“A destiny of cleaning the crumbs of humans out of your teeth for the rest of your life. How charming.”
“Yes, well. You try being coerced to do something unthinkable, and see if your mind doesn’t do something to block it out or validate it. What other option is there?”
“Insanity?”
“I’m sure that was how it ended for some of them. Probably a side-effect present in some of them to this day. Hard to differentiate insanity from…other animalistic tendencies.”
“I suppose so.”
The squad picked their way through the lovely terrain, and it didn't take Shiloh long to notice that it was eerily quiet. The Pulsers at work, she surmised, eyeing the treetops for a bird, a squirrel – anything.
Even the worms, it seemed, had crawled into the ground to escape the offensive tones.
A sudden curiosity occurred to her. “Will they hear us coming?”
“Maybe,” Jayx replied. “But when we get close, we will go in quickly.”
An instant prickle of sweat sprang to her palms. “How close are we?”
“An hour out, now.”
Anticipation crackled through her. The squad was strapped down and ready to go, and the Pulsers were clearly doing their job, but the hour still approached like the horsemen of the apocalypse, mighty and ominous and galloping with a feral reckoning in their direction.
What are we doing; what are we doing; what are we doing.
It chanted itself over and over again in her head. But underneath the hysterical chant hummed the answer, low and steady:
Taking back the island.
The trees seemed to narrow in a way that resembled tunnels, swallowing Shiloh deeper and deeper down a path-of-no-return. She imagined rickety, foreboding signs posted along the way:
Turn back.
Dead end.
No trespassing.
One-Way.
But on they trekked, until Jayx halted in the lead and held up a fist, and everyone else amassed behind him. He turned to face his squad.
“Since we run the risk of them hearing our approach, thanks to the tones we emit, we strike hard and fast from this point,” he announced. “If any of you doubts his ability to follow through, you have one last chance to back out. But if you wish to survive here, and wish for the rest of us to survive today – don’t be that person.”
He ran his imploring gaze over all of them, waiting, allowing them the chance to flake.
No one did.
Shiloh swallowed a lump of uncertainty; a few feet shifted around her. But those representing the Convergence that day all stood their ground.
Jayx gave an almost indistinguishable nod. “On my signal we charge the camp.” He rotated to face back the way they were going to charge.
Shiloh's heart thudded in her throat. Her breaths echoed in her head, not unlike they did inside the chamber of a gas mask. Flashbacks slashed blade-like through her mind, back to the days when a mask was the norm. She blinked them away, trying to focus on the dire matter at hand.
A cove of clustered, run-down shacks in place of the trees...
She brought the trees back into focus.
A cold, slate-gray sky over troubled tides...
No. A lacy canopy of branches over petal-strewn underbrush.
People with wasp faces grappling over valuable loot.
Don't mistake the enemy. Here, the enemy wore antlers and horns. Not masks.
She didn't even notice the signal to charge, too caught up in the glitches that plagued her. But when the rest of the company surged forward, her feet followed the current. She realized they were running, suddenly – a silent affair, as if in slow-motion, somewhere outside of the bubble that incubated her heartbeat and breathing. Jayx was a swift beast in the lead, muscles bunching as he leaped over obstacles, dreadlocks whipping his shoulders as he dodged in and out of trees.
The land sloped downward. Shiloh remembered all too well the same descent, when the Tribal had cracked her over the skull and carried her to their camp. The world tipped farther and farther on its edge until all at once a shift in gravity locked into place, pulling the company like an avalanche down the hill.
Shiloh's slow-motion bubble popped, and suddenly she was right there with them – steps pounding, underbrush cracking, branches whirring past.
Too fast. No one could stop the momentum now; they poured like heavy water down into the valley, faster and faster until it was a wonder they weren't tripping all over themselves.
The smell of sage stung her lungs. They were right on top of the camp. Her eyes grew wide, darting ahead for signs of life through the pockets in the trees.
Nothing.
Nothing.
There.
Ivory instead of bark. The fence of bone.
Fueled by momentum and adrenaline, they dug into the ground and vaulted over the gnarly barrier, touching down on enemy soil. As the squad rained into the Tribal camp, Shiloh was assaulted by the sounds and smells she remembered all too well from her brief time in captivity. The smell of campfires and meat – strange meat. The chop of an ax. A wolf-like growl.
Dreadlocked heads turned in their direction as they raided the encampment, sharp, animal-like gazes flooding with alarm at the attack. Shiloh saw when the tones hit them – they hunched, clasping rough hands to ivory-ornamented ears. It was magic, how a group of ruthless savages went weak-kneed at the squad's command.
Magic for all of two seconds, before the grunge of very real violence set in.
The company took what Jayx said to heart. They did not immediately happen upon their prime target, and so they didn't discriminate. They wielded their blades and cut through the first line of cowering savages.
Blood was such a pretty color, in Paradise. Back home, it had always been a dark, gritty, rusty color. Here – bright crimson. Liquid roses. It enthralled her for a moment; not in a morbid way, but the same as she had been wonderstruck by the vivid quality of everything in Paradise. Then she made the connection between visual masterpiece and underlying horror, and an appropriate swell of bile rose in her throat.
She choked it down, locking her focus into place and turning on her radar for the attributes that would announce Mother Eve. The camp was a whipping blur of dreadlocks, but none of them buzzed with the ornamentation of impaled beetles that Shiloh sought.
The chaos tromped through the campfires, stirring the encampment into an acrid haze. She slayed one savage; didn’t look at his face. Her companions fanned out, striking down the Tribal as they went, leaving Shiloh to walk almost dreamlike, untouched, through the center of the camp.
Where is she...
Come out to play, Mother...
There was the tent where Shiloh had been held captive. And here, the one where Jayx had rescued Zack.
Three figures spilled out of the tent in her path, holding their hands over their ears. A surge of alarm sparked through Shiloh at their emergence, but they balked, crumpled in on themselves when they encountered her. Her confidence swelled, and she advanced on them. Slowly, though – not like her slashing, hacking allies. There was no need. Let them see her coming. Let them fear her. Let them realize their reckoning had come for them.
They groveled on the ground, dragging themselves pitifully backwards, turning their faces away and holding up hands as if to block out a blinding burst of light.
So these were the savages. The infamous fiends who ruled the island, striking terror into the hearts of everyone who set foot on this shore. Here were the monsters that lurked in the shadows.
Not so mysterious and fearsome now, are you?
There was something immensely thrilling about bringing them to their knees. About watching them cower, taunting them with the same terror they had cast over scads of innocent victims themselves. But it was coupled with the squeamish conscience that seemed intent on tying Shiloh's resolve into knots.
Don't do it, don't do it, don't do it, chanted the withered angel on her shoulder, alongside the equally com
pelling voice that whispered,
Cut them to ribbons.
They had crawled away from the tent, drawing Shiloh after them back toward the center of the camp. It was really too easy, she thought. Is this what it felt like, to be them? To be the dominant threat nobody saw coming? How many times had this scenario been the other way around, the Tribal closing in mercilessly on helpless, pitiful victims, advancing without so much as a trace of resistance and snuffing lives like domino candles?
Crunching bones as casually as autumn leaves beneath their boots...
That was when the thrill of it dissipated, for her. It was just too easy. She stopped, watching them drag themselves away. Like crippled fawns, she thought. How could they enjoy this, when roles were switched?
You aren't here to enjoy it, she reminded herself. You're here to silence a threat. To protect the innocent. To secure asylum for future generations.
And that was when Shiloh saw her. A silhouette through the campfire smoke. There was something about her – be it her stance, the way she carried herself, or just some primal radiance, similar to what Ophelia claimed Jayx oozed. Whatever it was, it drew Shiloh's focus through the haze, seized her like a trance. A morbid curiosity, perhaps, for the woman was a macabre wonder. Intricately scarred, eyes beautiful and bloodshot, her ancient, lithe limbs infused with a fascinating haggard elegance. And that thing, that wild-goddess radiance that she possessed, painted her dragon-like through the smoke. Just for a moment she was all jagged edges and sinuous limbs, her horned headdress fused with her seething, elongated skull, the shadows of other silhouettes shifting behind her like the suggestion of wings.
Then the smoke thinned, the illusion smearing, and the woman herself was revealed.
Mother Eve.
The woman who had interrogated her, twisting facts into an account of calligraphy lies to be exploited and shipped across the ocean – the fairytale newspaper meant to keep the population brainwashed however the wily kings and queens of this world saw fit.
It had been no different on the mainland, when the apocalypse happened. Shiloh’s parents had told bitterly of the days ruled and united by the infamous media. The way it could be used to hype or console the masses, gossip and fabricated half-truths circulating via screens and radio waves faster than the true stories every could. The Apocalypse had been predicted, but played down to avoid widespread panic. It had been played down and sugar-coated and denied outright until it was too late. Until the world fell apart and maybe everyone should have been allowed to panic, or to be empowered, or simply allowed the chance to get right with the many confused gods of the universe before the apocalypse wiped out an earth-full of misled souls...
Yes, things were not so very different from the world her parents had raged against, even now. The kings and queens of this world had simply become tribe leaders of a primitive frontier, the media dethroned from its glorious, broadcasting reign and reduced to quaint little scrolls sent across the ocean in meandering bottles, instead of instant signals on invisible currents.
Ocean waves, instead of radio waves.
The ocean was the radio, these days. The only broadcast everyone still tuned in to.
But it was about to go static, Shiloh thought – tightening her grip on her knife as the Tribal Queen materialized through the smoke.
11 – Aloft
Unleash the beast, unleash the beast, Shiloh chanted to herself, feeling her grip go sweaty on the knife hilt as Mother Eve sauntered toward her. The Tribal woman was using the same taunting stride Shiloh had practiced on the cowering savages.
But Shiloh wasn’t afraid of a little sweat. She wasn’t afraid of sweat, or grime, or blood. Comes with the territory.
A curl of gutsy prowess crackled through her body. She imagined what she looked like from Mother Eve’s perspective, all claw marks and blood stains and statement devil-headdresses that rendered her nearly akin to the Tribal themselves.
A feeling of being centered, however flighty, chased away an initial flicker of inadequacy. Shiloh was in the right state of mind as much as she could ever hope, in touch with the animal within, but there was something so uncanny about the Beetle Woman. Something that reached right in and pulled a wad of uneasiness up into Shiloh's throat.
It took her a moment, but then she realized what it was. While the others shied away and went on the defensive as if pained, Mother Eve walked right toward Shiloh, unaffected by the tones of the Pulsers.
A string of curses flooded Shiloh's mind.
The Pulsers didn't work on her. How could the Pulsers not work on her? It had been well established that she was different than the others, clever enough to use the fantastical resources of Paradise to further enhance her already-altered state, but she had the creature gene just like all of them.
Enhanced roach genetics, Jayx had mentioned in regards to her boosted durability. Would insects perceive the Pulses differently, or not at all? Had she dosed herself enough along those lines for animal-geared offenses to glance right off of her?
Was her shell that hard, that nothing could penetrate it?
But then Shiloh saw the others. Other savages besides Mother Eve, advancing on her.
The false confidence offered by the Pulsers evaporated, turning Shiloh into the crippled fawn in an instant. What the hell...
Her eyes darted to the right and left, preening the smoke for any other forms that had suddenly decided to turn the tables. Two, three, four...
Her steps reversed, pedaling her back toward the edges of the camp. She wasn't prepared for this. Their whole mission was dependent on the Pulsers working their magic. Where was Plan B, for if magic meant nothing? Hadn't they all been secretly thinking it, while preparing to raid the savages' camp? – it's a brilliant plan, on the surface, but what happens when something goes wrong?
Something can always go wrong.
Panic gripped her, below the surface.
But she fed it to her baby dragon, keeping it in check.
You are prepared for this, she reminded herself. Maybe not completely, but it's what you've been training for. She’d already proven she could put it into practice; the horns atop her head were a testament to that. All the mock fights Jayx pummeled her with. The brutal conditioning. The weeks she'd packed muscle on her erstwhile fragile bones. She wasn't the same as the weary, starving girl who had come to Paradise. And you were a survivor even then.
She brandished her weapon, halting her retreat. She had to face them. The fact that she had no choice was an eventuality.
The beetles in Mother Eve's hair were abuzz with excitement, making her dreadlocks twitch and sputter where they trailed over her shoulders. The flare of her amber gaze fastened on Shiloh like a physical vise, like a vortex. Shiloh could have sworn she felt the dirt slip beneath her boots, some invisible tether conspiring to reel her in toward the other woman.
Steady...
Fully clear of the smoke, Shiloh saw the blades clutched in Mother Eve's fists. Two wicked, ivory slicers, almost large enough to be called swords.
So her best bet would be to avoid any intimate combat. She would have to engage her the same way she’d bested the man in the jungle.
Red-painted targets. Maple-bleeding trees.
Her target-practice sessions flooded her body’s muscle memory. Could she hit a bullseye under this much pressure?
But she didn’t have to be perfect. She didn’t have to strike her target through the heart. She just had to hit it.
Maim it.
Slow it down.
And she'd better do it before somebody else's spear did a number on her.
Before she could over-think it, lose her nerve, or otherwise psyche herself out, she conjured a mental target across Mother Eve's chest, flipped her weapon so she clutched it blade-first, and took her shot.
Just another tree, with maple blood.
The blade sang through the air, Shiloh's aim proving true, but Mother Eve's reflexes proved just as keen. With a flick of her wrist, her own
long blade arced to deflect the lethal dart. A bright slash of crimson opened up across her collarbone, the tip of Shiloh's blade glancing across its mark, but ultimately the weapon clattered to the ground, a failed attempt.
Dismay collided with alarm. One down.
But it was okay. It had taken a few attempts with the man in the jungle, too.
She fumbled for her secondary blade, managing to cling to her composure, but one of the other savages was on top of her. No time to take aim – only to dodge out of the way. To retreat.
They pushed her back toward the edge of the camp. Back toward the silver-furred tent that, ironically, was the same one she'd been held captive in on her first visit to the Tribal encampment.
Not again. Never again.
But she knew she would be lucky to find herself a captive again, because the savages closing in on her oozed a much more fatal intent.
There was no time to think. She had to pull a crazy move, or she would be dead by half a dozen savages' hands in the following moments.
And if you get out of this, she thought, we're learning to use bows and arrows and spears and every other long-distance weapon in the book, so we never have to get this freaking cozy again.
What could she use to fight, aside from the stubby little blade left in her grasp? There were bones interspersed in a cluster of coals that she had just surpassed on her left. Human bones, no doubt.
That will have to do.
Giving in to the imaginary vortex that pulled her toward Mother Eve's clutches, Shiloh canceled her resistance and lunged toward the smattering of coals. The Tribal lunged in turn, their animal reflexes unprecedented. Shiloh was only lucky she was closer to the coals than they were. She half-dived, half-slid into the sooty remnants, grasping at the pile of bones for something suitable.
The coals were still hot.
She bit down on the gasp that hissed through her lips, denying the reflex to cast away the searing bones as quickly as she had clutched at them. She couldn't afford to discard them.
Wonderland (Deadly Lush Book 2) Page 8
