The Girl Clay

by Amy Cross

  Tearing at the leather restraints around my wrists, I succeed only in ripping the side of my shirt. One of the women lets go of my leg for a moment, allowing it to drop down onto the damp grass, and I try to kick out at her. She's lucky; she skips out of the way before grabbing me again.

  Suddenly a wet towel is placed over my face, and the stench of vapor fills my nose. I try to scream, but I can already feel myself being dosed again, and all I manage is a faint whimper as I slip back into unconsciousness. The last thing I see, as my eyes roll closed, is the sky's blanket of stars.

  ***

  Slowly, I open my eyes and stare straight ahead. Something's wrong, something...

  I force myself to take a deep breath.

  My head is swimming, and it takes a moment before I even notice that there are a couple of people on either side of me. Everything seems so calm, but when I look up I see that I'm in some kind of low-ceilinged room with candles burning all around. My body feels heavy and cool, and finally I look down and see that I'm in a bath filled with milk. I blink a couple of times, trying to clear my cloudy vision, convinced that somehow I'm imagining the whole situation. On either side, two women have their hands dipped in the milk, and they're using sponges to gently wipe my naked body.

  “What...” I whisper, trying to sit up but finding that I can barely move at all.

  “It's okay,” one of the women says, her voice filled with soothing tones. “You're home.”

  “Home...”

  “You're with us now,” the other woman adds, placing a hand on my shoulder and softly holding me down. “Don't try to move too much, you're still very weak. Relax and let us do this for you. There'll be food later, a real feast, and wine too.”

  Beneath the surface of the milk bath, I feel their sponges running along my arms and onto my chest. I want to push them away, but despite the fury in my heart I can barely move a muscle. Straining, I finally let out a brief, frustrated grunt.

  “You were so dirty,” the first woman continues. “Ten years of living out there in that filthy world... Your pores were filled, it's a wonder your psychic energy wasn't being drained away entirely. You're lucky, though. Your skin is already starting to heal, and you have no scars at all. Not like us.”

  She holds up her wrist for a moment, to reveal a three-hatched cross that seems to have been etched into her flesh. After a moment, the other woman shows me that she has the same mark.

  “The scar of Attaroth,” the first woman explains proudly. “It appeared spontaneously on all of us, I'm sure you'll get yours soon enough. It's a sign that shows Attaroth has noticed us and welcomed us into his world. It's like a ticket to the next level of consciousness, and Mr. Kenseth says we'll be ascending soon. The stars are aligning.”

  “Everything's going to be okay,” the second woman says with a smile. “All the chaos has been put in order and the world is turning as it should. It just took a little time, that's all, but you're back where you belong. The past ten years were just a distraction. Mr. Kenseth taught us that you were forced to go out into the world and struggle for a while, to learn the true misery of this reality, so that you'd be more ready to lead us to the next world. Those struggles are over now. You're safe here with us and you never have to go back out there again. The first disciple has come home.”

  As the first woman continues to clean me, the second takes her sponge out of the milk and places it on a small plate. Taking a small jug from a nearby table, she dips it into the bath and fills it with milk, and then I'm powerless to prevent her from pouring the contents directly over my head. Cool milk runs through my hair and down my face, but the most resistance I can manage is a faint gasp, and to tilt my head back a little.

  “Stop,” I whisper.

  I swear, I can feel some kind of sedative swirling through my veins.

  “We all gave of ourselves to fill this bath for your arrival,” the woman continues as she sets the jug down. “We were told it was the only way to welcome you back to your rightful place. Those of us who were able to lactate are the honored ones, we even used drugs and pumps to facilitate the production of a full bath-load.”

  “What are you...” I pause, feeling breathless. It's as if the weight of the milk is crushing my chest. “What are you talking about...” Suddenly I realize what they mean, and I'm filled with the urge to get out of this disgusting bath. No matter how hard I try, however, I can barely muster more than a few faint movements. “Get me out of here,” I whisper, as a sickening nausea starts to grip my belly. “You're sick, you're all -”

  Hearing a clicking sound nearby, I force my head to turn just as another woman enters the room. I blink a couple of times, struggling to resolve the blurry image in my eyes, before finally I realize that Debbie has arrived. She's wearing a white gown and she has a bland, almost mesmerized smile on her face as she kneels next to the bath and dips her fingers into the milk.

  “Where...” I manage to whisper. “What...”

  “Welcome home, Rebecca,” she says, beaming with happiness. “I'm sorry we had to employ so much deception to get you here, but Mr. Kenseth told us the timing had to be perfect. When you first walked into the diner yesterday, I knew it was you immediately but I had to play it cool. I think I did a good job, don't you? Ben and Tom were the same, we had to pretend not to know the truth about you. Mr. Kenseth trained us well.”

  “Kenseth...” I whisper, filled with panic at the mention of that name, “no...”

  “Originally we were going to capture you while we were out here during the night, looking for ghosts, but then Mr. Kenseth told us that the stars weren't properly aligned. And then when we got back into town he contacted us again and told us that he'd miscalculated and that the stars were perfect, and that Attaroth himself had commanded your immediate presence, so...” Her smile somehow becomes even broader. “Well, we had to improvise a little. I hope you weren't hurt in any way.”

  “Kenseth,” I whisper. “He's... He's dead, you can't...”

  “Nathaniel Kenseth is the son of Jacob,” she explains. “He's following in his father's footsteps. Attaroth recognizes Nathaniel as the true leader now, and we're...” She cups some milk in the palm of her hand and looks at it for a moment, before bringing it to her mouth and drinking. “We're going to finish what Jacob Kenseth started. Attaroth is ready to pass over us all again, and this time full communion and ascension will take place. It's such a shame that ten years had to elapse before this point could be reached, but in the grand scheme of things, ten years is nothing really. To Attaroth, ten years is but the blink of an eye.”

  She cups her hand again and scoops up more milk, before bringing it to my lips.

  “Drink,” she says.

  “No...”

  “Drink.”

  She presses her hand against my lips and tips the milk toward me, but I keep my mouth closed and let the milk dribble down my chin.

  “Clay,” she continues, “it's alright. Everything's decided now.”

  Turning my head away, I try to summon the strength to kick out at her, to get all these freaks away from me. So far, however, all I can manage is to let out a faint moan.

  “You'll come around,” Debbie says, sitting back. “This must be such a shock. Attaroth never abandoned you, Rebecca, he just had to wait for the right moment. We're lucky, the alignment of the stars is absolutely perfect right now, even better than it was ten years ago. Mr. Kenseth says nothing can go wrong, and he's made none of the mistakes that caused his father to earn Attaroth's displeasure. No-one knows we're out here this time, and the whole town is on our side.”

  She takes a sponge and joins the other two women, washing my body with milk.

  “I know I shouldn't have lied to you,” she continues, “but I had no choice. After the siege of Rover's Ridge, most people left the town. Those who were left... Well, we were lost, living in poverty, but then one day a man came to town and gave us hope. We changed the town's name to Silverglade and Nathaniel Kenseth began to guide
us, and slowly we attracted more people. The mistake that Jacob made ten years ago was to isolate the group outside town, whereas this time Nathaniel turned the whole of Silverglade into a new compound, and he promised us that Attaroth would guide you back here if we just waited and trusted in our god.” She leans closer. “Sometimes it was difficult to keep the faith, but we stayed strong and now look at you. You're here, just as Attaroth promised.”

  “No,” I reply, finally starting to feel a little stronger. I reach up and grab the side of the bath, and I manage to slowly lift the top half of my naked body out from the milk before the effort becomes too much and I start to sink back down.

  “Please, Rebecca,” Debbie whispers, kissing the top of my head. “Peace.”

  “Go...” I snatch at a deep breath. “Go to...”

  “Rebecca...”

  “Clay,” I reply firmly. “My name's Clay.”

  “Clay, then. You must conserve your energy. You must be ready for the ascension in a few hours.”

  “No,” I reply, reaching out and trying to grab her by the neck. My arm flails a little, as if it's filled with weights, before splashing back down into the milk. Trying to sit up again, I can feel the women gently pressing me back down, but I have to get the hell out of here. Filled with panic, I push my heavy limbs to work for me, but somehow it feels as if my body isn't quite my own, as if there's some unseen puppet-master who's holding me down.

  “Clay,” Debbie continues, “it's natural to be scared, Attaroth said you might react like this, but you'll see soon enough. Paradise is just around the corner.”

  “Get away from me,” I mutter, trying once again to lift myself out of the milk. Looking up at the ceiling, I'm suddenly filled with the image of Attaroth up there somewhere, laughing at how easily he maneuvered me and got me right where he wanted me. All these years I thought I was running away from him, but I was just running straight to where he wanted me to be. As the women start pressing me back, I try to scream, but all that comes out is a gurgled rasping sound until finally my head is pushed down into the milk.

  Ten years ago

  “When bad things happen,” Attaroth whispers, staring intently into my eyes, “they leave damage. Think of your skin, Clay. What happens when you cut it?”

  “It hurts.”

  “What else?”

  “It bleeds.”

  “And then what?”

  I pause for a moment. “I get a scab.”

  “And when the scab falls off, a scar is left.”

  I look across the empty office, hoping against hope that someone might come and help me. One of the ceiling panel-lights is flickering a little, but there's no sign of anyone.

  “Jacob Kenseth was a monster,” Attaroth continues, “and he did some very, very bad things. And now that the siege is over, everything's supposed to go back to normal. People are supposed to forget, news channels run their stories and then the news cycle moves on... But scars are left behind, and some scars are so deep, they never fade away entirely.”

  “I'm not a scar,” I whisper.

  “Yes you are,” he replies. “Think of a piece of skin, Clay. Most human lives are like little itches, nothing serious, just something to be scratched away. When they're over, they're over. Gone. Some lives, the ones that actually mean something, might leave a cut, perhaps a faint scar that takes a while to disappear. But then, Clay, there are lives that go deeper, lives that cut into the flesh of existence and leave deeper scars that never go away.”

  I take a step back, but I know that if I try to run he'll stop me.

  “You're a scar in the collective human soul,” he continues, “and you're too deep to ever fade away. That's why you're here right now, Clay, even though you died back there at the compound. It's also why you'll persist even if something else happens to you. I knew you were special, even before this happened to you, but that was simply because I'm able to detect things before they've happened. Still, now that I know what you are, I think I know how I can use you.”

  I shake my head.

  “You don't want to be used?”

  “I want to go home,” I tell him.

  “You don't have a home.”

  “I do!” I shout.

  “Then where is it?”

  Wiping tears from my cheeks, I realize that he's right. Even if I run, even if I get far away from this man, I have nowhere to go.

  “What is a home, anyway?” he asks. “Somewhere you feel safe? Somewhere there are people who care about you? Who cares about you, Rebecca Layton?”

  “I have a -”

  Before I can finish, I realize that everything around us has changed. We're no longer in the office building; instead, we're standing in the kitchen of an ordinary-looking house. There are dishes in the sink, waiting to be washed up, and the blinds are closed even though there's daylight outside. As I look around, I realize there's an overpowering stench of body odor mixed with grease and fat.

  “This is the closest place you have to a home,” Attaroth continues. “Someone here cares about you, but you don't even know where you are, do you?”

  Hearing a noise nearby, I turn just in time to see a man wandering bleary-eyed into the kitchen. He's wearing a dressing down, and as he heads over to the sink I realize that I've seen him before.

  He was at the hospital.

  Before that, he was at the compound.

  He's the man who shot me.

  “Aaron Jones,” Attaroth explains. “He's been offered counseling, of course, to help him get over the trauma of shooting a little girl in the head. Don't worry, he can't see us right now, and the counseling won't help. He's going to spiral into depression, and then in a few years' time he'll be diagnosed with a particularly virulent form of cancer. He'll fight it and fight it, but slowly it'll eat away at him. No matter how bad the pain becomes – and it will be very bad indeed, too strong for any conventional medicine to help him – it'll be as nothing compared to the pain of the moment when he shot you. Until the day he dies, the guilt will weigh him down.”

  I watch as Aaron stops by the sink and pours himself a glass of water. Just as he's about to drink, however, he seems to freeze, and finally I realize that tears are running down his cheek.

  “It wasn't his fault,” I whisper. “It was Mr. Kenseth's fault.”

  “Aaron is a good man,” Attaroth continues. “For a human, anyway. Honest and kind and decent, and yet the world conspired to have him shoot a little girl point-blank in the face. Isn't human civilization lovely? This man's life is over, he'll just spend the next ten years or so winding down to a miserable, lonely death.”

  “No,” I say, turning to him.

  “No?” he replies with a faint smile.

  “I want to go home.”

  “You keep saying that, but there's nowhere for you to go.”

  Hearing sobs from behind me, I turn to see that Aaron is starting to break down. As he sits on the floor, I hurry over and try to wipe the tears away, but I can't quite manage to touch him. It's as if some hidden force is holding me back.

  “It's okay,” I say, hoping to get through to him, “I'm not dead. See? I'm here!”

  “You can't help him,” Attaroth says as he comes over to join us. “No-one can.”

  “But if I -”

  And then everything changes again, and we're in the middle of a crowded square in a city, with people all around, pushing past us but seemingly not noticing us at all. The noise is intense, like nothing I've heard before. Mom told me about cities, but I never realized they were so loud.

  “Take us back!” I shout.

  Attaroth shakes his head.

  “I'll find him,” I say firmly. “I'll find him and I'll force him to see me and I'll make him better!”

  “You won't find him,” he replies. “Even if you started searching now, it'd take you years, and by then...” He pauses for a moment, as people shout in the distance. “I have a plan for you, Clay,” he says finally, “but it's not quite ready to be put into a
ction. The question, then, is what I'm going to do with you until the stars are back in alignment. You'll start to become visible to other people soon, and you'll grow as normal, but you won't be normal. There's no way for you to fit in with the rest of the world, so where am I going to park you until I'm ready to use you?”

  “I don't want to talk to you,” I tell him, taking a step back and allowing people to walk between us.

  “Where will you go?” he asks.

  “I'll run away.”

  “From me?”

  “From everything.”

  “A little girl, lost in the world? You can't run from me, Clay. I can find you with ease. All I have to do is -”

  Before he can finish, I turn and bolt through the crowd. No-one seems to notice as I race through the never-ending sea of bodies, constantly bumping into people. Every time I look over my shoulder, I spot Attaroth in the distance with his eyes still fixed on me, but I'm convinced that if I just keep running for long enough, eventually I'll get so far away that he won't ever be able to find me again. And then, somehow, I'll go home.

  Today

  Home.

  “He's been waiting for you, Clay.”

  With Debbie and the other woman holding my arms, I'm led barefoot and across the cold, wet grass. We're back out at the site of the old compound, and although I can just about make out a few ruins in the darkness, we seem to be heading instead toward a small white motor-home parked up ahead. I stumble for a moment as my feet catch on one of the many little ridges running across the old lawn, but finally we reach the caravan and Debbie steps forward to knock on the door.

  “You're home,” she says, glancing back at me.

  “This is not my home,” I say firmly.

  “Enter,” a muffled voice calls out from inside.

  “You're so lucky,” Debbie continues, smiling at me as she opens the door. “You've been chosen. Attaroth himself wants you to be his first modern disciple.”