by Anthology
“Hey Sara. Were you serious about wanting to fly?”
Sara feels jolted. Kaye’s eyes are opaque on hers.
“What do you mean?” Her heartbeat quickens. Kaye smiles and looks out their window.
“You get to decide. Are you going to be good when you leave here? Are you going to turn out all right? You could, you know. You could. There’s no need to stop trying.” She stands and stretches, then clasps her hands over her stomach meaningfully. “But not me. I don’t get to pick. I never get to say I’m good. I can try, but I’m powerless against my hunger. I mean, we all need to eat sometimes, right?”
Sara swallows. Her saliva sticks in her throat. She isn’t afraid of Kaye. Kaye is her friend. Her gorgeous, crazy, baby-eating, compulsively lying friend.
Kaye crosses the room, lightning quick, until she is standing before Sara. The setting sun turns her face a weird shade of orange. She crouches down so that she’s level with Sara, stretched on her bed.
“You know,” she says, face contorting, like she’s holding back tears. “I’m getting hungry. I’m going to need to feed soon. Promise me something. We’re friends, right, Sara?”
Sara pauses, maybe too long, before nodding. Then, to increase her conviction: “Yeah. Of course.”
“When I feed—promise me that you won’t care. You can just—sleep. It doesn’t really change anything. I’ve always been this way, you know? And all you girls—” she shakes her head, stops herself. “You do that for me, I’ll let you fly for one night. It’s nicer here than in Manila. It’s cooler.” She pats the top of Sara’s head. Which is funny, because she’s shorter than Sara.
“What do you think?” she asks. “I can fly, you know. I’m pretty fucking great at it.”
Sara thinks of falling, of landing on the pavement and hearing her shoulder shatter, seeing her own blood streak out past her vision. Her mother sobbing by her bed at the hospital, saying I can’t do this anymore, honey. It has to stop. And after being released, how she’d had no idea, how the van had come one day, and in a haze of anti-depressants she’d stepped onboard. She’d come here.
If Kaye could fly—hold her, dance her through the air—she’d be able to see. If it’s safe to go back. If she’s tired of being this way, at least for now.
But more than that, Kaye just wants her to pretend everything’s fine. She can do that. She’s had a lot of practice.
She reaches up and puts her hand on top of Kaye’s, not feeling scared or threatened or awed. Just tired. Bonesucked tired. She squeezes Kaye’s hand and says, “Okay.”
***
Your tongue settles on her stomach, and you start feeding, sucking greedily. You’re starving, and it tastes so fucking delicious. The woman squirms, and the child next to her utters a short, soft moan. You don’t want this. You do.
***
Sara wakes up sweating. It’s sometime past midnight? It’s too early. She needs to go back to sleep. She shuts her eyes. The sound of her breathing is too loud. She decides to get a glass of water and stumbles out of bed, bumping into something in the middle of the floor. She falls backwards, landing on her ass.
The window is open, the metal fastenings they installed after some girl attempted escape somehow undone. A cloudy moonbeam streams through it, illuminating the lower half of Kaye’s torso and her legs, her feet still in their slippers. It is standing erect, perfectly immobile, like someone sliced a girl in half and left it there for fun. The insides are shimmering, grisly, unreal.
Sara crawls back under her sheets and goes to sleep. Sometime later something slides in next to her, nudging for space on her pillow. Something wraps its arms around Sara and puts its forehead against the small of Sara’s back. Sara smells blood mixed with the faint tinge of—mango?—and after a moment’s hesitation, she holds those arms against her. The back of her shirt grows damp with what might be tears.
***
When you’re finished, when you’ve shriveled up everything inside her stomach so that your own is full, you spool your tongue back into your mouth and breathe deeply. The horizon tells you that you have about an hour before the sun rises. That’s just enough time to head home, rejoin your lower half, shuffle back into bed. Good girls don’t get caught with babies in their bellies; good girls don’t lie; good girls don’t sneak out wearing only their boyfriends’ shirts.
You know what you are; you know what you aren’t.
***
In their twentieth session, Apple says they’ve all been exceedingly Good Girls, and they’re going to be moving on the following week. The girls have demonstrated that they’ve absorbed the values of the retreat and are ready to rejoin the good world. Once Admin gets their paperwork done, the Captains do their sign-offs, and the discussion leaders file their reports—the girls will be free.
“You get to go back home,” Kaye says, while they’re packing.
“So do you,” Sara says, but she’s suddenly not sure.
Kaye flashes her teeth, feral. “I told you, girl, I don’t have one. I go where the wind takes me!” She flings out her arms, dramatically, and flops backwards on her bed. “This was nice,” she says. “Even when it sucked it was okay. I should hang out with girls more. They don’t want as much from you as guys do. I can stay full for longer! Girls are like fiber.”
Sara doesn’t like the wistful tone in Kaye’s voice. Sara doesn’t like how her own heart squeezes, or how lonely she feels. How afraid she is of going home to find—but no, it’ll be okay. She’s different now. She’s going to do better.
You get to decide, Kaye said. It’s not that easy. But she can try. Some girls will break their promises, lose their homes, keep on rattling against the gates, biting and sobbing and breathing. Sara, if she wants to, can change.
Kaye rolls over on her bed, arm covering her eyes. She lifts it to peer at Sara. “I still owe you. How about tonight?”
***
You’ve never detached with someone watching. You’re so fascinated by her gaze on you that you hardly notice the pain. Sara’s big blue eyes are an excellent mirror—how there are stringy bits when you twist off, how the way your spine tears from sinew is fluid, almost graceful. Your shirt is short this time so she sees your entrails hanging out, nearly glowing with all the slick against them.
To her credit, Sara doesn’t vomit. You move slowly over to the window, keeping your wings folded, and undo the latches with your knifelike fingers. You drift out and motion for her to stand on the desk. She climbs up, shakily, and says, “Can you really carry me?”
You like to think your smile, at least, is familiar—even if the pointed tongue between your teeth isn’t.
“Yeah,” you say. “Trust me.” This is you: this is your life, the strength that fills you as you fly, feed, move on. Spanning provinces, cities, countries, continents. Finding new homes to leave, new bodies to keep you warm when you’re not hungry, new strangers to suck dry when you are. And you’ll keep on doing this, as long as you can make it back in time. Before the sun rises, or someone finds the parts you’ve left behind—something must always be left behind.
This is how you survive.
Sara will get to go home. You’ll just have to find a new one.
“You ready?” The trees are crowding out most of the wind, but you can still taste the breeze, drifting over the dormitories where so many girls are sleeping like wolves, retreating from the world. Just waiting to bare their fangs.
Sara nods. You can’t read her expression—like she’s about to scream or laugh or cry. You squeeze her hand as hard as you can without hurting her, and spread your wings.
Jo Zebedee
http://www.jozebedee.com
Inish Carraig(Novel excerpt)
by Jo Zebedee
CHAPTER ONE
John got up from the bed as quietly as he could, making Stuart stir before settling again with his thumb stuck in his mouth. John paused—he should probably take it out. Their mother had said, to the day she died, that only babies sucked t
heir thumbs. He didn’t, not wanting to disturb the boy, but gently wrapped their Da’s winter coat closer around his brother, tugging at a loose piece of the furred lining until it came away. He straightened, shivering. Rain fell steadily through the hole in the ceiling, but at least the room was safe. Well, as safe as anywhere in Belfast.
“ ’Night, Stuart.” John tiptoed to the door and pulled it closed behind him. It was no warmer in the hall, but the roof was intact and the floor dry. He crossed to the window and looked out over the city. All was quiet under the curfew. The only thing moving was a cat crossing the yard below. It padded carefully, keeping its distance, and no wonder: there were a few recipes for cat stew doing the rounds. Further away, on the lough, the sewage farms’ floodlights lit up the night skyline. A low anger started, and he found his fists clenching. He bet the aliens’ kids didn’t wake up freezing and hungry, like his wee brother and sister did. A door closed and he turned to see Josey coming out of the girls’ room.
“Is Sophie asleep?” he asked.
She nodded, and she looked tired and older than her thirteen years, her face wan, her blonde hair lank and dirty. “Yeah.”
“Stuart’s settled, but he was asking for his night-light again. You’re sure there’s nothing we could take batteries out of?”
“No, I checked everything I could think of.”
“I told him he had the moon instead." He half-smiled at the silver lining of a hole in the roof. "I’ll keep an eye out for batteries. I have to go out and see what I can scrounge, anyway.”
“If you could get some sort of heater, it’d be good,” said Josey. Her voice didn’t hold out much hope.
“I’ll see what I can find.” He brightened. “I could nick a barbecue.”
“We could get some furniture from downstairs. The kitchen table is wood.”
“Maybe. I’ll see if I can get a barbie first.”
“Okay.” Her voice was small and he put his arm around her, feeling how thin she was through her fleece. She’d lost so much weight it worried him. He pushed the thought away; it was no more than he’d lost, and there was nothing more sinister behind it than hunger. He let go and climbed onto the window ledge. “You know the drill: if anyone comes near the house, the three of you get under cover, right? Don’t come out until I’m back.”
She nodded, her eyes resigned to his nightly instruction. He put his hands onto the wall at each side, bracing himself for the jump down.
“John?”
Her quiet voice stopped him. “Yeah?”
“Be careful. And stay away from McDowell—he’s dangerous.”
John didn’t reply. McDowell was dangerous. He was also the person with the best access to food, medicine and water in North Belfast. All of which they needed. He took a deep breath and jumped onto the flat roof below. He stepped onto the wall of the yard and ran along, his arms out for balance. At the end, he climbed down the iron supports Da had put in. Christ, he wished his da was here and in charge.
The sound of flapping made him jump and press against the wall, heart somewhere in his throat. A ripped poster opposite caught in the wind, and he relaxed. Nothing but the usual promises of food-drops, hospitals, reopened schools….
A lot of shite. His old school was a dent in the ground, the only upside of the invasion. The hospital, shut down in the war, hadn’t reopened. There were rumours—good rumours, too, from different sources—that the cops and army were working with the aliens now, and things were about to get better. His mouth pulled into a sneer. He'd believe it when he saw it. The Earth-Committee leaders, pulled from the governments that had made it through the invasion, might have time to drag their feet: they weren’t starving their arses off in the ruins of Belfast. It didn’t matter a damn to him that working with the Galactic Council meant liaising with the Zelo, or the never-seen Barath’na, it just mattered that someone, somewhere, turned up with some food. And a roof, that’d be good.
“ ‘Supporting Earth to a better future’,” he muttered, straightening. “There was nothing wrong with it before the bastards invaded.”
He hugged the wall until he reached the end of the back lane, and darted across to a wider alley, the first of a series. The authorities could say what they liked about the war being over. He was taking no chances until someone proved it.
A hand slapped down on his shoulder. “Got you!”
John reached for his knife, but stopped at a laugh. He croaked, “Taz, you bastard.”
“McDowell wants us,” said Taz, his voice hushed. His jacket was denim, not nearly thick enough. He hunched into it, so the only parts visible were his nose and dark eyes. His clothes were clean and well patched, though, proof of having a mum who took care of such things. John swallowed a sharp wrench of jealousy. He was nearly sixteen, he shouldn't be yearning after his mum. He put his hands in his pockets and slouched. “Why?”
“He says he has a job, and we’ll get food if we do it.”
“Christ, for that I’d take on a Zelotyr patrol single-handed.”
“Yeah, right.”
They stopped where the alley opened onto a courtyard, once part of the council’s sports-ground where he’d tried out for the first team. Da had stood on the touchline, screaming for John to get the ball over the line. His celebrations when the try had been allowed had almost got him thrown out for incitement. Now, the courtyard was weed-strewn and garbage-clad, and his da six months dead.
“Get back.” Taz grabbed him, and they pressed against the wall as a platoon of soldiers crossed. Human, not Zelo—the lack of stench told him that. Not that it made any difference. They’d still lift him and Taz for curfew violation.
The platoon left the courtyard, and John ran across, through a hole in the fencing, and down the final alley skirting the playing field. Taz, quick and wiry, soon passed him. They reached the rubbled remains of the peace wall. John smiled as he stepped through the gap; it was easier getting across the city now the Zelo had trashed it. He relaxed as they entered his old estate and passed the gable end mural. Its slogan, We’ll fight for Ulster, had been replaced with the promise to do the same for Earth since he’d last been here.
“Let’s hope it’s only McDowell,” said Taz as they reached McDowell’s familiar terraced house.
“Oh, Junior will be here. His da isn’t taking a piss these days without him in attendance.”
“Just keep your distance if he is,” said Taz. “Don’t rise to him—that’s what he wants.”
“Okay.” Taz was right, but John hated Gary McDowell knowing his business. The latch turned, and he put his shoulders back. If the cost of a meal was toadying up to Gary, so be it. He’d kick a few walls on the way home to feel better.
“All right, lads. You took your time.” It wasn’t Gary, but Demos, one of his cronies.
“Patrol,” muttered John, eyeing Demos’ fat belly hanging over his trousers. He'd no problem getting food, evidently. His own stomach clenched, but he stood straight and waited while Demos made a show of checking were they to come in, all the time holding a pistol by his side. After a few moments, they were led into a room off the hall, where a group of men were gathered close to a fire. The men turned, their eyes more dangerous than any soldier's.
“You wanted us,” said John, keeping his voice steady.
“Aye.” McDowell stood, his tall, rangy frame dwarfing John. A scar, running from his left eye to his ear, stood out against his skin. His badge of honour, he called it, given to him by a Zelotyr he’d fought with an iron bar and balls of solid rock. The sort of balls that earned so much street respect John’s hands shook, and he had to stick them in his pockets to hide it.
“John Dray and Taz Delaney, I’ll make a deal with you,” said McDowell.
John swallowed and hoped his voice held. “Go on, then.”
McDowell didn’t answer, and John made sure to stand straight. He focused on McDowell’s leather jacket—it may be battered, but it was thick and warm. On his wrist, a designer watch could be seen.
The silence stretched until Taz drew in a loud breath, making John want to thump him and tell him how to face someone like McDowell: by embracing whatever he issued and coming back for more, knowing you’d either grow or die from it, until you were strong enough to protect your own. He glanced at Taz, decided his friend was in danger of passing out, and said, “All right, what can we do for you?”
“Good lad, right to the heart of it. When you’ve got a bit of flesh around your scrawn, you’ll go far.”
John fought the urge to smile. It wasn’t the first time McDowell had hinted he might take him on. He looked at McDowell’s boots—new, thick soles, real leather—and down at his own trainers, their uppers parting from the sole. His mouth went wet and spiky with desire, but he didn’t say anything. Stay cool, like it’s just another job…
McDowell reached into his jacket, and John held his breath. Weapons? He’d done his first delivery across town about three weeks ago, and had been terrified: not just for himself, but for Josey and the kids if he got lifted. The payment for it had been a coat for Sophie, though.
McDowell brought out a tin box, just small enough to fit into his inside pocket. He held it up, displaying it. “You can take yourselves to the top of the Cave Hill and open this,” he said. “Give it a shake, make sure you empty out what’s in it. If you do, and come back to me, I’ll see you get some food.” His eyes narrowed, and he nodded at John. “Maybe some fresh fruit for wee Sophie and Stuart?”
The boys exchanged glances. That was it? John took the box and stuck it in his pocket.
McDowell went back to where he had been sitting, popped a beer and nodded to the door. “Best get going, boys.”
They backed out and headed up the street, onto the bottom of the Cave Hill. They followed the path up the hill, and the stench from the sewage farms hit John, even worse this high up. He pulled his scarf off and tied it so it covered his nose.