by G. C. Julien
“Look,” Trim said, “Eagle’s been hit, and Murk’s already trying to gather potential archers. She’s the best we had—the best we have,” she corrected.
Rocket refused to make eye contact. I could tell she was hurting, which made me wonder how long she’d known Eagle.
“What are you asking me?” I asked.
“What’s your vision?” Fisher asked, stepping in closer.
“What?”
“You got twenty-twenty?” Fisher asked.
I hadn’t been to an optometrist in several years. I’d never bothered to go because my vision had never posed any real problems. I’d always been one of the lucky kids in class who was able to sit at the back corner and still make out the many mathematical equations written on the chalkboard by Mr. Adams.
I nodded.
Rocket scoffed. “Lucky… Wish I hadn’t played so many video games growing up.”
Fisher elbowed her. “That ain’t what caused your shit vision,” she said.
“Yeah, it is!”
“Guys, shut up!” Trim hissed. She gazed at me from head to toe, cocked an eyebrow, and extended an open palm. “Come on, Murk wants you assessed.”
* * *
Some women were crying; others excitedly mimicked archers shooting at invisible targets across the Village. It was clear that being the object of analysis for the purpose of creating soldiers hadn’t been voluntary.
“There hasn’t been an Assessment like this in years,” I heard.
I glanced behind me to where the voice had come from. There were two women facing each other within the lineup, gabbing away about the history of Kormace Island and the changes brought forth by Murk over the last ten years.
I stood near the back of the line, behind dozens of other women, waiting to enter Murk’s cabin. The Assessment was being performed on an individual basis, which was not only intimidating but also terrifying. I wasn’t ready to be a fighter. I didn’t want to be a fighter. I was perfectly content sewing leather together for the next three years. The only fight I’d ever been in was in fourth grade, and it had been over a boy stealing my peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
I was so involved in my memory of young Steven Poulis, I failed to hear how silent the Village had grown. I peered over one of the women’s shoulders and toward Murk’s cabin which appeared to be attracting many eyes.
Murk had stepped outside, surrounded by Trim, Fisher, Flander, Biggie, and Rocket. There were two other women standing tall on either side of her, who I assumed were her personal guards. She walked forward, and the women around me began to kneel. I followed suit and placed the weight of my body onto one knee.
“Women of Kormace,” Murk shouted. Her chest heaved and her fingers wrapped around a spear. “Today came to us all as a surprise.” She paused for a moment, eyeing each person with such care and empathy that I realized she thought of her people as family. I understood how she’d earned everyone’s respect.
“A beautiful life was taken,” she said, raising her voice as she spoke, “but this was not in vain. Today has shown us how uncivilized and cruel the Northers have become.” She took another step forward and raised her spear. “We will not allow this to happen again!”
There were shouts of angst among the women, but all I felt was fear. Several other spears and weapons were thrown up toward the sky, and I suddenly felt surrounded by animals. Everyone wanted blood.
“We’ve spent years surviving with our divisions of Farmers, Needlewomen, Medics, and Hunters who have also been our Battle Women. But today, this changes.”
Another uproar shook throughout the Village.
“We need more Battle Women to protect our people—to fight for what’s ours and to defend what we’ve worked so hard for.”
I was knocked in the back by one of the islanders who was throwing her fists into the air, shouting nonsense with determination. I wanted to push her back but knew she’d tear me to shreds. All she wanted to do was fight.
“Let the Assessment begin!” Murk said.
I covered my ears to block out the surrounding screams and cries of motivation to murder. How had I managed to be dropped onto a remote island that was in the midst of war? Trim’s crew had been right when they first found me—I wasn’t island material.
I was shoved from side to side a few more times by overbearingly loud women practicing their fighting skills. They were tackling each other to the ground and pulling at limbs and joints, acting like young boys.
“Hey, stranger,” I heard.
It was Ellie. She stood directly behind me with her arms crossed over her chest, a grin stretching her face. Although still upset by the fact that she’d completely abandoned me the moment I lost consciousness, I was happy to see her.
“Sorry about earlier,” she said.
I frowned, but all it did was make her smile grow wider.
“For the record, I slapped you at least a dozen times before I left,” she said.
I rubbed my cheek; it was tender to the touch.
“Thanks for trying,” I said.
“You’re welcome.” She patted me on the arm. “Couldn’t sit by your side all day. I knew you’d wake up eventually.”
“Yeah, well—” I started, even though I had no clue what to say.
“So what’s the deal?” she interrupted. “You’re taking part in the Assessment?”
I cleared my throat. “Guess so.”
“Voluntold, not volunteered?” she asked.
“Pretty much.”
She nodded, eying the competition around me.
“It’s a noble status to have, I guess,” she said, “being a Battle Woman and all.”
I shrugged. I didn’t care about statuses. All I wanted was to live a quiet life for the remainder of my sentence, and if that meant being the Omega of the pack, so be it.
“Is it hard?” I asked.
“Is what hard?” She tilted her head to the side, scrutinizing every inch of me.
“Being a Hunter—a Battle Woman,” I said.
“For you, probably,” she admitted. “No offense.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.
She laughed, even though I’d shown no sign of amusement.
“You aren’t exactly built for battle,” she said.
I couldn’t argue. I’d never been one for sports, let alone any type of physical activity. The only exercise I ever performed on a daily basis was bending over to scoop my cat’s litter box. I’d always been the scrawny kid in class, and in high school gym class, I’d once been used as a bench press weight by one of the guys.
I sighed.
“Don’t be so hard on yourself.” Ellie threw an arm around my shoulders and pulled me in. “Everyone has a purpose.”
I scoffed. I wasn’t buying it.
“Murk’s desperate for Battle Women,” she said, leaning in closer. “Her standards aren’t what they usually are.”
Was this supposed to make me feel better? It definitely didn’t. This was equivalent to offering someone a job not because of their qualifications, but due to an unexpected layoff and an immediate requirement to replace the former employee.
It sounded so official—the Assessment—like something so monumental it could only be experienced through a form of ceremony. But there was no ceremony. In fact, there was nothing special about it at all. I watched as women were brought into Murk’s cabin one at a time, led by two Amazonian-built women on either side. Some women were escorted from Murk’s cabin within mere minutes; others did not return.
Everyone stared as one woman came storming out, cursing and swinging her fists into the air. You could tell she was a fighter by nature. Why hadn’t Murk selected her? What was she really looking for?
“Brone,” I heard.
I swallowed hard. It was finally my turn. I glanced at Ellie, who was leaning against a tree not far from the cabin. The sun had begun to set, casting an orange hue across the Village, and I couldn’t tell whether she was smiling o
r grimacing at me.
“Your turn,” Trim said. She didn’t smile; nor did she make eye contact.
I walked into Murk’s cabin, holding onto the comforting image of my immediate release. I wasn’t cut out for this. Surely, Murk would come to realize this and demand to have me removed from her presence. But what I saw carried no comfort at all. Murk was sitting on a wooden bench of sorts, sucking on a wooden stick, and exhaling a cloud of gray from the corner of her mouth.
“What’s your vision?” she asked, staring into me as a mother would a disobedient child. She leaned in, placing both elbows onto her parted knees.
I glanced at Trim, but she offered no guidance.
“I’m sorry?” I asked.
“Your sight. What is it?”
For a moment, I was tempted to lie—to say that I was nearsighted and required glasses for clear vision. No one would have known. No one but Trim, that is. I couldn’t trust her to protect me.
“Good,” I admitted.
“Perfect?” Murk asked.
I nodded, even though all I wanted to do was shake my head. I suddenly visualized the woman on fire and the way she’d danced from side to side in an attempt to outrun the flames melting her skin.
She laid her cigar onto the floor, sat up straight, and stared into nothingness. I shot another glance toward Trim, but again, received no indication as to what I was supposed to do.
I watched as Murk’s eyes followed the smoke from her cigar, which curled several times, before drifting to the left. She nodded slowly, before reaching down and pulling the cigar back into her mouth.
“Archer,” she suddenly said, and I thought I might faint.
CHAPTER 5
I felt as though I’d been involuntarily recruited into police foundations. The islanders around me spoke of training and of enhancing one’s survival skills. All I heard was death. We were just a bunch of women who’d been chosen to defend the Village without adequate time to develop the necessary combat skills to fight—we’d been assigned a suicide mission.
Trim led the twelve of us who’d been chosen to the Working Grounds to commence training. I was already so exhausted from the long day I’d had—from being assigned the task of Needlewoman, to the Village falling under attack—that I wasn’t prepared for any of this. My legs burned, and my head throbbed. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten, let alone had anything to drink.
“Archer?”
I side-glanced at the woman standing beside me, not wanting to make full eye contact.
“I don’t bite.”
I turned to face her. Her smile revealed a set of brown, rotting teeth and large nostrils which were flared beyond normality. She had the strangest eyes I’d ever seen: dandelion yellow and charcoal gray. They stood out even more in contrast to her dark brown skin. Her hair was cut close to the skin of her head, not quite shaved but not quite long enough to be considered a haircut. She was built thin, with protruding muscles that I knew were not the result of strength, but rather, lack of fat.
“Yeah, I got Archer,” I said.
“Me too.” She smirked as if this title was something to be proud of. “Sunny.”
I glanced up at the sky, which was covered in a thin layer of gray, but when she extended a calloused hand, I realized she hadn’t been talking about the sky.
“I’m Ly—Brone,” I said.
“Pleasure to meet you, Librone,” she said, shaking my hand vigorously.
“Just Brone,” I said.
“You’re new,” she said. It was a statement more than a question. “You’ll get used to it around here.”
I nearly said, ‘I doubt that,’ but she patted me on the arm as a father would his son, then added, “Took me about six months to adjust.”
Six months? It had only been two days, and I was already craving the feeling of warm soap being lathered against my skin; the taste of cold Pepsi against the tip of my tongue on a hot summer day; the sound of club music blasting through my car speakers while I sped on the highway with my windows rolled down. I’d taken so much for granted, not ever realizing how luxurious a life I’d truly had.
“How long have you been here?” I asked.
She shrugged. “Can’t say for sure. Stopped counting after two years.”
“Why two?” I asked.
She shook her head and laughed, but I knew she wasn’t amused.
“I didn’t believe them,” she said. She bit her lip, then scratched her cracked fingernails against the skin of her head. “Thought they were lying.”
“Who? What’re you talking about?” I asked.
Her eyes narrowed on me and then shot from side to side at the other women nearby.
“My sentence,” she whispered, “was s’pposed to be two years.”
I turned away at the smell of her rancid breath.
“What happened?” I asked.
She curled her lips upward, resembling a Rottweiler guarding a junkyard. I could tell the island had made this woman feral. There was an emptiness in her eyes—a lack of morality, of self-awareness, and of empathy. This island had taken from her what had once made her human, and I feared it would do the same to me.
“I’m still here, ain’t I?” she said.
I wasn’t entirely sure what she’d meant by this. Had she committed a second crime? Had she been reconvicted to serve a life sentence? I’d been given three years of isolation on Kormace Island as punishment for my crime, which was rather short in comparison to standard sentences imposed on criminals convicted of murder. My lawyer had fought for manslaughter, but he hadn’t won.
* * *
“Fuck sakes, Janet, how many times I gotta tell you to wash my clothes at the end of the week?” Gary said.
He’d found his work clothes sitting at the bottom of a hamper, only to realize it reeked of sweat and old water. Gary, my mother’s boyfriend, was always verbally abusing her. He was a big guy, weighing at least two hundred pounds, with large hands and a thick neck the size of one of my legs. My mother had always told me he’d had a hard life—that he had demons but that deep down, he only meant well. I didn’t believe her. I just wanted her to leave him
I watched as my mother hurriedly gathered his dirty socks and stained shirt, nearly falling over in the process.
“This too,” he said, throwing a pair of booze-stained boxers at her feet.
He walked right past me into the kitchen and opened the fridge door. He reached inside and pulled out a cheap brand of beer. Piece of shit, I thought.
“You know how Gary is,” my mom said, flicking her wrist as if to insinuate that his ways were no worse than that of a child throwing a tantrum. She sipped her red wine, then gazed out through the trees and toward a row of parked cars down below our balcony.
“Mom,” I said, “he’s too much.” But I knew she wouldn’t listen. She was too soft—too capable of looking past one’s worst qualities, only to see the good in them.
She went on and on about how most days, he treated her like a queen. I had a hard time believing this. If only I’d known how terrible things were about to become, I would have tried harder to convince her of the danger he posed.
By the time we went back inside, he’d gotten piss drunk, and he began accusing my mother of all sorts of nonsense. It was difficult to make out what he was saying. She tried to calm him, but it only angered him further.
Everything had happened so fast… He’d suddenly swung an open hand at the side of her face, and I remember thinking she hadn’t survived the blow. She fell to the carpet by the living room’s coffee table, and a thin line of red slid around the curves of her lips.
I hadn’t meant to kill him.
He’d been about to grab her again when I came at him with a cast iron frying pan. I’d only intended to knock him out long enough for the police to show. I raised the pan above my head with both hands, and with all my might, swung directly at the back of his head. I hit him so hard, he collapsed instantly.
* * *
“Archers, let’s go.”
I glanced up. It was Trim. She stood directly in front of me with three wooden bows in one hand and a fistful of arrows in the other. The carving work on the bows and arrows was meticulously done—smooth, with barely any unevenness. The bows were shaped like half-moons, and the wood was fresh white.
She led us away from the water and toward the trees, where handmade wooden targets stained in blood hung unevenly. I wasn’t ready for this.
“Is Eagle gonna be okay?” I asked, wanting nothing more than to be dismissed.
She glanced sideways at me, but she didn’t respond. I couldn’t help but wonder how long she’d been on the island. She was so cold—so emotionally impenetrable. I supposed this made her a strong leader.
By my fourth arrow—which flopped down into the sand—it became clear to me that Murk’s expectations were to have women trained into Battle Women overnight.
“Keep your elbow up,” Trim ordered.
Sunny caught on. Her form was good, as was her aim, but she lacked patience and obedience. She’d release the arrow before being ordered to do so, which only enraged Trim.
“Fuck you!”
I turned around to spot two women battling with wooden sticks across the shore of the Working Grounds. One was black and the other white. The black woman had managed to climb atop the other, and she was pressing a wooden spear against her victim’s throat. Her muscles were hard; her back was round. She’d lost control.
“Enough!” Fisher shouted, moving in closer.
The black woman didn’t listen. She pushed down harder, causing the other woman’s face to turn a deep shade of purple.
“I said enough!” Fisher grabbed the black woman by the back of her hair and pulled up hard, but the woman swung backward and punched Fisher in the face, rendering her dazed.
I hadn’t realized how tightly I was holding my bow until Trim pulled it out of my hands. She took one step forward, slid an arrow into the bow, and then raised it to eye level. Her movements had been so quick—so swift.
There was a scream.
Suddenly, the black woman was lying in the sand, crawling backward like a crab on her heels and elbows in an attempt to get away from Trim who was now marching her way. I noticed a trail of red sand grains underneath her as she moved.
