What Blood Leaves Behind (The Poison Rose)

by Beaumont, Delany

  I’m sure they can see me. There are a few shouts, some laughter but I can’t understand what they’re saying.

  There’s no point in hiding. I step to the railing and try to call out above the noise. “What do you want?” My words are chopped into pieces by the stuttering chunka-chunka of the bikes as they idle below me.

  “We want you.” It’s the voice of a young man, high and confident. There’s more laughter.

  “Get out of here. We’re not hurting you. Just leave us alone.”

  “Come on now. You’re here looking for help, right? Well, help has arrived.” More laughter. The voice reminds me of William’s, so self-assured and theatrical, like the man behind it is performing on stage. But it’s the voice of someone older, someone more mature.

  Another voice says, “Just cut the crap and get down here.”

  I hear a woman’s laugh. “Or we’ll come up and get you.”

  I’ve been cradling the rifle, holding it to my chest, one hand on the stock, one hand on the barrel. I bring it into position, lock the stock against my shoulder. I can’t see anything through the site, just a blur of light, so I look past it. “Did your friends tell you I have a gun? Try me and I’ll take out as many of you as I can.”

  There’s still more laughter and words I can’t make out above the noise. I fire into the open air directly in front of me, above their heads. There’s not much of a reaction. “We don’t scare so easily, little girl,” the first voice I heard says.

  I jerk the bolt back, jam it into place. This time I aim for a spot right above the headlight of one of the motorcycles. I can’t see what I’m shooting at. I’m not sure if I deliberately want to hit one of them or just come close enough to scare them off.

  The sound of the bikes as they idle drops for a few seconds, just long enough that I think I can hear the clatter of footsteps somewhere to the left of me, in the direction of the staircase. Then one of the riders guns his engine and the sound makes me flinch, lose my focus. I try to pick out a target again, searching the space somewhere above the bright glare of the headlights.

  I pull the trigger.

  My shot cuts through the noise. I hear a scream and one of the bikes tumbles to its side. A mirror smashes. There’s shouting, confusion. “God damn, she shot him!” I hear. I feel the hot breath of one of the children against the back of my neck. I look over my shoulder and it’s Emily. I snap at her, “Get back in the room!”

  There’s a swirl of movement directly below me. Most of the bikes have fallen silent and the headlights have been extinguished. Although I still can’t see them, I imagine the riders have dismounted to fan out across the area.

  I take a deep breath and holler out over the relative silence. “I’ll give you one more chance.” My voice is high-pitched and screechy. I take another breath and try hard to fill my words with authority. “Clear out or I’ll kill you all.” I’m sure I sound like a child, not frightening in the least.

  I can’t see them. I don’t know where they are. Although I hold a weapon I’m almost helpless.

  “Look out!”

  It’s Emily, not as close now but still behind me. I turn and see the shadowy outline of her body framed by the motel room’s door. I take a few steps toward her, intending to push her back into the room and take a position in the doorway myself, when I see her put her hand to her mouth and her whole body tense as if she’s about to be struck.

  But I’m the one who feels the explosion of blinding pain, senses something blunt and heavy cracking down on the roof of my skull. There is another burst of bright light but this time inside my head. I sink to my knees, the rifle clattering on the cement of the landing and I follow it down.

  Part Three

  Welcome to Raintree

  One

  “Is Gideon dead?”

  “He wasn’t moving. I didn’t think one of them could hurt us like that but she got him right in the head. That’s why we don’t let them play with guns.”

  The voices are dream-like, creamy and thick and slow. I can’t tell if they’re coming from inside or outside my head. But I must be awake now. I can feel damp steel pressed against my cheek, the vibration of a vehicle in motion thrumming through my body. I reach out a hand, groping blindly. I feel the cold toe of a leather shoe or boot and it’s instantly yanked back from my touch.

  “She’s waking up.”

  “You hit her hard.”

  “Why not? After what she did? She’s lucky we didn’t kill her there.”

  I try to sit up, push my body away from the floor. I’m in a dark enclosed space which I soon recognize as the back of a van. It’s a well of shadows where I am, two indistinct shapes crouching over me. I crane my neck and can see the head and shoulders of someone driving illuminated by the weak glow of dashboard lights.

  Moving my head like that brings on an agonizing wave of pain. I let out a gasp and try to take some deep breaths. It feels like giant hands are crushing my skull. I’m on all fours, swaying back and forth with the motion of the van. I want to sit up, I want to get a clear view of where I am and who these people are but every time I try to move the pain squeezes me like a vice.

  Finally the pain recedes enough so that I’m able to look up at the dark shapes above me. “Where are the kids?” My voice is cracked, the ghost of a voice. “What did you do with them?”

  One of them snorts derisively. “She’s worried about her kids.” I can’t tell if it’s a man or woman speaking. The voice still sounds strange, like it’s disembodied, floating through the space around me.

  “Down,” a harsher, more masculine voice says. The sole of a boot presses me back to the floor of the van. I’m too weak to resist the pressure and I collapse on the cold metal.

  The higher voice, closer to that of a woman’s, says, “Don’t you worry your pretty little head. We haven’t left them behind. But you—we have to watch you. You’re a murderess.”

  That last word fills the space around us, an enormous, earth-shaking word. I killed someone. All the reasons why I had to fire that last shot burst into my mind—that I had to defend us, that these Black Riders refused to make their intentions known.

  Why didn’t they show up in the daytime when we could see them? But Jendra and William came and I scared them away. If I didn’t trust the two of them, how could I have trusted these people, the way they surrounded us in the middle of the night? But then I think, maybe I was wrong. What if these are the people we’ve been looking for all along?

  I notice an odd smell that permeates the space around us. The throbbing in my head has subsided enough to enable me to pay more attention to what’s around me. It’s a coppery smell mingled with a slight hint of decay.

  I try to speak again. “Where… Where are you taking me…?”

  There’s no answer. The damp of the exposed metal I lay on starts to work its way into my body. I feel so cold I grab my knees and pull them in tight. I’m not so much frightened as dazed and hurting.

  Then the van jerks to a stop and I’m thrown against one of the front seats. My forehead smacks hard against a metal strut at the base of the seat. The razor-sharp pain I feel comes in an intense burst like a flashbulb that lasts a few seconds, then the ache in my head I felt before floods back. I reach a finger up to my forehead and can feel a wet trickle of blood.

  “What the hell, Bodie? What do you think you’re doing?” the more masculine voice says. I can just make out a shape looming over me, one of the two in the back of the van getting to his feet.

  A voice from the seat above me says defensively, “I can’t help it. We’re at that bad part where you almost can’t get through. I have to work my way around the wrecks.”

  “You’re going to make us puke. Next time, I’m driving.”

  “You can’t drive,” the driver says.

  “Bodie’s right,” the female in the back says. She’s also standing close to me now. “You can’t drive, Milo.”

  “Shut up. When we get back, I’m shoving you bo
th in the cage. You belong with the animals.” He kicks at me with the toe of his boot and strikes my shin. It hurts but that pain can’t compare to what’s happening in my head.

  The van starts to move forward a little. There are a few sharp turns. The driver has to back up and try to go in another direction. “It’s like a maze,” he says, cursing.

  Suddenly I feel sick, horribly sick to my stomach.

  “What the hell is that?” Milo, the man or boy or whatever he is in back, says.

  “She’s throwing up,” the female says.

  “Get her out!”

  I can sense him step over me, hear the van door squeal as it’s wrenched open and feel a cold rush of air. He kicks me out of the van and I tumble to the hard pavement outside. Even as I fall, I continue to vomit, heaving up watery residue from my empty stomach.

  I hear the sound of boots clatter to the ground as the two in back jump out beside me. “Get up in the light!” Milo orders me. I feel the toe of his boot jab into my side. I think just for a moment that maybe I could get to my feet, maybe I could run. But I can’t raise myself up any higher than my hands and knees and he keeps kicking at me so I crawl forward, to the front of the van until I’m gasping and heaving in the glare of the headlights.

  “She’s bleeding,” the female voice says.

  “Yeah, well, I’m not going to touch her now. And we’re only supposed to bring her back.”

  “We’ll bring her back.” It’s the voice of Bodie, standing with the others.

  “What if she dies?”

  “She’s not going to die. I didn’t hit her that hard.”

  “Maybe she has a concussion.” I wonder if that’s a hint of compassion from the female.

  “Are you going to cry over her? She’s the one that killed Gideon.”

  “We don’t know if he’s dead for sure.”

  “None of them ever had a gun before.”

  “She’s special, isn’t she?”

  “We’ll treat her special, that’s a guarantee.”

  I’m starting to gain some control over myself. My stomach has quieted down and I’m breathing more evenly. But then blackness starts to fill my head. I want to stay awake, alert enough to defend myself, but I can’t. I’m spinning down a dark hole. The wide beams of the headlights narrow into pinpoints, then disappear altogether. I can no longer hear or see anything.

  The darkness swallows me whole.

  Two

  There is water below me.

  I know because I can hear the slap of waves against concrete. A bird shrieks as it darts past. There’s a fishy, algae and decay smell. My eyes are crusted shut and I have to rub the gunk loose so I can see. Then a blast of chill wind revives me completely.

  I’m floating in mid-air.

  My mind won’t accept it but my eyes tell me I’m up high, dangling above an enormous river. I try to think of a way to explain it but the only thing I can come up with is that maybe I’ve died. This might be some weird mid-point, a way station between this world and the next.

  But there’s solid wood below my feet, wood above my head and black bars all around me. I try to stand and this platform I’m on sways dangerously in the wind, knocking me back. I slide and think for a moment I’m going to tumble off the edge but my back is caught by the row of iron bars behind me. There is not enough room to stand up straight.

  Then it hits me that I really have been locked in a cage, penned up like an animal, just like the one they called Milo said he was going to do to his companions.

  I have to shut my eyes, force myself to concentrate, make myself believe this is happening. I’m up high enough that the fall might kill me—I know that. Another flurry of icy wind rakes across me, makes the cage rock to and fro. I drop to my hands and knees, crouching low, trying to stay in the center of the cage’s floor to keep it steady.

  The wind stinging my eyes makes them tear up and I’m able to blink the rest of the gummy residue away. I touch my face and feel a large bump in the middle of my forehead painful to touch, covered with a sticky-sweet coating of blood.

  I scan the horizon. To my left are the towering offices of a city’s center. To my right I see a warren of warehouses and buildings only four or five stories high. In front of me, as far as I can see, is the broad sweep of the river and the bridges that span it. I count four of them receding into the distance.

  Creeping to the front edge of the cage, I slide a little, making that end tip down. I press myself flat, let my head rest against the rusted iron bars until I can peer almost straight over the rim. There’s a sheet of water the color of weathered steel spread below me. Weak sunlight pierces gloomy skies, skitters across the tips of wavelets driven by the wind. Starlings dive and swoop all around me.

  I shut my eyes as a wave of nausea hits me. My throat feels ragged, as if I’ve been gargling with sand. Then I hear voices, the chatter of voices somewhere nearby. The cries of the birds make it impossible to pick out actual words but I get an impression of cheerfulness, of young people casually strolling along, not a care in the world.

  Rolling over, I look up at the stained, scratched ceiling of rough wood above me, listening hard, trying to decipher what they’re saying. There is the metallic ping of someone rhythmically beating a handrail with a piece of pipe or a rock, something heavy. This sound grows louder, filling the space above me—the unknown above the roof of my cage. Then the pinging stops, right above my head. I can hear words clearly for the first time.

  “She’s still down there…”

  “What a great idea they had…”

  “Tonight we’ll…”

  “If she’s still alive.”

  Then a voice shushes the others like a teacher bringing a class to order. It’s a female voice familiar to me but it takes a few minutes for me to connect it to anything recent in my memory. My mind is moving slowly, as if my thoughts have to claw their way through thick syrup in order to come clear.

  “Are you still alive down there, Gillian? Please respond if you are.”

  An image of the self-satisfied, taunting face of Jendra with her platinum blond hair and doll-like features flashes into my mind, a face so healthy, so well cared for.

  Then William’s voice follows hers. “We have food and water for you but you have to say something to get it.” I see William offering me his sandwich with real bread back in the motel room, thick slices of soft, moldless bread. Memories of the smell, the taste of it from years ago fill my senses, make my poor, parched mouth water.

  “Maybe she is dead,” another voice says carelessly, like it hardly matters.

  “What’ll they do then? If she’s dead.”

  “We won’t have any excitement tonight,” Jendra says. “Everyone will be so disappointed.”

  “Delicious wa-wa, sweetie,” William calls down to me. “You must be thirsty. But you have to say something first, otherwise why should we waste it?”

  Involuntarily, a dull, rasping sound escapes my throat. It’s not loud enough for anyone to hear. The back of my throat burns, like I’ve been inhaling smoke from a building on fire.

  “We’re going to leave, Gillian. We might leave you dangling up here forever.”

  I try to frame a few clear-headed thoughts. They’re torturing me because I killed one of them. But something’s going to happen tonight. They want to prolong my suffering for some reason.

  As long as there’s even the smallest chance for me to find a way out of this, I have to do something, do whatever I can. I’ve come so far with my kids, my family—we’ve reached the legendary city at the north end of the highway. The city—

  I can’t just surrender. I won’t permit myself to simply roll over and die.

  But I need water. I need food.

  I stand up as much as I can, trying to maintain balance, crouching with my back pressed against the craggy layer of wood above me. I grab hold of the bars facing the industrial side of the river and try to raise my voice. I hear myself make a sound like an elderly crow, a s
ort of broken cackle. Then I’m able to form actual words. “I’m here!” I’m not sure if the words are loud enough but it’s the best I can do.

  “Ah, I think she’s alive,” William says. “Moira will be so happy.”

  “Can you hold on for a few more hours?” Jendra calls down to me.

  “Give me water,” I say. I try to raise my voice above the sound of the birds.

  “We’ll have to think about that. You don’t sound like you’re at the end of your rope yet. Get it? End of your rope?”

  “We could cut this rope, you know,” a strange voice says.

  “I happen to have a knife,” William says. “Would you like that, Gillian? If we sawed away at the rope a little? I don’t know how strong the rope is. It was the best one we could find to hang your cage with.”

  Panic makes my stomach knot. The dull pain in my head recedes a bit and lets in the full realization of what’s happened. It’s like something from a horror movie. It can’t be real but it is real.

  I’m in a cage made for an animal, suspended high above the wide river that runs through the city of Raintree, dangling from the side of a bridge.

  It maddens me that I can’t see anything directly above me, can’t see the rope, how securely they’ve tied it or what they’ve tied it to. Or the row of grinning, mocking faces staring down at me. I want to hurt them. I want them to feel like I feel, be as frightened as I am.

  “And I have a stone, a large round stone,” Jendra says. “What if I drop that stone? Gillian, what do you think will happen?”

  “Should you do that?” another voice says. “They want her alive.”

  “It’s the ceremony tonight. Moira is going to take over.”

  “Gideon would have wanted her to,” the first voice says with deep respect.

  Moira. Gideon. I killed Gideon. That’s what the three in the van said.