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Chapter one: Cove
I've learned to be silent and obedient when my father is around. If I cry out in pain, or even try to reason with him, the punishments are always worse.
But today, I can't do what he says.
“Pull the trigger, you freak of nature,” he growls, so that only I can hear. The prisoner in front of me is a little girl in a ragged blue dress. She looks terrified. I know that expression too well; I see it every day in the mirror.
“What did she ever do to deserve this?” I demand, not looking at the King.
“Just get on with it,” he says, a little louder. I know I shouldn't push him like this, but she's just a little girl. A cunning gleam appears in his eyes. “If you pull the trigger, if you do what I say for once, then maybe I'll have reason to treat you better. Just imagine it.”
I think of what a decent childhood, the kind I've only read about in books, would be like. I wouldn't be cold and hungry all the time. I'd be happy.
And this girl wouldn't have that chance.
“No,” I say quietly.
What happens next is a blur. He motions to my brother, who snatches the gun from me. An enormous guard grabs my arm roughly and drags me out of the hall. I don't fight until I hear the gun go off. Something falls to the floor; the girl.
I didn't save her.
My father strolls into the hall, smiling. Like he just got back from a jaunt in the countryside, instead of a murder.
“YOU KILLED HER!” I scream, trying to escape the guard’s grip. Tears pour down my face. I hate him more than I ever have before. She did nothing to anyone. He didn't even know her.
“Actually,” he replies calmly, “your brother did the honors. Come with me.”
I notice Samuel, blond, athletic, the opposite of me, standing behind my father, and my heart freezes. A thousand memories play in my head.
“Sam…” I begin, looking into his eyes. But there's nothing else to say. He's just like our father after all.
He smirks, turning to the guard. “Remove this pitiful creature from my presence.”
I go limp as I'm dragged down a long corridor and thrown into a small, dark cell.
The door slams shut, and I'm alone, letting my mind wander in endless, despairing circles.
I am seven years old in this memory, already small and thin for my age. I stand in the doorway and watch as my father serves lunch to several dozen guests.
If I could just steal one piece of bread…
I inch forward, my eyes on the platter in the center of their table.
“What are you doing, boy?” my father demands sharply.
“N-nothing, sir,” I stammer, retreating quickly to our room.
Later, Sam comes in with a few table scraps. It's not much, but I can't thank him enough.
“Don't make a big deal out of this,” he mutters.
Fast forward, and I'm ten years old; my shirt is stained red from several wounds on my back and arms, and I'm trying not to cry.
I don't notice Sam standing there for about five minutes, until he speaks softly. “Carson.”
I don't look up or respond. He knows that I hate the name I share with my father.
“I’m sorry I didn't stop him,” he continues. “If I'd have known he would use his belt, I would have done something…”
Back in the present, I curl up in the corner of the cell and wait for my punishment. There is no sound except for my ragged breathing, and the faint drip of water from a leak in the ceiling.
I'll go insane if I don't keep my mind occupied, so I began to talk to myself.
“I am not him,” I say. “Someday I'm going to get out of here and start my own life. I'll never hurt anyone, ever.”
I trail off, realizing that I don't believe a word I'm saying. My father is a large, ruddy-faced man, and I'm short and pale--the result of years of neglect. But otherwise, we’re the same. We both have grey eyes and dark hair; although neither of cares to admit it, we’re both allergic to nuts. I was even named after the man.
How can I escape my DNA?
I hear footsteps and I panic. I've barely had a life, but I don't want to die, and I know he'll kill me this time, whether he means to or not…
The door swings open. Driven by blind terror, I raise my hands in a feeble effort to protect myself.
Suddenly, the dark room is illuminated. Fire spreads over my arms, but I'm not burning, not in any pain. My father stands in the doorway. For once, he looks disconcerted, even afraid.
“I don't know what's happening,” I try to explain.
“I do,” the King replies. “You're one of those mutants, like the ones in the Ruins. And you were hiding it from me, trying to pass as one of us--as a human!”
He laughs cruelly.
My heart sinks. I've gotten used to insults, but calling me inhuman is a new low, even for Father.
The flames flicker and die, leaving my clothes and skin undamaged.
“Well, I have the perfect use for you,” he says. “Maybe now you'll actually be worth something.” He leaves, beckoning me to follow.
What else is there to do but obey?
He leads me to an unused parlor. The velvet curtains are drawn tight, blocking out the sun. On one side of the room is a stone fireplace filled with books, some of which I recognize. They're all obviously contraband. I catch sight of a thin volume called Fahrenheit 451, and a larger book with a simple black cover and a silver title: Holy Bible.
“Do your magic tricks,” the King says idly. I know what he wants, but I won't do this, either.
I wouldn't kill the girl. Now, I refuse to kill all the memories, words, and thoughts contained in these pages.
“Are you too stupid to comprehend?” he asks. “Burn these. They're banned.”
I've never been so afraid in my life, standing there in open defiance of a man who would gladly kill me. And yet, I don't give in.
He crosses the room quickly and slaps me hard across the face. I remain passive and silent through the pain.
“You will obey me. Now,” he says, his deadly-quiet voice striking fear into my heart.
Against my better judgement, I tell him off. “Even if I wanted to, I don't know how. I just discovered whatever this is--I can't exactly control it.”
He slams me against the wall with more rage than I've ever, ever seen in him.
There's a sharp pain in my head; the guard is yelling something. I can't quite make out what it is, but it sounds like, “You've gone too far.” Is he talking to me or the King?
The room is going black, and it's all I can do to stand upright.
My father grabs my arm and we head in the direction of the bunker where the hovertanks are stored. On the way, we pass my mother's room, with its gilded doorknob. The light reflecting off of its surface hurts my eyes.
My mother steps out, and my father pauses, not relaxing his grip on me.
“Mom. Help me,” I try to say, but it's near-incomprehensible.
“Shut up,” my father snaps, shaking me slightly. Even the small movement hurts; I don't have much medical knowledge, but I know something is really wrong.
They talk for a few minutes. I try one more time to get my mother to listen to me.
“I'm hurt bad,” I say, my words slurring horribly. I know she understands, though--she looks at me with a mixture of hatred and pity.
“You had it coming,” she replies. “You should have known.”
I drift in and out of consciousness after that, and I barely react as my father and I enter a hovertank.
As it lifts off the ground, I hear the King talking to another guard. “Let the bandits get him,” he says coldly. “He’s not worth it.”
After a while, the tank lands. I'm lifted, carried a short distance, and dumped unceremoniously onto the ground.
I hear the roar of the tank’s engine. They left me.
I try to think straight, but I only know that I'm probably going to die, either from whatever’s happened to my brain or from a gang of bandits.
Well, at least Samuel will get a good life.
I've learned to be silent and obedient when my father is around. If I cry out in pain, or even try to reason with him, the punishments are always worse.
But today, I can't do what he says.
“Pull the trigger, you freak of nature,” he growls, so that only I can hear. The prisoner in front of me is a little girl in a ragged blue dress. She looks terrified. I know that expression too well; I see it every day in the mirror.
“What did she ever do to deserve this?” I demand, not looking at the King.
“Just get on with it,” he says, a little louder. I know I shouldn't push him like this, but she's just a little girl. A cunning gleam appears in his eyes. “If you pull the trigger, if you do what I say for once, then maybe I'll have reason to treat you better. Just imagine it.”
I think of what a decent childhood, the kind I've only read about in books, would be like. I wouldn't be cold and hungry all the time. I'd be happy.
And this girl wouldn't have that chance.
“No,” I say quietly.
What happens next is a blur. He motions to my brother, who snatches the gun from me. An enormous guard grabs my arm roughly and drags me out of the hall. I don't fight until I hear the gun go off. Something falls to the floor; the girl.
I didn't save her.
My father strolls into the hall, smiling. Like he just got back from a jaunt in the countryside, instead of a murder.
“YOU KILLED HER!” I scream, trying to escape the guard’s grip. Tears pour down my face. I hate him more than I ever have before. She did nothing to anyone. He didn't even know her.
“Actually,” he replies calmly, “your brother did the honors. Come with me.”
I notice Samuel, blond, athletic, the opposite of me, standing behind my father, and my heart freezes. A thousand memories play in my head.
“Sam…” I begin, looking into his eyes. But there's nothing else to say. He's just like our father after all.
He smirks, turning to the guard. “Remove this pitiful creature from my presence.”
I go limp as I'm dragged down a long corridor and thrown into a small, dark cell.
The door slams shut, and I'm alone, letting my mind wander in endless, despairing circles.
I am seven years old in this memory, already small and thin for my age. I stand in the doorway and watch as my father serves lunch to several dozen guests.
If I could just steal one piece of bread…
I inch forward, my eyes on the platter in the center of their table.
“What are you doing, boy?” my father demands sharply.
“N-nothing, sir,” I stammer, retreating quickly to our room.
Later, Sam comes in with a few table scraps. It's not much, but I can't thank him enough.
“Don't make a big deal out of this,” he mutters.
Fast forward, and I'm ten years old; my shirt is stained red from several wounds on my back and arms, and I'm trying not to cry.
I don't notice Sam standing there for about five minutes, until he speaks softly. “Carson.”
I don't look up or respond. He knows that I hate the name I share with my father.
“I’m sorry I didn't stop him,” he continues. “If I'd have known he would use his belt, I would have done something…”
Back in the present, I curl up in the corner of the cell and wait for my punishment. There is no sound except for my ragged breathing, and the faint drip of water from a leak in the ceiling.
I'll go insane if I don't keep my mind occupied, so I began to talk to myself.
“I am not him,” I say. “Someday I'm going to get out of here and start my own life. I'll never hurt anyone, ever.”
I trail off, realizing that I don't believe a word I'm saying. My father is a large, ruddy-faced man, and I'm short and pale--the result of years of neglect. But otherwise, we’re the same. We both have grey eyes and dark hair; although neither of cares to admit it, we’re both allergic to nuts. I was even named after the man.
How can I escape my DNA?
I hear footsteps and I panic. I've barely had a life, but I don't want to die, and I know he'll kill me this time, whether he means to or not…
The door swings open. Driven by blind terror, I raise my hands in a feeble effort to protect myself.
Suddenly, the dark room is illuminated. Fire spreads over my arms, but I'm not burning, not in any pain. My father stands in the doorway. For once, he looks disconcerted, even afraid.
“I don't know what's happening,” I try to explain.
“I do,” the King replies. “You're one of those mutants, like the ones in the Ruins. And you were hiding it from me, trying to pass as one of us--as a human!”
He laughs cruelly.
My heart sinks. I've gotten used to insults, but calling me inhuman is a new low, even for Father.
The flames flicker and die, leaving my clothes and skin undamaged.
“Well, I have the perfect use for you,” he says. “Maybe now you'll actually be worth something.” He leaves, beckoning me to follow.
What else is there to do but obey?
He leads me to an unused parlor. The velvet curtains are drawn tight, blocking out the sun. On one side of the room is a stone fireplace filled with books, some of which I recognize. They're all obviously contraband. I catch sight of a thin volume called Fahrenheit 451, and a larger book with a simple black cover and a silver title: Holy Bible.
“Do your magic tricks,” the King says idly. I know what he wants, but I won't do this, either.
I wouldn't kill the girl. Now, I refuse to kill all the memories, words, and thoughts contained in these pages.
“Are you too stupid to comprehend?” he asks. “Burn these. They're banned.”
I've never been so afraid in my life, standing there in open defiance of a man who would gladly kill me. And yet, I don't give in.
He crosses the room quickly and slaps me hard across the face. I remain passive and silent through the pain.
“You will obey me. Now,” he says, his deadly-quiet voice striking fear into my heart.
Against my better judgement, I tell him off. “Even if I wanted to, I don't know how. I just discovered whatever this is--I can't exactly control it.”
He slams me against the wall with more rage than I've ever, ever seen in him.
There's a sharp pain in my head; the guard is yelling something. I can't quite make out what it is, but it sounds like, “You've gone too far.” Is he talking to me or the King?
The room is going black, and it's all I can do to stand upright.
My father grabs my arm and we head in the direction of the bunker where the hovertanks are stored. On the way, we pass my mother's room, with its gilded doorknob. The light reflecting off of its surface hurts my eyes.
My mother steps out, and my father pauses, not relaxing his grip on me.
“Mom. Help me,” I try to say, but it's near-incomprehensible.
“Shut up,” my father snaps, shaking me slightly. Even the small movement hurts; I don't have much medical knowledge, but I know something is really wrong.
They talk for a few minutes. I try one more time to get my mother to listen to me.
“I'm hurt bad,” I say, my words slurring horribly. I know she understands, though--she looks at me with a mixture of hatred and pity.
“You had it coming,” she replies. “You should have known.”
I drift in and out of consciousness after that, and I barely react as my father and I enter a hovertank.
As it lifts off the ground, I hear the King talking to another guard. “Let the bandits get him,” he says coldly. “He’s not worth it.”
After a while, the tank lands. I'm lifted, carried a short distance, and dumped unceremoniously onto the ground.
I hear the roar of the tank’s engine. They left me.
I try to think straight, but I only know that I'm probably going to die, either from whatever’s happened to my brain or from a gang of bandits.
Well, at least Samuel will get a good life.
Chapter Two: Iris
*
Mercy, Kate, and I aren't interested in other people. Isn't it enough to have two sisters who look almost exactly like you?
Too bad this psychiatrist doesn't agree.
“You three need to branch out,” she says, peering over her wire rim glasses. Her shiny brown hair is cut into a sleek bob. This bothers me--she shouldn't look so neat and fashionable when there's a war going on outside our compound. “After your parents passed on--”
“Just say they died,” Kate interrupts. I can feel her anger and sadness coursing off her. This isn't a sibling thing--I can also feel the psychiatrist’s faint annoyance buzzing around us like a fly.
“After they passed on,” the woman continues firmly, “your bond went from close to unhealthy. That's why I'm assigning each of you to a different task today. You'll be dusting the books in the library,” she says, pointing at Kate. “You,” she adds, gesturing at Mercy, “will be attempting to scout around the Palace for information. If anyone sees you, shoot to kill.” Mercy gasps. “And you, Iris, will be patrolling the area south of the Ruins.”
I can tell this lady gets savage pleasure from assigning us these tasks. But there's nothing we can do except leave the room in single file.
As soon as we're out of earshot, Kate lets herself use a stream of colorful language that would make the psychiatrist blush. When she's finally calmed down a little, she and Mercy both begin to complain at once.
“I hate reading--and cleaning. Who does she think she is, that--”
Sensing that Kate is about to go off again, Mercy cuts in. “I couldn't blend in if I wanted to, with this,” she says, tugging at a strand of her naturally-pink hair--it's probably a mutation, but she's usually proud of it. “And what was that about killing? I can't even kill a beetle. I guess you got the good assignment,” she tells me.
“Nothing ever happens around the Ruins,” I remind her. “I'll be bored out of my mind. Well, we’d better get going.”
Kate storms toward the library, muttering angrily. Mercy stands still for a few more seconds, then darts away.
I quickly put on the required body armor, not that I'll need it, and take one of the Rebellion’s old hovertanks to the southern border of the Ruins. We don't have enough material to repair our equipment and vehicles, so the tank creaks ominously and gets off the ground slowly. But, somehow, it doesn't crash. The ride is uneventful--and lonely. Mercy would love this assignment. Nothing dangerous to face, plenty of time to think about philosophy or veganism or whatever she's into at that moment.
I land the tank, get out, and look around. There's an unmoving form on the dry, dusty ground about six yards away. It's probably a large rock, or a small piece of metal. How it got this far away from the rest of the Ruins is anyone's guess, but it doesn't matter that much in the long run.
Well, maybe it could be useful as a raw material, a building supply. I walk over to it. As I get closer, I freeze--
This can't be right.
It's a human. To be exact, a boy, probably about my age, but pitifully small. Is he some sort of bandit? Bruises cover his face, and he's bleeding from a gash on the back of his head. Even bandits take care of their kind. They’d never let one of their own end up like this.
That's when I notice what he's wearing, and I wish I'd brought my gun so I could shoot him on the spot. His uniform is tattered, faded, and several sizes too large for him. But I recognize the logo.
This is no bandit. He belongs to the Kingdom.
I turn on my heel, deciding to let the boy die--and I come face to face with a gang of bandits. Three men and two women, all filthy but strong-looking.
“What have we got today?” the tallest one leers.
Now I really wish I had my gun.
With no better weapon at my disposal, I unclip the tracker I always wear from my shirt. We all know about the emergency setting…
“Initiate in one minute,” I whisper. To the bandits, I reply, “You can have this.”
I hold the tracker out. The bandits hesitate for only a moment before one of them grabs it. They saunter away, unaware that their new prize will explode imminently.
I should head back to the compound, but I've made a small mistake: With my tracker gone, I can't contact anyone to let them know I'm done here. This isn't a huge concern--they know where I am, and they'll come looking for me eventually--but it is an annoyance for sure. My tank was almost out of fuel to begin with, and obviously won't make it all the way back
I glance at the boy. Suddenly I shiver and look around nervously, as though someone is watching me. But that makes no sense. Why am I so afraid?
I guess I know the answer to that question: It's my power, screwing things up again. Sometimes I really hate feeling everyone's emotions almost constantly.
I concentrate hard on blocking out the boy’s fear, but that makes me wonder: What made him so fearful?
Despite myself, I feel a pang of sympathy for him; I crouch down next to him and take his pulse. He's unconscious, but alive--for now. The fear I felt must have come from his last waking moments, rather than the present.
I shouldn't feel sorry for this pathetic, discarded wretch. Standing up, I begin to walk away. A faint explosion in the distance alerts me to the fact that the bandits have met their fate.
I got rid of them, but more will come. There are countless dangers in this wasteland; bandits, mutants, and, as all of us have known practically since birth, the King’s soldiers.
I hope someone realizes I'm missing soon.
The sky is grey and dull above me. I sigh, wishing that I would glance up one day and see it turn a brilliant blue. Of course, that’s impossible, after the nuclear war fifty years ago sent ashes soaring into the atmosphere. The only blue sky I’ll see is in one of the few surviving photographs, those that the King didn’t destroy.
We won that war, in a way. Every country we’d angered was annihilated.
On the other hand, so were we.
There’s still an old sign sticking out of the dirt to my right. It’s rusted and bent, but I can read it, if I look closely.
Welcome to Georgia! The Peach State.
I wonder what it means. I’m familiar with the word ‘peach’--it’s a fruit that went extinct after the war. But what’s a state? I’ll have to ask Mercy if--no, when--I get home, to the Compound. She’s always been interested in pre-war history.
*
Mercy, Kate, and I aren't interested in other people. Isn't it enough to have two sisters who look almost exactly like you?
Too bad this psychiatrist doesn't agree.
“You three need to branch out,” she says, peering over her wire rim glasses. Her shiny brown hair is cut into a sleek bob. This bothers me--she shouldn't look so neat and fashionable when there's a war going on outside our compound. “After your parents passed on--”
“Just say they died,” Kate interrupts. I can feel her anger and sadness coursing off her. This isn't a sibling thing--I can also feel the psychiatrist’s faint annoyance buzzing around us like a fly.
“After they passed on,” the woman continues firmly, “your bond went from close to unhealthy. That's why I'm assigning each of you to a different task today. You'll be dusting the books in the library,” she says, pointing at Kate. “You,” she adds, gesturing at Mercy, “will be attempting to scout around the Palace for information. If anyone sees you, shoot to kill.” Mercy gasps. “And you, Iris, will be patrolling the area south of the Ruins.”
I can tell this lady gets savage pleasure from assigning us these tasks. But there's nothing we can do except leave the room in single file.
As soon as we're out of earshot, Kate lets herself use a stream of colorful language that would make the psychiatrist blush. When she's finally calmed down a little, she and Mercy both begin to complain at once.
“I hate reading--and cleaning. Who does she think she is, that--”
Sensing that Kate is about to go off again, Mercy cuts in. “I couldn't blend in if I wanted to, with this,” she says, tugging at a strand of her naturally-pink hair--it's probably a mutation, but she's usually proud of it. “And what was that about killing? I can't even kill a beetle. I guess you got the good assignment,” she tells me.
“Nothing ever happens around the Ruins,” I remind her. “I'll be bored out of my mind. Well, we’d better get going.”
Kate storms toward the library, muttering angrily. Mercy stands still for a few more seconds, then darts away.
I quickly put on the required body armor, not that I'll need it, and take one of the Rebellion’s old hovertanks to the southern border of the Ruins. We don't have enough material to repair our equipment and vehicles, so the tank creaks ominously and gets off the ground slowly. But, somehow, it doesn't crash. The ride is uneventful--and lonely. Mercy would love this assignment. Nothing dangerous to face, plenty of time to think about philosophy or veganism or whatever she's into at that moment.
I land the tank, get out, and look around. There's an unmoving form on the dry, dusty ground about six yards away. It's probably a large rock, or a small piece of metal. How it got this far away from the rest of the Ruins is anyone's guess, but it doesn't matter that much in the long run.
Well, maybe it could be useful as a raw material, a building supply. I walk over to it. As I get closer, I freeze--
This can't be right.
It's a human. To be exact, a boy, probably about my age, but pitifully small. Is he some sort of bandit? Bruises cover his face, and he's bleeding from a gash on the back of his head. Even bandits take care of their kind. They’d never let one of their own end up like this.
That's when I notice what he's wearing, and I wish I'd brought my gun so I could shoot him on the spot. His uniform is tattered, faded, and several sizes too large for him. But I recognize the logo.
This is no bandit. He belongs to the Kingdom.
I turn on my heel, deciding to let the boy die--and I come face to face with a gang of bandits. Three men and two women, all filthy but strong-looking.
“What have we got today?” the tallest one leers.
Now I really wish I had my gun.
With no better weapon at my disposal, I unclip the tracker I always wear from my shirt. We all know about the emergency setting…
“Initiate in one minute,” I whisper. To the bandits, I reply, “You can have this.”
I hold the tracker out. The bandits hesitate for only a moment before one of them grabs it. They saunter away, unaware that their new prize will explode imminently.
I should head back to the compound, but I've made a small mistake: With my tracker gone, I can't contact anyone to let them know I'm done here. This isn't a huge concern--they know where I am, and they'll come looking for me eventually--but it is an annoyance for sure. My tank was almost out of fuel to begin with, and obviously won't make it all the way back
I glance at the boy. Suddenly I shiver and look around nervously, as though someone is watching me. But that makes no sense. Why am I so afraid?
I guess I know the answer to that question: It's my power, screwing things up again. Sometimes I really hate feeling everyone's emotions almost constantly.
I concentrate hard on blocking out the boy’s fear, but that makes me wonder: What made him so fearful?
Despite myself, I feel a pang of sympathy for him; I crouch down next to him and take his pulse. He's unconscious, but alive--for now. The fear I felt must have come from his last waking moments, rather than the present.
I shouldn't feel sorry for this pathetic, discarded wretch. Standing up, I begin to walk away. A faint explosion in the distance alerts me to the fact that the bandits have met their fate.
I got rid of them, but more will come. There are countless dangers in this wasteland; bandits, mutants, and, as all of us have known practically since birth, the King’s soldiers.
I hope someone realizes I'm missing soon.
The sky is grey and dull above me. I sigh, wishing that I would glance up one day and see it turn a brilliant blue. Of course, that’s impossible, after the nuclear war fifty years ago sent ashes soaring into the atmosphere. The only blue sky I’ll see is in one of the few surviving photographs, those that the King didn’t destroy.
We won that war, in a way. Every country we’d angered was annihilated.
On the other hand, so were we.
There’s still an old sign sticking out of the dirt to my right. It’s rusted and bent, but I can read it, if I look closely.
Welcome to Georgia! The Peach State.
I wonder what it means. I’m familiar with the word ‘peach’--it’s a fruit that went extinct after the war. But what’s a state? I’ll have to ask Mercy if--no, when--I get home, to the Compound. She’s always been interested in pre-war history.
Warnings: child abuse, grief, PTSD, torture (non-graphic, but still mentioned)
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