Lockwood, on the other hand, was forever by Louisa’s side. The more time he spent with her, the more she seemed comforted by his presence. I even heard her ask him to bring another book last week. He had chosen Vanity Fair. I liked that maybe she could find a friend in this place. Perhaps, if she survived, she could think of the community as home. Lockwood wanted that as much as I did, and I was eternally grateful to have found such a great ally. Besides, if she lived through the childbirth then it meant she was like me, immune to the illness that killed so many mothers, and the community would beg her to stay.
I ran to Sharon’s room as quickly as I could. Unlike back in the compound where women were brought to a special room to give birth, surrounded by medical instruments that couldn’t save them, the women of the community did not find it strange to attempt giving birth right in the comfort of their own home. I thought the whole process rather primitive considering the dirt and dust that covered each room no matter how hard one cleaned, but Sharon had given birth to five children successfully, so who was I to judge?
I heard her screams before I could even open the door. It seemed like I couldn’t go a day without being reminded of what I’d lost when Emma went away. It was painful enough having to look at Louisa, but hearing Sharon’s screams caused a sensory overload.
My hand shook as it reached for the doorknob. I took a few deep breaths to try and steady my nerves. Sharon went out of her way to check in on my sister every day, so I owed her this. I owed her for other reasons as well. She had given me so much, despite the way I had judged her during my early days in the community. Back then, I thought her simpleminded, nothing but a mule with no other purpose than to bring babies into the world. But she was so much more. She was the mother I never had and always wanted.
As I pushed the door open, Sharon’s screams stopped. She lifted her head from the cot where she lay sweating. “I’ve been waiting for you,” she managed between uneven, labored breaths.
Melinda, the other woman who had assisted her the day Al and his men were shot, stood at the foot of her bed. Two of Sharon’s eldest daughters huddled in the corner, one holding a basin of water.
“I came as fast as I could,” I explained, slightly embarrassed by how shaky my voice sounded.
Sharon, whose hands gripped onto the sweaty and bloody sheet beneath her, unclenched her fist and reached out a hand toward me. “I was waiting and waiting. I needed you to see this.”
I stepped gingerly into the room. “See what?” Sharon threw her head back and groaned.
“You have to push,” begged Melinda. “Tess, tell her she has to push.”
“You heard her. Push, Sharon,” I implored, still unsure what power I had in this room of life itself.
Sharon blew air in and out of her nose, gritting her teeth. “Come hold my hand,” she managed.
I saw her again. Emma. The way she held out her hand to me. The way I didn’t take it. I swallowed as I rushed to Sharon and clutched her hand to my chest, falling to my knees by her bedside. “Tell me what you want me to do.”
She reached up a hand and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “Look at how scared you are. That’s why I needed you here. I need you to watch. To see.”
“We can’t wait any longer,” Melinda insisted, looking under the sheet that covered Sharon’s legs.
“You ready?” Sharon asked, turning her head up to look at me.
I couldn’t help but laugh at the insanity of her question. “Are you?”
“I was born to do this,” she replied, narrowing her eyes, readying her body for what was about to happen.
Born to do this. That was the idea that separated us. Sharon felt it was her duty to help the naturals continue. She gave herself willingly to the men of the community because she thought God had chosen her, selected her to save mankind. It was her responsibility.
It felt more like a burden to me.
As Sharon pushed and pushed, her body contorting and shifting in ways I didn’t think possible, I thought of the millions of women who came before her and all the reasons they had for taking on the task. I wasn’t naive; I knew some women had no choice at all. But others, like Emma, wanted it so desperately.
Sharon lifted her back off the cot and reached forward with her free hand, reaching into the unknown. She stared straight ahead. Her brow was furrowed, sweat dripping down the side of her face.
I had always seen her choice to mother the children of the community as weak; giving up so much of herself to some larger idea that, in the long run, probably wouldn’t matter. The council wasn’t just going to disappear, and the community wouldn’t remain hidden forever. No matter how many children she brought into the world, the end was near for mankind.
But as I watched Sharon, her determination never wavering for even a second, I saw it for what it was—strength. She was a warrior just like Eric or my father. Maybe I didn’t agree with her reasons for fighting, but I was glad she was fighting on my side.
I clutched onto Sharon’s hand, which still rested over my heart, until the cry of the newborn baby filled the room. The shrill noise caused my arms to erupt in goose bumps. I pulled myself to my feet in an attempt to get a look at it.
This was the part I never got to see with Emma.
Melinda took the baby to a table in the corner of the room and went to work, checking and rechecking to make sure it was healthy.
“Look how anxious you are,” Sharon said tiredly, squeezing my hand.
I felt my cheeks burn. “I just want to…”
“Just wait. This is my favorite part.” Sharon squeezed my hand again.
Melinda wrapped the baby in a white blanket and brought the child to her mother. Sharon untangled her hand from mine, and I had to uncramp my fingers from the pressure she had exerted on them during the labor. As Melinda sat the baby in her arms, Sharon burst into tears. Not the sad kind. Not tears of loss. But, rather, tears of the purest joy I had ever seen.
When I looked down at the baby, I found myself crying, too. A warmness, an unconditional lightness, one that had no beginning and no end, a lightness that I had never felt before, filled me to the brim. This was the beginning, not the ending, Emma should have gotten. The one she always wanted. “She’s beautiful,” I choked out, wiping a tear from my cheek.
“Life always is. That’s why I needed you to see. I needed you to know what this could be,” she whispered, her eyes becoming heavy with exhaustion.
I heard the words she didn’t say—Sharon needed me to see what it could be in case it wasn’t like this with Louisa. Because even if I watched her die, Sharon still held out hope that one day I would be a mother.
“Tess,” Sharon called to me.
“Yes?”
“I want you to name her,” she said.
I stared down at the baby who looked up at me, her eyes furiously blinking, unused to the sun that streamed in through the windows. I didn’t know if I would ever choose to be a mother, but it was a choice I was glad I got to make. I had seen this battle lost too many times.
It was good to know that sometimes we could win it.
“Emma. I want to name her Emma,” I said.
Chapter 10
Tess,
Have you written since your first letter? Are you safe? I haven’t heard from you. Things are getting worse. Much, much worse. If I knew you were okay, I could handle it. I need to know you still exist because they are trying to erase you.
I don’t know how to pretend like I hate you. I’ve tried. But somehow, the council can tell. I repeat all the lines they have given me about your people, the naturals. I’ve told them how you used your body, your smiles, your words to make me think that you loved me, used that love as a weapon to destroy me. Bent me to your will, so I would follow you till the end of time. Forever leaving and forgetting about the council.
I tell them all of these things day in and day out, and they still don’t believe me. The funny thing is almost everything I have told them is true. Love i
s a weapon. It has consumed me like a fire that burns and rages, spreads and consumes. And I love all of you. Your smiles. Your words. Your body. You never had to bend me to your will because wherever you went, I wanted to follow. Not out of some weak obsession, but, rather, because when I am with you, I am my best self. My only self.
The council wants me to be something different. Darker. Violent.
I even tried to bring forth that side of me. I was created as a weapon. It is in my very being. You would think it would be easy to pretend, but I am constantly failing at it. I thought about every bad thing my kind has done to yours, every heartbreak they ever caused you. But still they could tell. Knowing you has changed me in ways science cannot undo; science couldn’t even predict it.
So, they torture me.
At least I know why. They’re scared. Petrified. I can overhear them talking when they think my mind is too dulled by the pain. Someone took something from them, and they want it back.
They are in a panic. All of my fellow chosen ones talk about their assigned creators. The long meetings they are called into. The sleepless nights. The uneaten meals. I don’t see my creator very often. I only know that the accident I didn’t stop nearly took his life. He’s having a hard time healing due to his old age. I overhear the rumors about his father—Abrams. Horrible, twisted stories. Have you heard of this man? It’s all anyone seems to talk about around here. Especially when they think I have passed out from the pain.
I wish they would just leave me alone, but they need me. I’m not sure why, but I’m the key.
They want me to save the council.
So, I continue to try. Maybe if I can pretend long enough, well enough, I can find out what they are so desperate to get back.
If I can, I’ll make sure they never get it again.
~James
Chapter 11
My father had been holding onto my letters. James needed my words, and my father had never sent them. At least not after the first one. I practically ran to the dining hall where my father was holding a meeting with his advisors. With every step I took, James’s desperate pleas went round and round inside my head. He was living in hell and he had no one. Not even my letters.
I was going to kill my father.
Abrams. James had mentioned that the men around him kept whispering about his creator’s father. It was a name I’d heard growing up, a memory I had to work hard at pulling out from all the other thoughts that muddled my mind. Abrams was a story told at night to scare little children, no more real than a bogeyman or the monster that lived under the bed. Hardly anyone talked of the original creators, nameless men who had faded away in time. The chosen ones were the face of the council now; no one bothered to spend time learning the history of the creators. They were merely the workmen; the council and its army of genetically engineered superhumans were the real stars.
But Abrams had been different. Stories floated around about this particular scientist. It was rumored that he had killed the original five creators, those responsible for the first batch of chosen ones, in the midst of some psychotic break. Included in that mix, his own father. The council had even used the story as part of its propaganda—see how even the best of us naturals can fall? He had been a scary story to me. Nothing more. I had too much to hate right there in front of my face growing up; I didn’t have time to hate a legend.
“Your mother would have hated those pants.”
I skidded to a stop, nearly colliding with my father. He was standing on the steps of the building that served as the dining room. Somehow, he knew I was coming for him. He let out a low whistle. “I mean it. She would have never let you out of the house wearing those.”
“My mother hated a lot of things,” I fumed, attempting to wipe some of the dirt off the trousers I had taken to wearing.
For some reason, my father smiled. “You and I have always been alike in a lot of ways. Misunderstanding your mother being one of them.”
“Where are my letters?” I yelled, refusing to waste another second on some pointless battle of wits with my father.
He swallowed, kicking at the dirt beneath his feet. “I guess you read about that in the last letter from your boyfriend?”
Of course. He knew James had told me. “You’ve been reading my letters from James, haven’t you?” I asked, appalled.
My father lifted his head and looked me dead in the eyes. “Did you really believe I wouldn’t? Don’t go thinking I’m playing father and trying to make sure you two are keeping it above board. I’m no idiot. I’ve got no right telling my girl who she can date. But I can’t pass up the opportunity to search those letters for anything that can help the cause.”
I bit the inside of my cheek, shaking my head. “Is that why you said I could write him? So you could have a chosen one on the inside?”
“I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t part of the reason. He can see and hear things my men can’t. But it wasn’t the entire reason I let you write to him and him to you. I could see what he meant to you. I’m not completely heartless.” He took a step closer to me.
“Then why hasn’t he gotten any of my letters? I know you’ve been going through them, crossing out anything you think can lead them back here.”
My father reached forward and placed a hand on my shoulder. When I tried to shake it off, he gripped onto it. “I never kept anything he said from you. But I can’t let you write to him anymore. It’s too dangerous. It’s clear from his letters that they already know too much about you. I’m sorry, Tessie.”
I clenched my jaw and looked away. It made sense, and James would want to keep me safe. But it wasn’t fair, and I didn’t know how to deal with all the unfairness anymore. Hating the world didn’t end it. Loving didn’t end it, either.
“Why even let me have his letters? Just for your damn intel?” I charged.
“We all need something to hold onto,” he explained quietly. “Despite what you think, I’m not a total monster.” When I didn’t reply, he sighed. “What I told you a few weeks ago was true. Everything I have done and everything I am planning, I do for you and your sisters. Sister,” he amended. “I’m going to fix this world.”
“You? You’re going to fix it?” I asked. “How do you plan on doing that?”
“It’s better if you don’t know all the details. In fact, you’re safer if you don’t. But when this is done and—”
I held up my hand to stop him. “I don’t want to hear it. It’s better for me if I don’t hear all the details? I’ve been told that line before, and let me just say, I’m never better off. Besides, you don’t get to make those decisions for me anymore. I can fight, you know. If that’s your big plan. I know how to shoot a gun.”
I wanted to fight. If loving and hating didn’t make the pain go away, maybe fighting would.
“Fighting is more than knowing how to shoot a gun. If you had a halfway decent teacher, you’d know that.”
“I had a great teacher,” I said. “You’d agree if you got to know Eric.”
With a growl, my father grabbed onto my elbow, yanking me along with him. He moved so fast through the community that I could barely keep up. He didn’t stop till we reached one of the barns that lay outside of the borders. Five of his men stood guard around the fenced-in area where we kept a few horses. Only there weren’t horses in the pen any longer.
Inside stood a deformed chosen one. Well, not so much stood as crawled. His legs had been chopped off at the knees. Despite a steady flow of blood that streamed down onto the ground, the beast thrashed against the dirt floor, hissing and foaming at the mouth. Before I could speak, my father lifted me up and threw me into the pen.
“What the hell are you doing?” I screamed, scrambling to my feet. At the sound of my voice, the monster stopped moving, lifting his torso high off the ground with his arms. He dropped his head back as his nostrils flared, taking in my scent. I stumbled to the fence post and turned to climb out when my father pulled a gun from his holster and held it at
my head. On cue, every gun in the vicinity was trained on me.
“So, you’re ready to fight?” my father yelled, his face turning red. “What happens when they take that gun away from you? They’ll definitely try. In fact, once they do, you’re pretty much done for. A gun is a weapon; it’s not any sort of safety guarantee. That weapon up there is just as important as any gun.” He pointed at my forehead.
A guttural, wet groan came from behind me. I flipped around to see the creature pulling his body toward where I stood, and the fear came rushing over me. The pounding heart. The sweaty palms. The millions of cells inside of me that flared alive. But I didn’t have time for any of it. I had to fight.
I looked around at my father’s men, but none made a move to help me. “I don’t get you. Any of you,” I yelled, scurrying away from the creature. I had the advantage of speed, but that was about it. “You walk around like you have all the answers, but if you did, then why are our women still dying? Why do we have to hide away in the woods, praying that they won’t find us? You don’t know how to fix this world because there’s no fixing it. This is all just about power. That’s why you hate the council. Not because of what they took from us, but because you weren’t smart enough to take it first!”
“Don’t think that thing won’t tear you limb from limb. He gets ahold of a leg and you’re done for. How long can you run around that pen till you get tired?” my father asked, ignoring my tirade. “He’ll never get tired. That’s the way he’s been made. He’s an exterminator. And there are two ways to take him down—the heart and the head. But you got no gun. So, what do you do?”
Creators (Entangled Teen) Page 7