by Emma Pullar
The park used to be a gathering place for families. A place of beauty and relaxation, Skels would visit the park on their recoup day but as the number of Mutil increased so did the need to control where they resided. They were eventually forced off the streets, and into the park. Families don’t come here anymore, and even though the Mutil are mostly nocturnal, Skels are still afraid to set foot in the park, even during the day. Children sometimes dare each other to put a leg through the bars, but no more than that. They know the dangers. Tonight, the park is dark and quiet. A bad combination. Although the rain has stopped, the ground is soggy, the grass struggling to drink any more. This means we can’t run the gauntlet. It’s too slippery. We need to reach the hilltops beyond the tree line, and all that lies between us and safety is this grassy open area. The Mutil could be hiding anywhere. Some will be roaming the streets, but a good number remain in the park, hunting rats, snakes, and crows.
‘You okay, Bunce?’
Bunce doesn’t answer. His cheeks aren’t hollow yet, his bulk disguising how malnourished he is.
‘Bunce?’ I whisper, taking his hand. His cold fingers close around mine. ‘We need to move faster… Bunce! Are you listening?’
I stop talking, my voice stolen by the sight of a figure standing in the distance. Mutil hunt in the shadows, they don’t stand in full view. I drop Bunce’s hand and slowly creep forwards, mindful of the dense pine trees to my right. This could be a trap, are Mutil that cunning? I’ve never heard of them setting traps before. A twig snaps behind me and I raise my hand for Bunce to halt. I glance over my shoulder and he stops.
Moving freely in a wide-open space feels alien to me, unnerving, unnatural. Cautiously, I step towards the lone silhouette, the low moon lights up the glistening grass, and as my shadow grows closer to the stranger, a fretfulness grows inside me. The figure has its back to me. It holds a battered, dirty, red umbrella high above its head, which wouldn’t be much shelter from the rain, broken and bent with half the material ripped from the spokes. As my shadow stretches nearer, I notice the stranger is smaller than me, a lot smaller, a child.
Panic races and stabs me with a painful thought. If I don’t get this child out of here the Mutil will kill and eat it. I can’t protect a child out in the open like this. I could take on two, maybe three Mutil, but the park is home to hundreds. I step closer and it feels like the surrounding trees are giving me a wide berth, leaning away in fear. I’m soon close enough to grab the kid. Moonlight shines over dripping wet, braided hair. There’s only one girl I know with hair long and red. Half-unravelled right plait.
‘Tess?’ I whisper to the back of her head.
Tess moves her head to the right. She doesn’t turn around or speak.
‘Tess, what are you doing out here?’ I say, bending down to her level.
She still doesn’t answer. What’s wrong with her? Can’t she hear me?
‘Come on, I’ll take you home.’ I whisper in her ear.
I grip Tess’s thin wrist and she instantly drops the umbrella. She doesn’t move when I tug her to come with me.
‘Tess …’ I say, nervously, bending down.
In a whirl of red braids, Tess turns and lunges at me, biting down hard into my shoulder. I scream in pain. What the fuck? Teeth rip through the fabric and blood seeps through my top. I push back on Tess’s head, forcing the young girl’s face to the moonlight. I gasp. Her eyes! One is white, blind, and the other is clicking – it’s mechanical! I force her head back further and her jaws release me. A wave of fright crawls down my back and I throw the raggedy body to the ground. Thundering footsteps splash towards me, Bunce arrives at my side, panting.
Tess hisses at him, Mutil mouth stained with my blood. Her discoloured teeth have been filed, tips dripping red. She leaps to her feet and strikes, sinking her pointed, yellow teeth into Bunce’s arm.
‘ARRRGGGGH! Get her off me!’ he yells, trying to prise the ten-year-old’s jaws from his forearm by yanking at her braids with his other hand.
‘Oh, Tess, what have they done to you?’ I say, lips trembling. ‘I’m sorry, oh sweetheart, I’m so sorry.’
Tears fall thick and fast down my cheeks. My knees fold and I slowly collapse, like plastic shrivelling in a fire.
‘This can’t be happening!’ I yell into the grass. Water splashes my face as I thump the ground with my fist.
‘Kill her!’ Bunce screams.
‘It’s all my fault,’ I sob hysterically. I can’t control my sorrow. It would hurt less if she was dead. But I can’t kill her.
‘Sky! Please!’
Bunce flails around while Mutil Tess grunts and snorts, shredding and devouring his flesh. I can’t deal with this. Acid swirls in my stomach. I dry-heave. She’s only a girl. What crime did she ever commit to deserve this? I won’t kill her. I won’t! I squeeze the tears away, grab the handle poking out from the top of my boot. Pull. Grip. Sweep the blade across her leg. The child’s high-pitched scream pushes the birds from their branches in a feathery black cloud. Bunce falls back, arm released. Any Mutil hiding within the trees do not respond to the young girl’s cries. They’re not like us. They don’t come running to a child’s aid, not even one of their own.
Bunce shuffles backwards, holding his bloody arm. I grip the knife smeared with Tess’s blood and stand over her tiny, trembling body. She hasn’t been altered as much as most Mutil but her brain is as damaged as the others are. She’s no longer my little Tess.
‘What are you doing?’ Bunce yells. ‘Put her out of her misery!’
‘I can’t,’ I cry. ‘Please don’t ask me to do this. I can’t.’
Before I have to make that dreadful choice, Tess’s body goes limp. Oh no, she’s dead. Surely, I didn’t kill her with one slice to the leg? My thoughts send pain into my heart. I struggle to breathe. I take a step closer to the girl I promised to protect. A hand grabs my ankle. I scream and jump backwards. Tess’s artificial eye snaps open and she growls at me, clambers to her feet and limps off into the night like a wounded animal.
‘Why did they do that to her?’ I weep, angrily. ‘What’s she done to anyone?’
‘What do you mean?’ says Bunce, breathlessly. ‘She did that to herself.’
I turn around, and my long ponytail slaps the side of my face with the momentum.
‘What do you mean … did that to herself?’ I say, bearing down on the Morb.
‘You know, mutilated herself. So, she could be like the Morbihan.’
Now I’m angry.
‘What the hell are you talking about?’ I yell, fists clenched, nails digging into my palms.
Bunce grasps his bloody arm like it will fall off if he doesn’t keep hold of it. Pain etches across his cloud-white face, but I don’t care. He’d better explain himself. My instincts are pushing me to leave him in the park to bleed to death. It’s hard to care about someone when they represent every loathsome characteristic of the Morbihan.
‘I … culture class. They … some Skels want so badly to be Morbihan that they mutilate their bodies to be like us …’ Bunce trails off, obviously realising he has been lied to.
‘WHAT?’ I scream.
I can’t contain my rage. Let the Mutil hear me! Let them come! Right now, my adrenalin could kill them all.
‘They talk about self-mutilation on the news too. How was I supposed to know it’s not true?’
I stare at the Morb in disbelief, how could he believe that? Tears escape down Bunce’s round cheeks. In pain physically and now mentally, too. He’s guessed about the torture rooms in Rock Vault, knows Tess was snatched and turned into that creature by Central. The truth hurts, a lot.
‘It’s not your fault, Central lies to us all,’ I say, but I’m still mad at him for being so naive.
I take Bunce’s bleeding arm from him. The wound is brutal. He could easily say he’d been attacked with a saw and no one would question it. I need to find something to dress his wounds. I touch my shoulder. My injuries are minor in comparison.
‘Phobos and Deimos,’ Bunce says, nodding to each speck in the sky. His eyes roll back and I hold his shoulder to steady him. He recovers.
‘I’ve never noticed the second moon before,’ I say, captivated.
‘How strange,’ Bunce says, flatly.
The rain begins again, this time in great drops that splatter angrily onto the rocks. My hair becomes heavy and strands of blond stick in wet lines across my face. I peel it away and push Bunce up a steep incline. His sneakers slip and slide but he manages. I really hope it’s still here and Central hasn’t found it and filled it in. I feel around the bare rocks, where is it?
‘What are we doing up here, Sky?’ Bunce asks, breathless.
He’s shaking. Droplets of rain hang and shiver from the tips of his sandy hair and pale nose. Is he going into shock or is it just the chill of the rain? I have to get him inside now.
‘Aha!’
I shake off Bunce’s backpack and push a medium-sized rock to the left. I throw all my weight into it. A little more. My shoulder twinges. Ignore the pain, Skyla. Heave. My palms scrape across the jagged, wet rock, my skin stings. Crunch. I peer into the dark hole, turn, kneel, and stretch my right leg down into the blackness. My foot finds a rung. I descend, looking up at Bunce as I disappear into the hillside. Raindrops pelt my head until my feet hit the bottom.
‘Watch out!’
Bunce’s voice echoes down from the top, there’s a thud near my feet – his backpack. His large frame follows, blocking the moonlight and rain. He struggles down using his good arm and is soon beside me in the darkness. He leans up against a wall, breathless.
‘You okay?’ I speak into the darkness.
‘Nauseous and dizzy,’ he rasps.
‘Hang in there. Now … if I were a slimy little Slum Lord,’ I mutter to myself, feeling across the damp jagged walls with my hands, for a shelf or a hook ‘Where would I keep the …’
‘Matches?’
Bunce’s face glows orange. A small flame flickers over his shining eyes. He found matches! Relief washes over me and leaves just as quickly. He holds the match in his left hand, obviously unable to strike it with his right. His arm oozes. How am I going to heal that great gaping gash? Fire first. Arm next.
‘Here,’ I say, pointing to a ring of stones in the middle of the room.
The fire is made up. The leaves are shrivelled and dry, waiting to be lit but the fire maker never returned, because Clover killed him. Bunce crouches and lowers the lit match to the pile. It doesn’t take. He attempts to strike a second match after the first singes his fingers. I snatch the box from his limp hand and strike two matches at once. I light the leaves and kindling in several places and the fire starts to crackle. Soon flames leap, casting their fiery shadows over the rocky walls, and now the room is lit up enough, there’s more wood in a corner. Bunce sits back against the stone wall and examines his torn flesh. The rain has cleaned the wound, but it’s still oozing.
‘I don’t feel well,’ he mumbles.
I scan the den. There’s not much here. A bucket, some crude shelves with blackened pots and chipped plates, and a filthy mattress in the corner. I chuck some thick logs on the fire, warmth quickly fills the small cave but Bunce still shivers, cradling his arm.
‘Let me see,’ I say, kneeling next to him and turning his forearm towards me.
Blood pools with the motion. It’s worse than I thought. I’m not sure it will close without stitches. Bunce winces as I rest his arm on his leg.
‘Don’t suppose you’ve got any bandages or needle and thread in that bag of yours?’ I ask, knowing the answer.
Bunce shakes his head.
I unzip the rusty-orange backpack and take out a flask, it’s Tess’s, maybe her mother’s. It’s full. I hand it to Bunce, who pulls the stopper from the top with his teeth and chugs, water spilling from the sides of his mouth.
‘Slow down,’ I say, taking the flask from him. ‘It has to last.’
‘Why?’ he says, ‘I drink the serum in the morning and we get out of here, right?’
I don’t answer. My tongue swells in my mouth.
‘Right?’ he says again.
‘I don’t have the serum,’ I mumble.
‘Pardon?’ he asks, voice jittery.
‘I ran into Clover.’
‘Clover? The Eremite? I don’t understand.’
Bunce gives me a look like he’s trying to figure out a difficult maths equation.
‘He’s not an Eremite. He’s a traitor, a Central,’ I say with a sigh. ‘He pretended to be a Slum Lord to spy on people.’
‘Really?’ The confusion on Bunce’s face makes me worry his head might explode. ‘Is that what Central do?’
‘How do I know?’ I snap.
‘Has he hidden the serum away somewhere else?’
‘He, um …’ I stammer, embarrassed of what I’m about to say, ‘he made me drink it.’ I hang my head. I don’t know why I feel ashamed. It wasn’t my fault.
Bunce’s cheeks flush.
‘You drank it?’
‘He made me!’
Blood runs in lines down Bunce’s forearm.
‘Then that’s it. It’s over!’ he says, angrily.
‘No, it’s not.’ I hold out my arm and pull the knife from my boot. ‘If you drink my blood it may …’
‘Drink your blood?’ Bunce looks at me in disgust.
‘It might transfer the cure to you and …’
‘Sky! I’ve been eating people. EATING PEOPLE!’ he yells in my face. ‘I’m not drinking your blood!’
‘But …’
‘NO!’
I flop back, defeated. Bunce sits, seething, his chest heaving. I shove my knife back in my boot and distract myself from hopelessness by rummaging through Bunce’s backpack. I pull a brightly-coloured shirt from the pack. The sleeves are pink, the back is orange and the front two panels are green and blue. I raise my eyebrows at Bunce, trying to relieve the tension. A reluctant smile tugs at his lips.
‘Morbs don’t wear dark clothes.’
‘I know,’ I say softly, but I’m a tad taken aback by his informal tone. That’s the first time he’s shortened the word. I pull a white t-shirt from the bag, in the upper right corner is an embroidered logo, the city emblem. Those words I hate embossed in gold. The System Works.
‘It doesn’t though, does it?’ Bunce stammers, pain, cold, and despair bullying his body.
‘No, it doesn’t, not for us,’ I say miserably.
The system didn’t work for Tess either, I think to myself. My poor Tess. Bunce looks above my head, as if he’s reading my thoughts in a speech bubble.
‘It’s not your fault, Sky.’
‘It is.’ I say, staring at the floor. ‘I failed her and I’ve failed you.’
‘Don’t do this.’
Tess’s face flashes in the flickering fire, the flames her red hair. Clockwork eye, teeth like razors. How many people has she killed?
‘What should I do, huh?’ I say, brandishing the shirt logo at him. ‘Pretend everything is rosy? Should I have taken my host duties gladly and turned a blind-eye while my people are forced to work themselves to death, so others can live like kings?’
Bunce doesn’t respond. He stares at me. His face resembles that
of a youngster coming home from their first day of work, realising the world is not as their parents painted it. I can’t stop the poison spilling from my lips, I need to purge it.
‘La la la, I’m so happy living in my utopian complex where nothing can ever harm me. While others are mutilated so my people can have new organs. Skels butchered to sustain the Morbihan existence, and those left are forced to serve us. I don’t care about anything but me and my comfort. I’ve got the perfect life so the rest of you can go fuck yourselves!’
‘Have you lost your mind?’ Bunce says, eyes bulging.
His face is having a fight with the pain caused by his shredded arm. He’s trying to keep from wincing – trying to ignore what must be agony. Red drips through his fingers, which are firmly clamped over his wounded arm. I fix my eyes on his round face. Let him bleed, I think. He’s probably never spilt a drop of blood in his entire life.
‘Maybe I sound crazy to you because I speak the truth. And the truth is so ugly that you won’t allow yourself to see things for what they really are!’
‘How can I see things that others have blinded me to?’ he says, panting.
‘You let them blindfold you,’ I say, calmly. Having spat out my grievances I feel lighter, but I have to make Bunce understand. Make him see things as I do. Lift his blindfold.
‘Your world is nothing but a dream. Created by Central and sustained by people like me who live the nightmares so you don’t have to. Do you understand?’ I ask, but I don’t wait for an answer. ‘If Morbihan don’t start sharing the burden of the darker side of life, it will find a way to balance things out. Ever heard the saying, “too much of a good thing is bad for you”?’