Read these bestselling tales of survival against the odds, dark worlds, dystopian regimes and heroic rebels.
Shattered Worlds features six full-length novels from bestselling authors. Immerse yourself in post-apocalyptic civilizations and bleak near-futures where hope still lives.
Featured authors and books are:
Elle Casey: Apocalypsis
Shalini Boland: Outside
Zoe Cannon: The Torturer's Daughter
Scott Cramer: Night of the Purple Moon
Sarah Dalton: The Blemished
Katie French: The Breeders
Note: Author and book names are links.
I stuffed the
sleeping bag down into my backpack with angry, punching motions, sick and tired
of having to be here and having to do the same thing over and over again. I
hated camping, I hated being organized, and more than anything, I hated what
this exercise stood for.
“Don’t do it like
that. I told you - you have to conserve the room as best you can. You have to
travel as efficiently as possible. Take it out and start over.”
“I don’t see what
difference it makes.”
“Trust me, it’s
going to be a really big deal to you in the not so distant future.” His voice
sounded hollow.
“Says who?” I was
being ornery. I knew the answer to the question already.
“Says me, Bryn.
And the news. Look around, would you?” He sounded like he was pleading now.
“Stop defaulting back to the rebellious young teen act, and get serious. We
don’t have enough time to play those games anymore.”
“They’re not
games, Dad. I am a teenager. I don’t
care what the news jerks and the government say.” I threw my backpack down on
the ground. “And it’s not rebellious to not want to play friggin’ survivor in
the backyard every day.”
My dad looked at
me with a sad expression and sighed, reaching over to pull me into a tight hug.
He dropped his nose to my head and inhaled deeply.
My face was
pressed up against his shirt, and I could smell his sweat mixed with the sweet
scent of his aftershave. My dad always said he was the last of a dying breed,
using that stuff. He couldn’t have been more right.
“Maybe it’s not
going to happen here … to us.” I said it just to hear the words, but I knew it
was only wishful thinking.
I could tell he
was getting choked up again when he started talking, his voice now hoarse.
“I wish, more
than anything else in this world, that you didn’t have to be standing here with
me in this backyard playing survivor.” His whole body started to shake with
silent sobs. “Oh, God, Bryn. If I could do anything
to change this, anything at all, I would. I swear to God I would. But it’s
happening. No one can stop it.”
I put my arms
around his waist, letting go of my earlier stubborn anger, now choking back my
own tears. “I know, Dad. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”
“Yes, you did,” he
said, sniffing hard and clearing his throat, shifting to hold me at arm’s
length. He was staring at me while he smiled through his tears, giving me that look. The one that always made me
confess.
“Okay, so maybe I
did mean it. But I’ll shut up about it for a little while.”
“Not for too
long, though. You wouldn’t be my daughter if you weren’t complaining about
something.”
I tried to slap
him playfully but he moved too fast for me. My dad is light on his feet, an
expert level-one practitioner of krav maga - a certified badass. He’d only
recently taken up camping.
“Pick it up,” he
ordered, now back in control of his emotions. “Do it again. Only this time, get
the air out of that bag first, condense it down …”
I cut him off. “I
know, I know … ‘down into the smallest footprint possible.’ Geez, Dad, I’m not
an idiot.”
I shook the
sleeping bag out and started rolling it up quickly, using the moves I’d been
practicing for four months straight to squeeze it down into a lump the size of
a small loaf of bread. I folded the whole thing in half, pushed it to the
bottom of the backpack, and then let it unfold itself one time, before putting
the other items in on top of it: unbreakable water bottle, half-liter of
bleach, square of plastic, cup, hunting knife, and various other tools my
father was quite certain I would need … once all the adults in the world had
died off, leaving us kids alone to fend for ourselves.
Pa is a black
marketeer. Nobody and everybody knows this. Pa pays people not to rock the
boat. He pays the guards, he pays the neighbours and he even pays his friends.
He pays off just about everyone – a litre of whisky here and a bag of sugar
there, and in return we live a life of ease and comfort. Pa believes in the
carrot approach just as much as the punishing stick. As long as he doesn’t draw
too much attention to himself from the wrong quarters, we’re safe and free.
Pa can get his
hands on just about anything from before. If you’ve got a craving for a pot
noodle he can probably magic one up from somewhere. But it’ll cost you all
you’ve got and more besides. He isn’t swayed by threats or tears. He’ll hold fast
and stare you down and if you can’t pay you might get a bullet in your head, or
worse.
This morning, my
parents are standing together in the doorway of the sitting room. Behind me,
the sun floods in through the windows and they edge closer to avoid squinting
into the too-bright light.
Their faces are
ghost white and Ma’s nose and eyes are pink and swollen. She shivers and her
teeth chatter as though she’s chilled and it isn’t the warm July morning it
appears to be.
‘Riley, can you
sit down?’ Pa asks.
‘Okay,’ I say.
They’re acting weird. It’s freaking me out. My legs are heavy wood and I’m not
sure I can make the three feet required to reach the sofa.
‘Okay,’ I repeat.
But I don’t move. I just keep looking from one to the other and they stare back
almost as if they’re afraid of me.
‘Riley, sit
down,’ Pa says.
I walk to the
sofa and sit in one corner with my hands on my lap. The leather is cool against
my legs in the warmth of the room. Fear has travelled up from my stomach to my
throat and I can’t swallow. I feel sick.
‘Riley,’ he says,
running his hands slowly through his hair.
‘No!’ Ma loses
it. She sobs and stumbles towards me. Sits and buries her head in my chestnut
curls, rocking me backwards and forwards, moaning and muttering. I can’t
breathe she’s holding me so tight.
‘Sweetheart, let
go, you’re crushing her. Go and lie down upstairs if you want. I’ll tell her.’
Pa’s voice is soft and broken. It doesn’t sound a bit like him.
She lets go of
me, cups my face in her hands and kisses my face all over. ‘No, It’s alright,
I’m alright,’ she says not taking her eyes from my face. ‘I'm not leaving my
baby.’ She leans back, trembling. I press my hands back into my lap and she
wraps her arms around herself, still shivering and rocking.
Our house has
always been a light and happy place. I don’t understand what’s going on. My
face and pyjama top are wet from Ma’s sticky tears. I let my mind wander for a
minute, away from the awful strangeness of what’s going on and I hear the low
background hum of the generators overlaid by the familiar whirr and thrum of a
copter hovering overhead.
Has my father
done something wrong? Are we in danger? Do we have to leave the Perimeter? All
the most awful things I can think of crowd my brain. And then … Skye! Why isn’t
she here? My little sister is usually up before me. I hesitate, not wanting to
pose the question. Maybe she’s too young for this conversation and they’ve sent
her out of earshot. She won't like that; she’ll kick up a real fuss. But then I
would have heard them arguing and everything has been quiet this morning;
abnormally quiet up until now.
An unwanted
thought creeps into my head and I push it out quickly.
‘Where’s Skye?’
My voice sounds high pitched and distant, like my ears need to pop.
Pa comes close
and crouches down in front of me. He takes both my hands in his and looks into
my eyes.
‘Something’s
happened.’ He breaks off. ‘We’re waiting for … We’re not sure ...’
And then
something really horrible happens. My powerful, strong, wonderful father starts
crying. Proper messy crying where his face twists and his voice sounds broken.
I’m appalled. He never cries.
‘Pa …’
I’m not a typical
daddy’s girl. I love the bones of him, but I feel easiest around Ma. We always
talk make-up, fashion, gossipy stuff and laugh a lot together. Skye belongs to
Pa and Pa definitely belongs to Skye. They’re a team. I never feel excluded
exactly, but I don’t have the same natural connection they do.
‘Riley,’ he says.
‘I don't know how to say this.’ He looks over at Ma who’s staring at him in
horror. ‘Skye is … Skye is. Oh Riley, she … she’s dead.’
I stare down at
the patterns on the carpet. I’ve never noticed just how vivid the individual
colours are. The over-all effect is of a soft warmth, but I focus on a
particular strand of red that seems almost luminous, as if it’s going to jump
out of the weave and hit me in the face.
Becca’s steps slowed as she approached
Processing 117. The floodlights of the parking lot shone down on her, exposing
her. Past the lot, the darkness threatened to close in. There was no other
source of light nearby except for the dim glow of the streetlamps, nothing but
trees for at least a mile in every direction.
The concrete structure loomed taller than its
five stories—maybe because of the invisible presence of the underground levels,
or maybe because in a moment Becca was going to have to walk inside.
Heather
can’t have been arrested. If she were a prisoner, they wouldn’t have let her
call.
But when Becca remembered the panic in
Heather’s voice, the thought wasn’t all that reassuring anymore.
Becca took the last few steps across the
not-quite-empty parking lot. The windows of the upper floors glowed in a
patchwork of lights, showing who was working another late night and who was at
home sleeping… or down on the underground levels. Becca knew that in one of
those dark offices, a phone had been ringing off the hook for the past
half-hour, its owner oblivious to Becca’s pleas for her to answer, to find
Heather for her, to fix this.
Becca reached the double doors of the
entrance—and froze. Her heart thudded against her ribcage.
Heather
is in there, she reminded
herself. Heather needs me.
She pulled the doors open and stepped inside.
The doors slammed shut behind her, the noise
echoing off the stark white walls. Security cameras stared down at her from the
ceiling. The guards, one to either side of the metal detector, pinned her to
the floor with their eyes, but said nothing.
Opposite the metal detector from Becca, the
room was bare except for a huge metal desk with corners that looked sharp
enough to cut. Behind the desk, a dark-haired woman with a headset clipped to
her ear stopped mid-yawn and jerked up to face her.
Becca held her breath and stepped through the
metal detector. Its light flashed green, and one of the guards waved her
forward. She let her breath out and stepped up to the desk.
She eyed the woman’s crisp gray suit, and the
desk that gleamed like it had never seen a speck of dust in its life. Then she
looked down at her own clothes, the jeans and wrinkled t-shirt she had grabbed
from her dresser after hanging up with Heather. She crossed her arms around her
stomach.
The receptionist’s bleary surprise had
vanished, replaced by a stone mask. “Can I help you?”
“I’m looking for…” Becca bit back the name on
her lips. No. If she were in her office, she would have answered the phone.
Anyway, Becca could imagine her reaction at finding out about this midnight
walk to 117. Becca was on her own.
“…Heather Thomas,” she finished. “She called
me half an hour ago and told me she was here.”
The receptionist’s expression didn’t tell
Becca anything.
“She’s here… somewhere… she called me…”
Becca’s voice trailed off. I’m not doing
anything wrong, she told herself. I’m
not a dissident. Heather’s not a dissident.
Which led Becca back to the question that had
been circling through her mind since she had gotten Heather’s call. What was
Heather doing here?
The receptionist turned away and tapped
something out on her keyboard. It only took her a few seconds to find what she
was looking for. She typed in something else and touched her earpiece. “We have
a detainee in temporary holding,” she said to someone Becca couldn’t see. “Last
name Thomas. Her file says she’s waiting for a relative to collect her. Right,
that’s the one. Someone forgot to collect her phone, and she called a friend.”
A pause. “No, that won’t be necessary. Just confiscate the phone.”
She turned back to Becca. “Heather Thomas is
waiting for her guardian to arrive. Are you Lydia Thomas?” She gave Becca a
skeptical once-over.
Becca considered saying yes, but even if the
receptionist weren’t going to ask for proof, there was no way she could pass as
Heather’s… aunt, she remembered after a moment. Aunt Lydia, the one who always
looked at Becca and Heather like being in high school was catching.
The receptionist took her silence as an
answer. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
Becca wanted nothing more than to do just
that. But she couldn’t leave and let this place swallow Heather. “If she’s
waiting for her aunt to get here, I can wait with her until she shows up.”
“I’m sorry,” said the receptionist, already
turning back to her computer. “The policy is clear. The detainee will remain in
temporary holding—alone—until her guardian arrives.”
Becca was losing ground. And somewhere in
this building, Heather was waiting for her. “I’m not trying to take her home or
anything. I only want to…” To make sure she wasn’t locked away underground. To
make sure they hadn’t gotten her mixed up with somebody else, some dissident
slated for execution. “…to let her know I’m here. I promised her I’d—”
“Your refusal to leave the building when
instructed will be recorded.” The receptionist placed her hands on her
keyboard. “May I have your name?”
“At least tell me what happened. Why is she
here? Is she all right?”
“Your name, please,” the receptionist
repeated.
If she stayed much longer, the receptionist
would order the guards to drag her out—or worse, in. She could end up in one of
those underground cells… She shivered. They couldn’t do that to her just for
asking about Heather, right?
“Your name,” the receptionist repeated again,
with a glance toward the guards.
Becca slumped. “Rebecca Dalcourt.”
The receptionist blinked.
“Well,” she said, her voice suddenly warmer, “I
suppose we can make an exception.”
DAY 1 – THE COMET
Thick fog rolled in and swallowed Abby
whole. Unable to see her outstretched hand, she clenched her jaw to stop her
teeth from chattering. Homichlophobia — fear of fog. Millions had the phobia,
but how many of them lived in the fog capital of the universe?
“Abby.”
Her father’s voice sounded far away. He’d
been next to her a moment ago. She reached for him and grabbed damp air. A
chill rippled through her and she started flailing her arms.
A hand pressed
down on her shoulder. “Hey, sleepy.”
Abby opened her
eyes and blinked at the silhouette, tall and lean with a curly mop of brown
hair. “Dad!”
“Swimming
somewhere?”
“Yeah,
Cambridge.” Abby always found a way to let her dad know how she felt about
moving from the city in Massachusetts where she had grown up—where her friends
still lived—to a small island twenty miles off the coast of Maine. Her mom also
shared part of the blame for going along with his crazy idea to move here.
“Tonight’s the
night!” he said with a gleam in his eye and headed off to wake up her
twelve-year-old brother Jordan.
“A purple moon?”
she called out. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”
Abby sat up in
bed, still shaken by her dream. Just then the long blast of a horn signaled the
7 a.m. ferry arriving from the mainland. She had to hurry to get in the shower
first.
She entered the
hallway at the same time as Jordan, and together they raced for the bathroom.
She ducked inside first, but he blocked the door from closing. Each pushed for
all they were worth. Abby, a year older and stronger than her brother, slammed
the gap shut and locked the door.
“Come on,” he
said, banging. “I need to take a shower.”
“Me, too!”
“Save some hot
water!”
“Can you say please?”
He banged again.
Abby kicked aside
Jordan’s dirty socks and underwear he’d left on the floor and turned on the
shower. She stepped into the warm spray and sighed. Sunday, two days from now,
could not come fast enough. Abby would spend spring break with her mother in
Cambridge. For the first time since moving to Castine Island three months ago,
she would hang out with her best friend, Mel.
When Abby stepped
out of the bathroom, she found Jordan camped in the hall. He pushed his way
past her. “Jerk,” he said. “There better be hot water.”
“Grow up!” she
fired back. “And get your dirty stuff off the floor!”
Later, Abby
placed her backpack on the kitchen floor, ready for breakfast. Her two-year-old
sister, Toucan, sat in her highchair eating Cheerios, grinning, and babbling.
“Abby, Comet, Cheeries.”
Abby planted a
kiss on her face. “Morning, Touk.”
Dad was washing
dishes piled high in the sink—Power
cleaning, he called it. Preparing for Mom’s arrival on Saturday, he always
started picking up the house the day before.
Abby poured a
bowl of cereal and studied the newspaper. The front page had a big picture of
the comet Rudenko-Kasparov, named for
the two amateur comet hunters who first spotted the fuzzy blob in the Andromeda
constellation. The headline declared: GET YOUR BROOMS READY. That was a joke —
nobody would be sweeping up space dust, but when Earth entered the comet’s tail
for the first time tonight, astronomers predicted weeks of colorful sunsets and
sunrises and, best of all, a purple moon.
Not everyone was
looking forward to the comet. One cult believed it signaled the end of the
world and were hiding out in a cave, as if a hole in the ground might offer
some type of protection.
Abby didn’t worry
about the world coming to an end, though she was quite curious what space dust
smelled like.
Once, my mum told
me a story about a princess, and it began with her stuck in a castle. My story
begins with my head stuck in the toilet.
It was my first
day in Area 14 and my first opportunity to make a good impression at the school
appropriately named St Jude’s. Any school with the Blemished as pupils deserved
the saint of lost causes as their patron. I’d approached the old Victorian building
with a hopeful feeling; this was a new start, a chance to finally make friends.
But it was the same hopeful feeling which was beaten away within the hour. An
hour was all it took for a GEM to push my head down the toilet and flush.
Her bony hand
squeezed my skull. Water pulled my skin. It flooded my nose. I choked and my
fingernails scraped the porcelain. I
thought ¬– this is how I am going to die, with my face being sucked down a
drain. Then, I almost did it again. In the twitch of my fingers I felt the urge
to do the one thing my father told me I could never do. The thing which would get us both killed.
“Now you know
your place, Blem,” said the girl. She
released me and I gasped for air. “Next time I won’t let you go.”
Her heels sounded
against the tiles and the girl and her group ran off in giggles. I dragged
myself up from the floor with shaking legs. At the sink, I took a deep breath
and tried to calm my pounding heart and quell the rising disappointment. This
was supposed to be my fresh start away from Area 10. I removed my headscarf and
laughed. Moving here was supposed to keep me safe. Like my dad said – out of the frying pan and into the fire.
“If you can’t
stand the heat…” I mumbled to myself.
“Are you all right?”
I jumped. When I
turned there was a dark skinned girl staring at me sheepishly with a charming
gap-toothed smile. On her black tunic she wore the Symbol of the Blemished – a
circle containing a simple cross to remind us how we are the cross that society
has to bear. Just like me. She was slightly plump and I estimated her age at
fourteen, perhaps a tall thirteen, with pretty brown eyes.
“I’m sorry I
didn’t step in…” she trailed off and stared down at her hands which never
stopped worrying the long sleeves of her tunic.
“Don’t worry,” I
said. “There’s no point both of us getting a beating.” I forced a smile to show
no hard feelings. After all, I needed at least one ally in this awful school. I
turned back to the sink and squeezed at my soaked headscarf.
“It’s just that,
well, these toilets are GEM only and I only popped in because I was desperate,”
the girl rambled. “Elena Darcey is a total cow. She thinks she owns the school
because she might have a shot at London.”
A jolt ran down
my spine. I had to remind my hands to keep going.
“Are you sure
you’re all right?” the girl asked, her face scrunched with concern.
“Perfectly,” I
lied.
“I’m Angela by
the way.” She stepped towards me but I didn’t turn around, just watched her in
the bathroom mirror. “You must be Mina Hart, the new girl.” She laughed
quietly. “We don’t get many new girls at St Jude’s. Well, at least none that
are Blemished. Here, let me help. It’s the least I can do.”
Angela pulled the
scarf from my fingers and stretched it out underneath the hand dryer. The dark
fabric billowed out, reminding me of the Resistance flag. I’d seen photos of
them protesting once, my dad showed me. But then I thought of her and I had to
close my eyes to regain composure.
“Is it always
like this here?” I asked to break the drone of the hand dryer, raising my voice
above the noise.
“Elena is nothing
compared to the teachers,” Angela replied with a sigh. “Don’t talk back to the
GEMs or Murder-Troll will put all Blemished on cleaning duty after class.”
“Murder-Troll?”
“That’s what we
call her – Mrs Murgatroyd. You’ll know why when you meet her.” Angela’s eyes
widened to address her point, the whites bulged from her dark skin. She handed
me back my headscarf. It was warm and soft. I pinned it into place, fingers
working quickly through the folds, and Angela nodded as if in approval. “There
you look like nothing ever happened! Come on, I’ll take you to kitchen duty.
You’ll be fine with me.”
She led me
through the echoing corridors of the old-fashioned school. It turned out I’d
wandered into the GEM section, a place where Blemished were not allowed. The
Ministry were strict on segregation – at least in schools – the Blemished had
their place and the Children of the GEM, or GEMs as we called them, had
everything else.
St. Jude’s made
the most of its Victorian design which, at one time, separated boys from the
girls. There were even two entrances and the School Council used these to
ensure GEM and Blemished never had to mix. As she pulled me through corridors
and swing doors it was quite clear from dingy grey, paint peeled walls that we
had moved into the Blemished quarters. I noted our symbol painted neatly onto a
classroom door, the only spot of fresh paint.
“What are your
classes like?” I asked.
“The usual,” she
said with a shrug. “Kitchen duties, needlework, cleaning class and sex Ed.
Gardening in the spring.”
I nodded. The
same as Area 10. With a sinking feeling I realised that despite fleeing my old
home everything would remain the same. They would figure out my secret and then
we’d have to run away again, leaving my friends and home behind.
“Excuse me. I
think I’m lost.”
The sound of a
male voice in the Blemished corridors startled us both, and we spun around in
unison. Our heads would have collided if my headscarf hadn’t caught on a
protruding nail from the wall to the right. It yanked me backwards ripping the
scarf away and letting my damp hair tumble around my face. I shrieked and
tugged, but it was stuck.
“Can I help you
with that?” said the boy.
He was a GEM, he
had to be. There were no Blemished people with skin as perfect. He was around
my age – fifteen – with black eyes and brown hair. He had the chiselled look to
his face that GEMs usually prefer; high-cheekbones and a strong jaw which often
made them seem cruel. But this time the enhancements had stopped at just the
right moment to achieve balance in his good-looks.
“No,” I said
sharply. “You can’t help me.” I placed a warning hand between us, palm up. The
boy should know the boundaries between Blemished and GEMs. I wondered why he
was acting so friendly.
Angela helped me
with my headscarf, our fingers working together in the tangle.
“You need to go
down the corridor, turn left and through the swing doors to get to the GEM side
of the school,” Angela said hurriedly, her eyes never meeting his. “You
shouldn’t be talking to us.”
“I’m sorry,” he
said. “It’s just that it’s my first day here and I don’t know…”
I finally pulled
the scarf from the nail and hastily covered my hair. “We’re Blemished and you
are GEM.”
“My name is
Sebastian,” he said, ignoring my warning. He held out a hand for me to shake.
“What’s yours?”
Whether it was
the surprise of a GEM wanting to know my name or the way Sebastian’s eyes
seemed to search my own – I don’t know. But I found myself putting my hand in
his, feeling the instant warmth of his skin. It sent tingles of heat through my
fingertips and along my arms.
“My name is
Mina,” I breathed. “Mina Hart.”
“What a beautiful
name,” he said.
I couldn’t
control it any longer. My fingers twitched again and the door behind us swung
open, almost knocking Angela over. Sebastian and I broke our contact and I
backed away self-consciously, aware of my red cheeks and disorganised
headscarf. Sebastian smiled and walked away leaving us alone in the corridor.
At least, I’d thought we were alone. As I turned towards the entrance to the
kitchen I was aware of someone watching us.
A middle-aged
woman, thin to the extreme and sour faced, stood in the kitchen doorway with
her arms folded tightly across a bulging chest. She was exactly like the kind
of woman I had seen in the rich part of Area 10, the mothers of the first
generation of clones who are desperate to be as beautiful as their genetically
modified daughters. They could never be GEM so rely on the surgeon for nips and
tucks and silicone and Botox until their faces concaved and protruded almost
comically.
There was nothing
comic about this woman; the look on her face chilled me bone-deep. The collagen
in her lips made her mouth baggy and shiny, like slugs inside loose skin. Her
cheekbones were too high and puffed outwards and upwards before disappearing
into gaunt cheeks. Her forehead had the kind of shiny quality of a cheap
plastic doll or stretched cellophane. Bright red tumbling curls sprouted from
her head in an unruly and fierce fashion making me think of Boudicca, the
warrior woman from ancient times. She didn’t say a word to us, only beckoned
with a finger and disappeared through the doorway. Angela looked at me and I
heard the “gulp” in her throat.
I suppressed a
shudder. I knew instantly that this woman was not to be crossed. I knew
instantly that this woman would not approve of a Blemished girl touching a GEM
boy and it was at this moment that I realised just how dire my first day at St.
Jude’s had turned out.
Well at least
things can’t get any worse, I thought to myself.
When the dust
cloud appears, we know they are coming.
My mama and I spy
the cloud churning up the road at the same time. Her potato peeler clatters to
the porch floor, sending goose flesh over my arms. I stare at the cloud kicked
up by dozens of approaching tires and then back to my mother. There's no mistaking
it. The fear is written on her face.
She grips my
shoulder, hand already shaking. “Get in the cellar.” Her face tightens. “Now.”
Her rocking chair
scrapes against the porch floorboards. She yanks open the screen door and runs
into the house, yelling for my brother.
I stand up, my
own hands trembling now. The advance of the dust cloud has me riveted, like an
animal caught in headlights. It's what we've drilled for, prepared for,
whispered about at night. And now they're coming.
My mama's frantic
screams pierce my thoughts. “Riley, the storm cellar! Hurry!”
I shake myself
out of my stupor and force my jellied legs to move. Running into the house, I
spy my stepfather, Arn, at the pitted kitchen table. He slips round after round
into his hunting rifle, his calloused fingers fumbling for more in the box that
holds too few. He drops one. It hits on the floor and rolls under the table.
“Gawddammit!” he
swears. His leathery forehead wrinkles as he searches frantically.
I run over, grab
it and hand it to him. The bullet feels cold against my hot palm.
His eyes latch
onto mine and a sadness creeps over his face. This frightens me more than
anything. He grabs our pistol off the table and thrusts it forward. “You'll
need this.” His eyes say one gun won't be enough.
The revolver is
heavy and solid in my trembling hand. I curl my fingers over the wooden grip,
worn smooth with use. I let my index finger stray to the trigger, place my
other hand under the grip like he taught me and aim at the dust cloud. I look
up at him, unable to ask what I need to know.
In this moment
Arn looks old. His sun-beaten face is carved by wrinkles and his forehead is
dotted with sweat. The patched overalls sag on his too-thin body. Before this
he was out milking the cow or mucking out the barn, mundane, boring tasks that
I wish he could go back to now. Arn grabs both my shoulders and fixes me with
frightened blue eyes. “You 'member what I taught you?”
“Is it the
Breeders? It is, isn't it?” My voice breaks with the terror that's sticking to
my insides and knotting my stomach. Arn says nothing. He doesn't have to. His
face tells me everything I need to know.
“I can fight.”
The gun trembles, but I lock my elbows and grit my teeth. I want this chance to
face the people who've been hunting us our whole lives.
Arn shakes his
head, the lines around his mouth deepening. “Soon's they see you, they'd kill
the men and take the women. Get in the cellar. I'll handle this.” His weathered
hand squeezes mine. It’s the most affection he's shown me in months. I savor
the roughness of his palm. Then, quick as it came, he drops my hand and goes
back to slipping bullets into his rifle, his eyes marking the approach of our
enemies.
From behind me:
“Riley?!” My mama is near hysterics.
“Coming!” I
sprint through the old farmhouse, the boards moaning beneath my feet. I skid to
a stop at our bedroom and scan it for my brother. Both beds lay empty. Ethan's
boots lie on their sides under his bed. His comic book is forgotten on the
floor. He’d never leave it there on a normal day. But this isn’t a normal day.
Angry motors growl closer. How soon before they get here? Minutes? Seconds?
I burst through the back door. The storm
cellar sits fifteen paces from the house, dug deep in the ground. When we moved
in six months ago, my mama showed us the cellar that, when shut, folds neatly
into the dusty landscape. We've taken pains to camouflage the doors, but will
it be enough?
The cellar doors
yawn wide, revealing the dark earthen hole. My mama crouches at the cellar's mouth,
her hand-sewn cotton dress gathering around her knees. My little brother,
Ethan, descends the ladder. His hand clutches her scarred one for a moment
before he disappears into shadow. He's gone. An urge to sob washes over me. I
bite it back and run over.
My mama turns,
searching for me. From this angle she is breathtaking in her loveliness. Her
shoulder-length black hair shines in the hazy sunlight, and her left cheek is
supple and pink. She’s a beauty queen, a ten
as Auntie says. It’s the other side of her face that marks the horrors she's
seen. Red angry burn scars travel her neck and face. Her skin bunches and
grooves like a pitted dirt road. Her left ear is only a ragged, red hole. Yet,
I rarely notice her burned face. This is the way she’s looked as long as I can
remember.
I step to the
edge of the cellar and peer at my brother. From the bottom of the hole, his
eyes are wide as a jackrabbit's caught in my snare. His lower lip trembles. He
looks five instead of eight. “It's okay,” I lie.
My mother grips my shoulder and presses down. “Get
in.” Her voice is a choked whisper. She glances back at the dust plume. The
gray cloud hangs huge, blocking out the horizon, a tornado set to tear our
world apart.
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