Hopefully someday soon.
Skirting around several groups of people who talked quietly as they walked, he found a scraggly, thin woman with long, dark hair. Bray opened his mouth and came toward her, before realizing it wasn't Kirby. The woman muttered something and went past. His nerves were almost unbearable when he spotted a person with a familiar gait, heading up of one of the pathways.
"Kirby!" he hissed, as loud as he dared.
"Bray!"
Kirby's face was skinnier than he remembered. Several weeks of enslavement had burned through what little fat they'd had. Bray couldn't remember the last time he had gotten a good look at her, when they didn't fear the guards. He had hoped things might get better.
Of course, they hadn't.
They suffered through rations that were never enough, sweated in fields that never got cooler, and worked for guards that had no sympathy. Their endless toil continued, as the summer approached its hottest days.
Kirby approached him with the same, sallow look that marked most of the slaves' faces. A wave of emotion he rarely allowed himself to feel rushed through him as they risked an embrace.
"Savages," Kirby whispered, wiping angry tears from her eyes. "Cruel, vicious savages."
Bray nodded, feeling a surge of hate that had never left since they'd been captured, cornered, and thrown into this life.
"We should walk and talk," Bray said quietly.
They turned and headed up the pathway, mixing with some other slaves. A few people spoke quietly, their faces downcast as they processed another loss of life. Others walked quickly with their heads down. From a distant alley, Bray heard the long, mournful wails of the dead man's relatives. They passed a few guards before speaking more.
"Those men were killed for the sin of being hungry," Kirby spat. Anger and sadness blazed in her moist eyes. "I have watched too many die at the hands of one another, for the sake of another's pleasure."
Bray nodded. Kirby didn't need to speak of the atrocities she'd endured in her homeland for him to remember her stories. Kirby's days fighting in the arena still haunted her nights. More than once, she had awoken from some vivid nightmare, speaking names he didn't recognize.
"I do not know how much more I can take," Kirby said with a crack in her voice.
Bray looked over at her, recalling the talk they'd shared through the walls of the cell, when they'd first been dragged to New City. He'd promised her they would find a way out.
All they'd found was suffering and pain.
His promise to her felt as empty as the one he'd made William. Looking over his shoulder, he glanced at the shimmering building that rose high above New City. He hadn't seen William since that day Cullen had died, when William had screamed from the balcony. A part of Bray wondered if William had been a hallucination—a product of haze and pain. But William's desperate cries were unmistakable. William might not be toiling in a hot field, or working until his fingers ached, but he was living his own nightmare. He had escaped the battle of Brighton and the war at The Arches, only to be captured and enslaved regardless. William had witnessed Cullen's dying in even greater detail from his horrific perch.
For all he knew, William had seen this bloody fight, too.
Bray scanned up and down the building, but the balcony was empty, and the tinted glass prevented a better view.
Kirby forced composure through her anger. Somewhere in the distance, another long, slow wail echoed through the crowded streets.
"We will make it out of this life," Bray promised. "I swear by the gods."
Chapter 3: William
William awoke with a start.
Long, resounding moans reached his ears.
Sweat trickled down the bumpy warts on his forehead as he sat up. For a moment, he thought he was still hearing his dream, but the noise came from outside his window. Wiping the perspiration away, he crossed the room—his fifteenth-floor prison—and pressed his face against the glass. It was hard to hear more than noises from up so high, and he certainly couldn't hear words.
But the commotion was real.
He scoured the small square buildings that filled New City. People moved in every direction, dispersing from something.
Whatever had happened was over.
Tangles of men, women, and children moved up the paths and into the dwellings. He couldn't tell guards from slaves.
A stabbing, nervous fear hit his stomach—the same feeling he had every time he thought of Bray and Kirby, rotting away in their cramped, dirty houses. Each time he looked at the dwellings below, he imagined cruel horrors behind every doorway—demons gnashing their filthy teeth, guards pummeling the slaves with merciless fists.
He wished he could verify that Bray and Kirby were all right.
He doubted he would ever have that security again.
Ever since Cullen's death, William had lived with a lump in his throat, eating, learning, studying, and sleeping. He adhered to The Gifted's role, certain that another misstep would harm his friends. He cried when he was alone, underneath the covers, and in the dark. Even then, it felt like The Gifted watched him, monsters that ate, breathed, and studied without emotion. Their intelligence was a curse dragging them into madness.
Every time Amelia asked how he was feeling, William assured her he was fine, hoping she didn't see the truth behind his answer. He smiled when it was appropriate, laughed when he was supposed to, and nodded too often. Emotions were private, dangerous things.
He still wasn't sure what had given him away on that awful day, when Cullen had died.
Glancing over his shoulder, he stared at the dresser, underneath which was the hairpin. At one time, he was positive that Cullen had paid the price for his sneaky outing. But as more days passed, with no one coming to search his room, or reclaim the small piece of stolen metal, he had changed his theory. The Gifted must have seen through his placating conversations. They must have determined he was playing a role.
Perhaps they had no reason at all.
The Gifted were cruel, perverse beings, worse than the demon army they controlled, worse than any violent leader in Brighton. They might have intellect beyond any human, but they lived without conscience or remorse. William was nothing like them, and never wanted to be. They were the ancient evil that haunted his nightmares, lurked in every dark corner, and stalked him when he wasn't reading or studying among them. He'd never forget their emotionless, stern faces as they'd watched the demons chew Cullen's flesh. None had turned a sympathetic eye toward William, as he screamed for them to stop, and certainly not Cullen.
Even Amelia watched with a smug satisfaction.
One thing was certain; William wouldn't give them another excuse for their barbarity. He hadn't used the pin since his first outing, and he didn't plan on using it again.
Looking out the window, he envisioned his friends far below, living out the rest of their days. Perhaps the best hope he had for them was a protected life in New City, where they would always have food, if not enough. Perhaps the walls that barricaded the city sheltered them from the savage tribes that roamed the forests.
Perhaps in order to save them, he had to let them go.
Smearing a tear away from his eye, he looked out the window, watching the moving masses of people prepare for another day of unrelenting toil.
Chapter 4: Kirby
Kirby watched the men and women returning to their homes out the window of her small room. Only a handful spoke with one another. They hurried back to breakfasts most wouldn't be able to stomach, but they would eat, because they needed strength for the fields.
"Too many cruelties," Esmeralda said, spoon-feeding Fiona some cornmeal.
Kirby nodded, unable to put her emotion into words.
"With so many things happening each day, it is easy to forget some of them," Esmeralda said. "But this game was worse than many others. The guards are getting crueler as time goes on."
Kirby nodded as she forced down a bite. Too many things had become routine
: sleeping, working, eating, and suffering. Seeing the fight this afternoon had brought some of the grisly details of her homeland back to her memory—things she tried to forget.
She couldn't dismiss the smell of blood, the rabid cries of the crowd, and the fueling screams of the guards. She recalled Gabe's face as he spun to face the guards, his cheeks smeared with his friend's blood and his tears. All of those things were horrible reminders of the arena, back in her homeland. Too many times, Kirby had been that winner, facing a crowd who would just as soon cheer for her blood as her opponent's.
"Some of the people regret their part in what happened," Esmeralda said, as she watched some quiet people pass. "But it will not bring back the man who died."
"And it will not stop it from happening again," Kirby said, bitterly.
"You talk as if that is a certainty," Esmeralda said.
"I have been here long enough to know that it is," Kirby said. "Some people will mourn, while others will justify their part in the horrid spectacle. Soon, they will move on, when some fresh, new atrocity occurs."
Esmeralda nodded sympathetically. "It sounds as if it wasn't any better where you are from."
Keeping to the same story she had told The Gifted, pretending she was from Brighton, Kirby said, "They weren't any better."
Esmeralda sighed as she scraped the last of the cornmeal from the bowl. "We hear whispers of cities and townships in the forests." She looked past Kirby and to the doorway, keeping her voice low. "They are pleasant to dream about, but it sounds as if they are fool's legends."
"I sometimes forget you have never been outside New City," Kirby remembered.
"The guards tell us the trees are a place of danger." Esmeralda shrugged. "They say we wouldn't last a day there."
Kirby furrowed her brow. "Have you ever been among the trees?"
"No," Esmeralda said, a wistful look crossing her face. "The closest I have been is the crop fields."
Kirby's reflection became an angry sadness as she realized she might never set foot in the trees again. "The forests can be dangerous," she said, "but they can be beautiful, too."
"A lot of our people were born here, as you know," Esmeralda said. "Some come from the forests, like you, but they do not speak of them. Speaking of such things is dangerous."
Kirby nodded. She had learned. She avoided conversation and did her work. She avoided death, barely.
"I used to dream about the forests, and the creatures I have not seen," Esmeralda said. "I dreamt of places where you could fill your stomach without rationing every bite. I dreamt of better places for Fiona."
Watching a guard walk by, Kirby carefully said, "Even in the forest, you have to work for your food."
Spooning Fiona another bite of cornmeal, Esmeralda said, "At least what happened this morning is done, and we are alive."
Kirby nodded. That was true, but the day was just beginning.
**
Kirby walked with the line of slaves out of the courtyard, through the gates leading to the crop fields, and past Rudyard. After a few weeks in New City, he'd given up his gloating. Now, he treated her as another slave, chastising her when it suited him, or ignoring her when he wanted. She was no different than any of the other humans: a child's plaything, here to do his bidding and his work. Avery had lost interest, as well.
Not so with Ollie.
Every so often, something would spark in Ollie's eyes as he watched Kirby work. He often lingered at the end of her row, staring at her as she pulled the corn from the stalks, mostly when the sun was hot enough to dampen her shirt. Hoping to sway his attention, she focused on her work until he went away.
Passing Ollie today, she felt his salacious gaze. Kirby would like to poke his eyes out with the sharp end of a corn cob. But that was as likely to happen as escape.
Not until she was past the guards did she risk a glance behind her, finding Bray. He was farther back in the line, veering off with his wagon.
Kirby chose a row, pulling her wagon over the bumpy soil. A few mutants skittered away, weaving through the stalks after a small animal. Quelling the nervousness she always felt around the ugly beasts, she picked a spot free of other workers or mutants.
Kirby set down her wagon handle, reaching for an ear of corn.
She pulled it from the stalk and tossed it in her receptacle.
In the distance, the guards boisterously relived the fight.
After a while, she noticed a figure in the next row of stalks, watching her. Kirby tensed as the person shifted, trying to get a better view of her. It seemed as if they were getting closer. Every so often, the person adjusted their wagon, coming down the row of corn, until they were level with her on the other side.
Kirby leaned forward, catching a glimpse of a gaunt, dirty man to whom she hadn't been close in a while.
Drew.
Drew's face looked even more sunken, after only a few more weeks. His eyes flashed to hers as he gave her a barely perceptible nod.
"You're still alive," he said, as if the words were a miracle to both of them.
If they were anywhere other than a dirty prison, Kirby might've smiled. Instead, she gave a knowing nod.
"I'm sorry about your friend," he said, lowering his eyes.
"Thanks," Kirby said. She wondered how many times they'd traded the same words, and how many times they might trade them later.
"I would've given my condolences sooner, if I thought it was safe to do so," Drew said regretfully.
Kirby nodded. "There is no need to apologize."
Looking up and down the row, ensuring no one was near, Drew said, "I wanted to make sure nothing has changed from when we spoke last. I wanted to make sure we still share the same goals."
She stared at him intently. They'd both suffered equal atrocities in their homeland, and in the arena, when equally cruel masters owned them. Sharing his gaze, she could see the same obstinate spark of fire they'd had when they sailed those ships across the ocean, all those years ago.
Resolutely, Kirby said, "Nothing has changed."
"Good," Drew said. "We will meet tonight."
Chapter 5: William
William tensed as someone knocked at his door. No matter how much time passed, he couldn't get past his fear.
"Who is it?" he asked.
"Amelia." Her voice was gentle.
But then, it always was.
With nothing else to do, William had played along as she instructed him. He couldn't read fluently, but each day, he picked up more words, and every so often, he fumbled his way through a simpler sentence. If he wasn't captive in a cruel place, he might've been proud of his knowledge. Now he felt as if he was learning skills that he wouldn't be able to use, once The Gifted decided it was his turn to die.
He crossed the room. Every interaction felt like a test.
Sucking in a nervous breath, William reached the door and waited for her to open it.
Amelia stood at the threshold.
"Did I wake you?"
"No," William said, hoping he hadn't spoken too quickly.
"Tolstoy would like to see you," she said.
William smiled to disguise his pounding heart. "What does he want?" he asked.
"He didn't tell me," Amelia said, with the same smile she'd used when she watched Cullen die.
He joined her on the other side of the doorway, and she shut the door behind them. She started down the stairs.
Knowing he couldn't disobey, William followed.
His dread deepened with each step as he realized they weren't going up to The Library Room.
He looked out the windows as they descended, watching the slaves work in the fields. A few demons skittered through the corn stalks.
Stopping at the twelfth floor, Amelia knocked four times. The raps hung in the air as she waited. William studied Tolstoy's door, which looked even more solid and imposing than the others. He had never been inside Tolstoy's room, though he had learned where a few of The Gifted lived.
Footsteps echoed from inside the room.
William braced himself for whatever new spectacle of horror he faced. Maybe his friends were on the other side, bound, tortured, or dead. Or maybe he'd made another tragic mistake he didn't realize.
The door opened, revealing Tolstoy, alone.
"William," Tolstoy said, a smile creasing his wart-covered face.
Hiding his fearful swallow, William managed, "Hello."
He looked past Tolstoy, expecting to see his friends in peril; instead, he was faced with a magnificent room, much more extraordinary than his own. A bed the size and height of two of those in William's quarters sat against a wall. White, pristine blankets adorned its surface. Farther back, strange pictures and drawings lined the walls, preceding a grand desk, with a shelf full of books affixed to its back. The electric lights were dim, as they always were in the daylight hours.
"Come in," Tolstoy invited.
William looked for a threat he couldn't see, but he saw nothing other than furniture and adornments.
He entered the room with Amelia.
"I won't keep you long," Tolstoy said. "I know you are hungry. We will have breakfast after we talk."
"It's okay," William said. He made a show of looking over at the books. "You have even more books here."
"I do," Tolstoy said, looking pleased that he'd noticed.
"William has taken books in the evenings, after our daily studying," Amelia interrupted. "He has made great strides with his letters."
"So I hear," Tolstoy said. "Your hard work is showing rewards, William. Perhaps when you have progressed further, I will let you borrow some of my collection."
Tolstoy beckoned for William and Amelia to follow. They walked past the bed on the left and some strange pictures on the walls on the right. Glancing at them, William saw diagrams that reminded him of the blueprints he'd seen all those weeks ago, but these were different. Most showed human bodies, their arms held level at their sides, their legs in strange poses. Others showed infected people like The Gifted, with rounded or ridged warts on their heads, knees, or elbows. He couldn't decipher their purpose.
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