The Gap - Chapter 5

​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 5

Floodlights illuminate a violent scene—blood-stained soil, bodies left against rocks and trees like sacks of concrete.

A local officiella stands at the head of a short line of people, marking notes on a tablet as weepy-eyed relatives provide descriptions of their loved ones for identification. Some of them have trucks, likely rented for the sole purpose of retrieving the remains, others have carts pulled by horse or even by hand. Ollie doesn't have anything like that; he doesn’t live anywhere long enough to keep many possessions. It's why he asked me to join him. Of course I agreed, albeit with reservations.

I'm no stranger to death, but even my stomach turns at the sight. There are still clusters of bodies lying unclaimed, recently extinguished machinery and dried underbrush still smoking and smoldering. And the smell—earthy and charred with the sickly ferrous undertone of blood.

Ollie reaches the front of the line, shoulders slumped, glazed-over eyes trained on the dirt before his feet. He looks beaten. Empty.

My heart bleeds for him. It brings back haunted memories of my own, though it's been so long I can hardly recall the sting of loss. Years have passed since I've let anyone get close enough to cause any real regret if, and when, they leave me.

Except Ollie.

But even now, nightmares revolving around that very theme keep me up at night, pressuring me to abandon him before he inevitably does the same to me. Just as countless others have done throughout my life.

I scan the surrounding area, taking a closer look at the massacre while Ollie gives the officiella his cousin's description for body pick up.

It bears all the hallmarks of a cartel hit; I would know, having seen plenty in my lifetime. Death by blade, nighttime assault, cleansing of the scene by fire. There are even a few trademarks of the local S4X cartel, such as missing shoes among the victims—a practice that makes it difficult for potential survivors to seek help. Sickeningly barbaric.

But something isn't right. And I'm not sure what it is, but I feel it inside me. I get the same feeling whenever I run into a traveling vendor and they try selling me a cheap knockoff that's half the price but a quarter of the quality; everything looks right, but something doesn’t sit well, something my subconscious has figured out that my conscious self hasn't quite realized.

“Hey, she said they moved him over this way.”

Ollie’s sudden presence startles me, and I realize I've been holding my breath, concentrating. “Ah, okay.”

I take Ollie by the arm and allow him to direct us towards the far end of the construction site, through tangled piles of warped rebar and ash-covered supply crates.

Unopened supply crates.

Cartels aren’t usually better off than the general public, save the Big Three. They earn their daily bread through illicit trafficking, robbery, and the black-market sale of stolen goods. It’s uncommon to find an ambush scene that hasn’t been entirely picked clean, anything of value carted off to fund tomorrow's ambitions. Not unless there's some other dire matter that's captured their full attention.

To see unopened supplies lying around after such a violent event shows that whoever did this had a much different objective in mind.

This isn't robbery, in other words. It's a message.

I'm not sure what to say to Ollie, or if I should say anything at all. But the feeling from earlier still pesters me, pushing me to dig deeper, to learn more.

We pause in front of a line of bodies, all laid out in a line and covered with crimson-splotched sheets. There are roughly a dozen bodies here, and this is just one of several clusters scattered across the work site. This must have been a well-financed operation to have so many workers.

“Here he is.”

Ollie goes to his knees in front of one of the bodies and pulls the sheet back to reveal Nico’s face, blood crusted to his scraggly beard. I feel my eyes brim with moisture as Ollie bows his forehead to touch his.

No one deserves a fate like this.

After several moments, Ollie stands and allows me to come forward. I approach Nico, humbly, and take his body by the arms. Then, as gracefully as I can, I sling his limp form around my shoulders and settle him into a comfortable position. He's as light as a raincoat to me; I could walk for miles with him on my back, but Ollie has a family graveyard not too far from here. It won’t take long.

“Who would do something like this?”

I turn to Ollie. His eyes are vacant, far removed from reality. And his feet drag along as we walk, as if moving forward somehow admits acceptance of this new reality.

In all the years I've known him, I've never seen him like this. He's always been the light-hearted one, pushing us both through the worst of our experiences with his trademark irreverent humor. It's a relieving balance to my irritated cynicism and overall sour attitude aimed at the world. I worry that this balance is in jeopardy, now, possibly irreversibly damaged. And I shudder to think of returning to the person I was before meeting Ollie.

I consider his question and debate whether or not to share my suspicions. Undoubtedly, it would unearth more questions than resolutions, which is the last thing Ollie needs right now. But we never keep anything from each other, even if it's painful at times; it's the cornerstone of our relationship, of the trust we've nurtured over the years out of a survival necessity.

I waffle back and forth for several minutes, finally settling on a more ambiguous response. “It seems organized. Intentional even,” I say. “But I can't imagine it was personal.”

It seemed like a more uplifting comment in my mind, but hearing it out loud makes me cringe. Ollie must feel similarly, judging by his expression.

“Why then?” he asks, confusion and uncharacteristic anger defining his tone. “What was the point?”

Much like his first question, I'm sure he means this one to be rhetorical as well. But if it wasn't obvious before, I have a terminal lack of self-regulation.

“Well,” I begin, clearing my throat. I'm still considering saying nothing at all, but a graceful egress is looking doubtful at this point. So, I rip the bandage off all at once. “This looks like a S4X hit to me, but they seem more interested in the effect than any kind of prize or trophy.”

I hold my breath again, praying that I haven't said the wrong thing. But it's me, so I probably did. I scan his face, looking for some sort of clue either way, but he's stoic and empty, like he's already used up the last of his emotional energy.

It would make sense, though. The cartels. If this road gets finished, it would bring a lot of security to the area. A safe passage through the Gap would take away a lot of their business. No more vulnerable travelers looking for a knowledgeable local to guide them safely through. No more desperate refugees happy just to be alive, willing to trade their freedom for the smallest chance of reaching Jericho. Police and military with an easy path through the most secluded havens for crime on the entire planet.

But to go this far? It seems extreme. Even with comprehensive state funding from a world power, it would still take decades to finish the highway. Blasting through mountains, deforesting, traversing hills and cliffs. Other nations have tried before and given up; most don't last more than a year. It takes loads of reputation, and in the end it's not really all that profitable.

Ollie lifts his head to look at our immediate surroundings, as if appraising my assessment, then he lowers his eyes once more and shrugs. “Yeah,” he mumbles. “You're probably right.”

The snapping of dying embers fills the silent gap that has fallen between us, seemingly growing louder the longer I fail to respond. My heart drops into my stomach, and I'm faced with the painful reality that I'm powerless to cure Ollie of his pain, to act as a healing salve on raw skin. It's an infuriating sensation, not knowing what to do, my hands bound in spite of all my abilities.

There's no known dominance for this.

I adjust Nico's body on my shoulders, aligning his arms and legs to preserve some sense of dignity, so as not to present him as little more than a sack of potatoes. Sticky trails of his blood creep down my neck and chest, saturating my shirt in a matter of minutes. But I don't mind. If anything, it relieves the pressure of feeling useless, a token of sacrifice for Ollie, as small as it may be.

I guess I'm surprised by Ollie’s acceptance of my explanation, effortless and without challenge; perhaps it's simply a product of his emotional exhaustion. But I'm not sure I even fully accept it myself.

We reach the outskirts of the work site and direct ourselves back towards the border town. Here, a few stubborn tongues of flame continue to lick the few bits of dead and dried foliage that pepper the jungle floor. Scraps of garbage and machinery bits litter the area, somehow left untouched by the ravenous inferno from earlier. It would have been better if they had burned, though. Most of this will fly away during the next storm, polluting the neighboring area with small reminders of the events that took place here last night.

As we carry on, I adjust my shoulders in irritation, not because of Nico, but because of that same feeling from earlier, that disquieting nudge that’s been pestering me since we arrived. I'm dissatisfied with what my senses are presenting to me, like they're intentionally suppressing some small detail, some clue that could bring just the right level of clarity. But it’ll have to wait; I have more important things—more important people—to take care of.

But just as I'm about to shrug off my feelings of subliminal discomfort, something catches the corner of my eye. A flash of pink amid the sea of gray and green. I turn my head and slow my march just long enough to get a good look at it.

It's a wrapper. A pink candy wrapper.

<- Chapter 4

Home

Chapter 6 ->

Title image courtesy of David Riano - Pexels