Bloodcrier: The Complete Two-Book Series

by Richard Denoncourt

  A set of double doors opened at the end of the corridor. She glanced over to see her friend, a fellow nurse, shuffling toward her.

  “Annabel,” her friend said. “Are you cold?”

  “Hi, Susan,” Annabel said, her attention shifting back to the infant, the only one in a room full of empty cribs—a room which, hopefully, would soon be full. “A little, I guess. Blood sugar must be low.”

  “Here.”

  Susan pulled a chocolate bar—purchased, no doubt, from one of the facility’s many vending machines—from her pocket. Annabel accepted it with a smile. “I’ll eat it in a bit,” she said. “Thank you.” She slipped it into her pocket for later.

  Both nurses studied the incubator and the tiny person squirming inside.

  “How many people had to die for us to have him?” Annabel said. “Do you ever wonder?”

  She could feel Susan’s frown—could almost sense her friend’s unease as if by telepathic means. But Annabel was no ment, thank God. It was just her intuition, nothing else.

  “The cameras,” Susan whispered, nudging her.

  Annabel glanced over her shoulder. The camera perched by the ceiling resembled some sort of electronic vulture. She’d heard rumors about disrespectful employees who had been caught on tape, their punishment a trip to the surface, after which they were never heard from again.

  For some reason, she simply didn’t care about the risk.

  Once more, the baby became the focus of her attention. He was so beautiful. At only four months old, his pale skin was so thin she could make out tiny blue veins beneath the surface. Born prematurely, he’d been in his mother’s belly less than eight weeks before they pulled him out and stuffed him into a machine.

  “Poor kiddo,” she said. “He’ll spend the rest of his life under these cameras.”

  “I suppose.” Susan paused, then breathed out in frustration. “Shouldn’t we be getting back? Our shift’s almost over.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Come on.” Susan waved Annabel along. “Let’s get some breakfast.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  Annabel hugged herself again, eyes on the infant, unable to pull herself away. This was the first time she’d seen the baby after her transfer from the older children’s ward. Presumably, with more babies on the way, they would need all the help they could get in neonatal.

  “He’s so precious,” Annabel said.

  Susan cast her gaze around in obvious discomfort. Leaning in close to Annabel’s ear, she spoke in a whisper.

  “Do you think he’ll try to come for the baby? The father, I mean.”

  Annabel gave a light shrug. “We’ll see.”

  The double doors swung open with a heavy thump. Annabel and Susan whirled in time to see Director Jonas Kole, only nephew to the One President, emerge into the corridor, backed by two men in caps and uniforms who carried black rifles as long as their arms. A fourth man—this one elderly and dressed in pale blue, a doctor the nurses instantly recognized—pushed a wheelchair in which a bald girl sat hunched, vapidly taking in her surroundings. The girl was little more than skin and bone, and she resembled a ghost more than she did a child.

  Susan let out a squeak of terror. Annabel kept silent.

  “Your shift is over, ladies,” the doctor said. She had only ever seen Medical Chief Yorin Otor in pictures. Always sour-looking and preternaturally alert, he tended to the Kole family and was their most trusted adviser on all health-related matters. In person, he seemed even harder and more intimidating, like a frowning wax sculpture with a bomb hidden beneath its glossy surface. “May I ask what you’re doing here?”

  As the doctor spoke, Director Jonas Kole narrowed his bespectacled eyes at the nurses. He was a tall, slender man with shoulders he seemed to draw inward, as if he, too, feared the underground facility might collapse on top of everyone. With his slitted eyes, narrow chin, and jet-black hair, which he kept combed straight back, he might have been handsome were it not for the purplish birthmark staining the right side of his face.

  “While you’re here,” he said in a breathy voice, narrowing his eyes even more, “might you ladies impart a bit of advice?”

  “Of course, Director Kole,” Susan said.

  Annabel remained silent, feeling slightly more at ease. She wasn’t sure why, but the refined nature of the director’s words and accent, and the way he bobbed lightly on his feet as he spoke, made her feel as though she were speaking to a quirky young professor back at the academy, rather than one of the most powerful men in the nation.

  “If we were to add, oh, let’s just say…twenty, thirty more babies to this ward, how many nurses as remarkably capable as the two of you should a man in my position be inclined to hire in addition?”

  “Between fourteen and twenty-two,” Annabel said. She’d been thinking about this exact situation. “Depending on the numbers mentioned. That way there is at least one of us for every three children on each twelve-hour shift. There are four of us on the team already, so a more conservative estimate would be between ten and eighteen.”

  “Very specific,” Director Kole said with a slow nod of approval. “What is your name, young lady?”

  Annabel blushed. The man was in his late twenties, which made her at least ten, if not fifteen, years his senior.

  “Annabel, sir.”

  “Annabel.” He dipped slightly, as if inclined to bow at the presence of a woman he found impressive. “Congratulations. You’ve been promoted to team leader. You will assist in the selection of your fellow nurses.”

  Annabel studied the little girl in the wheelchair, who’d been silently watching the entire time. She resembled a baby bird, pale and featherless, her eyes sagging with what appeared to be exhaustion, boredom, or both.

  A ment. She’s one of them…

  The director must have sensed Annabel’s curiosity. “Don’t mind little Petra,” he said, smiling down at the girl, who could not have been older than five. “She was born this way. Very sickly. But we kept her alive because of her incredible potential. You see, she’s my blocker. My shield.” He tapped the side of his forehead, continuing to grin down at the girl. “She keeps the bad men out of my head.”

  The little girl barely noticed him. She kept her sleepy eyes trained on Annabel, who struggled to say her next words.

  “I must decline the position, sir, though I’m very grateful for your consideration. I’m not cut out for leadership.”

  Jonas approached her, the sharp features of his face softening. Susan gaped in utter disbelief as the director gently placed a hand on Annabel’s shoulder.

  “That’s exactly why I like you. I wasn’t cut out for leadership either. The other children always thought I was awkward, too reserved, too smart for my own good. But times are changing, and the war is about to take a turn. The mild and the humble will find themselves shouldering much of the responsibility—much of the burden—if only so we can protect our little republic from being undone by those who deem themselves to be like gods.”

  Annabel was speechless.

  Those who deem themselves to be like gods.

  Was he talking about Michael Cairne? Or maybe his own uncle?

  “Then… yes, I accept.”

  She bowed slightly. Jonas Kole removed his hand from her shoulder, then winked.

  “Very well. I’ll leave you two to finish up your shift. Report back here in twelve hours. We’ve got a neonatal ward to build. How exciting!”

  With his hands joined behind his back—again resembling an awkward young professor Annabel couldn’t help but like—he and his posse headed toward the doors of the neonatal care unit, probably to spend some time with the infant locked inside.

  Suddenly gleeful, Susan grabbed Annabel’s shoulders and planted a kiss on her cheek. “Congratulations, Anna! Oh, if only we had a bottle of wine to celebrate. Come on, let’s go have breakfast and tell the others.”

  On their way out, Annabel glanced once more at the baby in the incubator.
Susan had already disappeared through the doors, but Annabel craved one more moment with the tiny boy.

  Inside his plastic bubble, he raised tiny fists the color of pale rose petals and began to bawl. At the foot of the incubator, his name was displayed in bold lettering.

  CAIRNE, AARON.

  Something shifted. A shadow flickered at the edge of Annabel’s field of vision. She spun around.

  “Hello? Who’s there?”

  40

  The crowd gathered in the outdoor arena.

  They were glad to be past the checkpoints, away from the bomb-sniffing dogs that snapped at their legs. It was cold outside. The light drained from an overcast sky, muddling their shadows.

  Ahead of the crowd, the stage on which Harris Kole was set to appear looked tiny beneath an enormous screen displaying a digital version of the People’s Republic flag. The flag was as big as a house and loomed over its people, rippling in a recorded breeze, its emblem crisp and proud.

  It was the nation’s fiftieth anniversary. Tonight, Harris Kole would wish another fifty years of prosperous socialism upon them, under his benevolent leadership.

  Trumpets blared from a dozen tower speakers. The nation’s anthem began to play, enhanced by the recorded chanting of an orchestra in the background. The people sang. Many older citizens broke down in tears as the smiling face of Harold Targin Kole flashed onscreen alongside a smaller, but no less proud, depiction of his son, Harris. Both father and son gazed off into the distance, eyes narrowed in heroic pride.

  “Long live Harris Kole,” someone shouted once the anthem had finished playing. Many took up the cry until everyone was cheering.

  “Long live Harris Kole! Long live Harris Kole! Long live Harris Kole!”

  A recording of a man’s voice erupted from the speakers. It began to narrate the story of the Western Democratic People’s Republic of America, how it had overcome enormous obstacles to defeat the armies of the East and establish an independent, wealthy, and educated nation unlike any mankind had ever seen.

  Over images of the Kole family helping farmers, industrialists, and students, the narrator told of the nation’s continued success and its enduring promise of equality, freedom, and happiness for all.

  The people cheered because it allowed them to forget that every one of those promises had been broken. They cheered because it felt good to do so as one entity. However miserable any individual in that crowd might have been, they were all in this together.

  Suffering together—and now cheering together, as if at the prospect of a brighter future. It was possible, after all. Things could get better. No one could truly know what the future held.

  The Party members in attendance had their own balcony seating areas, and they, too, were cheering, mainly because they didn’t have it as bad as the people in the arena below. Staring down at that massive, stinking crowd, they thanked their lucky stars—and the Kole family—for the way things had worked out. The Party would always protect them, as long as they kept their mouths shut and did what they were told.

  The documentary lasted fifteen minutes. The flag of the People’s Republic appeared once more on the massive screen and the many smaller ones surrounding it, followed by a booming explosion as an extravagant display of fireworks splashed across the sky.

  Not digital fireworks, but real ones, which made this a rare occasion. The crowd changed color in the light—first going blood red, then green, purple, blue, and yellow. Few remembered having ever seen such an impressive display of light.

  Planes flew overhead, their bellies opening to drop thousands of tiny slips. When the crowd realized what they were—not confetti but something much more valuable—they gasped in amazement, then fought and clawed at each other to gather as many as they could.

  Ration slips were difficult to come by these days. Each one represented a meal, and the people of the Republic were not merely hungry—they were starving.

  A few citizens were trampled to death in the ensuing commotion. The bodies weren’t a problem; soldiers in full riot gear disposed of them, dragging them out by the ankles. The remaining citizens cheered at the promise of having food for the next few days. They cheered for Harris Kole and his compassionate ways.

  Finally, the time came for the One President to make his grand entrance. His helicopter appeared in the distance, a small speck against the overcast sky. The people continued to cheer. Once he’d landed on the helicopter pad situated behind the stage, Kole made his way up the back and onto the platform, flanked by guards with semi-automatic rifles who took up defensive positions along the sides.

  With all the fanfare of a Roman emperor, Harris Kole threw his arms up and faced the adoring crowd. The people cheered louder as more ration slips fell. Fireworks boomed and flashed. Kole grinned at his loyal subjects, his face filling the main screen, now as large as a ministry building.

  The people saw, but barely noticed, the way he was biting his lower lip, the constant twitch in his eyelids, the maddened gleam in his eyes—each one a sign of the Selarix coursing through his veins.

  “Citizens of the People’s Republic, loyal supporters of our great, governing Party, rejoice! For today we stand together as a democratic nation with fifty glorious years of rich history behind us.”

  He raised a fist into the air. The people cheered and howled. Many were hungry and tired of standing now. It was past dinnertime, and the sky was darkening. The One President’s speeches often lasted two hours or more. This one could go all night.

  “And may we have fifty more!” Shaking his fist, Harris Kole roared. “My children, many of you were young when I came to power, and I hope you know I feel for you as a father feels for his own sons and daughters.”

  The screen flashed with color. A looming photograph appeared, one of Harris Kole surrounded by children, his left arm around a grinning boy who sat happily on his lap, his right hand pinching the cheek of a smiling little girl standing next to him.

  “And like a father, I have protected you from harm. Our capitalist neighbors to the east stand in the midst of civil war caused by ment terrorists—and can you imagine if I had let that happen here?”

  The image changed to a black-and-white picture of a ruined city that appeared to have been bombed into submission. The people booed.

  “Our greatest enemy is divided. With our increased military forces, which the people of this proud nation…” At this, the image changed to an unbroken line of tanks and endless battalions of proud soldiers. “…have spent decades proudly building under my supervision—”

  The image of the tanks and battalions flickered. A sputtering sound erupted from the speakers. The crowd hushed suddenly, and so did Harris Kole. He looked back to see what had happened. By then, the screen had gone back to normal, the sputtering sound dying away.

  He cleared his throat. “As I was saying…”

  A faint clicking noise, accompanied by a low hum, drifted out of the speakers. It reminded many in the crowd of the sounds their illegal radios made whenever the dial came to rest on an Eastern station steeped in dead air. That secretive hum that held the promise of a message from beyond.

  “Spiteful wrath,” they heard the One President say, the words muffled as he shifted to his men.

  With a flick of his wrist, he sent a few running to investigate the source of the interference. As he turned back to face the crowd, which was dead silent, a strange message appeared on the large screen, written in neat gray letters that drifted from corner to corner.

  SIGNAL LOST

  The crowd drew a collective breath, the hiss so loud Kole responded by squinting at them, as if seeing them for the first time. When he spoke, his voice came out slow, uneven, nervous.

  “We will not let technical difficulties ruin the majesty of tonight’s—”

  He stopped suddenly, eyes going wide. The crowd viewed his sudden change in expression on all four of the satellite screens, though the main one had continued to bounce its SIGNAL LOST message from corner to
corner.

  “What do you want?” Kole asked in a shaky voice. His eyes had taken on a distant look, as if fixated on an invading army approaching over the horizon.

  Shaking his head fitfully, Kole spun on his soldiers and released a roar of anger. Their mouths dropped open in shock as he scrambled toward one man, yanked the pistol out of his holster, and swept it in their direction.

  The soldiers stepped back, hands going toward their semi-automatics—an instinctive response. Kole may have been their absolute ruler, but the effect of having a gun pointed at them was the same no matter who aimed it. Ultimately, reason won over instinct, and they put their hands up in surrender.

  Suddenly, Harris Kole whirled to face the crowd. A woman shrieked as he put the gun to his own temple. There were other cries and shouts as people watched in helpless stupefaction.

  “No one move,” Kole said, “or the dictator gets it.

  His face contorted in fear and wonder. The words leaving his own mouth shocked him into silence. The people in the crowd uneasily glanced at each other, confused.

  The SIGNAL LOST message disappeared, leaving the main screen blacker than the night sky. What happened next caused the biggest shock of the night—a face flashed onto the big screen, so large and vivid it resembled the face of a god.

  A portion of the crowd, mostly those under thirty, recognized the youthful visage from smuggled pamphlets and illegal sketches. It was Michael Cairne.

  “The dictator is now under my control. Harris, get on your knees.”

  Harris Kole dropped immediately, landing on his knees with the pistol still held to his right temple. Beneath a brow spotted with sweat, his eyes seemed ready to roll out of their sockets. Looming behind him, Michael’s face was displayed clear and tall, his chin slightly darkened by a light dusting of stubble. His hair was long enough to tuck behind his ears, jet black and gleaming. The dark green of his shirt suggested a uniform worn in rugged wilderness.

  His voice was not deep, but it was crisp and clear, each word spoken with the precision of a steady blade slashing the air.