The War Outside Page 15

  “Kelendra!” a voice says. “Kelendra!”

  I struggle to focus. The person before me is little more than a white blur. Slowly, though, my eyes clear, and I see before me none other than Mother Tera, whose white dress is emblazoned with blood.

  “What’s going on?” I ask.

  “The North,” she says. “They’ve launched an attack.”

  “My father—” I start.

  Mother Terra grabs the breast of my corset and jerks me back before I can turn to search for him. “Don’t look,” she says.

  “Why—”

  Gunfire erupts somewhere in the distance.

  I duck.

  Mother Terra swears.

  It is in this moment of weakness that I am able to jerk away from her grasp, and turn to face the carnage that has been wrought by the Terrible North.

  That is when I see my father: blood running from his mouth, half of one arm missing.

  I can barely comprehend the sight.

  No, I think. It can’t be.

  But it is.

  My father—my flesh and blood—is lying no more than ten feet away, dying on the very ground that was once so peaceful and fine.

  I do not hesitate to make my way forward.

  “Kelendra!” Mother Terra says. “Don’t!”

  But I do anyway—crawling over the dead, maneuvering through the dying.

  My father reaches out to me as I fall at his side.

  “Father,” I say, tears filling my eyes.

  “Kelly,” he whispers, reaching up with his only remaining hand to touch my face. “You… need to run.”

  “I’m not leaving you,” I say. “I can’t.”

  “There’s nothing you can do for me,” he says. “I’m… dying.”

  “There has to be something we can do. There has to!”

  “There’s nothing you can do, honey. The North, they’ve… they’ve—”

  I press a finger to his lip. “Don’t speak,” I whisper, bowing my forehead against his. “Everything’s going to be okay. I promise.”

  “Please… run. For me.”

  “I will, Father. I will.”

  “I love you,” he whispers.

  “I—” I start to say, but am stopped as his eyes lose focus—as his gaze, once impenetrable, softens in a way I cannot even begin to describe.

  It doesn’t take long for me to realize that my father is dead.

  Dead.

  Dead.

  I close my eyes and let loose a scream so raw, so haunting, so angry that I cannot even begin to fathom that it has come from me. Its primal nature is like that of an animal who has lost her young, a mother her children, a daughter her father.

  A hand touches me.

  I spin, ready to lash out.

  Then I see it is only Mother Terra looking back at me. “There’s nothing more you can do,” she says. “We have to go. Now.”

  “But—”

  She shakes her head.

  I turn to look back at my father, desperate in my need to help him, to honor him, to somehow save him. There is nothing, however, that I can do; and for that reason, I rise and make my way to Mother Terra’s side.

  All around us pandemonium has ensued. Those SADs who were not knocked back from the blast fire their automatic rifles into the distance as dark figures in strange uniforms rush into the camp.

  Diana Winters lifts her weapon and points it directly at me.

  I freeze, lift my hands.

  She screams, “Duck!”

  So I do.

  A round of gunfire follows, and someone collapses behind me.

  I spin just in time to see a person twitching on the ground. Most of his head is missing, and his body convulses in death throes as the last semblance of his humanity dissipates.

  “Get in the vehicle!” she cries. “It’s safer there!”

  “What about the other SADs!” I cry back.

  “They’ll be fine! Your safety is our priority!”

  Mother Terra slams her fist against the side of the vehicle and pushes the door upright as it comes sliding out of the panel. “Hurry!” she says.

  I reach up to take hold of the handle bars and pull myself upright.

  Mother Terra pushes me in.

  A bullet hits the vehicle.

  The ricochet strikes Mother Terra’s shoulder.

  “Revered Mother!” I cry.

  She reaches up to stem the flow of blood and simply says, “Don’t worry about me.”

  “I’m not leaving you,” I say, reaching down to take hold of her arms.

  She screams as I struggle to pull her into the vehicle. Fueled by adrenaline, and aided by desperation, I manage to drag her inside the rear compartment in less than a minute and reach out to pull the door into place a moment later.

  Someone climbs into the front of the vehicle.

  Diana yells, “Hold on!”

  The force of the vehicle’s start causes me to stumble into the dividing wall, but it is the twist of the monstrous war machine’s turn that deposits me onto the floor beside the Revered Mother.

  We strike something as we begin to make our way back the way we came.

  Diana swears.

  The Revered Mother cries out.

  I ask, “Are you all right?”

  And she replies, “Don’t worry about me.”

  I haul her into one of the seats and buckle her into place before we can be tossed about anymore.

  As we come to rush across unhindered ground, I take hold of the bar on the ceiling and look through the grate before asking, “Are we safe?”

  “I think so,” Diana says. “I think… I think we’re okay.”

  “The Revered Mother is bleeding.”

  “We’ll stop in a few minutes. We just need to get some ground between us.”

  “Do they have ships?” I ask.

  “Ships?” Diana replies.

  “The flying machines.”

  “I… I don’t know. It’s possible, but—”

  “Then keep going,” I say. “Please.”

  Diana Winters doesn’t reply.

  Instead, she increases the vehicle’s speed and tears across the northern expanse of the Great South.

  It takes several moments for me to compose myself enough to settle into the seat beside Mother Terra, but when I do, I buckle myself into place, then lean back into the rough fabric.

  “You’re a damn fool,” Mother Terra growls through gritted teeth. “You could’ve gotten yourself killed.”

  “I didn’t make it this far playing it safe,” I reply.

  The Revered Mother closes her eyes.

  I, meanwhile, continue to watch out the blood-spattered window.

  The landscape passes by quickly, but so too does my sense of safety.

  For all we know, they could be following us.

  But I know I can’t think about that.

  No.

  All I need to think about is focusing on keeping myself safe.

  Father, I think.

  Closing my eyes, I bow my head and breathe.

  There is nothing more I can do but that.

  We drive with an urgency I know comes from the scent of blood. Wafting in the air, stinging my senses, embroiling my rage, I watch it slick through Mother Terra’s fingers as if they are a river upon her pale white flesh and watch her lose her color the more time goes on.

  “We have to hurry,” I say, leaning forward to snare my fingers through the metal grate. “She’s going to pass out if we don’t get help soon.”

  “I’m working on it,” Diana Winters says through gritted teeth.

  I peer through the metal wiring to look out at the world before us, and ask, “Where are we going?”

  “A town called Wayfair.”

  “Wayfair?”

  She nods. “Yes. Wayfair.”

  “Will there be people there who can help us?”

  “They have to,” she says. “Because there’s no one else.”

  No one else, I
think.

  Surely there are more settlements than just this one. Right?

  No, I then realize. There may not be. So far north, and in such a desolate land, there are places where no people reside, no men dwell, no women sleep. Nothing is guaranteed in the wild reaches of the northern Great South, and because of that, Mother Terra’s wellbeing hangs precariously in the balance.

  Leaning back, I settle down in the seat opposite the Gentlewoman. “How are you doing?”

  She lifts her eyes. Cosmetically altered as they are, I can see the weakness in them—the instinctual need to conserve energy. She merely replies, “Fine.”

  I try not to let the sight and scent of running blood get to me, but with my father’s death, the flashbacks keep coming, the grisly sights bombarding me like weapons in the night.

  His eyes—

  His face—

  His mouth—

  His lips—

  Speaking words final and without thought.

  I lower my gaze to the floor in an attempt to keep my emotions in check and inhale a long, deep breath, through which I channel my energy, sorrow and otherwise.

  This shouldn’t have happened. This absolutely, should not have happened.

  So why did they attack? Did they know I was there? Was it just coincidence? Bad luck? A previously-planned attack. What drove the North to fire upon the encampment like they had?

  I doubt I will ever know for sure, but I know one thing for certain:

  I got to see my father before he died.

  And yet I will never see him buried. Will never visit his grave. Will never know where he remains.

  I sniffle, pinch the bridge of my nose, wipe developing tears from my eyes, then lift my eyes to look at the outside world.

  The road has changed. No longer are we on asphalt, but dirt.

  “Miss Winters?” I ask. “Are we—”

  “Almost there? Yes. We are.”

  I look toward Mother Terra and force a nod. “Hold on a little longer,” I say. “We’ll be there soon.”

  “I’m doing my best, Kelendra.”

  I decide not to speak further.

  As I rise and turn to face the grate, and as I look out the windshield at the world distantly ahead, I catch sight of ranches upon which livestock graze, see fields of corn that has yet to be tended. Houses dot the hills, though whether or not the inhabitants within will accept us I do not know.

  For all our luck, we may be running into a trap.

  Not a trap, I think. An inconvenience.

  Inconvenience, sure. But if someone happens to pull a gun on us, and someone happens to take out Diana, there is no way I’ll be able to defend both myself and the Revered Mother.

  A single light shines in the distance.

  I lift my eyes to find Diana is slowing the vehicle.

  “Are we—” I start.

  “Heading for the lantern?” I ask. “Yes. We are.”

  The source of light—which bobs as it approaches the side of the road—is a guiding fixture as she slows the vehicle to a near crawl, and an omen that could easily spell trouble, or even death, for the three of us.

  Diana Winters rolls the window down.

  A young man, possibly no older than I am, draws forward. “Are you with the army?” he asks, peering into the vehicle. He’s obviously not realized that the person driving is a woman.

  “I’m with an Ambassador to the Countess,” she says. “One of our Gentlewomen is hurt. She needs immediate assistance.”

  “My dad doesn’t like strangers,” the young man says, “especially ones from the city. I don’t think he’ll help you.”

  “Is he watching?” I ask.

  The young man turns his head to the grate, though I can’t determine if he can see me. He nods, though, and says, “Yes, Miss. He is.”

  “Tell him I’m from the Sandstone Hills, and that we have supplies he can have in exchange for his help.”

  “Kelendra,” Mother Terra slurs.

  I keep my eyes focused on the young man.

  He considers this request for a short moment, then nods and says, “Okay. You can come up. I’ll tell him not to shoot.”

  Diana Winters rolls the window up and waits for the young man to get a decent start up the dirt path before starting toward the home.

  “Are you sure this is a good idea?” Diana asks.

  “I have to use my background to my advantage,” I say.

  “You’re in a dress that costs more than everything they own.”

  “Money doesn’t make you rich.”

  The SAD says nothing.

  Within moments we are pulling up alongside the house.

  Atop its porch, the young man argues with his father, their voices raised but masked by the screens meant to keep bugs out of the home.

  Swallowing, I step away from the grate, then reach for the backseat door’s handle.

  “Kelendra!” Diana snaps. “Don’t you dare open that—”

  I twist the handle, then push the door open.

  A rifle is immediately trained on me.

  “Who goes there?” the man wielding the weapon asks.

  “Sir,” I say, raising my hands at my sides. “My name is Kelendra Cross. I’m a Beautiful One who hails from the Sandstone Hills. I… I need your help.”

  “What kind of help does the government need from us?” the man snaps.

  Another figure shifts upon the porch. This time, a woman with dark skin much like Ceyonne’s steps forward, and says, “Adrian. Her dress…”

  I look down.

  Much like before, my dress has been battered by war. This time, however, it is covered in blood rather than ash.

  I lift my eyes to face the couple and try my hardest to maintain my composure. “My Revered Mother was shot. She needs help. Otherwise… she might die.”

  “The government never did any good for us,” the man says. “Why should we help now?”

  “They mentioned supplies,” the young man, whom I can only assume is their son, says.

  I nod. “Yes. We have some supplies in the back of the vehicle. Food. Water. Some medicine. You’re welcome to it if you help us.”

  “Who’s to say it won’t be taken away once you’re done?” the father asks.

  “It won’t be. I’ll… I’ll make sure of it.”

  The woman presses a hand to the man named Adrian’s arm and says, “Let us help her, Adrian.”

  “Carda—” he starts.

  The woman shakes her head. “Let us help them, so that we may be helped as well.”

  The driver’s door opens. Diana Winters steps out.

  “Don’t move,” the man says, realigning his rifle until it points at the SAD.

  “I have no weapons on me,” she replies. “I’m merely getting out to ask if you’re going to help.”

  “We are,” the woman named Carda says.

  Diana Winters nods and opens the other backseat door.

  The woman named Carda steps forward and says, “Jamie. Please, help me.”

  The young man who’d initially greeted us steps forward; and with his mother’s help, eases Mother Terra out of the back of the vehicle and into their arms.

  “She really was shot,” the man named Adrian says.

  I nod as the woman and her son help Mother Terra toward the stairway. “Yes, sir. She was.”

  “I guess come in,” he says.

  “I’ll lock the vehicle up and be inside shortly,” Diana says. “I’ll bring the boxes in soon after.”

  With a nod, I lift my dress and follow Adrian up the porch and into the home.

  The inside is dark, but cool, the wood planks old but secure. Carda and Jamie guide Mother Terra into the home’s living room and spread her out along a couch after throwing a threadbare blanket across its surface.

  “Go get the medicine kit,” Carda says.

  Jamie turns and flees into the depths of the house.

  “Are you going to remove the bullet?” I ask. “Or whatever it was
that hit her?”

  “No,” she says, pressing a hand against the Gentlewoman’s forehead. “It’d be too risky. I’m no doctor. And besides—removing it could cause more harm than good.”

  “Okay,” I say.

  Jamie returns a short moment later with a small kit emblazoned with a faded cross on its surface. “Here, Mom.”

  “Thank you,” Carda says.

  I cross my arms and watch as the woman retrieves a bottle of alcohol, then as she pads it onto a sterile cloth before pressing it to Mother Terra’s shoulder.

  The Revered Mother cries out.

  Carda sighs. “It’s okay,” she says. “You’re safe.”

  “Just dress the damn wound!” she snaps.

  Carda turns her sad eyes on me and says, “Why don’t you go with Jamie, dear. You don’t need to be here to see this.”

  “I don’t want to leave,” I say. “I want to stay here.”

  “Go with him,” Mother Terra says. “I don’t need you pining over me.”

  Sighing, I nod, and turn to face the young man. “I guess I’ll follow you,” I say.

  With a nod, he turns and leads me into the kitchen, wherein several buckets of water sit on counters and spices lay arranged in glass cups along the windows. Coals burn in a simple firewood stove, signaling that dinner may have been served a few hours ago. “We have soup,” he says. “Are you hungry?”

  “I… I don’t—”

  The front door opens.

  Diana walks in, carrying a box in her arms. “Medicine,” she says.

  “Take it to the living room,” I say. “They’re working on her now.”

  As the SAD turns and walks into the room, leaving Jamie and myself to dwell on the events at hand, I look down to consider my dress once more and sigh.

  “Are you all right?” Jamie asks.

  “I’m fine,” I reply.

  “I mean… were you hurt?”

  “No. I… I wasn’t.”

  “You never answered my question earlier. About if you were hungry.”

  I’m about to open my mouth to say no, because I can’t imagine how I could possibly be hungry after everything we’ve gone through, but my stomach rumbles, answering for me.

  “Let me get you some,” he says.

  I choose not to comment and instead lean against the wall, trying my hardest not to listen to Mother Terra’s pained grunts and slight cries as the woman of the house tends to her wound. It takes all my willpower not to break down and cry—because in the span of a few hours, I’ve not only seen what the war has truly done to our country, but watched my father die.