**Warning** Parts of this chapter are very graphic, and should only be read by mature readers. If you don't wish to read this part, simply stop reading at the double brackets ( [[ ) and begin reading at the end of the double brackets ( ]] ).
Stranded Camp
Present Day
"Since the dawn of time, man has been encumbered – and entranced – by the idea of death. Not only of death, but of defeating death. Pharaohs buried all their worldly possessions with them, expecting to live on. Legends sprung forth of magical, age-defying springs of water. They created myths: a paradise in the sky, a never-ending cycle of death and rebirth, or other planes of reality.
But there is one, hard truth of life, and this is it – we all die. More so, we all die alone."
-From the personal diary of Chairman Richard Prescott
Sam brushes up against my side, but her touch doesn't bring the typical amount of happiness it normally does. It brings guilt, and anger, and sadness. Her head is down and her tail tucked, and it is my fault. It is all my fault.
I let her die.
I stayed next to that frozen river bank for longer than I should have. Realistically I knew I should have gotten up and headed back to camp; there would have been a memorial or funeral for Momma and the rest of the fallen. But getting up would have taken more energy than I had within me. It hurt to even continue breathing, to feel the sandpapery air dragging life in and out of my chest. In. Out. In. Out. Momma was no longer breathing. And that was my fault.
I should have been here.
It was only after Sam found me out by the river was when I finally moved. I didn't want Dix to come back out to me, either. My scalp still tingled where his hand rested, which was…unsettling. It wasn't necessarily a bad feeling having him that close, but all other emotions swelled and were darkened by the depression in my chest. I didn't deserve to feel special, or loved, or happy. Not after…
I could have saved her.
I was wandering aimlessly around the circumference of the camp – not through it. I couldn't deal with the stares of pity that I was sure would come. It felt like I didn't belong anywhere anymore. Not the COG – with its copious amounts of angry stares from self-entitled citizens. I wanted to disappear in this horrible world. I could have left, but to where? Every Stranded camp had a Dix, and every person like me ended up owing them. The outcasts. The desperate. The invisible. The deserters.
My boots brought me to the edge of the woods, along the far-side of the camp. I was skirting around the underbrush and trees so my steps left foot-prints in the half-ice snow behind me. Sam walked next to me, an ever faithful companion that I couldn't even begin to deserve. I was down-wind of the camp, so I could smell the heavy scent of camp fires heating their small world. Maybe there would be a fire. Maybe I could let the orange flames dissolve me and the black smoke attack my lungs. Maybe that would put an end to my misery.
A figure on the edge of the woods distracted me from my morbid thoughts. It took a few more steps for me to recognize his stooped figure. It was Darvish. Of course he would have been self-ostracized to the forest. He never got along well with anyone inside the camp. That was why he preferred the position of gate keeper. It allowed him to spend hours alone without actually leaving the camp. Now that the gate was destroyed, I wasn't quite sure what role he would come to fulfill in the camp. I doubted he knew either.
Not in the mood for company, I briefly considered ducking into the woods, but I decided that would take too much effort. Instead I continued my slow amble in his direction. Sam let out a low growl as we approached, but even she lacked the energy to do much more than that. I dragged to a stop about five feet from him. He glanced up in surprise, not expecting company this far from the camp.
His eyes were glassy and bloodshot. He was under some sort of influence, like he so often was. This was to excess, however. Normally Darvish didn't sway where he stood, nor did he slur his words when he opened his mouth to speak.
"Great fuckin' day, isn't it?" The anger in his voice was grating. It was only then I remembered; Momma was the one who brought him into the camp.
I didn't answer. He didn't appear to want a response anyway; I doubt he could have remembered the question. Instead we both stood there, shivering in the cold, fighting against the shared grief we both felt.
"Ah, hell with this," he finally said as he turned to go back into the woods. Before he went, however, he flashed me a quick glimpse of a silver flask. "You coming?"
Without hesitation, I followed him and the booze deeper into the woods.
Later, when the sun was just beginning to shift to that honey-glazed look before sundown, Darvish and I sat across from each other. We both leaned back against separate trees, passing the silver flask between us. Just now, Darvish holds it out to me, like a peace offering across a table. I took it – ignoring how my hand shook just the slightest – and unscrewed the cap. It's half filled with trouble, and regrets, and a deep amber color that mirrors the shame in my eyes. I could already taste the fire of it burning its way through my body and soul before I pressed it to my lips.
I took a deep swallow and brushed away a few drops leaking out the side of my mouth. My throat – long used to this sort of abuse – barely protested as I forced more booze into my body. Clearing my throat, I passed the flask back to him.
He holds it in his lap instead of taking another swig. Sam is lying a slight distance away, refusing to face him, or me, or either of us. She rests her head on her paws, trying to ignore the scent of alcohol permeating the air. On my other side rests my guns; it was too uncomfortable to sit against the bark with them pressed against my back.
I stank, but I didn't care. Somehow it was gratifying to smell and look as bad as I felt.
Darvish raised the flask and met my eyes. "To Momma," he said, and took a long pull. I took it back from him and repeated his actions.
"Ahh, hell," he said, letting his head fall back against the tree at his back. His bloodshot eyes sank shut. "Damn shame. Never met a woman who deserved to die. Men? There's always a reason to kill a man. But women? Nah…" he shook his head, rubbing tree sap into his hair.
Instead of immediately passing back the flask, I held it in my lap. "And what are you basing that on?"
He answered without opening his eyes. "Men are all blunt, discourteous assholes. A woman at least has some purposes." A sickening grin widens his oily lips as he looks at me. "Like you. You're a flat out bitch, but at least you're fuckable."
Through the alcohol-induced haze, his words struck a bad cord. "I'm what?!" I seethed through clenched teeth.
"You are a rude, naïve, bitch of a woman. But at least one part of you serves some purpose." He leans forward to grab the flask from my lap, but instead finds the inside of my thigh. "This makes you both more and less fuckable at the same time. Wanna see?"
I slap away his hand and shove him backwards. The flask falls from my lap as I try to spring to my feet, but the alcohol hits and I sway. I had lost track of how much I had to drink. Darvish grabs me around the waist and pins me against the tree at my back. His hips press against mine, and for the moment I'm too drunk to fight him off. I raise my hand, but he takes it in his own and threads his fingers through it as his knee nudges my legs apart.
"Come on," he whispers against my neck. "I'm even willing to ignore how your face looks and only focus on your tits and ass and –"
My other hand – the one not imprisoned in his own – punches him in the shoulder, the neck, anywhere I can reach. "Get off of me, you-"
[[ He finally catches my other hand before I can land another punch. He takes both my wrists in one hand and pins them above my head. He hadn't been as drunk as I thought he was, or he'd never have been able to maneuver that. "Nuh-uh," he chastises me. He reaches under my shirt to grope at my chest, and I hate it and I hate it and I hate him and I hate myself.
I open my mouth to yell and scream, but he catches my lips with his own. His tongue slips inside and it's slimy and disgusting and tastes like the booze I had been sharing with him only moments before. I jerk my head to the side, ripping my mouth from him, but he only follows the corner of my jaw down to my neck. My skin crawls everywhere he is touching me. I fight and buck against him, but he only uses my struggles as leverage to press me closer and to widen my legs against him. My body doesn't respond the way I want it to – it's too leaden with the alcohol I had been poisoning it with only minutes beforehand.
I scream in anger and frustration. His hand comes out from under my shirt to unbutton my jeans. I buck again as his hand begins to travel its way southward into my jeans, and that most sacred area. His fingers brush the part of me that was mine to give and no one's to take. ]]
I fought violently against him, but in the end my salvation came in eighty-odd pounds of fur and teeth. Sam's barking filled the air around us. Her long canines sank into Darvish's calf with a vengeance. Her head whipped back and forth, tearing the flesh deep within, until he fell away from me with a shout. Without his body pinning me to the tree, I fell down to my knees. Darvish kicked at Sam until she released his leg. She retreated to stand in front of my crumpled body in a defensive pose. The fur all down the length of her back was standing straight up, and her growling sounded like an engine.
"Dumb bitch!" he yelled in pain. "Don't tell me that mutt of yours has rabies, or I'll-"
He stopped talking when he saw the barrel of my gun lined up with his forehead. His distraction gave me the opportunity to draw my sidearm. I was so filled with rage that my body was trembling with the pressure of it, but my hands were steady. "Get out of here," I snarled. "Don't go back to the camp, or I'll tell Dix."
Dix's rule against sexual assault were clear – no second chances. If there was an ounce of proof a man had assaulted a woman in the camp, he would be killed. Painfully. I knew without a doubt Dix would take my word without hesitation.
Darvish's eyes flickered uncertainly between Sam's glistening teeth and my gun. He scooted backwards, as if that paltry amount of space between us would somehow save him. "Dix don't care," he finally answered. "You're not his girl."
"You're going to be his girl if you don't get the fuck out of here."
It took him a minute to register the threat to his manhood. "You're a real bitch, you know that?"
"I can live with that." I motioned with my gun. "Now get the hell away from me."
"You should-" he started to speak again, but the sound of gunfire shut him up. I was so wound with tension that my fingers had tensed and I jerked the trigger. There was no slow, easy pull like Ace had taught me so long ago. That fire was anger, and rage, and nerves finding a release. Next to his head, the bark of the tree shattered, leaving a burnt circle outlining the bullet's entrance.
I had no idea if I missed, or if I meant to shoot him in the head.
"Go." I snapped. There was absolutely no patience within me to debate this any longer. "Now."
Something in my expression – or the bullet hole inches from his skull – convinced him to slowly get to his feet. I saw him wince as he put pressure on the leg Sam had attacked, and I felt a surge of vindictive pleasure. Not bothering any longer with conversation, he started back in the direction of the camp.
"No," I snapped at him, and he stopped. "You don't live in the camp any longer. Go find a new place. If I see you back there, I will kill you."
He looked like he was about to protest my announcement, but then his eyes flickered back to my gun. Instead of arguing, he simply put his hands in the air and modified his route. I followed him with the point of my barrel until his disappeared from sight.
It was only when I was totally sure that he was gone that I allowed myself to shatter.
I collapsed onto my knees, trembling as the adrenalin and fear attacked once more. Emotion welled up within my eyes and spilled over. Sam came over to me, and I threw my arms around her warm neck. I still held my sidearm tight in my fist, and it took all the strength I had in me to replace it back in my holster. I collapsed against the tree at my back – the one with my guns next to it, so useless when I needed them most.
Don't cry, for God's sakes, I told myself. This isn't you. Not anymore. You're not helpless. Breathe.
But it wasn't working. Nothing was working tonight.
I was crying, so angry at myself, but I couldn't stop. The only time I allowed myself to cry like this was when I was alone, with only the stars to witness my weakness. And I wished so much that my father was here, even though I knew that it was stupid. Even he didn't even know me well enough to save me.
The alcohol in my system swirled through me, becoming more pronounced as the adrenalin faded. My vision swam with dark spots as I fought against the spinning of the world. Sam laid down, pressing her body against mine, and I used her presence to help ground me.
I don't know how long it was before I saw her. One minute I was focusing completely on not blacking out, and the next I turned my head and caught a glimpse of her in the polished metal of the forgotten flask. Her hair was greasy, her face covered with dirt and scratches. She looked drunk, but I would have known her anywhere. It was everybody else who always liked to think she was gone for good.
I blinked at her, and my reflection blinked back. I wiped off my face, and ran my fingers through my hair, trying to give it some life. She stared back at me as I did this, knowing as well as I did that these were just smoke and mirrors, little tricks. And the sick thing? In a way, I was almost happy to see her. The worst parts of me, out in the flesh. Blinking back at me in the dim light, daring me to call her a name other than my own.
Using the last of my strength, I reached out and buried the flask beneath a pile of dead leaves and forest decay. My image went with it. If only I could have buried myself in the same way.
My head felt heavy, so I laid it down on the forest floor. The rich scent of dirt filled my lungs, and I focused on that. Breath in, breath out. If I stopped doing that, I would die. That's all it would take – just stop breathing. I wondered idly if I could do it, if I could overpower my body long enough to sink into unconsciousness. I probably couldn't – I wasn't strong enough. Wasn't strong enough to stop the ones I loved from dying, nor strong enough to die myself. Any half-decent person in my position would have turned their own gun against themselves long ago. I was probably either too tough or too scared to do so. Probably a little of both.
My eyes sank closed as the alcohol in my system lulled me to sleep. My eyes felt cemented shut. Maybe, if I was lucky, I wouldn't have to open them again. There was a loud grumbling in my head that was probably a warning of the wicked hangover I would have come morning. It was already filling my ears, rattling around in my mind and causing my teeth to grind unconsciously together. I tried to get away from the drone of it, but it just seemed to get louder, and louder. Finally, as the noise reached an almost unbearable point, it began to idle at an eye-searing level. It almost sounded like I was in the engine of a Derrick. I felt like I had been swallowed whole by Betty, until my world was filled with exhaust fumes and mechanical parts.
I could even smell it – the heady fumes of burning oil and imulsion fuel. The thick scent of rubber tire made my stomach roll threateningly. All I wanted was to sleep. Even the ground seemed set against me, as it rolled beneath me and uncurled my limp body. Suddenly, I felt like I was floating in midair. Maybe I was flying – but I could still feel two pressure points on my body; one under my knees, and the other around my shoulder. Maybe they were my wings. I couldn't make my mind follow one straight course of thought, and my mind pounded with the effort of trying to piece together all of these odd sensations. Finally, when I could take no more and felt like my skull would burst, I opened my eyes.
They refused to focus at first. All I saw was the grey of the sky, the black of the trees, and the white of the snow blurred together into a grey-scale image of desolation. But there was a spill of yellow on my horizon, closer than I'd ever seen. Straw-colored hair, spilling over my sight like sunshine. My own personal sun, come to rescue me. Maybe it was a wish, or a dream. Either way, it was so real that at some point, I could actually feel it. Like a warmth coming closer, enveloping me, arms closing around me, lifting me up. Rescuing me from my personal hell.
Author's note: Two chapters in one day? I know! I barely believe it myself!
Incredibly, this chapter turned out to be darker that the previous. I apologize for that; I didn't want to make it quite that graphic, but it sort of ended up writing itself.
The next chapter is something I've been looking forward to writing for a long time. :D I hope you'll enjoy reading it as well!
Oh, one last thing. I'm curious – what do you think the ending is all about? Send your responses in through the review button! Ten points to whoever guesses right! :D
