Children of the Kradle (Trilogy Book 1) Read online

  Children of the Kradle

  For Ryan and Madeline

  This book is a testament of the wonders of a

  supportive husband and a sleeping baby.

  Chapter 1

  Mevia

  Mevia sat upon the damp dirt floor, her bare, mud streaked legs splayed, limp and careless as if they were not one with her body, dummy props used in place of real legs. These couldn’t be her legs. This wasted shell couldn’t be her body. This underground cage couldn’t be where she was to spend the rest of her life.

  In the darkness, she could just make out the mud beetles crawling up her white feet and over her toes, unable to feel their hooked appendages through the calluses.

  Voices were coming from somewhere in the jungle. Mevia’s spine stiffened. She sat up straight, her back now damp from leaning against the dirt wall, strands of her hair still stuck in the mud. What time was it? Too late for a prodding, even from the most libido fueled of the men. By the end of the night they were gorged on game, sex and booze and passed out.

  “Go to sleep, filth,” she whispered. But was she any better? No, not in the divine judgment of the law. Under the infinite wisdom of Congress, they were all deemed criminals and fit to serve the same, indefinite sentence here on this island. The law saw fit to punish her political crimes to the same measure as her captors—rapists and murderers.

  The voices had ceased, or maybe they never existed. Maybe she had finally lost her mind after being kidnapped and imprisoned for—how long had it been?—nearly two months.

  She blinked, her eyes gritty as if she’d been asleep. Had she? It was hard to tell. What did it matter anyway? Day and night her state of mind, her right mind, drifted in and out of shadows. Day dreams became night dreams and night dreams bled into reality and reality was a blur of agony, and so went the cycle of her days, as if stuck on a haunted Ferris wheel.

  The voices picked up again, louder, rapid with excitement. The change in pattern spiked her senses. Pattern was what mattered. Pattern was everything. This late night visit could be bad which translated into painful, and she thought she was done with pain for the day.

  The voices were growing louder. She gauged them with a fine-tuned ear. There were two, maybe three of them and by their sloshy banter they were drunk. Then there was the usual thud-thud of the heavy rocks being rolled away from the bamboo screen above.

  Her heart raced.

  Mevia scrunched up her knees, squeezed her eyes shut and waited for the simultaneous smack of heavy feet landing in the pit, but instead there was the shriek of a terrified girl followed by the crash of an awkward fall. Mevia opened her eyes too soon and a cloud of dirt stung them.

  “Play nice you two!” Grunt yelled from the top earning him a laugh from his stooge, Roach. “We’ll be back for the both of you’s in the morning.”

  They pulled the bamboo cover back into place, and then shuffled away toward the wretched, filth-filled cave they shared with the other scags.

  Mevia was left alone with the girl.

  At first she sat still, blindly listening to her sobs, the squeezed, feminine gasping.

  “Hello,” Mevia blurted.

  “H-hello?” she spoke as if it were a cry for help.

  Was she dreaming? Or had she finally lost it to the voices in her head? Mevia tried to think of something else to say but she hadn’t had a real conversation in months.

  “You’re not a Demonstrator,” Mevia said evenly.

  “Excuse me?”

  “The Demonstrations. The last one was only two months ago. You’re not a Demonstrator.”

  The girl shifted in the dirt, her outline barely visible by the light of the stars.

  “No,” she whispered. “I’m not.”

  A Corporate criminal trying to buy freedom, paying for her release, thinking that deportation would be like an island vacation. What a terrible mistake. Mevia pitied her.

  “I’m Mevia. What’s your name?” She scooted closer.

  “Flora,” she answered quietly, barely audible.

  “How old are you?”

  “Nineteen. You?”

  “Twenty three.” Mevia flinched. Nineteen! A child. She imagined the abuse Flora must have undergone tonight and wondered how she would handle the horrors of tomorrow. As if reading Mevia’s mind, Flora began crying again.

  “Shhh,” Mevia soothed. “Come here.”

  Flora didn’t move so Mevia crawled over. Her choked sobs echoed into her cupped hands. “Shhh,” Mevia begged. “It’s going to be ok.” It wasn’t, but it seemed like the right thing to say.

  Finally Flora calmed down enough to speak. “How long have you been here?”

  “Two months maybe a little more,” Mevia answered. “They caught me my first night.”

  “Tonight was my third,” Flora sniffed and cleared her throat. “They caught me a few hours ago while I was walking on the damn beach.” They were both quiet a moment and then Flora asked. “Were you a…a Demonstrator?”

  “I was.”

  “So, you’re Mevia Freestand?”

  “I am.”

  “Oh.” Flora shifted. “I watched you on TV.” She reached over and touched Mevia’s shoulder as if confirming she was real. “So, you didn’t die from your injury.”

  Mevia wasn’t sure if this was a question. “No. They performed surgery right after, but they didn’t…”

  “You bitches better can-it or I’m gonna pound you into soup!” yelled Grunt. By his muffled voice it was very windy above ground.

  Flora tensed. “Oh God!” Her voice was verging on panic.

  “Shh,” Mevia ordered more sternly this time. “Here, come lay down with me. Let’s get some sleep.”

  They felt their way around the banana leaf bedding like circling dogs. Finally they settled lying shoulder to shoulder. Flora was still crying.

  Mevia wanted her to stop, needed her to stop. The young girl’s weeping was bringing her back to her first days of captivity. Those dark hours she spent alone, crumpled in the fetal position like discarded trash, wasting away through the unmarked hours, falling asleep in pain, waking up in fear. There was a time when her mind seemed to disconnect from her head, the way a plug is pulled from an outlet, sending her gnawing at the walls, screaming to the heavens, teeth bared, blackened with soil. She couldn’t go there again.

  “I w-want to go home,” Flora’s whimpered, her voice choked with tears.

  Mevia was slipping again, the pull was as if the Earth’s core was sucking her under. And then the voices returned, this time with songs from her childhood, the lean years in the Welling House orphanage.

  Welling, oh Welling your walls the home we love.

  Welling, oh Welling, yea, we shall rise above!

  Yea we shall rise above.

  “I wa-want my mom.”

  Stop. Stop. Stop. Please stop.

  Welling, oh Welling your walls of puss and blood.

  Yea we shall rise above.

  “I’m going to escape,” Mevia said quietly but with conviction.

  Flora gulped at the air before she answered. “Where will you go?”

  Mevia took deep breaths, her senses beginning to resurrect. “Back to the mainland. Far away from this island.”

  There was the sandpaper sound of her hair as Flora turned her head. “You have a plan?” Her voice was close to Mevia’s ear.

  Mevia paused before she answered. “Only to destroy those that did this to us. That did this to the world.”

  “No, I mean, how will you make it to the mainland? We could be hundreds or even thousands of miles away. Do you have a boat?”

  Mevia bit her lip, wishing she hadn’t brought up he
r plans. Things would be more complicated with two of them.

  “Are you awake?” asked Flora.

  “For now my plan is to get as far away from this hole as I can,” she answered. She didn’t know her way around the island or how she would get off, but that wasn’t going to stop her. However, she had an advantage. “There’s someone out there looking for me.”

  Flora licked her lips. Mevia’s secret must have made her feel better because her voice came out steadier. “Will that someone find you?”

  Mevia took a deep breath. “He’ll find a way.”

  They were both quiet for a long time. Mevia almost drifted off to sleep, but then Flora spoke. “Take me with you?”

  Mevia opened her eyes. She hadn’t prepared for this, to be responsible for another person’s life. She was barely hanging on to the grassroots of her own.

  “Try and get some rest,” she said sleepily. “I’ll do my best to protect you, but you’ll need your strength for the day.”

  “You’re scaring me.”

  “I’m not trying to,” Mevia whispered. “Just know that tomorrow is going to be bad, but remember: tomorrow is only tomorrow.”

  Chapter 2

  Eli

  Eli Jackson stood in line at RS Station 8, among his fellow enlisted men. Each had the same glazed early-morning stare, the same stock-chested uniform—dress blues class B—and each plodded forward with the same shoulder rocking saunter as they passed one by one through the retinal scanner.

  He rubbed his aching head, wondering how he was going to make it through the morning, trying to remember the last time he ate. Maybe I’ll track down whoever’s been screwing up my rations. He thought. Maybe I’ll ram a fist down his throat.

  If only it were that easy.

  The miasma of bitter coffee breath was inescapable. There was the low grumble of polite conversation jumbled with the beep-tush-toosh of the glass doors opening and closing after each entry: the official border dividing the CorMand Civilian Quarters from CorMand Division Headquarters. Someone let out a low moo, followed by a snigger.

  As he studied his handheld, trying to get into the right mindset the load of work waiting at his desk, some commotion erupted from the back of the line. He turned around to two scowling agents, dressed in their signature black suits, pushing through the crowd. Eli froze when they made eye contact and the taller of the two pointed. His mind flashed back as he reviewed everything he could be in trouble for.

  For starters, there was the hacking into military satellites in his search for Mevia. That, he did on a daily basis. And then there were the times he broke into restricted CorMand databases and poked around files. That, he did just for the hell of it.

  “Sergeant Eli Jackson?” The two agents were breathing down his neck. One was tall with grey hair while the other was younger, shorter and blonde.

  “Yes?” Eli frowned. “What can I do for you?”

  “Come with us.” The older one gestured while his partner grabbed Eli by the arm.

  As they maneuvered through the parting crowd, the blonde agents’ grip tightened.

  Eli stiffened. What if they had found out about him working with Eurasia? He mentally sped through the hundreds of lines of code he had used, checking each integer. It was months ago, but it was as fresh in his mind as his own phone number. No. No. And no. It was impossible that they knew. He was too careful.

  They took him into a bare room with nothing but a table and chair placed in front of a holograph screen. The young agent pushed Eli into the seat and then, in his eagerness, shut the door loudly. “Eli Jackson,” he said with half-cocked smile. “I’m Agent Hobbs and this is Agent Jensen.” Jensen nodded from the empty frame he was fiddling with.

  Hobbs stood in front of Eli with his arms crossed. “Sergeant, do you have any idea why we apprehended you this morning?”

  “I do not,” Eli replied evenly.

  “Of course not,” said Hobbs, to which Jensen chuckled as he struggled with the halo screen.

  “Need a hand with that?” asked Hobbs.

  “No, no. I’ve got it.” Jensen flicked a couple more buttons and finally the screen materialized mid-air.

  When Eli saw the floating 3D image, he clenched his jaw, trying not to give away that it was affecting him. At the same time, a sense of relief enveloped him, realizing that they weren’t after him for hacking or treason.

  On screen was a paused video that was approximately five minutes long made up of edited sections of security camera recordings and news footage. Eli knew this because he had seen it at least a hundred times.

  “I’m sure you recognize these two individuals,” said Hobbs exchanging grins with Jensen.

  Eli’s mouth was dry so he simply nodded once.

  It was a man and woman in a hallway, frozen in mid-run, their backs to the security camera. The woman was up front, her dark hair loose and swept to the side like a brush stroke, suspended just above her right shoulder. For some reason whenever Eli saw her, he always focused on her sweater—a white knitted top scattered with stitched blossoms. Perhaps because it was something a mom would wear casually, around the house among her family. It wasn’t something someone would choose for the day they became a fugitive.

  The man also had dark hair. His arm was extended, as if reaching to hold the woman’s hand which was flung backward either haphazardly or on purpose. Maybe she was blindly reaching back for him as well.

  Eli had always secretly thought that she was reaching for him. It seemed like something she would do. He knew this because they were his parents.

  Hobbs pressed the play button and the familiar video began. “Where’s the sound?” he huffed.

  “Can’t get the damned thing to work.” He tapped various apps on the touchscreen, his fingers slicing through the image. “I’m no good with these gadgets.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Hobbs muttered. “So, Jackson. We brought you in here because our records indicate that you have not been tuning in to your Minimum Required Programming. Is there any reason you have not been watching the GovCorp sanctioned shows between the hour of 18:00 and 19:00?”

  The picture became jumpy as the angles changed to a camera filming from a helicopter hovering over a high-rise building. In exactly seven seconds his parents would be emerging onto the roof and heading for the edge.

  Eli turned his eyes away and addressed the agents, “It wasn’t intentional. I’ve been working late.”

  Jensen placed his hands on his hips. “Now you know as well as I—as well as everyone else in the Kradle—that there are absolutely no exceptions to the viewing rule.” He removed a handheld from his pocket and began reading from it.

  “Every citizen of the Kradle is required to view the History Hour to its fullest length, Monday through Friday upon their distributed viewing device within their home. This is to ensure that our citizens never forget or become apathetic to those who were responsible for the horrors of the Medusa virus,” he stopped reading and addressed Eli, “the virus these two traitors created in their lab, although, I’m sure you already knew that, Jackson.” He gave a smirk before continuing to read, “which lead to near human extinction seventeen years ago. If a citizen chooses not to partake in the History Hour without valid reason, he/she will come under review. If the said behavior continues the citizen will undergo legal scrutiny and/or punishment.”

  Jensen put away his handheld.

  “Now.” Hobbs sat on the edge of the table, facing Eli. “Does it sound to you like ‘working late’ is a valid reason for missing your required viewing?”

  “Hang on a second, Hobbs.” Jensen patted his shoulder. “This is the best part.”

  Hobbs got to his feet. “You watching Jackson?”

  Eli was. As he watched his parents, he reminded himself he’d seen the recording hundreds of times before. It’s nothing. It’s in the past.

  His parents were standing on the edge of the building, flooded in overhead lights from the multiple helicopters hovering in
the surrounding air. They stood close together, looking into each other’s eyes, their hair whipping against their faces in the wind. Eli always watched their lips, trying to make out what they were saying to one another. Then a moment later, they joined hands, turned and together they jumped.

  Hobbs’ eyes were boring into the side of his head so Eli was unable to turn away as the camera followed them all the way down as they fell to the ground, disappearing into the black of night.

  Then the news reel ended and Jensen turned off the picture. They sat in silence.

  Hobbs cleared his throat. “Sergeant Jackson, we are only issuing you a warning, but if you continue this behavior, we’ll be forced to take advanced action. Do you understand?”

  Eli didn’t answer.

  Hobbs seemed to take his silence as a reply. “Good.” He went over and opened the door. “You’re dismissed.”

  Eli got up and stormed out.

  Chapter 3

  Kilt

  Kilt gripped the thin, ash coated rope between his calloused fingers. Lying on his stomach, perched up on his elbows, his scraggly head hovered over the promising water hole, which was no larger than a dinner plate. The ashy dirt moved with his breath as he peered down, hoping the bottom was no deeper than fifteen feet, otherwise his rope would be too short and there was nowhere to get another one.

  As he gathered the rope, the slack pieces created a tidy pile between his elbows. Surely it was heavier than when he lowered it before, but desperation could play tricks on a man’s mind and at this stage he was suspicious of himself, every decision weighed and re-weighed, every question requiring an answer.

  He licked his chapped lips, but his sandpaper tongue left them grittier than before. It was no wonder these people fled for the Kradle after the bombings, arms flaying, mouths agape, sucking the burning air, begging to enter the fibo-glass dome. This land, far beyond the bounds of the Kradle, was dead as a wart. This land, the people called Dead Earth.

  When he set his sights on the former Tex-Mexican border as his hiding place he was sure he could survive for months. He had hitched a ride from some guy in a rusty red Jeep. The stranger, who was on his way to the Pacific in search of other nomads, had warned Kilt of the dangers, but Kilt just waved him off.