29
Zoey hears the roar of the crowd and feels the drumming of feet through the coliseum’s framework before she ever sees the procession.
When the gunshots rang out she had dropped to the ground in the shadow behind the generator shack, pistol coming out automatically. In a span of a few seconds she pinpointed the direction of the firefight, seeing only the last two muzzle blasts a significant distance down the fence line. After that the yells and ensuing chaos had been too much to contend with, and she’d scuttled to the coliseum’s bracing, sliding between two steel beams into the hollow space below the structure. Through the interweaving joists she spotted several guards dragging a slender man in the direction of the two-story building. The crowd had gradually calmed, the spectacle gone from their direct observation.
She had watched Merrill and Eli move through the milling men, trying to get a look at what was happening, before she lost sight of them among the many bodies. For a long time the center of the coliseum had remained empty while the stands above her began to fill up. Dozens of feet and legs passed by her position, most climbing higher while some remained, partially blocking her view until she was forced to move to another, clearer section on the left. But just when she had convinced herself that she might be able to sneak from her hiding place and get a closer inspection of the containers, several men appeared in the center of the ring, a tall apparatus on wheels concealed beneath a heavy tarp between them. This had elicited a rumble from the crowd above her.
But the clamor now is tenfold in comparison.
The midway is mostly clear of men, so the movement in the direction of the taller building catches her eye almost immediately. A procession walks steadily toward the main entrance to the coliseum, led by an older man and woman, both of them dressed extravagantly. They move with the unmistakable air of leadership, walking almost exactly in the same way the Director used to across the stage at inductions. Behind them is a man dressed entirely in black, his skin whiter than any Zoey has ever seen before. Behind him, the same man she saw being dragged away earlier walks between two armed guards, head drooped low, shoulders rounded.
And following them is a woman.
Zoey scoots forward, and against her better judgment, draws her hood back to get a better look. The woman walks with her gaze focused on the ground. Every so often her eyes lift to look at the skinny man being escorted ahead of her before dropping again. There is an uncanny despair about her, as if she is enshrouded by suffering but still hasn’t fully succumbed to it.
But there is also something else that captures Zoey’s full attention, locking her vision on the woman that comes closer with each step.
It is an undeniable notion of familiarity.
She has seen her before.
Her concentration breaks as a large man dressed in a filthy coat steps before the group, halting their progress. He holds a clear bottle half full of a brown-tinged liquid Zoey had seen being sold from a booth in the midway.
“Hey, Presto! How ’boutcha share the wealth? Gimme a shot at that one back there; she’s too old for the tournament anyway.”
The man in the suit turns his head slightly and the white-skinned man behind him smiles, moving toward the drunk staggering before them.
“Hey whitey, whatchu think you’re—”
But his words are cut off as the man in black draws something out of his coat, and in a movement so quick Zoey can barely track it, swings his arm past the drunk’s throat.
Crimson beads catch the light, their cascade a red rainfall on the ground beside the man.
He drops the bottle, clutching his neck, and totters to the side. He turns enough for Zoey to see the deep stain below his chin growing by the second, the flesh split there from ear to ear. He takes two more steps, blood misting from parted arteries, before falling to his side on the ground where he lies still.
The man in black wipes the shining blade he holds on a dark cloth he draws from a pocket and disappears the knife back beneath his coat as the procession continues toward the coliseum.
Zoey watches the woman trail behind them through the entrance and into the center of the arena, where the line of people stops beside the shrouded apparatus. The man in the silver suit holds one hand up to silence the crowd, and begins to speak.
30
“Gentlemen of Southland! Welcome to the last, greatest show on Earth!”
The men’s cheers reverberate in the air around Wen, but she barely hears them. She stares at the shape beneath the stained tarp, sure that at any second her will or her mind will snap and she’ll be oblivious to this all. And she prays for the release.
Her gaze trails to Robbie, who’s looking back at her through the crusted blood around his eyes. He gives her a quirked smile, the small expression saying everything that he can’t.
Well, isn’t this a shit show.
“I am Presto Preston, the ringmaster and your humble host. We’ve traveled thousands of miles to be here with you tonight!” Elliot continues, his voice deep and rich in timbre, carrying over the last of the crowd’s cries. “To bring you marvels of the fantastic.” He draws a white handkerchief from the breast pocket of his suit. “And to let you experience the magic still alive in the world.”
Elliot does a small flip of his hand, tenting the handkerchief with his fingers. He holds it steady for a beat before ripping it away in an exaggerated motion.
A small songbird rests in his palm.
Elliot gives it a toss and the bird flits up into the night over the heads of the men, disappearing past one of the powerful lights.
The men cheer once again, applause rippling through the crowd, which draws a wide smile on Elliot’s face. Sasha stands behind him beaming.
Wen’s fingers ache from being clenched into fists. She releases them, imagining encircling Elliot’s neck with both hands and
squeezing
.
“I know why you’ve all come. The pinnacle of our show. The paramount of entertainment.” Elliot pauses before throwing his hands up into the air. “The Tournament!” Once again the men in the stands seethe with sound, feet stamping, fists raised, mouths open in bellows. “And you will get what you came for,” Elliot says. “But tonight we have a special event, an added bonus, if you will, preceding the beginning of the Tournament tomorrow.” There is some unrest and rumbles of dissent and Wen glances hopefully around the coliseum. Maybe if the masses get unruly enough, she might have a chance to stop this.
“Please, please, hear me out,” Elliot says. “The man you see being held here now was caught earlier tonight stealing goods, hiding weapons, and worst of all, fornicating with another man!” The prior mumbling of discord turns to boos and shouted slurs. Wen watches the row of men closest to the arena’s floor spit in Robbie’s direction, one after the other. “This man! Is not only a thief, but also goes against the very fabric of humankind! In a time such as this when humanity needs and hungers for salvation in the form of procreation, this man flies in the face of all we hold dear! And that, my friends, cannot be tolerated.”
With the same flourish he used to reveal the bird in his palm, Elliot grabs the corner of the tarp and yanks it free, exposing what lies beneath it.
The night resounds with the crowd’s roar and Wen bites back a sob, looking away from Elliot, from Robbie, and from the guillotine and its shining, angled blade hanging high in the air.
31
Zoey inhales sharply as the tarp is lifted.
She takes in the tall, twin wooden columns, the vise-like base with a hole carved into it above two wheels, the rope leading to its top, two buckled straps at the bottom, and worst of all, the enormous blade hovering between the supports like a shining grin.
Her face creases as the mechanics of it all creates a picture in her mind.
The men’s cries of delight are deafening, the world brimming with so much sound it makes her eyes water. She watches, unable to look away, as the two guards guide the slender man to the machine, forcing him down on his knees while fitting his neck into the base. Once his hands are secure in the straps, they step back, giving room for the older woman dressed in the silver gown. She glides to the side of the apparatus, the broad smile on her face looking more like a demonic grimace beneath the light’s glare.
The woman’s hand reaches out and grasps the rope.
32
Wen stifles a sob and looks down into Robbie’s face as Sasha takes her position.
A tear falls to the dusty ground from his chin. He gives her his smile again and mouths something, winking even as his eyes fill with tangible fear.
I love you.
She doesn’t hesitate or check to see who might be looking. She doesn’t care anymore.
I love you too.
And even as every atom in her body revolts and tries to turn her away, tries to shield her from what is to come, she keeps her gaze locked on Robbie, pours every kind thought and prayer she can into him. She will watch until the end. It is the least she can give him.
The crowd screams.
Elliot capers in a circle.
Robbie smiles.
Sasha pulls the rope.
33
The blade falls and Zoey closes her eyes.
The men’s voices reach an ear-shattering crescendo that consumes all thought. She rises from her hiding place, drawing the hood back up as she picks her way through the scaffolding until she’s in the open air again. She starts in the direction of the containers but spots three guards near the generator shack looking toward her, hands on their rifles.
She moves away from them, not having to force the drunken stagger as much, legs weakened from what she witnessed.
Evil. Pure, undiluted evil.
The brutality of the spectacle is overshadowed in her mind only by the men’s enthusiasm. The cruelty and bloodlust is beyond anything she’s ever encountered.
Is this what is left? Is this all there is?
She moves numbly past the stands where voices shout, trying to gain her attention, draw her to their wares, but she strides without stopping, oblivious to all except the disbelief and despair that roils within her.
“Leaving so soon, old boy?” the man in the tall hat calls as she passes through the entrance. She doesn’t acknowledge him, only walks away into the dark embrace of Southland.
The trek to the ASV is a blur, the image of the huge blade plummeting toward the man’s neck all she can see, the collective voice of the crowd howling approval the only sound, the smell of sweat and fear hanging thick in her nostrils. The man they killed, he was put to death for being like Tia, for being different. Where does the hatred come from? How can cruelty be dealt out so casually and with such cemented conviction?
But she knows how. She lived in the company of people who believed they knew better than those they held captive nearly all her life. She saw what they would sacrifice in the name of the greater good.
And the Fae Trade is the epitome of all she despises.
Zoey doesn’t realize she’s arrived at their campsite until she sees the glow of the fire. When she steps into its light Ian is there, a pistol in one hand. She pushes back her hood and they stare at one another for a long second.
“Come get warm by the fire, I’m sure you’re cold from the walk,” he finally says, sitting down. The fire feels good on her outstretched hands, the air cold enough for her breath to plume out before her. Neither of them moves for several minutes, the dancing flames the only motion in the dark. Ian glances at her and sighs deeply. “Do you have a death wish, Zoey?”
“What? No, of course not.”
“I ask in all seriousness because your decisions say otherwise.”
“It was my choice to come here. I know everyone wants to keep me safe, but I’m not their responsibility.”
He drops his gaze to the fire. “No. No I suppose you aren’t. But you misunderstand me. As much concern as I have about outside forces, I worry more about your very worst enemy.”
“Who?”
“Yourself.”
Zoey opens her mouth to reply but no words will come. She remembers the looks on Lyle’s, Rita’s, and Sherell’s faces when she told them what she planned. They had been afraid, but she’d been wrong about what it was they feared. It wasn’t what she was suggesting.
It was her.
The sound of someone approaching cuts her thoughts off abruptly. She brings up her weapon, stepping closer to Ian as Merrill and Eli enter the ring of light.
“Just us,” Eli says, striding to the fire. “Damn, it’s cold out here. After this is through, I for one nominate Arizona as our next destination. This Pacific Northwest bullshit has run its course.”
Zoey smiles but feels it fade when she sees Merrill looking at her, examining how she’s dressed. He closes his eyes and swears under his breath. “You went anyway, didn’t you?”
“I had to.”
“No. You didn’t.” He moves around the perimeter of the fire, stopping directly across from her. “That was stupid.” She says nothing, only nods. “You’re lucky no one noticed how much smaller you were than everyone else and happened to pull that hood off of your head.”
“Merrill, she’s safe. No one’s hurt. Please,” Ian says.
Merrill looks as if he’s going to launch into another tirade but instead sits down, looking toward the ASV. “Where’s Chelsea and Tia?”
“When we realized Zoey was missing they went out to see if they could find her and left me here in case she returned.”
“And they’re not back yet?”
“No, not yet.”
Merrill stands, gazing out into the darkness beyond the bluff. He frowns and turns his attention to Zoey. “You saw everything?”
“Yes.”
“Where were you?”
“Beneath the seating of the coliseum.”
He shakes his head. “How close did you get to the containers?”
“Not very. But I saw both of you did.”
“We were able to make it most of the way around them before the guards ran us off.”
“And? Could you tell how many women they have?”
“No, we couldn’t get close enough for that.”
“How about getting them out?”
“There might be a way.” Merrill gives the darkness another long look before sitting once more. “They set up the fence line partially inside the city limits. The last residential street ends within the trade’s boundaries. Eli was the one that actually spotted it.”
“Spotted what?” Ian asks.
“A manhole cover,” Eli says. “About ten yards behind the second shipping container is the edge of a street and there’s a manhole set just inside the fence.”
“What’s a manhole?” Zoey asks.
“It’s an access point for the city sewer system,” Merrill says. “We can enter somewhere well away from the trade and make our way to that specific manhole. If we time it right we can climb up, incapacitate the guards around the containers, and get the women out and through the pipe before anyone knows they’re gone.”
“The only problem is the sewer system will probably be like a maze. We need a map,” Eli says.
“A map? Where would we get that?” Zoey asks, shifting her feet closer to the fire.
“At the public utilities building, although we don’t know where that is,” Merrill says.
“But we can find it?”
“Yes, I think so. Since Tia was here before, maybe she has an idea where it is. But there’s also the problem of the lights. There’s too damn much light around the containers. If we had a little darkness it would be easier to pull off, but as soon as the lights go out, they’re going to know something’s up.”
“Just like the ARC.”
“Yep. But we can’t wait around for a thunderstorm, especially since the next thing that’s going to fall out of the sky will probably be snow.”
Zoey picks up a small stick and begins drawing an outline of the trade in the ground. “We should take two of the guards with us when we bring the women out.”
“What? Why?” Eli says.
“Because it will throw off whoever comes looking for us when they realize the women are missing. If they think two of their own men took the women it might lead them in the wrong direction.”
“But what are we going to do with the guards once we’re out?” Merrill says. Zoey gazes at him across the fire and she sees his jaw tighten. “The answer isn’t always killing.”
“Did you see what happened tonight? Did you see what that place is?”
“Yes. And I see you right now.” He stands up. “I’m going to look for Tia and Chelsea. They should be back by now.”
She starts to say something, to call him back and apologize, but they all freeze as footsteps crackle through leaves on the fringe of the light. A moment later Tia appears out of the darkness, eyes tracing each of them before addressing Zoey. “The hell did you get off to, girly?”
“She went to the trade,” Merrill says.
“Well that was brilliant. Were you born dumb or did you have to work at it?”
“I’m sorry,” Zoey says, looking at all of them. “I am.”
“Being sorry means you won’t do it ever again,” Merrill replies before looking at Tia. “Where’s Chelsea?”
“Isn’t she here? We split off about a half hour ago. She was heading west and was going to swing down through the trees to meet here,” Tia says, pointing into the woods.
“Damn it,” Merrill says, and runs in the direction Tia motioned to. There are a few yells for him to wait or stop, but in less than a second he’s gone, swallowed up by the gloom.
Zoey rises and goes after him, hearing the others follow behind her. Ahead she can barely make out the dense population of tree trunks, the sound of Merrill’s passage drifting back to her over her own footfalls. A shriveling sensation invades her chest, a cold constriction around her heart.
No. Chelsea is simply late. Or maybe she got turned around heading back to camp.
She follows Merrill as he rushes onward through the trees, Chelsea’s whispered name coming from him every few seconds. Zoey silently wishes for an answer from somewhere nearby, but the forest remains silent.
Someone curses behind her. A branch snaps.
Ahead Merrill’s outline disappears and she slides to a stop, bracing herself against a tree, trying to listen for the direction he’s gone.
There, to the left. The crunch of several footsteps.
And something else.
The low throttle of an engine.
A gunshot.
Her stomach folds in on itself as she sprints away from the tree, down a small grade, and out into the clearing lit with a sickly orange by the trade’s glow from below.
She skids to a halt near a low growth of sage, heart skipping every other beat as her mind processes what she’s seeing.
Several vehicles are parked in the lowland below the rise, their headlights facing each other. Outside the ring of illumination, four figures walk together. Three of them carry weapons, and the other is stooped over as if in pain.
Zoey hears the rest of the group approaching from behind her and she wants to scream at them not to look, because she doesn’t want to see, to believe what she already knows.
The figures below step into the wash of headlights. They are only visible for a split second, but it is long enough to see Chelsea’s red hair and her hands bound behind her back before the men shove her into the closest vehicle and tear away in a spray of dust toward the Fae Trade.