Prophet of the Badlands (The Awakened Book 1) (7 page)

Althea jumped at the sudden outburst, gripping the fence to resist the demanding pull of the rope. “He’s sick, please, I must―”

The raider snapped the cord like a whip, making her stumble towards him. “Later.”

She cast a sorrowful stare at the old man as they led her away. The captive settled back against the wall of his cell. He nodded and smiled at her before coughing into his fist.

The inside of the building was cool, the painted concrete floor icy. The cavernous place held hulking machines that dwarfed the largest structures in Den’s village. Althea tried to imagine people capable of creating such things as they passed on either side of her. At the far end of the room, a large imposing man sat upon a throne. The dusty leather chair had a strange three-tined star set in a circle on the pad behind his head. His armor was made of metal and leather in equal parts, painted in blood and rust. It squeaked as he moved to survey the approaching trio. The raiders stopped in front of him. One put a hand on her back and shoved her down.

“Kneel for chief.”

Althea shivered, hiding her face behind a curtain of hair as she clutched at the floor. Elation and anticipation surrounded the men who brought her here; they had just claimed a great trophy.

The large man’s deep voice vibrated in her ribs. “What is this?” He did not sound happy. “Why do you bring this one here? It is too small for the harem… it is too small to work. Put it outside with the others.” He rubbed his chin. “Blonde white girl. Rare. She will be valuable.”

Althea shivered at the implication.

“Vakkar… this Prophet.” The man to her right bounced like a small boy pleasing his father. He grabbed a fistful of hair and wrenched her head back, forcing her to look up at the chief.

“Ow.” She whimpered.

“What?” Vakkar descended from his throne.

The fingers released her as the raider retreated. She sat back on her heels and straightened up. A glove wrapped in sharp things lifted her chin and she stared at the man towering over her. An aura of disinterest became worry. She did not expect the wave of anger that emanated from him as soon as he saw the glow. Terrified, Althea curled into a ball, cowering away from his bellow.

The man that had shoved her hit the ground nearby, screaming and bleeding from the nose. She crawled away from the scene of the beating, huddling against the throne platform, as the raider chief took issue with their rough treatment of her by repeated application of a metal gauntlet to the man’s head.

“Bad fortune finds those who mistreat the Prophet!” Vakkar slipped a punch in between every other word.

Once the man was immobile, the chief turned to face her. “Stand.”

She complied, keeping her eyes aimed low. Many bandit chiefs reacted with violence to the insolence of a woman making eye contact, much less a young girl. He lifted her chin again and stared into her eyes, then examined her belongings.

“Did they steal?” His hand moved to the tether, pulling her arms toward him.

She maintained eye contact, unafraid. “No, sir.”

The tight coils of rope sprang away from her wrists before she noticed the knife in his hand. She ran her fingers over the red skin where it had been, kneading the soreness away. Vakkar selected a length of chain connected to a giant machine adjacent to the throne, and wrapped it about her right ankle. Holding it with two fingers, he searched for a lock; a minute trace of hesitance in him gave her hope she might avoid a leash.

“Please, no.” She pressed herself into his side like a scared daughter. “I promise I won’t run away.”

He frowned. “I have heard the legends. This is not for running. It is in case one of these fools gets the bright idea o’ stealin’ you and runnin’ off ta start their own camp.”

She whined. “Please, I’m scared of being tied.”

A barely perceptible glimmer brightened the glow as she nudged his emotions toward pity and kindness. He dropped the chain and looked to the rear corner of the factory where heavy metal mesh bordered two security cages, once used to hold valuable materials. The closer one was empty while the other contained a number of women―the chief’s personal harem. He put a hand on Althea’s back and guided her over to the unoccupied cell.

“This will be more comfortable.”

About twelve cubic feet, the space defined by panels of dense metal gridding had a door built into the front. It was perhaps the biggest cage anyone ever put her in, as big as a village hut. Althea stared at the floor as he took a key from a column nearby and opened the door. She stepped through, cringing as the metal banged closed behind her. Vakkar put the key around his neck, tucked safely under his armor.

Old boxes littered the cell, fallen from metal shelving bolted to the floor. Shredded sleeping bags covered a spot at the center of the room in preparation for an expanding harem, and their soft presence offered a welcome change from the cold concrete. A plastic bucket had been left to the right of the door, its purpose no secret to anyone with a sense of smell. She sat among the olive drab and red flannel, wondering how long it would be before she changed owners again.

he sat with her face in her knees, toes buried in the soft warmth of shredded wool. Azure light shimmered down her legs and cast them an unnatural shade in the dark place in which she found herself trapped. Exhausted, parched, and starving, she shivered not from the cold, but from the battle of anger and sorrow skirmishing in her heart. Abduction was so much easier to cope with when you did not like the people you were stolen from.

Words crept into the stillness, half whispered from beyond a mesh wall to her left.

“Is that the Prophet?”

Althea looked in the direction of a female voice, at four women in the other security pen. A tall, athletic redhead with blue eyes had come right up to the partition between rooms, gazing down at her with an air of superiority. She was older, perhaps in her mid-twenties, and had numerous small scars on her arms and body. Her only clothing was a bit of metal held around her neck by a dangling lock. The people from Den’s village had thought Althea pale, but next to this woman, she felt almost dark-skinned.

“Hunter?” Althea whispered.

“I was.” The woman scowled, picking at the collar. “I don’t plan on being here too long.”

An Asian a little younger than the first woman reclined in the bedding at the center of the other room, stretching before her semiconscious stare noticed the new arrival. Like the redhead, she wore only a collar. The soft lines of a pampered life curved around her slender body, and her calm emotional state made Althea think she had been a prized concubine for a long time.

The other two sat as far back as possible, against the corner made of cinderblock walls. Frail and bony, one hid behind a thick mass of silky black hair down to her thighs. She had a perpetual shiver like a tiny dog afraid of its own shadow. Her skin was dark, her features delicate, and her attention absorbed by her task―feeding the fourth captive.

Anger was the predominant emotion coming from the last one. Not fear like the thin woman drowned in, or contentment like the Asian basked in―not even the arrogant confidence exuding from the redhead. The fourth lacked a collar, though her hands were chained together behind her back. Her deep chestnut brown skin was not quite as dark as the woman feeding her. Short black hair clung to her head in a pixie cut that went light tan at the tips. Large brown eyes that would have been beautiful in another place glared out from above a cute blunt nose at the moving shadows of raiders; this woman wanted to kill someone.

Althea couldn’t guess her age beyond that she was an adult; her toned body seemed like that of a hunter, but she lacked the telltale scars of repeated healed wounds, only some fresh bruises. She might be old enough to have been Althea’s mother, or maybe only twentyish. Althea decided the fourth woman was younger than thirty, but carried herself with the poise of someone older. There was something quite strange about her mood, unlike anything Althea had ever sensed before from a captive. No sooner did the last woman notice Althea looking at her than the anger vanished into a spiral of embarrassment.

“Oh Christ, is that a goddamn kid?” The restrained woman shifted in an attempt to hide her nakedness. “What kind of fucking animals are these people?”

The sight of her intrigued Althea; she had never before seen someone with hair that was not long and wild or shaved gone. She could not help but gawk at a person who would waste the great amount of time it must have taken to do such a thing.

“Look at her eyes,” the warrior woman blurted. “I did not know the Prophet was just a child.”

“I’m twelve… I think.” She folded her arms and furrowed her brow. “I’m not a little kid, and my name is Althea.”

“I am called Zhar.” The tall woman patted herself on the chest before gesturing at the comfortable one. “That is Aya.” She waved at the two behind her. “Ramani, and the chipper one is Rachel.”

The cuffed woman made a strange gesture with one finger.

Althea felt sad for her. “Why is she tied?”

Zhar grinned. “She killed one of these shitheads when they caught her last week, and she got a piece of Vakkar when he came for her. Pissed him off good; he’s gonna leave her like that till she begs for it.”

“Begs for what?” asked Althea.

All four women found something other than Althea to look at.

Rachel glanced away, unable to lift her sad stare off the floor. “Yeah… Only got one, there were too many. So groggy when I woke up I couldn’t fight.” She pulled against the handcuffs. “I don’t care what he does, he’s gonna be waiting a long damn time.”

Althea laced her fingers through the mesh, staring at Rachel, studying the radiance of confusion, anger, and shame. The feel of it told her this woman had not yet been wifed, but was terrified of its imminence, and masking her fear with rage. Her thoughts looked strange; she had memories of the before-time: many people in strange camo-green uniforms, a bed with glass over it, a white room, and a swarm of raiders tearing her clothes away. A knife flashed, and pain and unconsciousness followed the sight of blood. The woman desperately wanted someone named Police to find her.

“It ain’t right.” Rachel curled against the wall. “She’s too little.”

Ramani forced a smile. “At least they let her keep clothing.”

Jealousy.

“They don’t want her for that.” Zhar laughed. “She not harem. She’s the Prophet.”

“What the hell does that mean? Prophet?” Rachel made eye contact at last.

Althea sank to the floor, sitting with her legs off to the side. “I make hurts and sicks go away.”

“I saw her once.” Ramani spoke, not looking up. “Before I was taken, years ago… a man had her in a cart and would charge trades or coins to let her touch you.”

Unable to contain it, Althea cried.

“What’s wrong?” Zhar sank to her knees, at eye level with her.

“He was a bad man.” Althea sniffled, regained her composure, and wiped her face. “When people did not pay, he let them die. I couldn’t reach them to help.”

Rachel seemed less concerned with her own predicament. “Help people? Wait, cage? Who puts a little girl in a cage?” She writhed, trying to pull her hands loose. “This shit don’t fly. I gotta get the fuck out of here.”