Prophet of the Badlands (The Awakened Book 1) (22 page)

lthea lay still as the sloshing grew distant through the concrete labyrinth, staring at the small gap between the top of her wrist and the metal thing securing her to the bedframe. She wiped the smears of rust from her skin with her free hand. For the moments it took her captor to vanish into silence, she scowled at the idiocy of his not even having the key. Up on her knees, she spit on her wrist as much as she could, smearing the saliva around in hopes it might let her slip free. Metal bit and pinched her skin, but her hand remained trapped.

The sound of a gunshot made her jump. Aurora had taken the man too far away for Althea to sense his death, which was nice of her, but that also took the gun way out of her reach. Even knowing what he wanted to do to her, she felt upset. After her mental attack, there was little chance he would have looked directly at her again, much less touched her. He did not have to die. She sagged in a heap. Rachel would have shot him too; killing and eating people was wrong.

Of course, with him dead, she frowned at the handcuffs and imagined Rachel’s voice saying “easy pickins.” Rattling her arm, she felt like a worm on a hook dangled in the creek. She curled in a ball and gazed at the ceiling and around at the room. Underground, she would likely go undiscovered until she starved, a fate even less appealing than the supposed friends coming to collect her. Fear mounted as she remembered the skeleton hanging from the crashed buggy.

She stood on the cot, balancing as best she could on the moving surface and faced the water-filled shaft.

“Help!”

Her shriek repeated over itself into the distance.

“Help! Please,” she yelled. “Somebody help me!” She banged the cuff on the bed for extra noise.

Even if raiders heard her crying out, another cage was better than starving. Only the sound of her plea bouncing back at her answered. She collapsed over the metal railing to which she was tethered. After a few futile tugs, she tried bashing the shackle against the head rail, but all it did was send a flurry of grey paint chips scattering into the dust.

Reason gave way to fear, and she thrashed. Feet planted against the bar, she shook back and forth in an effort to break the whole thing apart. The headboard she could lug around―the entire steel bunk was too heavy for her to even drag. When her energy ran out, she swayed to a gentle halt on the damnably robust thing. As she lay out of breath, she gazed upon the dead man’s “fortoon.”

A shiny silver cylinder sticking out of a crate caught her eye. After a few minutes to recover her strength, she got off the bed and grasped the frame in both hands. Her feet slid out from under her as she tried to pull it. Grunting, she flung her weight backwards and hauled the bed in a succession of short, half-inch bursts towards her goal. Screeching wails of metal on concrete rang through the tunnels, falling silent when she backed into the pile. She collapsed, panting, over the mattress.

She grasped the cylinder and lifted it, recognizing a “magic torch” like the one Palik had. It was long enough to double as a club, and quite heavy. This one did nothing when she pressed a thumb into the rubbery button on the side. She tried to remember the chant Palik had used whenever he summoned the glow, but could not. Without the right words, she couldn’t use it. Althea frowned. She couldn’t use it to signal for help when it got dark.

It was still a heavy pipe, and she raised a great clamor once more as she bashed at the metal part of the cuff where it circled the frame. More rust and paint went flying; the bulk of her accomplishment little more than a tiny dent in the rail.

The restraint defied her still.

With desperate whimpering, her free hand went from crate to crate, flinging useless things to the ground. Socks, hats, scraps of cloth, strange little heavy cylinders painted copper on one end and black on the other, and a mess of unidentifiable plastic pieces clattered around her feet. One box had some tools. A screwdriver slid into the cuffs proved she was not strong enough, even boosted, to snap them open. She spit on her wrist again, despite her dry mouth, and twisted her arm as she pulled, but her hand was too wide.

Desperation and anger swirled through her as she stared at her useless arm. She felt so foolish for running away from the women, she lacked the strength to stand any more. Pulling the ratty excuse for a pillow into her lap, she hugged it, wishing it was Rachel. As she thought of her, and Zhar’s words, she pondered the concept of some people deserving to die. She did not want her life to end out here, not like this. Not starving in a pit while chained to a bed with nothing but her regrets at her side. People outside still needed her help.

Her independence and desire to escape were both in their infancy, and easily daunted. Something moved past the grate far above, stepping on a twig and making a crunch. The sound took her right back to Rachel at the time she reached the limit of her tolerance. Tossing the pillow aside, she moved to her knees and grasped her right thumb. She would have to crush it, disjoint the bone, and her hand would slip right out just like Rachel’s had. Althea remembered the way Rachel’s bone-shapes looked. She knew what kind of damage needed to happen.

With a cry of fear and anguish, she squeezed, but either strength or conviction was lacking, and her bones did not break. Panting, she fought back the tides of despair that threatened to swallow her, and grabbed the magic torch. Bashing the cuff had failed, but she could try smashing her hand. Drawing a hissing breath through clenched teeth, she lay the trapped hand upon the metal frame and raised the weapon over her head, staring at her target. She hesitated, shaking. Pain did not bother her for long; she could turn it off at will. Why then was she afraid to do it? The veins in the back of her hand swelled thick with her racing heart; she could feel it beating, feel the hot blood coursing through her.

The sense of it made her feel stupid.

The torch-turned-club slid from her grip, landing with a plop on the mattress behind her. Tracing her fingers over her arm, she pictured the bones. Eyes closed, she opened her mind-vision and linked it to the sense of her own form. In the shadows of her thoughts, skin faded away, as did muscle, exposing the bones within―separate and distinct shapes unto themselves. A temporary alteration, a momentary attack of her body’s defense mechanisms, and the ligaments holding her thumb in place tore apart. In her mind, a swarm of tiny little mouths devoured the cartilage and tendons and the thumb floated free.

This brought with it a pain unlike any she had ever imagined. Unable to contain the scream, she emptied her lungs and collapsed into the bed frame. Trembling, she continued trying to shout despite having no air left inside her. Her right hand became an alien purple mass at the end of her arm and she could taste tears in her mouth. A tentative tug sent another wave of agony through her, even the air moving past it hurt. Her situation presented a unique paradox; she was in too much pain to concentrate on not feeling pain.

Slumped against the bed frame, she stared at her wrist and drew her breaths in a series of short gasps trying not to move at all. The initial wave of anguish passed to a momentary calm. Huffing rapid breaths, she forced herself to focus. Concentration demanded her body stop swelling. Her inflated hand receded back to normal size.

With a grimace and a twist, she pulled. A blinding flash of agony and another wail came as her bones ground over each other and her hand slipped free.

The cuffs clattered against the bedframe. Althea fell on her side, staring at the lump in front of her face that used to be a hand. Her heartbeat echoed in the damaged flesh, but brought a wide smile to her face. For several minutes, she lay collapsed on the moldy mattress, the dank smell of it barely registering through the pain. She stared over the grey cloth at blurry strips of sunlight on the wall of the cistern, the sound of drops falling in water grew loud. Althea blinked, noticing the light had shifted inches upward from where she remembered it, telling her she had lost consciousness for several minutes. Her hand throbbed, again blown up at least twice its size and dark purple.

Her delirium had passed, and with it the blinding pain had faded to a background annoyance. She forced herself to sit up, cradling her wounded limb to her chest. Her skin warmed as she focused on setting it back to rights. Tissues redrew themselves and spidery wisps of white bone-shapes spread open as she flexed her fingers. The red tint of muscle slid up and over them, then skin.

All was whole.

Althea opened her eyes in time to watch the hemorrhage recede back to the normal color of her skin. She kneaded the soreness out of her wrist and could not help herself but stick out a tongue at the little metal thing she had just defeated. Out of spite, she locked the bloody end around another part of the frame, so no one would ever be trapped by it again.

Ignoring the soreness in her arm, she scrambled down the ladder and plunged her legs into the icy water. There was no telling how long she had been out after fainting, and she wasted no time crawling back through the narrow pipe from whence she had first arrived in this dreadful place. Her hands touched earth first, as she crawled out and stood in the ankle-deep stream.

The air was beautiful.

Althea leaned back and let the wind wrap about her, loving every tickle of hair or leather scrap as it danced around. It was late afternoon, and quiet. Her joy at freedom faded to worry as she remembered Aurora’s promise to come and find her. She was again her own person, and she wanted it to stay that way. If someone was coming for her, she would be far away from here when they arrived.

unning.