Prophet of the Badlands (The Awakened Book 1) (49 page)

Althea went into the table room, eyes wandering. A recently used spot had three abandoned plates, with scraps of bread and green strips of some manner of plant next to chicken bones. She ran to it, grabbing anything edible and stuffing it into her mouth with alternating hands. People nearby glanced over at her one at a time; some gasped with revulsion while some
aww-ed
at her, but she ignored the noises they made. A few of the chicken bones even had meat left on them.

What little remained was a tease, and she looked around for more, still chewing. A man and a woman a table away talked over plates they seemed done with, pushed to the side. She crept up to the edge of their booth, looking back and forth between them until they noticed her.

“Are you finished with that?” She pointed.

Not fully looking at her, the man waved a hand at the voice. “Yeah, you can take them away.”

She scarfed down the woman’s untouched fries and the slices of tomato and lettuce the man did not use on his burger, but stopped after one bite of a pickle with a horrified face.

When the woman realized their “waitress” was a blood-soaked urchin devouring their leftovers, she screamed, sliding along the bench seat to the wall.

Althea stopped scarfing and made an apologetic pout. “I’m sorry. I was so hungry, I forgot about the fork.”

Everyone looked at her. She ventured a sheepish glance around, feeling the rising tide of alarm in everyone’s mood. Her confusion at how anyone would be scared of her ended when her downcast gaze settled on the blood covering her to the knees and elbows. She relaxed, understanding they were not frightened of her, but aghast at what they thought someone did to her.

“Oh, my god.” A ponderous large woman in a black uniform called out, shattering the tense silence. “Honey, are you all right?” The floor bounced as she stomped over.

“I’m hungry.” She looked up at the fat woman. “They said they didn’t want it.”

“What in the…” The woman’s thick brown curls dangled around her face when she came to an abrupt halt at the sight of the blue glow. “Are you on drugs, child?”

“No. Its ‘cause I’m sigh-onic.” She smiled inside for getting the word right.

She felt the level of fear around her rise; now they
were
afraid of her, of what they imagined she did. The fat woman measured her with a careful glance. “Where are your parents, and why are you covered in blood?”

A few people towards the back of the room scurried out the door. Althea ventured another bite of the pickle and made a pained expression. “What did they do to this? Why does it taste bad?”

“That’s a pickle, honey. It’s pickled. Where’s your momma?”

Althea chucked the ill-flavored thing back on the plate. “I don’t know.”

“What about your daddy?” The woman reached for her hand.

“At home.”

“Did you see somethin’ bad happen? Something the police might want to know about? Oh, my, that isn’t your daddy’s blood, is it?”

“No.” She shook her head. “I found a man in an alley. Someone stole his air-bags.”

“Is he okay?”

“Yes. He ran home.”

“Who the hell would steal air bags?” A man a table away muttered into his soup.

“Come on then.” The fat woman led her by the hand through a flapping door into a giant kitchen.

Althea grimaced as she stepped on a layer of permanent grease on the floor.

“Dammit, Betty, what the hell are you doin’ bringin’ a filthy street scrap in here? You know we prepare food in here.”

“Since when the hell have you given a flying fuck about sanitary codes, Hank?”

Betty ignored the continued ramblings of a short anemic man in a stained white apron as she dragged Althea to the back of the room. She didn’t protest; trying to lock her legs and resist would only have caused her to glide. After running warm water into a giant utility sink, the rotund woman lifted her to sit on the counter with her legs hanging into it. She washed the blood and grime from one foot and then the other before repeating the process with her arms. Althea endured it, staring at the wall with a forlorn expression. It felt a bit like a bath, but more to the point, it made her miss Karina, and home, even more. She did not give in to the urge to cry.

“What’s your name, girl?”

“Althea.”

Betty lifted her chin, dabbing at her cheek. “Got a last name?”

“How can I know which one will be the last if doesn’t ever change?”

The fat woman blinked. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Brown eyes glittered with concern.

“Uhm… I don’t have any other names…” She thought for a moment. “Well, some people call me Prophet.”

“Althea Prophet.” She rubbed her chins. “It’s pretty.”

One at a time, the woman dried Althea’s feet with a soft, white towel, and swung each leg away from the sink. “When was the last time you had a shower?”

“What’s a shower?” She slid off the counter once Betty had dried her arms.

“That’s a long time. Come on then, I’ll get you something to eat.”

“Who’s paying for it?” added Hank from behind a shelf full of battered pots and pans.

The fat woman made a strange hand gesture at him.

Betty put her at a small table past the end of the row of nail-seats, by two doors with stick figures on them. A glass of white liquid and a sandwich followed. The scraps from the abandoned plates had taken the edge off, and she munched on this food slow enough to taste it, tapping her heels idly into the fake wooden panel below the cushion.

Fresh food was a rare treat, and she savored it. Betty said something about this being grown in a vat rather than made from slime. Althea did not know what a vat was, and could not imagine how anything solid could be slime. Her eyes peeked over the plate on the fourth pass of her crumb-chasing tongue as two men walked in through the strange self-opening door.

From the shoulder to just above their ankles, black coats covered baggy pants somewhere between olive and brown. Heavy boots loaded with an excessive number of metal fasteners thudded over the floor as they approached a young woman that stepped up to smile at them.

“Welcome to Maude’s. Two? Booth or table?”

“We’re not here for food. Police.” He held up a candy bar. “Got a call about a street kid.”

“Oh, detective.” The woman gawked at the imported Japanese confection, tweaking her hair and smiling.

Althea had a sense something was not right. She felt him do something to the woman, something like she had done to Vakkar. Their thoughts dwelled on her and whispered the name Archon―the ghost head. She dove flat upon the bench seat. Escape would require either running right at them or trying her luck with the stick figures. Plastic doors clattered as Betty came through the wall behind the long counter, holding a plate in each hand for the men sitting there.

Althea slipped to the ground, crawling to stay out of sight. Betty looked down as she passed.

Without a free hand to snag her, Betty could only yell. “Hey, kid, wait.”

Althea cringed when her stealth was ruined, springing to her feet and a full run before Betty could drop the plates and grab her. The two “detectives” rushed the counter; one went for the end while the thinner man jumped it. Althea palmed the swinging flaps, darting into the kitchen. She circled a steel island of shelves and went toward a door at the other end, propped open with a mop. It led to a raised platform where metal boxes sat in stacks behind a giant truck backed up against it. Without hesitation, she leapt off the end, landing in a somersault on the ground below. The “detectives” tripped over the mop on their way out, one knocking a pile of boxes over. Althea rolled over to sit, facing them with a frightened gasp. She got angry for only an instant, instead focusing on her sorrow at being separated from her family. The pulse of radiant telempathy left both men on their knees, sobbing.

Althea bounded upright and sprinted hard towards the nearest alley with the agate arrowhead trailing over her shoulder.

Never had the thought of being in a small metal box been so appealing.

oaming for hours, Althea stopped trying to think about where she went and let her instinct lead. The ladder, a welcome sight that brought life back to her weary legs, came into view soon after. The bums had returned, crowded around the burn box; save Whisk who was in the middle of watering the grating as she climbed down.

“Whisk? What are police?” She walked up behind him.

“Hey,” he shouted. “I’m busy. Give me a little space.” He glanced over his shoulder and shifted his back toward her as if he wanted to keep her from seeing whatever he had in his hands.

She tried to peek around him. “What are you hiding?”

He swerved away. “Jesus H, kid. Give me some damn privacy.”

Wandering back to her sleeping box, she crawled inside and waited. Whisk showed up a few minutes later, red-faced and rambling about personal space, and that thing he called privacy.

He relaxed, crouching to peer in at her.

“What are police?” She sat up, cross-legged, and held on to her shins.

“Pains in the asses is what they are,” Whisk grumbled. “Never leave ya well enough alone, they don’t.”

“They hurt your ass?” She blinked.

“Naw, not for lit’ral. They’re always chasin’ us away from the beggin’ spots or out the dumpsters.”

“Do they take slaves?”

Whisk made a face like she had slapped him. “Slaves? Are you crazy?”

“Well…” She picked at the decaying blanket around her foot. “Someone told me they wanted to make me a slave again. And they carry um…” Althea clasped her fingers around her wrist.

“Handcuffs?” Whisk chuckled. “Them’s for criminals. They don’t take slaves. They arrest bad people.”

“Arrest?”

Whisk explained as best he could.

“Sounds like slaves with bigger cages.”

“Naw’s different. They don’t sell ‘em, an’ they don’t make ‘em work or force ‘em to umm, yeah I won’t go there. Ya’s too young.”

Althea folded her arms and glared. “I know what wifeing is.”

“Yeah, well.” Whisk’s face turned redder. “Police don’t do that. They punish people that do. It’s bad… and yer too little ta think things like that.” He glanced away, fidgeting. “Well, you ain’t little-little so’s mebbe its good you know wot it is so you don’t let anyone trick yas into doin’ it.”

A glimmer danced over her eyes. “I won’t.”

“Good.” He flashed a sea of yellow teeth at her. A long enough conversation with him at close range would make her tipsy. “Why you askin’ ‘bout police anyway?”

“This man told me they were bad. He said they would make me a slave, but he would protect me.” She squinted into the wind. “I didn’t trust him. He felt wrong.”

Whisk’s belch flooded her little room with the scent, and flavor, of cheap booze. “Yeah welp, some fool says the cops take slaves, sounds like he’s lyin’.”

She fanned the air, grimacing. “So they’re not bad?”

“Naw, they help people mostly. Specially kids. You really oughtn’t be here wit us. You got one of them futures waitin’ for yas. Cops’ll put ya wit some fosters and give you a shot at a real life. Don’t fuck it up, or you’ll wind up right back here; and if’n you land up here and you ain’t little and cute no more, you’re screwed.”

“Fosters?”