Jump Zone: Cleo Falls (18 page)

He found a utilitarian hammered-tin flask full of corn whisky—could come in handy—and added it to his basket. He picked up a heavy can labeled Bear Fat and felt a stirring deep in his gut. His little minx.

He moved to the tables laden with knitted clothing, leather goods, dolls, toys, but it was the child-sized feather pillow that caught his eye. He picked it up, squeezed it, and thought of Cleo saying,
“I don’t need a feather pillow to get a good night sleep.”
Was it only two nights ago? Seemed like a lifetime.
“They’re only good for fighting,”
she had said.

He weighed the two items in his hand—the can of grease and the feather pillow, an idea tumbling around in his head and falling into place. He may have an answer for their current predicament. But would she understand? He stuffed both items in his basket, deciding it was worth the risk.

He turned to the right, toward the final third, toward the things that looked most familiar: urban wares. Solar cell kits, computer parts, an assortment of tools, medical supplies, bolts of polyweave cloth in every garish color imaginable, a few cases of Nutripacks and some genuine, factory-produced chemsoap, for that
ah, so fresh feeling
. Just what the tribers wanted after a hard day of rolling in the mud and killing animals with their bare hands.

It was embarrassing, the display of  junk from Gomeda. There wasn’t a thing that represented their culture, nothing of their resourcefulness.

Disgusted, he turned his back and strayed toward the huge fireplace in the center of the back wall. In front were two overstuffed couches, which, had he the time, he’d have loved to sink into and kick his feet up. The hearth was cold but there must have been a recent fire because he felt ambient heat emanating from the surround, which was constructed of the same multifaceted black stones that Cleo wore around her neck.

Libra made his way back to the service desk and waited for Dad to finish. Honey-bunches served a handful of customers, all of whom appeared to be sightseers from south of the Cut. He was sure they were from the city, but they acted differently here; they made eye contact with one another, exchanged pleasantries, didn’t seem afraid to stand so close to one another. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe they were from the walled cities, further south and west.

No, that didn’t make sense, either. They must be Gomedans, dressed in a weird hybrid of standard urban wear with a few Taiga pieces, like fringed leather boots and fur collars and cuffs.

That’s what he needed, a replacement outfit for Cleo. It was getting cold during the nights and that thin, old undershirt wouldn’t keep her very warm. He grabbed a leather outfit similar to the one she’d had and a long buckskin coat with a fur-trimmed hood.

“You’ve still got over three hundred points left,” Dad said after subtracting his purchases from the tallied cashpoints. “You want to do more shopping, or shall I leave the balance on your account?”

“No, I’ve got everything I need,” Libra replied. “Is it possible to transfer the remaining balance onto a friend’s account?”

“Sure. Just need a name.”

“Taurus—” he stopped. They wouldn’t have his nickname on file. “Tate, Joseph Tate.”

While Dad insisted he wrap each item in brown paper “for the journey,” Libra checked out the digital board, scanning for anything interesting.

Static ads, mostly. People selling services—hunting guides, adventure trips through canyons—and looking for things like Asian cherry seeds and yard-goats.

There was a column headed MISSING
.
He scrolled through, disturbed by the dozens of notices: Beaver Clan sought beloved daughters
Cathryn and Olivia, last seen at the recruiter station.
Parents, tribes, siblings, all searching for news of those lost, every one
last seen in the company of recruiters
or
at the recruiter station
.

No wonder Cleo’s people were wary of Gomedans. One could argue that the youngsters went willingly, but once they drank the water, there was no hope.

“My dad’s finished packing your things, Mr.—”

“Libra.” It came out sharper than he’d intended, but he didn’t want to hear the sound of his last name.

“Libra,” the girl said with a nod. She waved her hand across the screen. “Wow, there’s so much stuff up here, it’s hard to read. Someone should clean this up.”

Libra smiled. At that age, he doubted he would have taken the initiative either.
Someone
always meant
someone else
.

“Thanks, um…Libra.” She blushed and stepped past him and plugged a code-key into the frame of the digital board.

Sweet girl, that Honey-bunches. Libra hoped her name would never show up in the MISSING column. He was just about to warn her away from the south when the board refreshed, automatically repositioning the ads to make space for updates, centering the most important and most recent in the center.

Libra felt the blood drain from his face.

It was a wanted poster…of Cleo.

Twenty-Seven

T
he image of Cleo smiling to someone off camera, as if she didn’t have a concern in the world, turned a screw turned in his chest, putting unbearable pressure on his lungs.  His eyes flicked to the one simple word beneath: WANTED.

“Where did you—” His voice cracked. He cleared his throat and continued. “Who’s—” He didn’t know how to ask the question. “Do you know her?”

“Sure. Everyone knows Cleo Rush,” she said, eyeing Libra with a guarded expression. “Do you think she’s pretty? It’s okay if you do. The guys at potlatch get all puffy when she walks by.”

“Mmm, she’s okay,” he shrugged.

He lied. She was stunning. And he wanted to snatch her off the wall and put her in his pocket. He drank in every detail of her face, the shy smile, the way the light reflected in her whisky-hued eyes.

Honey-bunches cocked her head. She might be young, but she was savvy. And he wasn’t doing a good job hiding his interest. “Uh, what’s that thing you mentioned? Potlatch?” he asked, deflecting her suspicions.

“Inter-tribal gatherings. We have them a few times of year.”

“Big meetings, that sort of thing?”

“Sure, the elder councils meet. And it’s a chance to exchange goods and stuff. But mostly it’s a big party. Lots of food and there’s dancing and we can find… so we can, y’know…” A bloom of pink crept up her face while she spoke, making her adorably blotchy. Whatever she was trying to tell him was the source of great discomfort. “For finding someone to go walking with, to make unions. Life mates from another tribe.”

Life mate. Interesting. So these ignorant savages have the don’t-dip-your-toes-in-the-same-genetic-pool philosophy as all the advanced civilizations. “Have you been to one?” he asked. “Found yourself a potential life mate?”

“Oh yes, I mean, no. No! I mean… Yes, I’ve been to lots of potlatches, but no, I haven’t gone walking with anyone. Daddy says I’m too young.”

“Has she,” he canted his head toward Cleo’s image, “made a union?” The screw at his chest torqued. Why did he ask that?

“Oh, hell no, excuse my language. Not Cleo. She’s too busy winning all the trials.”

“Which are?”

“Trials,” she said again, as if the word alone summed it up. “For choosing the leader elect.”

“So it’s a competition?” Libra clarified.

“Hell yeah, excuse my language. At the call, each family puts forward one eligible member who then goes on, or is eliminated, depending on how they do in the early trials. There’s lots of training and stuff, too, for like two whole years, and they do all these crazy competitions, not that I can think of any off the top of my head. They keep going until the pool of pledges gets smaller and smaller.” She crossed her arms over her chest and continued without a pause. “Thank heavens I didn’t have to do it because the call was made long before my significant age day—but I have done my passage,” she added, as if he should know what that means. “My cousin made it to the seventh round. He was so disappointed when he lost, but we all just gave a gigantic sigh of relief that he didn’t make it to the finals, if you know what I mean.”

Libra pursed his lips and nodded, though he had a hard time following Honey-bunches’ breathless soliloquy. “I actually don’t. Why isn’t it good to make the finals?”

Honey-bunches uncrossed her arms and shrugged. “You get washed. Only the leader-elect lives. The other finalists…” She ran a finger across her neck.

That explains why Cleo was on the run. “So, this…uh…person? They can’t find her? Has she been gone long?” he asked, unable to keep his eyes from wandering back to the picture.

Honey-bunches shrugged. “I don’t know. She was at the trials just last week, so she couldn’t—”

“Are those knives?” Libra interrupted. Something caught his eye in the photo. Cleo wore a similar outfit to the one she was wearing when he met her, except leather straps criss-crossed her chest, holding what looked suspiciously like little metal handles.

“Hell yeah, excuse my language. Cleo’s the best thrower in the Taiga. Bull’s-eye every time.”

Well that explained the alphacat, but it didn’t explain why she neglected to mention her little hobby. What else had Cleo neglected to mention?

“That’s quite a talent,” Libra said, trying to sound nonchalant, though a million questions pushed at his teeth. “What’s she wanted for?”

“Far as I know, cause she missed the swearing-in ceremony.”

“Swearing in?”

“Uh-uh.” Honey-bunches lifted her chin. “Cleo’s going to be the new leader of Shield Tribes.”

“You mean because Jaegar left, she gets the top spot?”

“How did you know about Jaegar?”

Zhang hell.
Sleep deprivation interfered with this thinking. Or caused a lack-thereof.  “I heard some other people talking about him,” he improvised, cocking his head vaguely in the direction of the outer yard, as if he’d been chatting up the locals. “They said Jaegar was the leader-elect, but then he left. I just put two-and-two together.”

“What? No, no, no. You heard all wrong.” She shook her head, as if some grave insult had been uttered. “
Cleo
won those finals fair and square. Youngest person to ever do it! Those geezers out there have nothing better to do all day than to gossip about tribe politics and they’re just plain wrong. I know lots of people
think
Jaegar should have been chosen, because he’s older and he’s a man,
obviously
,” she said, cutting her eyes, “but
I
was rooting for Cleo the whole time.”

“Wait a sec,” he said. “You’re telling me that this girl, this Cleo chick, won this competition and
she’s
the leader of the Shield Tribe?”

“Hell yeah! Excuse my language. Hands-down winner. Points proved it. You look kind of pale. You okay?”

“Just tired,” he said. “So why did Jaegar take off?”

“’Dunno. Probably didn’t want to get washed. Simon left, too. Disappeared before the quarter-final points were even tallied. His notice has been up for over a month,” she said, nodding to the board, “but nobody has seen him. Least not that they’re saying. But there’s always drama in the Wolverines.” She lowered her voice. “I don’t know if this is true or not…” She stole a glance toward Dad, who was still occupied, “but the geezers think that Cleo and Jaegar are going to fight ‘til death and whoever comes back alive wins.”

Twenty-Eight

C
olonel Leon Trevayne introduced himself as he loosened the rope that joined her wrists and ankles, propped her on the rotted trunk of a fallen tree, and offered her a green candy from a tin he kept in his pocket. She shook her head. He then proceeded to question her about the Taiga, pounding her with questions from politics to mining. His knowledge about the Taiga and their ways was unnervingly accurate in some cases and dead wrong in others, but she refused to acknowledge him either way.

Describing him as ugly would have been generous. Trevayne was short for a soldier, but solidly built. The flesh of his face looked as if it had been stretched over a bony skull, like there wasn’t enough skin to allow for jowls or folds. His eyes were deep and lay in the shadow of a pronounced brow ridge. Under a pugilistic nose were lips so thin, they were almost non-existent. When he spoke, his gums showed.

He switched back and forth, from a friendly, conversational tone to one that demanded answers. Cleo marked the time by the number of candies he popped and figured they’d been at it for over an hour.  Aware her actions frustrated him, she maintained silence, pressed her tender lips together, and refused to make eye contact. She was too tired, heartsick, and annoyed for this game, but what choice did she have? Sure deserved what she got for trusting an outsider. On the other hand, she couldn’t afford to lose sight of her goal to get to Gomeda and find Jag.

After another hour, Trevayne began to crack. His true nature had surfaced, just as she’d suspected. Soon, he’d let his temper take over and he’d make a mistake. Then she’d make her move.

“What are you up to, Petal? Do you only talk when you have a cock inside you? Is that it?” His pupils darkened as he skimmed the length of her body, his demonic chuckle snaking up her spine. His sweet, medicinal breath filled Cleo’s nostrils as he crouched in front of her. “Because that could be arranged.”

She turned her cheek and drew back.

Perhaps it had been a mistake to ignore him.

The saliva in her mouth turned sour. She felt more helpless than she did facing the alphacat. The wild animals of the Taiga were justified in their instinct to kill to survive. Trevayne, conversely, was doing this for his own twisted pleasure. If he had to kill, it wouldn’t be quick, with mercy. He would toy, hurt, maim. In her peripheral vision, she could see him extract a knife from his belt.

Sweat pooled in her pores as she felt the cold flat of the blade on the side of her face. He traced her scar, then down her jawline to her shoulder.

“How about I get rid of this scrap, give you some room to breathe.” Trevayne slipped the tip under the thick strap of her shirt.

She let her lids drop, gathered every ounce of venom before meeting his dead black eyes with a hard stare.

“Don’t. Touch. Me.” Too scared to relax her jaw for fear her lips would tremble, she spoke through clenched teeth.

He leaned in closer, cocked his head to one side and squinted. “I’ll do what in zhang hell I please, Miz Rush,” he hissed. “My orders are to bring you back alive, not unblemished.” He yanked the blade upward, slicing through the thin material. The razor sharp tip caught the side of her face, nicking her cheek.

Cleo flinched at the sharp sting of pain. She tried again to swallow, but there was no moisture in her mouth.

She could see the look of disappointment on Trevayne’s face when her shirt didn’t flop open to expose her. The ribbed material hugged her body closely, refusing to sag.

Inhaling deeply, she realized she’d have to buy some time before this got very ugly. “You touch me, Libra will kill you.”

He laughed, a short, mean bark, and leaned in, smothering her with menthol. “Your boyfriend isn’t here to protect you.” He pressed his tongue to her wound and licked her blood.

Cleo swallowed the bile creeping up her throat. She couldn’t tell if her fingers, numb from being bound, were shaking, but she could feel her knees begin to quake. She was not going to be this pig’s toy. She would rather die fighting than let him get away with torturing her. Anger twined with the fear in her gut. She shouldn’t give in. She couldn’t risk letting her emotions override her common sense or she’d never get out of this alive. But no matter how hard her brain tried to out-logic her emotions, she couldn’t stop herself from twisting sharply and springing back in a violent motion, catching Trevayne with her shoulder and knocking him back onto his haunches. “Get away from me, you dog.”

Trevayne sprang forward, grabbed the back of her neck, and twisted her braid around his hand, forcing her to turn her face up to him. “Good enough for the pretty boy, you’re good enough for me,” he hissed.

He pulled her head into his crotch. She stifled a scream as the sour smell of his body infected her sinuses, as the ridge of his cock grew against her mouth.

She yelped as he yanked her head back again. With his other hand, he captured her cheeks between his fingers, pinching her face. “I know you fucked him, you ignorant little slut. Now it’s my turn.”

That was the last straw. The absolute last duck-loving straw!

She captured the web between his thumb and fingers and bit down until she tasted copper.

In one swift movement, he yanked his hand out of her mouth and backhanded her across the face, snapping her head sideways. “You dirty fucking animal!” he spat. He gripped the back of her neck, digging his fingers under the base of her skull so she couldn’t turn away.

Cleo clamped her lips together to keep from crying out. She compacted her neck, dipped her head, and tried to turtle into her shoulders—anything to stop the pain—but his hold was unrelenting.

“Your feral brethren might get off on biting and scratching, but we civilized folk prefer our women docile.” Cleo drove her bare heels into the ground against the pain but couldn’t prevent her eyes from welling with tears. With a final jerk that she thought would rip the back of her scalp off, he loosened his hold but didn’t release her. “Your momma should have taught you better manners.”

“My mother is dead,
shithead
, so kindly keep her name off your filthy lips.”

“Dead, eh?” That bark again, like it pleased him to know she suffered pain in her life. He stood abruptly, using the back of her neck as leverage to push himself up. She braced herself so she wouldn’t fall off the log. The last thing she wanted was to be lying on the ground, giving him more ideas. “I thought you savages were supposed to be invincible.” He spat, missing her foot by less than an inch. “What got her? Polar grizzly, rabid badger?”

“Nothing in the Taiga could have touched my mother. It was you bastards,” she screamed. “Achan Cade killed my mother!”

Trevayne’s eyes went wide before he began cackling like he’d heard the best joke in the world. He took a few steps back, slapping his knee as he went.

Cleo tried to control her breathing as hysteria bubbled beneath the surface.
Focus, focus, focus,
her mind chanted. She let him crack her tough veneer, damn him to hell, to the point she wanted to sink her teeth into his jugular.

His laughter stopped abruptly and he wiped the spittle from around his lips with the back of his sleeve. Black eyes glinting like a rabid fox, he turned to her. “Does Libra know?”

She squinted. “Know what?”

“About your dead momma.”

Cleo’s senses vibrated. Why would Trevayne ask such a question? “What does that have to do with anything?”

“That depends. What do you know about Libra?”

She clamped her lips again, unwilling to play with him, unwilling to show him how much the topic of Libra affected her. How stupid to let him rile her, stupider to let him get information about her.

Don’t trust outsiders.

Okay Lewin, alright already! You were right. I’m an idiot fool.

Trevayne, clearly amused, asked again, “What lies did your lover whisper in your filthy ear while he fucked you?”

Cleo cut her eyes and remained mum.

“You know nothing,” he laughed. “Nothing! I gotta give the boy credit,” he said, rubbing his hands together, the smear of blood across the back of his hand forgotten. “This is almost too good to be true.” He shook the tin and popped another candy.

He started to walk away but changed his mind and took a step in front of her. Trevayne reached into the flap on the front of his trousers and pulled out his cock.

Please God, no. Not like this.

If she could just lean back far enough and maintain her balance, she might be able to lift her legs and kick out, catch him in the gut. As her mind ticked through her options, Trevayne aimed a stream of urine at her toes.

Recoiling in disgust, Cleo lost her balance and fell backward off the log. She landed on her shoulder blades, her head banging onto the uneven ground, ripping the scab off her previous wound, the one she earned heading the other guy in the mouth. Her grunt was followed by more of Trevayne’s sick cackling as he emptied his bladder against the log.

Cleo squirmed for a better position, but her arms were trapped beneath her, unable to give any leverage while her legs stayed suspended uselessly above. She whimpered in frustration, fighting for some kind of leverage.

Get up! Get up before the sick zhang-lover crawls on top!!

On her back, she pulled her knees into her chest and rocked. The pain in her arms and shoulders made her eyes sting, but she worked up enough momentum to roll forward into a crouch. Unfortunately, the uneven ground and inability to use her arms for balance worked against her and she tipped sideways.

“What’s a matter, Petal?” he said, tucking the short, blunt tool back in his pants. “Hurt yourself?”

Now what? She was helpless, and she hated being helpless.

She heard the crunch of his footsteps as he rounded the fallen tree. Again, she rolled onto her back, pulled her knees and rocked forward, this time landing on the balls of her feet. She was halfway to standing, struggling for balance when he got to her.

“You’re an agile little creature, I’ll give you that. But what happens if I do this?” He drew back his fist, but with her hands behind her back, Cleo could do nothing to evade his blow. She braced best she could, tried to turn to deflect the punch, but when his fist landed smack into her gut, Cleo buckled, lost her balance and her breath, and reeled back.

She lay stunned, her body vibrating with pain as she curled into a fetal position. Her head rang with his laughter…and something else. Somebody called her name.

“Cleo!” Libra crashed through the brush on a solar board.  She never imagined she’d be so grateful to hear the sound of anyone’s voice, let alone the bastard who got her here.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he yelled, presumably at Trevayne, and leapt over the log into her sight lines. He dropped down and scooped her into his arms.

“You okay, darlin’?” he asked, pressing his lips into her hair. She groaned as he jostled her into position and lifted her back onto the log. His hands were everywhere at once—palming the side of her throbbing face, picking leaves out of her hair, running his fingers up and down her bare arms. “Did he hurt you? Why is your face bleeding? What happened to your shirt?”

Without waiting for her to answer any one of his questions, he turned to Trevayne, a knife magically appearing in his hand.

Cleo recognized it immediately. Short handled, double edged, perfectly weighted: it was a Taiga throwing knife.

“Talk fast, Trevayne, unless you want this between your eyes.”

“Settle down, Petal, your whore is unblemished.” Trevayne said and took two paces forward. He didn’t even have the decency to look contrite in the face of Libra’s blade. On the contrary, mischief danced around his eyes. “We were just having a chat, the missus and me,” he said and winked at Cleo. “Getting better acquainted. Weren’t we?”

Cleo shivered. She regretted sleeping with Libra, regretted trusting him, but at the moment, he was the closest thing she had to an ally and he didn’t intend to harm her or let her be harmed. While allied with the enemy, it was clear he didn’t understand how dangerous or unpredictable Trevayne could be.

“Libra,” she whispered, hoping he’d interpret her warning.

Trevayne misunderstood. “Aw, how precious. She thinks you’ve come to save her, rescue her like some kind of hero.” He glanced back and forth between them, looking sickly gleeful.

Cleo had a bad feeling. A very bad feeling. Whatever was coming next, she wasn’t sure she wanted any part of it. In fact, she wished, more than anything, she was back in the river, about to go over the falls. She wanted a do-over, even if it meant staying dead.

“You two seem to be awful close considering you’ve not been formally introduced.” His voice dripped with venom, drawing out each word, emphasizing each syllable. “Miz Cleo Rush, allow me to introduce Mister Libra Cade
,
Achan’s one and only beloved grandson.”