Prophet of the Badlands (The Awakened Book 1) Read online

  “His arm will be soft for a week. Do not make him work or let him lift heavies.” She trudged to the painted line.

  A hornet’s nest of discontent surrounded Vakkar as his men yelled at their chief over the Prophet’s near-escape. He calmed them with raised hands.

  “The Prophet has promised not to flee, and behold―she is true to her word.” Vakkar pointed a sword at her before raising it overhead. “We have the Prophet, and she is loyal to Vakkar!” He stood and roared to the men. “Nothing shall stop us. The land shall belong to us all.”

  Bloodlust radiated from a wall of pumping arms, roaring throats, and hot bodies. The emotional surge from a hundred and a half raiders flooded her with elation, hatred, and even arousal, crushing Althea to her knees. That she was the inspiration for their insane need to harm people left her too horrified to cry.

  Her lip quivered, but all she could do was whisper, “Please stop”, not that anyone noticed.

  She wanted more than anything for Den to sweep in and gather her away from this horrible place. If she had to spend her days once more in a tiny cage to be with him, so be it. Everywhere she looked, legs blocked her path. She trembled under the thought of what her presence here enabled these people to do.

  An army of hands seized her. She screamed as they hoisted her aloft, grabbing and squeezing wherever they could gain purchase. Althea floated above the crowd, able to see the harem over the undulating sea of bodies. Weapons, spikes, and wild hair jutted out here and there amid endless dirt-streaked howling faces. Zhar had crept to the end of her leash, leaning as far as she could towards the nearest raider who had his back to the dais. Her face had turned red, her fingers stopped inches from a handgun on his belt. Rachel stared at the pistol, muttering inaudibly in a repetitious pattern. Ramani shook her head, crying. Aya stared in shock, paralyzed with fear.

  “We shall rule the sands!” screamed Vakkar. “The Prophet brings us glory.”

  “The Prophet brings us glory,” repeated the entire throng, somewhere between chant and shout.

  Althea did not try to fight the hands that held her up, too overwhelmed by the guilt their words brought. Disgust at what she caused brought on a sick feeling. Bouncing up and down did little to settle her unease, and soon the protein slime spewed from her mouth and nose, splattering all over a huge man in a fluffy pink wig. At that instant, her dread and revulsion emanated in a radiant telempathic pulse which stopped their revelry cold.

  The deafening cheer petered out. All eyes went to the beige slop gliding down the man’s leather armored chest. Zhar backed up to the dais and sat on the edge, chin propped on her fist with a look of annoyed discontent. Vakkar eyed the clouds warily and waved at his crew, who set her back on her feet. Unable to stand, she swooned to all fours and threw up again. No one seemed to much care, as they all gazed about wondering what had just happened. She coughed the last of the bile out and staggered upright, intent on ducking through a gap to the dais. Before she could take two steps, the raiders remembered why they had gathered and converged once more on the fighting square. Men and women pressed together, forming an advancing human wall that pushed her to the edge of the fighting area.

  Althea knelt upon the hard concrete behind the painted yellow line. Dozens of raiders blocked her from returning to Rachel’s side. Men shouted, though the words lost meaning through the blur of her mood. A strange feeling pulled her attention up a second before a spritz of warm blood sprayed over her face, arcing from the neck of a skinny, screaming man clutching a nail-studded aluminum bat. He spun in circles, blood spurting from his neck and groin. A tall metal-armored woman with spiked shoulder guards and a pair of hatchets had scored first blood. She strutted in a circle, holding her weapons high to the side to wind up the crowd.

  Female raiders were always the most vicious.

  The injured man fell, and dragged himself towards her. “Please…”

  Althea sighed. This was going to be a long and miserable day.

  laring light brought the discomfort of consciousness back to Althea’s mind. Fragments of glass in the once-windows focused sunlight through the metal grating with such intensity it was painful to open her eyes. Shielding her face with an arm, she sat up and squinted around. The factory sat in silence, save for the soft breathing emanating from the tangle of women that slept nearby. All the mending from the arena had left her aching.

  After using the bucket, she slithered once more amid the old sleeping bags with her back to the light, and lay on her side with her arms tucked beneath her head. Through blurry fingers, she stared at the pale grey wall beyond the field of red fabric. Heavy, stagnant hair hung with the stink of sweat and urine. The harem’s bucket needed changing; the timid one, Ramani, choked on the fumes. No air moved despite only one wall of the cage being solid.

  She scrunched fabric over her face to hide from the stink. The thought of running the next time they let her out offered no temptation. The Badlands held dangers she found more frightening than captivity. A girl her age―even the Prophet―would make a quick meal for some beast lacking the reason to understand who she was.

  Clutching the agate pendant to her chest made her think of Den. She curled tighter, and sobbed without a sound. Only once before had being abducted made her cry; the first time it happened, about six years ago. Blurry apparitions of a man and a woman who once took care of her haunted the fringes of her memory, in a time before anyone knew she could heal. Her thoughts were soon overshadowed by the chaos that followed when the wagon man discovered what she could do. Her village had helped him when he staggered in wounded; he repaid them with death, and her with a small cage.

  A flash of green, a spinning forest, filled her daydreams and the crying stopped. Energy flowed through the pendant as images spiraled around. Den in the middle of the village, standing and pointing, his angry yells repeating into the distance of the dreamlike blur of quasi-time. Her mind-sight moved in a slow orbit centered on him as he gestured towards an indistinct shape.

  He bellowed. “You did what?”

  The face of Yala, an older girl of about sixteen, clarified out of the blur. Perfect skin the color of burnt sienna shimmered in the sun. Almond-shaped brown eyes framed in long black hair widened with surprise and fear. Den’s emotion flooded back through the dream sight, overcoming Althea; he was the embodiment of fury.

  She sat bolt upright, out of the vision, and glared at the wall.

  “Prophet?” A man’s voice came from behind.

  “What!” Filled with inherited rage, she whirled and fixed him with a stare that made him drop something and fall over himself to run away.

  Her fists trembled as she followed the shadow fleeing between the great machines. She wanted to smash something, to hurt someone, to make something scream. A gasp drew her attention to the left a quarter turn; the expression on her face caused Aya and Ramani to shriek and jump away. His anger boiled out of her eyes, flooding their cell with an intense azure glow, brighter than she had ever seen.

  The foreign anger had taken over.

  Althea shifted her weight to her knees and sat back on her heels. Noticing her palms streaked with crescents of blood from her fingernails, she searched for calm. The scratches faded as she hid her face in her hands. When her emotion settled, she slid them down over her chest to the pendant. Now it made sense. Yala led the raiders right to her; she must have followed from the village. Althea was a rival for Den’s affections, and he would be the chief once his father became too old. At least Den knew of her treachery.

  “What’s his name?” Rachel slid close to the barrier.

  Althea looked over, startled. “What?”

  “Girls your age only make that face about boys or having their cell phone taken away. I’m sure even in this fucked-up place nature still works, and I doubt you know what a cell phone is.” Rachel tried, but seemed unable to smile.

  “Den.” Althea stared at her grimy legs through the patchwork of scrap leather.

  Rachel nodded. �
�Byron was the first guy to dump me.”

  “He didn’t!” She wailed. “I was…” No voice came to her.

  “I understand… bandits. Hey, come here.”

  Althea crawled over to the grate. “Are you hurt?”

  Looking around to make sure none of the raiders were close, Rachel whispered. “That thing you do to their boss to make him leave us alone… I can’t take this anymore. Please do it again and let’s get the hell out of here.” Rachel cried.

  Althea had never thought of doing such a thing. Hearing the suggestion made it sound possible, even plausible. Momentary elation fell flat. “We will just get taken by others.”

  “Maybe you will. We won’t.” Collar rattling, Zhar crawled into the conversation.

  Rachel glared. “That’s awful to say.”

  “That’s not what I mean. Together, we can fight.” Zhar glanced between them before smiling, whispering as if she tried to sell a stolen item. “Hey… voodoo us outta here and we can protect you, but you can stay if you want. At least save us. You can’t keep Vakkar off your little buddy there forever.”

  Althea made a concerned face at Rachel when the handcuffs rattled. Judging by the look on the woman’s face, had she been free, Zhar would have just received a black eye―or worse. Looking away, Althea considered the idea. It was quite possible she could manipulate Vakkar into releasing the harem, but she shivered at the thought of what they would do to her once they realized what happened. Not to mention what the rest of the raiders would do if Vakkar no longer wanted the women. She would have to use her powers again to make them forget. It would be an endless repetition, and she had to sleep sometime. Not to mention four women alone would not fare well outside. They would just be enslaved again, or wind up as food for some monster.

  Before she could answer, two raiders approached. The women looked away; Althea stood and walked to the door, obedient eyes held low to the ground. One man was shaved bald. The other had hair down to his belt. They had their back to her, looking at the peg where the key should have been.

  The one with hair kicked the post. “Oi! Key’s gone.”

  “Boss ‘as it.” The bald one shrugged.

  “What fer?”

  “Make it harder ta steal Prophet.”

  The long-haired man picked up the object the first raider dropped when he fled, and stuffed it under the door, kicking it hard enough to knock a cardboard box from one of the shelves. Althea squatted and picked up the rectangular packet, glancing for a moment at the debris that fell out of it. Days ago, Rachel had explained what these rooms were supposed to be. The electronic component, or what remained of it, had been put in here so no one would steal it―just like her. A bizarre kinship formed with this relic from the before-time.

  “Eat.” The bald one pointed. “We scored a convoy, got some goodies.”

  Zhar grumbled. “Great, more slime.”

  “It’s one’a dem healthy bars. It’ll make you shit a rock.” The other man chuckled.

  The bald one smacked him on the head. “Don’ talk to the Prophet like that. Respect.”

  Althea glanced at the crinkling thing in her hand. “I don’t want a rock to come out of me.”

  The two raiders burst out laughing; Rachel almost even smiled.

  “It’s just a turn o’ phrase, mate.” The bald one rushed his words in between gasps and a reddening face. Althea’s clueless look made him rephrase. “Just eat it, we’z kiddin’ bout the rock.”

  Gnawing on the end, the plastic taste made her wrinkle her nose and glare at them. The bald one relapsed into breath-stealing peals of laughter. The other raider explained how to take the wrapper off, after which, she found the block of semisweet granola far more appealing. She flopped upon the sleeping cloth and munched. Rachel’s halfhearted laugh turned into a scream as she futilely tried to defeat the handcuffs with brute force.

  “Dammit! I gotta get out of these, I’m going fuckin’ crazy.” She shivered. “Almost four damn weeks, I can’t feel my fucking arms anymore.” Anger became desperation, and she sobbed.

  Zhar smirked at her. “Your choice bein’ stupid and not playing along. Just let Vakkar have you. Don’t gotta like it. Make him think you’re his, then strike when he turns his back.”

  Winded, Rachel scowled at the grimy redhead. “I had no idea what kind of fucked-up world I woke up into. Besides, I don’t just roll over on my back for anything with a di―” She cut herself off, realizing Althea was watching her.

  “Bitch!” Zhar pounced.

  Rachel leapt to her feet and fell back against the wall, catching Zhar in the gut with a knee that took the wind out of her. The growling woman’s fingers slid through Rachel’s short hair without purchase, and a shoulder-bump launched her face-first into the cage wall where she slid to the ground, wheezing. Aya rushed over and helped Zhar up, pulling her away while Ramani dove against Rachel to hold her back, begging her to stop fighting.

  “Please, you mustn’t!” Ramani pleaded. “They will punish all of us.”

  Althea did not much care for Zhar, and felt awful Rachel had been tied for so long. As she picked the last flecks of granola out of the flannel, she toyed with the idea of “encouraging” the raiders to free her hands, but only Vakkar had the key. She remembered Zhar’s warning and imagined him putting them on her when the command wore off.

  Althea traced a finger over her ankle. Some years ago, other raiders kept them on her legs for months so she could not run. That had been terrifying, but to have her hands trapped behind her would be so much worse. She shied away, her guilt at feeling glad it was not her trapped like that made her unable to look at Rachel. A beating she would take with a smile if it would free the woman, but in the Badlands, helplessness meant death.

  With an arm across Zhar’s chest, Aya made a blank face at Rachel. “Vakkar said he would release you if you submit to him. You should do it.” She looked down, as if trying to convince herself as well. “It’s just sex…”

  Rachel swallowed her nasty remark, feeling only pity for the broken woman in front of her.

  Vakkar sauntered into view, approaching Althea’s cage at the head of a small group of raiders. He wore an imperious frown and took out the key. She walked to the door, staring down at her feet, waiting for it to open.

  “You will tend to the common stock.” He pointed to the right.

  She went, gaze downcast, following the two men in the lead. The voices of their thoughts circled around her as loud as if they spoke. The raiders did not share Vakkar’s trust and wanted her leashed or at least hobbled. Their leader, however, remembered the stories. She never runs away, always does what she is told, and cannot hurt anyone.

  Then there were the other legends, stories of calamity that followed those who mistreated the Prophet. Althea wished them true. Unfortunately, ill fate tended to follow whomever she was with regardless of how they treated her. She thought of withholding healing until he took the chain from Rachel’s hands, but that would make her no better than the snake oil man, selling the gift of life.

  Unlike the people of Den’s village, these raiders were not afraid of her. They coveted this great treasure they had all to themselves, unconcerned with her also being a person. Few looked at her like a girl, or even an annoying child too young to be useful.

  To them, she was the great healer―a source of power.

  he flaking grey paint glistened in the sun as the door groaned open with the grating screech of rusted metal. Hot daytime wind blasted her hair aloft as she squinted at the change in light. Heat blur danced along the tarmac between the factory and the kennels. Dozens of raiders scattered about, some lounging, some working, others playing the bizarre game with the spherical object. Althea winced as the blazing concrete met her bare feet; it was hot enough to hurt, but not to the point where she would have to heal herself. With quick steps, she followed the group to the first of the occupied outdoor cages. The raiders had at least been nice enough to put an awning over them. Dead, dehydrated sl
aves were worthless.

  As soon as she came into view, the old man began praying in a loud voice, startling the other captives and earning threats and shouts from the raiders, which he ignored. A raider moved forward to unlock the first kennel space; Althea looked up at Vakkar.

  “Please, sir?”

  He gave her a suspicious squint. “What?”

  “The sick girl inside, can you please free her hands? They hurt her and I have to keep mending it.”

  “That one is dangerous.” He made a dismissive wave. “Not to mention useless.”

  Althea bowed her head. “She is not from now. She is from the before-time. She did not know you own her. She must learn. I will fix her for you.”

  “I will think it round.” He ran his fingers through strands of fringy beard.

  Her heart sank. It did not seem likely he would listen, at least not without some manner of threat she was not cruel enough to deliver. She could warn them their luck would be bad if they did not do as she asked, but that would be lying, which she figured as bad as hurting someone.

  Fingers dug into her shoulder and a raider pulled her back, twisted her about, and prepared to shove her into the kennel. He thought better of it when Vakkar glared. The man let go and pointed at the wheezing body slumped upon the ground.

  Althea entered the small cell, knelt, and put a hand under the man’s tattered shirt, on skin cold and clammy despite the sun. She shut her eyes and concentrated, reaching through his presence for the taint of sickness. Before long, she sensed it as a black miasma drifting through the red/crimson energy field of his life force. The shapeless form recoiled from her presence as she chased it into oblivion. Once she was confident it had been purged, she looked at him. His fever broke, and the last vestiges of sickness bubbled through his lips in the form of a pale grey slime.

  Without hesitation, she swiped a rag off the belt of a nearby raider and brushed the man’s face clean.