by Keri Lake
“Target practice.”
“Can’t do that shit inside the wall, with some tin cans?”
“Tin cans don’t walk around, Denny. Or chase after me.”
“You’re a tough one, Wren.” He pats the door of the truck. “But you’re killing me. Because a’you, I gotta stand out here in this shit heat.”
“You’d be standing out here whether I fed them, or not.”
His shrug turns into a nod. “All these damn rebel attacks. Hittin’ too close to home. Lost a half dozen Legion last week.”
I don’t bother to tell him that Legion soldiers are the bad guys out in the Deadlands. And even if the rebels have grown increasingly hostile, they don’t hold a candle to the cruelty inflicted by our own.
Men like Denny believe the lies and propaganda fed to them on their silver spoons, though. I’m nothing but a voice on the wind, so for now, I keep up the farce, for Papa’s sake. For the sake of finding a cure that will perhaps bring an end to the division between the civil and the savages.
“Well, good thing we have you guarding the place.”
With a roll of his eyes, he shakes his head. “Get the fuck outta here.” He waves at the guard in the watchtower, and the wall moves, allowing me passage back inside Szolen.
Once inside the wall, my muscles instantly tense. Out there, I’m surviving. But I am in here, too. Every day is an act, a charade I put on for Papa.
Following their rules, swallowing their lies.
Cars pass me on the main strip, where manmade patches of green grass and flowers give the illusion that I’ve stepped into another world. To the right of me, children, no different than the ones outside the wall, play kick ball and dangle from monkey bars on a community playground. Tall buildings line either side of the road, arranged in a way that makes it look like a small downtown, complete with a marquis that hangs above a theater, where old movies are played during the day.
From what I understand, it won’t be long before we’ll have electricity at night, with streetlights and restaurants open later than dusk.
It’s not right.
While most would kill to live here, I find it all utterly depressing. An everlasting façade.
Maybe that makes me crazy. In fact, I’m sure any one of the people here would consider me bat-shit for wanting to venture outside of the wall.
Guess I just prefer to live life with my eyes open.
I park the truck alongside a curb and grab my satchel of goods. On the other side of a row of buildings, the lot opens to small tents lining either side of narrow paths that’re filled with people.
The market.
Our population has doubled in the last few years, as more people learn about the community. They come from all over the country to live here. Some have tried to emulate this place, seizing the few solar panel farms scattered about, but they just don’t have the resources, or manpower, to construct a fortress like Szolen—which existed long before the outbreak.
Weaving through the crowd, I make my way to one of the tents toward the back. Jessie smiles when she sees me, wearing her wide brimmed farmer’s hat and worn jeans, with a sleeveless flannel cut off above a dull tattoo. She’s pushing seventy, but her spirit keeps her young, in spite of her wrinkles. At her neck are three different leather chokers, each with a charm hanging off a small loop of silver. I think she might have some native in her, with long graying hair and slightly wider nose.
I’ve always thought her to be a stunning woman for her age. Maybe it’s just because she’s real. She doesn’t hide behind a mask, like the other women here. With Jessie, what you see is what you get.
“Well, look what the wind blew in.”
Spread across the table is a variety of jewelry, herbs in small poultices, and bars of scented soap—all things she makes herself. A second table holds all variety of fruit and vegetables from her garden.
“How goes it, Jess?” I slide my pack from my shoulder to relieve the weight.
“You been out in the Deadlands again, I see.”
With an unwitting smile, I nod. “How’d you know?”
She leans in, glancing around, and raises a brow. “You look happy as a pig in shit.”
I laugh at that, slipping my hand into the bag, and pull out the bird I shot earlier, handing it off to her. “I need some soap.”
“Oh, well.” She accepts the dead bird and nabs a bag from under the table that she tosses it into. “That’s a fine bird. You take whatever you need, sweet cheeks. Got a new scent you might want to check out. Sandalwood mint. That handsome Pops of yours might like it.” She winks, and I smile at the indirect flirtations she typically passes along through me. Jessie’s had a thing for Papa for a while now, but he’s so damn stubborn, he’s ignored her for the most part.
“I suppose I could forego the lavender this time.”
“Take both. And pick out a necklace. Your neck is looking bare, child.” She shuffles off toward a woman standing alongside the herbs with her three children.
My smile widens, and I nod, directing my attention down to the leather chokers she’s laid out in rows. I hold one made of brown leather, with an attached bird charm to my throat, clasping it behind my neck.
“Hello, Wren.”
Rolling my eyes, I sigh to find Damian Shaw standing beside the vegetables, in his casual clothes, holding a tomato.
Bastard wouldn’t dare throw it at me now. Not when half the town, including Damian, considers me some kind of wild mountain woman for venturing beyond the wall. Two years ago, he joined The Legion and, just like the rest of the assholes, thinks he’s the answer to every woman’s prayers. Perhaps he is to most of the girls, who fawn all over the Legion soldiers like they’re some kind of status ticket.
It’s becoming more common to see them walking around without their full uniform, some opting for civilian clothes when not on duty, so I’m guessing Damian’s on R&R, or something.
“Choker looks good on you. So would my hands.” The grin stretching his face brings a frown to mine.
Arrogant prick. “I just puked a little in my mouth.”
“You know I’ve always had a thing for you.”
I know. The man makes a point to come on to me every chance he gets.
“You have a thing for everyone,” I say, lifting the bars of lavender and sandalwood soap and tucking them into my bag. “You’d fuck that tomato, if you weren’t already trying to get into my pants.”
Setting the tomato back with the others, he rounds the table, coming to a stop way too close to me.
I back up, and he leans in. This peacock dance is getting old, the way he struts around trying to get my attention. So many other girls, stupid enough to play his game, and he wastes his time with me.
“C’mon. Meet me in the back of this building. Just one yank, yeah?”
Ugh. About a year ago, I indulged this bullshit by jacking him off in the backseat of his father’s car, and he’s been pining for more ever since.
“No, thanks. Been there before.” I wave to Jessie, signaling my leave, but the grip of my shoulder halts me in my tracks.
No one touches me without asking.
Glancing down at his hand and back to him prompts him to release me, and he backs away, lifting both hands in the air, as if in surrender.
“I know you don’t like touch. I’m sorry.” Setting his palm against the table, he leans in again, nuzzling his face in my neck, completely ignoring my warning. “I need your hands on me, though. I’d fuck you, if you let me, but all I’m asking for is one yank. Please, Wren.”
“Why me? Why don’t you find some pretty little hen to corrupt?”
His teeth nip my earlobe, and with a grimace, I jerk my head away. “Because you’re not like the other girls. You’re wild. And hard. Unbreakable.”
Biting my lip, I exhale a sigh through my nose. “One yank, and you’ll leave me alone?”
“Oh, yeah, baby. You don’t like what you see and you can walk away.”
�
��I’ve already seen it. And walked away before.”
His breath against my neck flinches my muscles. “I’m harder than last time. Been jacking off to thoughts of your sweet pussy.”
“You’ve never seen my pussy, so how does that work?”
“Oh, I’m certain it’s as pretty as that face. And those tits. And that tight ass of yours.”
“If we’re going to do this, lets make it quick.” I let him take the lead, following behind as I slip my hand into the pocket of my bag. Two bulging leather balls slide past my fingertips, as we round the corner of the building into a tight alley, where trashcans sit lined against the brick wall. Once out of sight, Damian backs himself deeper into the alley and unfastens his pants, pushing them to just below his balls, letting his erect cock stand up from his zipper.
Back to the wall behind him, he strokes himself in front of me, wearing a smug grin that I’d like to smack right off his face. “Imagine this up inside you, Wren. You need a man. You’re an ornery bitch who needs to get laid.”
My blood flares at that, and I clutch the leather bolas sitting in my palm. “I’m sure your wife would appreciate that, Damian.”
“What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.” He jerks his head toward me. “Show me your tits.”
“That wasn’t part of the deal.”
“Fuck the deal. I want to see your tits.” His jaw hangs open as he ups the pace of his strokes.
I glance down at my shirt, where the laced strings of my sleeveless, brown leather top offer just a peek of the cleavage behind it. My breasts have grown fuller in the months I’ve been hunting meat, adding more curves to my boyish figure of before. In teasing, I slip the lacing out, one hole at a time, widening the gap.
“That’s it,” he says on a forced breath.
Licking my lips, I offer a wily smile.
In the next breath, I toss one of the bolas so it winds around his throat, while still holding the other end in my hand. The leather-wrapped stone coils three times, and his hands shoot to his neck as he drops to his knees.
With the end of the bolas in my grasp, I lean into him. “Was that one yank? Or two?”
He chokes an answer, eyes wide as his face turns an unhealthy shade of red.
“Let him go.” The voice from behind skates down my spine, and I turn to see Albert Ericsson, fully dressed in uniform, standing at the mouth of the alley.
Snarling my lip, I snap my attention back to Damian and unwind the thin woven band digging into his gullet.
He falls forward, coughing between heaving breaths. “Fucking bitch!”
I tuck the bolas into my bag and tromp through the alley toward Albert. As I attempt to pass, he steps in my path, his arm shooting out to block me.
“If you like back alley fucks, perhaps you might join the Daughters.”
The Daughters are a group of women, hand-picked by Szolen himself, to recruit talent into the community, like some sacred prostitution gang. Their method is no secret, venturing out into the Deadlands with The Legion guards, and luring the uninfected prospects with the one thing that happens to be as scarce as food. They wear frilly dresses and live in the Villas, along with all the other uppity assholes, and sick as it is, many parents hope their daughters will one day be one of the chosen, just as they wish their sons to become Legion. To secure themselves within Szolen’s fucked up fabric.
“I’d rather consume my own piss and shit for the rest of my life than become a slave in a dress.”
“Watch yourself, Wren. That old man of yours isn’t going to be around forever to protect you. Soon, you’ll be alone. Vulnerable. Desperate.”
“Go to hell,” I say, shoving his arm out of my way, and head for the truck.
Unlike Damian, Albert isn’t married to anyone but the Legion. What was once a hellion of a kid, getting into trouble with his friends, has turned into a stiff and humorless guard dog. Admittedly, he’s one person in this community that gives me the creeps, and he’s had it in for me ever since the day he attacked me.
The Ericssons are the only crack in my armor. The only part of my life that feels out of my control—a string that flits around my head, taunting me to grab hold, but I don’t want to because of the truth that lies at the end of it. It was Ericsson Senior who first yanked at my innocence, and his son Ivan, Albert’s older brother, who tore it out of my hands completely.
Thankfully, the two of them are rarely seen on this side of the wall, so it’s only Albert’s occasional acts of intimidation, and his bouts of punch-worthy gloating for having stolen the only thing in the world powerful enough to penetrate my stony heart.
Six.
I can’t even say his name in thought without the chasing ache. It was because of him that I finally learned the secrets Papa had been hiding for a good three years of my life. Memories I repressed.
I learned that my hive, in particular, had been targeted for the raids, based on it’s proximity to an old Indian reservation. The prion that caused the widespread outbreak had been harvested from the soil there, and taken to an underground lab, where it was placed into a virus to be used as a biological weapon. According to Papa, it’s the distant descendants of those natives who carry the alpha gene, along with the pheromones that allow them to walk amongst the Ragers.
None of the boys from my hive survived.
Papa still works in the lab, though much of his study is carried out at home now, due to the debilitating effects of the illness, which he’s managed to keep at bay with daily injections of the antibodies. Unfortunately, the prion changes the surface of the virus, making it nearly impossible to find a cure.
And so I wait for the day he slips into Stage Two of the illness and can no longer remember who I am. At that point, I vowed to kill him myself.
Arriving home, I park the truck in the driveway and pause before exiting. Out across the sky, pillars of smoke billow upward, off in the distance, and as the knots of guilt twist in my stomach, and I have to look away.
Sometimes, I feel like the rest of the ignorant bastards in this place who refuse to see them. They refuse to believe, or accept, that innocent people are being hurt and tortured just beyond their perfect little existence. People who didn’t ask to be removed from their families and murdered. The Szolen community views them as savages, animals. Uncivilized, and unworthy of compassion. To them, they are the monsters, no different from the Ragers, simply because they’re carriers of the Dredge.
But there is no monster more terrifying than the human being who lacks compassion.
I was a savage, before I was assimilated into the Szolen way of life. Now I’m just a prisoner trapped in their mindset. The savages disgust them because they represent a terrifying reality. Without these walls, they’d be one of them. Dirty. Starving. Infected. Struggling to survive in a harsh world.
If not for Papa, secretly toiling away on a cure in one of the only facilities left standing in this part of the country, if not the world, I’d send a fiery cocktail over that wall and burn the place down myself. He’s worked too hard, though, and his time is running out. He says he’s close, but I fear the only thing he approaches with any certainty is death.
I enter the house, storing the bird away in the refrigerator meat-box to keep it cold. After turning the temperature down in preparation for lights out, I make my way toward Papa’s study.
With a knock, I swing the door open to find his head against the desk and a string of blood dangling from his lips.
“Papa!”
I rush forward, dropping to my knees, and shake him, until his eyes flip open and he sits up from the desktop.
“Oh, God, you scared me. I thought you were ... ” Dead. I stroke my hand along his arm to release some of the panic still coursing through my blood. “Are you all right? You’re burning up!”
With the back of his hand, he wipes the blood from his lips and covers his mouth in time to capture a horrific bark of a cough into the tissue crumpled in his palm. When he pulls it away, speckles of b
lood dot the white paper.
“C’mon. You need to lie down.” I slip my arms beneath his and tug him to a stand. “I’ll start a cool bath.”
He stumbles, hanging off of me, until we reach the couch in his office that’s become his bed for the last six months. “Wren, I think it’s time.”
“I think you’re full of shit,” I counter, lying him down against the cushion. I cross the room to the small fridge, throw back the door, and search through the many syringes, looking for the ones not already pre-packaged. The ones with handwritten labels. “Where’s the antibody?”
“I stopped using it.” Another cough throws him upright, and he slams the tissue to his face once more. “How ‘bout you find me a syringe full of cyanide, instead? That’ll cure it.”
“Stop.” It’s an inside joke between us, but one I don’t find funny. “And what do you mean you stopped using it?” My voice carries a combination of irritation and panic. “When?”
“A month ago. I can’t … keep up with the mutations. The proteins are constantly changing.”
“So, what are you saying? There’s no cure? You’re … you’re just gonna lie down and die?”
“Thought I’d smoke a damn good cigar first.”
I scowl back at him, wishing he’d quit with the jokes.
He waves me over to him, and I kneel down at his side. “You’re the cure, Wren. It’s taken me a while to understand and accept it.”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“Your generation. You possess some level of resistance. However variable. Your bodies have changed, evolved with the organism. This world doesn’t belong to us anymore. It belongs to you.”
Tears fill my eyes, and I frown, casting my gaze away from his. “You’re giving up. All these years and …”
“I’m not giving up. I’m moving on. A better place, right?”
“Than this?” I say sarcastically, swiping at my eyes.
His chuckle slips into another cough, and he covers his face again. “I could find a cure, and they’d exploit it. Use it against others. Play God. This place is all that protects them from what they fail to see beyond the wall. Let them stay trapped here. You, on the other hand, weren’t meant for this place. You were meant to venture beyond that wall. To see the world.”