Ruin Read online

  "They got to someone," he says. "Or they had someone planted."

  Air flows back to me from his open window, shoving my hair around. I'm thankful for the fresh air. It dries my eyes and gives me something else to focus on other than their voices quietly conspiring. Out the window I can see nothing but hills in the distance. From everything I learned about The Wildlands in school, this isn't what I had expected.

  A tingle along the nape of my neck draws my attention back to the car. Things are quiet again, but in the side mirror there are a pair of clear gray eyes watching me that don't turn away when I notice them. He looks slightly annoyed, brows drawn and eyes hardened as if he's expecting that this won't go well.

  "So are you going to tell us your name?" He says without turning back.

  "Paula." It's been hours since I last spoke. My throat is dry, and so the word comes out as little more than a constricted croak.

  "What?" He says, this time turning towards the open window so that his ear faces me.

  "Paula."

  "Ah." He turns to the other man and repeats it to him for me in a quiet voice. They don't say anything after that though. They don't even offer me their names in trade, and I find I can't ask them.

  Gray Eyes looks at me again in the side mirror. When I catch his eyes, he says, "You might as well sleep. We've got a while before we get there."

  I don't really think I can, but I nod and lay my head on the bag as best I can and close my eyes so I at least look like I'm trying. But it doesn't take long before my eyes open again of their own accord. I don't even realize it at first. I just sit there watching the hills in the distance as we drive, the three of us quiet in the car.

  Two

  In school they said that the Wildlands were nothing but dead grass and broken buildings, yet leisurely rolling beside us are the green hills with large wild trees growing thickly. We drive on a crumbling road with tall grass and wild plants growing out of the sides. Some of the plants even grow on the road in places.

  The rough canvas of the duffel rubs at my cheek every time we hit a bump in the road. Other than plants growing in abundance, I don't see any other sign of life. The way school made it sound, the entire territory had been populated with cities that had been decimated when the Experiments from the labs took over in the Revolution.

  I shiver. The man who's driving the car is older than most of my teachers. He's older than my mother which means that he's probably one of them. He's an Experiment.

  They say that the people who were experimented on in the labs have powers. Some hidden potential was unlocked when the people here were experimented on. It was how they were able to revolt thirty years ago and cause the Revolution that destroyed this land and created the Wildlands.

  I glance ahead at the younger man leaning back in his chair. In the side view mirror, I can see his eyes closed, but he doesn't seem to actually be asleep. The planes of his face are smooth, making him look younger than he appeared in the judgment room. If the older man is an Experiment, then he's old enough to be the child of an Experiment, so he probably has powers too.

  The younger man opens his eyes narrowly. With his head tilted back, he doesn't have to open his eyes much to see ahead. His hands are folded over his chest.

  The older man's voice scratches out the question, “You're awake?”

  "I'm not asleep." The younger one says, unmoving, his eyes staring forward.

  "Good. We're close."

  Their voices are quiet, but it's impossible to not hear. My stomach clenches again, painfully pulling on my insides. In the hazy distance, I can see the shadows of tall buildings against the sky.

  There's movement in the front seat. The side view mirror shows a glimpse of elbow and forearm as the younger man slides his arms into his shirt and then leans forward to shove it off his stomach. As the shirt goes over his head, I see a dark skull staring back at me on the pale skin of his back. It's surrounded by an intricate design that reminds me of flames.

  I can't help staring at him as he tosses the shirt to the floor and sits back in the chair. The light from the sun bounces off his skin and seems to get absorbed by my cheeks. I notice the scars on his arms. Some are faded with age while others are newer, discolored smears on his lightly tanned skin. There's no pattern to them. They are even on his shoulders, but I notice very few on what I can see of his back. The first thought in my head is that he's a fighter. It's said that's how they live in the Wildlands-- they fight. He's gotten in enough fights to have scars and lived to tell about it.

  He sits up as we get closer to the buildings and runs a hand through his silky brown hair. "You think they'll want her?"

  I peek around the duffel. The older man sits in his seat without saying a word though the younger one has his eyes on him. He grips the wheel, his small eyes narrowed as he looks ahead. The younger one sighs before turning back to face the front.

  It doesn't take long before we're at the city line. The buildings rise high into the air, but not wanting to get even closer to the window, I don't follow them up to the sky. Instead, I just watch as we drive past them. On the first floor, most of the buildings have broken windows with shards still hanging in the frame. The paint is peeling from the exterior, and in a few cases I can see plants growing from the inside, their limbs poking through the broken windows.

  My grip on the duffel loosens. This is what they had talked about in school. It's been thirty years since the Revolution when the people who were experimented on broke free and over ran the land. The last reminders of civilization are crumbling buildings that have been abused by the local residents. Some of the buildings have writing scrawled on them and then writing scrawled over that, both faded with time and exposure to sunlight so that whatever they said isn't legible anymore. There are a few buildings that look like there were fires set on the inside. The scorch marks from the flames mar the windows frames and the walls making the room look even blacker on the inside.

  Gray Eyes catches me again in the mirror. There is a dangerous sharpness to his eyes. "Get down. You look like a stray."

  "Down?" His words directed at me completely confuse me for a moment.

  "Lay across the back." There's impatience in his voice that reminds me of the way he grabbed me earlier, practically shoving me into the car.

  I do as he's told me, laying the duffel on the floor and then stretching out across the back seat and putting my head on my arms. My stomach still tugs, but now it's tugging sideways. I pull my legs up. Gray Eyes glances back at me directly without the grimy mirror as our filter, and I freeze in the spot. He is handsome. None of the scars on his body are on his face, and he looks young though I can tell he's definitely older than me. But his eyes are cold. Maybe it's because of the color. There is just something that is lacking in them.

  And then the car slows to a stop. The older man sighs halfway in annoyance. For half a second he looks like he's going to get up, but it's the younger man who swings his door open. "I'll do it."

  I almost lift my head, but the older man grunts at me. "Stay down."

  With a nod, I press myself against the seat and listen. Not far off I can hear voices, though it's difficult to tell what's being said. One voice I think I recognize as Gray Eyes rings clear over the others. It speaks with some authority and annoyance. But there are others, desperation and anger clear in their voices.

  The older man watches with his hands on the steering wheel. He sits still like that for a minute before he utters under his breath, "Stupid."

  "There's your meat," I hear Gray Eyes say as he comes closer to us. The sudden silence swells in my ears, filling the car like heavy air pressing down on my lungs. Though I didn't see it, I know something bad has happened. I can feel the shift in the air.

  Grey Eyes comes back to the car, a knife in his hands that he carries low by his leg. When he sits down, he grabs the shirt from the floor and uses it to wipe the knife down quickly before it disappears again somewhere on his person. The shirt gets dropped to
the floor again. Still I catch the red gashed across it from the knife.

  I cover my face with my hands and turn towards the seat, the tip of my nose touching the faded fabric. My hair falls over my hand and my face, one extra small barrier that helps me not see. But inside my chest, my heart thuds against bone.

  The car has already started moving. We drive past the crowd with their words still simmering angrily.

  The younger man speaks quietly. “I had to. We should probably take care of the rest later. It's starting to become a problem."

  "Not now."

  I peek through my hair and my fingers at the younger man. He leans back with a sigh going to his earlier position. His eyes partially closed his hands over his stomach. From my spot I can see him clearer. Well-muscled, plenty of scars across his front, and a tattoo across his back-- he's exactly the sort of person we were warned about. He's obviously one of those people who, with or without powers, fights for survival. We've talked about these people in school. They band together to form tribes and then fight to kill over territory, food, water. They're the kind of people who wouldn't feel anything at killing another. They enjoy it.

  My fingers press my eyes shut and I curl up tighter, not wanting to look at him any closer.

  "All right, we're here." The older man shuts the car off as he grunts out the words.

  The younger man is already getting out of the car, grabbing his shirt to take with him. As I sit up, I catch his eyes again. They look colder, a quiet threat. These people hate Neutrals-- especially tribe members. It's why we need guards with guns and barbed wire at our borders, because they wouldn't hesitate to kill us if they were given the chance.

  It doesn't take much thought to realize that I need to avoid this man.

  The older man stands up and then turns to pull the lever on the seat. It shoots forward, and I come out carefully. Under my feet there's more broken pavement with short grass growing up through the cracks. I tug on my duffel bag, sliding it along the seat to me before I lift it up and out of the car.

  There are people standing around, many of them staring at us. I try not to meet their eyes, scared of what I'll see. But then I hear the younger man swear out loud. He stands by the back of the car, still with his shirt in his hand.

  “Not Brandon." He turns his gaze on the older man behind me, his narrowed eyes reminding me of a knife.

  The older man feels close to me. I don't look back at him, but I can almost feel him standing close behind me. "You know he's the best choice."

  The younger man clenches his teeth together like he's biting on his tongue. It's a look that makes my stomach go crazy, and I sway ever so slightly, almost bumping into the older one behind me.

  The people stand around, some sitting on old picnic tables and others sitting on old chairs around unlit fire pits. They are nothing like the people back home. There's a weary look to everyone here. Their clothes are faded and distressed, but not without care. Most of the women are covered up enough, but their tattoos still show across their backs. Large dark skulls stare from the backs of those who don't turn around. I notice that some tattoos are larger than others. Designs float around the skulls, twining like tongues of fire.

  A couple of the people move and I catch a few smiles on some faces as people greet the man who walks directly toward us. His blue eyes scan the small group of us waiting by the car and when he sees the younger man leaning against the car with his arms crossed over his chest he grins. But once he's up close and his eyes fall on me, his smile warms. "Hey. You must be Paula." He's sounds very sure on it, and yet still asking me more out of politeness than anything else.

  It's hard enough to face so much direct attention, so I'm glad he doesn't reach his hand out to me. I just nod while holding onto my duffel bag.

  The older man clears his throat. "Brandon's going to take you while we get to the bottom of this." His last few words jumble together, tumbling over each other as they fight to escape. He doesn't shove me towards Brandon, but he might as well. I'm trapped with nowhere else to go.

  Brandon reaches a hand out, lifting it from his side and pointing at my duffel bag. "I'll take it for you. We've gotta walk upstairs. You're probably tired."

  My entire body buzzes. The first instinct is the one that pushes my words out. "No, I've got it."

  I can see his brows raise, his hand slowly reaches for my bag. "Trust me," he says as his small smile crinkles his eyes. I let go of the bag as he slings it over his shoulder. Then he looks at the other two. "I guess you two already have things to do."

  The older man sighs again. "I'll fill you in later."

  The younger man pushes off the back of the car and walks past Brandon. He gives him a light shove. "Just don't get attached." Then he walks off into the crowd.

  Brandon seems to mostly ignore him, though tension creeps into his brow for a moment before he turns back to me with a sparkle in his eyes and the hint of a smile on his lips. "Well, we should go. You must be hungry."

  I nod. Gravel and dried grass crunch under my feet as I step over to him and we start walking through the crowd and away from the older man. I try not to stare, but I do catch a couple of eyes and quickly turn away. Brandon holds his head up, meeting the glares of the others. They seem to turn away when he looks directly at them.

  I hear the engine of the old car start before I see it. We're on the first balcony when he backs up and pulls away. Even though I don't even know his name, I can't help feeling like I've lost my last link to the Neutral Territory. My heart tugs at my chest like it's trying to follow along, but we have nowhere to go. I certainly can't go back so I continue walking up the stairs behind Brandon.

  Three

  We walk up three flights of shaky steps. There isn't enough room for us to walk side by side, so Brandon walks in front of me, the duffel bag in his hand which he holds about level with his waist. His shoes make loud thumping noises against the thin concrete steps. The rusty rails vibrate under the palms of my hands with each step he takes.

  The third floor is the top. I pause for a second and take in the view. Buildings stretch into the distance. The afternoon light reflects off of them, most that same pale white color. The groups mill about out front still; most of them haven't even changed their position.

  Brandon stands in front of a door near the stairs. It's the apartment on the corner. He opens the door for me and lets me walk in first. "I don't know what you're used to, but I know this can't compare." His voice is gentle as he walks in after me and shuts the door quietly.

  I press my lips together as I survey the main room. It's a small apartment. The kitchen and the main room are connected. Really the only thing separating them is the small kitchen island. The rest of the apartment is sparse. The white walls are completely bare, and the furniture is old and well used. By the front door sits a small breakfast nook type table with a couple of mismatched chairs pulled up to it. A little further in there is an old couch and a small table.

  Brandon steps past me with my bag and heads to the door at the other end of the small room. When he opens the door, I catch a glimpse of a bed made with old blankets. He drops my bag on the bed before he turns around and comes back.

  My stomach grumbles, but I'm not quite sure what to say. I just met him, and my head is still swimming.

  “You must be hungry.” He smiles as he motions for me to have a seat at the table. "I'll make us some sandwiches."

  I nod. The seat I take creaks and wiggles as I watch him in the kitchen. Brandon gathers plates, a loaf of bread, and a knife. He turns around and opens the fridge to take out a small jar of spread. In the quick glimpse I get of the darkened shelves, I can see he's using it as a pantry to stock cans and jars.

  I take another glance around the room taking stock of the electrical outlets. All of them are completely bare against the wall. Not a single thing is plugged in. Sitting on one of the tables near the couch, I notice the lamp. It has a knit rope through it with one end soaking up oil from the base. One
end is burned.

  They don't have electricity. Do they even have working plumbing?

  Brandon glances up at me as he puts the sandwiches together. “Don't worry. We do have working toilets.” His eyes twinkle when I turn to look at him. “You just had that look.”

  He steps around the kitchen island and hands me a plate with the sandwich on it before he steps back to grab a cup and a jug of clear liquid. “Water. We've got running water, but I wouldn't suggest drinking it.”

  "Thank you," I say as I accept the plate from him.

  "So you do speak." He grins at me.

  I look away from his bright eyes. He doesn't look that old, but I know he's older than me. Though there are no lines on the pale skin of his face, his hands and neck are thicker than the boys I went to school with. He's not that much older than me. I'd guess probably in his early twenties.

  "Sorry." The word slips out even as I don't look at him. "It's just..." My throat tightens and the words stop.

  He takes a bite of his sandwich and nods. “S'okay. I know.” Oddly, it does seem as if he understands. “After you eat, you should get some rest.”

  I nod as I reach for my sandwich. My hand feels heavy. The fingers sink into the soft bread before I've even picked it up.

  In the small bedroom, I lay on the bed under the covers. Brandon had suggested I do whatever I need to get comfortable. He said I could stay in the bedroom for as long as I want.

  My stomach twists some more, not in hunger, but with the complete wrongness of this entire situation. Under the covers, my jeans and shirt feel thick and make it difficult to move freely. The pillow is cold and unfamiliar. A light musky scent tickles my nose through the clean pillow case.

  Wildlanders are savages. Since the Revolution, they've had to live that way. They fight to survive. I wasn't expecting to see an apartment with furniture and a bed.

  People are talking and laughing in the alley behind the building. I don't dare look. What little I've seen has been enough. I didn't know what to expect. In school, they don't prepare you for banishment. A good Neutral wouldn't be banished.