My hands are full of what can only be described as SWAT gear; a helmet, bullet proof jacket, gloves, boots… I stand mute.
Vallon sighs and grumbles something under his breath I’m sure I don’t want to hear. He knocks everything from my hands and they pile at my feet. Then, he proceeds to dress me, roughly, like a misbehaving child. He jerks and shoves and stuffs me into the extra layer of protective clothing. He’s done this before.
As he straps the bullet proof vest around my chest — the final piece — his hand glides across my bound breasts, much more slowly than necessary. I gasp and he snorts. We lock eyes, neither daring to blink first. My left eye twitches with blood red fury and I hear the stiff fabric of my gloves crinkle as I ball up my fist. Vallon’s thin mustache curls up in a predatory snarl.
“Figures,” he says under his breath again, but this time loud enough for me to hear, and marches into the building.
“I assume you have no… things.” The words ooze out of his mouth like sour molasses. Each one thick and heavy with contempt and… something that reminds me of Tangie batting around a field mouse on the back porch. My stomach churns at the memory of him, smothered in cheese so Bit wouldn’t know.
I shake my head. Whatever was in my backpack is of no importance to me now. My mind flashes to the stones in my pocket; Dad’s, Mom’s, and mine. I can’t feel them through the extra layers. Not that it matters. What good have they done me so far? And what ‘cause’ would I still be fighting for? Everyone worth fighting for is gone. Dead. It’s important that I say it.
//Howie, please answer me.// I beg.
Would they make me get rid of my stones anyway? Now that I’m… what? One of them now?
//Will you shut up?//
CHAPTER TWO
Courage isn’t the absence of fear,
Courage action in the face of it.
-Marcus Stone, Uprising Manifesto
Vallon glares at me. “No unauthorized transmissions… and definitely no crying.”
“I…” My knees falter and nearly drop me to the floor. I reach for the wall to steady myself. How did he do that? “How did you do that?”
“It’s not hard when you’re broadcasting in the open. You need to learn to control yourself. It’s pathetic.” Vallon turns to leave me, then turns back with his unfortunately attractive face set in cold stone. “And stay out of the way. I won’t let an untrained civilian girl endanger my men. If you so much as blink wrong, I’ll kill you before you can get us killed. Got it?”
He doesn’t wait for an answer, and I have none to give. If I was braver, stronger, I would remind him that he’s the one in charge of making sure that doesn’t happen. Instead, I watch him march like a proud peacock down the corridor, the thundering echo of his boots thankfully growing smaller. He points over his shoulder toward the far wall. “Girls’ latrine over there. Hurry up.”
I collapse onto the nearest bed. I know I should be getting ready to leave. I should be following Vallon to wherever he’s going. Hopefully the mess hall for my last meal. My stomach growls in agreement. But I can’t. The thought of getting on a new ship is terrifying. I’m frozen in fear, despair, guilt… you name it, I’ve got it.
My hands shake as I pick at a loose thread on this random person’s bunk.
//Howie//
One thin cry escapes before I can lock my thoughts down. I have to stop calling to him on an open channel. Have to face the fact that he’s gone. They’re gone. Dead. Brooks is dead and no amount of unauthorized chipping can change that.
My head is pounding. Thoughts swirl around in my mind the way the room spins before my eyes. Almost too late I realize I've been holding my breath to keep from screaming. How long, I don’t know. A gust of air rushes from my lungs as I gasp, sucking in a thick cloud of male odor. I don't like it. It's foreign, and I can’t place it. It’s much worse than the familiar masculine scent that Howie gets after a long day of hunting.
Got. The wonderful scent Howie got after a long day of hunting. My breath catches in my throat, pushed back by sick. How will I ever get used to thinking of them in past tense?
I bolt straight up on this stranger’s smelly bed. I don’t have to think of them in past tense if I join them. Nervous energy tingles along my fingers and up my spine. My eyes dart from side to side, searching for some stalker in this darkened room. Someone who heard me think the unthinkable, to stop me… tell on me… help me. But there’s no one. I’m alone.
The energy subsides, replaced by my heavy oneness. Alone. Now, forever. As long… or short as that forever will be. Could I really do this? Am I really thinking of… that?
“No,” I tell myself out loud, then look again for anyone to find me out. “If you can’t say it, you can’t do it.” So I say it. “Suicide. I want to commit suicide. I want to die. Cease to exist. Join them. Over. I want it all to be over. Now. I need to be with them. Now. Do it. Be with them.”
Everything comes flooding out of me as if I’ve been holding those thoughts along with my breath. I don’t believe it though. That last part. There’s no ‘going somewhere to be with them.’ They’re nowhere. Gone. But that’s where I want to be, too. Where I deserve to be. I don’t deserve to draw one more breath after failing them.
My sweet sweet Brooks. So young. So trusting. So...frail. He was on death’s door before he even got on that ship. Before… There’s no way. I failed him.
And Howie. Everything he’d done for us. For me. Everything he’d sacrificed. He wanted to stay. He wanted to stay and I made him go. I marched him straight to his death. Because why? I thought I knew better than he did? I had all the answers. Stupid, gullible, me. Dreaming of the Promised Land and not caring about the price of admission.
No. I don’t deserve to live, on this Stoneforsaken planet or the next one.
The nightstand is empty, nothing in the drawers or on top. No pictures or papers to identify the soldier belonging to my stolen bed. No pocket knife or pills or… I take a deep breath. Gun.
No gun to bring swift undeserved mercy to my miserable life. Whoever he is, or was, he’s already packed up and gone, leaving only his stale body odor behind.
I stand and inspect the rest of the beds around me. I may not deserve to live, but I also don’t deserve to die smothered in Private Stink’s sheets.
All the beds closest to me are in a similar state of empty. Some are even stripped bare, nothing but a thin mattress and solitary lamp, sans shade. My unfamiliar boots click heavily on the concrete flooring as I rummage through tables, upend mattresses, leaving drawers open in my haste.
I need to do this now.
Frantically, I start to run up and down the aisle, looking for something, anything that will help me. Kill myself.
Now. Now. Now.
//Howie. Howie. Howie!//
One bed at the end of the hall still has a solitary white pillowcase. I stare at it for a moment, wondering how to make that work. I pick it up and shake it, stretching the material, testing its strength.
A tiny clink on the floor stops me.
At my feet is a small blade. I try not to think about what was going through this soldier’s mind when he hid the knife in this pillowcase. Was he determined to end his suffering? Like me. Biding his time until he could be alone in this huge hall? Like me. Or was it for something else? Protection?
I picture a scared young man in a sharply pressed uniform surrounded by hundreds of angry scowling brutes like Vallon. Disgusting pigs who think it’s their Stone given right to touch people wherever they choose.
If they’re all like him I’m better off where I’m going. Nowhere.
First I nudge the knife with the steel toe of my boot, testing my nerve. It skitters across the floor a bit and I follow. Then I bend over and take it into my hand, letting the cold metal warm itself on my palm.
It looks like a cross between a box cutter and a scalpel. I’m comforted by that, knowing it’s going to be sharp. Swift. Get the job done quickly. I’ve suffered enough.
/>
###
Turning on my heels, I try to get my bearings in this unfamiliar room. Which way did I come in? Where are the sounds of the other soldiers coming from? Where can I be alone?
The blade slides easily into my over sized pocket as I find my way toward where I think the bathroom should be. Where Vallon pointed when he left me alone in this hollowed out hangar. Did he know what I was thinking before I even thought it? He seemed to know I couldn’t hack it. Didn’t even waste his time on me. Other than copping a feel.
As I head toward the bathroom, hoping for a nice comfortable tub but knowing better, I wonder how he’ll feel about himself after. Will he be disgusted, knowing he felt up a dead girl? Or will he be smug about it? Glad to get rid of the liability. And hey, get a little side boob while he’s at it.
//Howie, I’m sorry.//
Just as I expected, a long line of shower stalls greet me as I push the door open. The room is cold, abandoned.
Picking the farthest stall, I take my time. I concentrate on the swish of my pants and the echo of my steps, which I count until I find myself standing in front of the doorless shower. The ceremony of it all makes me feel like I’m doing the right thing. Any doubt I might have had — but I don’t think I did -- is gone.
//If you see Bit where you are, tell him I’m sorry, too.// I say my piece to Howie over the open channel. No sense worrying about it now.
The bulletproof vest and outer jacket make it difficult to crumple myself into the stall, but I manage. I consider removing my clothes to not get blood all over them, but that would mean being exposed when… whoever finds me. There’s a momentary pang of empathy for the person who does stumble upon my corpse. If anyone does. They’re all scrambling for the last ship off Earth, right now.
While I’m taking the faster way out.
With a swift flick of the wrist, I slice the inside of my left forearm. No thinking. No chickening out. They didn’t get a choice and neither do I.
The pain is fast, intense. I swear I can hear the blood gushing out of me. I rush to cut the other one before I lose consciousness, but the blade slips from my fingers, already slick. I scrounge around on the shower floor, mesmerized by how dark my puddle of blood is getting.
The second cut doesn’t go as well as the first. Maybe I know how bad it will hurt and hesitate just a hair. Or the scalpel is too slippery. I’m already fading. Whatever the reason, the red line appears jagged against my paling skin. The knife clatters to the floor.
Calm washes over me and I picture Brooks, smiling and waving, waiting. Just as he was before. Howie’s face appears behind him. Not the thin sad face that boarded the Unity and went to his fate. No, my Howie’s beautiful, full, playful face.
//I’m coming. I’m so sorry I wasn’t there with you, but I’m coming now. It won’t be long. I love you. I’m sorry I never said it. I’m so sorry for everything. Wait for me.//
They’re calling to me. Telling me to come to them. Hurry. I can hear them. “Synta,” Brooks says in his angelic baby voice, the one he hasn’t had in so long. But he does now. My Brooks, chubby happy Brooks. “Come play with me, Synta.”
I run to him, but he’s so far away. “Wait for me. Wait. I’m coming.”
Howie’s smile fades. The faster I run toward them, the more angry he gets with me. “Synta, what are you doing? How dare you?” His voice is rough, furious.
When I finally catch up to them, Howie reaches over Brooks and slaps me across the face.
“What was that for?” I ask, but he doesn’t answer. He just keeps calling my name.
“Synta! Synta!” Howie screams, over and over.
“I’m right here.” Tears fill my eyes. “Please let me come with you.”
//Synta...//
CHAPTER THREE
All the things I love about you
Are all the things I wish about myself.
- Howard Marshall Anderson
Vallon’s deep shit-brown eyes are ringed with red as his massive hand comes at me again. My cheek, that cheek, lights on fire in the shape of a hand print.
Dammit.
//Howie!// Please answer me. //Howie.//
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Vallon glares down at me, massive hand raised for another strike. I feel myself being yanked off the floor. Cold air rips through the blood-soaked parts of my uniform.
//Howie, please.//
Vallon throws me onto the nearest cot and wraps something scratchy around my wrists. I struggle to break free, pushing with my useless hands against his wide chest. He doesn’t budge. His musky male breath chokes the air out of me as he growls, “Not this time.”
//Howie?//
Black pupils swallow the brown in Vallon’s eyes. His strong hand squeezes both my wrists at once, while he fumbles with something at his side. I hear fabric tearing and a moment later he’s wrapping a strip of camouflage around the towels that are already turning red with blood. My blood. I just stare at it as everything around me goes dark.
//Howie...//
//Syn? Synta!//
I open my eyes, expecting to see Howie. I heard him. I know I did. But all I see is Vallon. That scowl of his and those fierce brown eyes, boring a hole into me. Not Howie’s beautiful green eyes, caring and happy. Vallon shakes me, screams my name.
He sounds like he’s in a tunnel, far away. Not the tunnel everyone says you go through when you die. There’s no white light, no warm loving glow pulling me toward peace. There’s only anger, judgment, and another slap across the face. But I don’t care. I close my eyes again. I want the black to take me.
//Synta… can you hear me? Syn…//
The only voice I care about overpowers Vallon’s, pushing through the darkness and into my soul.
Howie. It’s him. It’s really him.
//Howie, I’m coming. Tell Bit I’m coming. I don’t want to do this without you.//
//You’re not going anywhere!// Vallon snaps at me, his gruff voice crawling through my brain, dragging me back.
“No, stop,” I beg him, wrestling myself free of his grasp. My voice is hollow in my own ears, a thin plea from a weak child. “Let me go. Let me go to them.”
Vallon’s grip tightens on my shoulders and another hand print is emblazoned on my cheek.
My lips curl upward in amusement as I think to myself that he really likes hitting girls. My Howie would never hit me.
//I’m coming, Howie.// With that last transmission, I give in. I stop struggling against Vallon’s efforts to wake me. Soon they’ll be in vain and I’ll be gone and this abusive ass will be in so much trouble. Peace sucks out all the anger and pain, leaving a wonderful void inside me. Darkness rushes in.
//Brooks… on a pod… safe… //Howie’s voice scratches me awake.
//You’re not going anywhere!// Vallon has stopped speaking, instead sending his commands to me the only way I can get them. My chip.
Shut up. Shut up. //Shut up!//
//Howie? Howie, is that really you?// I try to drag my eyes open again. Wake up! It’s him. He’s alive. They’re alive!
//No, now wake up!// Vallon chips, giving me another hard shake.
//Yes.// Howie’s voice fades. //Yes, we’re out. We’re on pods… I’m… I’m so tired, Syn.//
//Howie, oh Howie. I’m… // I stop. Transmitting takes so much out of me. It’s too hard to think. //I’m… oh, I’m sorry. What have I… //
I see it. The light. It’s… red. Terrifying and horribly dangerous. Like the flashing red 0:00:00 that mocked us the entire time we walked to Cape Canaveral. Not inviting. What have I done? I sent myself to hell. Help. Someone help me.
//Howie!// Help me please. //Help. Get me out of here!//
President Theoda’s face appears, looming over me. Her shrill voice echoes through the darkness. That maniacal grin is all I can see. She’s there, somewhere, somehow, all around me. “Samaritans,” she says, her grin turning to a scowl. “Look what we have here. A fake! A quitter! A murderer! Your ti
me is up.”
I try to run from her, turn back. Get away from the red light. Help me, please, someone. I don’t want to go. Get me out.
My head thrashes from side to side, swirling the images in my mind. President Theoda’s floating head tumbles closer, growing bigger, and comes after me, more angry than ever.
//Please help me!// I broadcast to anyone, everyone.
//Come back to me. Come on! Please come back!// Vallon urges me. I try to follow his voice. Feel his hands on me. Shaking me. Screaming. I hear him. Screaming.
“That’s it. Come on. Come on.”
The darkness fights against me, squeezing, suffocating. It’s so comfortable, warm. If I just… stop… it will be OK. Everything will be fine… if I just… crawl out. If I can get out of here. I promise…
###
“Open your eyes, soldier!” Marshall’s deep voice invades the quiet. I can hear it echo from far away, bouncing off bare walls and the concrete floor below. “Now!”
My eyes open.
//Howie?//
“Where’s Howie?” Fire burns my throat. The words are barely a whisper.
“You were screaming. But, I suppose that’s a good thing, Ratnik.” Marshall hands me a glass of water and helps me sit up. It shakes in his hand, almost as badly as in mine. “Slow.”
//Howie//
“Where’s Howie? I heard him. Where is he?” I repeat.
Marshall's lips tighten and turn down, creasing his normally smooth face. “You know where Howie is. You saw.” He gives me a moment for that to sink in.
I sit up, fast, refusing to believe him. What little blood I have left pounds its way into my temples. The room spins. “No,” I croak. “No.”
“I’m sorry, Ratnik. Really I am. But, you have to pull yourself together. We don’t have much time.” Marshall pats me on the back and takes the water. The glass is still full.
Shaking my head, I rail against his chest. “No, no, no!” Pain shoots up both wrists as I keep punching him. He absorbs every hit without flinching. “No,” I cry at last, spent.
Exodus Page 2
