Fear struck William’s heart. “You turned men into monsters?”
“Unfortunately, that was the end result,” Amelia said. “None of those we tested turned into The Gifted, like us. Almost all turned into savages. Unfortunately, the slaves who were the next to be tested didn’t realize the importance of what we were trying to do. They resisted our efforts.” Amelia sighed. “And so, they died.”
William couldn’t stop himself from asking the question, even though he didn’t want to hear the answer. “How?”
“They killed themselves trying to escape, William,” Amelia said plainly, as she looked at him. “They would rather perish than participate in a study for the greater good. But that is the way of most humans. They have selfish tendencies.” She tucked her hair behind her ears. “They think only of themselves. Perhaps it is better they did not become The Gifted. We have abandoned that study in the years since.”
William’s stomach churned as he watched Amelia’s emotionless eyes, her cold face. Looking down at the robe hanging over his small frame, he wanted to tear it from his body and fling it at her.
He knew exactly how those poor, abused people had felt.
He never wanted to be one of The Gifted.
Chapter 8: Kirby
“What’s wrong?” Kirby asked.
She entered her house to find Esmeralda pacing, holding Fiona, who shrieked as she rejected her mother’s soothing arms.
“She’s in a mood,” Esmeralda said over the crying, wriggling child. Worry painted her eyes as she looked at her daughter.
“Is she sick?”
“I think she’s just colicky,” Esmeralda said. “I hope she does not make too much noise tonight. The guards are not patient.”
A few nosy people walked by the house, giving sympathetic or annoyed looks inside. Tears filled Esmeralda’s eyes. It looked as if she was drowning in a river, looking for a saving branch.
Kirby felt as if she should help, but she didn’t know how. She’d never had children of her own, but she knew the hardships could sometimes feel as potent as the joys.
“Do you think she would take some cornmeal?” Kirby asked.
“She rejected if before, but I’d try anything about now.”
“Let me make a fresh batch. Give me a few moments,” Kirby said, rising and walking to the hearth.
“Thank you.” Esmeralda seemed grateful.
Kirby gathered the ingredients. Thankfully, she had enough water to boil. She started the cornmeal, cooked it, and brought it over. Fiona continued to cry and squirm until Kirby held up a spoonful of food. Fiona puckered her lips, but with some coaxing, she took the cornmeal and stopped crying. The calm was welcome, after so many moments of disquiet.
“That’s a good girl, Fiona,” Esmeralda cooed. To Kirby, she said, “Thank you for your help.”
“Don’t mention it,” Kirby said, spooning out a few portions of the meal so they could have lunch. “Perhaps the food will keep her calm.”
With a moment of peace, Esmeralda sat on the bedroll. The bags under her eyes spoke of too many nights with no rest. The baby kept Kirby awake, too, but she didn’t have a mother’s degree of sleeplessness.
“I was hoping she would rest through the night at her age, as some of the others have,” Esmeralda said, as she shifted Fiona on her lap. “I was hoping the gods would be kind.”
“Soon, she will settle into a routine,” Kirby assured her.
“I don’t know how much longer I can take it. It is just so hard.” Esmeralda sunk her head and cried. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ruin your lunch.”
Sitting on the bedroll beside her, Kirby patted her arm to console her. “You are brave to raise a child here.”
“I have no choice,” Esmeralda said. Looking down at Fiona, her tears continued flowing. “I did not mean to have her. It was not a decision.”
Kirby nodded. She had suspected as much. She knew too many women in similar situations—attacked, or abandoned when they became pregnant. “Do you know who the father is?”
Esmeralda nodded through her tears. “It is Ollie.”
“The Head Guard?” Kirby looked around, as if saying the guard’s name might have put them both in danger.
Seeing the expression on Kirby’s face, Esmeralda clarified, “I am only speaking what everyone knows. I am not the first to have one of his children, or the child of another guard. He attacked me after work one day, and I became pregnant with his child. It is not a secret. Even his wife knows.”
Kirby felt rage swell up inside her as she watched Esmeralda’s red cheeks, puffy with the weight of her tears.
“It is the story of too many women here,” Esmeralda said, as if that made it any better. “I was never married, and now I probably will never be. No man would share a home with me, now.”
Tamping her rage, Kirby said, “Things will get easier.”
“Fiona will get older, and some things will change, but not all of them. Most of the guard’s wives stay in and raise their children, like Ollie’s wife does. But not me. I was only given a certain number of months. These months will not ease the responsibility, or the hardship. Soon, I will be forced back to work, and things will be even harder. I will miss Fiona while the caretakers watch her.”
“The caretakers?”
Esmeralda nodded. “The slaves tasked to keep watch over the young ones.”
“There is always hope for a better life,” Kirby said, wishing she could give a better answer.
Esmeralda sighed. Cleaning the last of her tears, she comforted Fiona, who was eager for another bite of food. “I do not mean to burden you with my story, Kirby. But I will tell you this: be careful where you go. Keep others around you. It will not eliminate the danger, but it might help.”
Chapter 9: Kirby
Kirby peeled back the husks on her ear of corn, while the other workers in the Shucking Room chatted quietly around her. She couldn’t forget Esmeralda’s story. Watching the guards preen and pat each other’s backs as they walked past the sweating, stinking room full of workers, she couldn’t stop thinking of revenge—for Esmeralda, for all of them. Her anger was a roiling kettle in her stomach, ready to spill over and scald someone with her rage.
She wished she could say she was surprised by the guard’s attacks. Of course, she wasn’t. She had seen too many similar stories in her homeland.
Next to her, Jack performed his duty with mechanical, practiced hands. Over the course of weeks, he seemed to have developed a quiet kinship with Kirby. They spoke infrequently, mostly keeping out of trouble, updating each other quietly on the news.
“What happened this morning in the courtyard was a shame,” he said reservedly.
Kirby looked over to find his face etched with sadness. For a moment, she thought he was speaking of Esmeralda, but of course he wasn’t. He was speaking of the battle in the courtyard.
“It is a tragedy,” Kirby said bitterly, glancing at the guards who walked by outside the building.
“They say the Head Guards beat Gabe so badly he couldn’t walk,” Jack said. “You probably saw him dragged to the cell, after Avery gave the order.”
“Everyone did.” Kirby nodded gravely.
“He will be let out, as soon as he can work. I’m not sure when that will be.”
Kirby nodded. She had heard the same thing.
“Perhaps he would be better off in the cell.” Jack tossed a piece of corn into the bin they shared. “I do not know what is worse: starving in a cell, or facing his friend’s family.”
“Neither fate is deserved,” she said bitterly.
Jack shook his head, looking out for the guards as he picked up another ear of corn. All around them, slaves talked as loudly as they dared. It felt as if they could detect the closeness of the guards. When the guards were farther away, they relaxed. When the guards got close, they hushed.
When her shift neared its end, Kirby dusted the remnants of the husks on her pants, blinked away the sweat of another long
afternoon’s work, and pushed away her empty wagon. Risking a glance behind her, she found Drew on the other side of the Shucking Room. She caught his eyes. Their meeting was the only thing driving her through the day.
Hopefully tonight, things would change.
Chapter 10: Tolstoy
Tolstoy stood by the windows in his quarters, looking out over a moonlit New City. Below him, in between the buildings and houses, lights danced and flickered as people walked down the alleys and pathways, preparing for a night’s rest after carrying out his orders. Directly below, the stoked bonfires glowed brilliantly, but not enough to reach the Feeding Pen, where the guards fed The Plagued Ones every evening. On the eastern side of the city, the tall buildings sat dark, awaiting the laborers who would toil away in the morning, supplying the flow of traders.
The city was a carefully constructed machine, built on the backs of the humans, the devices carefully put together by The Gifted, and The Plagued Ones protecting it. It was as perfect as Tolstoy could make it, for a city mostly occupied by humans.
He sighed.
He knew the city had flaws.
The humans were selfish, prone to thoughts of escape. They were unable to see things larger than themselves. Too often, the guards used violence to ensure their cooperation. The slaves were animals, trained by fear, hunger, and lust, much like The Plagued Ones.
They valued their lives at more than they were worth.
At night, looking out over the moonlit city, it was easy to imagine it filled with his people, his Gifted, rather than humans who tarnished its image. One day, Tolstoy would build a grander place, with dozens of intelligent beings like he and the other Gifted. He would build a city where they could construct incredible machines and create the world they deserved, rather than the ruined world they’d inherited.
A voice reminded him that Amelia was next to him, watching.
“The city is beautiful at night, isn’t it?” he asked her.
“Indeed, it is,” she said.
“Sometimes, when I look out over the city at night, I am reminded of some of the cities from years ago, before the world went dark,” Tolstoy admitted.
“But this city is better,” Amelia said without hesitation.
“Do you think?” Tolstoy cocked his wart-covered brow, looking sideways at her.
“Our violence is less rampant,” Amelia said. “We have a population we can control. The humans might not all be happy, but they are civil. They work toward a common cause. They help us develop things the world has not seen in years.”
Tolstoy smiled. “I wish that everyone thought the same as you, as us.”
“Perhaps in time,” Amelia said, thinking on it.
“Or one day, perhaps the humans will be extinct,” Tolstoy said with a shrug. “It is hard to know.”
“But we will remain,” Amelia said confidently.
They watched over the city next to each other for a moment, fixating on some of the lights.
“One day, more of those lights will belong to our people,” Tolstoy said. “We will have a city filled with The Gifted, next to the city of humans who work for us.”
“It is a hope, as much as a dream,” Amelia said wistfully.
Chapter 11: Kirby
Kirby snuck next to the back of the small, dank buildings under the cover of moonlight, avoiding the doorway-shaped patterns of light spilling from the alley’s opposite side. Through open doorways, she saw people finishing dinner, tidying up, or tending children.
No one saw her for longer than a moment.
She hoped.
All around, in the narrow walkways between houses, people lingered, talked, or carried torches from one place to the next. More than a few groups headed toward the bonfires in the courtyard. A few glanced at her as they passed, or parted to let her through. The slaves spoke more loudly than they would’ve dared during the day, under the scrutinizing glares of the Head Guards. Darkness inspired confidence, but it wouldn’t ward off death.
Kirby knew that as well as her name.
She kept her head down, avoiding an interaction someone might remember.
Reaching the end of a narrow alley, she veered south, her heart beating a frantic rhythm. She was farther than she’d ever been into the city. She hoped she was going the right way. The small houses went as far as the eye could see, but in the distance, she saw taller buildings, silhouettes under a ghostly moon. Somewhere far in the distance, over the wall, she heard the deathly shriek of a demon.
Someone crashed into Kirby.
She bit down on a surprised cry.
An angry man backed away from her, spouting curses.
A Head Guard.
“Stupid forest-dweller!” the burly man yelled, brushing off his shoulder as if she possessed some ugly disease. He spat on the ground. “Watch where you’re going!”
“I’m sorry,” Kirby mumbled, in the submissive tone she had perfected, since Cullen died.
She put her head down, awaiting the cost of her mistake.
“I ought to lay a beating on you,” the guard grumbled, glaring at her in the darkness. The stink of alcohol filled the space between them.
Kirby’s heart thundered. She kept her face in the shadows, lest he see something on her face he didn’t like. Or something he did. After a few more demeaning curses, the Head Guard sauntered off, muttering. She looked over her shoulder, watching him turn out of sight down an alley.
In the distance, she heard him scolding a few more slaves. It sounded as if he had forgotten the incident.
She hoped.
She took a few more alleys, moving in a diagonal, southwestern path, until the chatter of slaves faded, the cloying odor of mold and feces wafted across her nostrils, and the lights transitioned to black. She was in an abandoned part of the city in which she’d never been. She saw no guards or people. But that didn’t mean she was safe. An echoing yowl from over the wall reminded her that even with no guards around, there was no escape. Ahead of her, she saw the cluster of tall buildings she’d seen from a distance, but she saw no sign of anyone—or anything—else.
Maybe she had misheard Drew’s hastily whispered directions.
Maybe she should turn back.
Kirby swallowed as she passed between the last of a few small houses and approached a row of five, tall structures. A new smell hit her—the smell of something charred, something burned. That odor reminded her of the ship on the shore of New Hope, where she’d hunkered and waited for companions who were never coming back. The smell lingered in the air as she kept walking.
Hands grabbed her.
Kirby stifled a cry and raised her fists, ready to fend off an attacker.
“Kirby, it’s me.”
Drew.
“Come this way, the others are already here.”
She followed Drew around the base of the tall building, almost losing him before finding him again in the moonlight, near the back wall of the building.
Three other shadows waited. Had Kirby not been meeting someone, she might’ve thought they were statues. None moved as Drew introduced her.
“This is Kirby.”
The others nodded.
“If guards come, we need to run in different directions,” Drew warned.
One of the other shadows shifted. A woman’s voice spoke. “Is your friend coming?”
“He should be,” Kirby said. “I told him what you said.”
She listened for another set of approaching footsteps. Bray knew better than to light a torch. He was savvy. But what if someone had seen her giving him a whispered message, in the alley after dinner? Cullen’s terrified cries came back to her as she anticipated a similar fate for Bray—for all of them.
Her heart seized as a shadow skulked around the back of the building. The people near Kirby tensed.
“Kirby, are you there?” a familiar voice hissed.
“I’m here,” she announced to Bray. “I’m safe.”
Bray crept into the circle of shadows, lim
ping from the severe beating he’d received all those weeks ago, when Cullen had become a mangled corpse.
“Did any guards follow you?” Drew asked.
“No,” Bray assured him.
“Good,” Drew said. “Let’s get started.”
Chapter 12: Kirby
“What are your names?” Kirby asked the three shadows huddled behind the building next to Drew.
“Names are dangerous,” the woman said.
“I agree,” Bray said next to Kirby. “But you know ours.”
The shadows shifted. No one spoke right away. Finally, Drew told them, “I trust Kirby with my life, as I’ve told you. And she has guaranteed her trust of Bray.”
“Too many have died from similar guarantees,” the woman said with caution.
“Like I said, you can trust them,” Drew said. “They would give their lives to escape, as we would.”
The woman remained silent for a moment, contemplating. “I am Clara, and this is Giovanni and James. We are the representatives of our group.”
“What group?” Kirby asked.
The man next to her, Giovanni, said, “We prefer to avoid names. But if you need to call us anything, call us The Shadow People.”
Kirby nodded as she took in the information. Gesturing at the buildings around them, she asked, “What is this place?”
“This part of the city is nicknamed Ashville. It is not a clever name. Many years ago, before most of us were born, these buildings were burned,” Drew said, waving a shadowy hand in the dark.
“No one goes here,” Clara said. “It is a place of bad luck. Even the guards tend to stay away.” She fell quiet for a moment, adding, “Though they would retrieve us, if they knew we were here.”
“It is a place where they conducted experiments,” Drew explained.
“Experiments?” A shiver ran the length of Kirby’s body.
Clara said, “In the years when our grandparents were young, The Gifted performed procedures on the slaves. Some say they tried infecting them with the spore. One day, one of the slaves broke free and released the others. Together, they set the place on fire. Unfortunately, guards found them, and they were forced to hide in one of the buildings. They perished in the flames, rather than coming out and doing what The Gifted wanted.”
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