Scorched

Prologue

"You don’t understand, Jill. She may have seen everything for the last five years."

Chapter 1

The dream world faded and brown eyes began to flutter open. The mattress was lumpy or perhaps she had fallen asleep atop the sheets again and they had twisted into knots beneath her back. Her right foot was uncovered and a gentle breeze caressed her toes… or licked them?

She awoke fully with a start and sucked in humid, fetid air. A juggernaut of pain crashed through her skull, forcing her eyes shut once again. Her hand, gritty and sticky, touched the right side of her head. Short, singed hair crumbled under her fingers. A subdued moan escaped her lips as something moist insistently prodded the sole of her foot. Forcing her eyes to reopen, she stared up into a dark and cloud-laden sky. More jolts of agony pulsed through her forehead. She brought her hand over her eyes to shield them and looked down toward her feet.

Three blurry shapes quickly focused into rats skittering near her bare toes. The largest was poking her soft flesh with its snout, optimistically testing the condition of its next meal.

She reflexively kicked at the filthy creatures and pushed herself away in slick mud. The rats fled, unwilling to attempt to dine on an actively resistant carcass. There were easier, though less satisfying, food sources in other alleys.

GUILTY! From the main street beyond, a rabid mob screamed the word in unison.

She slowly rolled to her side, smearing filth over her blue gown. The cool mud was a relief in the humid, oppressive heat. In the distance, thunder rumbled gently. The pounding inside her head increased exponentially as she attempted to stand. After several, torturous moments, she staggered to the side of a shoddy brick building and leaned heavily against it. Sharp pain surged along the right side of her abdomen.

A man’s bellowing voice leaked into her alley. And for the crime of peddling without proper authority or license, what is your verdict?

She looked down to check her footing and only then noticed her attire. She wore a thin, one-piece gown. The coarse bricks pressing from behind told her that the smock opened at the back. Black mud covered most of her bare legs and feet. Her hands were equally grimy.

GUILTY! screamed a bloodthirsty chorus.

The intensity of the vitriol around the corner terrified her. Where the hell am I? she asked herself. The throbbing behind her eyes had begun to ebb and she again brought her right hand to her face. The skin on her right cheek was crusty, leading up to brittle, crunchy hair. As she pressed gently against the side of her face, new waves of pain emanated from her abdomen. She lifted the short length of her gown, confirmed with horror that she wore no undergarment and found a bandage that might once have been white affixed to her lean side. A dull red peeked between splotches of brown on the covering, evidence of some injury concealed by the mud that had sopped her clothing.

The bellowing voice returned. You have been found guilty of all charges against you. Have you anything to say for yourself?

I paid! screamed a desperate voice. Help me! Somebody help me!

Your punishment will be death, whereafter your possessions will be divided equally among those who dispense your justice. Who will cast the first stone?

Frantic cries from both the mob and the condemned brought goosebumps to her forearms. She walked, unsteadily, to the entrance of the small alley. The brighter lighting in the larger street unleashed a new, cruel bout of pain behind her eyes.

Half a block down the mud-covered road, a throng of humanity hurled stones at a shrieking figure bound to a streetlight post. Her gaze followed the length of the post upward to the swaying solar panels at the top. The whimpering, doomed man ducked back and forth under his restraints, desperate to avoid the inevitable.

Despite the agonizing throbs through her head and the piercing stabs along her side, she ran. She ignored the growing fire in her lungs and scurried down the muddy streets, taking turns at random. Her only thought was to distance herself from the dying man’s anguished screams and the mob’s enthusiastic responses to his torment.

She ran until the pebbles and debris piercing the soles of her feet forced her to drift to a stop along a more traveled street. Breathing heavily, she reflexively swiped at long, black hair covering her left eye. As she tucked the muddy strands behind her ear, she realized she couldn’t have identified her hair’s color without seeing it.

The shantytown’s denizens passed by her without acknowledging her presence. Her eyes followed one resident after another, searching for a familiar face. No one met her stare for long as they walked hunched over, their gazes downcast and distant. An aircar slowly passed overhead, just meters above the roofs of ramshackle structures, throwing mud and stones with its downblast. She looked up and her eyes caught the vehicle and its markings of corporate security. Instinct pushed her into a short, narrow alley and out of sight. She found herself among buildings even more dilapidated than those near the spot she had first awoken. Many structures had traded in the crumbling bricks of the last neighborhood for a hodgepodge collection of rotting pressed wood and dented sheet metal.

She peered into the larger of the two buildings that created the small alley. Only two stories tall, the roof had collapsed into the upper level long ago. She looked through one of the broken windows and spied a small fire inside a barrel with several figures huddled around it. A reflection in the window’s largest sliver of glass caught her attention.

The woman who stared back was in shambles. The most obvious distress was the signs of searing on the right side of her head. Her muddy, tangled hair fell to her shoulders except for the patch extending from her right temple to somewhere behind the ear. That side of her face burned a fierce red as if she had spent several days unprotected in the sun. She leaned closer to the stranger in the glass. Brown, almost black eyes. An involuntary gasp escaped her when she realized how much blood floated in the white of her right eye. She pulled lightly on the skin underneath it; the scarlet extended around the orb as far as she could see. What happened to me?

She straightened to her full height while still peering at the reflection. Her face was mature but showed no signs of aging and although high cheekbones cut an attractive line, she wasn’t emaciated like so many of the people on the street. Her arms were well-toned; her legs contained the muscle and shape of youthful vigor. She stared again at the face in the glass. Mid-twenties? Her stomach dropped with the realization that she didn’t know. She had no memories, no hints of the person staring, wide-eyed, at her. Who are you? she whispered.

You’re on my house! cried an angry voice from the corner where the alley met the street. She tore her eyes away from her reflection. A woman covered in rags and muck stalked toward her. The pauper brandished a wooden club, perhaps the leg of a chair. Get off my house!

The younger woman backed away from the threatening figure, glancing down to find she had been standing on a sheet of battered cardboard. I—I’m sorry, she apologized as she retreated deeper into the dead-end lane.

Get out of my alley! the rancid woman screamed as she raised her club menacingly. A hacking cough overtook the older woman, forcing her weapon down as she stooped.

Her target took the opportunity to look at the makeshift wall behind her. A kludge of stacked garbage climbed a broken chain-link fence. She turned away from her choking aggressor and stepped her bare feet lightly onto the heap of trash that divided the alley. She scrambled up the unsteady pile as her tormentor issued more invective but the crazy woman seemed content to let her escape.

Once at the top of the trash wall, she saw a similar alley below, a reflection of the other side behind her. An unmoving shape lay sprawled on a bed of trash, covered with only a dingy, torn blanket. Carefully, she picked her way down from the mound of refuse. Sharp objects jabbed at her feet but she escaped the barrier without deep cuts to her soles. From the dark end of the new alley, she stared timidly at its sleeping owner. The man snored loudly.

She searched the base of the trash heap for a weapon. A rusted length of stiff wire offered the best protection. With her meager poker grasped tightly in both hands and thrusting outward, she crept down the alley. The street ahead was a larger one with a moderate amount of foot traffic.

The hacking woman appeared at the top of the trash pile. Don’t you go murderin’ Rat, you little whore! The wretched crone’s sneer revealed a mouthful of stained teeth among several gaps. Rat! Rat! Wake up, you good-for-nothing drunk!

The younger woman lowered her defensive wire to her side and took off like a bolt of lightning. Her feet splashed in the puddles as she tore past the unmoving man in the alley and raced into the wider street beyond.

Run, you whore! the nasty crone commanded from her perch on the wall. Run, and if you come back, I’ll kill you! Maniacal laughter punctuated her promise.

Once safely around the corner, the younger woman stopped. Her hands clutched her rusty wire so tightly that they began to cramp. Cautiously, she took sodden steps back to the corner and risked a glance. The reeking woman had retreated to her side behind the barrier at the alley’s end. The man remained immobile, except for the heavy breaths of his slumber.

Rat, she whispered, creeping closer. Mr. Rat?

The ear-splitting squawk of a police siren blasted down from the sky. The noise caused her heart to jump and forced her deeper into the dark alley. From the shadows, she looked back to the main street as a focused pillar of light from a corp-sec aircar spotlighted a pair of strangers rolling in a puddle together down the block. One of the muck-covered men froze when the light illuminated the struggle. The second man seized the opportunity to rain fists down into the other’s face and chest. Soon his victim fell limp.

Red and blue lights strobed atop the aircar and the siren changed to a continuous wail. The second man stood and ran with the security vehicle in aerial pursuit.

A new man and woman ran to the fallen combatant. The couple tore the shoes from the body’s feet and pulled desperately at the arms of its coat. Amid the spectacle, a crowd was beginning to grow.

The horrific sight pushed the young woman farther into the shadows of the alley. She turned to the man called Rat, still prone under his blanket. His hair was long and stringy. A thick, grey beard wrapped around a leathery face that held a ruby red nose. The fading police siren was subsumed in the man’s loud snoring. His peaceful slumber was far preferable to the clamor on the main street. She crept forward again to stand against a portion of the alley wall not surrounded with trash. Wire in her trembling right hand, she let herself silently slide down to the grime while tucking her gown under her as she sat. She rested her elbows on bent knees, letting her aching head fall to her hands as she closed her eyes.

Three, rapid-fire gunshots thundered in the distance, originating somewhere above the main street. A final chirp-chirp from the police siren announced the conclusion of its hunt.

Rat’s rough serenade continued unabated through the mayhem. The staccato sound provided almost a measure of comfort. At least I’ll know when he wakes up, she thought as a rush of dizziness washed through her. I have to rest or I’ll pass out on the street. She shivered as the image of the beaten man being stripped clean flickered through her mind. I’ll rest and after I’ve regained my strength, I’ll keep moving. I’ve got to keep moving.

Chapter 2

Her eyes were shut but the sounds of the alley began to pull her toward consciousness. She heard panting, and grunting. She lazily opened her eyes to little more than slits. It was still dark, although the black sky teased an underlying grey.

Across the mud and trash-filled alley, Rat had found a companion. The mop of Rat’s shaggy, dark hair rocked in the same rhythm as his tattered blanket. The woman under him appeared to be a slightly less disheveled doppelganger of the crazy woman from the other side of the trash wall.

The young woman stared blankly at the spectacle for only a few seconds before feeling her head droop back to her hands. She had fallen asleep crouched against the cold brick wall sometime during the night. Her back ached from the hours spent in the awkward position. The bandage on her side was beginning to peel away under the stress.

Wake up! a rough voice demanded.

Her head popped up. Standing a meter in front of her was Rat. His bushy beard would have given him an almost comical demeanor but for his rancid stench. They were alone in the alley. The sun had risen and the clouds were breaking apart under its gaze.

You alive, little missy? the old man inquired. He took a lopsided step toward her, staggering as he leaned on a makeshift cane. The peculiar gait suggested an ailment in his right leg. His trousers had holes in both knees and were thoroughly stained with mud and worse. A mismatched shoe and large boot complimented his threadbare attire. The front of his white undershirt was more absent than not underneath a faded green coat. Above his breast pocket, a frayed patch with the words Porter Mining was ripping away from its place. You hear me, Missy? He shifted his weight to his left foot and, using his cane, poked at her.

She jerked away from the stick to press her back solidly against the brick wall. I’m sorry! I’ll leave. I don’t want any trouble, she blurted out. She tried to stand while keeping her gown and dignity intact.

Damn right you don’t, Rat answered sternly. He pointed to the trash that comprised his bed. Been in this spot for six years. Defended it with blood and bone, he stated proudly. The Tory Boys see some stranger squatting here and maybe they think that they might want to move in rent-free. Someone’s always after your stuff in the slums of Waytown. He cleared his throat with a hack and crudely spat the effort onto the alley.

Where? she asked. Her eyes danced from Rat to the rusty wire at her feet.

Waytown, he repeated, staring at her. His sneer slowly morphed into a snicker. You don’t know where ya at? Whoo-boy, he chuckled. And I thought my tonic was strong. Whatcha on? Rush?

She slowly shook her head. I don’t know what that is.

Well, what’s your name, Missy?

She swallowed and exhaled slowly, working to control her breathing. My name is… She fought to finish the sentence. Blank. It’s not even on the tip of my tongue. Her shoulders slumped. Nothing’s there. It’s just a void.

The man staggered back to his bedding. It’ll come back, Missy, Rat assured. He smiled through thin, chapped lips. I’ve seen all kinds of addicts the morning after. They’re all in sorry shape but they get better. He began to snicker again. At least they’re better enough to go looking for their next fix come sundown. Bet you’ll be no different, Missy. He painfully strained toward an opaque, glass bottle peeking from under his blanket.

Please, let me get that for you. Missy gave him a wide berth but still managed to retrieve his target before Rat was halfway down to the ground. She looked at the label. Faded words proclaimed it to be a soft drink but the crudely made plastic cork hinted at stronger contents. She thrust the bottle toward him. Here, Mr. Rat.

Rat leaned heavily on his cane and finished plopping to the ground with a groan. He reached out and accepted his succor. Damn weather, he complained. Any time we get rain, my joints freeze right up. He uncorked the container and drank greedily until it emptied. Staring pitifully down the neck of the bottle, he let loose a long sigh. No more tonic ‘til Wednesday.

Missy knelt beside the man. He gaped at her before reaching to the right side of her face, his expression twisting into confusion. What the hell? Rat’s grimy fingers pulled at the curled, charred hair. Someone stick your head in a fire? He made direct eye contact and grunted. More bloodshot than my own. A scolding finger wagged at her. You got a bad habit, Missy. Ain’t gonna live long living the way you do. His eyes slipped to the neckline of her gown, its simple but ill-fitting cut revealing more than she intended. And dressed like that, you ain’t gonna enjoy much what happens to you while you’re still breathing. Missy subconsciously pressed the gown to her chest.

Who you talking to, Rat? Missy recognized the crazy woman’s voice from beyond the trash barrier.

Rat slammed his cane against a metal bucket. The noise echoed down the alley even as urine sloshed from the makeshift toilet. Shut up, you old buzzard! His face contorted as he looked toward the trash wall. Goddamned witch! Should’ve never tangoed with you! You keep quiet or I’ll climb over and beat you with my cane. He regained his composure and turned back toward Missy. It was a while ago. Man’s got urges, he said simply, almost by way of apology.

She ignored the topic. I need help, she pleaded.

You sure do, Rat agreed. Wanting to change is the first step. That’s what those preachers on the Strip keep screaming.

No, Missy stated emphatically, I need your help. She looked down the alley desperately. The odd passersby paid them no attention. She shifted her weight painfully to one side to shield as much of herself from Rat as she could while lifting her gown over her hip. The bandage along her side now seeped a runny red and carried a putrid smell. She quickly pulled the gown back down. I don’t know where I am or who I am or what’s happened to me, she stated, tamping down a growing hysteria.

Rat made a face as he inhaled the smell from her wound. You’re not gonna sleep that off, Missy. Stinks like it’s getting infected. No surprise since you’ve been sleeping in slop. He shook his head back and forth in disgust. Young lady oughta take better care of herself.

She reached out to grab Rat by the shoulder. I want to! Who will help me?

Doc Reynolds at the Beggar’s Market might have a poultice, Rat answered. You got any coins?

Missy lifted empty palms skyward and looked down at her simple, soiled gown.

Then maybe a preacher on the Strip might help, he suggested. I’d never trust one but you ain’t got no options. He lifted the green bottle to his lips again and tipped it. After several moments of disappointment, Rat looked at Missy. Whichever one you find won’t like what you’re wearing… or maybe he’ll like it a bit too much. He chortled although his face showed anything but mirth.

Missy rose and moved back across the alley. She knelt cautiously and retrieved her self-defense wire. What’s the Strip?

Rat squinted at her and began to smirk, as if anticipating a punchline. When none came, he shook his head. You really don’t know, do you? Take a left as you leave and follow the street until you get to First Street. That leads to Eastpoint, the checkpoint into Waytown. That’s the Strip.

We’re not in Waytown right now?

No, you’re in the shantytown that’s grown up around it. In fact, that’s what we call it. None of us here are citizens so we can’t get in Waytown. Lost my citizenship when the mine took my foot. Still get my disability payment from Porter though. He paused. I ain’t sharing it, it’s not even enough for me. A long sigh passed from him as he stole a glance to the street beyond. Better than what the worst off get now. Absolutely nothing.

Missy swallowed. Her cracked lips hinted at a parched throat. Well, thank you for sharing your alley, Mr. Rat.

The man flashed a broken smile. I ain’t sentimental but I’d loan you my coat if I thought you’d still be alive this time tomorrow to give it back. He rose torturously and shuffled to a half-crushed wooden crate. He dug through the contents before producing a frayed rope. Here, Missy. You can use this to tie the back of your dress shut. Walking bare ass down the Strip won’t end well unless you got yourself a pimp.

Thank you, she said as she strode forward to take the pathetic cord. Blood stained a long segment of it. She wrapped the rope around her narrow waist and cinched the gown tightly shut, tying a secure knot. The minor adjustment helped ease her sense of vulnerability. With a final nod, she walked down the alley and turned its corner.

Chapter 3

Pedestrian traffic in Shantytown had increased threefold from the night before. Ragged shades of humanity traveled on foot, many carrying dilapidated goods, some holding nothing but a small cup to collect coins as they begged from the sides of the muddy streets. Regardless of circumstance, all met every stranger with the same darting, distrustful eyes that evaluated each approach for threat or opportunity.

At first, Missy tried her best to avoid eye contact and ignore those around her. By the end of the second block however, it had become necessary to discard the tactic as beggars reached out to pull at her gown in a bid to gain her attention. Her chosen path now weaved down the street, dynamically reacting to changes in the sea of people to keep the maximum distance possible between herself and the residents.

Halfway through her journey to the Strip, she spied an entrance to the Beggar’s Market at the corner of a major intersection. Actual ground cars, wheeled and tracked, occasionally passed down the rut-filled street on their way toward the main road that accessed Waytown. The street leading to the market had been completely taken over by vendors seeking entry to open their shops or set up their carts. Missy saw half a dozen intimidating men wearing yellow shirts keeping watchful eyes on traffic entering and exiting the market through a makeshift gate. Even early in the morning, the fervor inside and around the bazaar was impressive.

She continued on, walking barefoot another ten minutes before coming to First Street. She