The Gap - Chapter 4

​Back cover description:
Zora lives her life in tenuous routine, using her unique gifts to guide refugees through the treacherous Gap in search of safety within the walled-off empire to the north. But her journey takes a turn, one day, as she uncovers dark secrets among the jungle's predators and bandits. Soon, survival becomes more than just reaching the other side, and it may come at the cost of everything she once held to be true.

Chapter 4

“Thank you! That's too kind of you. You didn't have to tip. Stay safe! Good luck!”

I rattle off the standard pleasantries as the passengers pay me their reputation. It's not much, but to them it's almost all they have. By the time they reach Jericho, most of them will have nothing left but their own two feet and an irresponsible amount of determination; a few of them might even wander into the negatives.

Ollie is over by the border town’s common house, chatting with some acquaintances in Sudlandian. I've never bothered to master the native language here; naturally, none of my customers ever travel southward from Sudland. But every time I hear Ollie speak it, I feel an odd sense of loss, like I'm missing out on some significant part of the world.

Or at least a significant part of my world.

I watch as Ollie breaks into laughter, responding to some joke that I'll never understand. His smile is warm, the kind that makes you feel like you're the most interesting part of his day. It's probably why I let him stick around when I’ve driven so many others away.

We met when we were both almost thirteen. I was tracking a cartel through the Gap, quietly bleeding them of their food and gear—materials I would later sell in town for half their normal price. Ollie was their pack mule, forced into servitude. I remember he had this long curly hair back then. He looked like an untamed hedgehog. But I liked it. Every time I snuck things from the stash he was hauling, I just wanted to reach out and bounce it a couple times.

At one point, the cartel set up camp for the night, and I was getting ready to do my thing when I heard screaming. Pitiful moans followed by periodic bursts of whimpering. I crept over to their supply pile, camouflaged by my still developing abilities, and watched as they beat him, over and over, knocking him around like a ball. They kept yelling about a stash, demanding to know where he'd hidden it, whatever it was. But he never replied with anything other than tear-filled denials.

It didn't take me long to realize that they were punishing him for something I'd stolen, something clearly worth more to them than me. And I don't know if it was something about his face—the pained innocence in his eyes, hidden by clumped curls of hair soaked in blood—or maybe it was the crushing guilt (that still remains today, as I've still never told him what happened to those missing supplies), but something inside me snapped.

I don't remember much after that. Ollie always tells people it was like watching a firestorm. A tornado of rage is his favorite way to phrase it. When I came to, there were seven bodies lying on the forest floor, blood issuing from their eyes and ears, battered by some power of mine that I probably still haven't discovered.

Ollie stretched out a hand to me, slick with blood and jungle grime, and that's when I realized I’d fallen to my knees, reduced to tears at what I’d done. But he never judged me. He only ever gave me that smile, the one that wraps your heart in a hug.

I took his hand, and we've had each other's backs since.

All my other friends and partners over the years have either left me or died. Poisoned by the air, murdered by the cartels, sheer dumb misfortune. But not Ollie. There's always been something different about him.

He ends his conversation and waves goodbye, then wanders over to where I'm rearranging the gear in my pack.

“Good group we had this time.”

I look up at him. He's watching the last of the passengers disappear into the evening crowds that mill about the lodges, supply stores, and bus stations. It's usually about half and half; some people like to get moving right away, fueled by the adrenaline of arriving safely through the Gap, while others are so drained that they want nothing more than a real meal and a good night's sleep.

I nod in agreement. “They were alright.”

Ollie takes a seat on a nearby rock and turns his attention to the flow of migrants moving in and about the town. Our position at the southernmost portal affords us a prime view of the masses who braved—and survived—the perilous trek northward. At least so far. Those who have sacrificed and gambled the last pieces of whatever former life they lived in the hopes of obtaining even scraps of the luxury found in the Empire.

“We could go, you know.”

I grab my bag and stand. “Hmm? Yeah, I know. Sorry, I'm ready to head to the lodge.”

“No, not the lodge,” he says, still staring at the town, his eyes focused on some point far beyond the shanty buildings tucked into the fading edges of the forest. “We could go, Zora. Leave this place.”

I laugh and begin walking. “What are you talking about?”

“You know what I mean. We've been doing this for years now. Aren't you tired of it? The same journey back and forth, week after week after month after year?”

“No, not really.” I look at him skeptically. “Are you?”

He stands up and rushes to catch up with me. “I don't know. Sometimes.”

I stop walking, and Ollie nearly runs right into me. “What are you trying to say?” A lump forms at the base of my stomach, the same lump that appears every time I sense the pending loss of someone dear to me. Over the years I've come to recognize that feeling and shield myself, and yet, the loss never fails to destroy a piece of my soul, to chip away at the last remaining strings tying me to my desire to carry on.

“Let's just go. North, I mean. Why stick around here?” He takes one of my gear bags from me and throws it over his shoulder. “With your abilities, we could sneak into the Empire right under their noses. We’d live like royalty!”

I laugh again, but this time it’s more subdued, less sincere. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t considered it. And he’s right, I’d have no problem getting past Jericho. Plus, living among the Freesians would be a breeze. With my abilities, I’d be one of the most sought-after migrants among them. I'd already be considered middle class in the Empire.

I certainly have more reputation than anyone in the southern continent, perhaps even more than most in Sudland. I could be royalty here. Though, why would I want that? Queen of all ash and flame?

Okay, that actually has a nice ring to it.

I think back to when the Empire came to my village when I was growing up. The flower-stamped crates of supplies. The handshakes and the smiles. All the staged benevolence, the doctors and the candy and the popcorn.

And for what?

All of it turned to dust. Wiped away as if it had never existed. And then for the survivors to be turned away? It just proves how false their perfect smiles were.

We arrive at the lodge, and Ollie hands me back my gear. “Anyways, hope you have a good night, Zo. I’ll see you in a month or so?”

“What? A month?”

“Yeah.” He puts his hands on his hips. “Remember? I told you I’d be hanging with my cousin Nico for a rotation?”

I slap my hand to my forehead. “That’s right, I forgot.” The pit in my stomach returns. I’ll have to find some half-wit to take his place for the next round. Not looking forward to that.

“Well. Take care I suppose.”

“Yeah, you too, I guess.” He smiles and pulls me into an embrace. He smells of campfire and jungle. It’s a familiar smell, a comforting aroma that keeps me rooted in reality, keeps me from spiraling downwards into the depths of monotony and apathy.

It’s going to be a long month.

~

It took me nearly two hours to fall asleep.

Normally, Ollie and I share a room between treks, and I’ve grown accustomed to his steady, persistent snoring. It lulls me to sleep far faster than the cold silence of solitude. But even after hundreds of journeys, I still find myself exhausted by the end, so my sleep—as belated as it may be—is deep and dreamless.

So, when I’m woken at two in the morning, I almost believe it is, in fact, a dream.

“Zo! Zo, wake up!”

Someone pushes my shoulder. Once, twice, a third time a bit harder.

“Mmm, nuh uh.”

I’m grabbed by two hands and shaken like a cocktail. “Zora!”

“What in the hell?”

I open my eyes, ready to fight the first thing I see, but then I emerge from my subconscious just enough to recognize the person standing anxiously by my bedside.

“Ollie, what are you doing? Why are you here?”

“I need your help.”

I sit myself up and rub my eyes to clear them. He’s been crying, I notice.

And his voice, it’s laced with something I’ve never heard from him before.

Fear?

No. It’s more subtle than that, a mix of a few things. It’s hard to tell in the subdued state I’m in.

Anger maybe? Something’s off, that’s for sure, and it’s forcibly prodding my brain back into motion.

“Hey, what’s wrong? What’s going on?” I grab my shirt hanging on the backboard and put it on. “I thought you were going to your cousin’s?”

Even in the muted light of the waning moon, I see Ollie’s visage turn ashen and sour. He goes to his knees, looking as if he’s holding back the contents of his stomach, and grips the edges of my bedsheets.

“He’s dead, Zo.”

His whispered words hit me like a gust of icy wind, snapping my mind to full alertness.

At first, I don’t know what to say. I just watch as he buries his head into my thigh and sobs silently.

Then I smell it—that sickly iron scent. I look down at his hands and arms to find them covered in blood. That’s what’s been throwing me off, keeping me unsettled this whole time. I could feel the presence of death from the moment I awoke, I just didn't know why.

“Oh Ollie…” I run my hand along his hair and rub his back. “Hon, what happened?”

He doesn’t answer for nearly ten whole minutes, just continues to cry without a sound. I pull him up onto the bed beside me and embrace him from behind with my head leaned against his shoulder.

I steal periodic glances at the door and window, my instincts on high alert. The blood has me on edge, and it would be foolish to assume we’re safe, just because we’re in town and not in the Gap.

Eventually, Ollie’s shaking dies down, though every few seconds I hear his attempt to muffle a congested sniff. He wipes his eyes and his nose, then he takes a shuddering breath in.

“What happened?” I ask in a fresh attempt to elicit more information.

He breaks my hold on him and turns to face me. “He was killed,” he says, poison in his voice. “I don’t know by who.”

“Killed?”

The temperature in the room drops by several degrees. It was an obvious assumption, given the blood and suddenness of it. But still, the revelation catches me off guard.

“Where? How do you know?”

Ollie wipes his nose on his sleeve again. “He was on a crew working the continental highway west of town. He wasn’t at home, so I figured he was pulling a night shift. Thought I’d go surprise him at the work site, but by the time I arrived they were already pulling the bodies out…”

His voice fades, and he falls into a contemplative state. I'm not sure if I should respond, so I take his hand in mine and rub the back of it with my thumb.

Killed. Bodies, plural. Who would do that?

The thought is so jarring that my mind is still struggling to process it.

And Nico. He’s dead? What a horrible thing to happen. Ollie talks about Nico all the time. They were about as close as cousins get, closer even than any siblings I know.

I've met him a few times. We would occasionally grab dinner together in-between routes, just the three of us. Mostly, I know him through the stories Ollie tells me about the two of them. Their parents were killed in the crossfire of some gang war, leaving them with only each other to lean on.

Anytime they got together, they'd launch into some weird jargon, a language that only the two of them understood, leaving me to simply watch silently and appreciate their relationship, a relationship I'd only ever dreamed of having.

He was nice, Nico. A carbon copy of Ollie, really. The way they looked, the way they acted and talked. It was easy for me to mix them up after a few drinks.

Was.

It doesn't even feel weird anymore, using the past tense for people I know or care about. It's like my bad knee that I've just gotten used to favoring over the years. Something to be endured, accepted as a simple fact of life.

“Is there anything I can do?” I offer, not quite sure what I'm offering up.

Ollie picks himself up from the bed and folds his arms. He looks discomforted and anxious, like he's readying himself to ask something truly inconvenient. “Actually, I need some help,” he says humbly. “I need to go pick up his body, and you're…Well, you’re the only one I know who can help.”

Something inside me melts, and I rise up to pull him into my arms. “Of course,” I whisper, and he burrows his face into my neck. I feel the hot touch of tears as they slide quietly down the back side of my shoulder. With knuckles clenched, I draw him in closer, tighter.

A swell of anger suddenly taints my empathy. How could they just leave the bodies like that, discarded like leftover scrap after a project? What happens to the bodies that no one claims, or that no one is able to claim? Will they simply remain there, their bones incorporated into the highway like some kind of sick sacrifice to whichever corporation is currently lusting after the quixotic fortunes that come from a completed transcontinental route through the Gap?

It's an inhuman fate for anyone, and yet, that's how many view our kind. Tools. Byproducts. Something to be pitied, but accepted as just an unfortunate consequence of an imbalanced universe.

I groan internally, stomaching my disquiet, for now, and turn my thoughts closer to home.

In all the years I've known Ollie, he's never once asked anything from me, far less asked me to use my abilities for him. But I have my suspicions he's asking me to do so now, in his own way; though, he's much too uncomfortable to ask me outright.

The fact that he's said this much shows just how desperate he is.

I let go of Ollie and take him by both hands, gently tugging on them as if to coax his downturned head upward to look at me. “Alright,” I say. “I'll get my shoes, then show me the way?”

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Title image courtesy of David Riano - Pexels