Contents
Title Page
Chapter One - Skylar
Chapter Two - Liam
Chapter Three - Skylar
Chapter Four - Liam
Chapter Five - Skylar
Chapter Six - Liam
Chapter Seven - Skylar
Chapter Eight - Liam
Chapter Nine - Skylar
Chapter Ten - Skylar
Chapter Eleven - Liam
Chapter Twelve - Liam
Chapter Thirteen - Skylar
Chapter Fourteen - Skylar
Chapter Fifteen - Liam
Chapter Sixteen - Liam
Chapter Seventeen - Skylar
Chapter Eighteen - Liam
Chapter Nineteen - Skylar
Chapter Twenty - Liam
Chapter Twenty-One - Skylar
Chapter Twenty-Two - Liam
Chapter Twenty-Three - Liam
Chapter Twenty-Four - Skylar
Chapter Twenty-Five - Liam
Chapter Twenty-Six - Liam
Chapter Twenty-Seven - Skylar
Chapter Twenty-Eight - Liam
Chapter Twenty-Nine - Skylar
Chapter Thirty - Liam
Chapter Thirty-One - Skylar
Chapter Thirty-Two - Liam
Chapter Thirty-Three - Skylar Try a new series FREE
Books By Jason D. Morrow
About Jason D. Morrow
Beyond the Gates
The Starborn Redemption
Book One
By
Jason D. Morrow
Smashwords Edition
Edited by Beth Morrow & Emily Simpson Morrow
Copyright © 2019 Jason D. Morrow
All rights reserved.
CHAPTER ONE
Skylar
I HAVE SEEN a bus before, but I have never ridden in one until now. I never expected my first time would have me sitting on a bench seat against the wall with my legs and wrists bound in chains. The locks are tight, and my nose itches beyond belief, but the restraints don’t allow me to reach it. I am in pain, and I haven’t slept in two days, but I am alive and so is Papa. That is all that matters to me.
Though I’m not supposed to, I watch him as he sits on the bench against the wall opposite of me. I have seen him look defeated before—when Mama died—but the sorrow in his eyes seems worse this time. He was caught before I was. Perhaps he didn’t feel the sorrow until I, too, was captured and brought onto the bus headed for Vulture Hill Prison Camp. I imagine that up until this moment, he had been satisfied knowing that I hadn’t been caught. Hunger had gotten the best of me, though, and I was caught trying to break into an abandoned shack to look for food.
I still haven’t eaten.
I don’t know a lot about the prison camp, but Papa once told me that when people go there, they don’t come back. He said it to motivate me to be careful and not get caught by the soldiers. I’m sure his tone will change if we’re permitted to talk again.
If he could talk to me now, I think Papa would tell me that all prison camps are the same and if we keep our heads low and don’t make ourselves visible, we will make it out alive. He would, of course, say this to motivate me to be careful and stay alive as long as possible. Still, I know that his previous warning won’t leave my mind until we are both safe and far away from the prison. When people go there, they don’t come back…
It will be hard for me to blend in with the crowd at Vulture Hill, I’m sure. If this busload of people is any indication of the prison population, there won’t be a lot of children there. I’m only twelve and am probably a lot shorter than most of the other prisoners. Being this young could work to my advantage, though, since most people don’t want to kill children, I think. But the guards at Vulture Hill probably aren't like most people.
Papa keeps his eyes fixed on the floor in front of him, and I know I’m supposed to do the same. He told me if we got caught, I shouldn’t look at him, I shouldn’t speak to him, and I shouldn’t tell anyone I know anything about him. In the event of capture, I am to say I am an orphan and my parents both died three years ago. We are from the southern part of the Containment Zone, but I’m not supposed to remember where. And no matter what, I am never, ever, supposed to mention the cure for the greyskin virus unless my life depends on it.
“It’s our last bit of leverage,” Papa told me. “We don’t mention the cure unless it’s the only way they will let us live.”
Papa thinks that if others find out about the cure—bandits, soldiers, and even good people—they will do anything they can to get their hands on it. Some, like the bandits and soldiers, would keep it for themselves and try to profit from it, and most good people wouldn’t know what to do with it but they would want it.
“It has to be distributed properly,” he had told me. “Slowly. It takes time to replicate it and make it widely available. It takes resources I don’t have. And I fear the moment anyone finds out about the cure, it will be gone.”
“But couldn’t you remake it?” I’d asked.
I remember him shaking his head slowly, his eyebrows furrowed. “It’s not that simple, Sky. It took me years to make it. To start from scratch…” He didn’t say anything else.
He was right. Of course he was right. From what I understood, he only had a small sample of the cure. He’d told me it could take months to produce on a large scale.
Papa usually gave it to me straight. That’s something I have always loved about him. That, and the way he calls me Sky instead of Skylar. Mama never did that. Only Papa.
He is the smartest man I’ve ever known. As far back as I can remember, he’d spent most of his time working on experiments in our basement. I was never allowed to go down there, and two years ago I found out why. For years he had been trying to come up with a cure for the greyskin virus—something no one had ever been able to do, not since the virus took over the world forty years ago.
“Why has no one else made the cure?” I remember asking him.
“I suppose no one has ever had the fortune I have had.”
Then he said something I think will stick with me until I’m an old woman. “When the world presents you with an opportunity to make it better, you have to try,” he said. “The world gave me a chance to create a cure. I had no other choice. One day the world will give you a chance to do something good, and you must take it.”
Papa, ever the teacher, is an unassuming man. Too modest to tell me he is a genius. Too humble to admit he taught himself the science necessary to make the cure. Scientists before him were baffled by the task of formulating a cure. Though, to be fair, many of them probably died from the outbreak forty years ago.
Papa was literally raised in a library—a place that happened to be safe from the greyskins, at least for a time—and was offered the chance to receive an education, something most people don’t get.
Knowing I would probably never even see a library, he was sure to tell me that an education is more than books; it’s about having someone in my life willing to teach me. When he wasn’t in the basement trying to save the world, he taught me as much as he could about science, music, history, literature. Our home was a happy one when we weren’t forced to remain quiet because of a herd of roaming greyskins nearby, which was often.
Supply runs for my father wasn’t always about getting food or tools for survival. Sometimes they were about bringing home a cart loaded with books. He wasn’t very picky about the kind of books he could find and bring home. Given his background, however, I wished he could be picky. Still, I read everything he brought home, from encyclopedias to fairy tales to mystery novels.
My favorite books were the novels. I loved learning. I devoured the science and math books. But there was somet
hing about the novels—a window to what the world was like before the greyskin virus took it over. It was almost as if reading about the world before was a complete fantasy. Those characters, who experienced terrifying situations, didn’t know fear like we did. They’ve never stared at the gaping wound of a greyskin bite, wondering when the poison coursing through their veins would kill them.
The bus rocks back and forth as it trudges over pothole-ridden roads. My back and legs ache. I’ve been on the bus for two days and two nights. Only twice have the guards let us off to relieve ourselves and offer us each a ladle of water. I haven’t slept and I know Papa hasn’t either.
I’ve been good about not looking at him until now. When his eyes turn toward me, we hold the stare for just a moment. I’ve never thought Papa looked old; now that I am watching him I see his weariness. He’s only forty-five, but with the dark circles under his eyes and several days of black and gray stubble, he looks about fifteen years older than he did just a few days ago.
He allows for the slightest curl on the side of his mouth to assure me that he’s still with me and that he loves me. Only Papa could say so much in a little smile. I don’t return it, knowing I can’t be as subtle, so I turn my eyes back to the endless row of feet in front of me. We may be going to the place where no one comes out alive, but if Papa has anything to do with it, we’ll find a way out. I just know it.
When the bus stops for the third time, I know it’s not just so we can relieve ourselves. The air smells like a thousand dead animals, confirming what I’ve already overheard about Vulture Hill Prison Camp—that it’s a greyskin sorting site. What that means, I’m not entirely sure, except that there are a lot of greyskins here for some reason. They are probably locked and barricaded in another part of the prison camp away from the inmates, but you don’t have to be close to be able to smell them.
I’ve never had a nightmare that didn’t include a greyskin. They are rotting bodies that move and walk and bite. But the ones I have seen in person are worse than any nightmare.
Why anyone would want to keep a bunch of greyskins nearby and locked up is crazy to me unless they are performing experiments on them. Maybe they are trying to find the cure for the virus. If they are, that’s our ticket out of this place. I just have to remember Papa has to be the one to say something about it first. If I were the one to bring it up, they would probably just laugh at me. It’s our last bit of leverage.
Still, with the heavy stench in the air, there has to be more than just a few of them. I bet unruly prisoners are fed to them or are forced to become greyskins themselves. That’s why I need to be on my best behavior. They will expect a child to be unruly.
I wish there were windows along the sides of the bus for me to see out. If I look past the bars and through the driver’s windshield, I can see the outside just a little. The sun is starting to come up, and it’s going to be another hot day. I can already feel it. I’m sure that won’t help the smell.
When they open the back door of the bus, a cool wind rushes in, or maybe it’s just the stale air leaving. Either way, there is a slight relief. That relief goes away the moment the guards from the prison walk toward the entrance. They wear black outfits and carry large guns in case any of us try to run.
One of the guards on the bus hits a button and our chains are released from the holds near our feet, and I finally get to scratch my nose.
“Left side, stand up,” a guard shouts from the outside. He points his rifle at the row where Papa sits.
Each prisoner stands and slowly walks toward the back of the bus, carefully taking a giant step down with aching legs to the outside.
As they shuffle by, I look at the face of each man and woman so I can see Papa without anyone noticing. When he steps past me, he offers the smallest wink and I feel like he has just wrapped me up in a bear hug.
When all the prisoners from the left side are off the bus and formed into a single file line, the guards call the right side out. It feels good to stand as blood rushes to the back of my legs, and when I finally get off the bus, the morning air feels cool, but not fresh. Just another hour or so and the heat will add another miserable element.
The lot of us form a long line, and by order, we march toward the prison camp. With all the buildings and pathways that lay behind three sets of razor wire fences, the prison camp looks like a city that just barely survived a brutal war. The prisoners brave enough to stand near the fence to watch wear baggy clothes, the bones in their cheeks distinct and their skin stretched out against their limbs. I get the sinking feeling that my hunger pangs won’t leave anytime soon.
Dust puffs up in clouds around our ankles as we shuffle toward the prison entrance. A few curious heads bob in different directions taking in the scene, but most everyone in line has their eyes fixed on the ground in front of them. One step at a time… One step at a time… This will be the whole experience at Vulture Hill, won’t it? One step at a time…
I feel sorry for those in the group without hope. They don’t have a life-saving secret like Papa. I know it will get us out of here soon. These thoughts sprint through my mind long before my feet cross the threshold into the prison camp. Once they do, however, dreams of a happy future are replaced by fear and uncertainty. Then they separate us by gender. Males on the right side of the entrance, females on the left. It never occurred to me that Papa and I wouldn’t be in the same part of the camp.
My eyes widen and I can’t help but look at Papa who stands directly across from me. He is staring at me too. Tears form at the bottoms of my eyelids, but I bite my lip to try and keep them from falling. His eyes redden and his eyebrows furrow. He swallows. Maybe he didn’t realize we would be separated either.
I can hardly keep my body from shaking. The guards close the gate to the prison as though they are closing the door on our futures. The gate shuts with a loud declaration of “this is your home now. Get used to it.”
A large group of guards walks toward us from inside the camp. Papa and I both tear our eyes away from each other. Between two rows of three guards is a man who stands taller than the rest. He wears a similar black uniform, but his shirt is more relaxed, two buttons unfastened near the collar. When he stops, the other guards stop.
The man has a dark gaze, his brow casting a shadow over his eyes. His beard is unkempt, and his hair is windblown. By looking at the other guards, this man is clearly exempt from the rules of uniform.
“Each of you is now a prisoner of Vulture Hill Prison Camp,” he says, his voice deep and hoarse. He sounds like he spent all of last night screaming, or like he was just getting over some illness.
“I want each of you to look at that hill just outside the camp,” he says pointing behind Papa’s row of prisoners.
The hill looms over the camp, a large, bare tree with jagged limbs stands alone as though it stands as a lookout for escapees. It represents this place well. Empty of life. Soulless.
“That is your final resting place,” the man says. “When you die here, and there is no question of that happening, that is where you will lay to rest. There will be no burial. No ceremony. This place is called Vulture Hill because your bodies will be placed at the top of that hill and the vultures will feast until all that’s left are bones.” He takes slow steps between the row of new prisoners, looking at the ground as he recalls each line from a speech he has probably given many times. “There are thousands and thousands of bones on that hill. Soon, you will be among them.”
The man stops short when he is in front of me. His eyes stare into mine, and I am seized with terror.
“We don’t get many children here,” he says. His face displays a genuine curiosity mixed with delight. “What is your name?”
Don’t look at Papa. You can’t look at Papa.
“Skylar,” I tell him.
“Are your parents here?”
“I’m an orphan.”
“Of course you are.” He doesn’t sound like he believes me. He breathes through his nose as if
enjoying the sweet smell of decay from the greyskins locked away in the bowels of the camp. “The bones of children are on that hill, too. Don’t think your youth will save you. Tragic that you had to do something so egregious that it warranted coming here. If only you had good parents.”
His eyes betray him for a moment, and he seems truly sad, but he composes himself as if to tear away thoughts he didn’t wish to have.
“Your day of death is not yet,” he says, continuing down the dusty path between the prisoners. “Until it is your time to die, you will work: for the betterment of the world and the government you have defied.” He turns once he reaches the end of the row and paces back. “Any attempt to escape will result in harsh consequences and even execution if I deem it necessary,” he says. He points to the hill again. “The vultures are always hungry.”
This man is a liar. He has to be a liar. But there is nothing around me to contradict what he’s saying. This camp seems unbearable. The people staring at us through the fences looked like they were ready to be taken to the hill so they could end their suffering. Maybe that’s how I’m going to feel in the coming days, months, years…
Years?
Could I really be here for years?
The man returns to his spot between the six guards and turns to face us.
“Each of you will be assigned a cell with another person,” he says. “The men’s quarters are on the south side of the camp and the women’s quarters are on the north side. Any fraternization with the opposite sex without permission from myself or the guards will result in punishment or even execution.” His eyes land on me again and it feels like he’s parked a truck on top of me. My small frame makes me stand out, and this isn’t the time to stand out.
“I am your Warden. Warden Black. Jeremiah may be in charge of us as citizens, but here, I’m in charge. I have been given authority from Screven to run this place as I see fit. You won’t like it. I don’t care. You are here to die, but I’m going to get use out of you first.”
Beyond the Gates Page 1