Dusty Blood:

Chapter eight:

CHAPTER EIGHT: 

A wave of intense cold water abruptly spat Evelynn out of her dreaming.

Within her sleep she was back at home, sitting by the fireplace engrossed with her writing. Her pen felt so thin and brittle in her now large hands, unable to get a firm enough grip without snapping the led in half.

Bianca was her nine year old self, lying on the ground with her head propped on her elbows. She was laughing at something written on the page, her voice a blurry smudge as Evelynn couldn’t catch what she was trying to say to her. In an instant, Bianca bounded up onto her feet and started to run. They were back in Richard’s field, where the yellow wheat shone like gold against the setting sun. She as running so fast but Evelynn just couldn’t keep pace. 

Till Bianca suddenly stopped, turned herself around and stared down at Evelynn from atop of the hill. The sunset vanished into the bleak woods at the back of their house where their mother could be seen fleeing for the awaiting horses. An explosion of red over took Evelynn’s vision, tipping her upwards into the sky. She was caught again by them, by the Iron Fists as she screamed and screamed for help. She screamed with her arms out stretched, begging.

But reality soon spun into focus as she continued to blink her heavy eyes, the cold breaking the dream world into a shatter of nothingness. Argh… my head hurts so much! She lifted her hands and dabbed at the base of where the throbbing orientated, but it only caused a new wave of pain to move through her.

Where am I? There was no recollection of her travels, nor does she remember the moment she was knocked out. It happened so suddenly, just a split second before a pinch of pain and a warm wave of sleep consumed her. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to push the ache behind the darkness.

How I wish for sleep now…

“Shower time.” A guard opened her cell and ushered her out. The lights were blindingly bright, which wasn’t helping the already hot burn pulsate through her head. She was hosed down by a powerful jet, her clothes that clung to her was the only source of padding between the high pressure stream and her skin. It did very little to help though.

Once she was saturated she was handed a small dirty towel, still heavily damp from its previous uses and a change of clothes. Her old clothes were thrown into a furnace, and with the destroyed material so did her memories of a Loiter scatter to ash.  She felt relieved that she left her bow and arrows with Farren, only imagining the strong wood of her bow becoming a good meal for the fire.

She was thankful for the long pants and baggy shirt, anything to help keep in the warmth during the cold, winter nights. It was like a type of uniform, a pattern of strips.

She was taken to a mage, a stern man who was sucking steadily at his pipe. With a needle the mage took a sample of her blood, tested it with another blood type and watched as the colour remained unresponsive.

“She is a Q type class. No magic.” He confirmed.

Two guards took an arm each and guided her through the narrow halls of the institute. Instead of leading her back to her cell, she was taken outside and abandoned at the foot of the door. Not taking a single step more, the guards slammed the steel door behind her and locked it shut.

Outside was a barren field of dirt and rock. There were plotted tents pitched every couple of hundred metres, but they all looked the same, bleak green against the earth sand. Not far beyond the tents were thick, heavy set fences with coiled bard wire wedded through the body.  Behind her was the huge concreted, steel prison. It could easily fit at least five hundred cells in the body and wings of building.