When We Were Human Read online

  When We Were Human

  Kate L Mary

  Published by Twisted Press, LLC, an independently owned company.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are fictitious or have been used fictitiously, and are not to be construed as real in any way. Any resemblance to person, living or dead, actual events, or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2015 by Kate L. Mary

  Cover art by Kate L. Mary in cooperation with KS Creative Design

  Edited by Emily Teng

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. For permissions contact: [email protected]

  Contents

  Awards

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Outliers

  Tribe of Daughters

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Kate L Mary

  About the Author

  2015 Children's Moonbeam Awards Silver Medal winner for Young Adult Fantasy/Sci-Fi Fiction

  2016 Readers' Favorite Gold Medal Winner for Young Adult Science Fiction

  1

  “Classic fairy tales do not deny the existence of heartache and sorrow, but they do deny universal defeat.”

  -Greenhaven

  3 Years Ago…

  “Tell me a story Eva,” Lilly whispered, her voice low and distant even though she was less than six inches from me.

  Outside, the wind beat against the canvas tent above us until I was sure the whole thing would be ripped away. Lilly let out a low whine and scooted closer. I tightened my grip on her, but it still didn’t feel secure enough. Nothing did anymore.

  “What kind of story?” I asked.

  My mind was blank. All the nighttime stories I’d been told as a child had melted away, and I couldn’t think of a single thing to tell my little sister that didn’t involve blood and death and fear.

  “A fairytale.”

  Bitter words tried to force their way out of me, and tears pricked at my eyes as my throat tightened. A fairytale seemed like a waste of energy. Like feeding Lilly false hope by telling her things could get better. They couldn’t. Not from here.

  “I don’t know any fairytales,” I lied.

  Lilly shifted, turning her whole body until she was facing me. In the darkness her eyes looked huge and innocent. I couldn’t see the fear that shimmered in them during the day. It allowed me to imagine that this was the Lilly who used to sing and dance in our backyard, spinning in circles while the skirt of her Cinderella costume swirled around her.

  “Yes, you do,” Lilly said. “You know Cinderella. That’s my favorite.”

  I swallowed again, then shook my head when I couldn’t make myself talk. I’d sworn to myself I’d always be there to protect Lilly, but I couldn’t do this. I couldn’t pretend something magical could come out of all this, not when I didn’t believe it. Not even for my baby sister.

  “Then I’ll tell it,” Lilly whispered.

  Her small hand ran down my arm, then back up. Over and over again. Like I was a toddler and she was trying to soothe my fears.

  “Once upon a time,” she said in a musical voice, “there was a young girl who had everything. She had a father who loved her and a nice house, and she was happy. Then evil swooped in and stole it all away, leaving nothing but ashes behind…”

  2

  My eyes fly open just as Lilly’s voice fades from my mind. Moisture seeps from the corner of my eye, but I swipe it away so fast that I can almost pretend it was never really there. I can’t deny the ache in my chest, though. Not when the intensity of it feels as if it’s trying to crack me in half.

  For a few minutes I don’t move. I stare at the ceiling through the shadowy darkness of the room, trying to force my body to listen to my brain and get up. The problem is, I don’t really want to move, and my body knows it. All I really want to do is curl up in a ball and hold on to the memory of Lilly.

  But I can’t, and the longer I stay in one place, the more the ache in my chest will spread. There’s only one way to get rid of the pain.

  I force myself to sit up and slide my knife from its sheath. A ray of light penetrates the darkness through a small hole in the wall, glinting off the blade when I raise it. I shield my eyes from its blinding reflection as I move farther into the shadows. I don’t need the light to see what I’m about to do. I’m used to the darkness.

  I place the blade against my forearm only an inch or so above my wrist, then slide it across. When the sharp edge slices my skin, I grit my teeth against the stinging pain. A crimson line appears, barely visible in the shadowy corner of the room. Blood pools for a second before trailing down my wrist, cutting through the layers of dirt as if it can erase the past. It’s comforting. Not the pain or the blood as much as the line. It means I’ve lived to see another morning.

  Particles of dust tickle the hair in my nose when I inhale. The room is musty, and breathing feels a lot like eating a mouthful of dirt. I cough to clear my throat, then slide my fingers over the notches on my right arm, starting below my shoulder and reaching down to my wrist. Then I move to the left side, repeating the gesture just like I do every morning. My fingers stop on the new cut, and I wipe the blood away. Pain pulses from the wound like a heartbeat, but I’m used to it at this point.

  I take a deep breath and gather myself as I focus on the notch I just made. The pain makes me feel more human, and it helps me remember. It reminds me of the people I’ve lost and that I’m still alive. That I want to live.

  The building I chose for my previous night’s shelter was once a bakery. The window is cracked but still intact, and there’s a giant wedding cake painted on the glass. It was probably done by a local artist or a friend of the owner. Small towns used to be that way, and this one seems like it might have once been the stereotypical Southern town. Only the cake isn’t pretty anymore. The paint is chipped and a crack has snaked its way across the glass, cutting the delicate tiers in half. The glass is as broken and dirty as I am.

  When I’ve gathered my stuff, I crouch behind the damaged cake and study the street. My army green backpack rests at my feet and my knife is strapped to my waist. The cut on my wrist throbs. It’s possible I made the cut too deep. It wouldn’t be the first time.

  After only a few seconds, sweat beads on my upper lip. It’s going to be a hot day. The sun is still low in the sky, and already the air is thick with humidity. I stopped trying to keep track of the date years ago, but I’m fairly certain it’s late June. A miserable time to be in Georgia. I’ll need to head north soon. Or east, toward the ocean.

  The street in front of me looks clear. Nothing but weeds growing through cracks and the occasional bird. But I stay where I am with my breath held and my fists clenched, almost like I’m frozen. Leaving my hiding spot is always the toughest part of the morning.
Despite my common sense, a part of me just wants to hide from the horror and desolation that has taken over this planet and the utter nothingness that has become our country.

  But hiding isn’t surviving, and I promised Lilly I would survive.

  After fifteen minutes or so of staring at the empty street, I decide it’s a good time to move. My pack is light when I sling it over my shoulder. Almost empty. Food will be my priority today.

  Stepping into the Georgia sun is like opening the door to a hot oven. It takes my breath away, and within seconds my skin is even more moist than it was before. My filthy brown tank helps a little, but my legs are sweating under the thick fabric of my jeans. What I wouldn’t give for a pair of shorts.

  I head down the main street in search of a sign that might tell me where the nearest refugee camp was. Most of the signs have been torn down, forcing me to keep my eyes open. Even then I almost miss it. The wood post pokes out of the ground, but the sign lays off to the side and is partially hidden by an azalea bush. If it wasn’t neon green, I probably would have walked right by it.

  Just as I kneel down, something rustles in the trees to my right. The muscles in my back tighten and I automatically reach for my knife, but I don’t pull it out, and I don’t move from my position. It could just be an animal.

  When the creeper steps from the trees less than twenty yards away from me, I jump to my feet. The thing’s black eyes move my way as his body shakes. His gray skin glistens under the bright sun as if he’s sweating. I didn’t know they could sweat. Hell, I’m not even sure if he is a he. But I do know one thing: he is more afraid of me than I am of him.

  The knowledge doesn’t stop my heart from pounding harder.

  I slide my knife from its sheath and take a step toward the creeper. His limbs are gangly and his neck unnaturally long. When he reels back the motion is fluid, like his body is being blown in the wind. His already big eyes grow larger, morphing from black slits to ovals. His mouth opens in what can only be described as a gasp, revealing three rows of sharp teeth. He raises his hand toward me, spreading his four fingers out as if to ward me off. I step closer and raise my knife. His skin seeps moisture like the fear is trying to escape from his pores. Liquid runs down his torso and legs. It drops from his arms and falls on the red Georgia clay below him. The energy between us crackles with electricity.

  Like the electricity they used on us in the camps.

  My hand tightens around my knife. “No mercy.”

  His eyes get bigger. They are smooth like onyx, but somehow I can tell when he glances toward my knife. His neck moves almost like he’s trying to shake his head. But I’m not sure they’re capable of that movement, and he just ends up reminding me of a bobble head. Not that it would matter, anyway. I meant what I said. They didn’t show us any mercy.

  I rush forward as he steps back, trying to flee. I’m faster. He may be almost two feet taller than me, but when I jump onto him, his body drops to the ground. Dust flies up around us, growing thicker as he squirms under me. The red dirt stings my eyes, making them tear up, but I don’t stop. My knee digs into his stomach, and I jam my arm against his ridiculously long neck. His skin is smooth and slick.

  Almost reptilian.

  That’s what he is. A snake. A snake who invaded our planet and destroyed everything. Who captured and tortured and killed.

  A snake that deserves to be skinned.

  When I run my blade down the side of his face, he screams. The sound rips through me like a tornado, making my ears ring. It sounds more like a siren than a noise something living would make.

  I don’t stop, though. I can’t.

  His body moves under me like rubber. Arms fly, smacking me in the face and stomach. The chest. Somehow, he manages to get a handful of my hair. Hot pain spreads across my scalp, and a cry that’s somewhere between agony and rage rips its way from my chest. But I keep slicing. Down his face to his neck, then over his chest. When I cut across his stomach, my hands are already slippery from his black blood. It’s thicker than ours. Similar to molasses, but not sticky.

  Oily. Like they are.

  I squeeze the handle of my knife tighter as I move it up the other side of his body. The ground under us is no longer red. It’s black. As if someone spilled a bucket of tar. By the time my blade has made it up the other side of his face, he’s stopped fighting. His chest still rises and falls, but his black eyes are glassier than ever and I know death isn’t too far off.

  I gasp for air as I slide off his near-lifeless body. My hands shake when I put down my knife, but it doesn’t stop the fury from building inside me. Even when I peel the skin away from his face, I can’t control it. It’s all I can see. All the pain of the last four years has melted away, and all I have left is rage.

  My shoulders rise and fall with each breath, and the muscles in my forearms ache when I stand with the creeper’s skin clutched in my hands. It blows in the breeze, dripping black blood onto the mutilated body at my feet. Skinning him didn’t help ease my pain. Not that it ever does. My legs still shake and my head still pounds, and the ache in my chest is just as volatile as ever.

  Nothing can make it go away.

  I exhale and drop the skin. It slaps against the creeper’s body with a sickening, wet sound that turns my stomach inside out. My legs wobble and I sink to the ground. Right onto the muddy earth.

  Wet from the blood of my victim.

  Am I any better than they are? It doesn’t feel like it.

  My pants cling to my legs in the uncomfortable way that only jeans can when they’re wet, and my arms are black almost to my elbows. Blood is splattered across my chest and most likely my face too. I need to wash up.

  The hot sun pounds against my head, burning my scalp. It feels like a hot iron pressed against my skull. I touch the sensitive area and wince when my fingers brush skin. There’s a bald spot that has to be the size of golf ball. The hair that was ripped out by the roots is still clutched in the creeper’s hand. Brown and grimy, it resembles a dreadlock more than what I remember my hair looking like. I try to work my fingers through my remaining locks, but it’s pointless. They’re a tangled mess.

  Just like me.

  My knife lays on the ground next to the creeper’s head, and I reach for it just as a foot comes down on my hand. The thick sole of the boot crushes my fingers. It sends a shock through me, making it impossible to react for several seconds. Too long in a world like this.

  3

  “So, you’re the one who’s been skinning the invaders.” The voice is masculine and slightly musical, as if there’s some kind of humor in the horror I’ve inflicted on these creatures.

  It turns my blood to ice and makes my body tighten from the inside out.

  On instinct, I lash out with my free hand. It slams against the back of my attacker’s knee, and he lurches forward but doesn’t fall. I swing my arm back for a second hit, but someone grabs me from behind. Thin, bony arms wrap around me, pinning my free arm to my side.

  “Calm down,” a soft voice whispers in my ear. Her breath brushes against my cheek and I jerk away. Just because she’s a woman doesn’t mean she’s harmless.

  I’m proof of that.

  The boot moves off my hand, but before I can do anything, the guy has knelt in front of me. He pins my arm to the ground and leans forward. Inches from my face. His dirty, red hat is pulled low over his face, and he pushes it back to reveal eyes that are sharp and blue. His light brown hair is shaggy and his beard is just a shade darker. Circles ring his eyes, and the sunken cheeks of hunger contrast with his muscled arms.

  “We’re not going to hurt you.”

  His closeness is more uncomfortable than my damp jeans.

  “Then let me go.” The words feel foreign on my lips. Like I’m speaking a different language or I’m a wild animal learning to talk for the first time. It’s been months since I’ve spoken to another person.

  The guy nods and leans back, and the girl lets me go. The second her arms are off
me, I scoot away.

  “We really aren’t going to hurt you,” the girl says.

  Her skin is the color of chocolate, and her eyes just as dark. They are big and round, dominating her tiny face. She’s childishly small, probably only five feet tall and not even a hundred pounds. But the age and experience in her eyes give her away. No matter how old she is, she’s seen too much to be considered a child now.

  The girl tilts her head to the side and runs her hand over her head. Her dark hair is buzzed off and her scalp shines under the hot morning sun. “We don’t judge you.” Her eyes flit toward the mangled body, then back to me. “They deserve it.”

  I nod slowly, but it’s just to distract them. My eyes never stop moving. Never stop surveying my surroundings as I look for a way to escape. The road is blocked by the girl, and the guy stands between me and the forest. I’m backed up against the azalea bush, meaning I would have to run through these people to get away. I can do it, but it won’t be easy. Two against one, and me without my knife.

  The guy leans toward me. “Are you going to hurt us?”

  “Not if I don’t have to.” The words scratch their way from my throat.

  He leans back. My heart pounds so wildly against my ribs that it threatens to leave a bruise. All I want to do is run, but he has my knife. The blade is just visible under his left boot. He looks at me, then at the girl. She shrugs, giving off the impression that she doesn’t have a clue what to do with me, and he copies her. They seem pretty in sync. Like they’ve been together for a long time and don’t need to talk to communicate anymore. Maybe they’re telepathic like the creepers.