The Feral Sentence- Complete Box Set

by Shade Owens

  It may have lasted all of one second, but it felt like ten.

  All at once, arms and legs swung through the air like those of fifty-year-old rag dolls. Women screamed as they were scooped up into what appeared to be a giant mesh trap. One woman, having only been caught by the leg, hung upside down, her red hair reaching as far as her dangling arms, and her face entirely contorted with every fearful shout.

  “Shut up!” I hissed, and the dozen women on top of one another inside the trap went quiet.

  The women who hadn’t been caught hesitated, taking one step backward, but then stopping in fear of activating another trap. I whipped an arrow from my quiver, my gaze fixated not on the trap that hung twenty feet overhead, but at the greenery around us.

  And then I saw them.

  At first glance, there only appeared to be one, but as she moved in on us and as the leaves beside her began to separate, it was clear she wasn’t alone. Shadowed faces slowly stepped out from behind the jungle’s lush vegetation, red and white markings across their cheeks and eyes as dark as coal.

  The only clothing they wore were underwear-like leather around their groin area, while some wore long fur over their shoulders. Their chests were bare, revealing sagging breasts. Some of them had large wooden pikes hanging from oversized holes on their earlobes, while others wore long necklaces made of what appeared to be human teeth.

  “Agra amoolar!” one shouted, and the others jerked their spears in the air, their breasts swaying with their motions.

  If I’d had to guess, I would have pinned this one as their leader. Her black hair was long and scraggly, and it split down the middle of her head and hung on both shoulders. Across her high cheeks were big black markings that looked like oil had been splattered on her face. She was the palest of the group, reminding me of an ancient vampire who’d recently awoken from its tomb. She had muscle definition, though no more than any of us. It wasn’t her size I was frightened by; it was the look in her eyes. It was the emptiness—the void that made me wonder if she even had a soul.

  Her gaze fell on me and then on my bow.

  The string of my bow felt hot against my skin, and although all I wanted to do was fire a shot, it would be suicide. I didn’t know how many of them were hiding behind trees or how dangerous they were. All I knew was that they wanted blood.

  And although my women had stated they’d wanted to fight, the way they’d frozen told me they weren’t ready for battle.

  “Agra umaro!” the same one shouted, and this time, the others shouted the same thing, dark lips flapping over rotten teeth.

  My heart pounded so hard I could hear it in my left ear. This couldn’t be happening. Any moment now, cameras would descend from the sky, and music would fill the air. Some man’s obnoxious voice would carry through the jungle—something along the lines of, Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming to the show, and everything would end.

  Everyone would drop their weapons and shake hands, commending one another for their outstanding acting skills.

  Because this streak of bad luck couldn’t be real.

  We couldn’t have possibly escaped the Northers only to be caught by Ogres.

  EPISODE 11

  PROLOGUE

  “You are my sunshine, my lovely sunshine. You make me happy, ev-er-y-day,” my mom sang, the tip of her nose nearly touching mine. Obviously, she wasn’t the best at remembering lyrics, but she still sang them as if she’d been the one to write them, grinning from ear to ear with little wrinkles forming at the corners of her eyes.

  Behind her, the hallway light created a yellow glow. She always left the hallway light on for me even though she hated leaving lights on as it was a complete waste of electricity.

  “Money doesn’t grow on trees, Lydia,” she’d say, flicking a light switch off. I’d usually make some smartass remark like, “Well, Mrs. Appleton says paper is made from trees…”

  Mrs. Appleton was my fourth-grade teacher, and Mom didn’t seem too impressed when I quoted her. She’d give me the look, so I’d shut my mouth.

  She reached for Beakly, my favorite table lamp from my favorite TV show. It was a big yellow bird head, and it went dark the moment she tugged on the string hanging underneath its beak. She then brushed the back of her index finger along my cheek and whispered, “Good night, sweetheart.”

  Although she was smiling, I could tell she was hurting.

  She tried to hide it, but I could always tell when she didn’t feel well. I didn’t understand it at the time, but looking back, I realized it was because of all the work hours she was putting in to put food on our table.

  “Good night, Mom,” I said, and I closed my eyes as she walked away, picturing hundreds of dollars sitting on our dining room table.

  I did this every night. Maybe if I thought about it enough, I’d make it happen, like magic. And if I could make money appear somehow, I could take care of my mom as she took care of me.

  I went to bed that night, visualizing a life in which my mother wasn’t suffering. Instead, she was sitting by a huge inground pool in the middle of a sizzling summer day, sipping on a fancy, overly colorful cocktail.

  When she caught me staring, she turned her head sideways and glanced at me over her oversized sunglasses, and a smile stretched across her entire face.

  For the first in a long time, she looked happy.

  Wasn’t that what she deserved?

  Happiness.

  A life without suffering.

  The only problem with this world is, people don’t always get what they deserve.

  CHAPTER 1

  You are my sunshine, my lovely sunshine.

  My mom’s interpretation of that song played in my head as if being emitted from old wired speakers attached to a television, crackling every few seconds.

  Perhaps that’s all this was—a TV show, a reality program designed to amuse the most shameless and heartless of people as violent gladiator battles had once been a form of entertainment.

  But the sweat inside my palms reminded me that I was very much alive—I wasn’t playing a part, nor was I under the protection of television directors. My heart pounded against my rib cage, and I breathed in the jungle’s moist, earthy air. It smelled of earthworms, tree moss, and fungus.

  Although my legs should have been shaking, they weren’t. Could be I was getting used to controlling my adrenaline.

  You make me happy, ever-y-day.

  As I stared at their paint-smeared faces, one word came to mind: monsters. If I hadn’t known any better, I’d have assumed them to be native to Kormace Island. They didn’t look like prisoners or convicts. They looked like savages who had spent their entire lives on this island.

  And since when did Ogres stick together in such large groups? I’d always been under the impression that they were either lone wolves or tiny clans. But from what I could tell, there was at least a dozen of them pointing their sharp-tipped spears at us while chanting along with the leader. Saliva spat out from their mouths as they chanted, and the paint markings on their skin resembled a giant maze—red and green lines that ran in unusual directions, seemingly nowhere, and appeared connected from one Ogre to the next as their arms touched.

  Their spears, weapons constructed of finely carved wood and sharp bone, seemed to dance with their words. Every time they spoke out, their spears jabbed out at the same time, threatening us.

  They spoke words that weren’t English, but I couldn’t determine what it was. It was the strangest thing I’d ever heard, sounding like complete gibberish, but they appeared to understand each other.

  “Lupa arkama!” the leader shouted again, her ugly, soulless eyes rolling toward me.

  What the hell was she saying?

  You have to know dear, how much I love you.

  I inhaled a slow, deep breath as my mom’s song continued to play in my head. I eyed every Ogre in sight, wondering how they’d turned out to be this way. They stood with their backs hunched and their heads bowed forward, creating
shadows beneath their already sunken eyes. Their eyebrows sat close together on their dirt-stained foreheads, above eyes that rolled from side to side like those of an animal.

  And then, as the leader jabbed her spear into the air and shouted something else, I heard my mother’s voice one last time.

  You can’t take my sunlight away.

  In one quick motion, I raised my bow and fired a shot straight for the leader’s face. Everything happened in slow motion—eyes widened as the arrow flew toward her, but no one moved, or at least, didn’t have the time to move. The leader’s head shot backward as the arrow penetrated her left eye, blood gushing out and soaking the arrow’s stem. Her head faced forward one last time, almost as if she wanted to look her killer in the face, and she fell backward.

  Before her body hit the leaves on the ground, I plucked three more arrows from my quiver and began firing faster than I’d ever fired before. They whistled through the air, over the heads of my women, and landed on the necks, shoulders, and chests of the Ogres.

  Several of them fell to the ground, clasping at the arrows lodged in their bodies and grunting in pain. By the time they realized what was going on, four of them lay on the jungle floor, either dead or severely injured.

  “Lupa arkama!” shouted one of the Ogres standing on the far right.

  Their faces suddenly warped. I understood why Northers referred to them as demons. Their mouths stretched open so much so that they no longer looked human, and their eyes seemed to double in size.

  Before I had the time to reach for another arrow, they charged into the crowd with their spears pointed forward.

  And then, everything happened so fast.

  I managed to fire two more arrows into the throats of our enemies before the shouting began—it carried over the sound of wood clanking against wood, and colors blended together. As I stood there, my arrow drawn back, its tip swaying from side to side as I tried to find a target, I couldn’t make out who was who.

  Having never received combat training, I felt useless.

  What was I supposed to do? Charge mindlessly?

  A loud scream came blasting out of Coin’s lungs beside me, and with a shiv held over her head, she made a run for it, her dark skin disappearing into the group of women.

  I side-glanced Hammer and Arenas and Johnson.

  We couldn’t stand around while our women fought for their lives.

  Plucking an arrow from my quiver, I dropped my bow. If I couldn’t fire it from a distance, it would serve as a melee weapon.

  I let out a shout so loud I didn’t recognize myself. I was like an animal or a wild huntress raised on the island—but it felt good. In a sense, it was a release; all of my anger, my fear, and my hatred had been set free.

  My voice carried over everyone as I charged straight into the crowd, prepared to jab my arrowhead into someone’s throat. There was no hesitation, no thought process. I was in survival mode, and although I’d never killed in cold blood at close range before—I’d always convinced myself that shooting someone was less barbaric than stabbing them—I wasn’t afraid to do it.

  I wasn’t afraid to take the life of someone who, moments ago, was prepared to capture us and torture us until we wished for death.

  Bodies moved out of the way as I came charging full force toward what appeared to be the last Ogre standing. It was almost as if I’d been given the honor to finish this fight. Her lips curled over her disgusting, slime-covered teeth, and she stared into me looking like the soulless monster she was.

  Had she slaughtered some of our people? Had she been the one to hang women upside down and slit their throats open? This Ogre was no woman—she was a demon. She slouched forward and stabbed her spear toward me, but I wasn’t dumb. Of course she’d try that. I dodged sideways, grabbed her spear with both hands, and with my elbow, knocked her flat in the nose. There was a loud crack and she threw her head back, blood spewing over her lips and onto her neck.

  And then, I did something I’d never done before… something I knew would change me.

  Tightening my grip around my arrow, I stabbed the arrowhead straight into the side of her neck, up toward her jaw, and pushed as hard as I could. A growl slipped past her lips, but nothing more, and blood came squirting out onto my cheeks. I turned away but didn’t let go of my arrow until we fell to the ground together.

  The warmth of her blood was the first sensation I felt, followed by the pounding of my heart against her motionless body. She let out a long rotten breath that smelled like milk left in a container for a week, and her grip around my forearm loosened.

  I yanked the arrow from her neck and wiped the head’s stone tip in the dirt by my feet before slipping it back into my quiver.

  Everyone slowly stepped back, gazes fixated on the countless bodies around me. Most were Ogres, but a few were our own. I waited for the lamenting to begin—for grief to set in once the adrenaline had died down, but not a sound other than rapid breathing escaped the lungs around me.

  No one cried for the dead, which led me to believe no one knew them.

  Slowly I stood and with the back of my forearm wiped a thick line of blood from my face.

  “You aren’t prisoners anymore,” I said, shifting my gaze from one woman to another.

  My breaths came hard, and I could only imagine what I looked like: a complete savage with blood on her face, a wide-legged stance, and broad shoulders bouncing with every breath.

  It was clear their nerves were shot. Most, if not all of them, had no combat training. They’d reacted instinctively. Were they in shock, or frightened by me? Some trembled so much their legs shook, and their eyes were so large that they resembled owls.

  I didn’t miss that feeling, the shaking.

  “These Ogres, these demons,” I corrected, “would have slaughtered us like pigs.”

  No one said anything, though I knew they agreed with me.

  “Come on.” I broke the silence and wiggled a finger toward the trees overhead, where many of our women sat quietly in the large net that had captured them moments ago. Bare feet dangled, fingers clasped the rope, and dirty faces stuck out from open spaces. “Let’s get these women down.”

  CHAPTER 2

  “One more,” Coin shouted.

  The woman who’d climbed the tree—Jordan, I believe her name was—hung upside down from a thick branch, slicing one piece of mesh at a time. Branches snapped every time she did this, causing the net to abruptly fall a few inches, and the captured women screamed.

  The closer Jordan could get them to the ground before the entire thing snapped, the better.

  If I hadn’t seen her climb that tree, I’d probably have mistaken her for a monkey: long, lanky limbs, short hair, and smooth skin that looked black beneath the shadow of hundreds of leaves overhead. She moved about so effortlessly it seemed like she’d done this a thousand times before.

  She slipped the knife in between her teeth, and with two bony hands, tugged at the rope she’d cut. It made a small tearing noise, which caused its prisoners to release gentle gasps.

  But something ripped, and the small noises escaping their mouths evolved to screaming.

  “Careful!” Coin twirled around the trap from below like a shark in water.

  “I’m trying,” Jordan growled through teeth clenched around her knife.

  Dozens of women gathered underneath, prepared to catch those in the giant net. There was a final snap, and the ball of dangling limbs came crashing toward the ground. Grunts and screeches filled the sticky air around us, but the fall didn’t appear to have injured anyone.

  Those who were free joined together to pull the net apart, and one by one, the captured women came out stretching and rubbing their backs, shoulders, and necks.

  “Is everyone okay?” someone asked.

  Several eyes shifted toward the bodies lying on the ground and then to me. At first, I was afraid everyone would accuse me of causing our women’s deaths, but a soft whisper broke out from the bickering crowd.
“She saved us.”

  “Did you see that?”

  “They would’ve cut us into little pieces.”

  “She’s brave.”

  A sense of pride washed over me. I wasn’t proud for having killed so many women, but I was proud for having protected mine. I made my way toward the front of the line, where my circle met me, and I plucked my bow out of the dirt.

  “Hey, chica,” came Arenas’s voice. “That was some badass shit.”

  Although a part of me wanted to smile, the other part suddenly became conscious of the bloodstains on my hands, arms, and shirt. It felt hot and foreign against my skin.

  I saved them. I saved us all.

  I wasn’t even sure where the bravery had come from. Maybe it was my mom. Maybe thinking about her again had made me realize that I wasn’t ready to die, at least, not at the hands of Ogres. And if I did die, I wanted it to be in battle, not by being cut into pieces, limb by limb, while still alive.

  “Hey, you hear that?” Coin asked.

  I stopped walking. “Hear what?”

  I closed my eyes and listened. My mom used to do something like this when we drove into downtown’s core. If the radio was on, she’d turn it down, and I remember laughing and asking, “Does sound affect your ability to see?”

  She’d chuckle and brush me off every time.

  As I’d learned on Kormace Island, removing one sense always heightened another, if not all. That might explain why Coin’s hearing was so strong—her sight was horrible.

  I was about to say, “I don’t hear it,” when I opened my eyes. Her cracked lips began to stretch wide until they formed a huge, out-of-place grin on her face. It made me think of a kid who’d farted, waiting for the smell to enter their best friend’s nose.

  What did she have to smile about?

  But then, I heard it. At first, it sounded like a distant trickle, like water dripping from a leaky faucet. Then the sounds began to blend until the trickling transformed to a staticky flow.