World Of Shell And Bone

by Adriana Ryan

  Drew lifts his head and looks at me, venom on his face. “Kill…kill the…bitch. Kill Vika.”

  Moon withdraws her knife and, spinning around, cocks her head at him. “What?”

  “He’s delirious,” I cut in, as Drew’s head lolls once again. “He’s running a temperature and—”

  “Or perhaps that was his one moment of clarity. Have you been lying to me?” Moon approaches me and flicks her knife open again. “Shall we find out, love?”

  I still and time slows down again, details crisp and hard-edged. A glint of muted sunlight sparks against the blade of Moon’s knife. Behind me, the Nukeheads discuss something in a crescendo of anxious, whispered voices. I feel a flutter, deep in the pit of my stomach. The baby, kicking? I reach a hand down in wonder and the moment, suspended in a silver bubble, shatters.

  There’s a sudden cacophony of sound and it’s approaching quickly. A chorus of honking, beeping, and squealing tires assaults my ears. The crowd of people, including the Maintenance workers and Moon, all jerk their heads toward the bedlam.

  I want to see what’s happening too, but my priorities are crystal clear. If there’s something I’ve learned, it’s that time can be a cruel teacher. It doesn’t wait for you to learn a lesson, to fully absorb it before it lurches on to the next one. I let Moon get away once before in the tent because of my indecision; I cannot make the same mistake again.

  So, while everyone is distracted, I use the opportunity to smash Moon’s nose with the heel of my hand. As she falls, I snatch the knife from her and swiftly slit her neck. She gurgles out her life’s blood, staring at me with disbelieving eyes which, I am sure, mirror my own. Despite what legend might have us believe, death is not proud, it isn’t fanfare and trumpet blasts. It is quiet but unassailable, absent one minute and absolute the next.

  A Maintenance worker tries to stop me, but a Nukehead man steps between us. The next instant, the Maintenance worker falls aside, the top of his head missing. Blood and chunks of flesh lie splattered on the ground. The Nukehead turns to me—it’s one of Reyes’ men. “Go. The Sympathetics here now. Take ’s many children ’s you can and get on the bus. Drive to the port and get on a ship. Don’t look back.”

  The Sympathetics. I don’t stop to rejoice or ponder their arrival. I simply stumble in the direction he points, grabbing children’s hands as I go. He’s right—there’s a whole fleet of buses and cars that weren’t here just moments before. Men and women in navy-colored jackets and pants hop out and begin to spray down Moon’s people with weapons of every kind.

  Their faces are impassive, hardened. I want to scream, ask them where they’ve been and if they know what we’ve all been through, waiting for them in this camp in the middle of nowhere, covered in desert sands, pickled in anxiety. I want to tell them the stories of each of the children, of what they’ve had to endure, Lynx and Alexander and Ceres—I stop midstride.

  Where is Ceres? My heart is stricken with fear as I notice children being trampled, as I watch them separated from their parents in the panic of the moment.

  “Ceres!” I cry, as I continue to shepherd children in the general direction of the bus. “Ceres!”

  “Vika!” I turn my head toward the sound and see Nurse Carina, her forehead cracked open and gushing blood. She’s holding two young children and thrusts them at me. “Take them!”

  “You should come with me,” I say, setting the children on the ground with the others. “Come on, we’re getting on a bus!”

  “I can’t,” she replies, shaking her head and stepping away. “I have to stay until the last child leaves.”

  “But—”

  “Ceres was headed to the buses,” she continues. “Take care of her and the baby.” She turns and melts into the teeming, bustling, screaming crowd.

  I grab more children as we walk, my eyes roving the crowds for my sister. Finally I see her, standing near a bus, tears streaking her face. She looks impossibly young, lost, and alone. I’m about to shout her name when I see Lucas, the Nukehead boy she danced with, go up to her and take her hand. And my sister, my beautiful little sister, instead of shying away or going limp, smiles up at him. It’s a sad smile, a broken thing, but it’s there. She’s there.

  I rush toward them, urging the children to hurry. As I get to Ceres and wrap my arms around her, Reyes brings me Lynx, Sara, and Alexander. “Take them too,” he says. “And keep them safe.”

  “Won’t you come with us?” I ask. “Please, Reyes. We can all get to safety together.”

  But he shakes his head, as I expect him to. “My duty is here.”

  I put my hand on his, briefly. “Thank you for everything.”

  He nods and the crowd swallows him.

  CHAPTER FIFTY TWO

  We scramble onto the bus, Ceres holding the back of my shirt with one hand and Lucas’s hand with the other. She comforts some of the crying children effortlessly, as if she’s been doing it all her life.

  I close the bus doors and scramble into the driver’s seat just as one of Moon’s people begin to bang on it. Behind him, a Maintenance man aims his acid gun at the doors. But we are too far gone, too close to escape. I realize I’ve entered dangerous territory, where freedom is so near I can steal the breath from its lips. If I’m not careful, it’ll dance away once more, laughing and shaking its head at my foolishness. I press the gas pedal and we lurch into motion among the masses of people trying to eviscerate each other. Even with the doors closed, I can hear the screaming.

  “Where’s the port?” I feel a fit of hysterical laughter coming on. “I’m supposed to get us all to the port and I don’t even know which way it is!”

  Sara seems to understand my strange reaction. “I know the way,” she says, rubbing my back. “It’s alright, Vika.”

  With every mile the bus’s tires swallow, I breathe just a little easier, my lungs expanding centimeter by minuscule centimeter. I let myself believe that perhaps Sara is right. Perhaps it is all right, at least for the moment.

  Getting out of the camp was harder than I’d imagined. Carcasses littered the ground, and without stopping to see whether I was driving over Nukeheads, Asylum children or the enemy, I pressed the gas pedal and pushed us ruthlessly toward freedom. Sara sat in the seat next to me, her face calm, her eyes unblinking through it all. Alexander had his face in her chest. His shoulders shook, but he cried without a sound. Behind me, I could hear Ceres and Lucas, stand-in parents now, telling the smaller children that they were safe, that the bad men couldn’t get in, that I wouldn’t let them.

  I wouldn’t let them.

  The amount of faith they’ve placed in me, in my cowardly soul, staggers me. For even now, even as I’ve taken on the responsibility for all of these lives, my bones ache with fatigue and my every nerve shrieks with fright. I want to sleep for days, to float away until this is all over, one way or another. But I keep my hands on the steering wheel and my foot on the gas pedal.

  After a while, the people in my rearview mirror, the Maintenance workers and the Sympathetics and the Nukeheads, are replaced by sand and dirt and lonesome bushes. The children fall silent, some asleep, some paralyzed from the trauma of what they’ve witnessed. I hear Ceres begin to hum.

  I drive.

  The port takes me by surprise. It appears out of nowhere an hour or two later, its crates and loads and people materializing like oases in the desert. It is a throbbing, pulsing entity with a life of its own. People race around, loading and unloading the ships with boxes and crates. Crowds hang from the enormous gray ship’s decks and spill out on the docks, walking, moving, seething. Not a moment is wasted between one action and the next, everyone moving in a synchronized dance. Turn, step, swivel, turn, step, and repeat.

  As Sara, Ceres, and I step off the bus, I stand watching all the people for just a moment. Are they keeping busy because they’re just as afraid as I am of what lies ahead? Are they secretly waiting, like me, for the giant hand of Fate to come roaring down from the sky and wipe us all out
in an attempt at a clean slate?

  Are we dreaming?

  But then I’m moving again, leading the others forward. At the ramp that connects land to vessel, we’re handed vouchers and identification cards by a man with a kind face and a wooly beard. A Sympathetic or perhaps a Rad? I know not to ask.

  “Your ticket,” he says quietly. “From now on, you are the person on your identification card.”

  We nod, and he motions for us to board the ship. Just like that, we’re allowed on.

  I push past the hoards of people waiting for their futures to begin. I want a glimpse of New Amana from the ship; the golden view that so many have betrayed their children for, have lied and maimed for, have died for. My hands close around the cold metal of the railing and my eyes sweep the horizon. Past the bustling people on the dock, I see sand and scraggly trees, resigned to their fate here in the land of the dead. A slow mist seems to be encroaching, as if patting the empty land, seeking those fleeing.

  I wait for Moon’s people to come bursting through, Maintenance men like tongues of flame in their orange attire. I wait and wait. But no one comes.

  As I inhale the aroma of sea water, testing what it will feel like in my lungs for the next few weeks, Ceres squeezes my hand. I smile at her, my eyes wet.

  “Can you believe it?” I ask. I want to ask her if she misses our mother. If she wonders, as I’m wondering now, where the woman who birthed us is. Has she managed to get away? Or has she barricaded herself in her apartment, ready for the end of the world?

  Ceres shakes her head, her eyes round. In one hand, she clutches the conch tight. She’s kept it safe even through the turmoil we’ve all just been through. I realize, then, that some questions are best left unasked. I cannot be thankful for my sister here with me and ponder my mother’s safety. I made a choice that day I got on the bus with Shale. And if I had to choose again, I’d still choose Ceres. I’d choose her every time.

  “I know. I’m having trouble believing all of this myself.” I see Sara and Alexander a few feet away, their foreheads resting together as they watch the water. Lucas stands near them, lost in his own thoughts. “I think we all are.”

  I lift my eyes to the other passengers on board, a thought about our new lives brewing in my brain, when I see him.

  Broad shoulders, short black hair, and deep brown eyes staring straight at me.

  The ship’s horn bellows. Our journey is about to begin.

  THE END

  Acknowledgements

  Authors usually thank scores of people in the acknowledgements section of their novels, and now I know why. This book wouldn’t have been possible without a whole army of people in my life. They kept me sane when I was going crazy.

  I’d like to thank Lindsey Alexander, my fantastic, magical-quality editor, for her keen eye and her ability to so diplomatically tell me which parts of the story sucked and why. I am forever in your gratitude. Bonus points for not once making me cry.

  I’d also like to thank my good friend Jennah Scott for giving me the kick in the pants I needed to keep writing World of Shell and Bone. You also shared many a virtual margarita with me when I reached writing or editing goals, which is a really priceless quality in a friend. One day soon we’ll drink those in person!

  To my incredibly supportive husband, I’d like to say thank you and so much more. You’ve showed me that true love is a lot more romantic than Romeo and Juliet.

  To my in-laws and tiny children, thank you for being my stalwart cheerleading section. I love you so much.

  And thank you to all the readers who’ve picked up this debut novel from an unknown author and given it a chance. You’re helping artists like me live the dream!

  About the Author

  Adriana Ryan lives and writes in Charleston, SC. A huge fan of spooky stuff and shoes, she enjoys alternately hitting up the outlet malls and historic graveyards.

  Visit Adriana at her website: http://adrianaryan.com

  To be the first to know about new books, sign up for her newsletter: http://eepurl.com/p5fLP

  If you liked this book, please consider leaving a review. Reviews are like pixie dust to authors.

  BOOK CLUB DISCUSSION GUIDE

  In chapter one, Vika says, “I am baffled by mirrors… I am nothing more than a collection of genetic puzzle pieces—I understand and accept this fully.” What does she mean by this? Does the concept of being nothing more than genetically linked to one’s biological parents make sense in today’s society?

  When Vika says, “Progeny is our only weapon now,” what does she mean? Is healthy progeny New Amana’s weapon, or is it Vika’s weapon against the government as well?

  Ryan writes, “Most of the men in power were gone; healthy young men in the military had been killed. A feminist regime was born and New Amana was created to rise from the ashes.” During World War 2, American women entered the workforce to step into jobs men left behind when they went to war. Do you think that a situation where a feminist government takes over in the wake of the obliteration of a male-dominated government might be plausible in today’s society?

  When Shale and Vika engage in sexual intercourse for the first time, Shale holds his body in such a way so as to not make any more contact with Vika’s body than necessary. Before they begin, they are required to say the words, “For New Amana.” What might the purpose of saying these words be? Why doesn’t Shale want to touch Vika beyond what is necessary to make a baby?

  The radiation-poisoned homeless, those whose scars are visible, are called Nukeheads. Why is the general society of New Amana opposed to them? Is there a parallel sub-class of people like the Nukeheads in the society in which you live?

  In chapter ten, Vika sees her brother, Mica. She is surprised to see that Shale is taller than Mica, observing, “In my mind, Mica was always the tallest person on Earth. There was never anyone who towered over him.” What do you think Vika means by this? What does this tell us about her relationship with Mica?

  Time seems to have an ephemeral quality to Vika in the first part of the book. For instance, in chapter thirteen, she says, “Time begins to stop and stutter, looping back on itself until I can’t remember whether it’s today, yesterday, or the year before last. “ Why would time seem to be so inconsistent to someone in the dystopian society in which Vika lives? Have you noticed instances in your life when time seemed to sped up or slowed down? What does this say of our thought processes and ability to weather harsh life experiences?

  Why do you think Vika decides to give her travel vouchers to Naiad’s partner and daughter, even though she didn’t know Naiad well? Was her decision connected or influenced at all by her last visit with her mother?

  When Vika sees Ceres for the first time since she was taken to the Asylum, she notes, “There is no soul there.” Do you think Vika’s opinion changes as she spends more time with her sister? Is Ceres as devoid of emotion as Vika initially believes? What led you to this conclusion?

  Even though she is warned that the government might be building an army in China, Vika makes the decision to board the ship with Ceres. Why do you think she did this? Do you feel her decision was based, in any part, on denial?

  If you enjoyed World of Shell and Bone, you’ll probably love:

  The Torturer’s Daughter

  by Zoe Cannon

  When her best friend Heather calls in the middle of the night, Becca assumes it's the usual drama. Wrong. Heather's parents have been arrested as dissidents—and Becca's mother, the dystopian regime's most infamous torturer, has already executed them for their crimes against the state.

  To stop Heather from getting herself killed trying to prove her parents' innocence, Becca hunts for proof of their guilt. She doesn't expect to find evidence that leaves her questioning everything she thought she knew about the dissidents… and about her mother.

  When she risks her life to save a dissident, she learns her mother isn't the only one with secrets—and the plot she uncovers will threaten the lives of t
he people she loves most. For Becca, it's no longer just a choice between risking execution and ignoring the regime's crimes; she has to decide whose life to save and whose to sacrifice.

  When she risks her life to save a dissident, she learns her mother isn't the only one with secrets—and the plot she uncovers will threaten the lives of the people she loves most. For Becca, it's no longer just a choice between risking execution and ignoring the regime's crimes; she has to decide whose life to save and whose to sacrifice.

  It's easy to be a hero when you can save the world, but what about when all you can do is choose how you live in it? The Torturer’s Daughter is a story about ordinary teenage life amidst the realities of living under an oppressive regime… and the extraordinary courage it takes to do what's right in a world gone wrong.

  Chapter One

  Becca’s steps slowed as she approached Processing 117. The floodlights of the parking lot shone down on her, exposing her. Past the lot, the darkness threatened to close in. There was no other source of light nearby except for the dim glow of the streetlamps, nothing but trees for at least a mile in every direction.

  The concrete structure loomed taller than its five stories—maybe because of the invisible presence of the underground levels, or maybe because in a moment Becca was going to have to walk inside.

  Heather can’t have been arrested. If she were a prisoner, they wouldn’t have let her call.

  But when Becca remembered the panic in Heather’s voice, the thought wasn’t all that reassuring anymore.

  Becca took the last few steps across the not-quite-empty parking lot. The windows of the upper floors glowed in a patchwork of lights, showing who was working another late night and who was at home sleeping… or down on the underground levels. Becca knew that in one of those dark offices, a phone had been ringing off the hook for the past half-hour, its owner oblivious to Becca’s pleas for her to answer, to find Heather for her, to fix this.