by K. M. Szpara
* * *
Less time passes before I notice traffic slowing down around me. An hour? Two? I never wore a watch back at Druid Hill, but time seems more important out here. The sun’s harder to see, the sky hazier.
I’m sucking down the last of my red drink when I realize I’m walking faster than the cars on the highway. For some reason, traffic has come to a stop. I set my empty cup on the trunk of one as I walk between them, making my way to the middle lane. I can see better from here. See that cars are backed up from some sort of line in the distance. A line of cars with colorful lights on top. If I squint, I can make out uniforms.
“Hey, that’s him!” says a kid, rolling down the window of the car beside me. An adult scolds them as they point at me.
I remember the chaos as I fought Miller amidst traffic, chasing Lilian through intersections of turning vehicles and raging horns and screaming outsiders. I should’ve been stealthier. Should’ve stayed along the tree line—but I’m not used to being so identifiable. Not every outsider knows about me, but enough do that I’m in danger. They can’t all be as helpful as the one who bought me lunch.
I back away from the lane, stumbling as a car rolls slowly forward—and then lurches to a stop, when they see me. “Sorry,” I say, steading myself on the front of their car. Looking for a way through. I need to go.
“Hey!” The voice comes from a window, slowly rolling down. “Come here—yeah, you.” An outsider calls me from their car, beckoning me over. I look between them and the congestion. Something is wrong. This many cars don’t simply stop on a highway. I’ve spent days driving down them now, and we only slowed when the fog descended and that didn’t turn out well.
I gauge my surroundings—eyeing nearby drivers for blackened eyes, sniffing the air for the scent of rot—before deciding all is clear. Still, I approach the car gripping the handle of my knife.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” the person says. They lean an entire arm out the window, slapping the side of the car. “You’re that Meadowlark fellow, right?”
“Yes,” I say tentatively.
“You might want to find another way around. They’re looking for you. Set up a checkpoint ahead.”
I turn my head slowly to where the wall of cars presses the most tightly together, before diffusing. One by one, cars are let through. “Who?” I ask.
“The cops up there. News is, the FBI put out some kind of call for help.”
I stand up to my full height, glaring down the rows of cars. “Thank you,” I say.
Before I leave, they shout, “We got your back!” A cheer sounds from their back seat. I smile against all instincts. I’m going to have to fight these cops, if I can’t evade them; that’s not fun or funny, and yet …
Energy surges through me. I’m filled with a confidence that doesn’t come from pain, or from the magic stored within me, but from the outsiders cheering me forward. They roll down their windows and hold their fists up, hold their hands out to me. At first, I think they want me to shake them, perform their greeting, but one shows me how to slap palms. A “high five.” They don’t hurt, but they reverberate hot through my arm in the cold.
“I’ve got to go,” I say. “Thank you for the information and support.”
“Be safe,” they say. “Not everyone’s on your side.”
“I know.” I assess the rows of cars, slowly rolling to a stop as they approach the checkpoint. If I can make my way into the trees, I can go around. I’m not bound by a car.
Quickly, I weave through traffic, staying low and quiet. My training serves me well until a loud wailing stops my advance. I press my hands against my ears and look for the source. Cop cars speed up the shoulder, screeching as they slide to a stop. A wall of them, blocking my escape. All at once, FOEs erupt from their cars, shouting for me to get on the ground. Their skin ripples, eyes form deep pits. The rest stop guard wasn’t my enemy, but these cops are. I don’t let them reach for the guns I know they have. I’ve fought against those before and lost.
I run back into traffic, the cars no longer moving. The checkpoint closes as cops surge between the cars toward me, and I run. Without my bow and arrow, all I have is hand-to-hand combat, and I don’t really want to use my knives. I want to see Kane healthy again. Want to watch movies with Calvin.
I want to go home after this, and not to outsider prison, like Nova.
“He’s over here!” an outsider shouts through their open window. They open their door, jabbing a finger in my direction until—their body thuds to the ground.
Another outsider stands over them, shaking their fist. “Go!” they shout. “Get out of—” They’re cut off by another outsider approaching with fists raised.
I can’t be a part of this, I have to move. I run between cars as outsiders leap out and converge on one another, shouting. The cops slow as the throng swells and I duck down out of sight.
“Freeze!” a cop shouts as they run out from a car ahead of me, wobbling on their feet.
For a moment, I do.
The cop takes a careful step, looking at their own feet, before training their gun on me.
I need my magic to work. To be real. Be real.
I hold my hands open and empty at my sides, breathe deep as I close my eyes.
“Hands in the air!”
I feel the sting of the cat o’ nine tails against my back, as if it were striking me now, by Calvin’s hand.
“I said hands in the air!”
Calvin’s hands. Sliding warm over my bare skin. Over my scars.
Boots pound against the road.
I cross my arms in front of my chest, fists closed, holding the memories close.
“He’s armed!”
I open my palms to my lips and whisper the words. When I open my eyes on the cop, I see them through a haze. They blur as if on the other side of clouded glass. Their voice muffles and I know I’m safe.
I pick a path forward. Several outsiders open their car doors and fall in behind me, beside me. They move with me, keeping the cops away. Human defensive shields, blending with my magic.
The checkpoint is only a few cars away. On the other side, black-and-white cars light up their red-and-blue lights. A row of cops stand in line, waiting, but I don’t stop. Power surges through me and those around me. With every brush of shoulder against shoulder, I feel Calvin’s kind touch, and I know I’m invincible.
A bang pierces the air. A loud shot and a commotion of voices. The outsiders beside me duck, and I am left standing alone amidst the maze of vehicles, tilted into and out of lines, blocking the paths forward.
I look down at my body, check my arms and legs. Uninjured. Ahead, a cop lowers their gun, hands shaking as they drop it. The FOEs scramble into their cars as I walk through the checkpoint, unhindered. The other side is like a different world—a vast field of concrete that travels to meet the horizon and keeps going.
I look left and right at the cars ready to follow me. Those inside too afraid to confront me face-to-face. I don’t know how I’ll escape these FOEs, but when I take my first step, a row of outsiders races in front of them. They form a line, hand in hand, blocking the cop cars’ path.
Taking the opportunity, I leap onto the hood of a black-and-white car, over its whirling lights, onto the other side.
An outsider shouts, “Go get that monster, Meadowlark!” They raise their hand in the air, holding tight to their neighbor’s. My feet pound the pavement fast and hard, in sync with the beat of my heart, as they cheer me forward. Fast and hard. Alive. Still going.
* * *
I run down the center of the road. Only every few minutes does a car enter the highway and speed past me—and even that becomes less frequent as the sun crosses the sky. My stomach rumbles, and I slow down to dig the trail mix from my pocket. I pour a handful out and stare at the tiny specks of salt that cover the nuts and the colorful shells that coat the chocolates. I tip them into my mouth, licking a piece of salt from my palm before chewing.
> The flavor is like nothing I’ve ever eaten. Salty, sweet, crunchy—words never used to describe food at Druid Hill. Certainly not for the Anointed. I eat another handful, and another, and soon I’m scraping the bottom of the bag. I don’t want to finish it. I want to share these treasures with my friends. With Zadie and Maeve. With Kane.
I seal the bag and bury it back in my pocket. The highway is quiet. Sirens no longer loud behind me. Tires don’t screech. Trucks don’t rumble. The road is still, except for me.
Movement catches my eye. An outsider, standing in front of a trio of parked cars, waving. They and two other outsiders have blocked the entire exit. I wave tentatively, unsure whether these outsiders are as supportive as Gina and the people who protected me hours ago. As I continue, I find the next entrance blocked, and the exit after that. I pick up speed, running again as I realize outsiders have blocked every entrance and exit onto this highway—both on this side and in the opposite direction.
I run until hunger and thirst catch up to me. Until my mouth is sticky and my throat hot. Until I consider eating the rest of the trail mix even though I wanted to save it for my friends. The buzzing energy in my legs diffuses as I slow, as I stop slamming my feet against the unforgiving pavement.
By now, I’m used to outsiders waving from the deep rows of cars that fill the entrances and exits, but I don’t expect one to approach. They hold up their hands so I can see they don’t have a weapon. They have a bag in one and a bottle in another.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” they say.
I fight against the urge to walk away from them. To put the barrier between us and draw my knife. I stay on my path, watching the white lines disappear under my feet.
“You’re Meadowlark, right?”
“Yes,” I say, not looking up.
“My name’s Micah. He/him,” he adds, as if reminding himself to share his pronouns. That kindness gives me pause.
“He/him,” I respond. “Is there something—”
“Oh right, sorry, I should’ve led with that. Um.” He holds out the bag and bottle. “I saw a video online posted by a friend of yours. Calvin Morris?”
I stop walking. “Yeah.” I didn’t know his last name, the concept new to me, but what other Calvin would call himself my friend? I only know the one. “We’re friends, but I don’t know what video you’re talking about. I don’t have a phone.”
“Right, sorry.” Micah smiles. “It’s all over social media. He told us about your quest. Asked us to look out for you.”
“He did? I didn’t know.” I left him, but I guess he never left me.
“Yeah, I brought you something to eat. You’ve got to be hungry. I didn’t hear that you were a vegetarian or anything—”
No idea what that is.
“—so I’ve got one sandwich with meat and one without.”
Oh. “Thank you. That was kind.”
“And this is a Gatorade.” He shakes the purple liquid inside its bottle. “I saw you like that.”
I cock my head as he hands it to me. “Saw? Where would you see that?” I crack the seal and take a sip of the now-familiar drink. This color tastes like salt and fruit, but not a fruit I can name. Not one that we ate.
“You’re trending on Twitter.” Micah holds up his phone; his nails are long like Lilian’s, and sparkle despite the setting sun.
I don’t know what Twitter is, but it looks like a bunch of people talking to each other in short sentences. Moving pictures fly past as he pushes his finger up the screen.
“So, where am I?” I glance past Micah as another outsider walks up and stands so close behind him, they’re almost touching. The new outsider smiles at me, giggles, and then looks over Micah’s shoulder at the phone. A friend or lover, I assume.
“Here, under the search tab.” Micah taps a sigil that looks like a circle with a line extending from the side, like a Q. Information populates the screen. At the top, a photograph of the ritual house on Druid Hill. Below, my name. “Meadowlark.”
When he touches my name, the screen changes again. I look up at Micah’s friend, who’s still watching, and at the growing crowd of outsiders along the highway entrance. None of them wear uniforms or have pits for eyes. No more of them approach, but some of them wave.
Standing still this long still makes me nervous. I scan the other side of the highway and the sky overhead. Clouds ripple like water toward the reddened sun.
“Everyone’s rooting for you,” Micah says. “On Facebook and Instagram too. On the radio. We’re listening and we’re here for you.”
On his phone, a video plays without sound. Video of Calvin, sitting on the couch where we laid our clothes to dry by the fire. His skin is oily, hair unkempt. But he’s speaking to the outsiders for me. And they’re listening.
“Thank you for sharing.” I tear my eyes from Calvin’s video and look to the road ahead. “I should be getting on my way.” I turn and begin to leave, but stop at the sound of Micah’s boots over the road.
“Wait! Is there anything you want to say before you go? You don’t have to, but…” He angles his phone in my direction.
We’re listening.
“Can I talk to anyone?”
“Like your friends?” Micah smiles. “Anything you say will go live and then upload, so if they’re listening for you, I bet they’ll hear it.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“Like, it’ll get saved as a video. People will be able to watch it whenever they want.”
I decide I don’t need to understand how it works. I only need to trust him. And he’s given me so many reasons to trust him, helping block the FOEs from entering the highway, bringing me something to eat and drink, showing me information on his phone. “Okay,” I say, for myself. I’m brave enough to face a monster, and I’m brave enough to speak to my friends. To those I’ve hurt. “I’m ready.”
28
KANE / CONFIDENTIAL
I knew, when we lay down, that I wasn’t going to be able to fall asleep. But that was okay. I didn’t want to. I wanted to share Lark’s love for one last night—wanted to wrap myself in the comfortable fiction of the Fellowship.
Our quarters weren’t usually so quiet. Usually, I could hear Zadie snoring and Maeve kicking her under the covers. The jangle of Zadie’s cage as she wandered back to her own bed and the creak as they settled in, separately, and fell back asleep. They’d offered to sleep elsewhere that night. Give us privacy.
We took the offer, leaving the bonfire early to be alone on our last night together for what Lark thought would be two months and twenty-seven days. He, of course, was already counting the days until he joined me. Knowing he was wrong felt like bleeding out.
Lark stopped in the middle of the big domed room and turned, facing me. Damn, he was beautiful—scars and all. His suntanned skin marked by my own hand. A quilt sewn together with metal and leather and fire. Dark blonde hair threaded with strands bleached by the sun and twisted into a long fishtail down his back. The next morning, we would wash and braid each other’s hair one final time. That night, I wanted to run my hands through it, pull the locks loose until the elastics barely held it together.
Carefully, he unfastened his leather harness and hung it on a metal hook, knives and vials still holstered. Lark slid his hands under the hem of his shirt, keeping his sky-blue eyes on mine. Walked backward toward my bed as he pulled it over his head and tossed it onto the floor. I mimicked his motion, in no rush to reach him. I knew, when I finally touched him, he’d be the realest thing inside the fence.
We unbuckled our belts in sync, unbuttoned and unzipped. Slid our pants over our asses and down our thighs, letting them bunch around our ankles. Boots, dammit. Always forgot the boots. I chuckled and sat on the floor to untie my laces. Lark was near enough the bed that he could sit on its edge, unlace, kick off.
When we were both finally naked, I went to him, crawling on top of him as he settled onto the old mattress. My two thick French braids fell on eit
her side of my neck, framing his face. Lark reached up and cupped my face with his hands, drawing me down to kiss him. Our bodies flush. Our chastity cages clanking against each other as our hips rolled and crashed like waves.
It hurt. Not like the cat or the knives or fire. Like wanting something so bad, your whole body ached, inside and out. My need for him was a wound that would never heal. My hand gripped his cage out of habit, wanting to feel him harden in my hand, but he couldn’t. I didn’t want to tease him. I wanted him to feel good, not taunted.
So, I slid my hand down around his balls and rolled them gently between my fingers. Lark moaned, arching his back beneath me. When your genitals are taken from you, you learn to pleasure each other in different ways. Ways that didn’t result in orgasm, but still expressed our love.
What difference did it make where we touched each other? Control. That was the difference. Nova handed us our keys once a week for maintenance, and unlocked us to collect our fluids. We didn’t have that privilege. But I didn’t need her permission to make Lark feel good. To run my fingers through the sensitive hairs on his legs and over his nipple. When I pinched it between my fingers, Lark moaned. I knew he loved the pain, so I bent down and sucked the thin skin of his neck between my teeth.
I bit down. His voice cracked. “Kane! Kane, what are you—let me. It’s your—”
“Last night,” I said against his ear, before pulling the cartilage between my teeth. I could almost feel my teeth meet through the malleable skin. When I released him, he shuddered. “And this is how I want to spend it.”
I collapsed onto the mattress beside him. The narrow bed was not really intended for two people. No problem. I sidled up behind him, until my cage pressed against the crack of his ass. My cock swelled as far as the metal bars allowed and I took myself into hand, rubbing against him. Dry humping, the Fellows called it. Didn’t do anything but tease me, but I knew Lark liked it.
He pressed his ass back against me, while I dotted kisses across the scars on his shoulders and back. Could he even feel my lips through all the dead tissue? With the nerve endings I’d destroyed with my own hands?