Pain ravages behind Fiona's eyelids as she tries to force them open. She must have fallen asleep in a weird position, because her legs are cramping up and she's losing feeling in her hands. When she reaches to stretch out her fingers and get the blood circulating, a cold metal digs into her wrists — handcuffs.
Fiona snaps awake. Despite the sluggish lethargy in her body, her heart is pounding and her blood is roaring in her ears. Cold fear slithers down her spine as she struggles against the handcuffs, the metal giving nothing away.
"Abin," she whispers frantically, eyes searching for any shapes in the dark. "Abin, where are you?" She scans the darkness around her, feeling the hard dirt beneath her legs and cool draft breezing through her cardigan. As her eyes start to adjust, she notices the concrete space in front of her — a storage room — and vague shapes scattered throughout the room.
Finally, she spots a particularly lanky and human-shaped lump in the dark, as well as the shot of silver hair. "Abin, wake up," Fiona says desperately, her stomach sinking as she takes in the way that he's slumped. The shape is motionless but she knows it's him.
"Wake up," Fiona repeats, unable to keep the quiver out of her voice. How did they get here? She tries to remember anything before the cold and pain. Lush greenery... something about... sister-in-laws? Abin's hand on her wrist, the way he looked at her...
"Fiona?" Abin mumbles, starting to stir. Weak coughs rack his body as he tries to get up, only to notice the handcuffs behind his back. "What's going on?"
"Thank God," Fiona says, almost wanting to cry. She swallows the lump in her throat. "Do you remember anything? My head hurts..."
Abin struggles against his cuffs once more before deflating. "I..." He clears his throat. "All I remember is walking through the garden."
Fiona feels the cold sweat of nausea. This whole road trip, she's been on survival mode, trying her best to stay under radar from both Left Behind and the government. She runs through the plans in her head before sleeping, triple-checks the locks, and never goes anywhere without checking over her shoulder multiple times. And she's been good at it, because that's what she's had to do since her mom died in OP-PALINURUS. Maybe even since she watched her father die, slowly but all at once, when she was seven. Fiona's been in survival mode every second of every day for as long as she can remember, and there's no time to think about anything else other than what's next. But this. Fiona has no idea how they got here and for once, her usually strategic-mind is coming up blank.
"What do we do?" Her voice sounds so small in the icy room.
Abin is silent for a moment. She tries to see his face in the dark, but all she can see is a tall figure bound to a post. Suddenly, the figure straightens. "I still have some paper scraps in my pocket."
Fiona tries to focus despite the dizzy fog in her head. "I appreciate that you've got that but I really don't want to die in some explosion while tied to a random pole."
"No," Abin says, his voice strained as he wiggles around. "If I could just—" He grunts as he leans over, throwing himself to the ground.
"What are you doing?" Fiona winces.
Abin doesn't respond. He continues to wriggle around for a moment before sitting back up victoriously. There's a soft glow for a moment. And suddenly, his shadowy figure stands and stretches, hands free.
He's next to her in a second, crouching over her and whispering a small prayer. Abin's face looks weary and tired, but otherwise unscathed. It must have only been a few hours since they've been out. Fiona feels a small warmth around her wrists, before the shackles click off with a metallic clang.
"Thank you," she whispers, rubbing her wrists. She wipes away the sticky blood. Abin swallows thickly as she looks up at him, and he nods once decisively.
"This is the last of my scrolls," Abin says, offering her a hand to stand up. "Let's hope whoever brought us here has gone to bed by now."
----------------------------------------
They check the vague shapes around the room for any hint of where they are or weapons they might be able to head into the hallway with. But it's all junk. There are some random crates of dirt, gardening tools, and other miscellaneous farming materials. They must still be somewhere near the indoor farm.
Fiona feels a twinge for a second that her constant moral dismissals of the weaponized Sheltersuits might actually have consequences tonight. Over the years, commercialized brands have been creating mechanized Sheltersuits — mechsuits — that allow civilians to carry fully loaded ammunition in the very fabric of their protective gear. She's always been against them but standing in this dark room, weaponless, she wonders...
Well, too late now.
Fiona and Abin flank the two sides of the only door in the room. He nods at her. She swallows, trying to press all of her pain into a tiny ball that she can ignore. She pushes the door slightly ajar and they peer out.
"What is that?" Abin whispers, his voice wondrous.
In a daze, they peer into the cavernous room ahead. Homemade machinery rumbles thunderously, churning through the motions. The rusting steel reaches the tall ceilings of the facility, ingesting the content of large boxes that dump a blur into a wide vat.
They watch for a moment, completely still, but the machine seems to be fully automated. Fiona sees a large conveyor belt with boxes, slowly approaching the machine for their turn. "I'm going out," she says, and runs over to the conveyor belt.
It isn't long before she screeches to a halt. If she felt nauseous before, she's definitely holding in the bile now. "Come here," she says, hysteria creeping into her voice.
Abin joins her at her side and falls silent. His pale skin takes on a pallid sheen and his mouth falls open with no words to say.
"It's Jean," Fiona says, trembling. "From dinner."
Jean, who had been so animated and talkative just a few hours ago, laid completely naked in the box that chugged along the conveyor belt. He may have been lanky before, but his corpse is gaunt in the facility's lights, skin barely stretching across the ridges of his ribs. His cracked lips are open as though mid-speech, but only dried trickles of saliva come out. His eyes stare back at Fiona, unflinching and emotionless.
Abin only stands there, unable to speak or move.
With a terrible feeling in her stomach, Fiona rushes to the next box on the belt. Another person she recognized, the naked body of a plump woman who'd sat across from Abin at dinner. Her hands were flopped like rubber against her sagging body. Box after box, Fiona finds guests from their last dinner and other people that she doesn't recognize. They all head towards the roaring machinery that tilts them into the bottomless vat. Suddenly, the buckets of soil that sit at the end of the machine make sense.
I don't know how you're going to keep your operation going, Jean had said. "Marianne's composting," Fiona says, her voice coming out in a choked rush. "It's impossible to find soil rich enough to grow crops nowadays... she's composting her guests to keep her garden going."
Abin actually retches then, disturbingly bright vomit splattering against the metal floors. "I think they gave us some sort of drug..." he says, breathing sharply through his nose.
"Why aren't we in those boxes?" Fiona says, looking away from the conveyor belt. "I don't understand why Marianne—"
"Fiona? Abin?" The voice rings out from behind them, and Fiona and Abin turn to see Ralph, along with one other farmhand that Fiona had seen around. Ralph has a confused look about his face, like he's just as dazed as they are.
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"Ralph," Fiona says, relieved to see another face. "Are you okay? Were you cuffed too? She's– she's evil."
"Don't talk about Mother Marianne like that," Ralph says, his face turning dark. "Mother Marianne is an ingenious, thoughtful leader. She is a revolutionary. We are lucky to be in her presence."
Fiona starts to back away, sensing something very, very wrong. "Uh– yeah, of course. I'm sorry. I don't know what I'm saying. We just woke up and we're very confused and..." her voice drifts off, not really sure what else to do. Unarmed. Drugged. There's nothing to do.
"You're not supposed to be out here," one of the other farmhands says coldly.
"I'm sorry," Fiona repeats, trying to ascertain any exits that might exist in this facility. There are a few wooden planks laying around, maybe if she grabbed one...
"Sorry's not enough," Ralph says. "Mother Marianne expects the highest standards from her followers. She has chosen to bestow the highest honor any guest may receive upon you two. Not everyone is chosen to be a follower." His words are detached, deranged.
Fiona backs a few steps more, as though his words have caused a blow. "You're right," she says, not even having to pretend to have a quiver in her voice. "Abin, we should prostrate in apology."
"What?" he blurts as she gets on her hands and knees to prostrate. Fiona lays on the ground and tries not to wince at the cold metal of it all.
"Right now," she snaps, and something in her voice forces him to acquiesce. He shuffles next to her and gets on his knees.
"What are you doing?"
"There's another door on their right."
"What–"
In one motion, Fiona flings one of the wooden planks towards Abin. She grabs another for herself and starts to sprint, with every ounce of energy she can muster. She can hear Abin panting right next to her, as well as the heavy footsteps as the farmhands shout behind them.
She reaches the door and luckily, it opens. They face an endless stairwell up but she has no choice — she starts to scuttle up the stairs with her stupid wooden plank. Ralph and the other farmhand's voices grow closer as they shout crazed platitudes at them.
"You must submit to Mother Marianne! She is all power and life in this inferno of sin." Ralph's voice echoes against the staircase as they enter the stairwell. "Only those who follow are absolved in the eyes of God."
If Fiona squints enough, she thinks she can see the landing with a door behind it. She can only pray that the exit is there. "We're almost there," she says to Abin, who she can tell is feeling vulnerable without his scrolls. He doesn't have nearly as much hand-to-hand combat training as her and she prays to every God out there that it doesn't come to that.
By some miracle, Fiona and Abin finally reach the top of the stairs. Her legs are burning and she is drenched in cold sweat, but the door is just in reach. She lunges forward and pulls the latch open, feeling the smothering air of the outdoors. Never has the polluted air ever brought her any joy, but feeling the familiar burn is suddenly—
A hand grabs her shoulder and flings her backwards. The second that Ralph's hand makes contact with Fiona, a jolt of electricity rushes through her body like she's been hit with a taser. Fiona screams and Abin raises his wooden plank to defend her just as the other farmhand grabs him.
"Submit to Mother Marianne!" Ralph shouts in her face, eyes wild. "You must submit!"
Despite the pain of the electric jolt, Fiona kicks her leg backward into Ralph's stomach. He grunts and releases her, which gives her enough time to spin around and smack him with the wooden plank. "They're genetically modified!" Fiona shouts to Abin through gritted teeth, as a head's up.
The Obsidian Tortoise's work with genetic modifications has only become more seamless and infallible over the years, but she tries not to focus on that as she feints and dodges Ralph's blows. Instead, throws her entire body into each blow. Without his taser hands, Ralph is clearly untrained in combat. He dodges everything just a fraction too slowly, throwing himself off balance.
"What?" Abin shouts, jabbing the other farmhand with the plank but not making too much progress.
"Avoid the hands!"
"You must submit," Ralph repeats maniacally.
"Shut UP!" Fiona screams, plunging the wooden plank into Ralph's stomach. The dumb piece of wood is way too blunt to puncture anything, but it gets the job done — his body flies off the railing of the stairs and she doesn't stick around to hear the thud. She flies over to Abin's side and does the same to the other farmhand, cutting off his chortled scream with the lung-crushing blow.
There's a brief silence after that. "Thank you," Abin says, looking very out of breath and maybe slightly embarrassed.
"Let's get out of here," Fiona says, reaching for the door handle again. They escape into the night air and there it is — the back of Marianne's Bed and Breakfast. The lights are dark, showing nothing but a peaceful and cozy barnhouse on a farm. Whatever they've left in their rooms can stay there. She gestures wildly to Abin, pointing the direction to the parking lots where her car waits.
"You're scrappy, I'll give you that."
Out of everything that's happened in the past few minutes, this is what fills Fiona with the most fear. Her stomach plummets into the depths of hell when she turns to find Marianne, still wearing her kitten sweater, surrounded by nearly a dozen farmhands. The wooden plank feels even sillier in Fiona's hands now.
"You're disgusting," Fiona spits at Marianne, every emotion hitting her all at once. Yes, Fiona's been made to survive. Yes, she's spent the past 15 years of her life doing it. But she is tired of it. She is tired of it all.
Marianne coos. "I spared you two because I thought you'd understand. People without a goal for tomorrow, without the will to live on despite the world's conditions — they're as good as dead." She points to the silo they just escaped. "If they want to waste away, they may as well offer something to the world."
"As human compost?" Fiona shouts. Her throat feels raw. "You're no better than them — than any of them! Everyone nowadays, everyone just cares about what benefits them, no matter what the cost is to everyone else." It's stupid and she won't cry, but tears prick at her eyes anyways. "I just killed your two farmhands, didn't I? To save myself." If Shailene was here, Fiona knows she'd say who cares, they came for her first for God's sake, stop being such a pussy. But then, isn't it Shailene who always tells her that this new world is all about the means to an end?
Marianne snarls at Fiona. Even in the dark, Fiona can see the unbridled anger on her face. "Get them."
Fiona and Abin barely have a moment to react before the farmhands are swarming them, pulling out a pair of shackles. Someone grabs Fiona roughly and pushes her to the ground, but she's pretty much numb to every splitting cut and bruising sore by now. "You'll get what you deserve," Marianne says, with a laugh. "And to think I was going to invite you to be a farmhand—"
A drone whizzes above them, emitting a skull-shattering light and a robotic voice. "Marianne Collings, you are under arrest for the large-scale production of strongly prohibited drugs, as well as the smuggling and distribution of such drugs across state lines. Please present yourself for arrest."
For a second, everyone freezes and stares at the drone. The drone continues to repeat itself. "Marianne Collings, present yourself for arrest. Marianne Collings, present yourself for arrest."
"What do we do, Mother?" the farmhand who's holding Abin asks, halfway to clipping Abin's shackles on.
Marianne looks at the drone in contempt. "Those government bastards have been on my ass for months. I'll go talk to them and sort this out while you take care of—"
Everyone is knocked off their feet when a giant blast rips through the main house. "Present yourself for arrest. Present yourself for arrest." With each ignored order, another explosive drops on the main house where Fiona and Abin were dining just hours before.
Marianne springs to action. "Into the silo, now, now, now! Trigger the emergency evacuation plan!"
Fiona shrugs her captor off but it's not necessary. He's already dropped the shackles and runs towards the silo. She watches as the rush of Marianne's cult rushes into the silo, as the drone continues to scream into the night. A blazing fire rages behind them, warming the back of Fiona's hair with an intensity. Her head is still pounding but nothing matters now — it's like she's in a dream.
"Fiona!" Abin pulls her up. "We need to go." More and more explosives rain down, closer to the silo now. "Right now."
She lets him guide her as they run across the field, lit just barely by the raging inferno. The government's signature tanks, as well as agents clad in weaponized mechsuits, are positioned by the entrance but there's no choice — just behind the tank is her Ford Fiesta, unscathed by the events of the night.
Fiona and Abin throw their arms up in surrender. "We're just guests who needed a place to stay for a night," Abin gasps, struggling to breathe over the smoke. "Marianne is in the silo."
"Thank you," says the leader of the squad behind their mechsuit. "Get behind the fire lines." The rest of the squad barely looks at them now that they've realized it isn't Marianne.
Fiona reaches into her pocket, where her car keys still hang. Thank God. They just have to slip away quietly while the pandemonium is still going...
The leader of the squad suddenly does a double take. While the rest of their squad continues to launch explosives, Fiona catches a certain look in their eye. She doesn't think she knows them, with their cropped hair and hard frown, but there's something about that look in their eye.
"Lieutenant!" One of the squad members shouts. "We've got a lock on the silo. Do I have the go-ahead?"
The lieutenant pays their squad member no mind. "Hey, you two. Stick around for questioning after we get this sorted, alright? We need any intel we can get."
Fiona's heart is beating out of her chest but she can't explain why. "O-okay."
"Lieutenant?"
The lieutenant finally rips their gaze away from Fiona and turns back to the destruction blazing just a few feet away. "Go ahead."
The second that they're turned, Abin grabs Fiona's hand again and he ushers her into the car. There's no time to think or feel or try to figure out what that look in the lieutenant's eye feels so familiar to Fiona. She starts the car and Abin pulls out the map.
"Let's never come back to Utah," he says, a weak attempt at a joke, as they pull away from the wild blaze. Eventually, Fiona is able to blink the images of red flames and naked bodies away from her eyes as she continues down the monotony of bumpy highways. But the sickly, dead smell of smoke lingers nonetheless.