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  The twenty-three of them sat in a large circle, all of the prisoners aside from the two suspects and Three, who remained bedbound. "What do you think, One?" someone asked. One was a middle aged man with thinning hair and glasses. Skye had not yet heard him speak, but knew from conversation that he had been here the longest.

  "This has happened before," he said quietly. "Does anyone have reason to suspect someone else?" Heads shook around the circle. "I suggest we be rid of both women, then. It’s the only way to be safe."

  "That's wrong," Skye said. "One of them is innocent."

  He nodded. "Yes, it is. But I speak from experience. There’s too much uncertainty here, and we’ll never prove anything. How many people here received instructions last night relating to this? Possibly warning you of what would happen?" Everyone exchanged glances, but nobody offered an answer, including Skye.

  "Exactly. I would wager half of us did, but none will admit it. As I said, there’s nothing but uncertainty here. Let’s be rid of them both and be done with it."

  "A vote?" someone else asked.

  One nodded. "The question is of whether to sacrifice both suspects. If yes, we do. If no, we will have to debate, likely all day, until we can come to another agreement. All agreed?" Heads nodded. As the vote went around the circle and came to Skye, the tally was tied at eleven to eleven.

  Skye stood and went over to the two girls. Each was crying, and a look of terror was common to both of their faces. She looked at each woman closely, and then retrieved the knife from where it still lay near the man's body. The redhead, Twelve, whimpered as she approached. Skye hesitated for but a moment, then thrust the knife into Twelve's chest. She made a noise like a scream suddenly deflated of air. Twenty-five, bound to her back, cried out as well as the blood poured onto the floor beneath them.

  Skye went back to the group. "This is not what we agreed on," One said. She threw the knife in the center of the circle.

  "No," she said. "But now it’s settled."

  A while later, the chained man came and dragged the two bodies out, and then he returned for Three, who let out only a weak moan as the man dragged him by the feet off his bed and out the door. Dinner came, enough for each prisoner, and the nightly instructions.

  Tonight is your chance

  It was dark, the middle of the night by her reckoning. Skye hadn’t truly fallen asleep, though she was at least dozing until the sensation of someone standing over her jarred Skye awake. In the dark she could see a man's outline but couldn’t make out who he was.

  "What?" she said.

  Nine's voice, in a whisper. "Hey, Fourteen. Look, over there." He pointed across the room, and Skye saw that the door was open. It was just slightly ajar and light was seeping in through the crack. "We can get out of here," he said.

  Skye's heart raced. There was no mistaking it, the door was open. Could this be her chance at freedom? Last night's note was fresh in her mind. But surely her captors couldn't want her to escape. It must be a trap. And her first note had also said not to trust him. She couldn’t make sense of the mixed messages, so she went with her gut.

  "No," Skye said. "It's a trap."

  "It's not, trust me. We gotta go now though."

  "I'm not going." She might have imagined it, but his face looked angry. He was silent for a moment, then stomped off across the room. Skye watched him go. He stopped at bed Twenty-five, and a minute later he and she were up and creeping through the open door.

  Something about this wasn't right. Skye climbed quietly out of her bed and tiptoe-ran across the cold concrete floor. The door had been pulled shut again but wasn't locked, and when she forced her fingers into its jamb it swung open with a low creak. The small holding room where she had spoken to the robed man was empty, and its back door was left open. She ran through this door and found the two prisoners in an empty hallway.

  Nine had Twenty-five pressed up against the wall, her arms straining against his own, which pinned them to her ribs. He was kissing her neck as she tried to twist her head away. "No. Stop it," she was saying. Neither of them seemed to notice Skye's arrival.

  She ran over to them and collided with Nine, driving her elbow into his ribs. He let out a grunt as he fell to the floor, but quickly scrambled to stand back up. Skye met him with a kick in his gut, which dropped him to the ground again. In the distance, from down the hall and around the corner, came the sound of guards and the barking of dogs.

  Skye grabbed Twenty-five's hand and dragged her behind as she ran back toward the prison room. Nine was soon on his feet once again and chasing them, not far behind. Skye and Twenty-five slid through the doorway and slammed the heavy metal door behind them.

  Skye braced against the door just as Nine ran into it; her body bounced back slightly but still she managed to hold it shut. Nine continued to pound on the door, his muffled screams audible through the thick steel.

  His shouts grew louder as the barking of dogs drew nearer. Finally the pounding on the door stopped and she could hear the dogs tearing into him, his screams agonized and then silent. Twenty-five had already gone back to bed, she noticed, but her sobs echoed all through the room. Most of the prisoners were awake, but none left their bunks. Skye went back to her own bed without a word, and she fell asleep within minutes.

  Skye awoke on a dirt floor, and she sat up, thinking she must be dreaming. Her hands were chained together with iron links. Across the room, another woman, who was also chained, was just stirring from sleep. She wore number Seventeen, but Skye was certain she hadn’t been in the same prison as she was. A paper slip caught her eye in the dirt, and Skye picked it up.

  Do not kill her

  Seventeen was also reading a piece of paper, and she let her own fall to the floor as her eyes fixed on Skye. There was no anger in those eyes, only determination. Seventeen wrenched a machete free from where it had been embedded in the wall nearby and advanced on Skye.

  Skye frantically looked around her side of the room, where she found no weapons at all. Seventeen was just feet away, the machete raised overhead and ready to strike.

  "Wait," Skye said, hands up in front of her. Seventeen swung the blade and it narrowly missed Skye as she jumped back. A horizontal swipe came at her next and Skye leapt to her right, her back up against the wall now. She spun her hips and lashed out with a kick to the other woman's gut. It landed heavily and Seventeen staggered. Skye made to move in but she swung the blade upward toward her head which forced Skye to bend unnaturally back to avoid it.

  Off balance now, she fell on her back to the ground. Seventeen rained cuts down on her from above as Skye rolled to avoid them. With a brief moment of opportunity she kicked upward into the woman's groin, then was able to stand back up as she reeled from the hit.

  Seventeen swung a heavy strike from above and Skye jumped back again, this time thrusting her arms out. The blade shattered the middle link of her chain and left her arms free. For a moment their eyes met and then Skye charged. She tackled Seventeen, taking her to the ground and battering the woman with her iron-shackled wrists. The machete fell from her hands and Skye let up her assault to take the weapon.

  Seventeen was alive, moaning on the floor, her own arms still chained together. Behind Skye, a door clicked open and she turned to see. The green-eyed Robe stood there, his massive bodyguard close behind. "Very well done, Fourteen," he said.

  Skye stared at the man briefly, then drove the machete into the other woman’s chest. After, she threw the blade to the ground, chest heaving with each breath.

  "My fucking name is Skye."

  The man’s smile never faltered. "So it is. Welcome to the Church, Skye."

  Claire

  Claire woke with a jerk. It was cold in her room, as it always was, but her legs were drenched with sweat. The thin bedsheets clung tight to her body, and in her half-awake state she felt claustrophobic. Claire tore the sheets away as she sat up, swinging her legs off the edge of the bed. The cold night air was pleasant on her calves.
/>   She stood up, the wood floorboards creaking slightly as she crossed her bedroom. It was pitch dark, and she moved by feel and memory alone. She reached out her hand and found the dresser, then slid her hand up until it hit metal. Claire fumbled with the lantern and a match until a small flame took hold in its chamber.

  The lantern's soft orange glow lit her path as she walked into the living room. Judging by the position of the moon, visible through the large windows on the back wall, it was around 3 am. She left her lantern by the door and stepped out onto the back deck. The glass door closed with a click behind her and she leaned against the wooden railing. The cool mountain air was quiet, the only sound the soft rustle of the breeze through the trees below.

  From her cabin's perch on the side of the mountain, she could survey the moonlit forest valley below. Another mountain rose up in the distance. If she looked closely, especially during the day, she could point out one or two other cabins on the mountainside. They were most likely abandoned. From the look of things up here though, one wouldn't even know what had happened to the world.

  She basked in the serenity of the moment, as she did most nights when she woke up around this time. Even after several months, Claire still never could sleep well up here.

  It had been a week since her father last visited. Her supplies were beginning to run low, so she was sure he would return any day now. The thought of it still made her somewhat uneasy. Of course, he was her father. Whenever she thought of him, her first memories were always of happy days, long gone, spent playing in the park. They would play catch, hop along the stones in the river, sneak an ice cream cone—never to tell mom—before going home.

  She remembered the sad days too. One day when she was still a young girl, her parents coming home, mom's eyes red and puffy, dad's arm around her and his own eyes resolute yet still moist. She remembered the day he came into her room, sat on the bed behind her while she played with her dolls, and told her that her baby brother had gotten sick, and he wouldn't be coming home. He was strong for her and her mother, she recognized now, though he must have been broken inside himself.

  And yet now, she had other, much more terrible, thoughts of her father. He had destroyed everything. Killed so many people. He gained everyone's trust, and once he had it, he betrayed them. And what he had done... it wasn't even possible. Claire hadn't even had time to process the monstrous, impossible things her father had done, though she had seen them with her own eyes.

  Why?

  She had asked him that so many times, every time he came, and he would never answer. He had brought her to this place, this lonely cabin on the mountain. She went about her days reliving those terrible moments, eating, sleeping, and starting over the next day. Every day hoping, and dreading, it would be the day he would return. That he would explain what he wanted her to do.

  Claire brushed a tear from her cheek and shook it off of her hand. She shivered and retreated back inside. When she returned to her bed, she still couldn't sleep.

  As it happened, her father did return the next day. In his usual way, he merely walked in through the front door without ceremony, the jingle of bells hanging from the doorknob her only indication he had entered.

  "Hi, Claire," he said, slipping off his coat and taking a seat across from the recliner in which she sat, her feet up and warming near the fireplace.

  She didn’t answer him, but closed the book she was reading and set it aside, her eyes downcast.

  "How long will you be angry with me?" he asked.

  "Why are you keeping me here?" she said.

  He sighed, leaning back into the cushion of the couch before raising his hands in an exasperated gesture. "The door is right there. You're not a prisoner here. But it's not safe for you out there. Not yet."

  She didn't respond. He was right, of course. A few weeks back, she had left the cabin. Nothing stopped her; her father didn't show up to restrain her. But a few miles down the narrow mountain road, she turned around and came back. Claire simply had nowhere else to go.

  "What do you want from me?" she asked, looking at him now, fighting back the pressure of tears building behind her eyes.

  "Something you can't give me, Claire. But that's not your fault. We'll just have to try again."

  "What do you mean?"

  He stood from his seat, looming over her now. His face was not menacing, but streaked with grief. He didn't answer her. Instead, he thrust out his hand and grasped her forehead. She struggled against him, slapping at his hand, but quickly felt her strength begin to fade.

  Claire slumped back into her chair as he pressed against her head. A terrible pain began to build now, an unbearable pressure within her head so great that she was sure it would burst. Claire screamed, and then she was no more.

  Emily

  It was summer, though you would never know it by the cold evening air up here on the mountain. Emily hugged her puffy jacket close, letting the cabin door swing loudly shut behind her. The frosty grass crunched underfoot as she headed toward the well. She pumped its metal lever a few times, a trickle of water beginning to fill the bucket she had brought with her. On her way back, she propped the door open so she could bring in a few logs for the fire as well.

  There was no heat in the cabin, and its wooden walls did little to insulate against the elements. Emily left the wood near the fireplace and took the water bucket to the small kitchen, where she poured a glass. Through the large windows on the back wall, she could see the sun setting behind the trees along the mountainside. The sky began to take on an incredible purple-orange hue. She loved the quiet solitude of this place, most of the time.

  Emily had never been the most social person. At school, she was neither disliked nor bullied, but simply preferred to sit alone. On the playground, though she would sometimes play along with the others, she usually just sat under a tree watching her classmates.

  She had never seen her own behavior as particularly problematic. Her parents had though, making her sit with a counselor twice a week who asked her questions about her family, and how she felt. How it had made her feel when her baby brother had to go to the hospital and never came home. "It's okay to be scared, or angry. That's normal," she could remember the man saying.

  The truth of it was that Emily barely remembered her brother, or her mother who died a couple years later. Her father though, had always been there for her. Later on he became a very important man, a politician, but without fail he would be home every night for dinner and to put her to bed, though he often left again once he thought she was asleep.

  Everything changed though, one day almost two years ago. What exactly happened, she still didn't know. There was no news anymore, no electricity, no radio. All her father could tell her was that a very bad man had attacked him, and things would never be the same again. The world wasn't safe anymore, he said, and she knew that part to be true.

  So she stayed here, at their vacation cabin on the mountain, where nobody would be able to hurt her. Her father only came every week or so these days, but Emily didn't mind the solitude. She had plenty of books and supplies, and she loved to look at the stars with her telescope.

  Still, even Emily got lonely up here on occasion. And around this time, when she was feeling sad and alone, sipping a cold glass of water at her kitchen table, is when her father returned. He slipped in through the front door quietly, as if hoping not be heard. When he saw her sitting at the table, he smiled warmly.

  "Missed you," he said as she stood and hugged him. His short black hair was ruffled from the wind outside.

  "Missed you too, dad." They sat together on the couch.

  "How have things been?" he asked.

  "Just the usual. I'm fine."

  "Let me know if there's anything you want next time I come back. I'm sure it gets boring up here."

  "Sometimes. But I'm good." She leaned her head against his shoulder. "What's it like out there?"

  He paused. "Things are bad. Dangerous, still. Looking to be that way fo
r a long time."

  "Can't you stay here?" she said.

  "People out there need help. And it would put you at risk if I stayed here. I wish I could."

  "I know," she said. "Just be careful."

  "It's cold," he said. "Let me start a fire." She sat up, letting him stand. "I've been thinking about this, Emily. There may be a way you can help me, actually. If you're willing. I've tried to keep you safe here, but I'm starting to fear I won't be able to do this alone."

  "Of course," she said, leaning forward. Surely he knew she would do anything to help him.

  "I'm going to show you something," he said, piling logs inside the grate before turning to look at her. "It will seem crazy. But just watch."