15 – 3

Juliana's body lies before me.

There's that, and there's everything else: Merigold, who gave the order; Pike, who carried it out; Clarke, who did nothing; and I, who did nothing. A fishing boat rocks in its berth, moved by small, gentle waves. It was meant to be our escape. There's blood on my clothes, on my hands; on my tongue. It was meant to be our freedom. There's the pier beneath me and the lake at my back. Somewhere, far into the east, there is the dawn. It was meant to be ours, and now it's just an empty boat; an empty body.

“Is it done?” Merigold asks, “Is she dead?”

“Yes, Madam Mayor,” Pike answers, and Merigold sighs.

“Finally,” she says, “Fucking – finally –, it's over.”

The bolt-point glistens, shining wetly with the life it took.

“What about them?” Pike asks.

Hands that once held and helped now lie slack, curled, and still upon the splintered pier.

What about who?

“Get rid of them,” Merigold answers.

Oh. Us.

“And the body?”

Juilana.

“Deal with it after,” she says. Footsteps sound; her voice fades, “I don't care how. Come see me when you're done.”

Pike grunts. I smell blood. Eyes that once sparked with life and lightning now stare, sightless and empty, at me.

Boots on splintered wood. Someone beside me, looming tall; nudging me. “Hey.”

He sounds different.

“Hey!”

Not anymore.

The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

“Look at me, Zira.”

I'd rather not.

“Look at me!”

There's a hand on my chin, so I end up doing it anyway. He looks different.

Not fun anymore? My apologies.

“Get up,” he orders.

No.

“Hey!” he snarls, nails digging in. “I have more bolts, Zira, don't make me use them!”

On me?

From behind me, a low, pained groan. It jolts through me.

Clarke.

“There she is,” Pike sounds pleased, I think. “Now, get your skinny ass off the ground; Clarke, too.”

I try. For her, I try; but my body won't do what I want. I fall over, once and again, and then his patience runs out. He grabs me by the collar and hauls me up; holds me there until I can stand alone.

“Now her,” he commands me, “and be quick about it.”

Those blue, blue eyes of hers have at last found some clarity; some focus returned to the mind behind them. It's easier for her to find her feet. She's not back enough to have seen it, not yet. With luck, she won't.

“Good girl,” Pike says, “Now, move.”

- - -

We move. It's a slow, ungainly shuffle down endless, empty streets lined with endless, empty buildings. No guards on the corners; no faces in the windows. It's just me, Clarke's slow return to awareness, and Pike's ever-growing impatience. He has somewhere to be. Why can't we understand that, his grumbles seem to ask, and indulge him by going faster? All he did was kill one of us, wound another, and put me here: in this strange place of mind where I hardly care at all.

Clarke's head lolls. She's still bleeding, but it's sluggish; tacky streaks drying on her skin and in her hair. I smell it, the sour bile on her breath, and her sweat beneath. She groans my name into my shoulder, muffled by cloth. “Zira?”

My answer is hoarse; quiet, “Yes, it's me.”

“What happened?” she asks. She squints against the gray-dawn; its soft light paining her.

“He hit you,” I tell her.

I won't speak of after, not unless I must. Dying confused is better than anguished, I should think.

“Oh,” she says, then asks, “Why?”

“Merigold told him to,” I say, a little louder. He's listening. “and he obeyed.”

“Hate her,” Clarke mumbles, then winces, “It's bright.”

It's not. “Here,” I lift my hand to her brow; shade her eyes, “better?”

She sighs, so it must be. I pull her into me, lift her more onto my shoulder, and we go on. The gray-dawn becomes dawn-in-truth. The sun's first touches are of warm, gentle colors on a clear sky. There's a cool breeze in off the lake, smelling of clean and cold. It looks to be a beautiful day, ruined only by the town waking up around me.

What a sight we must make for those early risers; what gossip we must give for the day of work ahead. What will they say to each other, I wonder? How will they make us deserving of our fate?

“Dizzy,” Clarke mumbles, “Gonna be sick.”

I hold her brow while she heaves, spits streamers of bile onto the street; emptying an already emptied stomach. Behind us, Pike is silent.

“Sorry,” she wipes her mouth, “M'sorry.”

“It's alright,” I breathe into her hair, “You're alright.”

“No m'not,” she sniffles, snorts, then spits. A wad of phlegm joins the mess at our feet. She blinks at it, then at me, then winces and narrows her eyes. “Can you...?”

I can and do, once more making my hand a shade from the sunlight. She sighs in relief; mumbles her thanks into my neck. Of all the things I'll miss, this ranks highest amongst them: caring for someone; holding them; saying without words, I'm here. I'm with you.

Pike says, “Keep it moving, girls,” and I hear the creak of his crossbow. Whose back is the bolt-point aimed at? Which one of us will die first, should we die now?

Why's he making us do this, anyway?

“Why?” I ask.

The bolt-point presses into my back, poking through cloth and skin with equal ease. “Because I said so,” Pike answers, “Now fucking – move –, already.”

Fine.