Separation. James Axler

J.B. lingered and was rewarded with an unfriendly prod from the barrel of an H&K wielded by another of the sec men.

      “You’d better take good care of her,” the Armorer said quietly as he acquiesced, following his companions into the cell.

      Once more the warrior leader raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Strange. It’s almost as if you genuinely care about the sister. But that would be absurd.”

      Upon which he indicated to a couple of his men to close and bar the door and turned on his heel to walk away in the lead of the remainder of the pack, who lifted Mildred and carried her off down another alleyway and out of sight.

      “Shit,” J.B. swore softly as he watched through the barred window until the unconscious Mildred was out of sight. “Where are they taking her?”

      “I don’t know,” Krysty replied, “but one thing’s for sure, she’ll be safe.”

      “I hope so,” J.B. said softly. “They seem to have this thing about us being white, but—”

      “But what they think of Mildred being with us?” Jak finished.

      The Armorer nodded.

      Dean, pacing the floor, suddenly spoke. “But what I don’t get is how come they’re against us.”

      Ryan shrugged. “I figure it’s ’cause we’re not the same as them. Put it this way—every one of them we’ve seen so far has been black. Odds are that everyone else in the ville is, as well.”

      “How did you work that out?” Dean frowned.

      “Think about it,” the one-eyed man said as he winced and tried to get comfortable on the hard earth floor. “When was the last time you saw a sec patrol that was all the same? Wherever I’ve been, I’m damn sure I’ve worked beside black, brown, yellow, all kinds of skin.”

      “I don’t know. What about when we were on that oil well? They kept apart then,” Dean countered.

      “True enough, but they’d still work together, and know there were other colors, remnants of predark races. And there’s still shit about one being better than another, but this is different. Can’t explain how, just a feeling I got off the big man.”

      “There will always be pernicious and specious ideas about skin pigmentation,” Doc said sadly.

      “Say again?” Jak furrowed his brow.

      “People hating you because you’re black, or white, or an albino,” Ryan said pointedly. “Like he was giving you back when they captured us.”

      “That’s an interesting point,” Krysty mused. She walked over to the barred window and looked through, mindful of the fact that the guards were close. She didn’t speak again until she had moved away from the window. “When I was a little girl, back in Harmonyville, there were stories. I figured they were old myths to teach us about the shit we’d get for being mutie in some way, but one of them was about a place called the Carolinas, and an island there. Years before skydark, they used to bring black people across the seas just to use as slaves. Only some of them didn’t take too well to this and they managed to escape. There was an island in the Carolinas where they settled. A whole community of none but black people, with no other skin. They lived in seclusion and kept away from everyone else, even after the days of slavery were over.”

      “And you think this may be that island? That they still exist, and made it past skydark and prospered?” J.B. queried.

      Krysty shrugged. “I’m not saying that this is that island…but mebbe it’s one just like it.”

      MILDRED OPENED her eyes. Slowly she had emerged from the fog of unconsciousness, driven onward by the throbbing of pain at the back of her skull. A wave of nausea swept through her with each throb and she wondered in some part of her mind that had started to function why it was that she hadn’t already vomited and choked as a result.

      There was little noise around her, apart from the rustling of fabric and the soft footfalls of one person, moving quietly. The clink of a bowl or cup against a jug and the sound of pouring liquid indicated that she was somewhere with a degree of civilization. She was apart from her companions. She could tell by the lack of ambient sound, with no breathing, speech or movement apart from the single person in the room with her. Yes, she was sure that she was in a building or shelter of some kind, as it was warm and dry, with no discernible breeze. Other feelings: she was aching all over, that much was for sure. Muscles felt torn in her stomach and in her left leg and arm. Then there was that lump on her head that was causing so much pain. Lying on it, she could feel it was about the size of an egg. No concussion as far as she could tell, though, as she was thinking clearly, wasn’t delirious, and despite the waves of nausea she wasn’t actually vomiting continuously. An ominous ache in her ribs on the right side increasing in intensity when she took breath. Muscles torn or bones cracked? She couldn’t be sure.

      One thing that she could be sure of was that she was lying on a bed of some kind. It had a hard base, but there was softness laid on top, as though the board was covered with blankets. And she could also feel the weight of blankets on her, itching her skin.

      Where were her clothes? It suddenly occurred to her that she had to have been undressed and her clothes removed somewhere. She should be wet through, but instead she was dry.

      What the hell was going on?

      The room was delicately perfumed with herbs and there was the scent of burning sandalwood. So she was lying naked in a bed, separated from her companions and in the company of an unknown person.

      Dammit, this she had to get straight, and soon. But she would have to open her eyes. And in truth, Mildred was a little scared to do that. Not because of where she may be, or who she may be with. Rather, because she knew that the light, however dim, would hurt while her head throbbed like this, and the room may spin and add the finishing touches to her nausea, making her vomit and strain muscles that already ached.

      But she knew it had to be faced, so she opened her eyes.

      Slowly…

      Yeah, it hurt. The light was like an incredible volley of tiny needles that pierced the membrane, making her wince, despite the fact that it was low level. Probably a lamp of some kind and not located directly over where she lay. All she could see was a whitewashed ceiling, decorated with paintings of huntsmen and dancing women. There was something about it that she knew should mean something to her, yet she couldn’t quite grasp it. The women were dancing a little too vigorously at present, and she closed her eyes again to try to gain respite from the spinning. No good, even the lights that danced behind her closed eyelids spun in a way that made her want to—

      Opening her eyes wide regardless of the pain and dizziness, and moving swiftly despite the pain from her protesting stomach and ribs, Mildred turned onto her side and leaned over the bed. Rush matting lay at the side, on a packed earth floor that was remarkably flat and dry…though dry for not much longer, as the spasm in her gut reached its conclusion and she retched heavily, vomiting bile and seawater that splattered onto the matting.

      Feeling a sweat break out at the effort, she reached down into her guts and willed herself to vomit again. If she expelled it all in one spasm, then she may be able to settle and regain her equilibrium. Once more, she splattered the rush matting, but this time with less force. Feeling the aching muscles begin to lose the force of the spasm, she spit the sour taste from her mouth and returned to her position on her back, breathing heavily. She had closed her eyes to stop the room spinning as she moved once more, and was surprised—but too weakened to protest—when she felt her head gently lifted and a wooden cup pressed to her lips. The water in the cup felt cool and sweet as she sipped it. Her throat cried for more and she tried to gulp, realizing how dehydrated she had become. But the cup was taken away.

      Mildred opened her eyes once more, holding her breath as the room spun then slowed so that she could see who had given her the water. The woman leaning over her was, she figured, about the same age as herself, with lines at the corners of her large, hazel-brown eyes that creased the skin deeply. Her skin