The Unforgiven (The Propagation Project Book 1)

by Callie Bishop

  The Unforgiven

  Propagation Project Book 1

  Callie Bishop

  In the Moment Publishing

  Copyright © 2020 Callie Bishop

  All rights reserved.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  To all those who refuse to comply.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  The Unforgiven

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  About The Author

  Books In This Series

  The Unforgiven

  Chapter 1

  Mom’s jewelry in my pocket feels increasingly heavier on the way to the pawnshop. It was one of the last few pieces that I kept safe in a lockbox. I tell Netty to wait outside in order to spare her any exposure to Bert, the owner. Bert always smells of a mixture of cigarette smoke and body odor and by the size of his stomach, he could be about 10 months pregnant if I didn’t know any better.

  The pawnshop is cluttered with scraps from people’s pasts that they’ve sold off in hopes of getting a few dollars in return. It was a known Black Dust hub, something a Pigeon like Bert could get brown-bagged for distributing.

  “What can I do for you today, sugar?” Bert likes to refer to me as some kind of food…sugar, muffin, honeybun. None of which I’ve ever tasted. “Another bottle for dad?”

  “I need money,” I say, pulling the bracelet and earrings out of my pocket. “What can you give me for these?”

  As Bert picks the pieces up and examines them through a small looking glass, I hear the bell of the door clang. I look to see Netty still sitting outside on the curb waiting for me to finish. Bert switches his gaze from the jewelry to the person behind me. I casually glance over my shoulder and see a guy dressed in a black hooded sweatshirt fidgeting with different items in the store, his hands trembling.

  “Looks like good stuff,” he says as I see his hand casually graze the counter. I can tell he’s stalling the conversation, not really paying attention to what he’s saying. He doesn’t look at me when he talks; he fixates his stare on the person behind me. I look down and realize he’s got one hand hovering just above the grip of a gun. He quietly cocks it, his stare never breaking. I keep my eyes on Bert, hoping his aim is good. Dustheads are unpredictable and erratic, especially when they are desperate for a fix.

  “Can I help you with something?” Bert asks the dusthead.

  The guy doesn’t answer, and after a few minutes he leaves. Bert flicks the safety back on the gun and makes me an offer.

  “I’ll give you…a hundred for it.”

  I nod, and he bends down to reach into a locked safe.

  “I like ya’ kid. You always give me good stuff,” he says as he counts the money.

  I know the jewelry is worth ten times that, but I have to take the offer. I’ll never get what it’s really worth and a hundred dollars will be enough to buy what we need and have a little left over.

  “Some Official broad is going to pay good money to wear these on her clean ears.” Bert dangles the earrings near his ears and laughs out loud.

  I stuff the money into my pocket and try to shake the thought of what he just said out of my mind.

  “Anything else today, honey?”

  “Yeah,” I reply. “Tell me where I can get one of those.” I nod toward the counter as he follows my stare to the gun.

  * * * *

  The quiet wreaks havoc on my mind. Even dad’s cough has stilled. It’s unseasonably cool, and I consider starting a fire just to hear it crackle. The sound of suffering wood might bring some relief from the nothingness that always comes at this time of night.

  But I don’t. The logs remain where they rest. Netty’s chest rises and falls rhythmically. Tomorrow, I’ll have to venture out to the forest, farther this time, to collect more wood for winter. If I don’t start now, there won’t be enough left to last the cold weather. When I open my eyes again, I realize sleep had finally taken me. But it’s short-lived. Always is. I can tell by the blackness that still swallows the room. I tiptoe to the backroom and grab one of Mom’s old books. Shakespeare. I find my place back on the couch and turn the gas light up just enough to read the words on the page. Libraries. I miss them. The small stash Mom kept hidden under her bed are the only books I have left.

  After some time, I grow tired of reading. The quiet has returned, and it feels as though bugs crawl on my skin. I need to move. Run. Feel air on my face and inhale the dew while it still smells sweet. Before it is overtaken with the smell of sadness and fear and lost hope as the ward wakes up to face another day.

  "Hazel," Netty whispers. "Not again."

  "It's okay," I say. "Go back to sleep."

  It doesn't take much to convince her. Her eyelids flutter and then close. I can't help but to smile a little. Sleeping, she still looks as she did as a child. Full lips, the bottom jutted out just a bit. Her dark hair, the only thing that resembles Mom, fans behind her on the pillow.

  The window glides open and my muscles anticipate the next few moments. Slinking out is too easy for me; it’s something I’ve done a hundred times before. Ever since I discovered the freedom the night brings. The streets are still with emptiness, just a few restless wanderers like me. But most stay hidden at home. Those afraid of what can come in the night, what they can’t see coming.

  My feet cannot wait another second when they hit the cool ground. I sprint past houses, the grocery store, along the cobblestone path that leads to the dilapidated school. My heart thumps wildly, pushing the air out of my lungs while I work to replace it. There is a clearing just beyond the bus stop. Steps away is the orange metal pole that stands sentry. I push past the orange pole, knowing there is a drop-off close, a point where the earth just disappears into a deep ravine. I slow my pace and eventually stop. My haggard breathing is loud and disruptive to those creatures who consider this home. The crickets and frogs seem to chirp and croak louder to remind me where I am. The restlessness slips off like a heavy coat falling to the floor. I take a deep, slow breath and welcome the burn, then take another de
ep inhale, this time smelling the sweet grass that grows plentiful. Just a few feet in front of me is the cliffside. I inch a little closer to peek over the edge, feeling the drop in the pit of my stomach. Many have flung themselves over the edge, the reason it’s rumored to be a haunted pit. As I lean closer, a rustle of brush startles me, and I lose my footing on loose rock.

  "Who's there?" I call.

  Sometimes I arrive here alone; other times dustheads or those with nowhere else to go linger nearby. Maybe it’s the twinkling view of Ward Eight that makes it an attractive spot to sit a while.

  I shield my face from the light with my hand. Someone walks toward me, slowly. I cannot see a face yet. But by the lack of uncertainty or inhibition, I doubt it’s a Pigeon.

  "I won’t hurt you," the shadowy figure says.

  I study the silhouette a minute. "Are you crazy?" My hand drops like lead to my side. "I could have fallen to my death."

  "Why are you standing so close to the edge? Seems like a stupid thing to do.”

  My eyes narrow. "What are you doing out here?"

  "Just enjoying the night air." The tall figure steps into the moonlight, revealing a striking face. He surveys the area with his flashlight. The cedar trees rustle with the wind, their smell snaking through the air.

  "You should leave. Now. It's dangerous out here."

  He laughs quietly.

  "What's so funny?" I cross my arms over my chest.

  "You're rather bossy."

  “And you’re not from around here,” I say.

  “Just passing through. I missed the last bus.” He gestures to the bus stop several yards from our position. “Looks like I’m camping out tonight.”

  I don’t respond and focus my attention on anything but his face.

  “What are you doing out at this hour?” He checks his watch. “It’s almost sunrise.”

  Not that I asked or gave any indication that I was interested in the time.

  "I come here when I can't sleep," I say, grabbing my hair with both hands before wrapping it up with a band.

  I turn my back to him and once again face the cliffside. What am I looking at? There isn't much to see, even under the light of a full moon. Is it the dark hole? It is massive and overwhelming, and I wonder how in the hell any human being could be so desperate as to jump into such a thing.

  He inches closer to me, maybe afraid that if he makes any big moves I'd grab him by the shirt collar and haul him over the edge.

  "No flashlight?" he asks. "Doesn’t seem too smart, considering there’s a giant hole next to you.”

  I peek at him through the corner of my eye as he finally stands beside me. "It's not worth using the batteries for." This time, I look at him head-on. “Don’t stand too close to the edge.”

  He gives an impish smile. His eyes glimmer in the low light. One is the color of the sweet grass that surrounds us. The other, copper like the rusty color of the Juniper tree in winter that sits in our backyard. Even after he turns the flashlight off, his eyes still glow. Like a cat, I suppose. But not really. More like a falling star streaking the black of night.

  "What are you looking at?" he dares to ask.

  A heavy cloud rolls over the moon, cloaking the area in even more darkness; despite it, I’m at ease. Dad used to say it’s good to have a healthy dose of fear. It's what helps keep us alive.

  "Not at," I say. "For."

  "What?"

  “What I’m looking for," I say, before scanning the area again. What am I looking for? My eyes strain against the black to see anything, anything at all that would prove interesting.

  His gaze follows mine to the lights of First City. It glimmers in the mountainside like a far-off galaxy. But I know its beauty is only skin-deep.

  Finally, he takes a small breath, maybe wanting to say something but not sure if it matters to say it out loud. "Do you ever think of what it would be like to live in Eight?"

  "Not really,” I say.

  He seems startled by my answer.

  "What?" A small laugh escapes from my chest. “This is home.”

  "Well, maybe you’ll change your mind one day,” he says.

  I consider his words, his dazzling eyes seeming to slice through me. I shiver, and not because of the breeze that has gotten stronger in the last hour.

  "You've come here before?" I ask. An obvious attempt to change the subject.

  "Yes," he replies, slight hesitation in his voice.

  "How come I've never seen you?"

  “I’ve never seen you, either. Strangers in the night, I guess.”

  "I come out here to be alone," I say. But it comes out rougher than I had intended.

  He does a slight wince at the words.

  The sun starts to rise at our left, the tip of his hair alight. Soon, the area will be buzzing, and with that comes the feeling we all live with every day—the edge of your seat anticipation of surviving.

  "I should go," I say. I don’t want Netty waking up before I’m home.

  "Thanks for killing time with me." His eyes hold a strange feeling. Fear? No. No one who ventures out this far at this hour would be afraid.

  And then I realize. It's pain.

  I turn back once more after reaching the orange pole and notice he’s sat down among the sweet grass. The sun has made its full ascent, and he tilts his head toward it.

  As I get closer to home, the noise cuts through the air like a bucket of cold water over your head. People scramble out the streets, and I jog the last few feet to the house. But among the fogginess of another sleepless night, all I can seem to think of is the stranger, sitting in the sweet grass.

  Chapter 2

  Netty and I make our way to the only grocery store in town, run by a Pigeon and his wife, to grab some essentials. We splurge on the way home and take the bus instead of walking with our bags. When we reach the house, I plop down on the porch for a few minutes. Netty grabs the rest of the things to put away.

  The other day, Bert gave me the address to a guy he knows that sells what he calls “specialty items” out of his house. I plan to make the trip if I can convince Netty to stay home. The neighborhood is full of Rusers. The closest I’ve gotten is Ward Two when visiting Uncle Will and Aunt Rhea.

  After a few hours, I let Netty know I need to run an errand. It’s already noon, and I want to be back before nightfall.

  “I’ll go with you,” she says.

  “I need you to look after dad,” I say, trying to find some excuse for her to stay.

  She looks at me questioningly. “Why? What’s he going to do…drink himself to sleep?”

  “Just make sure he doesn’t drown himself in the tub.” I snatch my backpack off the floor. I fly out the front door as I hear Netty shout one more gripe.

  I buy a ticket for the bus and check the schedule one last time. It’s a long ride from here, so I packed a book and some water. Bert mentioned bringing something to barter with, and I decided on some batteries.

  The bus pulls up to the station and unloads a few passengers. I hand my money to the driver, scanning for an open seat. The bus driver is impatient and starts to drive before I sit down. He hits a bump in the road, and I plunge forward nearly landing in someone’s lap. I look up and see a boy who seems about my age.

  “Sorry,” I say.

  “Not a problem,” he says. “Need a seat?” He gestures over to the empty window seat next to him. I wedge myself in between his long legs and the seat in front of him and sit down.

  A smile lights up his face. His one blue eye and one brown eye are each framed with dark thick lashes that stand out against his olive skin. His voice rings familiar in my ears. We seem to come to the same revelation.

  “Small world,” he says.

  “Yeah,” I say, taking a seat. “How about that?”

  The bus bounces against the pothole-ridden road, and we jostle in our seats. The smell of diesel floods the air.

  “Where are you off to?” he asks.

  I had hoped to make
it through this bus ride without having to talk.

  “Visiting friends,” I say, taking my book out as a subtle hint.

  He catches on and doesn’t talk to me the rest of the ride. At every stop, he looks over, probably expecting me to get off. Passengers gradually filter off the bus until we are the only ones left, aside from some dusthead in the back.

  “Last stop. Everyone off!” the bus driver announces.

  The bus stop awning covering the benches is knocked to the ground, and the ticket kiosk is covered in graffiti. Two men argue beside a building, and they start scuffling in the street. I look down at the address Bert gave me.

  “Need to find something?”

  “I’m fine,” I say.

  His eagerness to help sets off warning bells in my head.

  The guy at the ticket counter tells me the house I’m looking for is about three blocks east.

  Most of the street signs in this Ward have been either ripped down or covered in graffiti. I stop for a minute, assessing my next step. I need to remember my way back.

  As I walk, I start to feel a presence build behind me. I don’t look back, hoping whoever it is leaves me alone. I grow more nervous when I hear not one voice, but two as they follow me down the street.

  “Where you headed off to, pretty little thing?” one says.

  My adrenaline starts to pump my heart so fast I feel it throbbing in my throat. I ignore his question and maintain my stare ahead, thinking of a way out of this.

  “Hey! I’m talking to you!”

  I pause and hear the two men stop their stride.

  “Maybe she’s hard of hearing,” the other one says, laughing.

  In a last-ditch effort, I turn and attempt to convince my pursuers I’m not to be messed with. I stare at both of them, clutching the straps of the backpack I’m wearing.

  “Fuck off,” I say.

  My plan of intimidating the men backfires as they charge me. I panic for a split second, unsure in which direction to run. I make a beeline down the street, running as fast as my legs will take me. My backpack jostles behind me. I turn the corner, eager to get out of sight as soon as possible. I stop suddenly, realizing I’ve just run into a dead end.