Page 5 of Cry for Help

I wanted to see it all. To see the world and all the wonders it had.

I needed to see it all before I claimed a space for my home.

I’d collect postcards from the library. I’d scan them and glue them into my journal, making notes of all the places I wanted to see. First in the US, then Europe, and then beyond.

I’d never felt settled. My kind never did until they ‘claimed’ a home.

It was the most brutal loss of all for a Bean Sídhe.

I didn’t recognize the city names on the freeway signs. Red Bluff. Redding.

The drivers switched out.

We were given biscuits with army ration packaging, but the hunger was all-consuming and had stolen all energy from the inmates.

I couldn’t remember a time when I hadn’t been strapped to a bus bench with a mouth so dry it hurt to breathe.

The walls looked almost like a city skyline at first. Smooth, unblemished cement rose from the trees, like the Hoover Dam—which I’d only ever seen in pictures.

As we grew closer and closer, the wall left everything else in shadow. The road stopped, cut off by the wall like an ax hitting a tree trunk. There was nowhere left to drive.

The bus pulled to a stop on the verge, kicking up dust. A single vault door sat in the middle of the road, the only sign of human life in the ancient forest at the end of the road.

The trees were too large, too unnerving. Their bases were as wide as the prison bus, rising to meet the height of the concrete wall. Everything felt too big, like I’d entered Wonderland and drunk the wrong potion.

The guard did a count, and the driver stepped out for a smoke.

Our chains were separated from the bus and linked together.

If I didn’t get some food soon, I would be sick.

One by one, the inmates were led from the bus. We stood on the road in awe, staring at the wall extending to the sky. A strange pulse burst out, pinging like sonar, coating the world in a magic mist. Dissolving seconds later. The wall was marked with hundreds of sigils in all sizes, some the size of my hand and others the size of an elephant.

I didn’t speak Cyclian, the demonic tongue. The words were magic, and the language was almost impossible to learn unless you were born in Hell. Which I had not.

The vault door opened, revealing a man in fatigues, carrying a gun on his shoulder and a clipboard in his hands. He regarded our group with a cursory glance and made his way to the prison guard—checking his clipboard as he walked.

“You got two inmates, Speck and Higgins?” The Red City guard asked, double-checking his piece of paper. “Special order. They’ve got to go straight to processing.”

“Speck? Higgins?” Rodriquez called out.

With my hands chained, I couldn’t lift them; without my voice, I couldn’t call out.

Higgins piped up, like a child answering a teacher. “Here, sir!”

I pulled my top lip between my teeth.

“Did you say Peck?” One of the other inmates piped up. “I’m Inmate Peck.”

The guard in fatigues shrugged. “You two, this way. The others have to run the gauntlet.”

Peck shot me a snarky grin as Rodriquez unlocked her shackles. The two inmates were taken away.

It didn’t take long for Fatigues to return, gesturing to the door. One by one, we shuffled through, our feet chained and our hands cuffed in front. Each woman connected to each other.

Fatigues led us to a plain room, metal detectors, scanners, and a strange device resembling a desk fan without propellers. He bolted the door and nodded to Rodriguez. The prison guard began unlocking our chains; the moment we were free, the guard made a break for the staff door, disappearing from the crowded room.

“My name is Mr Jingle.” Fatigues called out. “You likely won’t see me again, but it’s my job to get you through to the Red City.”

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