Cia Rose Series Box Set [Books 1-3] Page 9

  She could see behind her now. The mass of people shouting angry things, everyone’s face red and cross. On the platform behind the fence was a train, and along the platform were people – she recognised the uniform now; they were from the army. They had guns. Some of them stood still with guns across their chest, but most of them were aiming the guns into the crowd, a lot of them shouting stuff like, “Get back!” “Don’t even think about it!” “I will shoot!”

  But that didn’t seem to stop the people shouting back at them.

  “You elitist pig!”

  “How are you gonna sleep tonight!”

  “You rich ignorant pricks!”

  Cia had never heard a lot of these words and she wondered what they meant.

  She turned back to her dad, who had managed to grab something from his pocket, some sort of identification, and he was pushing it toward the soldier stood above him.

  “See, identification, my name is Daniel Rose! I’m a scientist for the government, I’ve been asked!”

  The soldier paused for a moment, looking judgementally at them both, then turned to a list he had. He scanned it, then turned back to Cia and her dad.

  “You’re on it. She isn’t.”

  “She’s my daughter!” he said in a voice that Cia had only heard when she was in trouble.

  “I can’t guarantee that she’ll be allowed–”

  “Like I said, soldier, she is my daughter.”

  The soldier hesitated, looked at her dad, then nodded. He lifted Cia up first, then held a hand out for her dad.

  She looked out into the faces. There were so many of them. They had now started shouting at her, saying words she didn’t know and, by the sounds of it, didn’t want to know. One of them even tried to spit at her, but her dad dragged her away and onto the train.

  “Count your money, you bastard!”

  “You’re as good as a murderer!”

  “Put that gun down and we’ll see who wins the fucking fight!”

  Cia sat on the train. There was so much space. So many empty seats.

  She smiled at her dad sitting next to her, and he looked anxiously back down at her.

  “Dad?” she said, curiously.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked, though she could tell he wasn’t listening very well.

  “Why can’t we let any more of those people on the train? They’d fit.”

  He glanced out the window at the crowds, then at Cia, then turned his focus back to a blank space on the far wall.

  “Because some of us have jobs to do, honey.”

  “Don’t they have jobs? I’m sure some of them do.”

  “It’s just the way it is, Cia, okay? It’s just the way it is.”

  Cia turned her head back to the window and watched them. Their faces contorted into anger, their mouths wide, still shouting, even though she could no longer tell what they were saying. There was a woman amongst them, holding her child aloft. He looked a lot younger than Cia, and she could tell what she was saying by reading her lips.

  Please take my child.

  Please save him.

  Somebody.

  Take him.

  Please!

  Cia wanted to take him, but she had a feeling that her dad wouldn’t let her. She didn’t even bother asking, because he didn’t really look like he wanted to give her much attention at the moment.

  But she still looked. Still watched this woman. Still watched the angry people.

  Everyone looked so…desperate.

  And here she was, on an empty train.

  And, no matter how hard she tried to understand it, she couldn’t. Why were they outside, and her in there?

  NOW

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Cia wasn’t sure if she slept. She may have done. She tried to, at least. She kept her eyes closed, rested them, but she couldn’t remember ever actually drifting off or waking up. The hours went by and she just lay there, her eyes closed, thinking about Boy.

  Wondering where he was.

  What he was doing.

  Whether he was okay.

  She tried not to be honest with herself. If she was being honest, she would have to conclude that there was no way he could have survived. No way he could manage so many days on his own. He couldn’t cope, he couldn’t fight, he couldn’t even collect food. Maybe she was being harsh on him, maybe it was her mothering ways that meant that he wasn’t capable and should he be forced to, he’d find a way – but her instinct told her this wasn’t the case.

  Her instinct told her that there was no way he could be alive.

  And that was why she was not being honest with herself.

  “Hey, Harriet?” Cia said, craving some kind of interaction to dull the constant unease rioting in her mind.

  There was no answer.

  Cia went to her knees and crawled to the bars, trying to look for her. In the far shadows of her tiny cell was a figure in silhouette, still with a back to Cia, still not moving. Still wrapped up in a ball, the foetal position, the position we all use to find comfort.

  Cia wished that she could reach out to Harriet. That she could just place a hand on her back, give her some skin contact, whisper something nice to her, somehow make Harriet feel better.

  Then again, how could Harriet feel better, considering all that had been done to her? Considering the injuries she came back with, the worth that was given to her for her infertility, the way she was used day by day and made to think it was normal.

  It wasn’t normal.

  But then again, what was normal?

  Normal was gone. Normal didn’t exist anymore. Now, it was survival. And that’s what these people thought they were doing. The most sickening realisation of all of this was that these people thought they were justified. They considered themselves to be doing what it took to ensure the survival of the species.

  In all honesty, Cia wasn’t sure whether her species deserved survival. Maybe this was how it was meant to be. If this is what humans, with a moral conscience and an ability to decide between right and wrong, thought was right – should humans be allowed any survival at all?

  “Harriet?” Cia tried again. “Harriet, can you hear me?”

  Nothing. Not a flinch. Not a move.

  “Are you awake?”

  A sniff. That was it. Nothing else.

  “I know you are. I know you can hear me. I just want to help, I just want to…”

  She stopped talking.

  What? What was it she wanted to do? What could her words possibly do to restore anything good to Harriet’s life?

  No. She was better off just shutting up.

  But she needed it. Even if it was selfish, she needed it to keep sane.

  She leant against the wall and wondered what to do, what to say. Then it came to her.

  “Do you know any poems?” she asked.

  There was no reply, but of course, Cia didn’t expect one.

  “There’s one that my mother wrote. I read it after she died. Well, my dad showed it to me… I tell it to Boy, when he needs it. To help him.”

  Harriet wouldn’t know who Boy was, but that didn’t matter. Cia just needed to talk, whether Harriet was listening or not.

  “The devil has departed,” Cia began, “And you are not alone.”

  She dropped her head to her shoulder and watched Harriet.

  “Take time to rebuild, Your love in our home.”

  She went to carry on, then stopped.

  Honestly, why did it matter?

  That poem could die with her if it had to.

  That’s when Harriet spoke. When Cia heard it.

  “Shared time it is slowing,” came Harriet’s voice, so soft, so broken. “The pace of our heart.”

  Cia smiled. Harriet knew it.

  Wait…

  She became abruptly alert.

  How does she know it?

  There were only two of them that knew it.

  Her.

  And Boy.

  “But from now t
o the end,” Harriet finished, “We won’t be apart.”

  “Harriet, how do you know that poem?”

  Cia was up against the bars, grabbing them, getting as close as she could. Her whole body was caught somewhere between tension and excitement.

  Did this mean Boy was still alive?

  “Harriet, how do you–”

  A large clang and a thud. A shaft of light cast visibility into the space between their cells.

  “Harriet, please, how do–”

  “Shut up,” came the gruff voice of a guardsman. There were two of them. They stood outside Cia’s cell, guns pointed at her.

  Cia looked from them, to Harriet, from them, to Harriet.

  She had to know.

  “Harriet, where did you hear it?”

  Harriet didn’t move. Didn’t do anything. Just remained, as she was, unperturbed.

  “Stand up,” one of the guardsmen commanded.

  Cia just peered desperately into Harriet’s cell.

  “Harriet?”

  One guardsman opened the cell, and the other charged in, whacking her in the face with the butt of his gun.

  “I didn’t say speak, I said stand up.”

  Cia did as she was told.

  “Harriet…” she quietly pled. “Please…”

  “Move,” the other guardsman told her.

  “Where am I going?”

  The guardsman smirked.

  “To become a Bearer,” he said. “Now move.”

  “What if I say no? What if I–”

  One of the guardsmen turned their gun toward Harriet. That was her answer.

  “No, don’t!” Cia yelped. She didn’t want to see Harriet die, but mostly, she didn’t want to lose the only person who may know of Boy’s whereabouts. “Fine. I’ll go.”

  With one final glance at the back of Harriet’s head, Cia walked where she was instructed, obscenely aware of what was to come.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  They led Cia down a corridor as if she was heading for the gallows – at least that’s how it felt. Every step was another step toward depravity, humiliation, a fate worse than death.

  She made the decision, right there and then, to numb herself. Whatever happened to her, she wouldn’t feel it. Not mentally or physically. She would take it and switch herself off. Think about holidays with Dad, conversations with Boy, and memories given to her about her mother. She would do whatever it took to get through it and get back to Harriet – the one person who may offer her salvation.

  The guardsmen stopped by a door and turned to Cia.

  “You are to go in here,” one told her, “And not leave until you are instructed.”

  She nodded. “I understand.”

  “If you cause any fuss, we will be out here. So don’t even try it.”

  She nodded, this time remaining silent. They opened the door and ushered her in, closing it behind her. She heard the door lock and bolt from the outside and knew there would be no way out.

  The room itself was not what she expected. It was a large, lavish room, with various multicoloured rugs, and bowls of fruit adorning architecturally impressive cupboards. There was a bed against the far wall beneath a window that shone a beam of light directly upon satin sheets. Beside the bed was a table with two glasses of water.

  “Hello,” came a voice, quiet, but not timid. She turned and noticed a man emerging from a smaller room, possibly a bathroom, doing up the belt on his robe.

  To say man would be an exaggeration – this was a boy. Possibly a young man. Likely to be around her age. Not bad-looking. Chances are, if they were at school together, she’d have had a crush on him. Would have blushed when he said hello in the corridor or turned her face away when he sat by her in maths.

  As it was, he was simply there for a singular purpose. To provide the world with spawn, extra life, no matter how young they were.

  “They tell me your name is Cia,” he said, and she noticed again how confident he was. His voice was soft but assertive. His hair was neatly parted, his skin unblemished, his posture upright.

  “This would be when you say yes, it is.”

  Cia knew she was meant to say something. Yet, however charming a man this was, she didn’t want to make it seem like she was willing.

  She nodded, faintly.

  “And does Cia have a voice?”

  She flinched at the sound of her name being used in third person.

  “Don’t worry, my mum and dad have promised me that nothing will happen to you, so long as you cooperate. And I’m fairly certain you are going to cooperate, aren’t you?”

  His mum and dad?

  And that’s when it occurred to her – mentally, he really was still just a child. A handsome, well-spoken one at that, but a child. Protected from the outside. Probably rich. Probably never had to deal with those monsters. Both of his parents were still alive, probably his siblings, too – hell, maybe even his cat had been granted permission to come along.

  His parents probably had a lot of authority for him to be in this position, and she wondered who they were before all this began. How esteemed they would be, and in what way.

  Then she realised it didn’t matter.

  “So, are you going to cooperate?”

  “Depends what you mean by cooperate,” she blankly retorted.

  “Oh, wow, she speaks.” So patronising. She wanted to punch him. “Well, by cooperate, I mean whether you are going to do this without being restrained.”

  “I don’t plan to struggle, if that’s what you’re saying.”

  “Then what is it you do plan to do, Cia who talks?”

  “Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

  And she meant it. If they were going to do this, fine, but she was going to play no active part in facilitating it.

  “Fine. Would you at least take your clothes off?”

  “No,” she stated very blankly.

  “Okay. I see. Well, what about lying on the bed? Would you be willing to do that?”

  She looked at the bed. Red, satin sheets. As if this was romantic. As if this was something special.

  “There’s fruit if you like it, and your own glass of water. I’d like for you to be comfortable, even if not willing.”

  “Is this your first time?” Cia asked, very directly, very ruthlessly – but unsure why she was asking it.

  He grinned at the question, as if it was silly but he’d answer it anyway.

  “No. No, it’s not,” he told her. “Is it yours?”

  She shot him a look of disdain. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? The opportunity to pop my cherry?” She almost spat the words pop and cherry, wanting to pack as much venom into them as she could.

  “Yes. Indeed. Well, look, I need to ask so I know whether to call in one of the guardsmen – are you going to lay down on the bed or not?”

  She looked at the bed. Huffed. Slowly, she made the steps toward it. She perched on the end. Took the glass of water. Sniffed it. Wondered if there was something in it. Took a sip, figuring, what the hell, didn’t really matter if there was.

  She shifted herself along the bed and lay down, like a plank, awkward and rigid.

  “Okay,” he said, looking over her, as if he’d just been given a puzzle that was supposed to be really difficult to crack but had figured it out without sparing a thought.

  He removed his robe and she tried not to look. She could still see him, out the corner of her eye, parading around the room. He took a few pieces of fruit, displaying his sculpted arse cheeks beside her head as if intentionally teasing her. He turned around and looked at her and she flinched.

  She felt her shoe slowly slide off.

  Then her sock.

  Then her other shoe.

  Then her sock.

  So tediously slow, as if to infuriate her, to just make the whole ordeal worse.

  “Fine, I’ll do it!” she decided, fed up of him purposefully taunting her.

  She sat up, undid the belt of her shorts, went to
slide them down, then – paused.

  This was it.

  She suppressed her tears.

  “Well,” he prompted, laid on his side, his body spread out upon the sheets.

  She stood and pushed her shorts off, refusing to look at him pouting his lip at her body, as if to say yeah, that’ll do.

  She took her top off next, then stood there, in her underwear, uncompromisingly awkward.

  “You’re nearly there…” his annoying voice sang, and as she turned her head slightly, she realised he was touching himself. She flinched away.

  “What’s the matter, this bothering you?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “I’m afraid there’s a certain state a guy’s got to be in, and seeing as you won’t help, kinda got to do it myself. Got to warm it up.”

  She shook her head, keeping her snarl pointed away from him, unsure why she was hiding her detest but doing it anyway.

  “Your underwear too, please.”

  Her lip curled. She felt herself surge with anger.

  “Wow, you really are a prude, aren’t you?”

  Let’s just get this over with.

  She undid her bra. Dropped it to the floor. Slid off her underwear. Reluctantly turned, and–

  With the spare hand he wasn’t using to warm it up, as he’d so elegantly put it, he took a bottle and poured what looked like vodka into a glass. Beside that glass was a small bucket of ice.

  In it, an ice pick.

  Her eyes focussed in on that ice pick.

  “You want some?” he asked, assuming she was staring at the beverage.

  “No,” she said, turning to him.

  Her stance changed as an idea formed.

  “Get your hand off,” she instructed him.

  “Well, I’m not quite there yet.”

  “I’ll do it.”

  His eyebrows raised, as if impressed. “Well, okay then. Let’s do this.”

  Forgetting about how much she hated him, how much she wanted to hurt him, she climbed over him on all fours. She ran her hand up his shin, down the inside of his thigh, tickling him with her dirty fingernails, then took the whole of him in her hand. She felt it grow bigger the instant she took it.

  She looked back at the ice pick again.