Fire Country (9 page)

I look at Circ, who’s
watching me, letting me think. “Do you think it’s the Wild Ones?” I ask.

Circ shakes his head, but he’s not saying no. “I really don’t know. Honestly, until Teacher Mas mentioned the Wild Ones I didn’t believe they existed.”

“Well, who else could it be?”

“A few guys are saying the Marked are behind it.”

The Marked. Another fictional group who might just turn out to be real. Growing up, we’ve always talked about them as if they’re real, the same way you talk about the sandmonster as if he’s real. You know, just to scare each other. The thing is, I’ve heard some of the adults talk about the Marked, too, not that that necessarily means anything either. If the stories are right, the Marked is a tribe of all men, covered from head to toe with strange painted markings. Like the Wilds, they’re a feral group, eating raw flesh and washing it down with fire juice.

This whole conversation is becoming too confusing.

“I need to think,” I say. “I’m going to see Veeva before my father sends me away to prison.”

Circ looks at me oddly. “I thought you said it was only a day in Confinement.”

“It is. But it’s more fun if I’m dramatic about it. Plus, I wanna talk to someone normal for a while.”

“What? I’m not normal?” Circ says, his hands out and open.

“You’re some kind of freak of nature,” I say. “I mean that in the nicest way,” I add.

Circ laughs. “I’d say Veeva is anything but normal.”

“To me, she’s the most normal,” I say.

~~~

Sometimes a madhouse is the calmest place of all.

When I enter Veeva’s tent
, it’s chaos, but I feel perfectly at home and more relaxed’n I have all day. You’d think she has a dozen kids, all of them between the ages of zero and three. I know that’s physically impossible, not to mention illegal, but still, with the number of bundles strewn about, I wonder if she’s not hiding them all somewhere, behind the bed maybe. Her tent is so unlike our hut, where everything hasta be in its place, that it’s laughable. Besides the bundles, there are clothes and blankets everywhere, unwashed pots and pans piling up in the center of the tent, and lines of wet laundry drying across most of the small space. I can barely see my friend through the clutter.

When Veeva looks around the edge of one of Grunt’s giant shirts and sees me, she s
ays, “Thank the sun goddess yer ’ere, Sie. Grab a bundle and git over ’ere.”

I screw up my face. Not the welcome I was hoping for. I’ve had enough blaze for a lifetime, and although baby blaze is much smaller, it’s just as stinky. But Veeva’s always been a good friend to me, so, obediently, I grab the first unbundled white cloth I
see, and I take it over to her, who’s got naked little Polk flat on his back on his tiny bed, his six-full-moon-old arms and legs waving about, grabbing at the air, like he’s trying to get his hands on something invisible that only he can see.

Veeva’s wearing a shapeless
brown frock and a look that could kill. “I tell you, Sie, if there’s any way you can avoid the burnin’ Call, do it. I swear to you this searin’ baby is the spawn of the lord of the underworld, if you believe in that sorta thing.”

“Hi to you, too, Veevs,” I say, grinning. “What’s the little tug-face done now?”

She takes the cloth from me, lies it flat on the bed. Picks up Polk and places his butt in the center. “Oh, you wouldn’t believe it, Sie.” She looks around, notices how many used bundles there are. “Or maybe you would. He’s been lettin’ it fly from both ends. Projectile vomit from his mouth, and spewin’ blaze from the other end. He’s relentless. I think he’s tryin’ to break me.”

With exper
tness that a year ago woulda seemed impossible, Veeva bundles the cloth around Polk’s torso, tying it off perfectly. I guess a little practice goes a long way.

“There’s no way to avoid the Call,” I say, moving around the tent, grabbing used bundles. I’m ca
reful to keep whatever’s inside, well, inside.

“What you sayin’?” Veeva says, Polk now in her arms. She’s got her frock pulled way down, her
big breasts hanging out as if she’s alone and not having a conversation with a friend. Polk knows what to do—he goes right for her teat.

I look away
, grab a few more bundles. “You said if there’s any way I can avoid the Call, to do it. I’m saying there’s no way.”

“I wasn’t bein’ serious, Sie. I know as well as anyone that it can’t be skipped. By the sun goddess, you can be so serious sometimes.”

I realize then that I was saying it more to convince myself’n Veeva. Lara’s words are haunting me even more’n I thought. I need to talk to her once and for all, tell her to quit asking me ’bout what she said, tell her I’ve thought ’bout it and I don’t believe her and I’m going to obey the law from here on out, even if that means breeding. No more getting in trouble for me.

But how can I get her to believe me when I don’t even believe myself?

I leave without telling her about Confinement.

I
don’t know what to expect from Confinement, ’cause I’ve never been there ’fore. And most people who have don’t really talk ’bout it.

Father doesn’t even bother to take me himself, he’s too busy snoring away. One of the younger Greynotes draws the short stra
w and hasta get up ’fore even the butt crack of dawn to make the trek with me. I don’t complain, don’t say anything, just get on with it. Complaining’s never gotten me anywhere so I don’t see the point.

The Greynote’s name is Luger and he’s a real baggard. With dark, slitted eyes so narrow I can hardly tell if they’re open or closed, he almost seems excited to drag me into seclusion. He’s far too jittery for this early in the morning, always twitching, like every part of his body is moving in unison all the time,
every moment of every day. I feel bad for his Calls, the ones that hafta sleep in the same bed with him as he jerks and twitches all night long, even while sleeping.

When he speaks
, his mouth reminds me of a burrow mouse, pulled tight in the center, only able to open to a tiny gap, just wide enough to shove a bit of food in it. And his nose is like a vulture’s beak, long, narrow, and pointy. He’s not an attractive man. But, hey, I’m not one to judge someone based on appearance. It’s his attitude that really grizzes me off.

“You’re lucky to get just a day,” he whines. “I would’ve given you a
quarter full moon for what you did. If your father wasn’t the Head Greynote…”

“He’s
not
the Head Greynote,” I say, staring forward as we trudge across the desert in the dark.

“Two, maybe three days,” he says. “The Fire’s got Shiva by the balls.”

I wince and go silent. Three days and my father’ll be the Head Greynote? He’s already so full of himself I’d hate to see the power trip he’ll go on when he’s at the top of the food chain.

Time
passes, the sky lightening with each step. My fists are squeezed tight.

The calm of the desert can be eerie sometimes. When
the Cotees are howling and the wind is whipping through the dunes, at least you know the world is alive. But now, it’s so quiet, with only the sound of our soft treads to break the silence—it’s almost like we’re walking in a dead land. Which makes us the walking dead, I s’pose.

As we continue on, however, the wastelands gradually begin to awake. First I see a
’zard emerge from a hole. He’s a biggin, too, with prickly burs all down his back, starting at his head and going to the tip of his long tail. He’s one of those bag-throated ones, with a big ol’ sac on his neck that fills with air each time he breathes. It’s kinda knocky, if you ask me. He scurries into our path, watches us approach for a few moments, and then wriggles away. He’s lucky we’re not hungry, or he’d end up in the stew.

Next I see a fire ant hill teeming with activity. Fat, red ants of all shapes and sizes scurry
around like their lives depend on their ability to do a bunch of stuff ’fore the sun goes down again; and the sun goddess’s eye’s not even really up yet—it’s just a glow of orange on the horizon.

The fire ants bring my thoughts back to the Marked. One of the stories I heard a lot as a Midder was that if the Marked found someone trespassing on their land, they’d bury you next to a fire ant hill, and let the nasty little biters do the rest. When they’d come back a few days later, you’d be nothin’ but a buried pile o’ bones. Talk like that always freaked me out, but in a fun, sandmonster kind of way. If something’s not real, it’s fun to pretend that it is. But now that the Hunters are talking about the Marked like they’re real people—prisoner-burying-next-to-fire-ant-hill kind of people—well, now the thought of them ain’t so fun.

What if they’re the ones disturbing the Killers? How the scorch are we s’posed to stop them? Those are questions my father as Head Greynote’ll hafta deal with. For a moment I feel sorry for him. A very quick moment.

After
a lot of trudging, and just as the top curve of the sun is peeking above the horizon, the winds pick up. At first it’s a nice breeze, more’n welcome under my rather sweaty circumstances, but soon becomes a gale force, swirling the dust and sand around like little miniature tornados, what we call dust devils. They can be dangerous, but only if there’s a whole bunch of them spittin’ up sharp rocks and such. These ones are just an annoyance, coating our lips, cheeks and pretty much everything else in a thin layer of dust. The good thing though, is that Luger can’t talk to me with weather like this.

When the winds eventually die down, I spot something in the distance, the first real structures we’ve seen since leaving the village. A line of boxes, like little Greynote huts
all in a row, ’cept not covered. Only I know that no Greynotes live all the way out here in the desert. This is Confinement.

Overhead there’s a caw and
a croak—half a dozen vultures circle lazily overhead, as if they’re expecting their next meal to come from Confinement. Perhaps it will. Perhaps they’ve gotten a lot of meals from this place.

“Welcome to paradise,” Luger sneers.

“Thanks,” I say, stone-faced. Inside I’m trembling a bit and I’ve got to grizz. I squeeze hard and hold it—both my fear and my bladder—refusing to let this mouse-mouthed Greynote see my weakness.

He explains everything as we approach. “You’ve been sentenced to a day. Someone will arrive tomorrow at this time to collect you. You’ll receive one meal from the Keeper, and I can tell you, it won’t fill even that shrunken belly of yours.” He smiles and my stomach rumbles, although I’m not really hungry. Maybe I should
a nabbed that bag-throated ’zard when I had the chance.

“And water?” I ask hopefully.

Luger laughs. “Let’s just say you’ll be willing to drink your own grizz by the time the day’s over.”

I try to swallow, but already my throat seems dry and full of dust. “Anything else?” I croak, sounding mor
e like the circling vultures’n a Youngling girl.

“Yeah. Learn your lesson and you won’t end up back here again. Stay away from that trouble-making Youngling until after your Call
.” At first I think he means Lara, but then I realize it’s Circ he’s talking about. My father probably put him up to saying all this. Circ is anything but a trouble maker.

“I will,” I lie.

“That…I doubt,” Luger says. I clench my jaw shut tight to stop it from snapping at him.

When we get to the first “hut” I realize they’re nothing like the Greynote huts, which are solid buildings with well-thatched roofs that keep the sun and r
ain and wind out. What stands ’fore me is a cage, that’s the only way to describe it. A series of vertical wooden poles are the bars on both the sides and top. Heavy rope and tug glue lash them together at the corners. Nothing covers the gaps between them, leaving them fully exposed to the elements, as well as prowling animals.

I gulp. “Have the Killers ever…?”

“Only once,” Luger says, stopping to face me. “Back during the first Killer war. At that time the Killers were pretty much running unobstructed across all of fire country. There were thirty prisoners in Confinement at the time. When the Hunters went to check on them, every last one of these cages was smashed to pieces.” I close my eyes, wishing I hadn’t asked the question and hoping he’ll stop there. He doesn’t. “There were huge paw prints everywhere. They were filled with blood.”

My stomach’s doing backflips—and not the good kind, like when I see Circ every day at Learning. I think I’m goin
g to throw up. If Circ’s right ’bout there being someone hunting in Killer territory, they might be prowling all around our land right now, sniffing out weaknesses. A bunch of Heaters in cages would undoubtedly be considered a weakness.

“Just get on with it,” I say, trying to sound tough. My voice shakes with every word.

We continue past the first cage, which appears to be empty. The second also seems unoccupied, but then I spot him: A curled up blotch of flesh in the corner, no more’n a collection of elbows and knees. If he wasn’t staring at me, his eyes blinking every few seconds, I’d think he was dead. His face is gaunt and ageless. His beard long and matted. He’s been here a long time. I wonder what he did to deserve such a punishment.

“Welcome to Scorch,” he says, his voice whisper-thin.

The next cage is also used, and I’m surprised to recognize the prisoner right away. Bart. A big guy. Well known around the village for starting—and finishing—fights after a night of too much fire juice and fireweed. He also has a reputation for using his hammer-like fists on his Calls. He’s prowling around his space like a caged animal, growling and pushing and pounding on the wooden bars every so often. Despite their crotchety appearance, the cages are sturdier’n they appear—they don’t so much as quiver under Bart’s unceasing assault. When he sees me staring at him, he stops, bares his teeth in what I think is meant to be a smile. “Please, nice Greynote, sir, can I share a cage with her?” He licks his lips.

I look away and we keep going. Luger doesn’t say a word.

Behind us, Bart hollers, “Just as well. I’d probably crush her under me anyway.” He laughs, a gritty, throaty sound that reminds me of the growl of the Killers that got me here in the first place.

There are at least fifty more cages spread out in front of us, but Luger stops at a real hut, complete with a door, walls, and an inclined roof, one half of a triangle. Above the door is a painted sign: The Keeper. The scraggly words are splotched in a red so bright it could be fresh blood.

“Wakey, wakey, Keep!” Luger shouts, pounding on the door. “I’ve brought you another gift.”

I hear grumbling, a bang, a curse, and then the heavy trod of footsteps on a wooden floor. “Keep yer
britches on,” an unfriendly voice says through the door just ’fore it opens.

The door rotates open with a bitter creak that makes me think it’s as equally annoyed to be awakened as the Keeper. Lit by the bright sunlight, the
bare-chested Keeper is as pale white a person as I’ve ever seen. Some of the Hunters told Circ that some of the Glassies that attacked our village a few full moons back were as white-skinned as the snow. But I ain’t seen snow, nor have I seen any Glassies, so that might all be a big load of tugwash. Anyway, this guy looks like he spends most of the day in his windowless hut. He squints his coppery eyes and winces, as if being exposed to the sun gives him physical pain, which maybe it does. His unlined face is barely visible behind a dark mask composed of a thick beard and mustache, bushy eyebrows, and a mop of curly hair that bobs just over his eyes. I guess there’s not much point in grooming when you don’t see anyone but prisoners.

“A young’
un, are ya?” he says, yawning and scratching his hairy chest.

“Pre-Bearer,” I say, determined to answer any questions he has with as few words as possible.

“Yer got a name?”

Huh? What kind of question is that? Who doesn’t have a name? I’ve got a few smart
responses cooked up, but I settle for just, “Siena.”

“She’s the Head Greynote’s daughter,” Luger adds unhelpfully.

“Shiva’s kid?”

“Shiva’s about two coughs away from kickin’ it. She’s Roan’s,” he says, as if my father owns me, like I’m just another piece of his property, like his hut, or bow. It’s probably not far from the truth.

“Burnin’ scorch!” the Keeper swears. “Bein’ out ’ere I’m always out of ter loop. I didn’t e’en know Shiva had ter Fire.”

“
Well he does. Can we get on with it?” Luger says, more a command’n a question. “Some of us would rather not spend the day here.”
Like me
, I think.

“Yeah, yeah, don’t gi
t yer britches inna knot.” The look on Luger’s face makes me wanna laugh, but I keep it inside. I’m starting to like this Keeper fellow. He doesn’t take crap from anyone, not even a snide Greynote like Luger.

He staggers out, clutches
the door to get his balance, and grabs a shovel that’s leaning against the side of his hut. “C’mon,” he grunts. We follow him to the next row of cages. We skip the first one, which is empty, and stop at the next one. He hands me the shovel, takes a piece of chalk from his pocket and draws an X on the ground in front of the cage. “Start diggin’,” he says.

I look at him like he’s wooloo, which I’m starting to think he might be. “What?”

“You hard of hearin’?” he says. “Dig!”

Maybe I don’t like him after all. With no other choice,
one-handed I dip the tip of the metal shovel into the durt, right away feeling the burn of all those blaze-shoveling muscles flare up. As I awkwardly scoop away clump after clump of durt, Luger makes small talk with the Keep.

“How are the other prisoners doing?”

“Eh? As good as can be ’spected considerin’. Most of ter long-stayers ain’t gonna last much longer. Ter short-stayers, like Bartie, gimme plenty o’ trouble, but nothin’ I can’t handle.”

“Good. And what about the work?”

I glance at the Keeper, who turns away from me, drops his voice to a low rumble. “Them Icies seem happy enough, but we need more lifers cuz they keep dyin’ on me.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Luger says, his voice all
heavy and sharp, like the slash of a knife.