by K. A. Trent
“Okay look, stop!” I glared at both of them. Brea looked at me in surprised amusement. “Why do you hate males this much? What reason, what socialized reason could you possibly have? You don’t spend any time around males, what did they do to you?”
“Have...you not read the history?” Layla shook her head. “Why are we standing here arguing about this? We need to go.”
“The textile factory is this way,” Brea pointed down the street in front of us, her finger aiming toward a pile of rusted, twisted beams partially blockading the passage to the next block. I felt her hand on my back and I allowed her to guide me forward. “We’re unarmed; if they catch us out in the open we’re as good as dead.”
“I know,” was Layla’s only response.
Feet crunched against gravel, a slight wind teased our face; the air was cold. I didn’t want to be here. I wanted to be back with Donna. I wanted to be with Carrie, and Ashley. Why was this happening to me? No, I couldn’t think about that; I had to be here. I had to be now. I had to be present if I ever wanted to make it back to them. I kept my eyes trained ahead though stole a look at Brea every once in a while. She looked far different than she had when we’d first met. Her ombre hair was mostly matted to her face; black jacket was soaked and stained. Her pants were torn at the knee and I could see the beginnings of a bruise forming on her face. She was tired, there as no doubt about that but she was determined to keep moving. I had to follow suit.
We walked in silence for a while; every few blocks I would follow Brea and Lyla as they ducked between buildings or took a shortcut through a building.
“That’s it,” Brea finally said, pointing toward a building in the distance. I could hear the exhaustion in her voice; I could feel it in the soles of my feet. A lifetime in the Factorum had not even begun to prepare me for the aching feeling in my soles. I wanted to stop, I wanted to sit. Just a few minutes to take the pressure off. “Let’s keep moving.”
I became increasingly aware of my soaked dress pressing against and clinging to my legs; I winced at the chaffing between my thighs. Every step was agony. I had to keep going. Ahead of us, a gap, another aqueduct, probably reading into the river and spanned by a small bridge; maybe large enough for cars to pass once upon a time. I quickly noticed that the center was gapped; maybe destroyed by human hands or maybe worn from the passage of time but as we approached it, I saw that it was narrow enough for us to jump. Well, maybe narrow enough for them to throw me if I couldn’t get a running start. Brea examined the gap and Layla walked the perimeter to check the area. As they both pondered what to do, I heard it from behind us: the rumbling sound of vehicles navigating the urban hellscape. The sound of boots on the ground. They were coming. They were here. Brea gave Layla a concerned look, Brea nodded back.
“It’s time.”
Chapter 25
“We have about ten seconds,” Layla looked over her shoulder. The vehicles weren’t visible yet, but we could hear the shouting and the sound of footsteps as they searched the buildings behind us. “They’re going to be out here and-”
“We can’t outrun them,” Brea leaned over the edge of the bridge. “There’s a drainpipe under this bridge, we can take it, run east, and-”
“Stop talking and let’s move!” before I could even react, I was dropped below the bridge with Laya at the bottom to catch. We were in the metal drainpipe, our footsteps clanging noisily, rubber sloshing through mucky water as we barreled toward the other side. Above us I could hear the shouts, the rumble of vehicles once again; I thought I heard someone yell about the drain. Did they know we were down here? Were they coming? They were really doing all of this for me. All of this. Why did they care so much? I was just one girl. But then I remembered: I wasn’t just a little girl. I was a male. I didn’t want to be. In that moment I would have given anything to have a different body, to be able to walk out with my hands up and show them that I was really a girl. That I was one of them. I wanted to be one of them. Just let me live.
It was then I heard a familiar voice; I didn’t want to believe it. It was above us shouting, screaming. “Find them!” it shouted. “Check the drain under this bridge!” I knew the voice. Where did I know it from? I saw Brea reach beneath her coat, the pistol was out again. Layla looked at her, shook her head, pleadingly. Brea mouthed an apology as Layla closed her eyes in resignation.
“They’re here somewhere!” A woman dressed in black fatigues appeared at the mouth of the tunnel and peered in; there was no way she could see us, it was far too dark in here. She stepped forward, aiming her rifle into the darkness. I suddenly clung to Layla’s arm, holding on tight as if she could save me from our inevitable fate.
Please
Please
Please
“I need a light down here!” the woman shouted. I pressed into Layla, I squeezed her hand tighter and tighter until she shook me off. We were done for. We were going to die, this was it. I concentrated on happy thoughts in my head, the trip to the museum, Charlotte. Ashley, Carrie. Donna. I remembered the scent of her hair, the softness of her shirt as I had laid against her. Her arms around me. I would never be back there again. I would never see her again. What had I done? What did I run away? Why?
I dropped quietly to the floor of the drain; my knees dipped into cool water. The light at the end showed the woman’s outline, she was silhouetted against the entrance, just a pair of slim legs, the barrel of her rifle briefly swiveling across.
I stared off in her direction, my mind began to wander. I was vaguely aware of Brea inching forward, the pistol out in front of her. If she fired they would hear, they would flood the tunnel, we would be dead. I was again transported to another time, another place. The Factorum. I could smell the metal, I could hear the clanking of machinery, the hiss of the pipes. Four other males in front of me, I could see the fear in their faces. I could sense my own fear. One of them was prostrate on the floor, another on hands and knees. They were kids. Like me. Not like me. Like me.
A woman had paced in front of us; she was slender, her features hidden by a tinted face shield; she held the rod in her hand, it pulsed with electricity.
“You are now property of the Ereen Factorum,” the woman had said. Her voice resonated through the small room. “If your parents are still alive, forget about them. They’re dead to you. There is no hope, there is no escape, you will work, you will sleep, you will die. That’s what you’re worth here.”
“I want my mommy!” the boy in front of me cried; his sobs were amplified as the woman brought the rod down onto his back. His body convulsed, his legs twitched. He fell onto his side, his wails intensified.
“Your ‘mommy’ is better off with you! Utter garbage!”
Mommy. What had happened to her? I could remember it a little. She’d told me that she loved me. Daddy. Where was Daddy? I had to get back to them, they would miss me. They wouldn’t be okay without me.
“What do we do with the little one?” a second woman asked; she pointed in my direction.
“It can work on an assembly line,” the first woman shrugged. “Either that or we just kill it. Yeah, let’s just kill it. You, male! Throw this...thing into a reclamation chamber. Vaporize it.”
A male had stepped forward, his feet were wrapped in cloth; that was all I remembered of him.
“Yes Mistress,” the man had said. His voice was scratchy. I felt his hand wrap around the back of my neck; I was dragged along by my shirt toward the door.
“As for the rest of you, you’ll work, or you’ll get the same treatment!”
My eyes opened; I was back to reality. I could still see the outline of her legs against the entrance; Brea was still inching forward. The scene was in motion, the outcome was set. Suddenly, I saw her spring into action. Instead of firing the weapon in her hand, I heard the sound of flesh against flesh, the thud of her palm against bone. The woman crumpled silently to the floor of the drainpipe; Brea tossed the woman’s discarded weapon back to Layla. We were moving again, fu
rther down the pipe. It branched just before the exit; Brea led us down the fork instead of taking us into the light. I cringed; I didn’t want to be down here. I wanted to be in the light. I wanted to be with Donna.
“Stop lagging behind!” Layla hissed at me. “We should just leave you!!”
“She’s our only ticket out of this,” Brea’s voice came from the darkness ahead. “If we don’t have her, the Proctorum has no reason to save us. If they find out we left her, we’re as good as dead anyway. Keep moving. She comes.”
I heard the dull tone of a wristband being touched, and then, Brea’s face was illuminated in the darkness by a holoscreen emitted from her wristband. I recognized it as a three-dimensional map and watched as she spun it about with her finger.
“Look at this,” Brea said. “We move forward ten meters this way and we should be able to climb up through this grate.”
“Why do you have a map of that?”
“Because I live here, Layla,” I couldn’t see it in the pitch black, but Brea probably rolled her eyes. Probably.
“Let’s see if the grate is even still there,” I felt Layla brush past me and I followed her footsteps.
“Don’t lose her.”
“She’s right behind me.”
“Okay, whatever.”
I heard that shouting again off in the distance, that familiar voice. Who was it? Why was she here? I searched my brain, trying to remember if I knew anyone else in the Black Swan. There was Layla but I’d just met her, there was no one else. No one at all.
“What are you doing?” I felt Brea close to me, one of her hands resting against my shoulder. “Why are you just standing there?”
“I...I think I hear someone I know,” I said quietly. “Out there, yelling.”
Brea paused for a moment and then squeezed my shoulder.
“Come on, we have to keep moving.”
I was able to see them now, my eyes had adjusted, and we were finally moving toward a source of light; I could see it at the end of the tunnel. The last few feet of the corrugated steel passed us by, and we emerged into the open air once again.
“It’s over there,” Layla pointed a thin finger toward a tall building at the edge of our visibility. It was hidden behind a few other flat buildings, the road in front of us was blocked by rubble. Behind us I could still hear the shouting; we hadn’t gone very far at all and we were still in danger. We began to move forward, but then it happened. I saw the first black-clothed figure appear atop a building in front of us, then a second. I could hear the shuffle of footsteps behind us; I saw Brea’s grip on the pistol tighten. They stood above us, they stood behind us. The muzzles of their weapons were trained, our fates were written on the casings of their bullets. I had come so far only to be stopped here on this destroyed street. To become a tangled, bullet riddle mess amongst the ruins of old Luna. Trash, forgotten. A metaphor.
“Astra,” Brea spoke to me as if we were simply standing back in the Nocht, as if the scene around us were not unfoldinging, as if the clock to our impending doom was not counting down. “Do you know your way through that factory?”
“Yes,” I nodded. My voice was raspy; it carried a note pf finality. This was the end. There was no one coming to save us, there was no one to hear us die. There would be no last-minute rescue from Kerra. Not this time.
“Run Astra. Just run.”
The response was automatic, I didn’t think about it. My legs rocketed forward, one foot in front of the other and carried me across the destroyed hardcrete street. I heard sounds around me, I heard the crack of gunfire. I heard the shouting, I heard Brea and Layla firing in return. Then I heard nothing. The sounds around me tuned out and a silence fell over me as I pushed myself forward, leaping over a pile of rebar, ducking around a wrecked car, skidding behind a low wall, and finding my feet again. I saw the gravel around me disturbed as bullets found their way to my feet and I took a flying leap through a broken window and lost my feet, slamming into a crete floor and careening into a rusted railing surrounding a factory floor. I took to my feet, using the railing to propel myself upward. Next to me a bullet slammed into an empty chemical tank. I ignored the pain, pushed it to the back of my mind. I had to make it. Make it to where?
Ahead of me the tanks were dense, a field of planted canisters, some broken wide open, some rusted from time, the floor uneven, my destination unclear as I barreled through. I was fast. Faster than I remembered. It had been so long since I’d run like this. There was a low walkway above; an observation deck maybe. With a quick motion I leapt toward one of the tanks, used the tread of my shoe to grip the metal and pushed upward until my hands grasped a support bar atop. Pressing my foot against the outer wall of the tank, I leapt again, this time toward the walkway. Grabbing the handrail, I managed to pull myself through and rolled onto the grated metal, my knees taking the impact and forcing me to admit a pained cry from between my cracked lips. Running again, I barreled swiftly toward the other side of the factory. I had to get outside, I had to get across the street. The textile factory was there, waiting for me and all that stood between me was this chemical plant. Shafts of light from the decayed ceiling guided me and my footsteps punctuated my journey as I leapt across a gap in the walkway and rolled back into a standing position. It happened again as I was running; my mind wandered, my soul recalled a clear vision from the past. The Sand. I remembered now so clearly as he’d led me away from that room.
“They want me to kill ya,” The man had said. “Ain’t gonna do no such. Maybe they kill both of us, maybe they kill neither of us. Who cares. They call me The Sand. Spose it’s cause a’ where I’m from. Hot scorchy place, hell they called it. They ain’t seen hell, ‘ave they? But you have.”
Did he save me just so I could die here? Was it all a waste?
I was nearing the end of the walkway; it came to an unnatural end just a few feet in front of me, the other side long dissolved through the passage of time. I came to a sudden stop and surveyed the floor below; it was relatively clear of debris but I was far enough up that a drop could cause me to roll an ankle and then I would be as good as dead. Instead, I dropped, taking a seat on the edge and allowed myself to slide forward until I managed to land on a chemical tank below. I easily slid from the top of the curved tank and dropped onto the floor, falling onto my haunches and leaping forward just in time to hear the voices behind me. I’d run fast but they’d reached the factory in minutes; I had to get out of here.
“We know you’re in here!” I heard a voice shout. It wasn’t the voice. Not the familiar one; it was someone else. But there were a lot of them. The bootsteps pelted the ground, polluted the silence. I shot through the remaining tanks and bolted up a mezzanine platform just in time to hear a bullet whiz through the air. It stuck the wall in front of me and my eyes widened for a moment as my hand gripped a metal door handle. I pulled; it didn’t give. I pulled again, and again, and again. Now I could hear footsteps careening toward me up the mezzanine stairs; they were on top of me.
“No, no no,” I pleaded to the air. I was so close.
So close to what?
I pulled again, and again, slapping my palm against the metal surface. Finally, I heard it creak; the sound of metal on metal. Come on, a little more. I pulled again and again, jerking with all my might as the platform shook; the women were coming closer. Is this where I died? Here in this abandoned chemical plant? They would stuff my body in one of the tanks, leave me to rot for all eternity. Then again, maybe they would gloat and rejoice in their kill. Maybe they would show the world. Maybe the world would love it.
I pulled again. The footsteps grew ever closer. Just as the black clad figure reached the precipice of the mezzanine, I managed to jerk the door aside, allowing daylight to penetrate the room. I had no time to think, I blasted through the opening and onto another metal platform hanging a story and a half above the remains of yet another field of chemical tanks. I couldn’t stop. I raced toward a set of stairs, my feet slamming against the
rusted steps, and my stomach lurching as the first one gave way beneath me. I fell, my belly scraped the metal, I felt a sharp pain and I knew that I’d been bled. My hand managed to catch a low hanging step on the way down and my arm jerked straight as I dangled about five feet above a concrete porch.
“I’ve got it!” I heard the voice shout from above. “It fell through the scaffold!”
“Keep it there!” that familiar voice again. Who was that? No time to find out.
I allowed myself to drop, ducking into a roll as I came close to the ground and realizing that it was virtually useless as I’d fallen onto a set of hardcrete steps. I yelped as I rolled, each step smashing into my body until I finally cleared every bump and sprawled across the ground. My body ached and my head swam, the world was darkening.
Keep going. Even if it hurts, keep going.
My dress was torn at the midsection, I laid my palm against bare skin and felt the warmth of my own blood sticky against the lines and curves of my hand. It was covered, painted, sleek with red. I was aware of the pain now, I cried out as I stood up, my first step forward was barely a limp and then another, and another.
“It’s on the move!” the woman shouted. I broke into a full run. I raced between two tanks, a bullet struck the metal beside me, the sound reverberated through the inside of the tank, making it far louder than it should have been. I cried out again and tripped over nothing, stumbled forward and tumbled to the ground. My hand struck a patch of loose rock, I screamed as my skin was lacerated, my palm torn to shreds. I saw a streak of blood against hardcrete, a morbid mural painted at the price of my own body. My vision was white with pain, my knees drooped to the ground. The exhaustion was catching up to me, I didn’t want to keep going. So what if they caught me? What did it matter?
“You just let them catch you, didn’t you?” The Sand’s voice was in my head again.
“Why wouldn’t I? It’s just the same day by day. Make it. Don’t make it. Always the same. Let em’ at me. Let em’ kill me.”