Skeletal

  Skeletal

  Emma Pullar

  Copyright © 2017 Emma Pullar

  The right of Emma Pullar to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in 2017 by Bloodhound Books

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  www.bloodhoundbooks.com

  Created with Vellum

  For The Weirdos

  Contents

  Fact

  Preface

  Act I The Plan

  1. End Day

  2. Showcase

  3. An Unwanted Win

  4. Hover-Chairs of Blubber

  5. Be a Good Dolly

  6. The Life of a Host

  7. The Cure

  8. Lab B

  9. Lockdown

  10. Blood Block

  11. Clover

  12. Crow in the Shadow

  13. Tess

  14. Captured

  15. Rock Vault

  16. Revolting Secrets

  17. Drift Side

  18. Running from Runners

  19. Glory Den

  Act II The Cure

  20. Green-eyed Gang

  21. Bullet

  22. She’s Missing

  23. The Spiral

  24. The Serum

  25. Crownado

  26. Failed

  Act III The Choice

  27. Love and Lies

  28. A Cold Stone for a Heart

  29. The Wall and Back

  30. The Verity

  31. Ruinous

  32. Back to Rock Vault

  33. Inked

  34. Scrubs

  35. Rogue Guard

  Epilogue

  A Note From Bloodhound Books

  Acknowledgments

  Glossary

  Fact

  Crows recognise individual human faces

  and can hold a grudge if you treat them badly.

  Preface

  People think there are choices. They think they have life and a reason to breathe. I don’t. My choices are black and white; remain inside the darkness or walk into the light. Live and be dead or die and be dead. That’s it.

  I’ve always wondered what the world was like before. Elders tell of a time when everyone was free but that can’t be true. No Skels? Don’t think so. Central control everything. I’ve never seen one but I know I hate them all. They alone hold the power to give or take away life in this city – the last city.

  I stare into the abyss, mesmerised by the gentle lap of the trench water. My head empties of thoughts and I try to keep it that way, aware of only my reflection, my brown eyes like two black pebbles in the dark, dirty water. With the back of my hand, I scrub the last remnants of glittery makeup from my hollow cheek, the last indication that I was ever a host. I’m a Skel, and that’s what I’ll always be, no matter what labels they stick on me. Skels are named so because of the way our bones jut out. I’ve not felt starved in days yet I still look sickly, skeletal.

  Overhead, wings flap. Drawn to the sound, I follow the crow in flight with watchful eyes. It settles on the single streetlamp which shines down on the bolted entrance to Rock Vault. The stony castle’s sharp edges blend into the night sky, causing the lit door to look as if it’s a floating entrance to a place beyond our world. It’s not, of course. Rock Vault is the end of the line. The door doesn’t lead to some magical place, it leads to nowhere worth being and nothing good. It’s a door I never want to go through, a door no Skel ever wants to go through.

  The trenches surrounding Rock Vault (the city prison) are always deserted. No one ever comes down to the water’s edge and most never venture out of their cubes after dark but I couldn’t help it. I felt suffocated when confined to my cube. Confined but not locked in, none of us are. No privacy, no locks; at least not for Skels. Central forbid us to leave after lights out, we must never leave once the stars appear, and night crawlers aside, I’m the only one that does, as far as I know.

  The stench from the trenches is sometimes unbearable. No need for my snood, pulled up over my nose, but the odour is still strong enough that it stings my eyes. The air tastes as vile as ever and the breeze is thick with flies. Gale City is silent, still as the grave.

  Today, I’m in more trouble than I’ve ever been in, all because I can’t stand being controlled. They tried to control every aspect of my life, sent me to the Morb complex. The guards will have orders to capture me, make an example of me. I don’t care. I’m not scared of them, or death … my biggest fear is living a lie, to only exist for the purpose of aiding the privileged. At twenty, my adult life has only just begun and already I want a way out of it. Each night I wish it and each night the Dark Angel never grants my wish, never comes for me, only for them. However, I would not want to die the way they did.

  Unblinking eyes stare down at me; some of them dangling from the sockets of their skewered heads. There’s at least a dozen, squashed ear against ear, along the thick cable over the trenches; like rotten tomatoes, their putrid flesh hangs down. Crows peck at the decaying faces and once the skin falls, the birds will no longer be the only ones’ feasting. I pick up a stone and toss it into the murky water. Plink. It sinks into the grey. I should never have come here, should never have agreed to take him with me. Why did I? Feathers ruffle in the trees behind me. Those creepy crows are always watching.

  ‘Skyla?’

  Over my shoulder I see a chubby boy wearing the face of a ghost. To look at, we do not seem the same age, but we are. He looks much younger than me, more like twelve. I stare up at Bunce, our hair the same sandy blond, yet mine’s like dust and his like silk. I look long and hard into those bright blue eyes, so childlike, almost innocent. He’s scared and he should be. For today we run, today we change our future, today … we live.

  Act I The Plan

  1

  End Day

  THIRTEEN DAYS EARLIER

  The two long beams of light at the back flicker out, to signal that there’s only ten minutes left of my shift. Gears grind, machines clatter their metal parts together and the smell of meat clings to everything. My legs are stiff, calf muscles tight as knotted rope. I squat down – I do this every half hour or so to alleviate the stiffness – knees poking out either side of my long apron, the front of which is stained pink. My joints cringe as I straighten up. I tug at the wristband of my blue, bloodstained, plastic gloves and wriggle my fingers in a little further. One size fits all, yeah right! I grab a cut of cold meat and mindlessly toss it into the grinder, watching as it slides down the silver funnel, leaving a trail of red before butting against the cuts of meat already waiting to be chewed up.

  I left the logical part of my brain at home today; the whimsical and fretful part in full control. I can think of nothing but Showcase, of how I’m going to be judged like a grade of meat, and every time I picture myself inside that glass box, my stomach swallows itself. I’ve never seen the Showcase process; the pictures inside my head are born from gossip and the yearly spectacle of at least fifty girls lined up outside City Hall. Younger Skels dream about their life of manual labour coming to an end, even those who have only been labouring a few years. They pity the elders, all bent and broken, shuffling along, dull eyes reflecting the wings of the Dark Angel, which will come to carry them to their final resting place soon enough. The young don’t want to become el
ders. They all want to stop being a Skel. Not me. The only change I’ve ever contemplated is running off into the desert, or, like the elders, into the arms of the Dark Angel. Which … when I think about it, is the same thing.

  The elders talk of ‘going to glory’ which I’m told means ‘God in heaven’. No one uses the term ‘God’ anymore because no one believes we are made in ‘God’s likeness’. They believe the Dark Angel (which some elders still refer to as the ‘Grim Reaper’) comes for you when you die and takes you to the glory in the sky. A popular street drug was named after it and shortened to ‘glory’. Users often describe the high as being heavenly and many say they feel glorious after smoking it. I’ve often thought of spiking the meat with it. I never would, it’s not worth the punishment.

  Minutes drag by like hours before the ear-splitting whistle screams out of the far wall speaker and echoes around the high ceiling. All Skels down tools, in my case, meat. It’s always tempting to stop work a little early or slow down. I never do. I’ve seen Skels beaten bloody by guards for stopping to chat for only a few seconds before the whistle. At least the work isn’t hard. It’s tiring and monotonous; the gloves rub, my eyes often feel strained under the harsh light and my feet ache by the end of the day but it isn’t back-breaking. Not like skyway maintenance, or any maintenance, for that matter. I work alone, keep myself to myself and that’s how I like it. Most days I work the grinder. I feed the meat into the big industrial machine and it comes out as mince. Then it’s mixed with vegetables and vitamins by nutrient control, and the different coloured slop is pumped into meal sized tubs. When I work the belt, I never get too close to the stuff. It’s unnatural to me. The Morbihan who eat it are unnatural to me.

  ‘End Daaaayyy! Come on, Sky.’

  A scrawny Skel, whose name escapes me, grabs my arm and tugs me towards the exit. I allow her to drag me along by the elbow while I peel my plastic gloves off my shrivelled hands. I dump them in the glove bin as the sanitation crew sweep past and quickly get to work cleaning the machines, eager to get finished and join in the celebrations. I whip off my apron and fitted hat. Hair free, it drops to my shoulders. I join the queue of Skels heading towards the exit, robotically throwing my hat and apron in the laundry bin after the person in front has done the same, then in turn we each press our palms to the pad and clock out.

  End Day is the last day on the Central calendar and at midnight, New Year begins. Every year begins with Showcase and every year I’ve been too young to worry about it. I’m now of age and that bothers me. It doesn’t bother any of the other girls my age, they look forward to it. Excited and hopeful, they chatter mindlessly about what their host families might be like. I don’t talk about it, it grates on me.

  I live only a few blocks from the meat factory. I arrive home in minutes and to a package on my doorstep. Above, the black drone that dropped it buzzes off into the purple night, like a giant, flying spider. I scoop up the shoe-sized box and push open the front door. I’m lucky to live on the ground floor. Some Skels have to wearily trudge up seven flights of stairs after a twelve-hour shift. I slip inside and the front door closes behind me triggering the ceiling light. I toss the package to the table, made visible by the dim glow from the single bulb. I’ll have electricity for only an hour, so before opening the box, I heat up the leftover pumpkin soup in a pot on the stove top.

  It doesn’t take long for the orange liquid to bubble up. I grab the metal pot from the stove, no need for a bowl – not that I have one – and perch on the stool at my battered wooden table. I inhale the steam from the hot, creamy soup. My mouth waters and my mind wanders to a time when my grandfather would make soup for me. He’d make it in the cold season, when the grey clouds would burst without warning. I would always push it too far, ignoring the angry clouds, I’d only head back once the first raindrops hit my cheeks. He expected nothing less and would open the door to me, soaked through and jittering. I used to love the smell of cool rain followed by the warm aroma of pumpkin soup, the spicy scent inviting me in out of the cold. Now, when I come home, my cube is cold, dark, devoid of comfort. It’s as dead inside as I am.

  I dunk husks of bread into the metal pot, the warm orange sinks into the grains and runs down the sides of the crust. I eat slowly, savouring the moist bread on my tongue, reliving my childhood memories. Bread gone, I scrape my battered spoon around the sides of the pot and, with every spoonful, I take a sideways glance at the package beside me, hoping it will somehow disappear. My teeth clench at the scraping sound of metal on metal. I carefully spoon the last drop into my mouth. I could eat two pots more but there isn’t any more and it will probably be a long time before I get my hands on another pumpkin. I throw the spoon down onto the small wobbly table, snatch up the package, walk two steps to my bed and sit down. I sink into the lumpy mattress, the old springs creak and cry in protest.

  My cube is ten feet by ten feet; everything in one room, including the toilet … a bucket. I use the facilities in the bathing block before lights out, otherwise my only option is the bucket, and trying to pee into a bucket in the dark can be problematic.

  ‘Let’s get this over with,’ I mutter to myself, tearing open the box.

  Inside, neatly placed on top of sheer fabric, is a small metal square, tied with a gold ribbon. What? No dress? I scoop up the square, pull off the ribbon and turn the device over in my hands. Light comes out of it and words appear on the screen:

  Ms Skyla,

  Congratulations on turning twenty. Now that your teenage years are behind you, it’s time to think about the many wonderful opportunities presented in adulthood.

  Showcase will begin at ten sharp and finish at midnight. Make sure to look your very best and be ready to compete for likeability, especially if you are challenged in curves, dark skin, or beauty.

  You will arrive at City Hall no later than nine thirty. Wait outside until you are summoned. In the event of rain or dust storm you may wait on the steps. You must wear the dress provided, failure to do so will result in severe punishment.

  We wish you the best of luck.

  Grandly,

  Chester Stout HHL

  Esteemed member of the Gale City Official Guild

  The city’s emblem is on the bottom right of the screen in the shape of a wax seal. A blood-red blob with an impression of letters pushed into it, the words, ‘Gale City: The System Works’, circle an impression of a crow holding the sun in its claws. The system works. Ha! Only for Central and Morbihan. I set down the tiny touchpad and push my fingers around inside the box. Where’s the damn dress? Not that I want to wear a fucking dress, but I don’t want to be punished either. The bulb above me flickers and becomes dull. It’s almost lights out. I reach into the box a second time and pull out the sheer material. I hold it up to the light. Wait, what? They can’t expect me to wear this! I might as well go naked! The light flickers out.

  I sigh and snatch up my snood from the end of the bed, pull it over my head and the darkness gets darker until my head pops out and my eyes adjust. I know my room well. I walk a few paces, around the table, towards the door and reach down. I stuff the ‘dress’ into the side-pocket of my knapsack and feel around inside for my comb and stick; my fingers find their sharp edges. Confident I have everything I need, I push through my front door and back out into the cool air. Tonight’s the only night guards are not on curfew duty and people may walk the streets as they please, and they do.

  The air vibrates with New Year celebrations: laughter, music and singing mix together, creating the sound of joy. High above me strings of gold-glowing lanterns crisscross between lampposts. The clear string holding them up seems invisible, and an intermittent breeze pushes the golden balls of light around, making them look as if they’re floating on a dark river in the sky.

  Everyone has come out of their cubes to share what little they have. The feast is a rainbow of colour, yet Skels still dress in their black, city-issue clothes. Some have boldly added a ribbon to their hair or bowtie around thei
r neck. I would never wear ribbons or bows, but the joyous atmosphere is not lost on me. I smile at the sound of the children’s laughter as they run through the crowd playing tag. Once upon a time I did the same. I used to dance unashamedly to the drummed music beating boldly into the night.

  CAW!

  I flinch, that awful squawk a reminder of where I am, of what they did. Could still do. The horizon is thick with crows silently circling. I study the ill-omened feathered rings. The lack of cloud cover makes it look as if the navy sky is filled with swirling black holes threatening to swallow up the city, along with its inhabitants. The birds are waiting for the Mutil to arrive and start the carnage, they’ll be waiting all night; the brain-dead Mutil never venture into the streets on New Year. Terrifying as most of them are, I often feel sorry for the Mutil; it could happen to any one of us and this is why Skels are reluctant to put a foot wrong. Central mutilate the person’s mind as well as the body, in the name of research, yet these monsters must have some thought patterns because they consciously choose to stay away. Even so, the crows are always hopeful. I don’t know why the Mutil don’t come, and because they don’t, it is the only time of year we can truly feel safe.