Alarum (Walking Shadows Book 1)

by Talis Jones

  I smile at my backpack and give Darth Vader a high-five before swinging it onto my back. Hungry I make my way towards Daddy but something catches my eye. I turn and see a patch of pretty wildflowers in the distance. Thinking of Momma I decide to go get them. Momma still doesn’t smile.

  Weaving between the clusters of tents that Daddy tells me is home (I don’t like it so I still call Pennsylvania home) I move my little legs towards the flowers. They’re yellow and I heard Momma say once that yellow is a happy color. I don’t really like yellow but if yellow makes her happy then I’ll pick every yellow flower I can find. And I do just that. Bending down I pick all four.

  Ready to go back I notice another patch of flowers and another. I go to each one and pick every last stem. Looking around I notice that I’ve wandered pretty far and I don’t wanna get lost but then I see another group of flowers and these are purple and Momma said that purple is the color of love…or I think she said that. I race over to pick them all and then happy with my fist full of pretty flowers I skip back “home.”

  A loud crack stops my feet and I look around. Yelling starts pounding in my ears and I feel scared again. Clenching my flowers tight I tiptoe through the trees until I see everyone gathered in a group. The kids sit on one side and the grown-ups kneel on the other. A bunch of scary men stand between them. One of the men is shouting but I don’t understand him or maybe my ears just don’t wanna understand him. Suddenly my Momma sees me and she smiles like she couldn’t help it.

  Momma is smiling. I wave my fist of flowers triumphantly because Momma is smiling.

  The shouting man stops shouting and sees Momma looking at me.

  I don’t blink. I don’t wanna stop seeing my Momma smiling at me but a loud crack splits the air and suddenly my Momma is sprawled in the dirt. She’s still smiling even as red spills down her shirt and stains the earth. My little fist drops all the flowers I’d gathered but I barely notice because my Daddy starts crying really hard and then suddenly he’s lying in the dirt too.

  Their blood swirls into the mud like the batter for a red velvet cake.

  I don’t blink.

  I don’t blink but my whole body shudders and a sound rattles in my chest like window shutters that broke free of their latches in a storm, beating against the walls and threatening to rip free from their hinges. Something in my chest wants to rip free and get sucked up in a hurricane but it can’t and I won’t let it and I pretend to be brave and I won’t ever eat red velvet cupcakes ever again. Not even on my birthday.

  Men climb the short hill to where I hide in the woods and one with hairy arms picks me up but I don’t fight. They sit me down hard on the ground next to the other kids and the shouting man keeps shouting but I just keep waiting for my parents to pop back up. I don’t want to know what I know. I close my eyes to try and forget what I don’t want to know but all I can see is my parents covered in bright red blood and my Momma’s face still smiling.

  Red like melting lipstick, like party balloons, like warm mittens, like Rudolph’s nose, like lava, like pretty barns, like lollipops, like baseballs, like sunsets, like magic shoes, like the angry angry sun in the sky that took away my home and my school and my friends and my parents and my Momma’s smile.

  I don’t like the color red anymore.

  I wish I’d never gone to get those flowers.

  I really don’t like the color red anymore.

  CHAPTER 5

  It’s laundry day. Again.

  Standing up I ignore the mud on my dress where I’d kneeled by the creek for what felt like the thousandth time. It’s hard to tell how time goes by when you don’t have anything to look forward to, any goals to reach. Each day trickles so slowly until suddenly you blink and can’t believe night has passed and it’s already a new day. The monotony is what kills me. It’s also what tells me I’m safe. I hate it. I crave it. I fear it.

  Heaving the heavy basket against my hip I walk carefully to the clothesline strung between two trees beside the house. One by one I shake out the wet garments with a sharp snap and hang them up to dry in the sun. I’m almost halfway through when I see Katya coming towards me with Maurene trailing behind. Katya is eighteen and is my favorite living person. She ignores me like Kody but sometimes when no one’s around she’ll sneak me a snack. Last time it was a few crunchy honey bites from a breakfast cereal box a roamer traded in town.

  Maurene is the reason my face sours. She’s only a year older than me but she hates me even more than Lizbeth, which I never understood why seeing as I’m the reason neither of them have to do almost any work anymore.

  “Mom needs you to help her with something inside,” Katya tells me. Although her looks are dark and rough her voice is soft as silk. I give the plate in her hands a quick glance that I hope goes unnoticed.

  Maurene takes a cracker smeared with jelly from the plate her sister is holding and pops it in her mouth nodding while her eyes scheme quickly.

  Hanging up one of Hans’ shirts I give a sharp nod. “I need to finish hanging up the laundry or they’ll get wrinkled but I’ll go inside as soon as I finish,” I promise calmly.

  “Now Vizsla,” sneers Maurene. Like a flash she swings her hand up knocking the plate of crackers where they land as if guided by the hand of a cruel ghost right into the middle of the laundry basket smearing jelly on all the fresh clothes.

  Katya backhands her sister before snatching up the fallen plate and striding back inside without a word. Maurene hisses at me before following. I look down and stare at the ruined clothes as the jelly clots like thick cold blood. I still don’t like the color red.

  With a sigh I drag the basket back to the stream and work hurriedly to soak and scrub the soiled garments before any stain can set its claws into the fabric. Knowing that even if Katya explains what Maurene has done, Lizbeth will grow angrier with every second I take to show up in the house. With that thought I rush through the rest of the work and when the last pair of underwear is hung I race to the house stumbling inside sweaty and out of breath. I gasp for air and fight to compose myself.

  As expected Lizbeth is wound and ready to pop the moment my hand opens the door. I stand, eyes averted, and let my mind float nearby to remain calm. I didn’t really hear what she hurled at me but I believe there were some rather unsavory words tossed into the mix. Finally deflated of her tirade she grabs my arm and throws me into the kitchen.

  Monotony is what kills me. I wish one day something would be different. But change is a gamble. So every day that plays out the same is a gift.

  I notice a pack of dark blue candles on the counter. Miles’ birthday is today. Suddenly his absence all day makes sense and I can’t believe I’d forgotten. He must have gone hunting with Hans and Kody in celebration. Miles is Maurene’s twin, just as pushy and self-entitled as Maurene is mean. It wouldn’t matter so much if his attentions hadn’t taken a recent shift towards me.

  Change is a gamble.

  A simple cake stands pert and ready as I turn off the stove and mash the potatoes, hurrying to finish dinner. The front door slams open and shut as the sounds of bodies fill the house, booming voices follow as they stomp their boots to shake off the day’s dust. As I scrape the potatoes from the pot into a wide bowl I feel a pair of eyes watching me closely. Turning slowly I recognize the stupid blue-tipped boots Miles always wears.

  “Happy birthday,” I manage breezily.

  Smiling cockily he swings his wide frame into the small kitchen and slams a rabbit onto the counter causing the dishes to rattle. “We’re having rabbit for dinner,” he announces proudly.

  Is he serious? “I’ve already made—”

  “I don’t care what you made,” he growls petulantly. “We’re having rabbit.”

  Hans appears behind his son. “What’s wrong, son?”

  “Vizsla here refuses to cook my rabbit,” he explains gruffly.

  Hans turns his beady eyes onto me. “Now why’s that, huh?”

  “I’ve already cooked the di
nner I was instructed to prepare and there is no time to cook Miles’ rabbit,” I explain letting a little bit of annoyance seep into my voice.

  At this Master Hans leans in with a dangerous look in his eye when Kody joins us in the cramped kitchen. “What’s the hold up? We’re hungry out here.” He casts a warning glance in my direction and I know Lizbeth must be fuming.

  “This bitch won’t cook my damn rabbit,” Miles spits. I could hardly believe him. Sixteen years old and still acting like a pathetic whiny brat.

  “Damn right she won’t,” Kody retorts. “Dinner is done and it’s time for eating. Now come on.”

  Miles looks at his dad but Hans is busy sniffing the ready meal and seems to vote in favor of eating sooner rather than later. Shuffling his large patriarchal frame out the room he leaves Miles standing there stubborn and a bit betrayed. “I shot this rabbit—”

  “And you should’ve shot it sooner if you wanted it for dinner,” Kody snaps. With a calloused hand he shoves his brother out of the kitchen and follows him without another word.

  I snatch up the bowls of food and arrange them in the middle of the table. The moment they touch the surface the whole family descends upon them like starving wolves. I eat what the others got but I shovel it down quickly in the kitchen. If it were up to Lizbeth I probably wouldn’t get but what the pigs got. Thankfully Hans didn’t want his money wasted and knew that food would make me last longer.

  When I return with the heavy plate of cake Katya has removed some of the empty dishes and holds them out for me to take back into the kitchen. As I disappear I hear Miles and stop abruptly. A chill whispers over my skin.

  “I want her to eat with us,” he declares. Lizbeth looks like she's about to choke on her forkful of cake but he pushes on. “It’s my birthday and so she’s gonna sit with us.”

  Hiding by the sink I wait as I hear chairs scrape against the floor to make room for one more. Kody appears and shakes his head. “Well come on,” he grunts. “Grab a plate and come on.”

  Slowly I creep out from the kitchen with a small fork and dish in my hands. That same sharp whistle that his mother loves summons me to the seat between Miles and Lizbeth. Plopping down warily into the offered chair Miles snatches the plate out of my hands and slaps a slice of the sweet confection I’d baked on it before handing it back. No one pays me any mind except Lizbeth who looks like she might strain her eyeballs trying to keep one on her plate and the other trained on me.

  I take my fork and scoop a bite into my mouth. I always steal a taste of the batter but this tasted good. I give myself a mental pat on the back in congratulations before every nerve in my body freezes like a deer in headlights. Miles has the audacity to place his hand on my knee.

  His grubby greedy hand.

  A hand I would gladly shake and double-cross with a sweet evil grin and a laugh in my soul.

  I glance sideways at him but he keeps on eating like nothing’s amiss so I keep on eating unsure of quite what to do. With each bite his hand slides up further causing my cotton dress to ride up with each stroke. Clenching my fork between my fingers with the strength of Thor I waited.

  Bang!

  Miles let out a pathetic high-pitched yelp of pain as he whips his hand away from me. When his hand had reached far enough up my leg I waited for the down stroke and thrust my knee up against the table jamming his bony hand between my leg and the wooden table edge crushing it as hard as I could. I keep eating my cake tilting my eyebrows up slightly in a face of innocent surprise.

  Maurene snickers at her brother and Katya’s narrowed eyes look at us shrewdly. Lizbeth’s mouth puckers up angrily but Kody speaks up in a voice so sharp she doesn’t get a word out.

  Hero once told me that people are the most predictable unpredictable creatures God ever made. Or maybe it was the other way around? It doesn’t matter. I wish his voice would stop popping up in my mind. It’s like having a jolly mailman show up at your door to deliver a surprise package only to have the box weep until it disintegrates between your fingers and you’re left holding nothing but a soggy name and memories that burn your hands red red red…

  “Wash the dishes, Vizsla,” he orders and I jump up quick to obey and be gone.

  I mentioned before how washing dishes is one of those calming monotonous activities that lets your mind spiral and bounce in all sorts of meandering directions, didn’t I? You’ve seen how I lie down and take my masters’ abuse like a rug in front of a door, haven’t you? Well maybe that’s just because I’m lost. What do you do when all the happiness is gone? Most people try and fill it with something else like anger or determination and they find strength in that, but when I was drained empty I just stayed that way.

  I wasn’t equipped for this world.

  I had a vial of adrenaline and a knapsack of dreams and with every year that blew by another hope was plucked from my pockets, pinched from my purse, slipped from my bag. When my last hope was ripped from my rib cage I fell to my knees deflated and empty.

  I curled up and cried.

  I have nothing left to offer and I’m too tired to ask for anything more. But still I keep breathing no matter how hard I try.

  And with robotic monotony I wash the dishes and loosen the tether on my thoughts.

  CHAPTER 6

  9 YEARS AGO

  Still six years old, but almost seven, I sit wedged in tight with a bunch of kids I don’t know inside the back of a box truck. Only eight of us came from the place Daddy called home but the truck is almost full now. The scary men that took us drove all the way from our camp in Indiana to someplace they called the Corral in Tennessee, picking up more and more kids along the way.

  The drive was long. The bumpy roads really hurt my bones. The food they gave us didn’t fill my belly. And the crying of the others kept me awake so that I felt like I was wading through a nightmare as thick as the ocean. And I really wanted this to be a nightmare. I pushed my glasses back up my slippery nose and wrapped my arms around my middle as I tried really hard not to cry. It’s been days and days and I haven’t cried yet and I didn’t want to. I don’t want to. I tried really hard not to, you need to know that I tried really hard. I was quiet, I was fast, and I wanted to be brave. But then a tear escapes and I cry. A lot.

  The truck lurches to a stop and I wonder where we are. The truck doors bang open and shut followed by the crunch of gravel beneath heavy footsteps that grow louder, nearer, and with every noise my stomach grows heavier. My palms are sweating a lot so I wipe them on my sticky pants. Suddenly the screech of metal scrapes my ears as the door slides open and I have to blink a lot because the sun outside is so bright it makes my eyes cry again even though I told them not to.

  One man slithers to the front of his posse and stands there tall with one thumb hooked around his front belt loop, staring us all down. A dirty purple bandana circles his neck and it bobs as he chews a toothpick. Those dark dusty eyes pass across mine and I recoil. I don’t like him and I don’t think he likes us. Not one bit.

  “Welcome to the Tennessee Corral,” he grins. “I’m the boss here and you’re my prized herd.”

  A boy with long skinny limbs, but wearing a better brave face than I, raises his hand. “What do you want us for?” he asks with only the slightest quiver in his voice.

  The boss eyes him for a minute before taking the toothpick from his mouth and flicking it at the kid. “The world has changed, kids,” he laughs. “You gotta get your foot in the door or you’ll end up as pawns for those who did.” He leans an arm against the side of the door opening and scratches his nose with his thumb. “Here’s a little thing I learned in business school: find the demand and be the first to fill it. If there isn’t a demand then make one, and then be the first to fill it. You kids are gonna be the demand, and I’m gonna be the first guy to fill it.”

  The same lanky boy speaks up again and I’m glad he does because I don’t know how to ask questions right now. My voice is gone, not just quiet but hiding somewhere and afraid to com
e out like a turtle tucked tight in its shell. “What would people want a bunch of kids for?”

  Once more a smile lights the boss’ face and he beats the door with two thumps of his fist. “Ask history, kid.” With that he steps back and raises his arm giving a casual twirl with two fingers as he lets out a bright whistle from his dry lips.

  At once the other men crowd the truck and start dragging us out of the box bed. Most are still too scared or confused or maybe just too smart to protest but a few start crying and clinging to anything to stay inside. The crying makes the men angry though so I try really hard not to. I’m too scared to move at all.

  “I don’t wanna go! I don’t wanna go!”

  I watch wide-eyed as a little boy with soft brown hair puts up the beginnings of a tantrum. He backs up against the back wall of the truck and starts stomping his little feet.

  A big beefy man jumps into the truck in response and snatches one of the little boy’s arms and starts dragging him out. But the boy isn’t giving up and he pulls as hard as he can against the man’s grip then with one almighty yank he’s flung out of the truck bed striking the rocky dirt. Something in me moves my feet and I inch towards the opening to see him. His big blue eyes stare right back at me. He doesn’t blink.

  Someone grabs me by my backpack and hoists me to the ground. I fall to my knees as he tears my bag from my shoulders but I don’t even try to get it back. I really don’t like the color red anymore.

  The sun shines bright overhead and I turn my neck trying to see where we are. Nothing but dried up land with stumpy buildings for crooked teeth stare back at me. We’re all lined up and one by one we step into one of the smaller gray and brick buildings. When it’s my turn I nearly collapse because there’s a dentist chair and a man holding a scary needle thing. I hate going to the doctor. Or the dentist.

  “Climb on up,” instructs the man with salt and pepper hair. He sounds tired. I really don’t wanna get near him but I don’t want him to get mad either so I make my shoes take one, two, three, four, five, six steps and then climb up onto the squishy plastic chair.