Watershed (17 page)

‘You're exactly who we wanted,' he replied, easily. ‘And now it's my turn.'

Shrugging back his cloak and straightening his arm, he pulled back his sleeve to reveal one of my own bows strapped to his arm; I watched with growing alarm as he hooked his thumb into the trigger pull.

‘Never played this version before,' I said.

‘Everything can be improved upon, Jem. Let me explain the rules. Every time you don't give me the answer I want, I'm going to shoot you. I'm probably not as good with this as you, but we'll just have to hope for the best. You ready?' He smiled again, all sick joy and happiness, and I swallowed.

Straightening as much as my bindings and my aching head allowed, I tensed every muscle. The darts would hurt more, but hopefully they wouldn't bury themselves too deep.

‘What goes through your head when you make your kills?' Ballard asked.

I was confused. What sort of question was that, and how the hell did I answer it? ‘Nothing,' I ventured. ‘I just do it.'

I felt the pain before registering the click of the release, and cried out in agony. The end of the metal shaft protruded just below my shoulder, the rest buried in flesh and I felt sweat bead my body, oozing fear.

‘You son of a bitch!' I snarled, jerking forwards, trying to get at him. But the chair was anchored to the ground, and my wrists and ankles burned against the restraints.

He held up his arm and made a show of studying the bow. ‘Very accurate. Or I'm just better than I thought. Now, try again. This time, think before you speak.'

Groaning, I tried to do just that but all I could think was that he was one sick bastard. A Guard through and through.

‘I shoot to kill. Instant. Over. I don't fucking
torture
them!'

There was the longest pause before Ballard said, ‘Better. Give him some more water.'

Alex pushed the jug to my mouth, forcing the liquid down until I choked. I stared up at her face, but she kept her eyes lowered.
Coward.

‘Next question,' Ballard said, aiming at my other shoulder, and I tensed again, my body heaving. ‘How did you feel after your first assignment? Remember that one, Jem?'

I dropped my head.
No! Not that.

‘Come on, think carefully,' he said. ‘I have plenty of time and, thanks to you, a lot of darts.'

‘Nothing,' I muttered. ‘I felt nothing.'

‘Wrong,' he said, and this time the pain was hot, burning a hole in my flesh, burrowing to the bone.

‘
Fuck!
Oh fuck! I felt nothing, okay? Just dead inside. Just fucking dead!'

‘Okay,' he said, his voice low. ‘Take a minute and calm down. You're doing well. Only one more question and then it's over.'

‘Go fuck yourself.'

I was close to passing out, prayed for it. He could hammer darts into me all he liked then, just so long as I was out to it. But it didn't happen, and I watched him lean in, elbows on knees, and point the bow at my crotch. There was a sharp tightening as I felt myself shrivel and I squirmed on the chair, desperate to pull my knees together, trying to escape.

‘Better get this one right, Jem,' he said, but his voice was beginning to fade and there was a ringing in my ears. ‘Why did you kill that Guard all those years ago?'

My head snapped up and I glared at him through a reddening haze. ‘That's easy. Coz he was a sick, sadistic son of a bitch like you, and he deserved to die!'

Ballard's hand hovered inches away, his thumb twitching. I'd told Alex I didn't expect to survive my job, but I'd never imagined this.
C'mon, you fucker. Do it!

‘Well done, Jem,' he said, leaning back and unhooking the trigger. But I don't know what happened next, because the room swam as I finally got my wish and fainted.

Voices, loud and low, murmurs that echoed. Darkness, swirling red and grey. Pain, ebbing like a tide, washing over and through me. Gentle hands, soothing. Warmth. A soft sanctuary. Then nothing.

When I finally came to, I was no longer in the chair or in the dark. A low lamp flickered beside me and I lay on a cot, my upper body propped on pillows, a heavy blanket over me. I blinked several times and, needing to see where I was, tried rolling my head, but pain shot through it, angry and white hot, and I sank back into darkness.

A voice calling, whispering my name, and light, narrow like a tunnel, beaming brighter and brighter. My eyes opened and Alex's face hovered in front of me, her gaze steady, her hand cool
against my brow. I groaned and tried to move, but couldn't. I was anchored, at forearm and ankle, and something tightened across my ribs, a band, holding me down.

‘Shh. Lie still,' she said.

Her voice was soft, but she regarded me clinically while her hands mopped at my head, soothed my chest and lifted the bandages on each shoulder as she checked the holes made by my own darts. There were bandages on my wrists too, and she peeled them away to rub some kind of salve on the cuts, before wrapping them again, binding them tight. My body was hot, my head filled with fire, the agony like a knife. I passed out again before she finished.

I don't know how many times I woke to see her tending to me, before falling away again. Her face appeared and faded, her voice whispered and died away, and I bobbed in a sea of pain. But gradually that faded too, the heat dissipated, and I woke at last to awareness.

The room was barely that, smaller than my quarters in the compound, shored up with wood, the ground nothing more than smooth dark earth. It was cool, but not cold, and the blanket covering me sufficed. Beneath it I was naked. There was something pressed between my legs, but without being able to move, I couldn't tell what it was. The sheets felt damp with sweat, but the cloth-filled pillows were soft under my neck and shoulders. At any other time, I might have enjoyed the sensation, but there was little enjoyment to be had lying bound and naked on a cot, prisoner to a couple of cruel Guards. Now they'd nursed me back to health, I wondered what other games they had in store, and I shivered, hating the anxiety.

The heavy scrape of a bolt being drawn and the push of the door got my attention, and I half thought of pretending to sleep, to delay whatever was coming. Alex entered, carrying a tray. Again, the door was left open, and that gave me some confidence, her believing that even bound I couldn't be trusted.

She set the tray on the table beside me and the scent of warm food filled the room; my stomach grumbled and ached with longing. But she left the bowl where it was and sat on the edge of the bed, taking a wet cloth and gently wiping my face. My eyes narrowed to slits as I watched her grease her hands with a little fat and touch them to my cheeks, before she picked up a small sharp blade. I jerked my head away, but she grasped my jaw and pulled me back to face her.

‘Relax. I won't hurt you,' she said, and lifting the blade, she began shaving my face with short, deft strokes. I couldn't help but tense every time that knife pressed to my throat before sweeping up, scraping my skin smooth for the first time in years. Her face was so close I could feel her breath, and I longed to have just one hand free so I could seize that knife and stab it into her. But if she had any understanding of my thoughts she gave no sign, continuing with her work, patiently and carefully, until she was done.

‘Makes you look younger,' she said, wiping her hands. ‘And the bruises are fading.'

She held a cup to my mouth, tilted it, and I drank. But I kept looking at her face, memorising every feature, every line and every angle. Hers was the face of my next kill. After that, I'd deal with her brother.

She began checking me over: my head first, pulling away the bandage and nodding as though satisfied, then my chest, and each shoulder. I peered down, seeing the puckered wounds, one of them in the dead centre of a mark. The darts were small barbed, so they'd have pulled out fairly cleanly, but shooting metal into muscle does its own damage; it'd be a while before I regained full strength.

Next she saw to my wrists and ankles, where the ties had rubbed and cut. But even those wounds were more brown than red, and not sore. Lifting the blanket, she felt between my legs, pulling out what'd been wedged there – some kind of bottle half-filled with my piss – and replaced it with another before covering me over again. Every movement was methodical, her expression indifferent.

Finally, sitting back beside me, she picked up the bowl and began feeding me like a child, a spoonful at a time. It was some kind of gruel, thin and fairly tasteless, but just about the best thing I'd ever eaten. Hunger made me greedy, but she kept the pace slow.

‘Better?' she asked, when the bowl was empty.

I nodded, but I was suddenly tired, and I didn't watch as she packed everything back onto the tray and edged out the door, bolting it behind her.

Later, when she returned, she shook me awake. She wasn't alone, and I stared groggily at the silent Tate beside her. He was bigger than I remembered, his hands like mallets, and his uniform stretched tight across his chest.

‘I'm going to release the strap so I can change your pillows,' Alex said. ‘If you make any wrong move, Tate will deal with you. Okay?'

I shifted on the cot, pulling on the restraints and testing their strength, but they were secure, with little give. Slumping back, defeated, I gave a nod, then winced.

She undid the strap and Tate hauled me forwards, the sudden movement making me dizzy. Alex made short work of turning and plumping the pillows. Briefly, I wondered why she was going to all the effort, but perhaps this was just part of their strategy, fucking with my head. Except my head was already fucked. But the pillows did feel better.

Alex thanked Tate, and he buckled me back in and left us alone.

‘Doesn't say much, does he?' I observed. My words sounded strange, thick, as though spoken from an untried mouth.

She shrugged. ‘Some people know when to keep quiet.'

‘Why are you doing this?' I tried again. This time I recognised my voice.

She stared at me for a minute. ‘We're not what you think we are, Jem.' Perching on the cot, she spoon-fed me again, more of the same but still good, afterwards wiping my mouth clean. ‘Okay?' she asked me.

But I wasn't looking at her face this time. Without all her layers, I could finally see her shape, see the swell of her breasts just in front of me, and I remembered the feel of them against my palm, their fullness. Okay? I was more than okay.

‘Jem?' She was holding out the cup, and I blinked, dragging my gaze up and staring over the cup, at her mouth.

‘You were wet,' I said, and saw her freeze, her composure gone. That was what I'd been waiting for, and I went in for the kill. ‘Back in the Hills, when my fingers were inside you, you were wet. Fuck it felt good, Alex.'

Her mouth tightened and she snatched the cup away. Picking up the bowl and the lamp, she turned and left without another word, and I laughed, making sure it was the last sound she heard before she pulled the door shut.

I woke to hands on my shoulders, pressing and prodding, but they weren't Alex's. Ballard stood over me, checking his handiwork, his fingers strong, the blunt tips warm on my skin.

‘Like what you see?' I asked, glaring through slitted eyes.

He said nothing and replaced the bandages before dragging in a chair and sitting by the bed. We eyed each other for a while; he tilted forwards with his forearms on his knees, me pressing back into the pillows, nervous and waiting for some kind of weapon to appear.

‘I'm afraid we got off to a bad start, Jem,' he said at last. ‘It seems Alex hit you harder than we first thought. You're lucky to be alive.'

‘You think?'

‘How d'you find your new quarters?' he asked.

I shifted on the cot, pulling at the restraints. ‘Cramped.'

‘Yes.' There was a pause, and he said, ‘Alex tells me you're healing well and you've started to eat.'

I wondered what else Alex had told him. Not everything, I was willing to bet. I made no reply and waited for him to continue.