by Valerie Puri
She gasped, and fabric was pulled into her mouth by the sharp intake of air. She felt something sharp poke her in the arm. Her hearing became muffled, her head began to spin, and then everything went cold.
Eleanor Townsend was no more.
6
The ranger lay on a bed of hay trying to ignore the pain in his body. It was incredibly warm inside the building, and he wasn’t sure if it was from the wooden walls blocking the wind or his fever. Probably his fever, he decided miserably. Staring up at the wooden beams supporting the roof, he thought about how he had almost lost his life. It had been two days since that terrifying night.
The ranger had feared he might risk encountering a lemeron that night; anyone who came too close to one rarely lived to tell the tale. The torrential rains and the intense darkness had made it nearly impossible for him to see. As he ventured through the blackness, finding his way with his outstretched hands, he couldn’t shake the feeling something bad was about to happen.
That’s when the lightning began, giving him intermittent visibility. He saw the skeletal figure stagger forward becoming visible through the heavy rain. The blotchy-grey flesh of the lemeron sagged from its bones and hung like ill-fitting clothing. It released a guttural moan causing the ranger to go rigid.
When he saw the lemeron approaching him, the ranger turned and hurried in a new direction, one perpendicular to his previous course. After putting some distance between himself and the monster, the ranger took care to disguise himself in the underbrush growing beneath a tall tree. He gazed in the direction he had just come from to see if the lemeron followed him. The loud pounding of his heart in his ears made him aware of its rapid pace. He tried to slow his heart rate if only to hear better, but it was to no avail.
He was startled by a crack behind him, the sound of a stick breaking underfoot. His fear turned to terror as he felt a boney hand seize his left arm. As the ranger spun around, the firm grip tightened, and sharp fingernails pierced his skin. The blood drained from his face at the sight. He was staring into the grey, sagging face of a lemeron.
He struggled and tried to pull away from the monster, but the action only made it clench tighter, its fingernails digging deeper and deeper into his arm. The cloudy, yellow eyes of the lemeron were wide and hungry. Its green lips parted, exposing blackened teeth. It lunged at him with its fully bared teeth.
The ranger was certain he would die in that moment. He frantically grabbed for the dagger hanging from his belt, his trembling fingers wrapped around the cold handle. He drew the blade from its sheath and instinctively swung it upward. His attack cut diagonally through the lemeron’s chest, sending it stumbling backward, but it was not enough for the monster to release him. Brown, congealed blood oozed from the rotting flesh. The ranger raised his dagger high above his head, and with all his strength, brought the blade down. His aim was good, and the small blade sliced through the monster’s wrist, severing the hand, thus releasing the ranger from its grasp. A crackling groan escaped from its throat, not from pain – lemerons feel no pain – but from anger.
The ranger ran mindlessly through the darkness, stumbling over the tangle of slippery roots covering the forest floor. He had to put as much distance between himself and the lemeron as possible. He smashed into a tree, not noticing it was in his path. Searing pain exploded through his left shoulder, and a rush of warm liquid ran down his arm. It must be my blood, he thought. His arm felt like it was on fire, but he could not stop to tend to it. He could hear the beast crashing through the underbrush behind him.
His head pounded, his heart raced, adrenalin surged through his veins, and his muscles begged him to stop running. Suddenly he slammed into something massive. The force of the impact knocked him on his back and the air rushed from his lungs. Dazed, he lay on the soaked ground while the freezing raindrops battered his face. He remained horizontal and motionless until he was able to recover his breath and regain control of his limbs.
The ranger stood up and reached his hand out in front of him to feel what had stopped him. The oppressive night was growing ever darker as the storm raged; he could barely see his hand in front of his face. He touched something smooth and hard – it felt like stone. Lightning ripped across the sky in a spider web of brilliant streaks. In the prolonged flash, the ranger saw a stone wall extending as far as he could see in either direction.
He was trapped. His only options were to go backward or to go forward. Behind him was the lemeron, and in front of him was a wall four times the height of a man. Frantically, he felt the surface with his hands and discovered crevices large enough to use as footholds where the large stones met. Quickly making his decision, he climbed the wall not knowing what he would find on the other side.
7
Jacob Sash had the motionless body of Eleanor Townsend slung over his right shoulder. She didn’t weigh much, so he carried her through the damp tunnel with little effort. Her faint floral scent filled his narrow nostrils. He never understood why women wasted their time with such trivial things as perfume from the apothecary. If they only knew the ambitious things he spent his time on, they would readily cast aside their senseless trinkets and gossip to join him.
Sash was a part of something big, something which would guarantee the survival of the Commune indefinitely. But those in the Order could not fully execute their plan as long as the undesirables, like Eleanor Townsend, continued to interfere. He hated these undesirables with a passion. Their incessant need to meddle only made him more eager to destroy them.
Eleanor wasn’t the first undesirable he had taken care of. There were many more, and he was sure there would still be more to come. Sash could remember each and every one of them. His first had been his undesirable parents. He hated everything about them and all they stood for.
Sash’s parents said he was a fool for supporting the Order and their grand plans. His father had shouted at him, “You will destroy the Commune, not preserve it. Why can’t you see that, Jacob?”
He became furious at his father’s words and how his mother just stood there, silently agreeing. He wasn’t a child anymore. He was sixteen and could make his own path. He didn’t need his parents any longer. The Order understood the world they lived in. The Order understood what needed to be done. The Order understood him.
The anger and hatred Sash felt for years boiled to the surface, turning his face red. His parents would not listen to reason; they were the problem. They were the undesirables the Order told him about. He had to put a stop to them spreading their ignorance.
Sash reached next to the blazing fire and picked up the fireplace poker. Feeling the weight of the iron in his hand, he jabbed at an ashen log in the flames. Making his decision, he gripped the poker tightly with both hands and swung it. The sharp hook hit his father’s skull with a crack. Sash watched as the light faded from his eyes. The man that had once been his father crumpled lifelessly to the floor.
“Jacob,” his mother shrieked. “What have you done?”
He lunged toward her and thrust the poker into her soft abdomen. A cry of pain escaped her lips as she collapsed to her knees, her hands trying in vain to hold in the sudden rush of blood from her stomach. Tears were streaming down her face as she continued to wail in pain. He drew back the iron poker and thrust at her again. This time he aimed for her chest and pierced her heart. She fell silent as her life left her.
Sash went into his bedroom and removed the blankets from his bed. He went back out to the room where his parents lay slain and held the corners of the fabric in the fire until they caught. The bundle in his arms got hotter as the fire began to consume the fibers. He tossed one of the blankets into each room of the small house and let the flames spread to the furniture, walls, and wood floors. Sash left the house as it became engulfed in flames. He never looked back.
From that day on he abandoned the filthy name “Jacob” his parents gave him. From that day on, he would be called Sash.
Sash smiled as he recalled his transition
into adulthood. He’d chosen his own path and proved how useful he could be to the Order. He had been doing this work ever since the day he walked away from the burning remnants of his past life. His technique had been polished over the years. He learned how to control his rage and do less conspicuous work. After all, he couldn’t burn down every building he did a job in just to cover his tracks and make it look like an accident.
Some of his targets were not so lucky as to be killed. What awaited them was something worse. Eleanor Townsend was one such target. His usual sneer crept over his lips as he thought about the hell she would soon be trapped in. She hadn’t screamed when he bagged her, though. Pity, he thought. Sash loved when they screamed.
He reached the end of the long dark tunnel. He stood before a thick steel door with a single, dim light flickering above his head. He made a fist and banged on the cold metal two times. He heard shuffling behind the door, and a strip of metal at eye-level slid away to reveal a small, rectangular window. A set of eyes masked behind tinted, round goggles peered out at him, surveying the load hoisted over his shoulder.
“I’ve got another one for processing,” Sash said.
The metal strip slid back into place covering the tiny window. Sash heard the grinding sound of metal scraping against metal as the gears were engaged to unlock the door. It swung inward to grant him entrance.
8
Travis kept his eyes downward as he chopped apples and tossed them into a large stockpot on the stove. He hated working in the Commune kitchen, but it was where the Elders had assigned him. When he turned thirteen in three days, he would finally be able to choose his own profession. He gave his sister’s offer to work with her a lot of thought. It would not be as suffocating as it was in the kitchen. He would gladly trade the smell of simmering stews and baking bread for the earthy smell of the stables. He still hadn’t made up his mind, but Jennie’s offer was more enticing by the hour.
Travis thought he might have liked working in the kitchen if it weren’t for the dociles at the opposite end of the room. They were enclosed in a row of small glass rooms. The blue-tinted glass partitions were unbreakable; no one could get in or out. Only one docile was kept in an enclosure at a time to prevent them from awakening their dormant pack instinct. This procedure was for the safety of the townspeople, but it did not put Travis at ease. For all the safety measures the Elders put in place, he could still see the dociles.
Travis knew the dociles were mindless creatures who didn’t have the bloodlust of their violent kin, the lemerons. But every time he closed his eyes to sleep, he would see the lemerons in the forest beyond the wall dragging his mother away. Their gnarled hands gripped her arms as she struggled to break free. He would never forget his mother’s desperate screams.
Each day during his shift in the kitchen, he would see the dociles through the blue glass. They looked no different from the lemerons. In his mind, they were the same. The dociles were a daily reminder of how his mother had been taken right in front of his eyes.
He tried to cheer himself up by thinking of how fortunate he was to not be on dish duty. The dociles performed menial tasks, such as washing dishes or doing laundry for the medical center. They were given simple repetitive activities which required no mental capacity, which was good, because they had none. All the same, someone still had to bring the dirty dishes to them and collect the clean ones. Travis felt glad his job of food preservation did not require him to go near the dociles.
“You look distracted.” Madam Marie said, standing beside him as she cut carrots. “What’s on your mind, my boy?” She put the kitchen knife down and searched his face for the answer.
“I’ve been thinking a lot about my thirteenth birthday and…”
“And you no longer want to work in the kitchens,” Madam Marie interrupted.
She was very intuitive. Nothing ever got past her. She was the head of the kitchen, and supervised Travis and his coworkers. She had never married and had no children, but she had a soft spot for Travis. Madam Marie cared for him like a son and always seemed to know what he was thinking.
“Well,” Travis said.
He was worried she would be disappointed if he no longer worked with her. He didn’t want to let her down, but he longed for the opportunity to work where the dociles weren’t around. He liked Madam Marie, but was miserable being around the dociles. He struggled to find the right words to communicate this to her, but nothing came to him. All he could manage to say was, “yes.”
“I imagine it’s because of your mother, rest her soul. I know how hard it can be having a constant reminder of the tragic loss of a loved one.” Madam Marie gazed ahead, searching a horizon that wasn’t there. She turned her attention back to Travis and said with sincerity, “Travis, you should choose a profession where you can feel your purpose in life being fulfilled. Choose a profession which makes you truly happy. You won’t find that here.”
Madam Marie had found the words Travis was searching for. He couldn’t stay in the kitchens with the dociles. They were always staring blankly through their yellow eyes, always slowly moving their grey hands to complete their task. Not really alive, yet not really dead. Their presence was oppressive.
He decided that on his thirteenth birthday, he would choose a profession where he could be surrounded by life. He would work where he could breathe freely and never have to work alongside the half-dead dociles again. Travis wanted to work with his sister Jennie in the stables.
“Keep stirring the apples. You don’t want to scorch the ones on the bottom.” Madam Marie smiled to Travis.
“Thanks,” Travis returned her smile.
While Travis stirred the apples in the pot, he listened to the idle conversation of the women nearby. He began daydreaming about what it would be like to help Jennie tend to the horses. Maybe she would let him ride one of the horses from time to time. He had only ridden a horse once, but the thrill of the magnificent beast transporting him stuck with him. It was one of the few memories he cherished. It was a joyful experience from a happy time in his life.
A loud bang startled him. Sash unceremoniously entered the large bright room. Travis stopped stirring and looked up. The women stopped as well and turned their attention to Sash’s large figure standing in the doorway.
“The Elders have called an emergency Commune Council.” Sash said in his gravelly voice. “Everyone is required to depart for the Sanctuary immediately.”
Sash slipped away as quickly as he came. Everyone laid down their work and began making their way towards the door. Travis removed the apples from the heat so they wouldn’t burn, and followed the group of women. They all moved out of the kitchens and down the hallway towards the Commune dining hall.
“An emergency Commune Council?” one of the women said. “I wonder what it could be about?”
“I hope it is not about another crop being lost to disease. We’re already on strict rations as it is,” another woman said.
“Oh, I hope you’re right. I’m afraid we will starve if our farmers can’t produce enough food. The growing season is almost over,” said a third woman.
Travis was worried. Emergency Commune Councils were only held if something terrible had happened. Madam Marie, sensing Travis’ tension, put a soft hand on his shoulder to steady him. As they crossed the town’s main square, more people were coming out of buildings to join the ever-growing crowd. Travis felt uneasy, even with Madam Marie by his side, as they approached the double doors of the Sanctuary and entered the Commune Council chamber.
9
The Commune Council chamber was a grand room with electric chandeliers hanging from the tall ornamental ceilings. It was filled with many rows of neatly arranged chairs to seat the entire Commune population. Opposite the entry stood a large platform, with a row of chairs facing out toward the gathering hall. The Elders and the Advisors were already seated on the platform, watching the townspeople gather.
Victor Glassman was one of the two Commune Elders. He was a p
roud man in his fifties, with grey hair matching his eyes. Victor seemed to relish the authority as an Elder, and he had an uncanny ability to command an audience. Travis found him to be intimidating, even though Victor was always polite when addressing the Commune.
Marlene Saunders, the Commune's other Elder, always looked stern and let her expressions do her communicating rather than speaking. Despite her youthful appearance, she was as old as Victor; maybe older, but no one knew for sure. Marlene’s green eyes and long, blonde hair stood out in striking contrast to her pale complexion.
Travis scanned the room and spotted his sister, Jennie, sitting in a back corner next to her friend, Belle. He excused himself and left Madam Marie to make his way over to his sister. He slid into the empty chair next to her. Jennie and Belle were huddled together, deep in a muted discussion. They didn’t look up when Travis joined them.
“…what other secrets…” and “…she seemed scared of something…” and “…need to go somewhere private to read it…” were all hushed phrases Travis could hear of their discussion. It was perplexing, and none of it made sense to him.
Belle leaned forward and stared at Travis with alarmed eyes, realizing he had joined their vacant corner. Jennie turned in her seat to face him. She looked concern, but she forced a smile to reassure him. Travis knew Jennie always tried to shield him from things she felt were hard to bear. It was part of her protective instinct, which had greatly increased since they lost their mother. Travis knew she meant well, but it made him feel like a child all the same.