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Chapter 18
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In preparation for the impending battle, Fortunates scale the trees. Skilled soldiers conceal their humanness under a layer of muddy slime. Only their yellow teeth, narrow eyes, and pointed knives remind us they are real. The remaining fistful of teens and young adults standing in plain sight earn the name of infantry and are instructed to act as the first line of defense. Unfortunately, I'm in the infantry.
The leader, an eighteenish acne-faced boy, orders me to guard the east end of the soon-to-be battlefield. I balk. The blood drains from my face as he shoves a crude stone-blade in my palm.
"I don't fight," I say as loud as I dare.
"Don't be stupid," he replies. "All Fortunates can fight. Don't fail us now."
He shoves me towards the rest of my group. Slowly, I walk to them, all the while contemplating how easy it would be to vanish into the foliage. I truly would if I was certain of where the Raider's were coming from. But, as of now, they could have us surrounded for all anyone knows.
It's better to wait.
My fingers shakily hold the makeshift knife. Most likely the Raiders will charge for us head-on, creating a face-to-face battle. A battle where if you can't move fast enough, or wield your weapon with at least some skill, you'll become the next corpse lying on the ground.
I take a ragged breath, silently congratulating myself for making it this far.
Adonis would be proud.
A hand lands on my shoulder. Fahim towers behind me, and on his face sits a manic grin that's more than a little unsettling.
"I've been waiting for this night. We'll finally make those Raiders pay for everything."
I nod halfheartedly, ignoring the itch in my legs that warns me to run.
"Isn't it impossible to fight and defeat Raiders?" I venture softly, hoping to help him see sense.
Fahim wears an incredulous look.
"For Entitleds and Privelages, sure. Not Fortunates. I'd say we are actually better than the Raiders in combat."
My eyebrows rise. Is this the same Fahim from the beginning of the ninety days? Is this the same Fahim from just a day ago? I drop my gaze, searching for creeping forms in the shadows' depths along the clearing. The beat of my heart picks up pace and queasiness sneaks in once more.
These may be my last moments alive.
Everyone around me surges on a war high. Their fast, excited breaths taunt. Their shared, jubilant smiles only enforce the perfect picture of insanity. To a stranger, it would seem that they have won already. But I've seen what Raiders really do. I wonder if any of these Fortunates were there during the massacre behind the city walls.
Do they really want that to happen again?
"Fahim," I say, staring firmly ahead, "When you make it back (I choose not to say if), can you tell my brother Adonis I love him? Can you tell him I tried to be strong?"
He squeezes my shoulder.
"You're not going to die."
"You can't know that for sure."
He quiets.
"Just promise me that you will."
"I promise," he whispers. "Tell me what he looks like."
The thought of Adonis brings an unwarranted smile on my face. I face Fahim and stare boldly into his gleaming eyes, praying his promise is sincere.
"He has chocolate brown eyes like me and pretty much the same face. We'd look like twins if he was a couple of years older. His hair is black and curly, and if you hear his laugh it sounds like a dolphin's. His smile is more genuine than mine. His height stops at about where your hip is..." I pause when I realize that I'm rambling.
Fahim's expression has changed to one that reeks of hidden pain, hurt, and desperation. It is then an awful rock plummets into my stomach. I forgot that bringing up the existence of my sibling would tear apart someone who just lost theirs.
"I'm so sorry," I freeze. "I didn't mean to-"
"I'm alright! I swear over my heart that I'll tell your brother." He stalks off into the crowd of infantry. I watch his broad shoulders vanish, feeling my stomach clench with sorrow for him.
We wait for the Raiders for what seems to be hours. The night air grows cooler, freezing those who stand in place. Goosebumps appear on my arms. I wrap them tightly around myself to make my body stop shivering.
People huddle together. Reluctantly, I join one of the groups to escape the cold. Offensive body odors float between these groups like passing breezes in the air. To pass time and ward off growing terror, I identify what each one is. There's dried blood, fresh blood, mustiness that smells like sour pickles and moldy mustard, unwashed skin, bad, sour breath, and the list continues.
I'm surprised I haven't puked yet.
Eventually, after waiting an hour more, the Fortunates in the trees and those hiding come back into the open. Some scrape the camouflage goop off their face.
"What happened?" many of them ask.
"We lost them probably," a voice says. I recognize it as Steven's. That instigator.
The huddle groups compress into one. I end up near the center of this pack of mewling sheep and gain the advantage of getting blasted with body heat. The disadvantages of this position are increased exposure to the invasive odor and no room to move. I act as if I can handle it, but my claustrophobia radar rises to a boiling point. I crack quickly, suddenly losing all sense and clawing my way out of the center.
Before I make it to the edge, dizziness and black dots invade. I try to swat the phantom images away. They reach out like groping hands. My balance leaves with my sanity and if it weren't for the lack of room between bodies I'm sure I wouldn't be able to remain upright. The finale happens soon enough. I faint.
When I come to again I'm still in the place I was before, held upright by the people around me. Gasping, I rush towards the edge and take heaping gulps of fresh air. The outer area is sparsely populated and no one pays any attention to me. I take a few steps towards the foliage and feverishly analyze those around me. I don't know what they will do to me if they catch wind of what I am about to do. I'm sure I don't want to know.
I run into the underbrush. When no one bolts after me, I realize I escaped unnoticed. In the darkness new fear clutches my heart. I look to the right and to the left. My senses catch wind of something unsettling, and I'm not sure if I want to continue forward. But the only other option is to go back with the warmongers.
And suddenly a presence materializes. I spin to my right, fearfully striking out at the blackness. A hand grabs me from my blindside and the touch of cold metal swiftly presses into the flesh at my throat. My heart beats faster. Horror floods into my bloodstream. I fight a growing flush of hysterical panic arising within.
"Don't. Say. A. Word." A blade presses firmly on the skin covering my jugular. The end of my life flashes before me. I see my throat slashed open, skin peeling back, and my eyes staring straight up like Luna's. I see myself slumping to the earth, becoming the next meal for feasting, gluttonous maggots. And I see the destruction of the Fortunates on the clearing meters away, their protective huddle hacked to pieces by Raiders.
I don't know how it starts or where I got the courage to do it, but I scream. The shockingly hollow, forsaken sound frightens even me. It is a last cry; a final warning. Though, the Raider must be a phantom because instead of jolting with surprise, she does nothing.
"Sweetheart, did you think that could save them?" She laughs. "Did you think that would warn them?"
The blade presses harder and a small amount of blood dribbles down my neck.
"I guess I have you to thank, because now they'll do exactly what I want."
Seconds later the Fortunates come stampeding into the foliage. And seconds later they fall, slumping, crumbling to the earth as the Raiders' weapons pierce their flesh. I watch, knowing that each life that is lost is completely my fault.
Shuddering, I close my eyes. It takes everything in me to keep from weeping. When will I learn that everything I do will always turn out to be a mistake?
Behind me the Raider shifts. Instinctively, I know what that means. She's prolonged my last moments long enough as it is.
Shockingly, I remain calm. My fingers curl into fists, allowing me to handle the Fortunate stone-blade still in my hand. As I turn it so that the sharp end is pointing outwards, the Raider's blade stabs further. In the last moments before she severs my life away, I swing my arm backwards and plant the knife in the first thing it connects with.
The pressure on my neck gives, but the blade remains a danger. Especially now that my attacker falls backwards. I shove the oncoming blade away and stumble out of my former captor's reach. My fingers fly to the skin at my throat and come away wet with blood. The Raider now lies crumpled in the grass. My stone blade punctured into her forehead.
I turn away before I can take in the whole wound. Sickness churns up a storm and black dots swim in front of my eyes once more. To force myself to stay conscious, I spin and run blindly into the falling stampede.
All around me young ones fall. Those who escape scramble in different directions, hoping each separate route will lead away from pervasive death. Graduates run over bodies, some of which are still moving. Many cry out from beneath the soles of moccasins. Tears quickly wet my cheeks as I cry for humanity. Or for what was humanity.
The clearing crashes more waves of terror upon me. Raiders slaughter the makeshift infantry in hand-to-hand combat, guts and innards flying everywhere. I back away, turning in the direction of the north. Before I can, my eyes connect with clear iris's shining in the minimal light. I gasp, recognizing them from the burning gas station. They belong to the Fynx Raider, the one with the midnight-colored hair.
The one they call Butcher.
I swear his eyes flash with recognition too as I bolt. My feet head in the direction of the hills far away from this doomed battle. Another pair of feet pound after me as I do.
The human Fynx.
My skin chills. This Raider barrels down, tearing up the ground just like a beast would. If I continue on a straight course, he will have me in less than the time in takes to inhale. I divert to the left and to the right, using my arms to slash a way through jungle brush.
Reaching a stream, I slosh through cool waters. Sweat dribbles down my temples and the bridge of my nose. Butcher gains ground faster now. It is not long before his steady, even breaths, showing no signs of exhaustion, haunt my every move.
Desperation kicks in and I veer out of the water, climbing up the shore to my right. Slippery, gooey mud coats the high ledge's surface. I dig my feet into the mud's precarious face and haul myself up.
The Raider arrives too soon.
His eyes bore into mine and an insane grin spreads his across his lips. His long fingers wrap around a weapon hooked in his belt. Instead of climbing, he waits, knowing that eventually the thick mud will bring me sliding back down to the stream.
It crumbles moments later and I yelp, struggling to find a safe hold. Below, the murderer reaches for my dangling leg. Panicking, I fumble for another safe hold, barely hanging on. As mud oozes between my fingers, I suddenly find a stone grip. The strong rock remains firm as I heave my body up inch by inch, until I grasp the top of the ledge. In the next seconds, I pull myself up onto solid ground.
Wheezing with triumph and blinding fear, I turn around. The Butcher starts up after me, faster than I ever was. Heart thundering, I scoop up a handful of slimy mud from the side of the high shore and sling it down into his hollow eyes. Then I run, and run, and run.