Mevia was transferred to Welling House Orphanage where she found herself drowning among schools of wrecked children, their teary eyes turned up, searching adult faces for their parents. Even though they saw the sickness, smelled the decaying bodies, they were unable to grasp this new world, crying all hours from their bunks.
After a while, the bodies stopped pyramiding, the nukes from Eurasia stopped, and the Sphere went up around the city. The children were told by the head mistresses that the Sphere would save them from the pollution and that they were very lucky to be living in the largest city in the country. “Because now, we don’t have to travel anywhere to try to get into the Sphere, everyone is coming here!” said one of the grinning mistresses in her winged hat and black cape, her teeth smeared with pink lipstick.
Mevia didn’t feel so lucky.
Chapter 20
When she finally awoke, she opened her eyes to a shadow monster, cryptically dancing across the ancient walls in the firelight. It was evening.
Mevia untied herself from the fetal position. Her arms and legs had cramped from squeezing so tightly. She stretched out and rolled over on her back. The new bandages, soaked and anointed with ointment, made a crunchy wet sound. She lay there under the overhead stars, framed by the opening of the cavern.
They reminded Mevia of her first night on island. On the beach, in a cover of growth just off the edge of the jungle, she was curled in a ball over the cool damp ground next to an adolescent palm, ignoring her rumbling belly. The picturesque night sky was poised behind a patchwork of native plants lazily crisscrossing their arms over one another. The heavenly painting that was now her bedtime canopy was alive with fire and diamonds.
When she lived inside the Kradle, she couldn’t see the real sky, and there was no “starry night” programmed into the EcoSolars above the Slags. Sometimes, as a child, she would stand on top of the Welling building and stare across the city-scape. The artificial moon, smooth and white as an egg, flooded the bounds with florescent light. The ersatz stars, pink as a tickle, spread over the city like a backdrop in a stage play. The old Slag buildings looked like wrinkles of rust colored mounds, large and becoming smaller in the distance, ripples in a pond, illuminated by yellow street lights and clouds of devout night bugs swarming among the coronas. The Corporate buildings were tall, stacked, level by level, reigning over the land, totem poles among mushrooms. Shooting up from city center like a redwood, the tallest and grandest of them all was CorMand.
Now that she was outside the Kradle, she preferred the moon’s authentically scarred face.
Mevia sat up in bed. Hanging flirtatiously in the air was the thick, salty scent of roasting meat. Her mouth watered. She moved to the edge of the mattress, daring herself to follow her nose, wishing Sandra was there to escort her outside.
She took a drink from the canteen, and thought about her options—stay or go. In the end, intense hunger overcame fear.
Like a timid stray she tip-toed over to the hole in the side of the rock and stuck in her head. The passage was tall enough for her to walk upright except in one section where it descended and she had to duck.
As she rounded the corner, the cooking smells became stronger and pleasantly overwhelming. There was an ebb and flow of voices chatting lively in bubbly rhythm, the sound predominately bass and tenor. Mevia hesitated, and considered withdrawing back to her bed, but she wasn’t tired. In fact her heart was beating intensely, practically ordering her; Go. Go. Go eat. Go eat.
So she went.
When she stepped out into the open, it was just as she feared; all conversation ceased, and every head turned, their expressions glowing in the campfire. They stared, the bearded faces, their black eyes devouring her every feature. Her knees began to shake and she would have run away if it weren’t for Sandra.
“Are you hungry dear?” Sandra stood up, among the circle. She was smiling and holding up a bowl. Even from where Mevia was standing, still clinging to the cave entrance, she could smell the fat drippings from the pig roasting on the spit.
Mevia looked at everyone again, now realizing that they too were smiling and it wasn’t only men. There were women, long haired and tanned, sitting along the giant logs surrounding the fire.
She and Sandra met halfway. Mevia took the greasy bowl, feeling the heat radiating through. “Here, sit and eat next to me.” Sandra gestured to an empty spot.
Mevia obliged, relieved that the conversation picked up and no one seemed to be paying much attention to her. Perhaps their eyes weren’t so black and menacing as she had thought.
She cradled the bowl in her lap, and ate with a bent spoon, savoring every bite of the delicious new meat she had never tasted until now. She paused just long enough to smile at Sandra. No one had ever offered her pig before.
“It’s a pork roast with potatoes from the garden,” Sandra leaned over and whispered.
“Thank you,” Mevia replied. She wanted to say more, but the words weren’t there. Not yet.
With her head still bent over the bowl Mevia lifted her eyes and surveyed the rest of the group, noting, with relief, that there was no vat of hooch being passed around.
Across the fire there was a petite woman whose brown hair hung in two thick braids. “That’s Telly.” Sandra leaned over.
“Telly,” Mevia repeated. Another real name.
Sandra nodded. “She is a grower, gatherer, and mender. And that man sitting beside her, the one with blonde hair, is Kurt. They are life-mates—exclusive to one another. It is the same as with Thomas and me. We too, are bound.”
“I see.” Mevia nodded. She studied a woman on the other side of Kurt, tall and slender framed. She had brown hair, humidity mussed, with a choppy self-inflicted haircut falling just above her shoulders. She caught Mevia’s eye and they exchanged smiles.
“That’s Dila,” Sandra said. “She is our cook, thatcher and one of the growers. And that’s Cree.” She pointed at the well-built black man sitting next to Dila. “He’s our weatherman, astronomer and fisherman. Before coming here, he was a drone factory worker who had an obsession with pre-Sphere astronomy and weather patterns. He had a stack of illegal literature on the subject, handed down by his grandfather.” She looked up and gestured to the sky. “So, now that he’s here, he gets to learn and observe first hand. Oh and Dila is in a relationship with Cree.” A playful expression fell across Sandra’s face.
“Ok.”
“Along with Wil.”
“Oh?”
“And James, sometimes.”
“I see.”
Sandra ran a finger around the circle as if counting everyone. “You see, sexually, we are an imbalanced group. Dila has the gift to share her love with several different men without creating rivalries or hurt feelings. Our tribe is grateful for her gift.”
Mevia looked at the men, muscular from years of manual labor, and realized that she too was grateful for Dila’s “gift.”
As Mevia ate, especially enjoying the fat drenched potatoes, Sandra listed more names that Mevia knew she wouldn’t remember, but it was the various functions that stuck out: hunter, gatherer, patrol, pottery maker, mender, pharmacist, grower and the sanitizer who made sure everyone’s bathroom needs weren’t polluting the campsite.
“But of course we all rotate and pitch in for that duty,” Sandra added with a wink. Mevia asked Sandra what her job was. A grin spread across her beautifully square face, revealing white, evenly spaced teeth, “I’m the doctor.” She touched Mevia’s ribs with her index finger. “And I recommend for you to eat until you burst because you are probably the skinniest thing I’ve ever seen.” She handed her another bowl full of food.
“Thanks,” was all Mevia could think to say. Her brain wasn’t functioning as quickly as it used to. Would she ever feel like herself?
Herself. Ha. What a laugh. Who was she anyway? She was only a piece of who she was before the island, before the Demonstrations.
“My dear,” Sandra said. “Are there any jobs from
the list that perked your interest?”
Mevia thought, but couldn’t come up with anything. Why was that? They all sounded nice, much nicer than her job on the assembly line back at the drone factory in the Slags. She suspected that many, if not all, sitting here tonight had also worked in drone factories. Most Demonstrators were from the Slags and most Slaggers were from the factories.
“Did you do anything you liked back in…your former life?” Sandra asked.
Mevia looked down at her half eaten meal and thought. Her brain was slow, but she could feel it crawling back to life, rebooting itself.
“Painting,” she finally said, looking up.
Sandra jerked her chin back. “As in art?” She sounded pleasantly surprised.
“Well, you’d call it graffiti. But, yeah. Urban art.”
Sandra studied her. “Were they illegal paintings?”
Mevia nodded.
“Wow. I’m impressed.” By her expression, she wasn’t simply being polite.
Mevia was mostly silent for the remainder of the evening. Every once in a while she asked Sandra a question which she answered quietly enough so as not to draw unwanted attention. Everyone seemed to understand that the new girl would need some time to come out of her shell.
Mevia learned that these people called themselves the Tritons. They referred to the other tribal men as the Poachers, a name she had never heard while in their custody. The Tritons were located about eight miles from the Poachers, hidden in the mountains, at the end of a rocky, hellacious terrain that the Poachers would have no need or desire to explore. Thomas stumbled upon this little sanctuary they called The Clearing years ago, back when he was alone.
Eventually met the others: Wil, Lin and Cree. Together they cleared the land. Today everyone referred to them as the Originals.
Beyond the Clearing was the jungle, full of thick foliage, boasting snarled branches and waist high grass, knotted and barbed. It was the great divide between them and the beach, but the Originals, ripped through Mother Nature’s barricade using only primitive tools. They had to cut for nearly half a mile until they reached the white sand of the ocean’s edge, and from that day forth, they were fishermen.
After Sandra finished her story, Mevia sat quietly listening to the orchestra of conversation. The citizens of the tribe, satisfied from a productive days work, bemused one another over subjects of weather, vegetation, ocean currents and philosophy. Mevia listened intently to this new language. Growing up in the Slags, no one ever talked like this. There was no need to discuss farming practices or make shaky weather predictions. Everyone knew that Monday’s rations were meatloaf and spinach; Tuesday’s were chicken and peas. They knew between seven and five they would be on the assembly lines. There were no questions, no debates, and no uncertainties.
Mevia was so engrossed in the conversation that it took her a long time before she noticed the man staring at her from the other side of the fire. When she met his eye, she furtively looked away. Then when she glanced back up, her cheeks began to burn—he was still staring. She looked down.
She leaned over. “Sandra, who is that guy over there?”
“Which one?”
Mevia checked again, but he was talking to someone. “The thin one with the hook through his ear.”
“Oh, that’s Lin, one of the Originals. He was Poacher before he ran away and met Thomas.”
Mevia studied the way his stringy hair clung against his pale cheekbones. “He was staring.”
Sandra made a face. “Yes, he is a bit…unconventional. But he’s harmless I assure you. Everyone here is a friend.”
Then he turned to Mevia again, his eyes were striking, pale, as if bleached clean of everything except the pupils. He clinched his upper lip, revealing yellowed teeth, his face contorting into either a sniff or a smile. Then he stood and left the camp, retreating to somewhere in the darkness.
They ate in silence for a few minutes until Sandra set down her empty bowl. “Anything more you’d like to ask?”
Mevia swallowed and glanced at the darkened mountainside. “So they know we’re here?”
Sandra considered her question. “The Poachers more or less know our location, yes. But they think we are a flock of starving little birds pecking out a meager existence on this lichen covered rock, so they have no interest in bothering us.” She paused. “Most importantly,” she added, lifting a finger, “they don’t know we have women.”
“Do they know you have me?” Suddenly Mevia needed to go to the bathroom.
Sandra waved her head side to side like she was weighing the possibility. “After you fell down that hill, Kurt and Lin, who were out hunting—much further out than normal, I might add—grabbed you and hid among the bushes until that Poacher left.”
Mevia looked away from the fire which now seemed less of a comfort and more like a signal to predators.
Sandra placed a hand on her quivering knee. “Not to worry dear child. We have someone on patrol at all times. Right now James and Henny are up top keeping watch. You’ll meet them tomorrow, and besides, we have spears. Knives. And of course, we are well hidden.” She removed her hand and lightly pushed the bowl closer to Mevia’s lips. “Eat. Tomorrow I’ll show you how we grow food. In fact, you can try different tasks until you find one that suits you. How does that sound?”
“That sounds nice,” Mevia replied. It would certainly be interesting to see how real gardening was done rather than just growing vegetables off Eli’s apartment balcony.
“Good!” Sandra grinned. “I hope you feel safe here.”
Mevia didn’t answer. She believed what Sandra had said about being well hidden, but the part that bothered her was the way she proudly stated that the Tritons had spears and knives, which meant none of them understood what they were up against.
Her sleep that night was categorized in minutes, not hours.
She awoke at one point with an image of Eli, still floating before her eyes. Had she been dreaming of him? Maybe so, but she couldn’t remember exactly. She gazed up at the new set of stars dazzling through the ancient telescope of the rocks. She pictured Eli, far away in the GovCorps, high up in an apartment in CorMand. She didn’t know for a fact, but she was sure CorMand was where he ended up. Was it foolish to still wonder if he was looking for her?
Chapter 21
Eli
After Eli collected his credentials from the guards along the main exit gate of CorMand, he stuffed them in his pocket and waited for the bullet proof glass to slide open. He tried not to look at any of the officers for fear his intentions would show. Instead he gazed up as if admiring the twenty foot grey stone wall that wrapped around CorMand and found himself wondering who it was they were trying to keep out.
The red light on the overhead frame came on and the glass door, as thick as a mattress, slid open, bringing in a chilly night wind that lifted Eli’s hair off his damp forehead.
Eli walked out and made a left. He tried to keep his stride casual. Maybe he was paranoid, but he swore he felt the guards watching as he walked down the cracked, uneven sidewalks, the pavement glowing ominously in the silver blue street lights.
As he passed the furthest edge of the rampart, it dawned on him; maybe the wall was there to keep people in.
Although it wasn’t illegal to be outside one’s Corp at this hour, it was, however abnormal. He was surprised that when the guard looked into his bony, pale face and dark rimmed eyes he bought his story about going over to the Sander-Corps Condominiums to work on a project. “Why not take the tunnel-train?” The guard had asked.
“I just feel like getting outside,” Eli replied meekly, positive he was going to be turned down.
But they permitted his exit—possibly his level of security clearance had sealed any doubts.
Further down the street he made a right at the Medi-Corps wall, nearly ten feet taller with barbed wire and electric fencing. Then, once he was sure he was out of sight he doubled back and went the opposite direction, not want
ing the guards to see him heading toward his real destination: Skunk Alley.
Hungry and nervous, his stomach clanged against his ribs, turbulent and restless. There was a metallic taste on the tip of his tongue.
He ducked his head and marched on.
When he first heard about the place he didn’t believe it was real. “Why would the GovCorps allow an illegal drug operation to exist?” Eli asked a bleary eyed Rex one evening he was dragged out to the clubs, tagging along with his wasted cohorts.
In response, Rex grinned and leaned his head back until his shaggy red hair touched his shoulders. When he brought his head up he was laughing as if Eli told a hilarious joke. “Because man, where do you think all the high ups get their shit from?”
Eli shouted over the music. “You mean to tell me that management buys drugs from the dealers in Skunk Alley?”
Rex still held the grin but he frowned as though Eli showed up a day late for Christmas. “Well, yeah. Management, Lieutenants, Execs. They might send their lackeys to do the exchange but, sure as sugar, they’re the ones smokin’ it!”
Eli walked faster, keeping his hands shoved deep in his pockets. He slipped in between two abandoned buildings, keeping an ear open for a PoDrone but, so far, there was no sign of them. Perhaps Rex was right. Maybe the dealers were under some miasma of protection from the GovCorps.
Eli touched his credit card, secure in his jacket pocket. Rex had assured him they would accept it. “Most people use a temporary, you know, Throw Aways. They don’t want their deals a permanent record on their hand chip.”
Eli wasn’t too worried about anyone looking at his transaction record, even Villus. Besides, all Eli would have to do is break into his account and change the information.
After fifteen minutes of snaking through the villainous streets, he stopped being concerned with PoDrones, and grew more apprehensive about losing his way. It was a common source of amusement for Mevia how he was always getting lost, even back home in the Slags. She never understood how he could memorize thousands of lines of code or recall a series of access numbers from a decade before, but when it came to North vs. South, he was always upside down.
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