Prophet of the Badlands (The Awakened Book 1)

by Matthew S. Cox

  The chain had been on someone he cooked, while he cooked them. She wanted to touch them even less now.

  “Naw. Them Nibblers is shit nuts. Ah ain’t crazy, I’m just practical. Meat is meat. Ah beleeb yas ‘bout the dog and not stealin’, tho. Since you not stealin’, I ain’t gonna eat ya. Now, seein’ as how you’s so pretty and all, Ah figure ain’t no big deal not havin’ no key. No reason fer ya ta go any’war. You kin be mah wife.”

  The squirrel almost came back out. “I’m…” She gulped it back down. “A child. Y… You can’t w… wife me. I’m tw―only ten.”

  He looked her up and down. “Yer big ‘nuff. Tho mebbe I wait fer yer titties to come out. Mebbe.”

  Most of what he said fell into an unintelligible burble in her mind as she thrashed her wrist bloody trying to escape. His emotion felt the same as what radiated from Vakkar when he tried to drag Rachel out of the cell, and it got stronger as he watched her struggling. No one had ever felt that way while looking at her before―at least, not that she noticed. That wasn’t how it was supposed to work; she wasn’t old enough yet. She sniveled and kicked at the cot, trying to back away from him. The pain of the metal biting her skin snapped her out of the panic. Why did she sneak away from Rachel in the night? Why did she do something so damned stupid?

  Freedom was okay, but she would not let anyone do that to her. If she had to remain the pet of a raider camp to avoid being wifed, so be it. She knew how Rachel felt; she would rather die.

  “No. I will not be your wife.” She shivered, staring at him. “Sell me to the raiders. I’m the Prophet. See my eyes? They will give you riches for me.”

  “Purdy lights.” He grinned toothlessly.

  Althea hung her head. This man had no idea who she was. The idea of a person not knowing about her seemed unthinkable, but yet this fool didn’t react at all to the name she so hated. Somehow, she found room between fear and revulsion to be astounded at this fool’s idiocy. There was no bandit camp here, and this man had no armed militia at his command. The tickling droplet of blood had made it halfway down her forearm. There was also no one here he could threaten to force her to obey out of guilt. She had no reason to continue being so… pathetic. Zhar’s voice spoke the word in her memory. Fear gave way to shame, and to determination. The cut on her wrist faded back to undamaged skin just before her head snapped up to stare at him.

  “Let me out.” Flickering with each word, her eyes emanated magic.

  The hermit shuddered in the seat, emitting a whispery wheeze from deep inside his chest. Moonshine burbled through his half-closed mouth, dribbling down his chest. “No… key… cain’t.” His face and fingers twisted as he recoiled, his body reacting to an impossible compulsion.

  Althea stood on the cot, held in a stoop by her shackled hand. Rising over him, she tapped her anger at what this man wanted to do to her. The glow intensified as she growled, burning fear into his mind and a malodorous emanation into his pants. His stare widened, his mouth hung agape, and he clutched at the cheap plastic armrests of the trembling chair as it scratched deeper into the concrete. He would never look at her without being afraid again; his lecherous stare would never trace the curve of her leg again.

  This man would not wife her.

  He fainted when she ceased channeling. She examined the bed frame, studying its various bolts and screws. There had to be a way out even without the fool having a key. Despite the futility of it, she strained against the metal for several minutes until she ran out of breath and fell to her knees. As she slouched there, panting, she spotted the handle of a pistol stuck in the nomad’s belt. Rachel wanted Zhar to shoot the chain out―a gun could set her free.

  She leapt at it, jerking to a halt at the end of the chain with her fingers still an arm’s length away. Althea screamed, wailing with pain as she tried to drag the weight of the steel bed on one wrist. Her fingers got an inch closer. Her feet slid through the dust. She grunted through clenched teeth, turning to grab the ponderous bed with her free hand. After a few tugs, she tried again, her fingertips stalled a thumb’s width from the weapon. She roared, leaning every scrap of her strength into the restraint until she bled. Metal legs scraped concrete. Her finger touched the wooden handle.

  “Calm yourself, child.”

  That voice again, the placid woman from Vakkar’s camp with the strange accent. Althea yelped and dove into the mattress to hide.

  Terrified of what she might see if she looked, Althea whispered. “Who are you?”

  “I am Aurora.”

  Althea grabbed the bars and pulled herself to the head of the bed, taking the tension off her arm. She ventured a glance at the hermit, still slumped back in the chair. The gun so close, yet so far. There was no flesh apparition.

  She shivered in a ball. “What do you want?”

  A spectral hand ran down Althea’s back, over the skin in spite of her chest-cloth. Cold and phantasmal, it caused an involuntary tremble. “So innocent, so young. You are like us, and we are coming to help you. You do not deserve this life.”

  She jumped away from the touch, putting her back to the headboard, eyes darting about and finding nothing.

  “Like you? Who are you? You are scaring me.”

  In the dark, the faintest glimmer of light hinted at the shape of a woman as it slid past. Around to the hermit it went, and vanished. A cloud of luminous fog appeared in his gaping mouth, exuding several inches out before it drew back into itself and vanished down his throat. He twitched and sat up, more moonshine bubbled out. He drooled, face turning at her with gaze unfocused. Melodic feminine words came out of him, trailed by the faint raspy wheeze of his real voice.

  “You do not know what you are?” She made him stand; the body moved like a zombie.

  Althea sank into a crouch, hating feeling trapped. “I’m the Prophet. Are you a Prophet too?”

  A haughty laugh rang through the room, continuing through the maze of sewer pipes as the hermit shambled towards her. “That is adorable.”

  She was unable to run away from the hand patting her on the head. Althea did not want whatever this creature was touching her, and she desired that man’s touch even less.

  “You are psionic, Althea. It is not magic. You have abilities most people do not, but you are even more special than an ordinary psionic.”

  Her right hand turned purple as she leaned away from the rough caress. “I don’t understand.”

  The man jerked around in the dance of a drunken marionette, shambling across the room. Althea crouched on the bed and pulled at the chain with both hands, snarling; she did not care if it hurt.

  “Relax, child. You have nothing to fear from me. I am your friend.”

  “Please take this off me.” She stopped struggling, sensing the man’s thoughts no longer his own. Another presence had taken over, something capable of blocking out her ability to see into the mind.

  “I am here only as an astral wanderer, girl. I cannot touch real things except when I wear someone.” The body convulsed and gurgled for a moment. “He is not lying; he does not have the key. Other friends are on their way; now that I have found you, I can tell them where to go. You are in no danger here, child. Do not worry yourself.”

  There was something about this person Althea did not trust. The ease with which she shot the harmless old man at Vakkar’s camp was part of it, but another feeling joined it―an inexplicable sense of foreboding. She curled up against the cold headrest, letting her arm dangle loose.

  “What did you mean when you said I was not ordinary soya… sayo… soro―”

  “Psionic.” Aurora’s voice echoed. “Your mind has the ability to project your desires into the world. I bet you can hear people’s thoughts, and I know you can force your body to repair itself. Tell me, little one, can you see the future?”

  Althea thought for a minute, idly picking at the fringe of skirt by her knee. “Sometimes I get feelings something bad’s gonna happen.”

  “You do not make a habit of telling
people’s future, then?”

  Guilt pulled a tear from her eye. “No. If I saw future, I’d have stayed with Rachel.”

  “I suppose the simpletons out here just call you Prophet because they don’t know what it means.”

  Something about the woman’s tone made her feel insulted, and she pouted. “How did you find me?”

  “The same way you looked in on your little boyfriend. I have been searching for others like us for a long time now, child. We call ourselves the Awakened. Our power is far greater than most psionics.”

  “Why?”

  Althea tried to conjure up one of those weird feelings that could lead her to a way out of this mess. She had a suspicion she did not want to wait for these supposed friends, the same kind of feeling that made her go after Den.

  “The reasons are various, but for now you need only know you have enemies out here.”

  The look of shock on her angelic face made Aurora laugh again.

  “Me?”

  “Yes, little one. But not living ones.”

  “Ghosts?” She curled up tighter.

  “You have seen ghosts?” The borrowed man swiveled to almost face her.

  She shook her head. “No, but I have heard stories.”

  “Not ghosts.” Aurora shuffled him away once more, taking a step toward the exit. “Did you ever wonder why so many people are so mean to you when all you want to do is help them?”

  Althea sulked at this person. Teasing a girl tied to a bed was pretty mean too. “I… Yes.”

  “The Badlands has a king. It is not a man, a woman, or even a beast. A rogue sentience has formed from all that has happened here. It feeds upon the hate, the death, and the sorrow.”

  “A senshins?”

  “Bloody hell, girl. You really need to get your arse in school. Sentience.” Aurora spelled it, and sounded it out thrice. “It’s a personality, a mind without a body.”

  “A ghost.” Althea nodded.

  Aurora lost control of the man for a second as her level of frustration mounted. Debating the semantics of something that never lived would be painful. “Look, mite. Forget it. I can explain later when you are safe. In simple terms, there is a bad thing out there that likes to make you cry. It wants your power, and we are going to get you out of here.”

  “I have a home.” A stern glare chased her words.

  The haughty laugh came again, and with it, Althea’s skin crawled.

  “That bush boy will forget you in a week. When I was your age, I had a different boyfriend every month, and most of them I never even kissed.”

  Althea hid her face in her knees and sniffled. Den would not forget her so easily, would he?

  “Now sit tight and don’t go anywhere. You should be safe here once I get rid of this piece of shite.” The man’s head rolled around to look at her as if his neck was broken. “Don’t cry for this one. If I could, I’d kill him twice for you.”

  The zombie-hermit shambled off into the maze of pipes, bouncing between walls into the distance and out of sight. If not for knowing he was being marched off to his death, the sound of him falling into a puddle would have made her smile. She flopped down on the bed, staring up at her trapped arm. The woman kept calling them friends, but she was amused at Althea’s struggle to free herself, and could kill with no more hesitation than changing her shirt.

  No. I won’t wait for these “friends.”

  lthea lay still as the sloshing grew distant through the concrete labyrinth, staring at the small gap between the top of her wrist and the metal thing securing her to the bedframe. She wiped the smears of rust from her skin with her free hand. For the moments it took her captor to vanish into silence, she scowled at the idiocy of his not even having the key. Up on her knees, she spit on her wrist as much as she could, smearing the saliva around in hopes it might let her slip free. Metal bit and pinched her skin, but her hand remained trapped.

  The sound of a gunshot made her jump. Aurora had taken the man too far away for Althea to sense his death, which was nice of her, but that also took the gun way out of her reach. Even knowing what he wanted to do to her, she felt upset. After her mental attack, there was little chance he would have looked directly at her again, much less touched her. He did not have to die. She sagged in a heap. Rachel would have shot him too; killing and eating people was wrong.

  Of course, with him dead, she frowned at the handcuffs and imagined Rachel’s voice saying “easy pickins.” Rattling her arm, she felt like a worm on a hook dangled in the creek. She curled in a ball and gazed at the ceiling and around at the room. Underground, she would likely go undiscovered until she starved, a fate even less appealing than the supposed friends coming to collect her. Fear mounted as she remembered the skeleton hanging from the crashed buggy.

  She stood on the cot, balancing as best she could on the moving surface and faced the water-filled shaft.

  “Help!”

  Her shriek repeated over itself into the distance.

  “Help! Please,” she yelled. “Somebody help me!” She banged the cuff on the bed for extra noise.

  Even if raiders heard her crying out, another cage was better than starving. Only the sound of her plea bouncing back at her answered. She collapsed over the metal railing to which she was tethered. After a few futile tugs, she tried bashing the shackle against the head rail, but all it did was send a flurry of grey paint chips scattering into the dust.

  Reason gave way to fear, and she thrashed. Feet planted against the bar, she shook back and forth in an effort to break the whole thing apart. The headboard she could lug around―the entire steel bunk was too heavy for her to even drag. When her energy ran out, she swayed to a gentle halt on the damnably robust thing. As she lay out of breath, she gazed upon the dead man’s “fortoon.”

  A shiny silver cylinder sticking out of a crate caught her eye. After a few minutes to recover her strength, she got off the bed and grasped the frame in both hands. Her feet slid out from under her as she tried to pull it. Grunting, she flung her weight backwards and hauled the bed in a succession of short, half-inch bursts towards her goal. Screeching wails of metal on concrete rang through the tunnels, falling silent when she backed into the pile. She collapsed, panting, over the mattress.

  She grasped the cylinder and lifted it, recognizing a “magic torch” like the one Palik had. It was long enough to double as a club, and quite heavy. This one did nothing when she pressed a thumb into the rubbery button on the side. She tried to remember the chant Palik had used whenever he summoned the glow, but could not. Without the right words, she couldn’t use it. Althea frowned. She couldn’t use it to signal for help when it got dark.

  It was still a heavy pipe, and she raised a great clamor once more as she bashed at the metal part of the cuff where it circled the frame. More rust and paint went flying; the bulk of her accomplishment little more than a tiny dent in the rail.

  The restraint defied her still.

  With desperate whimpering, her free hand went from crate to crate, flinging useless things to the ground. Socks, hats, scraps of cloth, strange little heavy cylinders painted copper on one end and black on the other, and a mess of unidentifiable plastic pieces clattered around her feet. One box had some tools. A screwdriver slid into the cuffs proved she was not strong enough, even boosted, to snap them open. She spit on her wrist again, despite her dry mouth, and twisted her arm as she pulled, but her hand was too wide.

  Desperation and anger swirled through her as she stared at her useless arm. She felt so foolish for running away from the women, she lacked the strength to stand any more. Pulling the ratty excuse for a pillow into her lap, she hugged it, wishing it was Rachel. As she thought of her, and Zhar’s words, she pondered the concept of some people deserving to die. She did not want her life to end out here, not like this. Not starving in a pit while chained to a bed with nothing but her regrets at her side. People outside still needed her help.

  Her independence and desire to escape were both in their in
fancy, and easily daunted. Something moved past the grate far above, stepping on a twig and making a crunch. The sound took her right back to Rachel at the time she reached the limit of her tolerance. Tossing the pillow aside, she moved to her knees and grasped her right thumb. She would have to crush it, disjoint the bone, and her hand would slip right out just like Rachel’s had. Althea remembered the way Rachel’s bone-shapes looked. She knew what kind of damage needed to happen.

  With a cry of fear and anguish, she squeezed, but either strength or conviction was lacking, and her bones did not break. Panting, she fought back the tides of despair that threatened to swallow her, and grabbed the magic torch. Bashing the cuff had failed, but she could try smashing her hand. Drawing a hissing breath through clenched teeth, she lay the trapped hand upon the metal frame and raised the weapon over her head, staring at her target. She hesitated, shaking. Pain did not bother her for long; she could turn it off at will. Why then was she afraid to do it? The veins in the back of her hand swelled thick with her racing heart; she could feel it beating, feel the hot blood coursing through her.

  The sense of it made her feel stupid.

  The torch-turned-club slid from her grip, landing with a plop on the mattress behind her. Tracing her fingers over her arm, she pictured the bones. Eyes closed, she opened her mind-vision and linked it to the sense of her own form. In the shadows of her thoughts, skin faded away, as did muscle, exposing the bones within―separate and distinct shapes unto themselves. A temporary alteration, a momentary attack of her body’s defense mechanisms, and the ligaments holding her thumb in place tore apart. In her mind, a swarm of tiny little mouths devoured the cartilage and tendons and the thumb floated free.

  This brought with it a pain unlike any she had ever imagined. Unable to contain the scream, she emptied her lungs and collapsed into the bed frame. Trembling, she continued trying to shout despite having no air left inside her. Her right hand became an alien purple mass at the end of her arm and she could taste tears in her mouth. A tentative tug sent another wave of agony through her, even the air moving past it hurt. Her situation presented a unique paradox; she was in too much pain to concentrate on not feeling pain.