Phoenix from the Ashes

By L.K. Skripjack

Orphan Ashalia sleeps with her eyes open, walks with her back to the dormitory walls and never lets the other kids see her fears. In a world powered by greed, every moment could be her last.

 

She also has a secret. A secret so powerful that if the ruling caste knew of what she was capable, they might do to her what they did to her parents.

 

At eighteen years old, Ash's recruitment day is approaching and she must face a choice: save her brother from certain death on the streets, or risk her own life at the hands of a mysterious stranger with silver-blue eyes, who keeps turning up at the most dangerous and inconvenient moments.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wingspan Title Press
• Release date: May 4, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201713911

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Beginnings

Derlanger Avenue. Outer Band. City of Ace.

Ash entered the alleyway. It was still and silent, chilled in the shadow of high rise buildings. Lamplights flickered on the concrete walls, illuminating a tangle of graffiti. The words ‘fredom’ and ‘revolushun’ rose to the fore against a kaleidoscope of streaks and swirls. The letter ’n’ bled a sharp streak streak where the artist had been interrupted. Their spray can lay discarded in the gutter.

Normally, Ash wouldn’t have strayed from the protection of lights and cameras on the main street, but today she was desperate. Today, her collection bag hung limp against her back, not yet half full—nowhere near her daily quota—and judging by the way the sky had darkened to a deep umber, she had no chance of filling it before the seven o’clock curfew. If only she could get her hands on the spray can... tin was worth more than plastic. She would be rewarded.

She honed, shadow stealthy, feet whispering a small breeze. But too late. A gust of wind carried the can to the lip of a drain where it twitched like a fag before disappearing into the dark abyss beyond. She cursed and looked around for something to fish it out, then stopped. She’d lingered too long. Nobody in their right mind would run the risk of getting caught next to that kind of graffiti.

She turned, forgetting to keep her collection bag angled towards the concrete wall in her haste. After a lifetime of having to watch her back, she should’ve known better.

The gangly orphan sprung from behind a lamp post, hands clawing for her hard-earned loot. She spun around just in time to keep the bag from his grasp, but not before his sharpened fingernails caught the underside of her wrist, leaving ladders of red.

Get, scabber, or I’ll rip you to shreds, she hissed, crouching in anticipation of his next move.

His eyes oscillated between her and the bag, tongue licking a chaffed ring around his lips. She was small, but her reputation preceded her. She’d beaten up too many orphan bullies to be taken lightly, and he knew it.

He clenched his fists. You don’t scare me, rat.

She considered him through slitted eyes, wondering what made him so desperate that he’d risk a fight with her, and all for a couple of plastic bottles. Deciding to see how far he’d go, she turned to give him a good view of the bag. Just the opening he was hoping for. Well, what’s the wait? Come and get it.

He took the bait and lunged, hands outstretched towards his prize. She bucked with the heel of her boot, meeting his stomach with a satisfying thump. He went down in a deflated gasp, eyes bugging with surprise. She shook her head. Idiot. Perhaps he’d think twice before trying to jack her loot again. She wound up for a final disabling kick.

Please don’t hurt me, he pleaded, covering his face with his hands. I only jacked you cos my sister’s green and I’ve gotta make quota for both of us. She’ll die if she’s gotta spend a week... His last words were strangled by the tightening of his throat but she didn’t need to hear it. They both knew what happened to those who failed to make quota.

Her foot hovered in the air, suspended by her conscience. What would she do if her brother was sick and unable to make quota? She’d probably try to jack someone’s loot too. She lowered her foot to the ground.

But what about her reputation for ruthlessness? It was the only thing keeping her brother alive. If she let this orphan off the hook, the other orphans might think she’d gone soft.

She drew her foot back off the pavement. This was a choice between his sister and her brother. And she chose her brother.

Her boot swung up hard and fast, meeting the soft flesh between his legs with such force he flopped on the bitumen, head first in an awkward prayer-pose. His moan echoed off the high walls before softening to a whimper. She lingered for a moment, to make sure he was down, before walking away.

She’d only taken a few steps when the boy choked out. If my sister dies, it’s on you.

She stopped. What did you say? She turned to face him, daring him to continue.

His lips curled over his teeth like skin over knuckles. If my sister dies, imma come for your brother.

At the mention of her brother, she closed the space between them, right hand curling around the collar of his orange jumpsuit. Say that again and I’ll make sure your throat closes for good.

The boy sneered and the scent of decay on his breath ghosted her face. I said, imma come for your brother. Jai is it? The smart-talking pretty boy? Well, imma take him from behind—just the way he likes it. Then, imma slit his throat.

Silence followed his words, which slipped in her mind, insoluble at first, like oil on water. When comprehension dawned, everything slowed, her breath, her heart, she even forgot to blink. Her vision shrank and a white hot heat expanded in her chest, as though she’d taken a drag from a cigarette too close to the filter. The canvas bag dropped to her feet, rupturing a colourful array of bottles onto the road and her hands twisted around the gangly orphan’s neck.

He struggled. She kicked him between the legs to still him.

Say that again, she said, punctuating her words with the force of her intention. Her hands tightened their hold so that the flesh bulged between her fingers, like sausages in an intestinal casing. She was so consumed by the effort of keeping him still, she almost didn’t hear the voice when it first shot through the alley.

Let him go.

She lifted her head to see a broad-shouldered man striding towards them, cloaked in blood red travelling robes, his identity concealed by the shadow of a hood. Although he was not dressed in police blacks, the sheer power of his stride was enough to make her falter. She wanted to run, wanted to leave the gangly orphan on his knees and get out of there. But like a dog with lockjaw, her body refused to obey.

She glanced back at the boy in her hands, surprised to see a distinct purpling of his face and a vague look in his eyes that said his consciousness was fading. But his lips were still curled in the shape of his last words—Imma take him from behind... imma slit his throat—and her grip tightened.

The hooded stranger encroached, though she was hardly aware of anything but the boy’s heartbeat, the way the uneven blimp was fluttering and stumbling to a crawl. Her hands shook from the effort, yet they didn’t let go.

The crawl slowed to a stop.

Suddenly, fingers seized hers, ripping them away from the boy’s throat and throwing her back against the wall. Her head smacked the concrete facade and she gasped as the air was thrust from her lungs. She wobbled, great globs of white swarming her vision, yet managed to keep her feet.

The hooded man stooped over the boy. His hands prodded and pressed, made a pattern of indents along his neck, chest and wrists. He leant down to blow air in the boy’s mouth, causing his chest to rise and fall as though he were merely asleep. Ash tried to run, but found no more fuel in her limbs than what was required to keep her standing. She watched, horrified, as the man pressed his palms against the boy’s sternum and began a series of short, rhythmic pumps, eliciting a crack of a rib from the pressure. This seemed to go on for hours, though it was probably only a handful of minutes. The alternation of pumping and blowing until eventually, the man stood up. His hands flopped to his sides as he delivered the verdict. He’s dead.

A strange stillness descended in which Ash took in the flat, unseeing blank of the boy’s stare and the purpling fingermarks on his neck. They were small and delicate, in the shape of her own fingers. Her mind rang with one word. Murderer.

She looked down at her hands, back at the boy, then back at her hands again. Bile rose in her throat and she braced herself for the heave, only to have a strangled cry spill out instead.

Her mind reeled. What have I done?

The answer came quickly, a command from a part of her brain that didn’t seem to belong to her. You did what needed doing. Now, destroy the evidence.

A strange feeling blossomed in her chest, expanding then contracting into a tingling, electric heat that travelled up her arms, through her hands and into her fingers, gathering like a fast flowing river against a dam. The pressure built until it was too much to hold and it burst from her fingertips in a bright blue explosion.

She jumped backwards, as did the man and they both watched in muted shock as glittering runnels of flames leapt across the dead boy’s chest, twisting and curling over his shoulders like a vest, leaving behind a pattern of melted black holes in his orange jumpsuit. Travelling up his body, they caught in his mousey brown hair, turning it black, and danced a torturous tango across his pale skin.

Then, they were gone, as quickly as they’d come, leaving only wisps of curdled smoke and an acrid meaty smell behind. The tingling in Ash’s fingers subsided, replaced by an anchor drag of exhaustion.

She slumped against the wall, swallowed to keep down a rising nausea and breathed deeply. The world spun, her knees buckled and the black of bitumen rushed up to meet her. She closed her eyes, ready for its harsh bite and startled when it didn’t come. Instead, a cradle of strong arms caught her before she hit the ground, warm and steady, cloaked in a silky crimson fabric, smelling of log fires and candle wax.

She peered through foggy vision at the cloaked man who’d caught her. His hood had slipped to his shoulders, revealing a face that was half man, half monster—chiselled brow and sculpted jaw on one side and a molten pool of melted skin on the other, a contrast grotesque enough to make even the strongest stomachs lurch.

But it wasn’t his face that made Ash gasp. It was his eyes. They were mercury silver, wide and unblinking, reflective as a lake. How long have you been able to do that? His tone was firm but without accusation.

She didn’t answer. Didn’t know what to say. Was he insinuating that she somehow caused the fire? That she’d somehow conjured the flames out of nothing? That was impossible.

The grotesque man was shaking her now, trying to keep hold of her consciousness. But the anchor drag of exhaustion was too much, and it pulled her under.

Ash woke, spread starfish—head throbbing, throat aching, neck forming a crooked angle on a lumpy pillow. Bright white halogens burnt imprints in her eyes and the plastic-coated bed-sheet crackled as she tried to sit up. Her left forearm throbbed and she looked down to see the pointy end of a drip disappearing into her vein. On her other arm, the dull pressure of an inflatable cuff monitored her blood pressure.

She struggled into a sitting position and looked around. The room was small: door to the right, window to the left, the latter covered with venetians. She smelled pine disinfectant and pomegranate hand soap. She was in the orphanage sick bay.

The nurse bustled over and pushed Ash back into the pillow with a latex-gloved hand. Easy, girl, she said. You were severely dehydrated. She studied Ash from behind her glasses, eyes narrowing. You’re lucky you made it back to the orphanage before you passed out.

Ash’s mind chewed over this statement. How had she made it back to the orphanage? The last thing she remembered was fighting the gangly orphan in the alley, kicking him in the groin and feeling his pulse between her fingers.

She froze.

His pulse.

Her fingers.

It all came back in an electrifying jolt that made her sit up again. Everything from the deadpan expression in his eyes, to the glittering runnels of flames, to the grotesque man in the cloak who had seen it all. She’d killed the boy in the alley. That much was certain. But the flames? They’d been caused by something else—a gas leak, a freak explosion, a lighting strike—something completely beyond her control.

Right?

She closed her eyes as she remembered the strange feeling in her chest and the hot tingling sensation that ran down her arms before bursting from her fingertips in a bright blue explosion. It was as though she’d conjured the flames herself, created them in her mind, then released them on the boy with the precision of a struck match. But that was impossible. Completely and utterly insane. Nobody could ‘magic’ flames like that. The notion was so ridiculous, she almost laughed.

She shook her head and focused on the problem of the boy. She’d murdered him and there was a very high chance that the nurse knew, that the orphanage knew, that she was in very big trouble.

She glanced to her right, balking when she saw the door was blocked by a formidable guard with a downwards sloping mouth and sculptured crew cut. A heavy duty torch dangled from his belt, banishing all thoughts of escape. She knew from experience how easily the battery end could double as a baton and she didn’t want to be on the receiving end of its painful blow. As her blood pressure went skyward, the machine next to her beeped a warning and the nurse turned around. She studied Ash over the top of her owlish glasses.

Is everything alright, girl? Her tone was plain, enquiring, not filled with disgust or fear as one would expect from someone speaking to a murderer.

Ash considered the woman. Perhaps she didn’t know what had happened in the alleyway. Perhaps no one did. Perhaps the grotesque stranger hadn’t turned her in. Perhaps, just perhaps, she’d gotten away with murder. She steadied her voice to hide her discomfort. Yes. Everything’s fine.

The nurse continued to look at her for a moment longer, before shrugging and checking her clipboard. Well then, there’s nothing more I can do for you. She pulled the inflatable cuff off Ash’s right arm and carefully withdrew the needle from the left, elevating it while she taped a small bandage over the tiny seeping hole. Keep up your fluids. No strenuous activity.

Ash ran her fingers along the bandage, grazing the bright red scratches left by sharpened fingernails of the gangly orphan. She froze—Evidence—and jerked the sleeve of her orange jumpsuit down to hide them. Thankfully, the nurse didn’t seem to notice and continued making notes on her clipboard.

After an excruciating minute or two, the nurse looked up again. Oh, I didn’t realise you were still here. You can go now. She motioned to the guard. She’s all yours.

The guard grunted and unclipped a hand held radio from the pocket of his starchy grey uniform, so old that the only thing holding it together was a thick band of heavy duty tape. Orphanage technology was in need of a serious upgrade. But they weren’t exactly high on government priority lists. He cleared his throat. The girl’s awake, he said into the device. When would you like to see her?

A thin, reedy voice cut through the crackle of radio waves. Bring her to me now, it said.

Ash stiffened, petrified in place by the voice of Emmeline Wilson, Director of the orphanage, woman of rules, regulations and analytics. There could only be one reason why she’d been called to her office.

They knew.

The guard clipped the radio back onto his pocket and approached her with a set of handcuffs. The cold metal bit into her skin and she recoiled. Questions jostled in her head. What would happen to her now? Would they lock her in solitary confinement? Would they take her to jail? More questions rammed against the first set in discord. If they knew, why did they put her on a drip? Why did they take care of her as though her life mattered? Why didn’t they just leave her out the front of the orphanage to die? It wasn’t as though the orphanage truly cared what happened to them outside its grounds.

As the guard pulled Ash through the door and out into the long, narrow hallway, her mind scrambled through her options. Running would be futile. She’d look even more guilty and she wouldn’t get very far—the whole orphanage was surrounded by a barbed wire fence, complete with fingerprint scanners on all the gates and twenty-four hour surveillance cameras on the yard. The only option left was to go with the guard. Try not to speak unless asked a question, try not to admit anything unless forced.

She fell into rhythm behind the guard’s heavy steel-capped steps, following him down the corridor and past a set of long windows giving view to the nursing bays beyond. Babies lay in plastic cots which swung from steel structures in the roof and were pushed every now and again by a shuffling nurse. Children crawled along the cold, tiled floors and tugged at the nurse’s white slacks. The nurse sighed and pried their fingers away, checking her watch. It was clear she wanted to be anywhere else.

Ash dropped her gaze to the white tiled floor. She didn’t want to see the rows of abandoned children—a testament to the zero child policy forced on her caste a few years before she was born. But it did nothing to block their wailing cries and her chest ached as she imagined their tear-streaked faces, mouths groping for words they’d never learn, Mum, Dad, their plump fingers reaching for phantom breasts.

She was relieved when they reached the door, and even more relieved when they stepped outside. Warm air brought on a sheen of sweat and her cuffed hands rose to wipe her forehead. The only light came from a sliced moon struggling to penetrate the thick smog, telling Ash it was well past curfew, much later than she’d expected. She must’ve been unconscious for over an hour.

The guard’s torch flicked the shadows aside and their feet plumed dust on the well-trodden path through the yard. They passed the dining hall—a large tin shed at the centre of the grounds, reverberating with raucous yelling and the clanging of cutlery. Judging by the commotion, dinnertime was over and the orphans had begun fighting each other for a last spoonful of mash—a pulverised meal consisting of leftovers from eateries around the city, the same stuff that went to feed the pigs.

They passed the dormitory complexes—decrepit plasterboard buildings huddled in a corner of the yard, looking as though they might fall over at any second. Soon they would be filled with an orchestra of snores. Ash glanced at the senior boys’ dorm and wondered if her brother was inside, hiding from the mealtime frenzy. The dining hall was a dangerous place without someone to watch your back and she guessed her brother wouldn’t have risked it without her.

They walked on until finally, they reached Director’s office—a small, lofty room, elevated above the grounds by spidery scaffolding and made accessible by a winding set of external stairs. The shiny metal facade, pushed together by pop-rivets made Ash think of a large, windowless shipping container.

They climbed and Ash felt her sheen of sweat thicken. The guard stooped to scan his retina on a laser identification sensor on the heavy metal door, then pressed his thumb on the gel fingerprint pad attached to the handle.

The door opened with a click.

The office was cold and sparse, so lacking in personality that even the plain grey desk and business blue chair, the only two furnishings in the room, looked as though they’d had a disagreement. A complex grid of computer screens hung from one wall, displaying a mosaic of security footage from all areas of the orphanage.

Ash caught a glimpse of herself in the far right one and scrunched her nose. A feral animal stared back at her, neither markedly boy nor girl, with amber eyes that glowed between her mane of matted black hair and grimy olive skin. Her appearance was no alibi for a suspected murderer. She understood now why the orphan boy had called her a rat.

Director Wilson sat at her desk, lips pinched, hands strung in a reptilian fashion, wooden eyes flat as veneer. Despite her grey-speckled hair, her unlined face had a timeless quality, as though the elements had seen her stern glare and run the other way. In all her years at the orphanage, Ash couldn’t remember a time when she looked any different.

Orphan 984—Ashalia Valesca. She opened Ash’s file and her eyes scanned the contents. It was a tatty paper file. Definitely in need of an upgrade. I trust you’re feeling better.

A statement. Ash didn’t answer.

Ms Wilson leaned forward and pressed her fingers together to form a diamond. This is the third day in a row you’ve failed to make quota. Normally, we’d be looking at a short stint in solitary for such a transgression.

Ash nodded. She knew the rules. She’d been inside of the solitary housing unit one too many times, mainly for fighting, but once for back-talking a guard. It was torture. If it wasn’t the constant hunger held at bay only by a small bowl of daily broth, it was the boredom. One hour could bleed into the next without so much as a new thought to mark it. She knew every inch of the tiny windowless cell, the amount of sponge on the padded sound-proofed walls and the exact pitch her piss made in the egg-shaped relief tray. Nothing she’d ever done was worth the time in solitary.

But for once, she felt differently. Solitary confinement seemed a small price to pay when compared with a lifetime in state jail.

Emmeline was still talking. ... however, given the circumstances, we’re willing to overlook your indiscretion should you assist with our investigation.

Ash stopped nodding.

Ms Wilson’s heels clicked on the polished concrete floor as she rounded her desk. Valesca, did you notice anything strange this afternoon? Did you see anything out of place while you were collecting?

Ash hesitated. Then, shook her head.

Ms Wilson leaned forward and narrowed her wooden eyes to stakes. Nothing at all?

She continued shaking her head.

Ms Wilson was so close Ash could smell her perfume, which was heavy and bruised, like a rose petal crushed between the fingers. You were found by our guards a little way up the street, unconscious. Do you remember how you got there?

Ash shook her head so vigorously now, her neck threatened to seize up.

Ms Wilson studied her a moment longer, expression inscrutable.  What a shame. I was under the impression you’d be able to shed some light on an incident that occurred in your collection zone this afternoon. She turned and plucked another tatty file from her desk and held up a printed photo of the gangly orphan. It was an old photo. Taken over a year ago when they’d last updated their portfolios. His mousey hair was slicked to the side, and he was grinning at the camera. Still, the angle of his smile was as wrong as it had been on the street. It was too wide, too thin, verging on manic.

Ash’s palms began to sweat. Was this a trick? Did Ms Wilson already know what she’d done? Was this all a test to see if she’d tell the truth?

Ms Wilson shook the photo for emphasis. This is Eric. He didn’t turn up for Count and we’ve come to believe he’s gone missing. She paused to gauge Ash’s reaction.

Ash forced her eyebrows into an archway of mild surprise.

Ms Wilson continued, The police are investigating his disappearance. They wanted to question you on the circumstances surrounding your... collapse. Seemed to think the two incidents could be related.

Ash clamped her lips. What was Ms Wilson playing at? Did she know? Didn’t she know?

I told them to let me deal with you. Incidents like yours should be dealt with inside the orphanage. Ms Wilson leaned down and pinched Ash’s left sleeve, just above the wrist, lifting it as one would lift the soiled nappy of a baby. Beneath, the horizontal marks where the orphan had scratched her were now beginning to form angry scabs. An attempt on one’s own life is nothing short of selfish. You have disrespected this institution and everything we’ve done for you.

Ash’s eyes widened with realisation. The Director thought she’d tried to kill herself. Despite the gravity of the implication, she’d been handed the perfect alibi. She drew a relieved breath, which she upturned into a sigh of feigned remorse. I’m sorry, it won’t happen again.

Ms Wilson glared. Your apology means nothing. We nursed you back to health for the sake of an investigation which you’ve proved to be useless. Don’t think we’ll do it again. She turned to the guard. How much longer until she must be returned to her room?

The guard checked his watch. Lights out is in twenty.

Ms Wilson swivelled on the point of her heel and rounded her desk again. She stopped to press a red-painted finger against Ash’s file. And tapped. It says here Valesca, you turned eighteen this year. To the guard. How long until the next Release Day?

Just over a month.

Ms Wilson’s finger stilled. Move it forward. I don’t want her under our care if and when she decides to try something... regrettable again. We don’t have resources to waste on the ungrateful, nor do we have time for the paperwork. She nodded at Ash. She’s more trouble than she’s worth.

The guard stepped forward. When would you like the new release date?

Ms Wilson’s lips folded into a line. Tomorrow.

The guard shook his head. With all due respect, Ms Wilson, the recruiters will never agree to —

Let me handle the recruiters. You just worry about their Release Day packages.