Enmity

By E J Andrews

Love vs Life. Good vs Evil. War vs Warfare. Which would you choose?

After a solar flare wipes out most of the world's inhabitants, it leaves behind nothing but a desolate earth and a desperate population. Existence is no longer a certainty. And with factions now fighting for the power to rule, people start to become reckless with their lives. The world has become a dangerous place.

Amongst the ensuing chaos, Nate and Hermia – two victims of the new world order – are taken against their will to The Compound. Joined by eight other teenagers all chosen for a specific reason, Nate and Hermia are forced to train as assassins to overthrow the current president and make way for a new leader of the free world. Here, they learn to plan, fight, and most importantly... to survive.

Except, despite the casual cruelty of their new existence, both Nate and Hermia – two very strong but very different people – begin to form fragile bonds within the group. But they soon realize their happiness is short lived...because their training is just the beginning.

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: Apr 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781488720826

E J Andrews

E.J. Andrews was raised in a small town on the west coast of New Zealand by a gold miner with a fascination for guns and a nurse with an obsession with dragons. Growing up, E.J. constantly felt that she needed to write down the vivid thoughts going around her head, but it wasn't until her aunt gave her John Marsden's Tomorrow series to read that her writing bloomed and her interest in books became a full-blown fixation. At the age of eighteen she decided to live with her sister in Brisbane, Australia, where she found a job working at a boat club on the beautiful Moreton Bay. In between split shifts and while others her age were out enjoying their adolescence, E.J. was writing well into the early hours, trying to get down those ever-present ideas of a not-so-bright future. E.J. now lives on the Redcliffe peninsula with her partner and their cat Senga.

Book preview

The Time

Hermia

I look at the lines that mark my face.

Were they there a few days ago? A month ago?

My eyes are the same mix of green and brown. Most people say they are my one redeeming feature. My hair is the same mess of brown wavy curls that falls halfway down my back, but only when I let it. My mind is filled with the same doubts and worries, doubts about what kind of person I have come to be and worries about how much longer I will get to be a person at all. But I don’t feel any different really, so why don’t I recognise myself?

There is a long crack in the mirror that distorts my image, just off to my right. I have told Elaine that it needs fixing, but nothing as small as a cracked mirror is of importance to her.

I wipe off the last of my make-up, removing the mask everyone assumes is my face.

The dull pink colour on the walls is fading and deteriorating, but the little paint that still remains seems to tell the tale of a brighter time in this building’s life, before the depravity and debauchery took over.

There is a splintering of wood as Ezra makes her presence known.

She is laughing, this hysterical, crazed thing. Her make-up is smudged, which annoys me. I hate to see my hard work wiped away so carelessly. Not to mention her hair, a tangled dark mess that clouds half her face in a chaotic disorder, which does nothing but illustrate her complete and utter disrespect for herself. I have no idea how anyone can respect themselves after what she does.

Ezra’s laughter has turned to crying, and she is now sitting on the floor with her legs pressed tightly to her chest, lightly rocking backwards and forwards.

I move over to her, pushing back the hair that covers her eyes. She is out of it, her eyes are all pupils, only a small ring of light blue visible beneath her drugged haze. It is hard to believe we are the same age for two months of the year; for the other ten, I am older than her.

‘Ezra.’ I shake her shoulders, to no avail. I should leave her—leave her mired in her own pity.

‘Ezra!’ I push again and give her a slap on the cheek.

To my surprise, Ezra pushes me backwards with her full force, which I must say isn’t much. But it is enough to push me back.

Ezra looks up, her eyes focusing on me for only a split second, her mouth agape.

‘Well, if it isn’t little Hermia.’ Ezra always speaks my name with the same amount of disgust. I know this is because she hates me. If I were her, I’d hate me too.

She isn’t going to pass out and die now, or just yet. So I turn back to continue collecting my things.

‘Better not call you Mi—’

The gun is in my hand and pointed at her head before I have time to think about it. It isn’t loaded, but she doesn’t know that. There is a glimmer of fear in her eyes. I can sense when others are afraid, even when they don’t know it themselves.

Ezra doesn’t take her eyes from mine. We are locked within our own world, trying to figure where to move next.

‘You think I’m afraid of that?’ Her eyes flicker to the gun. So do mine. I don’t answer. Ezra laughs in a short burst, her eyes hard and focused now. ‘I die a little every day so that I can live. How does that make any sense?’

I try not to take in anything she says, you can’t take anything anyone says too personally here. But I must say those words do make contact with something that resides within me.

‘Really you’d be doing me one hell of a favour—’

‘Hermia.’

Elaine’s voice. I should move. So why can’t I?

‘Hermia. Back off.’

That ought to do it. I lower the gun and move back to my original position at the mirror. I watch their reflections as I pretend to watch my own.

Elaine walks forward and grabs Ezra by the top of the head, snatching a handful of hair in her grasp. Ezra seethes and hisses in pain.

‘I told you not to piss her off.’ Elaine looks Ezra dead in the eyes and spits.

Then she gives the young girl an open-palmed slap across the face, sending her flying to the floor. Ezra is lucky this fight is being held in one of the few rooms that actually has carpet underfoot.

‘I’m guessing you’re high on Bronx’s pills?’ Elaine has the voice of a schoolteacher, one that you can’t help but answer, one that terrifies you at the same time it almost soothes you.

Ezra nods.

Elaine closes her eyes for a few seconds, a mannerism she only ever uses when she is truly annoyed.

‘You know you’re going to have to pay him for them.’ And around here that doesn’t mean with plain old money.

I see a shudder go through Ezra’s body.

‘Go wash yourself off. Use my shower, the hot water’s back on.’

Now Elaine is back to normal. She is no longer the woman we all fear, no longer the woman who runs the most successful gentlemen’s club in the city. She is simply Ezra’s mother, and a mother figure to most of the girls here.

Ezra cowers off. She knows she shouldn’t have stolen from Bronx, and he could easily kill her for it. I suppose she wasn’t lying when she said it would be a kindness to her.

Elaine turns to me now; I try not to look at her for too long. I don’t particularly like the attention.

Elaine and Ezra are very similar; the only major difference is that Elaine’s hair is long and Ezra’s is short. They both have light blue eyes that border on grey and soft features that border on delicate. It looks to most like they are sisters, because there are only thirteen years between them, and the drugs have aged Ezra so badly now.

‘I take it you’re prepared for tomorrow?’

Concern. She sounds very concerned. Though I now wonder if her fear is down to the fact she worries I won’t turn up. And she will be out of pocket.

‘Of course.’ It’s all I can answer now.

Elaine nods and comes closer, taking the seat beside me.

‘Selling your virginity is a big thing, Hermia. It will earn you a lot of money, but a lot of graces as well.’

I look at Elaine and wonder who she sold hers to. I would never be so rude as to ask, though.

‘Well, what else am I going to do with it?’ I ask her.

This makes her laugh quickly, sharply and as though it really isn’t funny; I didn’t mean it to be.

She stands and then puts her hand on my shoulder.

‘Be back at ten, I’ll be here to dress you and help with your make-up.’

Elaine gives me a small smile that looks amazingly natural; coming from her it means a lot. She usually gives this tight, horribly artificial smile that she reserves for clients. I’ve never seen a smile quite like this.

Elaine walks out and I am alone.

I don’t give myself enough time to think about tomorrow. It will come and I will deal with it, along with everything afterwards. There is nothing to do but deal with it.

I notice that I still have my gun in my hand, and I reach for my bullets. Then, finding I have none, I curse myself.

I will have to stop by the ammunition shop on my way home.

The air is brisk as soon as I step out into it. It’s hard to believe that just a few weeks ago we were being warned of the biggest heatwave to hit since the after-effects of the solar flare that almost wiped out the entire human race altogether.

The one thing I truly appreciate as I walk out of the club is the sunlight. All the windows of Elaine’s are painted black to block out any natural light that tries to flood its way in. The walls of the city are high, but the sun still makes its way through the cracks. There are wire baskets that still hang from chains, lining Main Street. I don’t see why they don’t take them down. It’s depressing to see a charred planter box hanging above your head filled with old leaves and street people’s broken dreams.

Not many people like to be outside anymore, not after everything turned to a fireball sixty years ago. The devastation is still very evident—from the buildings that remain, gutted by fire, to the cars that line the highway out of town, many with skeletons still inside, the roads scattered with debris—until President Collins III came into power and started a big clean-up of everything ‘flare’ related.

I push my hands further into the pockets of my jacket, picking at pieces of lint embedded within the seams.

My apartment is only two blocks away from the club, but those two blocks can often be treacherous. The sky may open up one day and take the rest of us, you never know.

I hurry to the ammunition stall and find it closed. My mind races as I try to decide what to do. Nothing. I can do nothing. This is the one ammunition dealer who will sell to someone who is the ripe old age of sixteen.

I continue home, having nothing else left to do. The only other seller is on the other side of town; I could try my luck, but it will be dark soon and I’m not one to wander the streets alone after dark.

I stop at an ATM and my heart sinks when I see I have less credit than I originally thought. Looks like I’ll have to wait and eat at work tomorrow.

The climb to the sixth floor is an annoyance I have to deal with; the stairs creak and there is only really enough room for one person on them at a time, meaning my personal space is invaded regularly on these treks home.

My key becomes stuck in the door as it always does, and I almost break my wrist trying to force it free. But when I finally get into my apartment, I am almost at ease, almost safe.

This safety I now relish—I never felt this with my mother or the rest of my family. I have only found it in my solitude.

Suddenly I am engulfed in darkness. My mind is blank as to why.

Then I start to struggle against it as I realise someone is blinding me. I try to fight, try to free myself, but a bag is slipped over my head and I can feel the tight grasp of arms locking around my torso. Instant panic consumes me and I writhe against whoever it is that is attacking me.

Their hands begin to clasp around my neck. A gagging, choking sound comes from my mouth and for some reason I think what an unattractive way to die. I feel myself go limp; I feel the life rush out of me. Then I think why am I still conscious?

As I feel my body fall—so far out of my own control—my brain keeps talking to itself. This is it? This is how you die?

Well, if I could have answered, I would have. But as soon as my face hits the mattress of my bed, everything slips away, and I am finally granted unconsciousness.

Nate

The sky is turning a violent pinky-orange as the setting sun descends behind buildings and eventually below the horizon. No one goes up in them now, the buildings that make up the city skyline. They are barren, deserted things, burnt out and ruined, of no use to anyone.

I can still see the last few sunbeams break across the houses on my street as I make my way home from school, but my house sits in shadow. The pale cream shutters are always closed, waiting for the next rain or hailstorm. They are starting to look a little sombre; I suppose my mother will have me paint them soon. I suppress a sigh.

Running up the front steps, I have an apology already forming on my tongue.

‘Hey, sorry I’m late.’ I put my bag down almost on the doorstep and wait for a reply.

But it doesn’t come.

From the entryway I can see the television is on, blaring away like normal.

I can hear the dog barking its head off in the backyard. I make my way to the back door, and as I open it, the dog shoots through, a stream of deep yellow fur. She is gone in an instant. Through the back door and out the front, running from something, but from what?

‘Hello? Is anyone home?’ I call as I turn back to the house around me, the feeling of unease starting to grasp me.

Both their cars are in the driveway, as usual, but everything feels wrong.

I call her name last, knowing there is no way she wouldn’t answer me.

‘Olivia!’ I scream.

After a long moment of intent listening, trying to hear even the smallest breath, there is still nothing.

I start to panic and rush like a deranged person down the hallway, looking through the rooms that lead off it, almost knocking over the side table and vase my mother loves. The light is getting dimmer; it would usually make the house feel so warm and comfortable but now it makes my worry worsen.

I find him quick enough. My father is in his study, as he usually is. The hard mahogany walls still feel warm from the day’s sun. He sits slumped over in his chair; maybe if I’d been a child I would have thought he was sleeping.

I move around to see his face; his eyes are wide with the horror of what has happened to him, and his eyes, they are such an empty blue. I see the single slice mark that has severed his throat; the blood has dried and crusted over his drained skin and his neat suit and tie.

My feet begin to move backwards, making me run away from what I cannot believe to be real. I hear a smash as I go.

A moment later I find myself in the kitchen looking down at my little sister. She was five years old.

It was only a matter of months ago she was so excited to start school and grow up; I remember it. Now there’s no way forward for her. I fall to my knees, feeling blank, feeling nothing except the sense of denial.

I’m dreaming, I think to myself as I pull Olivia’s tiny lifeless body into my arms. Then realisation dawns, and I begin to cry. The single bullet wound to her abdomen means her face remains peaceful, and though her cheeks are no longer their rosy hue, I sweep my hand over them.

My tears fall on her, showering her with the love I can never again express to her, and the loss I now hold so tightly. I push her soft blonde hair back from her face, trying to make her look like she used to.

After a few more moments I can’t look at her anymore, because I will just stay there forever.

I catch a glimpse of a piece of paper, fluttering with the breeze of an open window, I notice then that it is attached to my mother’s back. Without thinking I gently place Olivia back down on the floor and almost crawl over to my mother. She is face down in what I hope isn’t all her own blood. When I turn her over, I can see her eyes are the same as my father’s, so empty yet so filled with horror. I almost recoil from this cruelty, one question screaming constantly through my head—why?

The note reads 37 Edward Street. I read it over and over again. The only explanation I get is three words, an address.

It feels like an hour before I move again. I just sit there with my hands trying to pull at my hair. If only I hadn’t cut it so short I might actually be able to.

I am surrounded by my dead family, wondering how this day has turned out so very different to all the others. We would be eating dinner now. We would be sitting over there at the dining table with its stupid hard chairs and striped placemats. My mother is such a good cook. They would ask me about school, about my finals coming up in a few months. Olivia would complain that she wanted to go to school. We would soothe her and tell her that her time would come soon enough. Now it won’t.

It never will.

I pull my legs underneath me and try to stand, feeling a little light on my feet and also a little stiff. I stand for a moment and look over at my family, wondering what the last words I said to them were. It was probably a goodbye yelled over my shoulder, a shout into the void, a word without meaning. What would I have said to them if I’d known this was coming? I wouldn’t have said anything because I would have stopped it.

Next thing I know, I’m at the address, my father’s handgun in my waistband.

This building is huge, I can’t see where it ends but I can see it keeps going for a few blocks to my right. I am before a single door that stands alone in the blank wall; there are no windows, no nothing. It is simply an enormous dark grey wall, with a tiny dark grey door.

Is this what they want from me? Are they just luring me here with false promises of revenge?

I’m about to leave when the door opens and I instantly take the gun from my waist before whoever it is behind the door has time to get the upper hand.

But before I can shoot, I see a bright white light that makes the forefront of my brain explode. I raise my gun but—

Hermia

The whole room is white, including me. I am dressed in a white cotton dress that looks like it’s from a time long ago; I hate it. The way it fits to my body makes me feel like it was made for me. Creepy, this whole place is just plain creepy.

Everything around me is white—the walls, the floor, the ceiling, almost everything is white. There are only two things that aren’t white, and they are a two-way mirror that sits across from me—but of course it is white because it reflects the room around me—and a shining silver bracelet that feels as though it is burning its impression into my skin. I toy with it between my fingers, feeling the memory of the last time I wore it flash behind my eyes.

My mind is racing, though it has no need. It should all make sense, I should know who has done this, but I can’t allow myself to believe it just yet. Not till I see him with my own eyes.

I wait on the ground, feeling like this dress means I must sit in a ladylike way, so I do, with my legs to the side and my hands clasped together in my lap, twisting and twining my fingers, watching the baby bracelet I got when I was born move and glow with the light, the engraved markings casting shadows.

On the outside I am a shell of nothing, I am devoid of any emotion.

On the inside, I am screaming. The anger is hot, stabbing and starting to give me a migraine.

I have no idea how long I will be in this room; I just know that it can’t last forever.

I’m not stupid, hardly. So I know that this is some seriously messed-up shit.

My eyes are fixated on the mirror. Seeing my own perfectly made-up reflection makes me want to explode with the rage that is building inside of me. But I keep my composure.

I refuse to let them see that this is affecting me, the way they have re-dressed me, changing all my clothes, which disturbs me.

No one comes, nothing changes, until I start to hear his scream.

Nate

I’m about to lose my voice. Screaming for an hour, on and on, can do that to you. But I don’t care, I refuse to just sit idly by and let them kill my family and steal my life.

I smash my fists against the glass, knowing someone is watching me behind it.

‘What do you want?’ I bellow at my own reflection.

Nothing happens, as nothing has done for the past hour since I woke up.

When I first became conscious, my eyes fluttered reflexively at the bright light of the room. As I sat up in a rush, the image of my father’s stone-cold eyes lingered behind my own. I noticed that I no longer wore my usual jeans and T-shirt, but instead a light blue button-down shirt and black dress pants. I ran my fingers over the coarse tips of my short hair and it felt washed. Panic took over again and I searched for my father’s gun, but of course it was gone, which is where the screaming started.

I place my hands on the glass now, and then my head on top of them as I pant for breath.

My parents are dead, Olivia is dead, and these people killed her, as they most probably will kill me too. I am confused, I am lost, and I’m going to kill someone.

My head swings to the right as I hear the door slowly open, the sound of tortured metal now biting at my brain.

I wait, moving my head around to see the young woman who is now standing in my room.

The girl looks around my age, with mousy light brown hair. She holds an anxious fear within her eyes that I find curious.

She has a large gun that looks remarkably like a shotgun pointed at my head, and I can sense that fear again. What a strange thing to find out about myself, that I can sense when people are afraid.

My mouth pulls into a minuscule smile. Something, finally, is happening. Maybe now I will be granted death, but no, there’s no way I could be permitted such luck.

‘Come,’ the girl barks at me as she steps back out of the room, her gun still aimed at me through the open doorway.

I push my hands back off the glass and stand strong in myself, facing the girl through the door.

‘First,’ I hold up my hand with one raised finger. ‘That thing could go off, it’s not a toy.’

I point directly at the gun, then move a step closer to the girl. She moves back instinctively, steadying her gun and her sight on me.

‘Hurry up,’ the girl says through gritted teeth. I lower my hand and shrug as expressively as I can muster.

I move over to the doorway and the girl follows me with her gun.

She is standing off to the right, so I look out the door to the left. The hallway outside is as white and boring as the room I have just come out of.

‘This way?’ I ask.

The girl says nothing but shoves the butt of her shotgun into my right shoulder.

‘Right, left then,’ I move out into the hallway.

The girl keeps prodding me