The Gap - Chapter 8

​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 8

Combat trials. Multi-expression dominant capabilities. The blood vials.

It clicks. I finally piece it all together.

They want to use us. Exploit us for our dominances like they do in Freesia. Only now, they're hunting us on our own land, searching for this specific multi-expression gene, as if tracking big game for the kill.

But I know one person who sounds anything like that…

I kneel and pick through the papers, searching for the last few pages. Finally, I find what I'm looking for.

Based on our analysis, it is most likely that the target gene has been diluted among the population or possibly eliminated entirely by the Burn. There may be few to no living carriers remaining. A site survey of Chiyara and a cross analysis of historical censuses show that nearly all the village’s inhabitants—who were the primary carriers of KA-145—were killed by a pyroclastic flow in the early years of the Burn.

It's a name I haven't seen in a very long time. I never speak of it, and there's hardly anyone else left alive who still knows it.

The name means honey water in my native tongue. Our ancestors, millennia ago, gave it that name because of the semi-sweet mineral stream cutting through the center of the village, the same steam that carved the valley that ultimately channeled the suffocating fumes of its demise.

To read the name now makes me nauseous.

Is this what they're doing? Searching for people like me?

Is that what they've always done?

Is that the true purpose of their World Health Events? Were they just searching for super soldiers to fight their wars against Syunia? Using my Chiyara as their own private kennel to breed prized pets for their army?

I think of all the Freesian relief missions after the Burn, and I wonder (not really) if they were out of the goodness of their hearts, or if they were just searching for any lost sheep they could salvage from their slaughtered flock.

I look down at my hands. I've crumpled the papers beyond utility. I drop them and massage my fingers.

I've got to get out of here. I need to tell someone, do something. But what? Who? Who would I tell? And what would they be able to do anyways? I can't just—

A sudden hissing sound interrupts my train of thought. It's not loud, little more than a whisper; someone else might not have even noticed. But in the quiet, and with my hearing, it sounds like a rushing waterfall.

I look around me, searching for the source. There's only one window and it's shut tight. The door to the office is open, but the sound isn't coming from there.

Then, I start to smell something acrid and bitter.

A gas.

I whip my head up. There's a vent in the ceiling, and I can barely make out a subtle shimmer in the air around it. As I'm observing, the shimmering grows and infects the surrounding air in larger and larger swaths, and I realize it's not the air, but my own vision that's beginning to waver and go hazy.

I immediately exhale and hold my breath. My body can withstand many poisons and toxins—a fact I've learned the hard way over years in the Gap—but even I'm not indefinitely immune.

With my arm over my mouth, I stumble out of the office into the hallway and drag myself towards the exit. Gas is spewing from the vents out here too, and faster, it seems.

It feels like my legs are filling with lead as I hobble back the way I came. Every step I take is a chore, like I've suddenly found myself on a different planet. And my lungs feel like they're on fire. Snot and tears flow from my face as the gas attacks my eyes and nose, burning them with undeterred and unrepentant fury.

I cough, finally unable to hold it back any longer. The gas sears my throat as I take an involuntary breath, exacerbating the issue until I'm seized by a full-on coughing fit. It's horrible. I can't even imagine what this would do to someone other than myself. As it is, I feel close to blacking out, and the exit seems to move from left to right in unpredictable patterns.

When I finally reach the door, it comes as a surprise to me. In my state of mind, the door could have been a hundred miles away and I wouldn't have known. I pull at the handle and stumble into the fresh air, taking large, grateful breaths. The clean, jungle air is like a healing salve on my scarred lungs. Still, it takes all my energy to stay upright and pull my scattered thoughts together.

All my energy.

“Hey! You! Don't move! Get on the ground!”

I'm so used to operating freely without fear of being seen, that I don't even notice the barked commands at first, far less recognize the fact that they're directed at me. But as my cognitive awareness slowly returns, I notice the three Freesian soldiers, armed with rifles and running in my direction from the other side of the central grounds. And I realize a moment too late that I've been spending all my efforts keeping myself from suffocating, neglecting to maintain the cloak of concealment that has allowed me to proceed with impunity this far.

The first shot comes as a shock, a brief snap and a puff of dirt at my feet. I scurry behind a nearby tree and attempt to reestablish my cloak, but my energy is nearly depleted. The harder I try, the more I feel like a deflated balloon, or like a boat that's lost its engine, consigned to drift downstream against its will.

Their steps and shouts are rapidly drawing nearer. I estimate I only have a few more moments before they find me. Which is panic inducing, considering I've lost my best defense. How am I even going to get back? I'm hours from town, and that was when I had the power to run non-stop from there to here. I don't know if I could even make it a quarter of the way now without passing out.

The tree snaps right by my head, sending shards of bark into my face. I yelp and duck out of instinct, cradling my face with my hands. When I pull my hands back, they're covered in blood, but the stinging fades quickly. I don't think I've been hit that bad.

“Get on the ground! Show me your hands!”

My heart beats against my chest like a hammer on an anvil. It's a mix of adrenaline, fear, fatigue, and honestly a little anger too. It feels slimy that they're giving me orders, as if this land belongs to them, like they can do what they want with it. Like they've forgotten that they're the guests, the intruders, and not the other way around.

Another bullet breaks my indignant attitude like a wave on rocks, and I sprint away as fast as my body will allow.

They continue yelling their commands after me, but I don't look back. I reach the border trench with inhuman speed, and, once there, leap over it in a single bound, drawing startled expressions of wonder from the soldiers within. I land on rocky ground, and my ankle rolls with a stinging pop, but I bite my cheek, drawing blood, and keep running. I'm chased only by a single additional shot—having stunned the remaining guards stiff—but I deflect the bullet with a flick of energy from my palm and continue on.

I'm faster than them, so I'm not worried about getting caught, as long as I can keep going. But I'm exhausted; everything from today has drained me, leaving my body little more than an empty shell.

The jungle’s underbrush whips by as I throw one foot in front of the other, putting as much distance as I can between myself and the Freesians. I follow roughly the same path that I took earlier, tracing the faint marks I left along the way, though my ability to detect them is severely diminished as I struggle to keep my ordinary vision from wavering.

The Freesians. They saw me, I realize. They saw what I can do. Which means they must know I have…how did they phrase it? Multi-expression dominant capabilities? Which, first of all, is such a weird way to say it, like it's some kind of feature on a new car, or the technical specifications on a power tool. Leave it to the Freesians to turn something beautiful and poetic into something so dry and analytical.

In any case, from what that report was saying, they're looking for someone that is capable of expressing more than one dominance, someone more powerful than anyone else on the continent.

Someone like me.

If I do say so myself.

But what would they do if they identified me? The author made it clear this wasn't just some fun science project. Would they use me? Like a tool, like just another coveted piece of advanced technology? Or perhaps like a trophy in their arsenal, showcased to intimidate their challengers. Or worse, to be used against them.

There's a clear purpose, that’s for certain, and the chaffing in my side from the presentation I stuffed there earlier reminds me just what it is.

The thought brings bile up my throat as I realize this is what they were doing in my village all those years ago, looking for others like me, culling us like cattle from their own personal mutant freak farm. Missing persons weren't an uncommon occurrence in Chiyara; we just always assumed they wandered into the wrong part of the jungle or left the region in search of a different life elsewhere.

We never considered they might have been abducted or coerced.

And then nature had the audacity to get in the Freesians’ way, massacring us before their adversaries could. So now they’re hunting down the leftovers, individuals with hints of those abilities—the best that they can get since they were robbed of their prime flock.

I can’t let them get to me. I won’t. It would be an insult to the people of Chiyara, or to their memory, rather. Determination fills the emptiness inside me, fueling my forward motion despite the exhaustion and lingering aftereffects of the gas. I've survived this long, facing far worse. If I can fight off the cartels, I can evade the Freesians’ little hunt.

But the question is how?

What do I do against one of the most powerful empires on the planet? Their reach extends across the entire globe, not just here on our continent. Not that I'd consider venturing beyond the great seas, but I'm not sure it wouldn’t matter even if I did. Where could I possibly go that's beyond their grasp?

Where's the one place no one would want to go? Not even the Empire?

The answer comes to me as if it's always been there, stirring something powerful and deep within my heart.

I've always been drawn to the Gap, long before I was old enough to taste cynicism or anger, long before I was corrupted by the indifference of reality. It’s always favored me, lifting me up and sheltering me even as it struck down those that would do me harm. Not even the cartels roam the Gap in packs less than several dozen strong.

But me? I've been traversing the Gap on my own since I was a child, the one place where I have the overwhelming advantage, where I fit in as naturally as the other predators that call this wildland home.

So, I'll find Ollie, then we'll make for the Gap first thing. If I stand a chance anywhere, it will be there.

As I run, I feel a chafing on my side. I touch the spot, and my hand finds the report I stashed there from earlier, the one about the highway and the true reason for yesterday’s sickening events. Guilt suddenly washes over me, and I realize it's not just the paper that's been pestering me like a stray pebble in a boot.

I'm running away.

Doing the same thing I've always done my whole life. Moving from trouble to trouble as soon as the going gets rough. Hiding until the storm passes over. It's my go-to survival tactic, tried and true over the years.

But if anyone can stand up to this, it's me. And I'm running away.

I shake my head, clearing my mind. No, I can't let those thoughts take over. Not now. Yes, there is a time to fight. But now is not that time. I'm in no condition to do anything, let alone go up against the biggest threat to southern prosperity in our generation.

I need time. I need to get my energy up, plan an actual response, and figure my life out first. Then, and only then, will I be worth something, anything more than the rest of my people, buried at the base of Dhor.

There will be a reckoning, I feel it pulse through my veins like lightning. But it will come on my time, not theirs.

I pull the report from my waistband and let it drift to the wet jungle peat.

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Title image courtesy of David Riano - Pexels