The Feral Sentence- Complete Box Set

by Shade Owens

  “She knew we were married!” Pam snapped, prepared to throw another fistful of dirt.

  This time, Fran shielded herself with her arm, and Pam dropped the dirt before launching it.

  “Did they send anyone else from that prison?” I asked.

  Fran, with a rounded back and an arm still shielding her face, nodded at me. “Dozens of us were dropped off. I overhead the guards talkin’ about a nationwide cleanse. Something to do with reducing costs.”

  Pam scoffed and threw her head back against the dirt wall. “Yeah, cutting costs all right. They’re clearing out all us old timers. Anyone with a long sentence who’s been sucking up taxpayer dollars. Smith turned seventy-four last month and they dropped her off along with us. Poor old bat didn’t even make it to shore.”

  Shit.

  It was getting worse.

  How was this happening? Why weren’t American citizens stepping up and fighting this? Or, maybe they were, only to be beaten down. I’d seen the riots in the United States—ever since President Seth had taken over, they’d become bloodbaths.

  Every time a riot broke out, my school went on lockdown; there was no telling what kind of damage would occur.

  * * *

  “Public safety,” said the clean-shaven news anchor. His hair was so slick I could almost smell the minty gel as I sat in front of my television. “This isn’t about privacy, it’s about nationwide safety, according to President Seth. This all seems a bit extreme, but then again, I’m not certain I should even be commenting given the government’s new bill on hate speech. Can you tell us what’s going on, Larson?”

  The screen flipped over to a heavily armed man standing in front of the camera. Behind him, an explosion went off, sending a loose car tire flying across the city street. Larson flinched, almost dropping his microphone, but refastened his protective helmet and moved toward the camera. “Eighty-four casualties have been confirmed in what is being described as the deadliest riot in American history. The civil unrest started yesterday evening when Adam McClane was arrested in his own home after vocalizing fantasies about killing the president.” He regripped his microphone and stared into the camera, almost as if seeing the news anchor at the other end. “Americans are furious, Stephen. They’re calling this a complete breach of privacy and stating that their rights have been violated.”

  Stephen appeared on screen again, one neatly combed eyebrow high on his forehead. “But the government is stating that citizens knew this was coming—every electronic product we purchase comes with fine print suggesting that conversations can be recorded at any time without permission.”

  “That’s true,” Larson said, “but this is getting out of control.”

  All of a sudden, gunfire blasted through the streets, shattering car windows and puncturing the cement walls of government buildings. Larson scurried away from the camera, and the reporters followed him, the screen bouncing up and down. He bent forward, trying to catch his breath over the microphone—the sound coming across as static. Then, he stood up and slid his fingers under his helmet and over his ear. “I have a new report coming in, Stephen. There have been one hundred and twelve casualties confirmed, and many more are expected. Police have now arrested over five thousand rioters, the most arrests America has ever seen in a riot. We need to relocate, but I’ll touch base as soon as we have more information. Back to you, Stephen.”

  * * *

  Was this it? Were we going to be stuck here forever? Ellie had encouraged me to keep hoping that America would come to its senses—that the people would stand up against President Seth, and that a rescue team would come looking for us.

  But that wasn’t going to happen. At least, not anytime soon.

  CHAPTER 13

  “That’s gonna leave a scar,” Sammy said as if I didn’t already know that.

  It wasn’t even worth responding to her. Maybe she was trying to be helpful, maybe she was unnecessarily cruel. Either way, I didn’t care.

  I didn’t care about anything.

  As the days went on, BluJay kept inspecting the cut on my face. Every time it rained, she’d pluck wet leaves through the cracks of the prison bars and use them as wet napkins over the wound. One woman in particular kept approaching our prison while looking over her shoulder. She’d been the one to bring me a leaf of aloe vera, which BluJay had used to apply its gel over my wound.

  It was a long shot, but BluJay, although silent, looked confident. With hard features, she’d applied it using the leaf to avoid directly touching the wound. It was clear she knew what she was doing. When I said “Thank you,” she tapped her chin and moved her hand away from her face while mouthing the words, Thank you, to teach me.

  So I learned one word in sign language, and every time she helped me, I used it. She’d then sign, You’re welcome, which I learned, too.

  How long had I been sitting in this same spot? My tailbone was hurting more than my face, and my bladder felt like it was going to explode. I hadn’t urinated since yesterday due to dehydration, nor did I want to now. We’d made a rule that when someone had to go, everyone looked the other way.

  It was the last bit of dignity we could give each other.

  Goose bumps spread across my skin as the evening sky rolled in, bringing along with it cool, damp air. I’d worn the same clothes for eight sunsets now and my skin felt as dirty as our toilet corner.

  I’d survived this before—I could do it again.

  But what if I didn’t want to? I was too tired. At least last time, I’d held onto the hope of escaping this place. But as I peered out into the city, I knew it would be impossible this time. By shackling women at the ankles, The Northers had taken every precaution to avoid having history repeat itself.

  I’d come to realize that every evening, after the women had slaved away under the searing sun all day, a dozen Northers came by with their swords and spears, fastening a thick rope around the women’s ankle shackles one by one. They were then led to the sleeping area, where they all slept side by side on wooden platforms.

  How many women were there? Fifty, sixty? There had been several hundred before I encouraged them all to run. What had I done? The women who hadn’t had the courage to run—the ones who’d remained most loyal to the Northers—were now being treated like cattle.

  Bringing my knees up against my chest, I sighed and dropped my chin.

  Maybe if I didn’t eat for the next few days, I’d starve.

  Starvation was better than a life of torturous slavery. I was so tired… so depleted, that all I wanted was death; I wanted to end this misery. I searched the ceiling, wondering if I might find a root hanging from one of the bamboo bars.

  Would the women in here try to stop me if I hung myself?

  Why was I even having suicidal thoughts? I’d never been suicidal before—at least not to this extent. But I had nothing left.

  Nothing at all.

  I wasn’t going back home, ever.

  And I was never getting out of this city.

  I’d finally reached the end.

  As I contemplated ways to kill myself, my eyelids became heavy and my head rocked forward until I fell asleep.

  * * *

  “Out of my way!” came Zsasz’s venomous voice.

  I cracked my eyes open, realizing I was still alive.

  Oh God.

  I was still here.

  This was real… All of it. I swallowed hard, my throat sticking. BluJay paced back and forth, and I wanted to tell her to sit down—tell her that she didn’t want to be the only woman standing if Zsasz came around—but I couldn’t find the strength.

  Even the idea of raising an arm to signal her felt impossible.

  Was Zsasz coming here? I hadn’t seen her since she’d captured us. She’d sent Rebel to our cage a few times to feed us, and all we’d received were bits and pieces of slimy, poorly cooked salmon.

  And what about Hawkins? Where was she? She’d either succeeded in manipulating Rainer, or she’d been killed. She sure
as hell hadn’t killed Rainer; otherwise, we’d have heard about it by now.

  As footsteps stomped through the city, I closed my eyes, waiting to feel the vibrations move closer.

  Slowly, the dirt around my fingertips trembled, and Zsasz’s voice moved nearer.

  “Let’s make this quick,” she ordered. “Your mom said one each. No more, no less.”

  Mom? Whose mother was she talking about?

  Oh my God… Were there children here? Children younger than Elektra? Fueled by a surge of curiosity, I pulled my head away from the wall and stared out through the prison bars.

  Suddenly, Zsasz came into view, but she wasn’t the one I was looking at. On either side of her were two men twice her size with large bare chests and skin as golden brown as Rainer’s. They walked with their broad shoulders pulled back, their muscular arms swinging back and forth, and their dark eyes staring toward our cage beneath thick, black eyebrows.

  A burst of adrenaline coursed through me and I swallowed hard.

  How was this even possible? They looked exactly like Rainer—younger male replicas. Were they her sons?

  And then it hit me.

  Rainer had been pregnant when Murk cast her out of the Village.

  “This is the litter,” Zsasz said, moving toward our cage. She unlatched the lock, bent down, and lifted the gate wide open.

  The two men searched the cage, their animallike eyes falling on me for a brief second.

  Zsasz’s gaze shifted between all of us until slowly, a nauseating smile crept on her face. She parted her dry, mangled lips and casually pointed a finger inside our prison. “That one. She looks fertile.”

  EPISODE FIFTEEN

  PROLOGUE

  My belly hung over my thighs as if I’d swallowed a basketball.

  Delicately, I brushed my fingertips across my skin and around my belly button. Around me, dozens of Northers stood tall with spears held in their hands, prepared to ward off any threat that might risk my child’s life. How long ago had the Northers captured me for a second time around? A year?

  I was losing track of everything.

  Some days, I even forgot my own name—I’d grown so accustomed to being referred to as Brone that the name Lydia felt foreign to me.

  At times like these, my mother’s voice popped inside my head: “Lydia, my Little Lilac…”

  I tilted my head back with eyes closed, and at the same time, a shadow cooled my face.

  “For the baby,” Zsasz said, forcing a smile.

  She handed me a skull bowl chipped on one side and filled with a green liquid. It was grainy-looking with bits of dry leaves, or herbs, sprinkled across the white froth in the middle.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “For the baby,” Zsasz repeated.

  Holding my breath, I took a sip; to my surprise, it didn’t make me want to puke my brains out. Instead, it tasted like chocolate milk.

  How was that even possible?

  “For the baby,” came her voice again as if set on a repeat cycle.

  I arched an eyebrow and chugged the rest of the chocolate-flavored goo. “Yeah, I get it. For the baby.”

  At once, Zsasz dropped into a crouching position with her favorite bone knife, its serrated tip pressed firmly into the groove of my throat. Her face was so close to mine she looked inhuman with her bloodshot eyes and overly scarred nostrils.

  Her breath, a rancid mixture of rot and sweetness, warmed the side of my face before slipping into my mouth. “If that baby dies,” she said, “you die.”

  CHAPTER 1

  I woke up with a jolt, my sweat-soaked shirt sticking to my back. Instinctively, I slapped a hand over my belly, feeling nothing more than a flat surface with bony ribs on either side.

  “Thank God,” I breathed.

  “Shut up,” someone hissed, their face invisible within the darkness.

  What had happened? Where was I?

  BluJay, I now remembered.

  Oh God… They’d taken her. Why? Because she was prettier than everyone else in this cage? Is that what they did? Pick the woman they thought would procreate beautiful babies?

  And what did they do? Take turns with her? Zsasz had told Rainer’s sons to each to take a woman, yet they’d only taken BluJay.

  I swallowed hard, sick to my stomach. I couldn’t even imagine what BluJay was going through… The worst part was that she couldn’t speak; she couldn’t vocalize her thoughts or express pain through words.

  It all made sense now. Tegan. That was precisely why she’d turned out the way she did. She’d stopped talking, and in a sense, had lost her mind. Oh, poor Tegan. How much torture had she endured? How much abuse?

  The idea of rape infuriated me more than Zsasz’s violence.

  As I sat shivering in the darkness, I thought of only one thing—freeing BluJay and any other women forced into reproducing children. But how could I? They were being kept behind that massive wooden gate. For all I knew, they were housed within the mountain under Rainer’s protection.

  Why hadn’t we heard from Hawkins? Had she failed in her attempt to kill Rainer? That was her plan, wasn’t it? Then again, Hawkins was a liar—stating she wanted to kill Rainer didn’t necessarily mean it was true. Maybe she had bigger plans in mind.

  But she’d brought me here as an escape plan. Why? She’d been so sure that my women would come fighting for me, which in turn guaranteed her freedom. What game was she playing at?

  By the time the sun came up, my shirt was still damp, and the smell of old water and fast-spreading bacteria spread through the cage, making me wish I’d lost my sense of smell when Franklin punched me in the face.

  Sammy, the one with the brow piercing and the meaner-looking of the two remaining skinheads, groaned as she stretched her flabby arms and sat upright. Within a few weeks, she had shed some extra pounds, losing that huge bulldog look that amplified what she was no doubt trying to achieve—meanness. The dozens of blue frog and flower tattoos that covered her arms were already stretched out on her sagging skin, making her look several years older.

  “They could come back for any one of us,” she said, casting her eyes toward the ground.

  I glared up at her. “They took BluJay.”

  It wasn’t Sammy’s fault this had happened, but I needed someone to blame. And with the way she’d looked at me in the past—full of contempt and hatred—it was easy to direct my anger at her.

  Her eyes narrowed into slits. “You think I don’t know that? I was here.”

  Obviously, BluJay meant more to her than I’d initially thought.

  Rubbing her shaved head that now looked sprinkled with pepper, she sighed. “Man… We shouldn’t have followed Hawkins… We shoulda switched to Brone’s side.”

  I was a bit taken aback by this. Sammy reminded me of Collins—a complete bitch who only cared about herself and who foolishly followed Hawkins no matter how dangerous it was.

  But as she stared at the dirt over her slanting eyebrows, it was obvious that she regretted ever obeying Hawkins.

  “Watch it,” came a familiar voice.

  Hugging my knees closer to my chest, I glanced out through the prison bars. Across the morning dew came a figure marching straight toward us, a limp in her walk.

  “Time to start working,” she said, her voice monotone.

  I craned my neck to catch a glimpse of her face, but at the same time, she turned sideways and unlocked the gate’s latch. It was only when she lifted the bars up above the cage that I saw her.

  Alice Number Two.

  Her cheeks, once covered in bright little freckles, now looked like filth on her face. It was as if the freckles had either merged together or she hadn’t cleaned her face in months. As the morning sun shone down across the city, her hair didn’t light up a fiery orange the way it used to—it was dull, matted, and it hung over her eyes like sixty-year-old drapes.

  In her right hand, she held a tall, crooked staff and leaned the weight of her body against it. It wasn’t h
ard to understand why she required the support; her right leg was mangled, as was her right arm and part of her face. Even her clothes were mauled—or at least, what remained of them. The beige suede was torn at her sides, at her shoulder, and so badly around her hip that part of her butt cheek was showing. The suede itself had darkened to a rusty brown, obviously the result of blood loss. What had happened? Something had no doubt attacked her. By the looks of the deep scratch marks and the large puncture wounds, I could only assume it was a wildcat. But when had this happened?

  It was highly unlikely that a wildcat had entered the city.

  As her tired, sunken eyes rolled our way, I couldn’t help but wonder: had she tried to escape with us the evening we made it out? Had she tried, and… failed? Suddenly, I remembered the rumbly growl of a wildcat and how it had attacked one of the Northers guarding the city’s perimeter.

  Could it have also caught Alice Number Two?

  “Come on, get up,” she said, a finger lazily tickling the air in front of her.

  When we were held captive in the past, Alice Number Two had done everything in her power to make sure we understood that we were nothing more than slaves. But the way she acted now reminded me of a call center operator working a night shift after twenty-five years of service.

  She had zero interest in being here, but she’d been forced to continue her part.

  “I said get up,” she repeated, her voice barely rising.

  Clearing my throat, I grabbed the wall behind me for support and rose to my feet. Everyone followed, including Fran and Pam, who moaned in pain as they stood.

  Alice Number Two stared at me with flat eyelids, obviously realizing that everyone in the cage seemed to view me as some sort of leader. This meant that I’d have to be the first one to step outside of the cage.

  The moment I did, I closed my eyes and sucked in a lungful of fresh air—something I hadn’t breathed in a while. No more urine, no more feces, no bacteria-infested earth.