“Give him as much water as he wants,” she said to no one in particular while dabbing.
The raiders smirked.
Vakkar slapped one on the head. “Do as she says. She knows the ways of a mystic. This meat sack is worth nothing to us dead.”
One by one, she tended to the twenty-six captives, a dozen of them women. The men had injuries borne mostly of forced work and failed escape attempts; the women had injuries from their capture or entertaining the raiders’ rank and file. Unlike the harem, all were indistinct in their ethnicity, the products of many generations of commingled cultures. Most were sick from the harsh conditions, and the last of the men had a festering gunshot wound which rendered him delirious.
When they opened his cage, she crawled in and undid the pitiful attempt at a bandage. Beneath the cloth lay the sickly sweet smell of decay and dried moonshine, as well as crimson skin charred black with rot and roiling with maggots. She reached behind her and removed a knife from the boot of a raider with a large scar down his face. He grabbed her wrist, squeezing hard in an attempt to make her drop the weapon. She bit her tongue, but stared up at him defiantly, refusing to let go.
“It is for the wound. Let her be,” Vakkar bellowed. “Do not tell me you fear a little girl with a knife?”
The man flung her wrist away, glaring at Vakkar.
A few nearby raiders chuckled at him.
“Din ka’ya diem,” he seethed in a dire tone.
Vakkar hit himself in the chest with a sideways fist. “I accept. Your blood shall paint the arena at the next trials.”
After giving the scarred one a dirty look, Althea brushed the maggots away with her fingers. A quick mental prod disconnected his mind from any sense of pain, and she scraped the knife at the dead flesh until the wound was clean. Her guard escorts cringed, gagging and unable to watch the strips of flayed skin tumble to the ground. She sliced at the area until she hit fresh muscle, and put the weapon back where she found it. The glower its owner gave her made her look into his mind; he wanted to see her leashed and cowering to avenge his wounded pride.
Narrowing her eyes, she rose up on her knees and spoke in an eerie tone. “You’ll not live out the week.”
The others fell silent, dismayed at the raider’s poorly hidden fear. The images of her suffering left his mind, and she turned with a private smile back to her work. Her fingers threaded into the man’s leg, rooting around until they found the bullet lodged in the bone. She commanded his flesh to let go of it, and tossed it aside. Althea cleared her mind and set her hands around the wound, funneling her power into his body. The mangled gash closed, covered by pristine flesh in a matter of minutes.
With a weary smile, she came out of her meditation. A nervous male whimper made her look up to the rear.
The scarred raider grabbed at his chest. Horror contorted his face as he screamed at a sudden swollen presence under his shirt. Althea scrambled to her feet and reached towards him with a look of concern. He palmed her head, shoving it into the metal post at the corner of the kennel with a hollow clank.
“What are you doing to me?” With a fistful of hair, he shoved all his weight through her skull into the post.
She cried out, grabbing his wrist with both hands. Vakkar seized him by the shoulders and threw him to the side, aghast someone would attack the Prophet.
Althea crumpled to the ground, wrapping her arms around her head and whining. She did not want to cry, fighting the urge as she forced the lingering cold stripe of pain out of her head.
“She does nothing.” A placid woman’s voice echoed as if over a loudspeaker.
The leather vest of the scarred raider split open. Feminine fingers protruded from the rip, grasping at the edges and tearing it asunder. His skin stretched out, up, and away from his chest until the warping flesh took on a hollow female form, as though a woman was embedded waist-deep in his torso. His body convulsed and gurgled, muscles twitching in a paralytic rigor as his eyes rolled back in their sockets.
“Hello again, little one. Are you ready?”
“See!” The old slave yelled. “The wrath of the Lord has come down upon you. Bow now and be spared.” He bent forward, pressing his forehead into the ground.
Althea gaped at this apparition formed of skin, with no idea what to do. For an instant, she was no longer the Prophet; she was a twelve-year-old girl―and screamed like one.
After a glance at the gun on his belt, the entity smiled at the raider chief. “You like to collect women? Perhaps it is time to be collected by one.”
The twitching raider yanked the weapon into the air, and Vakkar sprinted for cover, cursing at the fool for hitting the girl. Althea cowered, curling into a ball against the chain link fence as gunshots erupted. Something leapt past her followed by the sound of bodies colliding. The unmistakable crack of a breaking neck made her cringe, and the feminine laughter that followed it made her feel sick.
Althea crawled from the fray, keeping her eyes closed, not wanting to see the death that tugged at her heart behind her. The concrete under her hands and knees went from warm to scalding, and the sun fell on her back as she left the awning’s shade. An arm circled her chest and lifted; she cried out. The man who had been infested with maggots scooped her off the ground and carried her. She looked away from the glinting gun in his other hand, buried her face in his shoulder, clinging to him as he ran. He slowed after a few strides and bent forward to let her down.
A hand on her cheek made her look up; he smiled. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”
After stashing her behind an old truck, he rejoined the mixture of gunshots, screams, and proselytization from the old man. Althea cringed with every terrible noise as she hugged her knees tight to her chest. Other slaves arrived one by one, taking cover and grasping at her. She could not tell if they wanted to comfort a terrified child or sought solace for themselves from the great Prophet.
“Where did you go?” The placid female voice saturated the area. “Althea? Where are you little one?”
“Praise be to the―”
Bang.
“Stupid old man.” The ephemeral woman spat, annoyed. “Your God is dead.”
The old man’s wail, cut off by gunshot, drew Althea out from her cover. He lay upon the ground, struggling to breathe. Blood gurgled out of his mouth and stained his shirt dark.
“There you are.” The hollow woman swiveled at her as she darted over.
“Stay away.” Althea glared at the creature as she came to a halt, kneeling in the puddle of blood.
Gathering some fleshy bits scattered here and there, she stuffed all she could find back into the wound. He gurgled.
“The path is open now. You must flee before they organize.” The skin-phantom hovered up to her, almost nose to nose.
“Go away!” The glow in her eyes flared.
The creature groaned as if caught off guard by whatever Althea had just done. The flesh-body snapped back into the raider with a crack like an immense rubber band had just met skin. He huffed and clutched at his chest, stunned from pain and wearing a look of complete terror. Before he could utter a single word, other raiders mowed him down in a hail of bullets.
She crossed her arms in front of her face to shield herself from the shower of blood and bone matter, glancing up in time to see the scarred man hit the ground.
I just said that to be creepy…
Her fingers dug into the man’s chest, as much energy as she could send went into his elderly frame, rebuilding it and leaving her exhausted. Old people always did drain more, and age coupled with such a severe wound left her hurting. She collapsed over his chest, smiling at the blotch of pink new skin. The chaos around her blurred into a tangle of shooting and screaming until a hand on her shoulder shook her awake. Forcing her head up, she recognized the man who had maggots in his leg. The others had armed themselves from dead raiders and left the courtyard a bloody mess. A few lingering gunshots popped in the distance. The captives had won; the kennels were
empty.
“Come, we are fleeing before more of them return!” He tugged in an effort to get the listless child to stand.
Althea looked at the old man; he would live, but she was too tired to move. “Take him. I cannot go with you.”
“I’m not leavin’ a little girl here. Get up!” He pulled her to her feet, supporting her weight.
The agate pendant danced between her fingertips, and for a moment, she wondered if these people could bring her home. The feeling of having a home felt as strange as it did painful. The roar of more raiders dispelled the fantasy.
“Can you release the harem?”
He shook his head. “Love to, but there ain’t no time; more of ‘em are coming. Going into the building would be suicide.”
“I made a promise. I cannot go with you.” She glanced at the wave of raiders streaming around the corner of the factory; her heart sank. A part of her could not believe she tried to talk them out of taking her home. “They will hunt me. Take these people and get away. You will not be safe if I am with you; they will not stop until they kill you all. If they have me, they will not chase you.”
He stared, frowning at the thought of leaving her, but knowing she spoke truth. This girl would be both a great boon and a terrible burden, and flying bullets offered little time to argue. Althea swayed to the ground as he dragged the old man into the bed of the truck and banged twice on the roof. She drew an arm across her face as a cloud of exhaust blasted her, and cried as her chance at freedom sped off in a hail of bullets. At least those people might survive. All she would have done by going with them is cause more death.
She rolled onto her back, gaze fixed upon a single puff of cotton in the otherwise clear sky. Tears ran down the sides of her head, settling in her ears as she searched the cloud for an answer to why she was made to suffer so much when all she wanted to do was help people.
Red-faced, Vakkar staggered to a halt, towering over the waif lying in a patch of fresh blood. He glanced back and forth between her and the truck as other men jumped on buggies to give chase. Althea sensed his pride, and surprise, that she had chosen to stay.
She closed her eyes and whispered, picturing the lonesome cloud floating through the endless blue. “I promised.”
Happiness was a thing for real people, not whatever she was.
lthea drifted at the precipice of sleep, lost within a dream-forest around Den’s village. Barely aware of her nest of warm cloth, she rubbed her cheek into the material as she snuggled deeper with a soft sigh of contentment. Tranquility lasted only minutes before a flurry of loud shouts in the distance caused her eyes to snap open. She sat up to all fours, wide-eyed and still, listening for danger. The woven metal walls came into focus; the quiet of her cell replaced the chaos of the slave revolt. At the realization of where she was, her hands searched her body. Althea breathed again when she confirmed she was not restrained.
Raiders screamed at each other outside; angry men hurled threats and insults while the women among them made horrible war-shouts. She crept to the lattice wall between the pens and laced her fingers through the diamond shaped holes. Three of them were half awake; Rachel looked as wired as Althea felt. Seeing the woman still in cuffs, she stared at her toes and sighed.
“I asked him to let you out. I’m sorry.”
“He’s been yelling all afternoon. He didn’t even show up to f―uhh, wife anyone last night.” Rachel let off a sad chuckle. “S’pose it’s pretty silly to swallow the bad words given our fucked up situation.”
Zhar sat up, blinking at her. “Hot damn! You’re still alive? You were a bloody mess when he carried you back in. We thought you dead.”
Althea looked down at herself, sulking. “This is not my blood.”
“Look, kid.” Zhar stood. “All hell is breaking loose out there. You have to do something before we all die!”
“What can she do?” Ramani spoke at last. “She is so small. If you cannot break the door, what will she do?”
Zhar gave the little woman a look of anger borne of having no answer for the question. “Prophet it open!”
Althea glared under flat eyebrows at Zhar, with no reply for something so stupid.
The clatter of a metal door grating into a loud bang echoed through the factory, chased by the distant sounds of gunfire. The women jumped and Althea burrowed into the red flannel to hide. The shouting, punctuated by more shots, grew louder. As sparks and a ricochet flew from one of the huge machines, Rachel dove chest first to the ground, yelling at the others to get down.
Vakkar, having become enraged at the incompetent loss of the slaves, blamed their ill treatment of the Prophet for their bad fortune. His belligerence, lubricated by moonshine, had become violence in the wee hours. The fighting escalated into an outright mutiny as the raiders’ reaction had only fanned the flames of his superstitious paranoia.
The chieftain backed into view, his face lit by staccato muzzle flashes from his huge handgun as he fired past the giant machines at people out of sight. Dull clanks became fleshy thumps as bullets struck him in the chest. Althea peeked out from her shell of cloth as gouts of blood poured through holes in the metal vest. The fallen leader wheezed and went over backwards, landing on his side as a spatter of red flew from his mouth.
Althea ran to the door of her cell, pounding and kicking at it. “Over here!”
His eyes rolled around, barely able to focus at the voice so small amid the sounds of war. He dragged himself onto his stomach and pulled his body towards her, gurgling. Another bullet glanced off his back, gouging the armor.
She assaulted the cage, pounding and slapping while shrieking. “Let me out! Please, don’t die!”
Althea did not notice Rachel’s gaze locked upon him, a vengeful, eager grin from ear to ear.
Three men sauntered around the corner of the ancient machinery, as if they had all the time in the world. Two reloaded their rifles as the third spat on his back. Althea cringed at the metallic clack of weapons cocking. They laughed at their wounded leader and leveled their weapons at him.
“Din ka’ya diem, motherfucker.”
The mortal challenge, spoken through a laugh.
“Don’t kill him.” Althea wailed, slapping the cage wall. “Please, no!”
Up on her tiptoes, she rattled all her weight against the door, screaming as a barrage of gunfire painted the floor with an ocean of sanguine crimson that burbled through twisted metal flowers around the exit wounds. For an instant, Vakkar looked at her in silent apology before deflating with a final gurgle. His cheek slapped onto the floor.
She shuddered, feeling an icy claw at her heart as life left him.
Palms flat against the grating, Althea slid down until she knelt among the tatters of her skirt. With her face pressed into the steel, only her fingers hooked through the gaps above her head prevented her from falling over. All strength had left her from watching this man die so close and being unable to stop it.
“Why?” She fell into sobs as the raiders ran off laughing.
Zhar kicked the partition between cages. “The hell are you crying over a piece of shit for? Don’t you dare feel sorry for that bastard.”
Ramani made a spitting gesture in Vakkar’s direction and put a trembling hand on Zhar’s shoulder. Her voice came hardly more than a whisper. “She is life. Any death hurts her, even one as vile as him.”
The Indian woman recoiled from the angry glare, but as much as they loathed Vakkar, Ramani’s words made sense. Rachel scooted to the wall, calling Althea by name, trying to distract her from the heavy sobs that wracked her little body.
Zhar went to the front of the cell, straining to get a view of what was going on, and wound up staring at the post. Her fingers could not fit through the diamond-shaped holes in the lattice, much less stretch the six feet beyond it to the key. She kicked at the door, making the entire partition shake, but could not batter it down. Aya’s calm demeanor had fled; the security of her place as the most favored among prized pets had
vanished with Vakkar’s life.
Althea raised her head, sniveling from her grief. While Zhar paced, the other three crawled close and huddled against the barrier between cells.
“Please help us!” Ramani wailed, the loudest she had ever been.
The ring of a ricochet near the roof preceded a clank Althea felt in the grating.
Aya’s voice trembled. “I don’t want to die, please… Please do something!”
Rachel’s tone was more commanding. “Look, kid. We can’t take the chance of just waiting here to see what happens. Those raiders are killing each other. With Vakkar dead, do you have any idea what they’ll do to us when they stop fighting? They’re gonna line us up and take turns. I saw how they looked at you. They don’t respect you like Vakkar did.”
Althea cringed. Vakkar’s lieutenants had not much cared for her being free to roam while out of the cell. Her fear of going from a sought-after Prophet to a hunted pariah made her search for a compromise in an uncompromising situation.
Breathless, her voice sounded like she did not even believe her own words. “Don’t be afraid. I am the Prophet, and you are special, rare pretties. They won’t harm―”
A small rocket broke through the far end of the factory and detonated against an ancient hulk, knocking pipes and metal bits into the air in a glittering cloud of debris and dust.
“Wanna rethink that, kiddo?” Rachel tugged at her wrists. “Fuck. Do something! How can you just sit there? Come on!”
The random clanks of debris returning to the ground filled the air with a disharmonic symphony of scrap. They were right. She could no longer ignore the begging of four people in such danger, and looked around for anything she could do. Accepting captivity was one thing, but being stuck in a cage in the middle of a war zone was something else. Without Vakkar in control, the women he collected would suffer brutality at the hands of a crazed mob. Herself aside, Rachel, Ramani, Aya, and even Zhar did not deserve that.
Cinderblock dust spat in puffs; the gun battle outside raged. Althea circled her cage, rummaging through boxes and testing the bolts that held the fencing to the wall. The key to her cell was a short distance from the door, hidden in a mass of gore between Vakkar’s chest plate and his body. Finding nothing of use in any of the old boxes, she wanted to cry. She felt as vulnerable trapped within these walls as if she had been tied, and slumped in a heap amid the bedding.
Prophet of the Badlands (The Awakened Book 1) Page 8