Storm's Marriage to the Enemy

Chapter 1

A STRIKE A DAY

I’m dead. This is how I die.

The sensation of free-falling is here before my hand skims the gunmetal-grey pole. My front half is fully dislodged from where I’m seated on the three-storey-high rod, its slick, spherical shape my ruin.

Eyes squeezed shut, my life of scaling the monstrosities sticking out of the dirt below, talking shit with my brother, Nix, and tending to Mam’s frail body flashes before me…

“Got ya.” An open hand catches me, a firm force on the middle of my spine, righting my form. It is a split second of panic. Enough for me to question everything. I should have known he would be here. He’s always at my side. “Finish the job, Storm.”

Right. Solidifying my sore palm’s grasp on the slim ladder rungs wielded in metre increments, I get back to work. Nix removes his hand, stepping down to give me space.

Screech. The sound of metal against metal rings through my ears.

I screw a bolt unnecessarily tight into the connectors holding the string-like conductors to each rod, sweat dripping down my forehead.

It’s times like these I wish my solence, the fluid beneath my skin, was pure enough to win the hollowing, to be one of the lucky ones liberated from this hell.

They are few and far between; the last hollowing was several years ago.

If I can’t go beyond the tree line, I willfully decide that I wish for change, even if it comes at the expense of losing everything I’ve ever known.

The dreary reality of my existence cannot stop here. This cannot be all there is.

Nix often says he is glad our solence is different.

He doesn’t want to be a dirty killer, a murderer of humanity.

Neither do I. However, sometimes, on the tough days, like today, when the humidity flays my fair skin, my muscles ache for relief, and the blisters pop on my fingers, the thought of never having to return to this field again sounds really fucking nice—a reprieve.

That’s all I want.

A nice, long reprieve from existing.

I have only completed eighteen rotations of the sun. When we can see it. It’s mostly covered by clouds. The thought of lying down and not getting back up seems a valid choice. I haven’t known any other life. Pain, sweat, and tears are it for me—for us.

“Storm, come on. What’s taking you so long?

” My eyes flick to the upturned face of my brother below.

Bad idea. Sooo, so bad. My near miss was nothing compared to seeing the full drop.

I manage at these heights purely because I keep my eye on the prize.

Climb up, do the job, climb back down. Don’t think of the consequences. Easier said than done.

I grumble something unintelligible back at Nix and continue twisting my wrench until it jars my hand, dreaming of the luxury of a cold drink of water. I’ve heard water can run cold only in the city of Halo.

My one relief in this never-ending cycle of tending to the rods is witnessing the colours behind the mist change from an orange tint to purple as the sun recedes behind the fog and mountains. Each year, it gets hotter, the mist thicker. If only the break of evening were any better.

With darkness starting to entrench our tomb, Nix calls to me again.

“Hey, you. Call it.” Warm brown eyes greet me at my scuffed bare feet, his sudden proximity startling.

“What are you doing? It’s not time yet.” The warning alarm hasn’t even sounded.

He gives a pointed look at the blister that has popped on my palm, seeping through the old dressings.

It ruptured on the climb up… I also knew it meant nothing.

I have to finish the job. A job unfinished means losing our credit or our tongues.

Every rod has to be working for the nightly incoming lightning strikes.

Our field of exactly sixty-six rods doesn’t maintain itself, as much as I wish it did.

“I cannot continue to see your solence dripping from up here. Go and fix yourself up and eat something. I will finish this one.”

“I—” I start, but he gives me his best I’m your older brother, and you will do what I say, or so help your behind later glare, and I go.

The smacking used to work when I was five, but now, it’s the guilt that gets to me.

“Do you want Mam to see you like this?” It’s all Nix has to say, and I cave like dust on the breeze.

“Fine.” Mumbling under my breath, I take his proffered hand with my somewhat good one and shimmy down the thick pole. The makeshift ladder has steel prongs wide enough for our bodies to pass one another. It doesn’t stop my jaw from clenching.

Our designated field is the width of the factory building, a looming steel structure well beyond the rows and rows of metal poles my fellow lightning farmers and I tend.

If you like to walk and climb, this is the place for you.

I huff under my breath. Our field sizes don’t even compare to the journey we have to make to the factory when it comes to market days.

I’ve seen many people faint on the wide dirt road that connects the neighbouring fields to the industrial monstrosity where they accumulate our monthly ratios based on the energy our rods have produced.

It’s a harsh reality in our community that if you don’t produce children, and you can no longer climb, you’ll most likely starve to death.

There’s a strong incentive for couplings.

If I lived in any other household in this community, I would’ve been traded in to produce children a year ago.

Nix and Mam would never allow it. That Mam lives by herself with two children is unheard of, but for the most part, people leave her alone, most likely presuming she will eventually perish on the outskirts of the farm or be taken by a strike.

Which would leave her rations free game for the surrounding people.

Similar to all the others that dot the farming lands, our round tent, matching the colouring of the cracked earth below, sits next to our designated allotment of rods.

Lines of thin metal conductors string each of the rods together, a crisscross above my head as I get closer to our tent.

Soon, the ten-minute warning alarm will ring, followed by the five-minute and the one-minute.

As much as the hollows—the chosen Haloians who reside in Halo—keep us as seronds, we are the most economically sustainable resource in these fields.

After the collapse, they found that nothing could compare with the power of a brainwashed human in longevity, especially when they have an incentive to breed.

More children meant more credits per strike.

Though more children often meant more mouths to feed, so I don’t think most people thought that part through.

We were already paid a pittance; enough to survive, and occasionally, enough for one of the many scraps of luxury the hollows threw our way at market days.

I’ve heard stories of mechanical humans.

They couldn’t be sustained in the end, the materials for the parts scarce in this new world.

Drones are the next best thing, constantly watching our progress.

It is still a wonder we can produce fresh fruit and vegetables—not that we see anything fresh—but the greenhouse farmers somehow manage.

Genetically modified is a term often thrown around at market days.

Their job is much harder than my own. All I have to do is wait for the strikes each evening and make sure our rods are prepared.

They always require maintenance after each cracking of the sky above.

I loathe welding with a passion, so Nix usually takes over that part, repairing while I climb.

We’ve found a steady rhythm between the two of us over the years, having climbed the rods since we could walk.

I’ll hazard a guess to say that we are the most efficient team around. The two of us do the work of at least ten. Early mornings are a requirement. It is worth it—to keep my autonomy.

A floodlight powered by our generator begins to flicker on, highlighting our tent in a hazy yellow glow just as the first alarm rings, splitting my ears. I’ve never liked this sound. It’s like a string is being pulled too tightly inside my head.

Unbuckling the tool belt from around my waist, I push through the front flap of our modest home and place it on a hook next to the door.

My bare feet rub, squeaking slightly from sweat against the rubber of our floor, so I slow my movements, careful not to make any more loud noises.

Our allotment of power affords us a small night light above our rickety steel kitchen table, dangling haphazardly on a makeshift conduction string Nix had fashioned around a single bulb.

It gives me the heebie-jeebies, but it is safe as long as we don’t touch it during a strike or until we turn off the rods each morning for our repairs.

Making my way over to the shallow kitchen sink, I pump a handful of water into a bowl and bring it to the wooden table where a first aid kit waits.

We don’t even bother putting it away anymore since Nix and I use it daily.

The vial of rubbing alcohol I’m after sits at the top.

Holding it up to the light, the liquid barely covers the bottom of the tiny, smoky bottle.

My hand tenses, my cracked wounds smarting.

We will need to get more of this next Market Day.

Wound care is not cheap. There’s always the option of going without, but we can’t afford infections. In this place, that equals death.