ALIVE: The Aftermath Chronicles (Book 1)

Chapter 8 - THE INFILTRATES

Present Day

Pain, unlike anything she ever felt kept Hannah at the mercy of others.

At first, to the sheriff. Then, to her rescuers that dared to move her when all she wanted to do was lay down and die.

Recognizing the voice of Dalton, she still had yet to fully see him through her busted eye. The other male smelled like the farm, like her home in the life before. Having no idea who it was and only able to make out his thick Louisiana drawl, she frankly, didn't care. They saved her and soon, they'd have to pay as she did. It was how this place worked. Civilians of the colony didn't have a voice. They were all subject to Russell's mercy and his alone.

The words passed around her in a blur outside of the hospital.

It's with the strong words, the solitary speech, and the voices chiming in around her that she's staring at the lone crutch who spoke volumes against Russell and his team. Dalton is speaking on her behalf. Why? It was beyond her. If she had the strength to speak, to tell him to give it up and leave her, she would.

Ahead, her neighbors in these trying times stared on, but she couldn't recognize a single face. Everything spins, and finally, the words of Dalton cornerstone for her.

He's continuing on to them, "I know I'm a stranger to all of you, but in my short time here I've quickly come to realize that something isn't right. I don't want to live somewhere where someone is beaten without so much as a trial first, who's treated like a criminal just because one man says they are! I've heard rumors. A lot of them...just like all of you. Most of you have witnessed things and kept silent for fear of what Russell or his guard will do to you! But why? Why bow down to someone who finds any excuse at all to harm you?! No more!"

Hannah struggles to even crawl on all fours—standing is virtually impossible as the smell of the farm once again floods her side. The other man is back, with the tainted creole tongue. She'd met a few Louisiana natives in her day, with Louisiana tourists seeking Savannah rolling through her town to stop at the gas station just off the highway. His mixed creole tongue and the deep southern twang conflicted in a muddling way, that confused her further in her disoriented state as she tried to decipher what he's saying.

"Ya sta' down, naw. We got this from 'ere, don't ya worry 'bout a thang. Would be a cooyon for ya ta move naw."

She stared at his work boot in front of her eye line, covered in the farm's trademark black soil.

He didn't sound like the bald guy with the weird snakeskin hat they called Soup or any of the other farmers she knew. So, she presumed this man was the new survivor that came in with Dalton. She'd never heard the man speak, nor had the ear to seek it out. Like most things, it no longer interested her. She'd been living in a cloud since her brother's death and now the cloud had swallowed her whole, then spit her back out in abandonment.

Dalton spoke on to the gathered crowd, "Don't wait till this is you, your children, your loved ones! It's time now to take control! To take on a new system where someone doesn't have to shoot another to find their freedom or to face being beaten should they find themselves on the wrong side of Russell's fence!"

A shot rings out and the small crowd lets out a few screams and ducks for cover, Though she can't make out much, Hannah can see everyone cowers just as she does, but none of them glare at this man quite like Hannah can.

A new set of boots finds the stage. Cleaner boots. Dark, tied evenly, with a heavy purpose that flaunts about his wealth and favor here from the mother district.

Wondering if he's come to end her just as he ended her brother out of vengeance for her constant rebellion, and for the blame of his lost nephew, or for never finishing his work that day on the roof of the RV, Hannah waits for a truer shot from a closer distance. When it doesn't happen, she, along with everyone else, hones in on the one voice that can truly terrify them all.

"All of you, go home! Miss Louviere will have her trial with a fair jury. I assure you none of this was under my order that happened to her! Don't let paranoia bring further violence! We've seen enough for one day!" He speaks and the crowd, in prediction, parts, even if there's some hesitation.

Not sure if she's relieved or further terrified to be that much more alone with this psychopath, Hannah waits for Russell to drag her out by her hair, to whisper a threat, to kick her while she's down. When she's helped up, she knows it's not Russell or the gentle touch of the two men she owed her life to. Hadn't it been for Dalton and the creole, she'd be undergoing further torture, or be dead by now, and if she'd been in her right mind, she'd tell them such. This was someone else, however, and it's a mystery until she hears the creole call him by the name 'Soup', that she now owed someone else a special thanks for helping her.

A moan escapes her lip from the pain, a protesting sound that begs to be let down and left alone. Instead, she is carried with purpose by a strong set of arms until sleep carries her into a darkness she craves with every fiber of her bruised being. 


***

When Hannah wakes, the face she sees is staring down at her in concern.

The boy from her escape. The boy who saved her. The boy who spoke for her.

"Dalton," She voices out in a daze, "Where am I?"

She tries to sit up, her nerves shot from the aftermath of her torture, of her recurring nightmare that forever embedded in her memory.

He urges her back down to the pillow with one sturdy push to her shoulder, where his hand lingers. He's showered, he smells of the handmade soap from Beady and her daughter, and his brown hair is slicked back from the dampness.

"It's alright, Hannah. Just relax. You're safe at Nick's house," Dalton assures her.

Though it's not her own house, nor safe from the likes of Russell, her brow ceases from producing more sweat in the relaxation that Dalton's here. Her protector...but for how long...and why did he continue to go to such lengths for a stranger?

"Why did you do all that?" Hannah finally asks.

He's staring down into his hands, ones that rest within each other at her side from his seat in the old wooden chair.

He answers after a long pause, "Because I'm an idiot who's a sucker for the underdog?"

His grin, his dimples, press inward after his short awkward laugh. Although he's obviously quite the charmer, Hannah sees something through the shroud of his convincing performance. He gave that short laugh often after making an awkward joke and she wasn't in the most humorous of moods.

"Really. Who are you?" She asks, wondering what his motive is in all this.

No one was that good, that self-sacrificing and she wasn't one of these girls who believed in a prince charming, or in good people, in general. Everyone was self-serving above all. The only one she knew to be pure, was her brother, and she was convinced thoroughly that he was the last good in this world.

He shrugs and she wonders if its in response to her own question, or the questions looming in those dark brown eyes of his.

"I'm no one," he says and with all the words he's spoken since her waking, they are the first ones she believes. Then, he adds, "But I am here to help you. To help the colony. I want Russell gone just as much as you do. I'm not going to let anything happen to you, Hannah. The colony needs you. Now, more than ever."

Is this a dream? Why else did she feel so light-headed, if not from a state within her subconscious, or from her injuries?

This talented speaker and master of words, of getting through to Hannah through all the noise, had her ear more than anyone. Only her brother achieved such attention from her. Not even Ethan, did she want to hear speak endlessly. With Hamish, it had been about science, about theories and stories and his findings...with Dalton? She wasn't quite sure what it was, but he had her ear like he had the ears of the others in the square earlier. When he spoke, people listened. His voice might just be simply lovely enough that it cuts through all this darkness, even if it became shakier from pain.

Before she can ask any of the questions boggling in her aching head, he's comforting her with, "Please just trust me, Hannah. You're not alone anymore, you're in good hands. Anyone who's ever been wronged by Russell, whose survived, is behind you. I'm with them. I'm with you. I'm on your side."