The girl’s attempts to cry out cease. She stills as an animal in the wild does when caught in the crosshairs of a predator. Her eyes, round like saucers, are filled with tears. And fear. She nods.
Slowly, I remove my hand. I stare at her with a gaze as hard and unyielding as stone. “Who are you people?” I demand, referencing the shaved head and white robe she and the others like her wear. “And why are you here, roaming freely on Urthmen property?”
“W-What do you mean?” she asks with a look of bewilderment that sets the fine hairs of my body on end.
“I mean you’re human, and here,” I say as I try to connect the two details in my brain. “Walking around unguarded with Urthmen. The very Urthmen who just slaughtered our kind.” My eyes search hers for answers. For clarification. What I saw didn’t make sense.
The look of terror and bewilderment fades and is replaced by an air of self-importance. The transformation is disturbing. The way her expression shifts from fright to composure that borders arrogance sets me on edge. It’s as if her emotions have been reset. As if she’s programmed to shut down, recalibrate and react accordingly. “They didn’t slaughter my kind,” she replies. Haughty derision sparkles in the depths of her glacial gaze. As pale and cold as ice over water, her blue eyes are frosty as they skim me from head to toe.
Bristling at her demeanor as well as her words, I reply sharply, “What does that mean? You’re human, just as we are.”
“Hardly,” she says with that contempt-filled tone again. Her chin notches and she draws her shoulders back as if she is a regal queen seated on a throne and not a young woman with an arrow armed at her heart. “The humans killed were savages. Savage humans that were the enemy of our leader, King Cadogan.” Gone is the girl who looked as though she’d faint from fear seconds ago. She smirks, her expression so smug and self-satisfied I want nothing more than to slap it from her face.
“Savage humans?” I unsheathe my blade. Seething, a burning pit of anger blazes to life in my gut, blistering up and down my limbs and ending as a conflagration in my brain.
“Do we look like savages?” June demands angrily.
The girl rakes her eyes over June, first taking in the bow and arrow then studying the filthy clothes she wears. She does the same to me, ending with my blade. Her act manages to make me feel exposed. Bare and ashamed as if I’m naked and on display. I’ve never felt ashamed of who I am or how I am in the past. Yet the way she examines me causes my cheeks to burn with humiliation.
“Yes, you do,” the girl answers. Only this time she does so without arrogance. She says it plainly. I realize that her simple answer only adds to the feeling of embarrassment.
Shame scalds from my collar to my crown. Yes, at the moment, June and I appear savage I suppose. We are dirty. Our clothes are tattered. Our hair is messy. Trekking through the Great Forest was not an easy feat. And our weapons are drawn on her as an act of self-preservation. They’re a compulsory component of our lives. Of our survival. Without them, we’re vulnerable. We become prey. I should’ve remembered that. Should have remembered what my father always told me. He told me to always have at least one weapon on hand. Had I heeded his warning and insisted that my people did the same, they’d be alive now, I’m sure. Their deaths have an unreal feel to them. A nightmarish feel. I only wish I could wake from it and find them alive. But I can’t. What’s happened is all too real. The girl’s cavalier attitude toward them and their deaths causes hot tendrils of anger to snap through my veins.
Abandoning any embarrassment, I no longer care what she thinks. As it turns out, I haven’t been savage enough thus far. That changes here and now.
“Maybe I am a savage.” I shrug and look her dead in the eyes. “And you and your people are slaves serving a murderer,” I hiss.
Shaking her head adamantly, the girl says, “We are not slaves and King Cadogan is not a murderer. He is a great man.”
“A great man?” June asks incredulously. “That great man ordered the deaths of thousands of innocent people. That’s a great man to you?”
The girl doesn’t hesitate or miss a beat. Seemingly oblivious of or flagrantly disregarding June and I, she says, “The people killed posed a threat to his reign. The King couldn’t allow that. They were dangerous people and needed to be dealt with.”
“Dealt with?” June fairly shouts. Then to me, she says through gritted teeth, “I’m putting an arrow through her left eye now.” She raises her loaded bow a fraction of an inch, training it on the girl’s eye.
The girl flinches, covering her face with both hands as if that would save her from June’s deadly aim. Her overconfidence has fled. The stink of urine fills the room and a puddle forms at the girl’s feet.
“Don’t bother trying to cover your face,” I advise. “It’s no use. If June wants you dead, you’ll be dead,” I say with the calm of a coiled snake. “The only thing standing between you and that arrow lodged in your left eye is me.” I point to the loaded arrow.
The girl swallows hard then nods.
“June, please don’t shoot her in the eye,” I smile and say to my sister. June’s stony gaze vacillates between the girl and me. Reluctantly, June lowers her loaded bow. “Thank you, June,” I say. Then to the girl, I ask, “What is it you do here?”
Trembling so hard her entire body shakes visibly, she replies, “W-we serve our leader and his army.”
“Do you receive anything for your service?” I continue.
She looks at me, lower lip quivering, as if wondering whether I’ve asked her a trick question. “N-no,” she answers with hesitance.
“Then you are a slave,” I say slowly, enunciating each word.
“B-but, we are not,” the girl whines. “We aren’t humans who are born in the wild. We’re bred humans.”
“Bred humans?” My voice is as flat as the expression on my face feels.
The girl looks from June to me. “Yes. B-bred Humans,” she repeats. “Our parents were hand-picked by King Cadogan, s-selected to breed children to serve him.” She tips her chin, tears streaming down her cheek. “It is an honor.”
I am nauseated at her words and the pride expressed in her last sentence. It is an honor. How absurd! An honor to be slave to an Urthman!
I lick the front of my teeth then swallow before I say. “Is branding you like an animal an honor?” I point to the mark on her forehead. Stories handed down from generation to generation tell of a time long ago, in a time before war, when humans weren’t an endangered species and Urthmen didn’t exist. Then, animals were owned by people for various purposes. They were branded to show that ownership, much like this King Cadogan has branded his human collection.
“It is an honor,” she repeats. Though her voice is strained by emotion, it still resonates with pride.
I look over my shoulder at June. “How has this been going on for decades—before the peace—and we never knew about it? How did it happen right under our noses?” I wonder aloud. “How was Prince Garan unaware of it?”
June shakes her head and blows a forceful stream of air from between pursed lips. “He must’ve known,” she says.
“King Garan and his son were never allowed in Elian,” the girl chimes in.
June and I whip our heads in her direction. “How could the Urthmen King not be allowed in Elian? He reigned over all Urthmen cities,” June says.
The girl shakes her head. “He was never the rightful King. King Cadogan always was. He’s always been the true King.”
“I can’t decide whether you’re delusional or just plain stupid,” June replies.
“Do you realize that your King is going to execute small children today? Human children?” I ask, hoping that somewhere within her brainwashed mind she possesses emotions. Sympathy. Empathy. Compassion. Some of the basic tenets that link all of humanity.
“They are savages and traitors,” she answers.
Pouncing on her, the levee that held my avalanche of rage at bay breaks. I sheathe my blade and clasp
both hands around the slender column of her neck. I squeeze hard, feeling the violence of my tightening grip as it increases in pressure.
“They are not savages, and they are not pathetic slaves like you,” I snarl through teeth clenched so hard the enamel of my molars grinds. “Slaves who aren't even smart enough to know they are slaves.”
“It’s an honor to serve my King,” she rasps. It’s as if the answer is preprogramed inside of her.
Her words only incense me. Enraging me further.
I squeeze harder.
The girl’s face reddens, quickly deepening in color to an unhealthy magenta. A small vein in her forehead bulges, protruding in a zigzag shape and resembling a lightning bold. Eyes bulging, she flails her arms feebly.
“So you would watch the murder of children today—my children—and it won't bother you? That is how you serve your King?” I snarl the words, my voice foreign to my own ears. The girl is shrouded in crimson. My vision is awash in scarlet. All I see is red. Anger has claimed me. She doesn’t care that my babies will be murdered in cold blood. Innocent children who never harmed a single living creature.
“Avery!” June calls out. “What’re you doing?”
Teetering on the brink of a great precipice, June’s voice draws me back, pulling me away from plunging into a swirling abyss of madness.
“Don’t do it,” she says. “Don’t do it.” She comes close so that I can see her face. “We need information. She knows when and where the execution will take place,” June reminds me.
My entire body trembles. This fear and pain I carry has gotten the better of me. Pushed me past my bounds. The slaughter of my people and the guilt I feel over it. Riley, Lark, Oliver and Prince Garan gone. Likely dead. Sully, William and John missing and now about to be executed. It’s more than I can handle. Looking down at the girl’s face, which has transformed from magenta to an oxygen-deprived violet hue, I realize that my sister is right. The girl is useless to me dead. Useless to Sully and my boys. Slowly, I ease off, lessening my grip.
Gasping and grateful, the girl takes several labored breaths when my hands fall away from her neck. Each one is a wheezing rasp. “We have to watch the execution.” She can barely manage to get the words out. “We are serving our King this morning.”
I stare at her.
“Food and drink,” she says, her voice hoarse. The whites of her eyes are red and deep bruises have formed crescents beneath her eyes.
“When?” I demand.
“A few hours from now. Nine,” she replies. “Nine o’clock.” She points to a dial in the window. With markings for each hour of daylight, as the sun moves across the sky, another part of the sundial casts a shadow on the markings. The position of the shadow shows what time it is. It is six o’clock in the morning.
I unsheathe my sword once again and, after a quick glance at June, I use the butt of it to knock the girl over the head. She falls to the ground, likely knocked unconscious by a combination of the force of the blow and the lack of oxygen from being choked.
June scans the room. “The robe,” she says. “Remove it and we’ll cut it into strips so we can tie her up.”
“But we’ll need it,” I say.
June and I look around the space, studying the layout. Pulse hammering against my temples, a door along the wall jumps out at me. Racing to it, I yank the door open wide and find three additional robes. We cut one up and bind the girl’s hands and feet before gagging her. Once she’s been secured, I lift her arms and June lifts her feet. Together, we place her inside the closet, remove the two remaining robes and close the door. A wooden chair near her straw bed is leaned so that the back of it is wedged beneath the handle.
With the girl barricaded inside the closet, I sheathe my sword and remove the dagger from the holder at my ankle. In the far corner of the room is a fixed basin with a water supply spigot and drain. A rectangular reflective piece of glass sits above it, anchored to the wall. Using my dagger, I begin cutting my hair.
Gripping clumps of my long, thick, golden-hued curls, I hack, sawing the sharp blade from side to side until a tangle of tendrils falls to the ground. I repeat this process, slicing until the length of my hair has been shorn, leaving only short, twisted sprigs on my scalp.
Watching me at first, June understands what I intend to do. By the time I spot the straight, razor-sharp blade on the side of the basin below the reflective glass and begin shaving my head, June has already cut more than half of her hair. When my head is smooth, she begins shaving hers as well.
Pulling two of June’s arrows from the quiver at her back, I start a small fire, using our hair as kindling to ignite the sparks that result from the friction of the wooden arrows rubbing together. Once the hair catches fire, I snap an arrow in half and add it to the growing flame. The back end catches fire before long. I extinguish it, blowing it our quickly so that the tip glows a brilliant amber color. With it glowing red-hot, I mark my forehead with a ringed “c”. The pain is excruciating. My flesh bubbles under the intense heat, blistering and turning an angry pink. June is next. I repeat the process, marking her forehead as I have marked my own. She does not wince or cry. She is left with the same crude mark I bear.
Looking in the mirror, she says, “If anyone looks closely they’ll be able to tell. They’ll figure it out.” She frowns, a line forming and creasing between her brows. And while she is unrecognizable without her hair, her gorgeous face takes center stage. Her expression is intense and determined as she steps away from the looking glass and strips out of her clothes. She slips into a robe, but not before arming herself with her bow and arrows beneath her draping garment. The long, bell-shaped sleeves conceal both easily.
“If anyone is close enough to examine our marks, we’ll have bigger problems than them noticing that ours look different,” I reply.
“True,” June replies. The welted brand on her forehead is considerable. “If we keep our heads low, we may have a chance.” Her fingertips graze the raised mark and she flinches. The movement is so slight and fleeting I’d have missed it if I blinked. But I didn’t. I saw it. Seeing June wince in pain, no matter how quickly, pains me. I’ve caused her—and everyone else—enough pain already. I’ve caused death. The brand she now wears etched in her skin may not be the final injury she incurs because of me. She could lose her life. My hand flies to my chest at the thought of losing her. It hovers over the twisting ache. I’d gladly surrender my life for my children, Sully or June. I don’t want to live in a world without them in it. They are my world. No matter where we go or what we do, as long as we have each other, we have reason to go on. Reason to fight.
In a moment of pure emotion, I grab my sister about her shoulders. Pulling her close, I embrace her tightly. “I love you, Junebug.” I call her a nickname I haven’t used in many years. I don’t care that she’s grown now and I don’t care that we’re standing on the second floor of a building teeming with bred humans who’ve been brainwashed to dislike us as much as the Urthmen do. She needs to know. We have now. Right now. We are not promised tomorrow, or even five minutes from now.
“I love you, too,” she says.
I hug her tightly for a moment.
“What’s all this about?” She holds me at arm’s length and searches my eyes for answers.
Tears blur my vision unexpectedly. They spill over my lower lashes and I swipe them away. “I just wanted you to know,” is all I can manage to say.
“I do know. You show me. Every day.”
“Good.” I nod. Knowing that I show her is the closest I’ve come to feeling relief of any kind since the Anniversary of Peace Celebration. The massacre. I’m about to say as much when a commotion is heard beyond our door. A rumble of footfalls and a cacophony of Urthmen and human voices echoes from the hallway. The second I hear it, the realization that it’s time to go to my children’s highly anticipated execution settles over me in an icy tide of paralyzing panic. The right half of my face tingles. The sensation ripples, spreading from m
y cheek to my hairline in lacy, numbing waves until it extends down my right arm. When June opens the door and I see a wave of billowing, gauzy robes pass, flanked by Urthmen clad in khaki uniform clothing, my heart beats so hard and so fast I can barely catch my breath. But collapsing is not an option. Especially not when John, William and Sully’s lives are at stake. With legs that feel like lead, I join the ranks leading toward the staircase. June and I fall in step with everyone, careful to keep our heads low. We join them unnoticed and make our way down the steps to the lower level.
Urthmen lead the way, shepherding us toward the Town Center. Eyes cast to the ground, I only allow my gaze to lift once we exit the building from the rear and traverse a grassy area. Once past the grassy square, we follow a paved path of smooth, gray stone. On either side of us, Urthmen have gathered, lining the way. Chanting and shouting, they pump their fists and curse. The excitement among them is palpable. They scream and cry out and cheer, the sound growing louder as we approach. They demand violence. They demand blood. The blood of my family.
We continue along the path until we reach an enormous structure of pale stone. Bone-hued and directly ahead of us, it more closely resembles a shell of a building rather that a building itself, for it is a single wall essentially. Unique in shape and unlike any I have seen thus far, the wall curves, stretching backward so that we have a clear view of the entire interior section. Perhaps the building had been circular at one time, but now what remains is a half circle, open to us. Along the arc of the wall, bench-like seats have been built. They’re tiered, the lowest level closest to the ground. With each ascending level, the seats are farther back so that each one has a clear view as they rise to a fourth level. Urthmen have begun filing in and fill the seats. They mill about and chatter. The swell of their voices is like a rolling ocean tide, tossing and pitching my emotions in a nauseatingly steep rise and fall.
Extinction_Planet Urth Page 19