The Lost Kids: A Young Adult Dystopian Romance

by J. L. Smith

  The Lost Kids

  J.L. Smith

  Copyright © 2020 by J.L. Smith

  All rights reserved.

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Edited by Elizabeth Hill

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  To Todd, for always giving me space to follow my dreams.

  AND

  To my mother, for opening my eyes to the world for stories.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  My first memory of that bright winter’s morning was the crows. Circling overhead, in great rings of black, their wings frantically beating out against the wind, their cries shrill and sharp, I finally saw them for what they have always been – omens of death. Perhaps, if I had listened, I would have heard their warning. But, I could not. For only a moment did I see them and then my eyes closed once more, welcoming in the sweet silence of an unknown darkness.

  “I think she’s coming round.”

  “Nah, she’s still out. Will be for a while.”

  “What’d the aunt give her, anyway?”

  “Sedative from hell. And a real dose of it, too.”

  “So, this one’ll play nice.”

  “Are you disappointed?”

  “Maybe a little.”

  There was laughter, more chatter, but somehow I could not quite hold on to what they were saying. Their voices caught in the air, lifted up and seemed to get tugged along by the wind, whipped across the vastness and orangeness of the desert sands. I blamed my head – it was too heavy, and my tongue – too thick. The back of my throat felt raw and strangely metallic in taste. Like pulling on an endless piece of string, I could not find a beginning or an end. Who were these men? Where was Nita? I closed my eyes again and let myself forget.

  In the haze of that morning, I dreamed of Nita. I could see her quite clearly, her inky black hair and almost violet eyes. They were hard eyes, eyes meant for hate.

  “Stupid girl, why do I bother with you?” she screamed, her body taking on a dream-like quality, shimmery almost.

  Even in my dreams, I was always afraid of her. “Sorry, Nita.” I mumbled, looking away.

  She slapped me then, her hand bringing up yet another red mark. It did not matter. No one would see it. But even as I rubbed my cheek, the pain changed, becoming something cold and hard against my ankles. I pulled and felt it pull back. There was a snapping sound, metal against metal.

  “Hey, stop that.”

  I opened my eyes and my first instinct was relief. It had just been a dream. There was a man beside me, rather than my aunt with her wild eyes. Only then did my heart start to pound. All at once, I became aware of my surroundings. The man. The chains. The cage. I was lying on my back, with my arms and legs spread out like some sort of deranged starfish baking in the desert sun. The cool press of metal against my wrists and ankles told me that I was chained to something or someone. With only a gentle tug, I felt the heavy chains meet some resistance. I realized then that I was attached to the four bars at each corner of the tall cage. Lying within the narrow rectangle, I could see the blue sky up above, but everywhere I looked on either side of me was metal, foot upon foot of thick, menacing beams. The man was sitting in what looked to be a loose car seat in the corner of my container, its base attached to the floor. I glanced surreptitiously at him, taking in his cowboy hat fastened tightly beneath his chin, his oversized goggles to keep out the red sands, his cowhide jacket and leather boots. It was his mouth which triggered my memory as he whistled, a plastic straw sticking to the saliva glistening on his fat lips. I had seen this man before.

  “What’s going on?” I said tentatively, pushing my voice out past the dry of my tongue.

  His face morphed, taking on a grotesque smile. “You’re up. Rise and shine.”

  Even without the chains, even if we had been in another place entirely, his voice would still have made the hairs on my arms stand on end.

  “Where am I?” I stammered, hating the fear so evident in my voice. But even as I said the words, I knew.

  It was in the whistle of the air, as it streamed through my cage. It was in the rattle of the metal, pulsing across the desert. I was being transported. As I lifted my head up off the hard floor ever so slightly, I knew what I would see. A truck made for the sand, its giant wheels racing across the soft red surface. My cage jolted along the rifts of the desert floor behind it, a deathly trailer attached to the back of the truck, taking me to what would surely be my tomb. Everyone knew the stories. In an age such as this, where time hangs by a careful thread, life is not precious anymore. I had been sold. I was just another number in the human trafficking trade.

  There could be only one explanation. “Nita,” I almost choked her name out.

  He laughed, “Quite an aunt you got.”

  The previous night started coming back to me then. The early dinner. Nita and I sitting silently at the table for two in our kitchen. It was so unlike her – most nights I ate alone. As for Nita, she had her men. They came and went and then she had a little more money than the night before. I had washed our dishes, checked on the Angora goats, our livelihood, and with the winter fair coming up, I needed to make sure they were in the best condition. Money had been tight and Nita was insisting that we sell one of them. Then, just like every other night, I went to bed and dreamed of unknown places far away. It was, perhaps, a few hours later that he arrived. With the groan of the front door, I knew my aunt had another night-time visitor. As usual, I snuck a peek – and this had been the man.

  I tried to talk again, my voice sounding tired and thin, “I thought you just came for her.”

  He laughed, “Nah. I came for you, kiddo.”

  “What do you mean?” I could feel tears forming at the corners of my eyes and I swallowed the lump rising up in my throat. “Where are we going?” But, of course, I knew it all. “Balen,” I whispered.

  He winked, “Right on.”

  “Why?”

  He shrugged, “Money makes the world go round.”

  It had been my aunt, of all people. I knew she hated me, but the extent of it, I could never have understood. I remembered then, the prick on my shoulder, which I had felt in the early hours of the morning. I remembered my aunt’s voice, the hatred in it, as I stumbled into oblivion. She had injected me with something – too cowardly to look me in the eyes before she sold off to the highest bidder.

  I forced myself to ask, “How much?”

  “More than you’re worth, sweetheart.”

  The tears came then, running hotly down my cheeks and I turned away, not wanting him to see. I watched the sky for what see
med to be hours, listening to the engine of the truck roaring, as my head bounced painfully against the solid floor of the trailer. So, these were to be the last few hours of my life. What would they take from me? Would they start with the kidneys or go straight for the heart? The stories came back to me. Little boys and girls, men and women, sold to Balen. Some had done it for their families, nobly sacrificing their lives to provide for the ones they loved. Others had been forced, discarded like old trash and swept across the desert to some far corner, unseen and forgotten. I had grown up hearing his name. Balen. The man with the organ empire. The powerful lord of a distant territory I expected never to visit.

  As the morning wore on, I recalled a conversation my aunt had had with a friend late one night, perhaps six months prior to selling me off. I could almost hear their voices, tense against the night air as I lay half asleep in my little bedroom. I had not thought about it since.

  “Nita, I’m telling you, go for it.”

  “Really? Is the pay that good?”

  “Better.”

  “But, what about the goats? I refuse to look after them. They stink!”

  “Get rid of them, then. Trust me, you won’t need them.”

  “And what if it brings me bad luck? Evil for evil, and all that.”

  “Do you believe all that?”

  “Maybe.” A pause and then, “Not really. No. But, what do I tell people if they ask?”

  “Accidents happen. Come on, Nita, you’re the queen of drama. You’ll think of something.”

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  My tears dried up with the memory, making room for the anger to set in. For so long, I had learned to remain just out of reach. She screamed at me – I was silent. She hit me – I apologized. She threw her food in the sink – I thanked her. Nothing was ever good enough. I was too like her sister, the one who took my father away from her. With my sky blue eyes and fiery, orange curls to match the desert sand, I was always just another painful reminder. She had never forgiven my mother, never stopped loving my father. It was only then, chained in my white nightdress on that winter’s day, that I was able to conceive of the sheer depth of my aunt’s bitterness.

  Feeling the beginnings of my own bitterness which would continue to haunt me, I raised my voice to the man again, “How much for my freedom? There’s got to be a price.”

  He gazed down at me and I hoped, more than expected, that he was considering my offer. But, in truth, what could I really offer a man such as this? Could I do what I knew Nita would do?

  He spat the chewed-up straw from his mouth onto the floor and licked his greasy lips, “You women are all the same.” He smiled, a nasty leer, too full of teeth, “Spit it out, honey. What’re you offering?”

  What was I offering? I had not a cent to my name. I had no connections, no other family. I was just another orphan tossed out to die under the beating sun. Somehow, I knew, even if I offered myself, it would never be enough. He was one of Balen’s men, a runner, and if rumors were to be believed, no one double-crossed the lord with the organ empire.

  The man laughed, such a soulless sound, and tipped back his hat. His dark eyes, bug-like through his goggles, watched me intently, “I thought so. Haven’t got the guts. Not like your aunt.” He licked his lips again, “You’re a piece of ass, Aria. But, I’ve got to tell you, what Balen’s offering is a hell of a lot better. I’m a gambling man, but even I know to take a sure bet when I see one.”

  I shivered. He had said my name. Somehow, I had preferred it when I was nameless, just another body waiting to be harvested. I looked away, hoping he would not see the tears that were coming again. The wind picked up, a gust blowing hard clumps of sand across my wet cheeks, plastering little gritty patches onto my burning skin. I closed my eyes, trying to block out the sound of his laughter. Instead, I listened to the wind, always so lonely across those vast expanses. It wailed as it climbed on us in tight circles, spraying my ears, my eyes, my mouth, with bits of red. It made me feel better. It was what I knew.

  It was as the wind sped up, even as it gushed across us, that I began to make out another sound, something other than the engine and the rattle of the trailer. At first, it was so indistinct that I thought to ignore it. Occasionally, journeying across the desert, one came across other travelers. I had been told that this was not always so. There was a time when a journey meant people, other vehicles, a rushing from point to point. How the desert seemed to laugh at that, as it buried races, nations, beneath its eternal sands.

  Gradually, I became aware that the sound was growing in intensity, seeming more to be a deep buzzing, something jarring and very like an engine. I glanced at the man and noticed that he appeared on alert, glaring out into the desert. I followed his gaze and could make out little, but the low circling of the sands and shimmering of the flat, hazy horizon beneath the crystal sky. I had always been told that sound carried in the desert, making it a difficult place to hide. Ever so slowly, I began to recognize shapes, something shifting where the orange met the blue. With their appearance, the sound seemed to change, becoming altogether louder, a collection of engines perhaps. I squinted into the distance and the shapes altered. Then it hit me – motorcycles.

  I jerked my head up, attracting the man’s attention, “Get down!” He stood, holding onto the bars of the cage and carefully made his way over to me, jerking to and fro as the truck veered in the sand. “Could be trouble.” His hand hovered over his gun, tucked into a holster attached to his leather belt.

  Lowering my head, I turned marginally to face the horizon once more, trying to discern the shapes out of the corners of my eyes. In no time at all, it seemed that they were upon us, the motorcycles unmistakable, gleaming silver in the early afternoon light. There must have been about half a dozen of them, an ominous crew closing the space between us.

  The man was almost standing on my head, muttering to himself as he directed his stare at them. “Bloody bikers,” he said, as he lifted his gun from its holster.

  Then I could make them out, the details of the people on the bikes. Every one of them was dressed from head to toe in black – leathers, feathers, metallic chains and armored plates added to the effect, coming together in a bizarre collection of costumes. Black helmets glistened in the sun, concealing their heads, while their faces were covered in dark goggles and respirator masks, protecting their mouths from the harsh desert air. All at once, they panned out, darting in different directions, nimbly shooting across the sand, as it flicked off the rubber tires of their bikes. There seemed to be a leader, someone signaling to them, directing the strange motley crew.

  “Coming round us, I bet.” The man raised his gun, seeming uncertain as to whether to let off the first shot.

  Then, the crew was surrounding us, their loops about our truck and trailer becoming tighter and tighter, their engines becoming louder. It was as if they were putting on some sort of show, swerving frantically, spraying us in showers of sand. I was caked in red, watching it all, when they cut in front of the wheels of the truck, forcing the driver to jerk the vehicle in an effort to avoid a collision. It was then, with our trailer traveling violently across the sand and their leader shouting directions to his crew, that the man in my cage began to fire at them.

  I watched in horror, my upper body straining against the chains that bound me, in an attempt to see. Bullets scattered across the sand, hitting bikes here and there, ricocheting off metal surfaces. Mostly, the man missed entirely, but the bikers were more wary now, some of them backing away completely, others falling off their vehicles, hitting the desert floor at odd angles. One of them, I knew, had been shot.

  I looked to their leader, who seemed angrier, as if propelled to further retribution because of their friend. I was sure it was a man who led them, judging by the width of his shoulders and the size of his chest. As if coming to some terrible decision, he jerked his bike up in the air with renewed force and made for the front wheels of the truck once more. The man besid
e me was firing wildly, letting off a string of swear words almost as ferociously. A bullet caught the leader’s bike, sparking against the metal and disappearing into the gathering sand rising up with the gusty wind. Then I could see him no more, as he pulled his bike before the truck. It happened so fast, I barely had time to string a coherent thought together. I felt the truck skidding, dragging us at strange angles in its wake. The next thing I knew, the truck was tumbling, pulling us along with it. I must have blacked out, for when I was able to piece it all together again, the trailer was on its side and I was lying painfully upon the bars of my cage, still chained, my face crushed against the warm, red sand. My wrists and ankles felt raw, straining against the metal shackles. But suddenly I was thankful for my chains. They might have saved my life, as I lay there secured onto the floor of the trailer. I looked across towards the truck and saw its wheels spinning aimlessly in the air and, for one dreadful moment, there was deathly silence.

  They were on us then and for an instant I was not sure whether to feel a sense of awe or sheer terror. One of them jumped onto the side of the truck and climbed through the open window, clearly going in search of the driver. I was sure it was a girl, her long, dark braid coming out from beneath her helmet. The leader of the bikers circled around the vehicle once more to the back of the trailer, clambering off his bike with an agility I had to admire. I tried to lift myself onto my elbow to get a better look at him, when shots were fired again. With alarming speed, the leader rolled across the sand and I became aware of my kidnapper beside me, shooting out almost haphazardly at the biker.

  In the next instant, he grasped my upper arm and I felt the cold pressure of metal through my nightdress. It was his gun, nestled painfully between my shoulder blades. It was then that the final shot was fired.

  Chapter 2

  He died immediately. His body, only a moment before hovering over me, was propelled backwards by the sheer force of the bullet. There he lay, just beside me, streams of red and bits of puffy tissue oozing from his head, to mingle with the red of the sand. In horror, I realized that I was screaming, perhaps had been for some time.