Conceived in Blood, A Post-Apocalyptic/Dystopian Novel Page 4

  She fell face first into the dirt.

  Belle tuned it out, disappeared into her memories. The sound of flesh pounding dissolved into her father's laughter. Her mother chopping vegetables fresh from the garden. The girl's sobs disappeared in the crackle of fire as her brothers added wood. A world before the 'Viders found her village.

  Before she'd been offered as tribute.

  "Now stand up."

  Belle blinked at the magic words. The lesson was almost over. She prayed the girl got the message, memorized it. The next one would be worse. Far worse. Although they were enemies, Belle didn't know if she could stand by and do nothing. Which meant, she too would be punished.

  Ann pushed to her hands and knees. Strings of blood drizzled from her mouth. Snot bubbled from her nose.

  "Faster!" Leaning over, he grabbed Ann's hair and jerked.

  She arched her back. Reaching up, she grabbed for the strands imprisoning her.

  "You are nothing but tribute." Batting her hands away, he punched her in the stomach again.

  She drew her left leg up for protection before throwing up blood and a tooth.

  "Say it!"

  "I'm nothing." Ann held her stomach and coughed.

  "Now go get me some meat and don't come back until you have some." He pushed her away.

  Ann stumbled and fell into the dirt. Crying she pushed to her feet and crawled toward the holding pens.

  Belle opened her mouth then snapped it shut. Only two unclaimed tributes remained in the paddock. There would be no meat until tonight and maybe not even then. Since the Turning, the crowning of a new head Provider always followed a Blood and Body supper. Yet, this time might be different.

  "Mirabelle." Her ‘Vider licked the blood off his knuckles.

  Holding her stomach, she hastened to his side. Her heart drummed in her ears and she ran her tongue over her dry lips. She could get through this. Just one more time piled on a lifetime of one more times.

  "Such a weak thing you are." He caressed her cheek, smearing the warmth on her flesh. Moving lower, he fondled her breasts before setting his hand on her stomach. "It is why the 'Viders were given dominion over your kind. To lift the chosen few up to great heights."

  She bit her lip to still any rebellious words. Her father, mother, and brothers hadn't been weak. They were good people, loving people. Gentle people. They did not deserve to be enslaved.

  Tortured.

  Eaten.

  Pinching her chin in his grip, her 'Vider pressed his lips against hers. His slimy tongue slipped into her mouth.

  She fought the urge to gag at his foul taste. Oh God, not this! She'd only managed to survive because 'Viders never kissed.

  He pulled away. His eyes were dilated and his breathing ragged. "Like that? It's called kissing. I shall do it when you please me. Such as when you are carrying my son."

  Saliva pooled in her mouth. Please turn away soon. She needed to spit. Maybe eat some dirt to get rid of the taste.

  He released her and strolled to the fire. With his bare hands, he shoved the lid off the pot and pushed it to the ground. "What have we here?"

  With his back to her, Belle spit and wiped her face with her apron. Gah, she could still smell him.

  He peered inside the pot and frowned. "No meat, I see."

  She shuddered. She never ate meat. Not once she realized her friends, neighbors, and family were being slaughtered and carved up for dinner. The 'Viders considered four-legged animals unclean.

  "If that is not my son in your belly, I will require you eat it at every meal." Leaving the campfire, he joined her by their tent. "I have enough daughters to bind my enemies through blood, I need warriors for our clan."

  Belle wrapped her arms around her belly. She could not give birth to another savage that would destroy and terrorize. This had to be a daughter. "Ann thinks she's pregnant."

  Oh, Lord. She was just as bad as the 'Viders to sacrifice the girl that way.

  He laughed, bass notes in a funeral dirge. "So she said. But it is just as well, I was beginning to tire of her."

  What did that mean? Belle's eyes locked with his.

  "The bitch is good for a time, but she is rabid. Any seed sown in her body would sour and cause discord amongst the 'Viders. I will offer her up for tonight's ceremonial dinner."

  Mother of God! Her pregnancy couldn't protect her from these animals.

  He gathered Belle's hair into a ponytail and wrapped it around his hand. "I think you should weave a new shirt for me with her hair. I do not think you'd want her next to your parents' strands." He stroked the white patch on his left breast before dragging her toward the boulders fifteen minutes walk from camp. "Would you?"

  Tears pricked her nose. "No."

  "Our sons will be given tribute when they return from their hunting party. I shall instruct them to take a female to help you." He tugged on her hair. "But don't get too attached and do not name our food."

  Over her shoulder, she watched the soon-to-be crowned head Provider stride into their camp. The bald-headed woman glanced their way before turning back to warm herself by the fire. Seven braided scalps hung from her belt.

  Belle squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. She could do this. She had to.

  Releasing her, he shoved her.

  She stumbled over the uneven ground before stopping next to a low shrub.

  "Now, strip. I have something else I wish to teach you. Something you'll enjoy more than kissing."

  Chapter 6

  "Is it time, Paw-Paw?"

  "Almost, child." Brantlee Neville straightened despite his crooked back. Hens clucked and scattered when he stomped up the worn boards to the stoop of the brick house. The wind moaned through the cracked windows and stirred the tattered lace curtains.

  His land.

  His house.

  Five generations of Nevilles had been born in this house--in the small yellow room tucked behind the kitchen. And now, honor demanded he leave it and do the unthinkable.

  "Will it be a long trip?" Large brown eyes peeked at him over the top of a quilt. Bruises stained the pale skin underneath. The girl shifted in the cane-back rocker but the chair didn't move. The wood had been flattened by years of sitting and waiting.

  "As long as it takes." Lee patted his granddaughter, Sammy's, head. Matted brown hair rasped against his callused palm before she winced and shrunk away. His chest tightened painfully as he slipped around her chair to reach the window. His hands shook when he looped the cotton braids from his late wife's rug through the bent nails on the porch ceiling. His eyes stung from the earthy scent of potato alcohol and death.

  Just a little more and he'd be done.

  The journey to fulfill a long ago promise would begin.

  And everything his family had worked for during the last hundred years would be destroyed. Except the land. He wouldn't sour that, no matter how much his step-daughter deserved it.

  "It's pretty." Sammy smiled, her two front teeth white buds in her mouth. She gestured to the swags of alcohol-soaked fabric hanging from the porch roof.

  "Isn't it just." Lee stepped back to admire his handiwork. Faded red and blue material swayed from the eaves, scraping away the peeling paint. Taking a flint from his pocket, he tumbled the rocks around in his palm. "You got your dolly?"

  "Uh-huh." Sammy shifted inside the quilt until a doll's head poked through. Flour paste sealed the crack in the porcelain head. Tufts of blond hair waved from the holes in the faded yellow scalp.

  "Do you think you can git into the cart by yerself?"

  "I have to." She nodded. For a moment, wisdom overshadowed the pain in her eyes. Very carefully, she lowered one leg then the other. She swayed for a moment, steadied herself on the chair's arm before taking a halting step forward.

  Lee blinked. The disease had whittled away at her once sturdy legs and left her with the tell-tale swollen cadaver belly. Bruises marred her pale skin in hues of green, yellow, blue, and purple. He fumbled with the flints before s
parking a flame. The cotton caught fire, flaring in a bright white light before dulling to a steady burn.

  Tucking the stones into his pocket, he grabbed the quilt then loped down the steps.

  Sammy stood next to the cart bed. Her bottom lip bled where she bit it.

  "Don't you worry about your Papa none." Lee scooped her into his arms.

  She cried out softly and a tear slipped down her cheek.

  "I know it hurts, child." Every touch caused her pain and bruises. So many bruises. Swallowing the lump in his throat, Lee set her on the nest of blankets and the thin feather mattress next to her father's corpse. Blood stained the ropes and sheets wrapped around his son's body. "But soon you'll be better."

  If the travelers hadn't lied.

  If there was a healing place beyond Sanctuary.

  Sammy wiggled on the cushion before holding out a thin arm for the blanket.

  Lee knew better than to touch her again. The trip itself would test her endurance and God only knew what awaited outside their village. But he had to try.

  "Brace yourself." He waited until she wrapped her fingers around the edge of the cart before climbing onto the seat. Wood creaked. The breeze carried the scent of damp earth while stirring the cornstalks poking above the field. He settled into the worn spot and released the brake. When he flicked his wrists, the leather straps slapped the rump of his mule and the vehicle lurched forward.

  He steered into the ruts down his drive. Piles of rocks marked where he'd pushed the wall over. Water leaked from the destroyed reservoir. He whistled tunelessly under his breath. The destruction hadn't taken long at all. Of course, a little hard work would set it all to rights. But those that coveted his land didn't want to work hard. Passing the remains of his fence, he turned left toward town without once glancing back.

  Overhead, the sun neared its zenith. He picked up his cap and set it on his head. Damn, he'd forgotten protection for Sammy. Behind him, metal rattled before he heard a soft thunk. He glanced over his shoulder. Black oilcloth gleamed in the sun. "You remembered the umbrella."

  "Yes, Paw-Paw. Grandma gave it to me."

  "She did indeed." That umbrella had been coveted by generations of women and had been a symbol of the Neville's power. It was only fitting the last of the Neville’s take it with her.

  He rode up the deserted street, past his neighbors' houses. Chunks of black asphalt poked through the dirt road. Here and there, green sprouted in the dust. Raising his chin, he entered the town proper. Sun-bleached and sand-scoured buildings lined the green square. White paint peeled off whatever adornments remained on the red brick. Faded curtains fluttered in the breeze through open windows.

  Up ahead, a crowd gathered around center stage but left plenty of space around the gazebo on the right. Metal lattice boxed in the wooden rectangle, and scavenged planks provided shade for the Actors Guild seated on the stage.

  Cadaverous Irving Ridge, whose veins stood out like guitar strings, sat on the far left. He licked his lips while eying the strapping Dean boy. On his right, Miranda Collins adjusted her deep neckline--the better to display her perky breasts. New Guild members, Janice Hepburn and Stanley Grant sat to the right of Center stage, where Beatrice Cole prepared to direct their production.

  Blood lust lay heavy on the air just as it always did on Opening Day.

  Dismissing the five guild members, Lee spied his empty chair to the far right. So they hadn't replaced him. But he was definitely no longer the star. He ground his teeth together. Despite the bad case of stage fright his son had exhibited, the Nevilles weren't D-listers. Lee had one last performance to give.

  And it promised to be the triumph of his forty-nine years.

  True to form, the Leads stood stage left. He recognized the handful of men he'd gone to school with. Those five years had been the best ones of his life--carefree, full of hope and promise. If his plan worked, Sammy would live to enjoy them.

  Dressed in their best clothes, the villagers parted before his cart. Patched skirts fluttered; tattered hems shifted over bare feet. A few hands reached for his mule before he cracked the whip and they retracted. No one was gonna take what was his.

  A handful of women glared at him. Two men spat in his wagon.

  "...deserves to die...", "...unworthy devil...", and "see how he likes it..." Scratched Lee's ears. He raised his chin another notch. Fools and morons. He was better than them all. And today, he'd prove it. The Nevilles would always survive.

  Conversations tapered off.

  His mule tossed its head and slapped its tail at the flies buzzing around it.

  Center stage, Director Cole pounded a metal meat tenderizer on the wood plank in front of the Actors Guild. "Producer Neville has arrived, a little late, but at least he's present. Let Opening Day commence."

  Heads turned toward the clock face above the Guild's marble offices. Not that it told the time. The hands had fallen off when he was a lad, and dust had caused the motor to seize years before that.

  Director Cole rose a little from her seat and peeked at the Leads, penned by worn velvet ropes next to a small raised gazebo. "Jebidiah Moore, are you ready for your final soliloquy?"

  Jeb lumbered up the three steps of the gazebo. With each stair he climbed, his gimpy leg thudded against the wood risers. "I am."

  Lee shifted on his perch. Lucky bastards. He hoped they enjoyed their time in the spotlight. He just wished they didn't take so long to finish. No doubt due to their founding fathers all being actors, they all craved the spotlight. Soft snores stirred behind him. Sammy was asleep. There'd been a time when he would have awakened her, made her watch the action to instill pride in their thespian heritage. He tilted the umbrella to give her more shade.

  Director Cole pursed her lips. Although she pinned Lee with a glare, her question was for the Lead. "Who have you designated as your understudy?"

  Lee tightened his mule's reins as Moore's two grown sons puffed up their scrawny chests. He didn't blame the lads. The Moore farm was prime farmland and would be the best, once Lee's burned to the ground.

  Moore speared his boys with a glance before addressing the Guild. "My daughter Nessie."

  Murmurs rippled through the crowd. His boys' wives shrunk in on themselves.

  The Guild bent their heads together to consider his words.

  An orange-haired, flat-chested woman clomped up the steps and stood next to her father. Nessie stared at the crowd with one milky eye and one brown eye. Red scars crisscrossed her jaw and throat. The cancers had been cut out last year when she'd turned fifteen.

  She had made it to the age of consent.

  Lee's hands tightened on the reins. Jeb's horse-faced daughter would marry. The men would line up to court the spinster. Hell, you didn't have to have your eyes open to begat children and any price would be worth it for that land.

  Director Cole banged the meat tenderizer. "We abide by your script changes provided Nessie can perform her part."

  "She can." Jeb swallowed and patted his daughter's hand. After kissing her cheek, he took his place in front of her. He gripped the dark-stained rail. "I have given the best years of my life to Sanctuary. I will not waste my toil by squandering it in my old age."

  He raised his chin.

  Grabbing her father's hair with one hand, Nessie flicked her free wrist. Silver winked in the sunlight. She pulled the straight-edged razor across her father's throat in one smooth stroke. Red seeped into the cut before blood spurted out.

  The crowd rushed forward, cupping the crimson droplets and smearing it on their faces.

  By the time Nessie finished slashing, Lee could see the white flash of the man's spinal cord. As her part required, she held her father upright until the blood stopped flowing, then she pushed his empty husk over the railing. Zeb's face hit the green grass first, then his corpse folded over it.

  Damn, that girl had the makings of a fine wife. If he wasn't leaving, he'd consider marrying her himself. She could give him a son worth a damn, and thei
r property would be the biggest in town.

  A soft mewl cut off his planning.

  But he couldn't think like that anymore. Sammy needed him and he'd promised.

  Director Cole pounded on the table before rising to her feet. "Well done."

  The other four members of the Guild also stood. The ovation gave Nessie sole claim to her father's property. After licking Jeb's blood from her fingers, she folded the straight razor and curtsied. Director Cole's youngest son trailed a daisy through the bloody dirt before offering it up to Nessie.

  Inclining her head, she accepted the tribute.

  Lee shifted on his seat. Nice touch. Women went for that sentimental shit. The lad would be on the casting couch in no time. Two men drifted away from the crowd and disappeared from his peripheral vision. Lee stiffened. The Guild's bouncers were leaving before the final curtain. Time to shuffle the Acts.

  Director Cole licked her lips, no doubt counting her acres before her son could secure the role of husband. She resumed her seat and pounded for order. "Mic Norton, are you ready for your final soliloquy?"

  The old man swayed on his feet.

  Drugged. Lee spat in his direction before securing his reins. The fool didn't even have the stage presence to take his final bow sober. Why had Lee's family spent all these years trying to make something out of these cowards? They weren't even fit for Chorus girl number two roles. "I have something to say."

  "Producer Neville, your cue is not until after the curtain calls." Director Cole twirled the meat tenderizer in her fingers.

  The ham thought to upstage him, did she? She had another think coming. "As per the original script, a Producer can switch up the acts should he so desire."

  Lee glared at each person on stage. He dared them to contradict him. Despite his son's stage fright, he had another year as Producer until his own final soliloquy. One that would be denied to him now. But he would retain his family honor.

  And his granddaughter's life.

  Director Cole snapped her fingers.

  The Dean boy scampered across the stage with the script. Bowing with a flourish, he offered a worn blue booklet to the director, who quickly fanned through the town's charter.