay flat on the floor.

  What happened was an accident, not an attack. Anyone who cared enough to see the truth could have seen it. One hand is safely entrapped in a heavy metal mitten, and the girl leaves it to dangle at her side. She raises her free hand into the air, palm outward, showing her unconditional surrender and willingness to comply with the command she’s been given. She’ll do exactly as she’s been told. She offers no challenge. She knows the consequence of doing anything less is deadly.

  Rose notices small silvery hairs covering the girl's palm. Wisps of hairs, only visible because the light has illuminated them at just the right angle. On the tips of each of the fine hairs hangs a tiny drop of milky-yellow fluid. Apparently, the girl can deliver an unbearably excruciating sting with only the smallest of touches.

  The injured man writhes on the floor in a fetal position, gasping for air, his arm is swelling more with each passing second. It’s grown at least twice the size of the other. He cradles it to his chest. Instinct demands he protect it from further harm. It’s turning an unusual mottled-blue color too. The pain, driving him to the brink of madness. A potent toxin injected through his epidermis, into the dermis below, has found its way into the man’s bloodstream, and rockets through his body. His face, eyes, and tongue are beginning to swell severely. He vomits on the floor.

  The blonde girl is lying face down on the floor, and she doesn’t dare to move, so much as a hair out of place. The green men would have shot the blonde girl right then and there, sending her brains flying out in all directions, like grey confetti, had it not been for Dr. Shaw running in, hands waving wildly, shouting at the green men.

  “Don’t shoot! She’s important to the research! Stand down!” says Dr. Shaw, who wastes no time telling two of the green men to take the injured one to the infirmary, right away.

  Rose searches for the little girl’s name plaque; it says NETTLE.

  Rose’s section is forced to walk or shuffle, rather, to another floor. They turn right three times, and then once to the left. The way leads them to a room full of books. Rose believes that this day must be Monday because this is the Library Day mentioned on the chalkboard hanging in her room. Now she knows the day of the week, and she feels better knowing what day it is. Just that tiny bit of knowledge helps to allay her fear in some small fashion.

  The other children, in Nettle’s section, are not here. Only the children housed on Rose’s side of the corridor are with her in the library. The others must have a different schedule of activities, she figures.

  One by one, each boy and girl is freed from their handcuffs, then their ankles are released, and each, in turn, is backed up against one of the library walls. Two green men enter a cage, large enough so they will be safe from anyone reaching in to get at them.

  Rose watches and waits. Feeling that the other children must already know what’s to happen next, she’ll follow their lead, and sure enough, when the green men climb into the cage and lock the door behind them, the children go to their favorite shelf, to collect a book to read. She does the same, proceeding to the bookshelves while making sure to keep a wary eye on the green men in the cage.

  There are many old books here, standing full of information that the world is too far gone to need anymore. Some of them are covered in dust. Very few are in decent condition. They all have a particular smell that only old-books can have, after a long time. Rose observes the other children as they retreat to a row of wooden tables to read what they’ve chosen.

  When she delays one of the green men points his rifle at her and shouts “Read! Now!” She does as she’s told and chooses a book: A History of Man, from Prehistory to Present Day. The author’s name is rubbed from the binding from overuse.

  The others are quietly reading, except for Hawthorne and his sister, Ivy, who seem far more interested in the large mirror on the library room wall. Rose glances at it too. It’s a curious thing. Who would hang a mirror that large on a wall and why? Dark, blurry shapes crisscross each other, swimming across the reflective surface like ghosts. There’s someone behind the glass, watching them while they read. Why would anyone do that? Rose wonders what it is they want to know about them, and why they want to know it, and why, whoever it is behind the mirror just doesn’t come into the room and watch for themselves, instead of sneaking around like rats. Hawthorne and Ivy occasionally lock eyes on each other, before going on to concentrate on the mirror again.

  Rose is startled when one of the green man rap on the bars and the resulting clang sends everyone, who wasn’t before, back to reading their selections. She watches the two siblings from the corner of her eye. They turn their heads to each other again, and something is being relayed between them, though they never say one word out loud to each other. Spoken words aren’t needed for the brother and sister pair. They communicate without them, without signals, or objects, or code. They speak to each other, directly, with their thoughts.

  Rose can feel the dull warmth of jealousy rising within her. How they do it? She wishes she could do it too. Hawthorne begins to whistle his tune; the one Rose heard from inside her room last night. He blows it so softly that even she can barely hear it.

  As if he could possibly hear the tune from so far away, one of the green men in the cage starts to whistle too, mirroring Hawthorne almost note for note. Hawthorne and Ivy giggle softly to each other. The boy tilts his head, nodding to his sister. He’s proud of himself that much is clear. They raise their eyes to see Rose staring at them, and simultaneously they lower their heads to hide their eyes from her.

  The day was long. Rose was able to read much of her book, A History of Man, from Prehistory to Present Day, before the green men made her return it to its spot, on the library shelf. Most of the text and information about Mankind is new to her, she leaves the library feeling… informed, disgusted, and sad for Mankind. She’s mentally drained. Was it the reading that removed her strength? Is it being treated as if she were some cunning, wild animal on the prowl, and thinking endlessly of feeding on fresh meat? This is not the way that she feels of course. But it’s the way the green men and Dr. Shaw think of her.

  They misunderstand her… it's okay because they don’t know who she is, but does she know who she is? She only feels confused and curious for now, but the soldiers treat her as if she is a dangerous monster. She just wants to be loved and safe and wanted. She wants to be a normal child. But then, what is normal?

  The children are taken back to East Wing, and in reverse order of the morning’s lineup, they are put back into their rooms, secured behind the heavy padlocked doors, safe and sound.

  Rose sits on her gurney rubbing a small label on her arm. It’s a marking that she hadn’t noticed before. It’s a tattoo of her Wayfinder number; R – Zero – Five – E.

  The light above her head flickers and dims. She kicks her slippers from her feet. They land with clunking sounds to the floor. The little, painted stars glow soothingly overhead. Again, she is reminded of the monster under the bed, the heat of fear rising in her stomach as it prepares to pounce on her, and the glaring red eyes of the clothing-monster, stalking her from the co
rner of her distant memories. But, Rose wonders, what does one do when you are the monster?

  Chapter Four

  “It was night, and the rain fell and falling, it was rain, but having fallen, it was blood.”

  -Edgar Allen Poe

  On Tuesday, Rose wakes to the sound of scuffling in the corridor outside her room.

  A green man calls out “Wayfinder, R – Zero – Four – E, sibling, Hawthorne.”

  Her Wayfinder will be called next. Hopping up from her bed, her feet hit the cold, tiled floor. She doesn’t much care for the feeling of it, and she draws her small toes skyward, to lessen the amount of skin meeting it. She finds her slippers, exactly where she kicked them off, dirty hospital slippers (one size too large for her). She slips them on, taking some indistinct comfort inside the tattered fabric shoes.

  There’s a predictable rhythm to the morning routine; a marching beat that can be measured and timed. When Rose’s door is opened, she walks through the doorway and into the hall, nice and neat, as not to make anyone, ‘get crazy on a trigger’, as some of the green men say from time to time, mostly to Hawthorne, because he’s real trouble.

  Rose believes the boy is always pushing, not too hard, mind you, just a little, but still pushing. He’s always testing the green men’s patience.

  Ivy often encourages him, just to see how far he can push the them. She seems to like it when chaos is the order of the day. She the type who thrives on it, which doesn’t help anything much at all.

  Hawthorne whistles the same tune… always the same song, always in the same key, always at the same tempo, so that it drives Rose so crazy that she wants to scream, but she doesn’t.

  The troubling, but airy, melody floats in and out, like the sound of a wind chime tussled by a warm summer wind. She wonders if it’s the only one he’s ever known. She wishes he would learn another one.