by Shade Owens
There were hammocks lined up along the edges of the city—some hanging from trees, others from wooden posts—but it was evident by their uniqueness that these were all individually crafted, which meant they belonged to specific individuals or crews. I had the feeling that if we were going to create a living space for ourselves, we’d have to be willing to fight to keep it. Until we understood the social class system in this city, we weren’t building anything.
“We need to be back before sundown,” Sumi added.
The sky above us had turned a bright marmalade orange, although it was difficult to see with all the leaves and branches overhead. In a few hours, it would darken to a light indigo filled with bright stars resembling snowflakes in a winter storm.
The last thing we wanted was to traverse the jungle at night. We’d always avoided doing that, and it wasn’t about to change anytime soon, especially if Northers were positioned around the city’s perimeter. One little rustle in the darkness would attract arrows to our backs.
“Don’t make much sense to me,” Coin said, stepping over a diseased branch. “Why would the Northers keep a bunch o’ women as slaves, but let them walk outta the city? Ain’t much control there if you ask me.”
“If you think about it,” Hammer said, “it’s pretty”—she tripped over something and stumbled forward. Johnson let out a laugh, but Arenas helped straighten her back up. We were lucky that Tegan had stayed behind. She’d returned to the bamboo prison, sat by the gate, and refused to get up. “It’s pretty genius,” she continued. “It’s an illusion. A false sense of freedom.”
“What you talkin’ about, you?” Coin asked.
But it all made sense to me. Had they decided to chain us, or build walls around us, they’d have increased the risk of a rebellion. This way, they were able to make demands, while also brainwashing the women into believing they had a comfortable life so long as they stayed within the city’s perimeter.
“It’s perfect,” Hammer went on. “These women are abused and forced to live in certain conditions, but it’s all they know. Then they’re taught that they can explore a bit, but only a bit. Kinda like Stockholm Syndrome.”
“Stalk—what?” Coin asked.
“This is nothing like Stockholm Syndrome,” Johnson said.
“Kinda makes sense,” Arenas said. “They’re being abused.”
“You don’t know anythin’ about these women!” Coin said, her voice reaching a little farther than necessary. “You can’t say they’re happy here! No one said they even wanna be here!”
“No one said anything about being happy,” I cut in. “The Northers know how to maintain control of their people—plain and simple. They have a leash on these women, but they let it loose enough for them to feel a false sense of independence.”
“D’you see them cower away when Zsasz walked through the crowd?” Coin asked. “Ain’t no independence in that.”
“Either way,” I said, “the Northers aren’t stupid. Let’s try to remember that. They may be barbaric and uncivilized, but they know what they’re doing, which means we have to be careful.”
Something glistening in the distance caught my eye, and the cool scent of salt water filled my nostrils. The ocean?
Sumi stopped walking and turned toward us, her hood resting on her shoulders. “Murk told us that Rainer turned against her in the Village—that she convinced other women to join her in starting a new civilization.”
Everyone nodded. We all knew the story—it had been told countless times around the Village fire. It was the kind of story you’d find in the Bible, similar to Satan, once having been God’s right hand, turning against him and convincing others to follow.
“That’s not exactly how it happened,” Sumi said, and everyone stared at her with big eyes.
“A few months after being dropped on Kormace Island, Rainer got into a fight with Murk’s right hand, Baretta, and accidentally killed her. So, Murk banished her. Told her to get out. Apparently, Rainer begged her to stay and told her she was pregnant, but Murk didn’t believe her. A few dozen women, disgusted by Murk’s decision to banish a self-proclaimed pregnant woman, left with Rainer and together, they made their way up north in search of a place to call home. They’re the Originals—the few women who turned against Murk. They’re hateful and think Murk and anyone who stayed behind deserves to burn in hell.”
“So, is Zsasz an Original?” I asked.
“No,” Sumi said. “When the Originals made their way north, that’s when they found them… The Orphans.”
Johnson flung two hands in the air, her unkempt hair wiggling atop her head. “Spit it out already! Who are the Orphans?”
But Sumi didn’t answer. Instead, she took a step back, the melted half of her face looking silver beside the ocean’s reflection, and pulled aside a curtain of leaves.
What I saw next was the last thing I’d expect to ever see on this island.
It lay there in the sand, looking like an ancient artifact. Its wings had been taken off, and all that remained was the cockpit, half of its body, and leather seats that looked like they’d either been eaten away by the ocean’s salt or stripped down by the Northers for resources.
On the side of the plane, along what remained of the passenger windows, was red writing. It wasn’t in English, either, and although I couldn’t make out what it said, I knew it was Russian.
“There were twenty-seven of them,” Sumi said somberly. “At least, that’s what I’ve heard around the city. Twenty-seven Orphans. Now there’re twelve remaining. Russia decided to ignore the airspace restriction and dropped off a bunch of little girls.”
No one spoke. It was like staring at a crime scene. I couldn’t believe my eyes or my ears. But it all made sense now.
“Did it crash?” Hammer asked, the loose skin of her face jiggling.
Sumi shrugged. “After being shot down, yeah.”
I cringed. I didn’t want to imagine a bunch of little girls screaming for their lives as their plane came crashing down. They hadn’t asked for any of this.
“What’re you saying?” Johnson asked. “Those crazy bitches are Russian orphans? Zsasz and others like her were raised on this island?”
Sumi nodded. “Rainer’s the one who found them. I’m only telling you what I’ve heard from a few of the Peasants. And all I know is that those Orphans have been raised in combat and taught to think that Murk and all of her people deserve to burn in hell for what they did to Rainer.”
EPISODE 8
PROLOGUE
I looked up at her and wondered if she was real.
Maybe this was all a dream—a horrific nightmare that would eventually lead to me waking up in a pool of cold sweat. I’d get up confused, wondering if maybe I’d pissed myself, before realizing I was fine, that I was home safe in the comfort of my apartment and I’d left my bedroom window open on a cold autumn night. I’d probably bundled myself up too tight in my duvet, which always led to a night of tossing and turning.
I’d then sit up, frustrated for not only having soiled my clothing but also for having dampened my bedsheets.
But I didn’t wake up.
Crack.
I blinked hard, a tingling sensation spreading across my cheeks and along my jawline. It looked like she was enjoying it. She smiled down at me, her zebra-striped scars on her lips widening.
What a fucking monster.
This time, it was her boot that came down at me, and my entire head shook.
Although I didn’t know what was going on, I knew I was in pain but couldn’t feel it. I could taste it though—a warm, rusty fluid in my mouth—and I licked the blood over my teeth and spat out a glob.
“Don’t know your place yet?”
Smack.
I fell flat on my side, my eyes rolling back momentarily.
I reached out a hand, clawing at dried-up dirt and debris at the center of the city, but her boot suddenly came down hard, and I heard the crack before I felt the excruciating pain radiate
from my fingers and into my hand.
I let out a scream, but it was cut short when she stomped down on my head, nearly dislocating my jaw. Everything went blurry, and all I could see around me were women who looked like nothing more than empty shells, their heads bowed and shoulders slouched. They stood around the spectacle, their filthy faces barely visible beneath their cowardice.
How could they stand there watching?
“You all know how it works around here,” Zsasz shouted, and all I could see was the silhouette of her now shapeless boots walking away from me. “But it seems you need a reminder!”
“A reminder!” someone repeated in the background.
I knew that voice—it was Rebel, Zsasz’s dumbass sidekick.
She was probably reveling in this.
“Stick to the rules,” Zsasz continued, “and you’ll have a nice life here. It’s not complicated.”
“Got it?” I heard nearby, and the next thing I knew, Zsasz was crushing her weight down on my now broken fingers.
I let out another scream, but she didn’t budge. I clawed at her shin, begging for her to stop, but she stood there, pushing down even harder.
“This helping you remember?” she asked.
“P-please!” I shouted, tears streaming down my face and saliva splashing on my cheeks. “Stop! Just stop!”
“What’s the rule?” she asked.
“Please stop!”
I pulled on her pant leg, but it did nothing. She twisted her foot, the weight of her body shifting and my finger crunching, and I yelled louder than I’d ever yelled before.
“What’s the rule?” she repeated, her voice carrying out over the spectating women.
“N-n-n,” I tried. “Eye… Eye contact. N-n-no eye contact!”
She raised her boot off my hand, and I immediately clutched my wrist against my chest. I couldn’t see anything through my quickly swelling eye, but two of my fingers were out of place.
Zsasz’s blurry, fur-outlined figure circled me a few times as she spoke, but it was impossible to make out what she was saying. I was too out of it and in too much pain.
No eye contact.
No eye contact.
No eye contact.
A heavy blow suddenly knocked me square in the face and everything went black.
CHAPTER 1
“You shouldn’t have tried to stare her down,” said Alice Number Two, handing me a wet cloth.
What does she care? Why is she even talking to me? I pulled away. I didn’t want her sympathy. I didn’t need her help, either.
“You should at least clean the open wounds,” she said. “You don’t want that getting inf—”
“Would you fuck off?” I said, my eyes slowly rolling up toward her.
I was prepared to throw the ginger root I held straight at her face if she didn’t shut the hell up. I’d use my damn teeth to fight her if I had to.
She must have sensed my rage because she raised two open palms. “Just tryin’ to help.”
“Well, don’t.”
Everyone looked away and I was glad they did—I could barely look at any of them either. Not one person had tried to defend me. Not one.
“Can I see?” Arenas asked.
She sat beside me with both legs crossed in front of her. I glared at her. What did she want?
“Your hand,” she said, her long-lashed eyes shifting down to my hand, which I held close to my chest.
“Look, I’ve broken every one o’ mah fingers, muchacha,” she said.
What kind of life had she lived? I’d never taken the time to look at her because all I’d cared about was trying to get out of the Northern city.
She looked like she was in her early thirties. Despite the puffy bags underneath her eyes, she had no wrinkles or age spots. She was small—smaller than Franklin, but also much shorter—the kind of woman who was lucky enough to buy sneakers in the kids’ section for half the price of adult shoes. Her skin was a creamy warm brown color, which might have once been beautiful, but now it was damaged, covered with dozens of scars of lighter shades and tribal markings that looked like they’d been tattooed here on Kormace Island and maybe even infected.
Her coarse hair—a choppy mess that looked like she’d stuck her head in a blender—didn’t suit her small pointed nose and square jawline. She’d probably once had hair pulled back into a high ponytail running all the way down her back, the kind of slick-looking Latina you’d see in movies with hoop earrings, obsidian eyeliner, high-rise pants, and a leather jacket. The kind who wouldn’t back down from any fight, even if her opponent was three times her size, which was most likely always the case for her, given her small frame.
But all that remained now was a broken woman.
She wiggled her fingers as if to say Come on, and I reluctantly gave her my damaged hand. Two of my fingers now shifted to the side, and the skin around my joints was turning midnight blue—almost black.
Her fingers were cold to the touch despite the hot, humid air around us, and she wrapped them delicately around my wrist. I stared at her narrowing eyes, not quite certain why I was trusting her given my vulnerable state.
With her other hand, she brushed a soft finger along each one of mine.
“Feel that?”
I grimaced. Even the lightest touch felt like a nail scraping along my skin.
“At least you feel it, muchacha,” she said, squinting and smiling faintly with her pale lips. “You know, girl, sometimes—” she started, but she didn’t bother to finish her sentence. In one rapid movement, she clasped my wrist as hard as possible and with her other hand, snapped my fingers back into place.
I yelled out and stomped my feet into the dirt. I hadn’t even had the time to contemplate punching her in the face for what she’d done because I was in too much pain.
She let go of my wrist and patted my knee. “Sorry, girl. You wouldn’t have let me do it if I told you what I was about to do.”
Although I hated her at that moment, I knew she was right.
“Try not to use that hand for the next month or so,” she said. “Gotta let the bone heal in the right position, and it ain’t like we got any splints around here.”
“I-I could make one,” Hammer said, sounding like an abused teenager, her voice muffled and her head bowed low.
This place had already changed her. It had changed all of us. The Northers got exactly what they wanted—they broke us. And every time we accumulated even the slightest bit of courage or desire to rebel, they came crashing down on us to remind us of our places, as Zsasz had done to me this morning for having stared at her cold in the face.
She’d been doing her morning rounds, throwing water in people’s faces and kicking women down if they weren’t on their knees as she passed, and I stood there, watching her with such hatred, I envisioned laser beams shooting out of my eyes like Superman. If I’d had that power, I wouldn’t have hesitated to melt that ugly face right off.
The worst part is, right before she came strolling into the city with Rebel and her goons, I overheard a woman say that Carlson, whoever that was, had attempted to run that night. They called them Death Sprinters. Basically, anyone who tried to run away was suicidal and a masochist because once caught—and they were caught every time—they were beaten beyond recognition, stripped of their clothing, and hung upside down a few miles away from here for Ogres to find.
They didn’t need a gate or a prison wall to keep us inside. They had our fear and that was all they needed.
“Keep up the pace,” came Alice Number Two’s voice.
She stepped over Coin’s legs, which were stretched out in front of her, and everyone moved a little bit faster. If we weren’t washing vegetables, we were cleaning roots, curing meat, or pulling seeds out of fruit, and it was never-ending.
I understood now why Sumi had been so resentful about being the Village Cook. It was a shitty job, and if you didn’t do your job, you were letting down the entire society—everyone needed to eat. A few o
ther nearby Peasants nodded their dirt-stained heads and started peeling corn.
“You got guts,” I heard.
I turned sideways toward where the voice had emerged. A woman who sat several feet away from Hammer was holding an ear of corn in one hand and its peel in the other. She looked about my age with soft skin and pink lips. She stared at me, a strange look on her face—it wasn’t malicious or territorial in any way, but rather, intrigued.
“What you did,” she went on, her eyes darting from side to side. She leaned forward, her voice lowering even further. “No one’s ever had the balls to stare down one of ’em Orphans like that.”
Everyone around her nodded, and the air filled with whispered bickering.
For the first time since this morning, I didn’t care that my fingers were broken.
CHAPTER 2
I flinched when the elephant trumpeted and stomped its feet into the dirt. The woman atop it jabbed her spear into its side then slapped the back of its head.
Farther ahead, near the wooden gate that remained closed off to the general population, women scattered, and shouts fired back and forth.
Coin was the first to stand up, her meatless shoulders drawn back and her lip curled up over her golden tooth.
“What’s going on?” Johnson asked. She tossed aside a handful of things that looked like nuts, the names of which I probably wouldn’t even know how to pronounce.
“Don’t,” said Alice Number Two, her freckled face aimed toward what now appeared to be a fight unfolding.
I realized then that the women weren’t scattering at all—they were forming a circle: a fighting ring.
Hammer jumped to her feet, ignoring Alice Number Two’s command. I barely recognized her as she ran toward the scene. She’d lost all her extra weight, and what remained was loose skin and baggy clothing. Her hair, which had always been shaved down close to the skin, had grown out in curls.