Escape (Alliance Book 1) Read online

  The part of the wall he fell over seemed too high for him to have made out as well as he did. Lucky, that. He was always lucky in that way though. It's the other things he had no luck in. The guard tower had a thin stream of smoke sneaking out through the roof. Drake must have been making some tea with that grass he added to it that you could smell on his breath. Drake wouldn't turn him in even if he saw him fall, but he might come looking for him, and that could be dangerous. He had to be more careful now. He took a few steps back, so that he couldn't be seen from the tower or the lawn.

  He felt the girl's soft steps behind him. She was going to have to figure out what to do, but he needed for it to not take much longer. Something was breaking inside of him, softening, when he was around her. It made him feel vulnerable, and he couldn't afford that now. Maybe ever. He couldn't even lie to her. That stupid bit of owning up to what happened to her family. Beyond stupid, and he didn't even know if it were true, just that it could have been. She could have taken him to Hassinger then. Maybe she should have. He needed a bloody lesson in keeping his mouth shut. And her soaking his back with warm water, it nearly broke him. It hurt so much he couldn't breathe, and not in the way his scars hurt. He had to end this.

  This would be easier not looking at her tear-streaked face, so he stayed where he was, hands still clasped behind his back, "I can't tell you what you want to know, Amelia. I won't. Knowing won't do you any good, and it might put someone else in danger, and I can't let that happen. You are going to have to do whatever you need to do with me without knowing anything else. I am sorry."

  He waited through minutes of silence, and then finally turned around and there she was, standing as if frozen in place, staring at him with those impossibly big eyes. Her face had splotches of red and pink from all the crying, and the freckles were back. 'What could she possibly want from me?' he thought, 'let me be or don't, little girl. I can't hurt you.' The staring contest disagreed with him. His back ached. He could feel the scars burning, grateful that he wasn't dizzy yet from blood loss.

  She walked towards him, handing him something she held in her small hand - a bar, a bloody breakfast bar. He wanted to laugh at the craziness of it. This scared, jumpy little girl didn't trust him not to hurt her without the slave band, but brought him breakfast. He took it from her trembling hand and walked back to the den. He knew she was trailing behind him, could feel her breathing a few meters back.

  He wished he had another shirt to put on, one that wasn't soaked and drying on the sink, so she didn't have to look at his scars, but he couldn't help that now. She'd already seen them, and she didn't strike him as an idiot, so she'd know by now they weren't from the fall.

  He sat down on the edge of the bed, leaving her to straddle the chair. She had to pry, he knew. He would as well, if it had been him, not knowing. He had to let her then. She would give up, and either shoot him, turn him in, or let him be. For the first time he noticed she didn't have the gun on her. She must have forgotten it somewhere. That didn't bode well. He didn't want her to be too frightened now, couldn't afford for her to scream.

  He got up and walked to the closest armor alcove, took down a stun gun, and walked back to where she sat, unmoving, mortified.

  "Here, take this and point it at me," he said softly. He flicked the safety off while handing it to her, handle first, and sat back down on the bed, not two meters away from her. She didn't strike him as someone who'd ever fired one of these, but at this distance, even a toddler would hit the target. She should feel in control again. He needed her to feel in control.

  "Riley," barely above whisper, that. Her gun hand was dangling uselessly over the back of the chair. He was paying attention to that hand for some reason. She called him by name. He didn't like hearing his name from her lips.

  "Some of your wounds need stitches. There is an old med kit on the floor below. It's unoccupied now. It should have the basics, a needle and thread at least. I can try to stitch them up, but I don't have any way of getting you pain meds or HealX without going to the med floor, and there is always someone there," she trailed off, looking down at her feet, anywhere but his face, "I don't know if you can take it, the pain, or if I can do it right, but they look too deep to heal on their own..." She looked up at him timidly.

  There was sadness or maybe pity in the way she was looking at him. He didn't know if their implants included feelings, if that was even possible. Did she feel the pain of the loss of her dog, Blanche, she said its name was? Did she miss his smell, the impossibly soft fur on the top of his head, or was it just a name to her? Yet this, her looking at him with so much sadness, no, probably pity. This felt real, and it made him ache deep down in a way he hadn't ached in a very long time. He had no right to hurt this girl. He didn't ask for her to find him this morning, but she didn't ask for it either.

  Still, he could tell she was hurting now. He could try to just send her away, beg for her to pretend this never happened, and let him be. Something in those sad eyes of hers told him that wouldn't work. He got that too. He didn't think he'd walk away in her place either. But this, the hurting her, had to stop. And yet, she could be useful now, and she seemed to want to help him. Maybe that, helping him, would be enough for her to go back to her almost-wife life, thinking about the boy she'd make babies with, the nobility of her purpose or whatever it was they made them believe to make them so happy and docile about the whole thing.

  Think, stupid. Wounds, stitches. No more agonizing pain after this. Could he do it without screaming was really what she was asking. He'd be risking her life as much as his if he did scream. He knew that much, even if she didn't. He couldn't ask her to do that, couldn't ask her to risk that. So he had to be certain he didn't scream, had to find a way not to. He didn't remember screaming with Hassinger. He was pretty sure he didn't, but he was too embarrassed to ask Drake. This can't be as bad though. He couldn't imagine anything ever hurting as bad as that did. So this, this he could do. He had to. He nodded to her, finally, dismissing her on her errand and leaned back, exhausted from the strain of keeping it together and the strain of trying to ignore the agonizing pain from the slices in his back.

  He drifted to sleep, hoping he was far too tired to dream, to relive that last walk home. He wasn't. He could almost smell the impending melting of the snow, the stale greenery still trapped beneath the bark and under the coal dust-colored, iced over banks that would soon be dripping away in tiny gray streaks and then turn to slush underfoot. Few blocks to the little shack of a house, to Samson...the little grave he never knew about. He jerked awake with a start, Samson's collar on the floor of the mud room blurring into none-being from his memory.

  The girl was at the sink, filling up a bowl with steaming water. The gun was off and on the shelf behind him, within easy reach of him, but not her. Just as well. She couldn't shoot him. He thought as much when he first saw her staring at him, scared, pointing the gun at him and terrified of it going off. Some people just weren't wired to kill, even if they thought of you as the enemy.

  She walked over to him, carrying the opened med kit in the one hand and the water in the other. She had him straddle the chair, and grab the back so he didn't fall. He had no intention of falling, but he complied. An impossibly warm, wet towel was gently washing his back. If not for the open wounds, he would have enjoyed it. Even with that, it felt entirely too familiar, too soft and warm, too comforting. He hadn't had anyone wash him since long before they lost Ella. He could barely remember the touch of his mother's hands on his back...

  This felt too intimate. Too personal somehow. He couldn't do this. Not the stitching, but this gentle, warm washing away, this touch. He bolted upright, facing her, looking at this gentle girl, her eyes liquid silver, ready to spill tears again at any moment, and the ache got worse, "I'm sorry, Amelia... I'm sorry, but I can't," and inexplicably, he had to turn away from her, hide his face. He would have run, if there was anywhere for him to run to, but all he could do was walk away from her.

  He
made his way to the back of the den, into the semi-darkness, sat down on the floor, and put his head into his hands. He knew he was being a weakling, a whimpering little boy, a coward. He needed for his mind to just go blank for once. He needed to not think at all, if only for a little while. He sat there, willing himself into the lull of not quite sleep, that in-between place where his dreams couldn't chase him. Time, he was wasting time. He bit his bottom lip, hard, harder than he should have. He felt the trickle of liquid tickle its way down his chin, tasted the tinny salt of it. Stupid, idiot, moron child... He needed to calm the hell down and let the girl stitch his wounds. He could bear it, he had to.

  He slid up the wall and walked back out towards the loft, looking for her, "Amelia." This came out more croaky than he would have liked. And then he saw her, sobbing into her knees, crouched under the shelf with the gun on it, her tiny shoulders rising and falling fast, too fast. He knelt in front of her, not accustomed to comforting anyone, not quite knowing how to.

  He tentatively patted her hair. Samson always liked when he did that. Samson, the dog. He was taking cues from his dog. He was thinking too much, he knew. Overthinking. He just needed to hold her, tell her that it wasn't her fault, that she didn't do this to him, that it was something else, something she couldn't fix anymore than he could. It wasn't something anyone could fix, but no words came out. She looked so small and so helpless. Without a word, he reached over and folded her small form into his arms, nestling her head on his chest, and rocked her, stroking her hair, breathing into it, waiting for the sobs to stop.

  He calculated they still had a few hours left before dinner. That was the good news. But this girl was too fragile. He didn't think she could stitch him up now, not after he bolted like that. Not without him telling her something, only there wasn't anything he could tell her to make this any easier for her. He was angry at himself for reacting so stupidly, for letting it get to him like that.

  The girl was breathing softly now, head still on his chest, the wetness cooling. The sobbing was over, at last. He disengaged, gently, stood up and walked over to the sink, turning the water on to hot until he could see the steam wafting from the faucet. He refilled the bowl, and cleaned the blood off the washcloth she was using and brought it to the chair.

  The two enormous eyes were watching him. "I am sorry. I really need you to do this, if you think you are up to it. I won't bolt."

  His voice was back to normal now at least, nothing shaky there, nothing of the little boy. He slumped into the chair and dug his hands into the cold metal bars. He could hear small streams of water dripping into the bowl as she wrung out the towel. He needed to not scare her, needed to let her do this, and so he did. After too long of holding his breath, of holding his insides from breaking apart, the washing was done. He heard her empty and refill the bowl again, heard her fumble through the kit for the needle and thread and not for the first time, he hoped she could do this.

  The first time she put the needle in was all wrong. He could tell she wasn't going deep enough. He would have to help guide her.

  "You need to go through all the layers, Amelia, otherwise there is no point..." He hoped his voice didn't sound pained. He had to breathe. He needed to think about something other than these untrained tiny hands poking holes in his back. But he couldn't turn this off.

  He could hear the skin tearing where the needle went in, all the way through now. He felt the burning and then the tugging of it when she tightened the threads. Too slow. She was going impossibly slow. His fingers dug in deeper into the chair, till he couldn't feel the tips anymore. She had closed up two out of at least half a dozen. He needed a break, to collect himself, but he was worried he might lose her. She hasn't said anything since she started. He held up his hand, and asked as softly as he could manage through the pain, "Can I please... have a moment?" and after a beat heard her move away from him.

  Slowly, he got up and without facing her walked to the window. His legs still worked. He could always just run again, only he knew he wouldn't be going anywhere until he found a way of getting Ella out of here. The two wounds at least would heal now, he knew she did okay on those. Could feel the tightness of the tissue where she stitched. It was brave of her to do this, to not fall apart. This girl probably never even saw a scrape before today, and now she was stitching up someone's raw flesh, knowing she was hurting him. He knew how hard that was.

  He turned around, looking for her, and saw her digging through the med kit, still by the chair where he left her. Even if she or he couldn't keep going, what she'd done deserved at least a thank you, he knew. He walked towards her and took the kit from her hands, so she'd look at him, "I'm sorry if I scared you. Thank you for this, for doing this. It can't have been easy. If you can't keep going, it's okay. You don't owe me this." Her hands were shaking a little, a bad sign.

  "I need to know something. Something I can't make sense of. Why did it hurt you so badly when I was just washing your back? It was worse for you than the stitching. I could feel it, you going rigid, not breathing. You did that before too. I need to know what I did wrong, or whatever it is that happens to you when you stop breathing like that. It just doesn't make any kind of sense..." She was looking at his face now, trying to read him.

  How do you explain something like that to a frightened little girl that you've already made cry twice and you'd only just met her? How do you tell someone so safe and sheltered that the washing made you feel like a little kid again, a happy little kid who still hadn't lost anybody? He didn't know how to do that. He could have maybe explained it to Brody, and he would have nodded in that way he had, to show he was listening and that he got you, and then he'd let you be. Brody would know how to explain it to her or to anybody. He always knew just how to say something, but Brody, too, was gone.

  So he let her stare at him, for as long as she needed to, and it hurt, that look of hers, the needing to know, and then simply shook his head. He was ready for the rest of it now. He wanted her gone, as quickly as he could make her go. He walked over and sat in the chair again, nodding to her that he was ready if she was, grabbed onto the back with everything he had, and closed his eyes.

  The loft was completely dark when he woke up. The sliver of the window that he could see from his bed was black. It was definitely night. He didn't remember getting into bed or even making the bed. Somehow this wisp of a girl must have done this. He was lying on his stomach under a pile of blankets, his head on a clean-smelling pillow. He was barefoot, and apparently only wearing his boxer shorts. His jeans, socks and shoes were missing. He half-expected the lights to suddenly come on and to be staring into the smiling face of Hassinger. He waited for the fear to pass, listening for any human presence but his own. He was definitely alone.

  He spotted a candle on the shelf and a small book of matches. The girl must have put them there. It was safer than turning the lights on at night. He lit it, inhaling some ancient aroma, something he couldn't quite place. Of course they would have scented candles in this wife-making factory, he thought, without humor. Rosemary, he was smelling rosemary. For the first time in over ten years he was smelling a piece of his mother's garden. And for the first time in just as long he couldn't hold it all in anymore.

  He snuffed out the candle with his fingers, crawled into bed and cried silently into his pillow. He lay there for a long time, tears soaking into the fabric, dark splotches on white, counting, as was his habit when nothing else made sense. 23 dark spots. 44. 82. 110.

  The Mutes

  Ella, March 29, 2236 Female Replenishers Compound

  These girls all looked almost alike. Every one that she saw had the same large, blue-gray eyes, light hair, fair skin, as if they had never been outside at all. But they seemed carefree enough, normal for their age. Blabbering about whatever it was that girls that age giggled over, or cried over when no one was looking. She wished she was better at remembering the faces of people who never spoke to her. People she didn't know. That way she could tell if someth
ing changed. But she wasn't, and there was no point in dwelling on it.

  This wasn't so bad. The slave band would come off in another week or so, if she kept to her tasks without complaining. That was one of the first things they told her when they took her voice away, to never complain, no matter what. She found it ironic then. In a way, she still did, only now she missed the intimacy of conversation. She missed being able to respond to someone, no matter how trivial the question. And she missed her singing. The old songs, mother's. It was one of the few bridges she still had to the little shack with its unfortunate people, and its unfortunate never-quite-making-it plants. The smell of father's pipe in the kitchen mingling with too much rosemary or mint. She preferred the smokiness of the tobacco. It seemed so full of secrets, the blue clouds twirling their scented way to the roof and out through that unfixable bit.

  And Samson, with his bad breath, licking her hands, her face, anything his tongue could reach depending on how she was sitting. She missed talking to him in that way she had where he'd calm down and just curl up on top of her feet, keeping them soft and warm. Riley she never thought about. That would be too much. Too much to bear just yet. She let all these years slide by without mentioning him to anyone, not once, not since she was taken. She felt he had a better chance of being safe out there if he had no part in her thoughts.

  She swept the already clean tile floor, closing up for the night. She dusted all the desks, deliberately not thinking of where he was now or if. She washed the windows, pushing all thoughts of Riley out of her head. Mom and dad and Samson remembering was somehow different. She could think about them and miss them and wish she could see them again. But they were gone. She didn't know if Riley, who smelled like tea and the sugarless mint cookies mother baked, Riley who liked to stare into the souls of bugs, she didn't know if he was gone.