Flawed (13 page)

“I will have them bring inferiors from a camp. They should be sufficient in cleaning the area, instead of hired workers wasting time with such a miniscule task.”

Heat warmed Aalexis’ fingers. She looked down and noticed how close her brother’s hand was to hers, resting next to the keyboard. She moved away. Something, indeed, was happening to her. She glanced at Xaver, but he was studying the computer screen again.

Maybe she needed to train? Maybe that was the cause of the strangeness she’d been feeling. It made sense. Aalexis hadn’t had the luxury of physical exercise and practicing her techniques since Ellyssa had destroyed their home. She harbored pent-up energy. Just the thought of releasing the tension made Aalexis feel better.

“I want another building erected for us to train.”

“I think that is a good idea,” Xaver stated. “We must maintain our physical performance. I will instruct the foreman.”

He clicked another folder marked
Subject 71
. A picture of Xaver’s DNA crossed the screen. A section of the genetic code set apart from rest of the structure, showing the exact location of his gift.

As Aalexis watched her father, she started to simplify his techniques. There were many steps he could’ve bypassed if he’d only understood the workings of molecular structures, the way they moved, the energy they held.

Aalexis’ brain whirled with the mechanics.

Ellyssa stared in awe at her reflection in the dresser mirror. Trista had been right.

BAM!

Her eyes appeared even more blue—a darker blue—than usual, like the sky just before the sun disappeared behind the horizon. And Trista had fixed her hair so the blonde cascaded over her shoulders, like silken thread.

“I told you,” Trista said. “Didn’t I tell you?”

Dumbfounded, Ellyssa nodded.

The blue cardigan hugged her curves in all the right places and overlapped across her chest, where cleavage peeked shyly. A black belt secured the sweater on the right side. The dark jeans were slim-fitted and clung to her legs.

After all the years dressed in uniforms, drab and colorless, civilian clothes seemed almost sacrilegious. Everything within Ellyssa felt disjointed, so unlike her. But she liked it. A lot. Funny how something as insignificant as clothing could make such a difference in appearance. In a weird way, Ellyssa felt freed, as if this small change separated her further from the monster her father had tried to create.

“Now,” Trista said, “go like this.”

Ellyssa pulled her eyes away from the mirror and glanced at Trista. Her friend stood there with a gaped mouth and rounded eyes, all serious. She tried to mimic Trista, but Ellyssa’s mouth kept curving in to a hopeless smile. She couldn’t help it; Trista’s expression was ridiculous.

“Come on, now. Haven’t you ever worn lipstick?”

“Once,” she answered, her memories shifting to the night when she’d escaped from The Center.

“I know what you mean. Makeup hasn’t been a top priority, living underground. We better enjoy it while we can. So, go like this.” Trista opened her mouth again.

Struggling to keep a straight face, Ellyssa did as instructed, and Trista applied the cosmetic.

“Now, go like this.” Her friend rubbed her lips together, that made a popping noise when they separated.

Ellyssa copied the action.

“Now this.” Trista puckered her lips together and made a smooching sound.

Ellyssa cocked an eyebrow, but did as requested.

Trista started laughing. “I’m just messing with you.”

Chagrin colored Ellyssa’s cheeks. “Oh.”

“Now look.”

At a glance in the mirror, red colored a pouty appeal on Ellyssa’s lips. Trista peeked over her shoulder.

“You’re beautiful.”

Ellyssa blushed again. “You, too.” She faced her friend. “Thank you for the clothes.”

Beaming, Trista placed the lipstick back on the dresser, and then crawled onto the four-poster bed. She sat with her legs crossed beneath her. “So,” she said, her hand running across the violet bedspread, “you and Rein, huh?”

Ellyssa couldn’t help the sappy grin that seeped onto her face. “Yeah.”

“I knew something was up between the two of you before…well, you know. He’s a great guy.”

She remembered the last time Trista and she had shared in “girl-talk,” what seemed like ages ago. Ellyssa had enjoyed it, the normality, even with the danger that had lurked in the form of her father. Much had changed since then; danger still lurked, her adopted family lay within a earthen tomb, and the others were missing. Ellyssa pushed away the sadness that threatened to storm within her.

“I think so, too,” Ellyssa said, sitting across from her. “You and Dyllon?”

Pulling a throw pillow onto her lap, Trista didn’t answer right away. After a moment, she met Ellyssa’s eyes. “I know it’s silly; we just met, but I think I love him.”

Ellyssa didn’t know what to say. Should she congratulate her or condemn her? “Really?”

“Yeah. We’ve been through a lot together. I know you don’t understand,” she said, fiddling with the thick fringe on the pillow.

Trista was wrong about that. Ellyssa understood completely. That didn’t make her feel any more comfortable, though. She liked talking to Trista, but words still failed her. “Um…”

Trista’s hand shot out and grabbed Ellyssa’s wrist. “Please, don’t say anything to Rein or Woody. Not yet. I just don’t want to hear it.”

Ellyssa gazed into Trista’s pleading eyes, the blue filled with apprehension. She couldn’t blame her, but then again, Ellyssa could understand Woody and Rein’s point of view. Dyllon had helped the detective. Whether or not the captain felt sorrow for his act now made no difference. Especially in Rein’s eyes.

“Promise me.”

“Okay.”

A small smile flicked across Trista’s lips. “Thank you.”

“They’re going to figure it out soon enough.”

“I know. But I’m tired of arguing with them. Mostly because, no matter what they say, I’m going to do what I want. So arguing is pointless, right?”

Ellyssa nodded.

Trista’s smile brightening, she glanced at the clock. The first number flicked from two to three. “He should be here soon.” Then, in true Trista style, her face shifted from happiness to questioning. Her brows met at the bridge of her nose. “You don’t really think he’d betray us, do you?”

Ellyssa shrugged. “It’s impossible to tell, but as of yesterday, there was nothing to indicate betrayal. Dyllon was sincere in everything he said.”

“I thought so,” Trista said, the smile on her face again.

As if on cue, from the kitchen, Ellyssa heard Sarah greet the yellow-haired male.

Gripping the edges of the metal sink bolted to the concrete blocks, Mathew stuck his head under the lukewarm, discolored stream coming from the rusty faucet. The water hit the crown and ran over the rest of his head, disappearing down the drain with a swirling sucking sound.

On more than one occasion, Mathew had performed this part of his regular routine and been greeted by a large roach crawling from the pipe. His gaze stayed locked on the gaping hole, just in case one decided to surprise him. How he hated the six-legged creatures, along with everything else in the living hell he now endured.

Mathew lifted his head and met his reflection in the lackluster excuse for a mirror. It, too, was made out of the same material as the sink, bolted to the wall, no glass to break off and end miserable existences. No, the commanders of such camps didn’t want to be deprived of the joy of torture, of ending those miserable existences themselves.

Since Mathew had arrived, he must’ve lost at least thirty pounds. His cheekbones jutted from his face and the sides were sunken in, skull-like. Thin, cracked lips sliced a grim line.

He flinched from the distorted image staring at him with sunken eyes, the light brown dull and gaunt. Lifeless. No hint of the warmth or humor that once lived within the depths. It scared him to look into those dead eyes, knowing they belonged to him, but he forced his lids back and met the stranger in the reflection. Nothing more than a shadow of his previous self, his spirit on the verge of breaking.

There were times in the abandoned coal mine when food had been scarce, but Mathew would happily return to those times now. The pangs he experienced here gnawed constantly at his midsection as if trying to devour the lining of his stomach.

His head looked huge on his skinny neck and overly defined collarbone, like the bobble-head doll one of the group members had found during a food raid.

A slight pull tugged at Mathew’s lips, reminiscent of a smile, as he remembered how happy the young boy—
what was his name? Darrel?
—Darrel had been when his father had given the toy to him.

It bothered him how hard names were to recall once in a while. Fading memories of better times. And, of course, Darrel was no longer.

Running his hand over his newly buzzed cut, the stubble rough against his fingers, Mathew rubbed the water away vigorously as he turned around. Fifty bunk beds, with filthy, stained mattresses so thin the springs poked through, lined the grey concrete walls. Forty-two mattresses were occupied, thirty-one by members of his family; the other eleven had already been there. Originally, there had been fifteen other occupants; four had been incinerated since Mathew’s arrival.

Their misery was over.

Mathew assumed the female barracks held no special amenities and looked the same. Since the day they’d emerged from the bus, he hadn’t seen any of the women. The guards kept them separated, divided by a four-meter concrete wall, dividing the old military base in half. He didn’t know if any of them were alive, and didn’t dwell on something he couldn’t control.

He had to cope.

A chill wracked Mathew’s body, originating from his toes and hitting his spine, probably from his cold head and the damp collar of his striped pyjamas. The barracks were drafty, icy air creeping in under the door and oozing through the porous cement. Needing to warm up, he walked over to the small potbelly stove.

Getting sick wasn’t an option. With immunization against viruses, such as the common cold, disease really was a thing of the past for regular society, but not so for Renegades. They didn’t have that luxury. Regardless of the threat of ailment, the prisoners were forced to work in the freezing cold until their legs crumpled.

Mathew laughed out loud, the sound more cackle-like than a real laugh.

After the hell the mini-version of Ellyssa had dragged Mathew through, worry over becoming ill seemed insignificant. The faux flames that had licked his insides, the constant burn, was beyond intense. He’d passed out more than once, his body’s defense mechanism. Even after the true pain diminished, phantom fire, scorched into the memory of his brain, would shoot through his body if he thought about it too long.

“What’s so funny?” Eric asked, drawing Mathew from his thoughts.

Mathew glanced over at the former councilmember, back when they’d actually had a council. His old friend clapped him weakly on the back. Light from the dim, buzzing fluorescents shone on his caramel bald head, the light brown stubble of his hair lost within the color. His skin pulled across his bony skeleton, and his prison attire swallowed his thin frame.

Mathew scanned the other inmates, the undesirables, shuffling from one place to the other or lying on top of the thin mattresses, like lifeless lumps. Misery hung over their heads, like ominous clouds of doom.

They all looked alike—same clothes, same buzzed head, same hollowed expression, same ghoulish lumber. If not for the differing hues of skin color, they’d be carbon copies of each other. Dehumanizing effect. More efficient to file them into the camp, then out to the incinerator.

If Mathew didn’t stop it, he was going to take a ride on the train to crazy town, first class.

“Nothing,” Mathew finally replied. “There isn’t one damn thing funny.”

Eric nodded in understanding, looking down at his feet. “You know,” he said, “you can’t let them win. If you do, then it’s over for all of us.”

For some unforeseen reason, the survivors of the group looked up to Mathew, as if he were the unsung leader of the dead-man brigade. That strange laugh bubbled in the back of his throat; Mathew swallowed it back down. Good God, he already had purchased the crazy ticket.

Mathew was definitely in no shape to be some form of spokesman.

The true leader, Jordan, lay in a grave back in Missouri; one candidate had been captured, the other had left to save him with Ellyssa. Mathew wondered if any of them were still alive.

“I never asked for this. Let someone else have the honor.”

“They look up to you.” Eric lifted his head and met Mathew’s eyes before he turned and dragged his ragged body back to his bunk.

Eric was right. Whether Mathew wanted the honor or not, the responsibility burdened his shoulders. It was one thing to give up on himself, but to drag everyone else with him was more than his conscience could handle. If Mathew didn’t pull out of this funk that threatened to swallow him, he’d never make it. And if he didn’t make, a lot of the others would give up hope too.

Mathew rubbed his face with the palms of his hands, trying to scrub away the despair. He couldn’t let hope slip through his fingers, not of his own accord. If he was to die in this desolate place, it’d be by the enemies’ hands.