Prophet of the Badlands (The Awakened Book 1)

by Matthew S. Cox

  When they released her, she ran to Den’s side.

  He patted her on the back, drawing her into a hug as he gave the man with the rope a possessive glare. “You’re safe now.”

  She looked at him, then up at Nalu. “We should go home… now.” After a glance at the bugs, she examined everyone in turn. “Are any hurt?”

  “None are harmed.” Nalu gestured to the south. “We will leave soon, but there is a place of interest there.” He pointed at a white door in the side of a smaller building.

  Althea tugged at Den’s arm, her voice a desperate whine. “No. We mustn’t wait. We have to leave now.”

  “Quiet, girl. If they stalk us, you will help them.” Nalu sent a mild glare at her, hand signals at the others directing them into formation.

  She clung to Den as they went to the end of this path of flat black stone. The men gathered at the side of an old structure with a grey-painted door. Nalu approached it with the second eldest, Palik, the keeper of the bag that held the sacred relics of opening. The boys, even Den, gasped in reverence as he removed a long metal object from the bag and held it up to the sky as a tribute. One end curved, the other straight, both ended in flat wedges. She took the opportunity of a stop to remove her sopping wet shirt and wring it out. Palik held the great opener to the skies, murmuring chants under his breath.

  Althea smirked, and leaned up to whisper in Den’s ear. “It’s just a pry bar. It’s not magic.”

  With an astonished glance, Den grasped her shoulders and pulled her away from the others. “It provides us with food, clothes, and weapons. It is the opener.”

  She stared out from under flat eyebrows, snapping the scrap of cloth through the air. “It’s just a lump of metal. There’s nothing―”

  The loud clatter of the door bursting open on its hinges startled her mute. The “magic opener” had done its job, and the men filed into the building. Palik kissed it, returning it to the bag. She wriggled into the somewhat drier chest cloth and fell in step with the others, behind Den. The interior held long shelves, strewn with the wreckage of broken pottery. Dead plants stuck out from clods of dirt. The air hung with a heavy, earthy smell, which intensified as the seekers moved large sacks piled against the far wall. The men seemed most interested in ones with seeds, and sifted through in search of anything they could plant and eat.

  Althea leaned against one of the shelves, folding her arms and watching them. Den hovered close, and she allowed him to distract her into a lighthearted conversation about what things would be like after the joining. He still had to convince Braga to allow it, as even the chief had superstitions about her. The Cha’dom was close to the Great Hut where meetings took place. Althea had heard them arguing over her; almost half the Elders thought she would bring doom upon them. There was also the matter of Yala, the mate Braga had chosen for Den. The girl was four years older than Althea, almost a woman already, and closer to his age. His defiance of the chief’s command was no small thing, and Yala’s father became quite upset at missing his chance to be connected to the family in power. Guilt and worry pulled her gaze to the floor.

  Den brushed her hair away from her face and slid his hand over her head. Staring into the soft blue glow, he whispered. “They are foolish to fear you. You are so kind and pretty.”

  She held his hand and leaned into him, closing her eyes. The sounds of the men dragging bags around became quiet, lost amid the presence of Den’s heartbeat. She felt love from him, but could not hide her confusion when he pressed his lips into hers. There they lingered for a moment before she felt his heartbeat surge and his hand tighten around hers.

  His face pulled away.

  She opened her eyes, searching for the breath to ask him why he did that. The question never came out. Two raiders stood in the doorway with rifles of wood and metal aimed at the group, rust-pocked bayonet tips glinting.

  “We takin’ the Prophet,” the one on the right grumbled.

  Nalu slid his spear off his back and lifted it in a ready pose. “You are two against many, and your spear is very small.”

  Althea found it odd how angry the raider got at being told he had a small spear.

  The other seekers followed suit, even little Jake, preparing for war.

  “No.” Althea leapt away from Den, into the middle of the room. “Those are guns, not spears. They’ll kill you all.”

  The man who followed her underground reeked of moldy water. He waved the weapon at her. “Git on, then. Do as you’re told an’ we won’t hurt yer lil’ friend.”

  She stared at Den, holding back the tears that struggled to fall. Here it was, happening again as it always did. Cornered in this room, she had nowhere to run, and death of others would follow disobedience. Althea took a step towards the raiders with her head down. Den grabbed her by the shoulder and pulled her behind him.

  “I challenge you.” He glared at the man on the left, drawing a knife from a thigh sheath with a practiced grip. “You win… you take her. I win… you leave.”

  The hunters clasped their hands over their ears as a rifle shot deafened them all. Den’s right thigh exploded in a wash of blood, knocking him flat to the ground away from Althea.

  “Okay.” The raider laughed, and aimed for Den’s head. “Looks like I win.”

  “Stop!” She dove on Den. “I will go with you. Please don’t kill him.”

  The Seekers backed against the wall; the only sign of Jake’s presence, a dropped spear. Den gasped in pain, clinging to Althea’s arm. Despite his wound, he kept a defiant scowl. She laid her hands on his thigh, one on either side of the jagged hole leaking blood at a deathly pace. Her crying eyes lit up the room with a flare as she channeled power into him, forcing his body to regenerate itself. The raiders grinned with toothless glee as they saw proof they had found the real Prophet.

  Den sat up, grimacing at the tenderness of his repaired leg and his pronounced hunger. He stared at her, his expression mirroring her fatigue and sadness. “What magic is this?”

  “It’s not magic.” She sniffled. “They have guns. They can kill everyone.”

  He squinted with suspicion at the raiders.

  “Please, don’t.” Althea put a hand on his chest, holding him down. “He gunned you in the leg. If it was your head, I couldn’t make the hurt go away.”

  Den removed his agate pendant and slid it over her head, kissing her once more on the lips.

  “I will find you.”

  Althea sobbed, clutching it, as she stood and backed over to the shaking, grinning men in the doorway. She stared with longing at Den as one wound rope about her wrists and tightened it, keeping her gaze on him until the tether dragged her out of the room.

  “If’n I see any of you, Prophet won’t be able ta fix yas.” The raider swept his rifle over the Seekers, who leaned away as it passed.

  They led her through the Lost Place, encouraging her forward with a not-too-gentle yank on the rope whenever she trudged too slow for their liking. The short one kept watch to the rear, emanating a bloodlust that sickened her. She pouted at the road, unable to bring herself to look up. It had been silly to expect her life would change simply because she liked a boy. She was the Prophet, and someone always wanted her. The premonition about Den came to pass, though she wondered if it had done so only because she had followed them.

  The raiders dragged her out of the city, to an open-framed buggy with two huge knobby wheels in back and two small tires up front. It had two seats, arranged one behind the other. One raider climbed into the forward seat, which was mounted low to the point he could barely see over the front. Rough fingers dug into her ribcage as the second raider lifted and dropped her into the rear seat. He threaded the rope through an eyebolt in the roll cage and raised her wrists above her head before tying the other end to the metal frame out of her reach. After tugging at the rope to check she couldn’t pull the knot loose, he moved around behind the vehicle and hopped onto a platform to ride standing. The clattering of a belt buckle rang o
ut a few seconds before his rifle banged the metal bar twice, a deliberate signal.

  Althea tugged at the bindings, wincing as they pinched. “Are you sure you want to take me? Someone stronger always comes. Every camp that stole me has been killed.”

  The driver twisted in his seat and glanced at her. Althea tried to look as pleading as possible. She peeked at his thoughts; his instant of hesitation got chased away by the anticipation of reward for bringing a prize like her back to his chief. He turned away, and the air filled with the fragrance of ethanol, smoke, and burning oil as he started the buggy without a word. She screamed as the one behind her fired his rifle again, feeling sick at a distant cry of pain in Nalu’s voice. The engine behind her blocked any view of what happened; she thrashed against the rope, kicking the back of the driver’s seat.

  “You said you wouldn’t hurt them! Please let me mend him.”

  “Told ‘em not ta follow. Breaks da promise,” yelled the driver.

  Althea collapsed, hanging by her wrists and crying.

  “Dammit, ‘ah just winged ‘im.” The voice grumbled from above, barely audible over the revving engine.

  The buggy surged forward out of a cloud of dust, and shot into the open terrain of the Badlands. Althea sagged in the seat, resting her cheek against her arm, hot vibrating metal beneath her feet. Unable to contain her feelings for Den, she sobbed as the buggy rocked and picked up speed. Her hair whipped about in the wind, and she tried to shield her eyes as best she could.

  The men shouted to each other over the noise, trying to find their bearings. Althea ran out of tears and sat in silence. Patches of abnormal woodland flashed by on both sides for hours, trees growing in the desert where trees did not belong. She had heard someone say the before-time people forced them to grow here, but no one knew why.

  Dragging itself across the sky, the sun ran for the cover of the western horizon as they drove the day into dusk. Half-awake, she swayed forward as the vehicle slowed. The jostle of uneven ground broke the monotony of the past dozen hours, and she lifted her head as they approached a large building in the center of a field of concrete squares. Thousands of fragments of broken panel windows along the upper story gleamed in harsh orange light as they caught the fading day. Pale grey corrugated metal walls wobbled in the gusty wind that rolled over the desert and sent swirls of sand against the structure. Other raiders dragged open a rolling gate made from two crushed trucks.

  The driver leaned back and grinned the yellow disaster of his mouth at her dust-caked face.

  “Welcome home.”

  he buggy slipped through the gate and circled, coming to a halt by a herd of similar vehicles. No two were identical; the lot cobbled together from whatever parts could be scavenged. Some had guns mounted on them, others looked large enough to carry eight or nine men at a time. The scars of combat covered them all, the vehicles decorated liberally with bullet holes, burns, and old dried blood. Their shadows crept long across the Earth as the sun bid goodbye.

  Althea’s arms fell into her lap as the raider loosened the cord from the frame. Hours of sitting with her wrists tied over her head had left them aching and her hands cold. She concentrated, letting the soreness flare up and fade without giving them the amusement of crying out. A tug at the rope nudged her along, and she clambered out of the seat and stepped upon the warm concrete tarmac.

  Raiders milled about; a handful hurried with specific tasks, while others roamed as if on patrol. Towers, masterpieces of scrap metal and hope, held armed men at each corner of the compound.

  The man pulled her past the vehicles and towards four rows of kennel cages built out of chain link fence and aluminum poles. Each space was only large enough for a man to stand inside of; they held about a dozen people unfortunate enough for this raider group to find them. The captives slouched low to the ground, some moaning, and some sleeping.

  Althea looked up at them, unable to understand what could drive people to treat each other this way. Her gait slowed as the slaves stared back at her, some calling out when they saw her eyes bright in the forced shadows of the receding day. Their begging caused her to fight against her lead to get close to them. Her quick yank pulled the tether from the raider’s grip and she ran to the cages, sticking her fingers through the fencing by an older man who had the beginnings of grey hair. Ripped scraps of his clothes danced in the wind, somewhere between green and drab brown. He clasped her bound hands through the barrier and offered an apologetic look.

  He glared at the raiders. “Woe to those who harm an agent of the Lord, his wrath shall fall upon them.”

  Althea jumped at the sudden outburst, gripping the fence to resist the demanding pull of the rope. “He’s sick, please, I must―”

  The raider snapped the cord like a whip, making her stumble towards him. “Later.”

  She cast a sorrowful stare at the old man as they led her away. The captive settled back against the wall of his cell. He nodded and smiled at her before coughing into his fist.

  The inside of the building was cool, the painted concrete floor icy. The cavernous place held hulking machines that dwarfed the largest structures in Den’s village. Althea tried to imagine people capable of creating such things as they passed on either side of her. At the far end of the room, a large imposing man sat upon a throne. The dusty leather chair had a strange three-tined star set in a circle on the pad behind his head. His armor was made of metal and leather in equal parts, painted in blood and rust. It squeaked as he moved to survey the approaching trio. The raiders stopped in front of him. One put a hand on her back and shoved her down.

  “Kneel for chief.”

  Althea shivered, hiding her face behind a curtain of hair as she clutched at the floor. Elation and anticipation surrounded the men who brought her here; they had just claimed a great trophy.

  The large man’s deep voice vibrated in her ribs. “What is this?” He did not sound happy. “Why do you bring this one here? It is too small for the harem… it is too small to work. Put it outside with the others.” He rubbed his chin. “Blonde white girl. Rare. She will be valuable.”

  Althea shivered at the implication.

  “Vakkar… this Prophet.” The man to her right bounced like a small boy pleasing his father. He grabbed a fistful of hair and wrenched her head back, forcing her to look up at the chief.

  “Ow.” She whimpered.

  “What?” Vakkar descended from his throne.

  The fingers released her as the raider retreated. She sat back on her heels and straightened up. A glove wrapped in sharp things lifted her chin and she stared at the man towering over her. An aura of disinterest became worry. She did not expect the wave of anger that emanated from him as soon as he saw the glow. Terrified, Althea curled into a ball, cowering away from his bellow.

  The man that had shoved her hit the ground nearby, screaming and bleeding from the nose. She crawled away from the scene of the beating, huddling against the throne platform, as the raider chief took issue with their rough treatment of her by repeated application of a metal gauntlet to the man’s head.

  “Bad fortune finds those who mistreat the Prophet!” Vakkar slipped a punch in between every other word.

  Once the man was immobile, the chief turned to face her. “Stand.”

  She complied, keeping her eyes aimed low. Many bandit chiefs reacted with violence to the insolence of a woman making eye contact, much less a young girl. He lifted her chin again and stared into her eyes, then examined her belongings.

  “Did they steal?” His hand moved to the tether, pulling her arms toward him.

  She maintained eye contact, unafraid. “No, sir.”

  The tight coils of rope sprang away from her wrists before she noticed the knife in his hand. She ran her fingers over the red skin where it had been, kneading the soreness away. Vakkar selected a length of chain connected to a giant machine adjacent to the throne, and wrapped it about her right ankle. Holding it with two fingers, he searched for a lock; a minute trac
e of hesitance in him gave her hope she might avoid a leash.

  “Please, no.” She pressed herself into his side like a scared daughter. “I promise I won’t run away.”

  He frowned. “I have heard the legends. This is not for running. It is in case one of these fools gets the bright idea o’ stealin’ you and runnin’ off ta start their own camp.”

  She whined. “Please, I’m scared of being tied.”

  A barely perceptible glimmer brightened the glow as she nudged his emotions toward pity and kindness. He dropped the chain and looked to the rear corner of the factory where heavy metal mesh bordered two security cages, once used to hold valuable materials. The closer one was empty while the other contained a number of women―the chief’s personal harem. He put a hand on Althea’s back and guided her over to the unoccupied cell.

  “This will be more comfortable.”

  About twelve cubic feet, the space defined by panels of dense metal gridding had a door built into the front. It was perhaps the biggest cage anyone ever put her in, as big as a village hut. Althea stared at the floor as he took a key from a column nearby and opened the door. She stepped through, cringing as the metal banged closed behind her. Vakkar put the key around his neck, tucked safely under his armor.

  Old boxes littered the cell, fallen from metal shelving bolted to the floor. Shredded sleeping bags covered a spot at the center of the room in preparation for an expanding harem, and their soft presence offered a welcome change from the cold concrete. A plastic bucket had been left to the right of the door, its purpose no secret to anyone with a sense of smell. She sat among the olive drab and red flannel, wondering how long it would be before she changed owners again.

  he sat with her face in her knees, toes buried in the soft warmth of shredded wool. Azure light shimmered down her legs and cast them an unnatural shade in the dark place in which she found herself trapped. Exhausted, parched, and starving, she shivered not from the cold, but from the battle of anger and sorrow skirmishing in her heart. Abduction was so much easier to cope with when you did not like the people you were stolen from.