by Shade Owens
I peered down at the woman, the murderer, who was still unconscious. She lay with her mouth wide open, almost lazily so, as if her jaw were too heavy for her lips to stay closed. It wasn’t only Jack who’d asked me about her—everyone was asking me what the woman’s punishment would be.
What was I supposed to do? Banish her? What if she followed us for revenge? It wasn’t like we had a village surrounded by a barrier or guards to keep her away from us. And even if she didn’t follow us, how long would it take before she died a violent or painful death?
I hated myself for feeling any form of empathy for this woman. She didn’t deserve it. As I kept toying back and forth between my survival instincts and morals, I realized something: in the Village, this woman would have been banished without question, and if I wanted any hope for our future, I had to follow the path of the only capable leader I’d ever known—Murk.
Had she witnessed this, she’d have banished the woman with the click of her fingers.
I pointed at Coin and then at the unconscious woman. “Tie her up and leave her behind.”
Coin didn’t make a face at me or attempt to argue. She pulled her shoulders back, almost as if proud to have been the one asked to help, then made her way toward the killer. I was happy to see that Coin’s body was back to being the way she’d always intended it to be—thick and well-defined. It was evident that her physique was her main source of confidence. Ever since she’d regained her muscles, her steps thundered with strength and she walked with purpose. Her chin, too, was elevated at all times.
Coin cut overhanging vines down and grabbed the woman’s wrists. As I watched her tie them tight around her arms, her ankles, and even her waist, I couldn’t help but wonder: was I making the right decision? Was I cruel for tying her up, rendering her helpless against enemies?
If I gave it too much thought, I’d back out of my decision. I needed to remain strong and consistent if I wanted these women to view me as someone fit to lead. How would I ever forgive myself if this woman followed us from a distance and killed someone else? It was one life to potentially save another, if not several.
Instead of focusing on my feelings, I told myself that I didn’t have any—that I couldn’t afford to have any—if I wanted to save my friends.
“Let’s move,” I said, and as I turned away, Arenas’s dark-skinned face almost crashed into mine.
“Hey, chica,” she said, her abnormally long eyelashes far apart. “You okay?”
What was that even supposed to mean? How was I supposed to be okay? I was indirectly murdering someone else. Another life, on my hands. Was it obvious that I felt like I wanted to shed my skin? That I wanted to vomit until only air came out? I was doing everything in my power to look composed—to look like the leader everyone wanted me to be—but inside, I felt like I was breaking apart into thousands of decomposing pieces.
I swatted the air beside my face when a huge, long-legged, winged bug tickled my cheek. Although I’d gotten used to critters on Kormace Island, I still didn’t like them.
Arenas stared at me.
“I’m fine,” I said coldly.
The truth was, I wanted everything to be over. But at the same time, I felt responsible for seeing this through to the end. If I didn’t keep moving, everything might fall apart. I worried the women would turn on each other or part ways, which would inevitably lead to their deaths.
They needed me, and deep down, I needed to serve a purpose.
“You did good,” came Johnson’s voice.
I looked at her in my peripheral but didn’t turn my head. Were these supposed to be words of encouragement? Was this supposed to erase the fact that I’d basically left a woman to die? Not only to die, but undoubtedly tortured by either some sharp-toothed carnivore or worse, Ogres.
“She’s a killer anyway,” Johnson continued.
I swung my head sideways to look at her. I was getting sick of the word killer, or murderer. “Aren’t we all?” I snapped.
She seemed taken aback. Her eyebrows came together, forming freckled lumps on her forehead. “Yeah, but—”
“We’re all here because we killed someone,” I said.
“You can’t look at it that way,” Hammer said. With the back of her forearm, she wiped a line of sweat from underneath her lip. “Everything’s circumstantial. Sure, we’re all murderers, but I’d be willing to bet that most of us have a story behind it. Betrayal, heartbreak, self-defense—you name it. To kill someone over a fucking bracelet? Letting her be a part of our society would be a mistake.”
“It was a bracelet?” Arenas asked, now walking backward at the front of the crowd to look at us.
Coin suddenly appeared beside Hammer with a look of utter disgust on her face. “Crazy bitch.” She wiggled what appeared to be a bracelet made of string and rock. The string had turned a deep pink, and some of the rocks still had dark blood splattered on them. “Had it clutched in her bloody hand.”
“Wonder if it belonged to someone they knew,” Hammer said.
“That don’t excuse it,” Coin grumbled.
“Either way,” Johnson cut in, “I agree with Hammer. You did what you had to do to protect the rest of us.”
I nodded, even though all I wanted to say was, Shut up.
What was wrong with me? Why was I so bitter? Was it resentment? Was I resentful that I’d been put in this role? Forced into an impossible leadership position when all I wanted was freedom? Or, was I angry with myself? Maybe I didn’t want to be consoled because deep down, I knew I’d killed someone else.
Deep down, I wasn’t Lydia anymore—the girl who’d accidentally killed her mom’s abusive boyfriend. I was Brone, an island woman who’d violently taken several lives.
And this time, it hadn’t been a Norther’s life. All this time, I’d told myself that those I’d killed had been monsters—soulless women who deserved to be removed from this planet.
But then again, this woman was no different from a Norther. She’d killed someone in cold blood over a goddamn bracelet.
Maybe she deserved to die like the Northers.
I clenched my teeth, disgusted with myself for having such thoughts, and quickened my pace. “We need to hurry.”
I hadn’t counted them all—the women who argued they wanted to fight by my side—but if I had to guess, I would have estimated approximately twenty to thirty women. They all held weapons of sorts—rocks, sticks, and shivs—and they all looked the same to me: barbaric clones with dirt-covered faces, thick-browed scowls, and postures so poor they resembled cavewomen.
I caught sight of Quinn in the distance, over the heads of all the women. She waved a tattooed arm and gave me a firm nod, almost as if to say, It’ll be okay.
Would it be? After this was over—after I’d ensured that my people were safe at the Cove—the plan was to find Quinn and the rest of the survivors. She’d given me one of her women, Aisha, and said that so long as her friend remained alive, she’d be able to lead us back to Quinn—back to her old society of women hidden near the southeast shore.
I had no idea how Quinn planned on integrating over a hundred women into her old society, but if anyone could do it, she could.
My shoulders jerked forward when Jack, the greasy, short-haired woman with rotten teeth, jabbed a stick into the air and shouted, “Death to the Beasts! Death to the Beasts!”
Several women started joining in, fists pumping in the air and looks of fearlessness on their faces.
“Guys!” I hissed, and they all went quiet.
Jack’s head sank into her shoulders like a turtle caught in a crowd. Poor woman. It looked like all she’d wanted to do was get her fellow warriors pumped up for the big fight, but now wasn’t the time, and shouting “Death to the Beasts” when the Beasts were hunting us wasn’t exactly a brilliant idea either.
It was obvious she’d never fought or hunted before.
“We have to be quiet,” I said. “Let’s focus on stealth right now, and when the time’s right,
you’ll have your chance to rip those Beasts apart.”
This seemed to satisfy their hunger for blood. The crowd broke out into rapid nods, and Jack waved at everyone, urging them to move faster.
“You got it, boss,” Jack said, a glob of slime dripping down her chin.
She reminded me of an overly eager office assistant. It was as if she wanted to enforce everything I said, almost to the point of taking charge herself. I wondered how long she’d been here, on Kormace Island. More specifically, how long she’d been held prisoner by the Northers.
Then, from within the crowd of women came Tegan, her frail figure swaying from side to side. She stealthily slipped past shoulders, arms, and chests. The woman was so skinny she’d have probably been able to hide behind the narrow trunk of a palm tree.
“Tegan!” I said, surprised to find her here.
I was certain she’d stayed behind with Quinn and Sumi. Why would she want to join the fight? She wasn’t fit for battle.
“I-I want to help,” she said, her stutter far less prominent than it had been the last few times she’d spoken.
“Help?” I said.
I hadn’t meant to sound unappreciative, but the truth was, I wasn’t sure how Tegan would be of any assistance in her condition.
“Heal,” she said. She scratched at her throat—so much so that her skin turned pink. It was as if she was trying to drown out her horrid memories with physical pain. “I can help, Brone,” she said.
For the first time since the Village, I felt like I was looking at Tegan—like I was standing before our potions expert in admiration. Tegan had a lot of knowledge, but ever since finding her in the city, I figured she’d been broken beyond repair.
She looked away and stared at her feet, her ratty hair falling over her face.
“All right, Tegan,” I said. “You can be our Medic.”
Her head jolted up and her bangs fell away from her sunken face. She looked like a friendly dinosaur from a kid’s television program: big joints, awkwardly shaped, and with an oversized grin. It was obvious that being given a title, a purpose, meant the world to her.
I knew no one could take Navi’s place as Medic, but Tegan was the next best thing. If anyone could fill her shoes, it was Tegan.
We continued through dense forestry, swatting giant leaves and hanging vines from our path as we moved. That was one thing I missed most from the real world: paved asphalt. I missed the feeling of thick, memory foam sneakers against solid ground.
The thought made me want to look down at my feet, but I resisted the urge. I knew how bad they looked. The last time I’d taken a moment to inspect them, my thick yellow toenails had grown three times their usual length, and curly black hairs sat on my big toes. The pads of my feet had become entirely calloused, which in a sense served its purpose because I didn’t feel anything when I walked.
Everyone around me was barefoot, and although I cringed at the very thought of it, there was nothing I could do. We weren’t in a position to start building wooden slabs or leaf boots. We had to keep moving, and if that meant putting our lives at risk, so be it. The idea of being bitten by a highly venomous snake was less disturbing than the thought of being slaughtered by a Norther.
I slid to my right when I suddenly stepped in something slimy.
Two solid arms caught me midfall, and in my peripheral, I caught sight of Coin’s golden tooth.
“Yo, what the f—” she said, and as soon as I landed back on my feet, the smell hit me.
I jumped backward, away from the carcass at my feet, and pressed my forearm up against my nostrils. The women behind me started flocking like seagulls at a beach party, their necks craned and their heads moving this way and that.
“What’s going on?”
“What is it?”
The reason I hadn’t seen her body was that it lay in a bed of rotten leaves, her dark skin blending effortlessly with the combination of brown, black, and red around her. The skin of her chest was missing entirely, revealing torn pectoral muscles, and I could see her broken bones protruding from her arms.
What the fuck was this?
I slowly glanced up and wished I hadn’t. It was almost as if I’d stepped into a time machine and found myself standing in front of Sunny’s lifeless, upside-down body. The only reason I’d recognized her that day was because of her dandelion eyes—her face had been swollen like a balloon, so much so it became unrecognizable.
“Brone,” came Rocket’s voice.
Rocket.
Was she here?
“Brone,” the voice repeated, but this time, it was Hammer’s voice.
Was I losing my mind?
I squeezed my eyes shut and opened them again, bringing into focus the dozens of mutilated carcasses hanging overhead hidden amid thousands of vivid green leaves. Limbs were amputated and throats slit wide open, so much so that some vocal chords could be seen.
On the ground, throughout the bloody leaves, was a white powder that formed some sort of symbolic design. I couldn’t make out what it was, but I’d seen symbols like this before.
“Brone,” Hammer hissed again.
A woman behind me whimpered, and the sound of skin being slapped echoed up into the trees.
“Shut up,” someone else hissed.
“Dear God…”
“Oh my God… What the fuck is this?”
I knew exactly what this was.
I slowly drew an arrow from my quiver, my glare fixated on the dense greenery around us.
CHAPTER 8
“An Ogre?”
“The fuck is an Ogre?”
“Keep your voice down!”
I swung my body around so fast that the arrows in my quiver shifted to one side, and everyone went quiet.
Had they never been told the stories of Ogres? It didn’t make sense to me, seeing as Death Sprinters—women who attempted to flee the city—were beaten and strung up alive for Ogres to find.
“Oh God have mercy,” one woman started, and for a moment, I thought it was Georgia, only, this woman didn’t have a Southern accent. When I finally caught sight of her, I realized she looked nothing like Georgia. Her skin was as black as fresh earth, and curly white hairs topped her head. From a distance, she looked frail, which made me wonder why she’d followed us to fight, but upon closer observation, it was obvious she had some muscle on her. She quickly drew crosses over her forehead and lips with the back of her thumb, then stared at the sky and pressed a clenched fist over her chest. “Remove these demons,” she went on.
One Latina-looking woman beside her rolled her eyes. “Jesus ain’t gonna save you here, sister.”
The religious one, obviously ignoring the nonbeliever’s opinion, bowed her head and started searching the ground. Had she dropped something of value? This wasn’t the time to hunt for a lost item.
We needed to get the hell out of here.
The only problem was, I couldn’t move.
Why couldn’t I move?
The black-skinned woman suddenly bent over, dug up a sharp-edged rocked from beside her big toe, and pulled it up. “In the name of the Lord, I fight.”
“Deemas,” everyone else started muttering.
It sounded like demons, but with a thick accent. What the hell were they saying?
Another woman made the cross symbol over her chest and kissed something that was held tightly between her thumb and index finger.
Jack must have sensed my irritation because her big, crusty eyes rolled my way and she took a gentle step forward. “All they sayin’ is Demon, but in Russian. Ya know, ’cause of da Beasts bein’ Russian and all. Told us there’re demons out here. Now, I ain’t religious mahself, so I don’t believe all that bullshit. But these women do. Don’t know what kinda monster could do somethin’ like this. I can see why they’re called demons. Man, if—”
“Okay,” I hissed, and she stopped talking.
I jerked my head sideways, signaling everyone to follow me.
Dry vegetation c
racked under our feet as we moved beneath the bodies, and every time we walked underneath a carcass, I cringed. The death appeared to be fairly recent—a few days, maybe. I’d seen enough dead bodies to know that it took, on average, three to five days before the bloating started. These bodies weren’t bloated at all. The foul smell, however, was noticeable, which meant their organs had started decaying. The smell wasn’t as bad as some bodies I’d smelled—those that I’d found without teeth and nails, which meant they’d been sitting for over a week. But it was enough to make my stomach churn; it was a smell I’d never gotten used to, nor would I ever.
I glanced at Johnson, Arenas, Hammer, and Coin, and made the international signal for keep your eyes open—two fingers pointed at my eyes and then directed into the thickness of the jungle.
Although I’d never wish this sight on anyone, part of me wished that Franklin were still around to see it. She’d been the most skeptical of the gang, constantly belittling anyone who spoke of the Ogres. I wondered if she’d encountered some along her path with Zsasz.
Hopefully.
Maybe Ogres had attacked Zsasz and her crew and resolved this entire problem for me. Maybe they’d killed Franklin, and now Zsasz had no way of reaching the Cove.
Or, maybe I wouldn’t even reach the Cove myself, so I’d never know.
I swallowed hard and took another step forward when the sound of something snapping echoed from above. A dozen women screamed and scurried sporadically in a panic.
“What happened?” I asked, but the swaying carcass overhead immediately grabbed my attention. Its face was soaked in blood, masking its features entirely, and its legs had been messily hacked off, leaving only half a naked body hung by the neck. It hovered several feet lower than the other bodies, presumably because the rope had come loose, which I assumed had also been the cause of the loud snap.
I looked away; the sight made me sick to my stomach.
“Keep moving,” I growled.
We rushed through the sacrificial opening, hands and forearms covering our mouths. There was no worse feeling than wanting to run but knowing it might draw unnecessary attention. It reminded me of those awful nightmares—the ones in which you’re being chased, but you can’t run. The harder you try, the slower you become as your killer moves closer. It’s as if you stand jogging in one spot, or as if your limbs suddenly weigh a thousand pounds.