A New America Trilogy (Book 1): The Human Wilderness

by S. H. Livernois

  "Sure, sure."

  The needle pierced Eli's skin and the catgut was drawn through his skin. Eli focused on the pain of each stick and the guilt and self-loathing waned. His emotions and thoughts condensed to one point.

  He'd succeeded. Now he had to turn this evil into good.

  "How did you get hurt?" the doctor said in his soft voice.

  Bill's screams tore across his memory. Blood streamed from fresh wounds, its metallic scent filling his nose. An ax head cracked against fragile finger bones.

  Evil into good.

  "There are dangerous people out there," Eli said.

  The doctor nodded and finished the stitching. "Indeed. It's every man for himself these days." The doctor took Eli's hand and cleaned the wounds on his knuckles, both old and fresh. "We all do what we have to do to survive."

  Chapter 27

  Back in Hope, Eli's favorite place was his front porch. He often sat there in the middle of the night to enjoy the peace and quiet of the world around him.

  Silence reminded him of home, of endless cornfields swaying underneath warm summer breezes. Crickets singing through the night and stars twinkling overhead. Since the Fall, it also reminded him of what the world had lost. Of a land stripped of its people and the constant hum of life. Every night, only the soulless Parasites filled the quiet with their animal calls.

  Humanity itself was now a wilderness: empty, primitive, soulless.

  In Grant's Hill, the silence was suffocating. During the sleepless nights, Eli lay on the floor of his comfortable room in Olive's mansion, he thought only of the emptiness surrounding the walled settlement. Like Hope — or Penelope and Elsberry — Grant's Hill was an oasis of life in a sea of nothing. There was no one nearby who could help, no authorities to report Olive to, no one else following the girls' tracks through the woods.

  Every night, Eli went over his mission: use his role as Olive's punisher to get closer to the girls, find an ally and a way into the guest house. Every morning, he awoke feeling as if he were on a stage. When the sun finally rose outside his window, his performance began.

  Eli started his first day in Grant's Hill by tidying himself — lining the buttons of his shirt with the fly of his pants, smoothing his hair, cleaning his nails. Then he padded down the stairs and into the empty living room, where shafts of weak golden light streamed in through the tall windows. For a couple minutes, he stood at the French doors, listening to the birds' morning chorus and chewing his raw fingertips. After a few minutes, another sound tickled his ears: angry voices floating from down the hall.

  He followed the voices through the living room and down a short hallway that led to the kitchen. A small room opened up on his right, cheery and filled with light, and the voices burst from inside. Eli held his breath.

  "I don't know who it is," a man said angrily. It sounded like Dr. Ghrist. "But something must be done about it."

  "What do you suggest I do?" Olive responded in a voice sharp with fear.

  "Keep control over those men of yours," he said. "They have no right to be in there and those girls are not theirs to do with as they please."

  She laughed. "It is impossible to control lustful men. More to the point, happy men follow orders." She paused, lowered her voice. "I couldn't keep them out of there even if I wanted to."

  "Don't give me that," Dr. Ghrist snarled. "It's your property. They are your men and your agreement. Or have you forgotten?"

  "You know I haven't," Olive whispered.

  "Things are getting out of hand here, Mrs. Grant, on all fronts. It's your responsibility to root out troublemakers." Dr. Ghrist paused. "Need I remind you that he's arriving soon? Any day now, by my calculations. I imagine you'll want everything to be spic and span. He won't like to see his mission imperiled."

  Olive cleared her throat. A minute of silence passed.

  "There's no need to be so dramatic, Dr. Ghrist. The peasants know nothing, and I'll keep it that way. I've added a punisher to my security team. I'll get to the bottom of this rebellion and stop it in its tracks." A pause. "Now, I didn't call you here to be lectured."

  A chair creaked. "So what is it now?" the doctor said.

  Eli crept back along the wall, silently as possible. He waited a few minutes, staying within earshot to hear Olive complain of a cough and rash while Dr. Ghrist examined her, then he thudded back down the hall toward the living room.

  "There's nothing wrong with you that I can see. I suspect allergies for the cough and hives for the rash. Tea with honey and a cold compress are all you need."

  "Are you certain I don't have pneumonia, Doctor? I feel a rattling in my che —"

  "It's all in your head," Dr. Ghrist interrupted. "I can give you poppy tea to calm your nerves, help you sleep."

  "My nerves are fine, and I'd rather not be catatonic, thank you," Olive answered.

  Eli slid in front of the doorway. He found Olive hunched over a table in an airy breakfast nook, forehead resting in her hand. Dr. Ghrist stood beside her, shoving something into a bag. She glanced at Eli with worried eyes.

  "Thank you, Doctor."

  Dr. Ghrist nodded, bid good morning to Eli, and left. Olive glowered at Eli, so he lowered his head.

  "Sorry to interrupt, ma'am. Wasn't sure how early you'd need me."

  She crossed her arms as footsteps sounded down the hall. A girl — the same one who'd answered the door when Eli first arrived — bustled past the room and into the kitchen.

  "Breakfast will be served soon." Olive swept up from her chair. "The others will be down shortly. You'll join us."

  Olive's dozen guards lined the table. She sat at the head, Eli next to her. The men chatted as they waited for breakfast, and a ritual began.

  A servant brought Olive a yellowed newspaper and retreated to a corner. Olive opened it gingerly and read. Minutes later, the girl returned with a plate of eggs Benedict, then vanished into the kitchen. Olive lowered her paper, folded it reverently, and began to eat.

  The servant in the corner nodded to someone Eli couldn't see. Minutes later, a man emerged carrying mail — it, too, was yellowed. Olive flipped through the envelopes, inspecting each one. She set them down and her plate was taken away, half her breakfast uneaten.

  The girl and a servant emerged from the kitchen carrying two bowls: one filled with scrambled eggs, the other with slices of ham. The men filled their plates. Eli took a small portion and pushed it around his plate. For a couple minutes, Olive watched the men eat with a frown.

  "So, where are we on preparations, Marcus?" she asked. "He'll be here any day now for his ... rituals." Olive rolled her eyes.

  "Coming along, Mrs. Grant," said a man with a ponytail. "We have two dozen laborers clearing out the streets, making repairs to the older cabins. We've ordered the peasants to clean themselves and their homes."

  "And everyone's behaving?"

  "Some food hoarding. It's been taken care of." The guard shifted in his seat. "And lots of talk about the attempted escape last night. About the peasant who helped her."

  "There's always talk, isn't there?" Olive sighed impatiently. "What are they saying?"

  "Wondering why she was trying to escape, ma'am. One of them reported rumors about plans —"

  "Plans to what?" Olive spat.

  Marcus withered a bit under her stare; he stood up straight and spoke to the table. "Overthrow you."

  Eli's heart jumped. Allies.

  Olive laughed and rolled her bulbous eyes. "Simpleminded, ungrateful fools." She rested her face in her hand, a long finger draping along her sharp jaw, and gazed out the dining room's tall windows. Outside, morning light glinted off yellow and orange leaves. "I told you, this chatter is dangerous. When people talk, they feed each other's anger. They plot. They rebel."

  "Shall we round up a few, have a public beating as a lesson to them?" Marcus asked. He was smiling.

  Olive shook her head. "I'll not pretend the idea isn't tempting. But I'd rather not rally their discontent. For now, it'
s just talk, so whatever we do, it should be done quietly. We must pluck the weeds without destroying the garden. Preferably before he arrives."

  The guard nodded reverently. "That is a wise course, ma'am."

  "Find these plotters. Walk among these peasants, listen, question them. Beat the answers out of them if you have to." Olive stood straight in her chair, laid her hands on the table like pale spiders. "Have Gabe and Ed alternate guard duty at the guest house, starting at sundown. We can't have a repeat of last night. Not now."

  Olive set her jaw and nodded. Eli took a small bite of his now-cold breakfast and swallowed it against a tide of nausea. The servant collected the six-year-old newspaper and mail. Olive stared down the table at her men.

  "Were my orders unclear?" Olive barked. "Get to it."

  Eli jumped from his chair and marched out of the room, surrounded by the scowling eyes of the other guards.

  "Savage," a voice grumbled in his ear.

  "Dog."

  The men laughed. Eli walked ahead of them through the living room and to the foyer. On the front steps, he took in the sprawl of Olive's kingdom before him. A thrill of hope rose in his chest.

  Walk among them. Listen. Ask questions.

  Eli would follow the orders. He would stroll those muddy streets and ask his questions and find Olive's enemies and make them his allies.

  These rebels needed an inside man.

  Eli calmed the nerves in his stomach with a deep breath, padded down the steps and the flagstone path to the main road. His performance had begun. He was now Olive's henchman, not the man who loved Jane or patched roofs and split wood. Or the man who ate dinner with Frank's family on Sundays.

  For now, that man was a phantom no one knew.

  For two days, Eli strolled the muddy streets until he'd memorized every inch.

  The decrepit cabins, the barns and fenced gardens, all guarded. An eating hall with its door chained shut and padlocked. An imposing jail with shackled prisoners laboring outside. The watchmen at the gate and in the towers, gazing in. Backs bent in fields, people working inside barns, men smacking hammers atop roofs and women hanging laundry. Their dirty faces and weary eyes looked at him like he was the enemy.

  Eli worded his questions carefully.

  "Who's helping the girls?"

  "What are people saying?"

  "Who's causing trouble in the guest house?"

  "Do you know a man named Simon?"

  "What's being planned?"

  People answered quickly and returned to their chores.

  "Foolish men. They need to leave those girls alone."

  "I hear nothing, sir. Ain't my business."

  "She has dark hair. That's all I know."

  "Never heard of him."

  "I hear whisperings, sir," said an old woman. She stood over a fire, stirring something in a stock pot. "Some kind of demonstration, they say."

  Eli leaned closer to the old woman. He smelled raspberries and realized she was making jam. "What kind of demonstration?"

  "I know nothing more." She shrugged. "'Cept it'll get them killed."

  He passed more cabins, more ragged people stooping over fires or smoking meat or hauling carts down the road. He grew frustrated and frightened. How could he find someone who didn't want to be found? Convincing secret rebels he wasn't the enemy would be even harder. He walked with these thoughts all the way back to Olive's mansion and the guest house, its door and dozen windows closed, shades drawn. Two guards stood watch, as ordered. Behind them, a trio of girls hung white clothes from a clothesline, the fabric fluttering and thwacking in the breeze. They smiled and chatted, tinkling laughs floating on the air like ringing bells. Their contentment puzzled him. The people walking past paid them no mind.

  Did they ever wonder where they came from? Why some of them were locked inside and others let out? Did they care that Olive's men went inside at night?

  After two days of questions, Eli knew for a certainty that they didn't. Apathy had made the girls and their shuttered house invisible.

  We're giving them purpose and value.

  For the first time, Eli was glad he'd lost Jane. She'd never know the girls' true purpose, or see a whole village turn its back on the truth. That would've broken her heart.

  In his dreams, Eli continued to walk that pocked, gray road and the warren of muddy streets. They were nearly empty and shrouded in fog, and the peasants had stopped working. They hid between the roughshod cabins and Eli stopped to ask his questions.

  "Who's helping the girls?"

  "What're people saying?"

  "Who's causing trouble in the guest house?"

  "Do you know a man named Simon?"

  "What's being planned?"

  The peasants only stared at him with blank, dead eyes. Instead of words, shrill, keening howls slithered from their mouths and they reached out grimy hands to scratch him. That's when he always woke, staring at the ceiling, his back sore from another night on the floor. By sunrise, his routine continued with the dream haunting every step.

  He walked the streets again, watching the same people hang laundry, stoop on roofs thwacking hammers, haul carts down the road. The same guards patrolled, stood watch in the towers. Eli searched for Simon and asked the same questions. He got the same answers.

  "Ask the man in Olive's basement."

  "Those damn girls are eating our food."

  "I don't know, sir."

  "Simon's one of them, sir — an outsider."

  "I keep my head down and mind my own business."

  On the fifth day, Eli strolled down the hill for the thousandth time, Olive's mansion shining on its lofty hill on the other side of town. He passed the same people he saw the day before and knew the rebels walked among them, anonymous. Eli must have looked into their eyes a dozen times, unable to tell them his real thoughts.

  Where are you? Who are you? Let me help you.

  He plodded into the valley between the hills, stood in the middle of the road, and searched the surrounding faces. Who hadn't he questioned? Who looked eager to talk? A man caught his eye. He sat on a rocking chair in front of his cabin, shelling peas, an eyebrow crooked at him. Eli took a step, but then a swift figure brushed his arm on its way past. She wove among the crowd as if on air, carrying two pails of water.

  A girl in white.

  With her head high, she sauntered past the peasants, turned off the road, and headed toward a muddy track that led to the guest house. They watched the girl with a sneer and didn't flinch when she slipped in the mud and tumbled to her knees with a pained yelp. The pails flew from her hands and water spilled across the ground.

  Some of the peasants laughed. Others gazed at the scene casually and resumed their work.

  Eli ran to the girl's side. Her white form was sprawled across black mud and she moaned, rising to her elbows to rub an ankle. Dark flecks splattered her dress; the hem was drenched in wet, brown filth. Eli held out his hand.

  "Are you all right?" he asked. The girl took his hand and Eli easily pulled her to her feet. "Are you hurt?"

  Frizzy blond hair encircled her small, chubby face like a lion's mane. She gazed at him with blank eyes and a calm smile but didn't answer.

  "No use crying over spilled water, right?" Eli chuckled at his joke and the girl's smile broadened. "I'll help you get more if you show me where."

  Silence. Was she too terrified to speak, or brainwashed? Eli searched around: no one was close enough to eavesdrop. He leaned in.

  "How long you been kept here?"

  She blinked, long lashes falling like curtains.

  "How many others are there?"

  She took his hand and cupped it warmly with both of hers.

  "I'm here to help," he said.

  The girl rose to her tippy-toes and draped a small hand on Eli's cheek, scraping his stubble with her fingers. Then she picked up her fallen pails and headed back the way she came. Eli followed — down the hill, through the flat, and up the other side. She headed off t
he road toward a row of barns and buildings.

  Then, she disappeared.

  Eli tried not to run. He chased after the girl's ghost, searching the crowd for her frizzy blond hair. At the crest of the hill, a flash of white flickered in the corner of his eye. Eli spun toward it and found two figures in an alley between two barns.

  The girl was pinioned against the building by a small, bearded man. She stood just under his chin and the man seemed to be yelling in her face.

  Something about the shape of the shoulder and the dirty smear of whiskers was familiar. So were the hands, now grasping the girl's thin arms. Days ago, they sliced a knife through Ben's belly. Days ago, they stabbed Lily through the gut.

  The ground lurched below Eli's feet. He fell back onto something hard and solid — a tree, perhaps — shock caging his anger until his muscles shook. Simon's hand glided up the girl's arm to cup her cheek; he kissed the top of her head and stared into her face as if waiting for her to speak. When she didn't, he shook her.

  The blond hair turned black and curly. Dimples sprouted on the round cheeks. Simon's hands gripped her arms tighter and a voice told Eli that Simon was going to hurt her, too. He sprung from the tree. The girl smiled and Simon shoved her away. Her white figure tumbled from the shadowed alley, blond hair catching the sunlight.

  She stood in front of the barns for a moment, staring into the alley at Simon, then shook her head, smoothed her dress, and backed away. She picked up her pails and strolled down the road, away from Simon, to safety.

  Simon dropped his head and rubbed his face, then dipped further into the shadowed alley. A calm voice told Eli to walk back down the hill. He ignored it.

  Eli sprinted across the road toward the barn, slipped through the alley and into darkness. He squinted through cool shadow for Simon, every nerve pulsing in his chest with scorching heat.

  You killed Lily. You destroyed Frank's life.

  Eli didn't worry about witnesses, he didn't think about Olive. He didn't even breathe. One overwhelming urge moved him forward.