Ashes of Hope Page 2

  Gravel crunches in the distance. My whole body starts to shake as I imagine the vehicles turning off the road and driving up the hill. The rumble of engines approaches the house and a brief yet burning desire shoots through me to run outside and throw myself into their arms, hoping for rescue. But that would be foolish—suicidal, even.

  Eat or be eaten.

  That is the only reality left in our world, and the only people who would have access to working vehicles are those who have fought and killed for them. To these men I’d be nothing but fresh meat, in every sense of the word.

  The screech and bang of car doors opening and shutting mixes with the sound of voices calling out to each other. With bated breath, I wait for the screams that mean my master has attacked. But there is no din of panic or slaughter. Perhaps he’s considering the best way to strike without getting shot? I know one or two bullets won’t kill him―I’ve seen him get shot before with no visible effect―but what would a hail of hot lead do?

  The sound of voices grows closer, and I jump at the thud of booted feet mounting the wooden porch. The front door creaks and someone enters the house, moving right past my hiding place. My limbs start to tremble, and I resist the primal instinct to flee. Barely daring to breathe, I bite down hard on my lip—the pain helps me focus. I have to trust. I have to wait. My master will get rid of them, I know he will. He’s just biding his time and letting them separate.

  A sudden scream and a burst of automatic gunfire from outside makes me jump again, and I choke back a whimper. Instead of feeling relieved at the sound of destruction outside, the fear in my gut grows. It stabs through me as it claws its way up my throat and tries to choke me. We have never faced machine guns before, nor encountered any group organized enough to have a fleet of vehicles. If my protector—my sole chance of survival—is killed, my fate will be horrible. At best, I’ll die of thirst within a week, too weak to forage on my own in this barren wilderness. More likely, though, these men will find me.

  If I’m very, very lucky … they’ll kill me quickly.

  Even as these desperate thoughts swirl in my head, the automatic fire continues in bursts and harsh voices yell out to each other. I hear the sound of running feet, their pounding footfalls muffled by the ash. There is another scream, abruptly cut off by a sickening sound of tearing flesh, but even as the sounds register in my brain, everything is drowned out by a virtual explosion of gunfire from many different weapons at once. A primordial bellow of rage and pain rises above the cacophony, but fades again just as quickly. I clamp both hands over my mouth, unable to hold back my near-hysterical sobs of fear while I try not to think about my master’s fate.

  Slowly, the gunfire peters out until the only sound left is the soft mutter of voices, cursing and debating their next move.

  The sudden scrape of a boot on the wood floor right outside my closet makes me jerk back with a startled cry. Though muffled, the sound is clearly audible in the relative silence, and hinges scream as the door to my closet is wrenched open. A hulking shadow silhouetted by the gray light looms over me, and I try desperately to scramble away.

  But there is nowhere to go.

  I don’t fight as the man drags me from my hiding place and out the front door. It would be less than useless, and I have no strength to spare. All of my energy is focused on not falling into a panic as I crane my neck, looking desperately to discover what has happened to my master. There are two men splayed in the thick layer of ash outside, one with his head twisted horribly to the side and the other with no head at all. Already, other men are picking the corpses clean of clothing and equipment inside a protective circle of a half-dozen guards, their forbidding machine guns pointing outward in all directions.

  The absence of my master’s body lying in the ash sends a tiny trickle of calm through me, enough to stave off the panic, at least for now.

  The man holding me drags me to the nearest vehicle, where their leader stands. His status is obvious by the lack of tears in his clothes and relative health and strength in his intimidating posture. His face is composed, but its calmness only emphasizes the mad gleam in his black eyes. Both he and my captor reek of unwashed bodies and the nauseating stench of rancid meat.

  All eyes in the group are drawn to me as we come to a stop, and there is undisguised lust in every face. But the leader gives a bark of command and the men reluctantly go back to their tasks. When his eyes turn to me, I squeeze my own shut, unable to look into the face of this monster and still hold down my panic. Already my heart is beating so wildly I’m close to fainting. As rough hands make quick exploration of my body, I detach myself from reality, thinking desperately for some way to end my life and escape this horror.

  I am jerked from my mental refuge when a huge, calloused hand grips me by the back of my neck and spins me around. My eyes pop open as the leader hauls me back in the direction of the house. We come to a stop several paces away from the now naked corpses of his fallen men. While he shouts orders for his remaining forces to form a defensive circle, my eyes dart about, searching for any sign of movement outside the band of scavengers. Where is my master? Is he hurt? Or did he flee, deciding it was better to cut his losses and find better prospects elsewhere? My desperate hope that he will save me wars with a wild desire to fight these monsters myself—until they are forced to shoot me, or until my weak heart gives out and releases me from my suffering.

  The cold, hard feel of a muzzle pressed against the side of my head puts a stop to my racing thoughts. The leader yells out into the silence, ordering the “thing” to show itself and surrender, or they will kill me and feast on my flesh. As the silence stretches on with no sign of him, resignation fills me, but also a small measure of relief. I tell myself I’m glad my master—my one-time protector—has moved on. At least he will survive. I can find peace knowing I will soon die a clean death. Whatever happens to my body afterward is meaningless.

  But then the leader speaks again, filling the silence with taunting descriptions of what horrors he will inflict on me before he kills me. Bile rises in my throat, not at the leader’s words, but at the nauseating eagerness in his voice. My whole body starts to tremble and shake, and I lose control over my limbs to the point that I would collapse if not for the man’s grip on my neck.

  A shadow detaches from a dip in the farmhouse’s roof and drops to the ground, interrupting the leader’s litany of savagery. The men around us shuffle nervously, but their comander’s confident voice keeps them in place. A dozen weapons are pointed at my master as he slowly approaches. He stops halfway between us and the house. Shadows still cling to him despite the gray light of the morning, as if he had snatched them from the swiftly retreating night and wrapped them around himself like a cloak.

  I can’t see the man holding me up, but I can hear the insane delight in his voice as he praises my master’s strength and ferocity, then offers a place in his band along with food, protection, and my life.

  It is my master’s silence that finally breaks me—the lack of an immediate and unequivocal rejection. I know my own life is over. I know the fragile hope I’ve clung to for so long is nothing now but ash. I know I’ll never find the peace and safety I’ve dreamt still exists, somewhere. But he is strong. He still has a chance, and after all the kindness he has shown me, I can’t let my weakness be his undoing. The life we’ve been forced to live has been horrible, but it would be a million times worse under the thumb of this depraved monster.

  So I fight.

  In an instant my fear turns to crazed fury, and I lash out with every molecule of strength in me, screaming in defiance and challenge. I will force them to shoot me, or so help me I will slaughter them just as my master has.

  My sudden attack takes them all unaware, and nervous fingers already tight on triggers spasm in surprise, filling the air with noise and blazing lead. I’m oblivious to it all, my sole focus being the demon of a man who just described every sick atrocity he looked forward to inflicting on me. I twist from his gri
p and leap, fingers clawing at his face to rip his eyeballs from their sockets.

  But I am weak. So weak. Though the leader drops his gun in his instinctive rush to free his hands and detach me from his face, it takes him little effort to pry me loose. I bite and claw like a rabid animal, leaving bloody gouges across his exposed skin. But in no time he has thrown me off, and even as I lunge again, he backhands me with such force that I’m sent spinning to the ground. My landing stuns me, and I taste coppery blood in my mouth. Dizziness and nausea swell in a wave and force me to stay prone as I gasp desperately for air. I finally notice that the shooting has stopped and now angry voices fill the ringing silence.

  After a time—seconds or minutes, my dizzy brain can’t tell—hands grab me once again and haul me upright. That’s when my vision finally focuses and my eyes land on my master’s still form, his body riddled with dozens of bullet wounds. His face is so torn and bloody that he is barely recognizable.

  Why? Why didn’t he leave me?

  I have no strength left to even scream. Only a broken whimper leaves my lips as they drag me away, and then my body finally gives up and pulls me into unconsciousness.

  * * *

  The sway and bump of a vehicle in motion is the first thing I notice when my senses return. The smell is next—a sour stink of stale sweat mixed with noxious gasoline—then the sounds. Metallic rattling, the muffled hum of an engine, and voices conversing. I don’t open my eyes. I don’t want to know—I don’t want this to be real.

  I want to die.

  Based on the sounds and the ridged surface poking into my back, I assume I’m lying in the back of one of the utility vehicles the men drove up to the house on the hill. The smell of blood and the prickly feel of hairy skin brushing against my hand tells me I’m not alone. I don’t open my eyes to look at the two naked bodies of the men my master killed. The knowledge that they, not I, will feed my captors tonight does not comfort me in the least.

  Despite the noise of travel and my best efforts to escape back into oblivion, I overhear some of the conversation from the front of the vehicle. The men are laughing. Laughing and talking about what they want to do tonight. To me.

  If I wasn’t bound by wrist and ankle, if I wasn’t still dizzy from the blow to my head, if I wasn’t sick with utter fear and despair, I would try to escape.

  But I am.

  So I do the one thing I have the strength and will to do, and try to hum the music box song still vivid in my memory, hoping to drown out the voices. The tune is utterly unrecognizable coming from my parched throat. But it’s something to concentrate on, something to help me forget the burden of my master’s death that is tearing me to shreds from the inside out. My broken melody keeps me company for the miles of rough road the vehicle travels, taking me farther and farther away from the only thing I had left in this cold gray hell.

  Hope.

  * * *

  The band of men make camp in a stand of barren, skeletal trees near the road they’ve been following. Vehicles are circled, tents are pitched, and an enormous bonfire is built. I see it all when they drag me from the back of the vehicle and tie me to the hitch of a single truck in the center of the circle.

  I try not to take any of it in, try not to see, try not to think. But things worm through my defenses anyway: the image of a human leg turning slowly on a spit; the smell of roasting flesh; the sound of fat sizzling in the fire; the taste of juicy meat being shoved between my lips. My stomach cramps in hunger and my limbs tremble with the desire for hot, fresh food. But my body rebels and I vomit all over the man trying to force feed me. He curses and slaps me hard across the face, then storms off. I barely have enough wits to be grateful when he doesn’t come back.

  The men feast and drink late into the night. Several come by to leer at me, but are warned off by the crazy-eyed stare of their leader, who lounges nearby in a worn camp chair. I almost beg them to take me away and make quick work of me—to use me and end me—rather than leave me in the hands of their insane, sadistic leader.

  Almost.

  Finally, the bonfire begins to die down. Men bundle themselves in ragged, ash-smudged blankets and fall asleep. Those left on sentry duty stand outside the circle of cars, invisible save for the dull glint of firelight on the barrels of their weapons.

  The burly leader doesn’t make a move, just sits there and stares at me as he nurses whatever liquid is in his metal flask. I don’t look at him, but every nerve in my body is aware of his presence. Shivers of dread roll through me with increasing frequency until they and the deepening chill combine to make me shake uncontrollably.

  I want to beg him to kill me.

  I would, if I thought it might do me any good. But his cruel, bloodthirsty eyes glinting in the dark assure me it would only make things worse.

  When he finally stands, the light from the fire is nearly gone, and everything has been quiet for some time. I have slumped into a daze, my feeble body no longer capable of staying upright and watchful. But the man’s movement wakes some primal instinct in me, and I sit up. Before I can scramble to my feet, he is there, grabbing the front of my coat and dragging me upright. His alcohol-tainted breath washes over my face and his breathing quickens as he reaches under my shirt with his other hand. I know struggling will only excite him, so I go limp, forcing him to shift awkwardly to hold me up. He curses at me in the darkness, and the frustration in his voice is a tiny respite in the slow butchery of my soul.

  Because I’m trying to focus on anything at all but what is right in front of me, I hear the muffled grunt and soft thump from the vehicle perimeter. Then, there’s another. The third one is accompanied by a cry of alarm, and the fourth not seconds later is almost drowned out by the crack of machine gun fire that splits the night air.

  The men sleeping around the glimmering coals begin to stir, struggling to get out of their blankets and reach their weapons. Their leader releases his hold on me and stands unsteadily, then starts yelling out instructions in slurred speech. From where I lay at his feet, I can see him reach down to his belt. His hand comes back up gripping a pistol, which he holds at the ready as he puts his back to his truck and peers into the darkness. I can make out the crazed grin on his face, a stark contrast to the obvious fear of his men who are clustering in a defensive circle with their backs to the remnants of the fire. When quiet slowly returns and nothing further happens, the leader yells out into the ominous silence, repeating his offer from earlier that day. His words send realization shooting through me and wake me from my shocked stupor. I begin to sob with great heaving breaths, my control utterly broken by the waves of relief and desperation that crash over me.

  My master is alive.

  A shadow flashes past and a man falls, gurgling and clutching his throat. Seven men now remain around the fire. Seconds later another drops, screaming and clutching the spit impaling him through the chest. Six men. The rest begin to panic and shoot blindly into the night while they yell nonsense at each other in their terror.

  A scream.

  Five men.

  A groan.

  Four men.

  The sickening crack of bones.

  Three men.

  As the carnage continues I struggle with what little energy I have left and try to crawl away. But I am still tied to the truck with my hands behind my back, and I’m not coherent enough to seek out the knots. I can only pull feebly at the rope, sobbing uncontrollably.

  The loud thump of a body hitting the leader’s truck hard enough to dent it makes me drop to the ashy ground. I roll over to face this new threat and there, backlit by the ember’s glow, is my master. His eyes burn with a crimson light that seems to emanate from within, casting a hellish glow across the shadowed planes of his face. He is holding that sadistic monster—the band’s leader—up off the ground by the man’s throat. The leader’s mouth is stretched wide in a howl of psychotic laughter, though only a strangled gurgle escapes his lips. He stares his death straight in the eye as my master draws bac
k a fist for the killing blow. The man still has his pistol gripped in one hand, but instead of using it to defend himself, he suddenly rolls his eyes in my direction, aims his gun at me, and pulls the trigger.

  The piercing boom of the shot rings loudly in my ears, and I feel more than hear the thump of a body hitting the ground. It barely registers, however, as icy numbness quickly spreads through me everywhere but for the searing fire blossoming in my shoulder. Then the pain overtakes the shock and forces a feeble groan from my lips.

  My master must have heard the sound of distress, because he’s suddenly there, kneeling beside me. The dark lines of his worried face, marred by uneven, half-healed wounds, swim in my vision. Then he scoops me up, breaking the ropes holding me captive with a simple jerk. My head lolls back over his arm, and I catch a glimpse of our surroundings, of the ground littered with broken and bleeding corpses. My body is screaming with pain, but my mind feels nothing but relief. The euphoria of the moment is so strong after my overwhelming terror that a dazed smile touches my lips. It hovers there for a breath, then is chased away by the throbbing agony pulsing through me.

  With utmost care, my master carries me a short distance and lays me gently down on a pile of blankets. He hurriedly builds up the fire which sends a little warmth through my chilled limbs. I feel him removing layers, bundling cloth, trying to staunch my bleeding, and I wonder vaguely if he will lap up the blood seeping from my shoulder. Then I remember he won’t need to—not with all the men he just killed. My last thought before I pass out is that I’m glad he won’t have to bite me for another few weeks.