The Gap - Chapter 6

​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 6

After delivering Nico's body to the mortician, Ollie and I spent the morning sitting by the fountain in the town's square, neither of us remotely capable of sleeping. Ollie, understandably, agonized over the violent nature of his cousin's death.

I, on the other hand, fixated on a single piece of trash.

The image of it is printed on my mind, drawing my thoughts down haunted roads and harrowing visions from the past, while simultaneously launching my imagination towards the most appalling possibilities. Memories left untouched for over a decade now come flooding back in force—the sound of steel blades cutting the air, the smell of a foreign treat called popcorn burning in the air, the sight of men and women from a far-off land passing out sweets with false smiles as sugary as their donations.

That wrapper.

A noxious concoction of fear, suspicion, and instinct power my steps as I slink through the forest just east of the crime scene, so quiet that even the sly jungle foxes don't detect my presence until I'm practically on top of them.

The wrapper was small, easily dismissed as litter by anyone else, but to me it was a trigger, activating my senses into a heightened state of observation. That's when I discovered the trail, a subtle path leading away from the site and into the jungle. Fresh, but easily missed.

I push the hair out of my eyes; it's all clumped together, dripping from the torrential evening rain.

Ollie doesn't know I'm here. We spent the day together while I helped him prepare for his cousin's service. Friends and acquaintances periodically offered their condolences, something that I'm sure stung more than helped. Dinner was generously provided by one of the butchers in town that usually supplies our cured meat for return journeys through the Gap—smoked loin with boiled roots and greens. We returned to my lodging and opened a bottle of Freesian wine that I was saving for a special occasion—figured today was as good a day as any to get numb.

And then I left him, peaceful and quiet, finally lulled to sleep by the full-toned vines of our northern neighbors.

It takes a great deal more than one bottle to have even the slightest impact on my faculties, unfortunately.

As much as I love him, Ollie would only slow me down tonight. Even now, something like walking through the jungle in the middle of a moonless evening—a simple task for me with enhanced eyesight—would be an impossible task for him. I'd have to guide him along every bumbling step of the way. Stealth is my ally tonight.

All humans leave little clues behind no matter where they go—slightly crushed leaves, thermal prints, not to mention the smell. Most other people lack the ability to detect these clues, these minute disturbances and deviations from the natural order. But to me, they stand out like the sun in the sky. I've been following those clues tonight. All the way from the highway to this most remote sector of the jungle.

My clothes are soaked through so thoroughly that they're more of a second skin by now. I ignore the chafing on my thighs and instead focus on the subtle shifts in foliage, the distant sounds and smells of human activity hidden among the evening jungle garble, all guiding my path forward like neon indicators.

I continue for nearly an hour, not once relenting my pace, nor tiring in the least. I could run like this for days, weeks even, given enough food. One time, I ran the entire length of the Gap, stopping only to sleep at night. It was an odd courier job with a time bonus, and I outbid all the competition, having the fastest time due to my ability to outpace and out-endure everyone else. The patron almost didn't choose me because he thought I was lying about my estimate; thankfully, another one of my previous clients vouched for me.

But, given enough calories, I could go on indefinitely. In theory, at least. I've never actually reached any sort of limit before.

It's only once I approach a clearing in the trees that I slow my metronomic steps to a careful prowl. The smell of foreigners is strong here, and I hear the lifesigns of fifty, maybe fifty-five humans—some chatting, some breathing, some with just the gentle patting of their pulse against their neck.

I push the water out of my eyes, straining through the darkness to see several rows of massive gray-green canvas tent-like structures, maybe two or three dozen of them, all stamped with the subdued flower and sword insignia of the Freesian Armed Forces. Near the center of the encampment is a mobile radio tower, tied down in four directions by long metal cables, and all along the edges of the clearing there are sandbag bunkers and trenches filled with miserable-looking soldiers, their bored eyes prominent underneath the hoods of their soaked-through parkas.

My breath catches in my throat at the sight. The whole journey here, I fought to formulate some kind of explanation for why a Freesian might be at the construction site, seeing as they rarely wander beyond the protective shielding of Jericho. I figured maybe one of the construction workers had a bag of Freesian candy sent to them by a relative, or perhaps a humanitarian group had passed through leaving some behind.

But the undeniable trail leading here opens a darker list of possibilities.

They followed a careful path, intentionally unobtrusive of their surroundings. No one else could have possibly detected it with the naked eye, but I can. Though, I wish more than anything I couldn't, that I could continue on with my life blissfully unaware of the subtle link between the scene of death I just witnessed and the Freesian camp before me now.

But I can't.

The base isn't a secret. In fact, it's one of the more well-known facilities south of Jericho—Camp Sulah. The name means friendship or peacemaker in the ancient dialect of Sudlandian, and they're known for deploying many of the relief teams that operate throughout the southern continent and the Gap. They've been in this region since before the Burn, conducting thousands of missions much like the one that came to my village when I was young. In fact, the sight of a Freesian candy wrapper wouldn't seem so out of the ordinary if I hadn't found it at the site of a massacre.

And if it hadn't led me directly back here.

It's far from conclusive evidence, but the churning in my stomach from before begins to resolve itself as I piece together the clues that my subconscious has been laying down for me all day. I don't want to believe it; I'm trying my best to fight the biases surfacing from deep inside my past. But I'm finding myself more at ease when I indulge them, like an addict taking a long draw from a cigarette.

Still, I have more questions than answers. Theories more than facts. Despite how I may feel, all fingers point to the cartels, and the evidence would prove so in any court. At least any court down here. They have the motive to carry out something like this, and they certainly have the means. The cartels are traditionally better armed and equipped than the governments in the south continent; it's only thanks to the infighting between factions and their small numbers that they don't take over entirely.

But what about the Freesians? What reason did they have to be present at the murder scene? Were they there, in fact? Or could there be some other explanation for me having been led here tonight?

There's only one way to find out.

With slower, more deliberate steps, I continue moving forward until I’m just outside the visible range of the guards within the trenches. It's possible they have sensors out this far, but I doubt it. There's no need. The cartels don't bother them much; in fact, they usually welcome the Freesian projects that benefit their home communities the most.

Just to be safe, I shift my body's energy so that the little light reflected by the moon bends around my form, concealing my presence, at least visibly. I’ve been told it’s a bit off-putting when people see me do this. I can only imagine; it feels so natural to me.

Once I've reached the trenches, I slip down into the banked-earth network encircling the camp, careful to avoid dislodging any dirt or fortifications—I may be invisible, but I'm certainly not weightless. My feet land with a thud on the compressed soil walkway, but, thankfully, no one seems to notice. There are only two other guards nearby. One is busy on his phone with headphones in, the other seems to be asleep.

I scramble up the opposite embankment and continue on, satisfied with my relatively effortless infiltration. With the most difficult bit behind me, I focus my attention on where to go next.

To be honest, I hadn't really thought much further than this point. I was expecting to find a cartel hideout, smash some skulls around, then head back home with time to spare before breakfast. The idea that I might be dealing with the Freesians—or anyone legitimately organized—never crossed my mind. I don't even know where to begin, or what I'm expecting to find here. Someone to blame? To punish? Or some kind of evidence of involvement, or proof they had nothing to do with it?

And what would that look like? I don't even know what I'm searching for. This could all be a waste of time. And say I found something. What would I do with it? How many people have enough influence to impact the greatest empire the world has ever seen?

I rub my shoulder. It still holds the memory of Ollie's tears, of Nico's blood running down it, soaking my clothes as thoroughly as the rain. I may not know exactly what I'm doing, but I have a good enough idea why. And that will have to suffice for now.

After several moments of consideration, I settle on the tent nearest me. There's a red dove printed on its side. Parked in front of it is a truck bearing the same symbol. The door is a fragile construction of wood and fiberglass, and it creaks so loudly when I open it that I worry the whole camp has heard me.

I freeze, waiting to see if anyone will react to the disturbance, but the minutes pass in silence—an hour, seemingly—so I continue.

<- Chapter 5

Home

Chapter 7 ->

Title image courtesy of David Riano - Pexels