Sovereign (Sovereign Series)

by E. R. Arroyo

  “She didn’t want to leave her family, but her father wanted her to survive. So he watched Nathan take her away.” Nathan her hero. Nathan her killer.

  I’m sitting up straight now, my legs crossed before me.

  “I wasn’t supposed to know what family meant. Not in Antius. But because of my mother, I do. And I miss her.”

  “I miss my family, too.” I try hard to remember my mother’s face, but it’s a fleeting memory.

  “Did they hug you? Kiss you?” he asks, tenderly.

  “Yes, they did.” A tear finds its way to my cheek, and I wipe it away as a shiver runs through me. I rub my arms, wondering if my father would be ashamed of the hollow thing I’ve become.

  “That’s what I miss the most. Being touched,” his voice quivers, and I look over to see him shivering, too. Our warmth was much better insulated inside that tree with us pressed together.

  I feel guilty for having been so self-centered over the course of our friendship. He lost his mother, and I didn’t even notice. Even worse, I saw her taken away without realizing who she was. We share loathing for the same man, but I was too selfish to see it. And like me, he never belonged in a place like Antius. He had a family and lost it, just like I did.

  Dylan, my friend. My genius friend who always supported me, always came up with ways to help me. Who snuck around to get me an electronic book to help fill the sleepless nights. Who risked his life to warn me when things got too dangerous. Who came up with ridiculous inventions to try to help me get out of that place, even when I made no plans to take him with me. I’d just assumed he was happy there. After we escaped, he told me he had dreamed of leaving Antius with me. Why did that never occur to me?

  I owe Dylan so much, and all I’ve done is hurt him. I thought jumping off a tower was brave, but this will be the biggest test of bravery I’ve faced. I stand up and wipe my palms on my pants. How am I sweating while freezing cold?

  He looks at me, bemused. He’s not drugged this time, so there’s no safety net or possibility he won’t remember. And neither of us is grieving. This is about me and him...mostly him.

  I walk toward him, and the distance seems like miles even though it’s only a few steps. He doesn’t take his eyes off me. I drop to my knees and wrap my arms around his neck. I cup the back of his head--like he did to me in the tree--and I hold him against me. I don’t know what I’m doing, and I’m blushing from head to toe.

  Wanting to comfort him, I recall being consoled as a child and run my hand back and forth on Dylan’s shoulder. I can’t tell if we’re both trembling or if it’s just me.

  “You don’t have to do this.”

  “I want to,” I shudder.

  He breathes hard against my neck. “You’re shaking.” Well, it’s just me, then.

  “I know.” A laugh escapes me.

  He reaches for my shoulder and pulls me into his lap. I lay my head on his chest with my forehead pressed against his jaw. I touch the side of his neck with my fingertips as he wraps an arm across my shoulder and pulls my legs closer. Without letting go of my shoulder, he runs his hand up and down each of my calves in turn to warm them. Then he warms my arm. I didn’t come over here to get warm, but it’s nice.

  I find myself tracing his collar bone, and almost stop, but force myself not to. Instead, I lay my palm on his chest and move up toward his shoulder. Ever so carefully, I move my hand toward the nape of his neck.

  I’ve spent as many years as I can remember cringing at the slightest contact, but Dylan’s touch feels like the most natural thing in the world. I think I knew it when we were together in the tree, but I didn’t want to accept it.

  My parents loved each other. People are supposed to love, supposed to touch. I know that, but I’ve become something solitary and detached. Antius made me--Nathan--made me that way. Maybe Dylan can undo it.

  Still touching Dylan’s neck, I pause when my fingers graze over his chip implant below his ear and linger there until he places his hand over mine. A moment later, he moves my hand to his face and leans into it. He rubs his cheek against it and then kisses my palm. I relax my hand and he lowers it, letting it go before it rests against my own chest.

  “Thank you,” he whispers into my hair, returning his attention to warming me up.

  I try to say, “Mm hmm,” but it just comes out like some kind of groan. I clear my throat. “I’m sorry for hurting you.”

  He kisses my forehead. “Make you a deal.”

  “Okay,” my voice squeaks. I think my throat is caving in.

  “I won’t touch you unless you want me to, and when I wake up each morning, I won’t expect anything.”

  “In return?” I ask.

  “You don’t punish me for things I didn’t do to you.”

  Deal.

  The next day plays out just like the last. A lot of hiking, a little food, and both of us exhausted. We try to do as little climbing as possible, but the land is far from flat, so the ups and downs slow us down considerably, and I wonder how much ground we’re actually covering.

  Dylan holds up his end of the deal, but I find myself in his arms again at night, and I’m growing used to it. More than used to it--I would miss it if I had to stop.

  Then another day of starving and tracking toward the sun, and another cold night wrapped in Dylan’s warmth passes. If we starve to death, at least we’ll die together. My mouth is dry, my lips are chapped. I’m clumsy, and exhausted. Dylan tells me we’re dehydrated.

  Pacing through the forest, I notice it dissipates the farther we get. I rest my hand on a tree and lean against it for support.

  “We have to find water soon.” The pain in my belly is reduced to a permanent ache. I’ve forgotten what Antius slush tastes like, but I’d bet it’s heavenly now, but it’s water I really crave.

  I peer ahead. I squeeze my eyes shut, then look again. The wood is different ahead. It’s faded gray, but there’s no bark on it. I squint. The wood is cut in pieces and standing up side-by-side in a row. Dylan follows my eyes and sees what I do.

  “What do you think that is?” he asks.

  “A fence.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The fence runs probably a half-mile in each direction. On the other side, we see the tops of houses lined up in a row, sitting equal distances from one another. Approaching the fence as quietly as we can, we peek through the slats.

  Semi-green grass covers a small yard littered with weeds. An old wooden structure stands in the middle with two metal chains hanging from it, swinging gently in the wind. Beyond that sits a house, not anything like the large building in Antius. This one has warped, painted wood striped across its surface. The only concrete I see is cracked on the ground next to the door leading inside. The structure can’t possibly be that strong if it’s only made of wood. But it’s still standing.

  The yard is surrounded on all sides with more fencing. We walk over so we can see what’s to the right, and it’s a repeat of the first: a house with a fenced in yard. This one has a man-made hole in the ground half-full of green, dirty water.

  It appears each yard will hold the same spectacle, so we decide the first one is the one to approach. It’s evident that this place has long been abandoned, so we’ll be careful, but it feels safe enough.

  Dylan grabs the top of the fence and pulls himself up enough to see over. The fence cracks under his weight. He looks at me and shrugs. I cock an eyebrow, not sure what he’s thinking and not sure if I like that glint in his eye. We’re starving to death and he looks...happy.

  He turns away from the fence, confusing me at first, then he pulls his knee forward and slams his foot into the fence. The old wood breaks, and he keeps kicking until he’s made a decent-sized hole then yanks some of the boards away.

  He stands with a proud grin and gestures toward the hole with his palm upward. “Ladies first.” There’s that charm again. If I wasn’t dying of starvation, dehydration, and exhaustion, I would react. Instead, I just step through the hole and in
to the grass on the other side.

  Being surrounded by a fence immediately reminds me of being trapped in Antius. I stand frozen until Dylan crawls through and places a hand on my shoulder, which he retracts as soon as I look at him.

  “I’m fine,” I answer before I realize he didn’t ask.

  He takes the lead toward the house, and I follow closely. The door has a large, dusty pane of glass.

  I try the handle, and it’s locked, of course. I start to peek inside, but Dylan throws his elbow into the glass, breaking a chunk out of it. He reaches inside and unlocks the door, sliding it open and walking in with me on his heels. I don’t like this. Dylan closes the door behind us.

  We stand beside a table and chairs. Just ahead is a kitchen sink, an archaic stovetop, and a lot of cabinets. Soft, cushy furniture sits to our right, arranged around a wooden piece with a black, plastic machine tipped over in front of it. Broken glass surrounds it.

  At the front is another door and a small landing before a staircase. A sign on the wall reads, “Welcome to our Home.” Home. That’s what this is. A pain twists my stomach as I wonder what happened to them. Did they make it to an underground bunker? Did they die in the streets? Were they near a point of impact or did they die from the resulting emissions?

  Something on the floor catches my eye, and I pick it up. It’s a wooden frame with broken glass. I rub the dust off with my thumb to see a photo of a mother, father, and two little girls, though it’s faded and hard to make out.

  I pull it up to my face and look closer. The girls are light-haired and light-eyed, and they look like the same person twice. Their smiles are bright and unfettered. No tragedy to bring their tiny spirits down. A word bubbles up in my mind and I mumble it. “Lovely.” They are lovely. When I’d read that word in the past, I never had a point of reference. Now I do.

  My eyes shift to the loving arms wrapped around each girl, and I put the photo on a cabinet by the door face up.

  “Cori,” Dylan calls out from the kitchen. I walk to him and look at him from across the counter. “Let’s try it.”

  I look at the faucet handle his hand rests on and nod. He pulls the handle upward and a rumble sounds beneath our feet. At first, I’m nervous that we’ve done something wrong because the faucet begins to shake, but after another moment it spits dirty water the color of rust.

  We both stare greedily. For the longest time, we wait and then something wonderful happens. The water runs clear. His eyes grow big, and he looks at me. I lurch myself around the counter to stand beside him, and we both stick our fingers in the water and smell it.

  He nods, and I lean to drink from it. It tastes like earth, but I don’t mind. Not after the things we consumed in the wilderness.

  A minute later I stand up panting with water running down my chest. Dylan takes my place at the faucet and drinks until he can’t anymore. “Amazing,” he pants. “It still works.” I nod in reply.

  We droop to the floor while catching our breaths. He has water down his chest, too. It makes me smile, but I stop myself before he catches me.

  After a few more minutes, I stand back up and drink more. Neither of us bothered to turn it off. Dylan follows suit and I drop to the floor again. A few moments later, he shuts off the water and when he shifts toward me, his foot slips on the water we spilled and catches himself on the counter.

  His eyes become huge and a brief panic crosses his face. It’s the first time I’ve seen him lose his composure. It’s stupid and simple, but I can’t help but laugh. He eases himself onto the floor beside me and laughs, too.

  “Food?” I ask, certain anything in this house is inedible. It would be over twenty years old.

  He scoots across the floor, finally letting his exhaustion show, and opens a skinny door across from me. It’s full of cans, jars, and boxes with words and pictures I don’t recognize. He gets onto his knees and grabs a white box made of some type of cardboard. The picture is faded, but it looks like a young girl in a white hat and a blue shirt.

  Dylan rips open the box and dumps something into his hand. In a plastic wrapper, the withered item is brown and green. He taps in on the ground and it makes a thump sound. He tries to bend it and it doesn’t budge.

  He puts the box back where he found it and pulls out a can instead. There’s a small metal tab that Dylan fumbles with while I grab a clear plastic container with thick, amber liquid inside. I twist the lid off with little effort and find a cardboard disk attached to the opening. I get my fingernail underneath it and peel it back.

  I take a whiff, and it smells wonderful. I dip my finger in and pull some out in a gooey, stringy mess. I put it in my mouth and wipe away what’s stuck to my lips. It’s sticky but tastes amazing, very sweet. I press it between my tongue and the roof of my mouth before swallowing.

  “It’s good,” I tell Dylan. He takes the bottle from me and reads the label.

  “Honey.” He shrugs and hands it back to me. “It’s not sour or burning your throat, right?”

  “No, it’s not.” I smile. I can’t stop smiling now.

  He finally pries open the can he’d been working on, and pulls back the metal. Inside it is a cloudy liquid with slimy green vegetables inside. Dylan pulls one from the can and pops it in his mouth then chases it with a few more.

  “Mmm,” he says, pinching his lips tight. He eats a couple more and we trade. He eats the honey while I try out the green things. They are about two inches long and skinny. The skin is a little fuzzy, which feels weird on my tongue. They definitely don’t taste as good as the honey.

  For a while longer we go through things in the tiny space, making a pile of the ones we don’t like--or that smell poisonous or disgusting--in the floor and things we do like by the sink, eating and sipping on them as we go, stopping once both our stomachs are full.

  In the space with the soft furniture, we wipe off the dust with a pillow and sprawl across them. It takes no time at all for me to fall asleep.

  I wake not long after, and it’s still light outside. Dylan sleeps with one leg hanging over the edge of the cushion with his foot resting on the ground. His knee flops out to the side. One of his hands rests on his stomach, and the other behind his head, his breaths deep and even.

  I rub sleep from my eyes and stand up, stretching. I walk back to the front of the home and look up the staircase. I take the first step carefully, slowly, but as I ascend I grow more deliberate.

  At the top of the stairs, I enter the first doorway I come to. Two tiny beds with dusty, pink blankets and pillows. I close the door imagining the little girls from the picture sleeping in those beds.

  The next room is a bathroom. Little bottles and tubes litter the counter space and the edge of the shower. I shake an image of my mother washing me under a leaky pipe from my head. That can’t be a memory, I was too young.

  The last door I come to sticks. The knob turns but I have to push with my shoulder to slide it open, and something on the other side scrapes the floor. Once I’m through, I see that a dresser was wedged against the door.

  My eyes skip over the piles of supplies and bottles of water stacked along the walls and lock on the bed. The whole family lies there, their bodies not even fully decomposed. And they all died wrapped in each other’s arms, which tells me they knew they would die. They knew it was coming.

  I drop to my knees, pain rising from deep within my gut. Tears flood my eyes, and my body heaves into a sob so strong it hurts my ribs and makes me nauseous. I bob back and forth with my mouth gaping open, but no sound comes out for the longest time. And when it does, it sounds like I’m dying.

  I hear footsteps leaping heavily up the stairs and stopping right behind me. He doesn’t move so I know he’s looking at the four bodies on the bed. Without taking a second look I have it memorized, burned into my brain.

  I imagine them hearing news of the attacks and taking cover, but there’s nothing they could do to keep out the fallout--the airborne chemicals. I wonder if the girls hurt when it happe
ned.

  I don’t wonder for much longer before Dylan’s arms wrap around me and the touch makes me cringe. My eyes land on the dull blonde hair lying loose on the bed, and then on the arms wrapped around the little girls. Loving arms. Arms that were meant to comfort, not hurt. They died knowing they were loved. And maybe that’s not so bad.

  My father died alone in the street, choking on his own blood. I think these were better deaths than his. So I allow Dylan to pick me up and carry me back downstairs.

  When he sets me down and sits beside me, I don’t pull out of his arms, and I don’t shy away as he wipes the tears from my cheeks, which I replenish immediately. He doesn’t say anything. He just pulls me to his chest and touches my hair until I stop crying.

  I don’t think those will be the last of the dead that we’ll come across, and now I understand why Dylan covered the body in the woods so I couldn’t see. I wonder how he felt when he saw it.

  Dylan yawns and wipes his eye. The hand that was in my hair lands on my shoulder and stays there.

  “Do you want to find another place to sleep? We don’t have to stay here.” His voice is gentle.

  I can’t find words, can’t form my mouth around them.

  “Cori?” He leans back, scanning my face, but I don’t return his gaze.

  “No.” I clear my throat. “We can stay here.”

  I realize it’s almost evening, since the daylight is fading. Dylan sinks a little farther into the cushions, and I make no effort to move away. I just follow him down until he’s comfortable.

  I don’t think he realizes it, but he’s picking up the ends of my hair and moving them in circles. He looks at me every so often.

  I finally find words, but my throat is dry. I swallow a few times. “Dylan?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thank you.”

  Dylan sits up straighter, pulling back so he can see my face. His eyes become more alert, more alive. Sunlight comes in through the window at just the right angle to illuminate his lips, and I can’t help but stare at them. His eyes, after all, are much too intense for me to look at.