without emotion.
“No males. Ever,” she said softly and left them on the ground together.
Chapter 11
Joey
Alys’ mother threw a flurry of sharp punches, alternating between head and gut, gut and chest. Blocking each of them, he used her slight forward momentum against her, rolling her punch, extending the reach of it further than she’d intended. It caused her front foot to slide forward an inch, bringing her in to elbow strike range. It was a good move, she’d taught it to him, and she grunted her approval as she slid the foot forward as he’d predicted, but continued further than he had expected to sweep him off his feet and onto his rear-end with a crash as he lunged to make the elbow connect.
“Up, Boy.” She’d already assumed her ready stance.
Joey gave her a lop-sided grin, mostly to annoy her.
“Nice move, Mrs Shep….” He almost saw the kick that connected with his chest that time. There was no doubt about it, he was getting faster. The training, her training, was paying off. He really had to stop antagonising her by referring to her as Mrs though.
“Up… Boy,” she said once again.
She’d never once called him by his name in the three months he’d been allowed to stay in The Gardens. She spat out the word Boy like an insult. It was an insult in this place.
Rising to his full height, which was still a few inches short of Jennifer’s, he gave her the smile again. To hell with it, he thought.
“Ready, Mrs Shephard.” This time he managed to block and deflect twelve of her blows before he was knocked on his ass once again. He could swear that Jennifer broke a smile that time.
“We’re done today, Boy. Go back to your quarters.” She swished around and took off towards another training session with one of the younger children. Good luck to them, he thought.
“Thank you,” he called after her. Normally she ignored his ritual thank you at the end of their sessions. This time, she paused, turned slightly and gave him the sharpest of nods before resuming her walk.
High praise indeed.
Joey plonked himself onto the frost-covered grass, sitting with his wrists resting on bent knees, and scanned The Gardens as his breath fogged the evening air. The greenhouses on the flat sections were busy with girls collecting tomatoes, peppers and other produce. He could see women working metal in the smith’s tent, prepping meals in the kitchen tent, doing drills in the training rings and scribbling away in the school enclosure. The few boys who lived there – seven of them, each younger than he and sons of women who’d been pregnant or new mothers when the men left – were dragging hand-ploughs through a large section of field. None of them had spoken to him. They’d leave if he approached them. When he’d arrived, Joey had expected the boys to be pleased to see another male, but if anything they seemed frightened of him in a way that not even the youngest of the girls were. They simply went about their duties and acted as though he didn’t exist.
Everyone in The Gardens had a role, a place in the structure. Everyone was important and equal; more or less. The women of The Gardens were a truly self-sufficient society, dependant on no one and nothing but their own hard work.
Joey climbed the slope up to the fence-line that divided The Gardens from Princes Street and scanned the long, once-busy centre of the city. Jock had described to him the city before the plague hit many times using words like ‘beautiful’, ‘striking’ and ‘cosmopolitan’. When asked about the people, he’d often used the phrase, “streets full of busy fools.” The streets were still full, but instead of teeming with workers, residents, tourists and shoppers rushing around, they were filled with an endless myriad of walking corpses in various states of decomposition.
It was a quiet evening, relatively speaking. The ever-present groan that vibrated dryly with the bottomless hunger that these
“No males. Ever,” she said softly and left them on the ground together.
Chapter 11
Joey
Alys’ mother threw a flurry of sharp punches, alternating between head and gut, gut and chest. Blocking each of them, he used her slight forward momentum against her, rolling her punch, extending the reach of it further than she’d intended. It caused her front foot to slide forward an inch, bringing her in to elbow strike range. It was a good move, she’d taught it to him, and she grunted her approval as she slid the foot forward as he’d predicted, but continued further than he had expected to sweep him off his feet and onto his rear-end with a crash as he lunged to make the elbow connect.
“Up, Boy.” She’d already assumed her ready stance.
Joey gave her a lop-sided grin, mostly to annoy her.
“Nice move, Mrs Shep….” He almost saw the kick that connected with his chest that time. There was no doubt about it, he was getting faster. The training, her training, was paying off. He really had to stop antagonising her by referring to her as Mrs though.
“Up… Boy,” she said once again.
She’d never once called him by his name in the three months he’d been allowed to stay in The Gardens. She spat out the word Boy like an insult. It was an insult in this place.
Rising to his full height, which was still a few inches short of Jennifer’s, he gave her the smile again. To hell with it, he thought.
“Ready, Mrs Shephard.” This time he managed to block and deflect twelve of her blows before he was knocked on his ass once again. He could swear that Jennifer broke a smile that time.
“We’re done today, Boy. Go back to your quarters.” She swished around and took off towards another training session with one of the younger children. Good luck to them, he thought.
“Thank you,” he called after her. Normally she ignored his ritual thank you at the end of their sessions. This time, she paused, turned slightly and gave him the sharpest of nods before resuming her walk.
High praise indeed.
Joey plonked himself onto the frost-covered grass, sitting with his wrists resting on bent knees, and scanned The Gardens as his breath fogged the evening air. The greenhouses on the flat sections were busy with girls collecting tomatoes, peppers and other produce. He could see women working metal in the smith’s tent, prepping meals in the kitchen tent, doing drills in the training rings and scribbling away in the school enclosure. The few boys who lived there – seven of them, each younger than he and sons of women who’d been pregnant or new mothers when the men left – were dragging hand-ploughs through a large section of field. None of them had spoken to him. They’d leave if he approached them. When he’d arrived, Joey had expected the boys to be pleased to see another male, but if anything they seemed frightened of him in a way that not even the youngest of the girls were. They simply went about their duties and acted as though he didn’t exist.
Everyone in The Gardens had a role, a place in the structure. Everyone was important and equal; more or less. The women of The Gardens were a truly self-sufficient society, dependant on no one and nothing but their own hard work.
Joey climbed the slope up to the fence-line that divided The Gardens from Princes Street and scanned the long, once-busy centre of the city. Jock had described to him the city before the plague hit many times using words like ‘beautiful’, ‘striking’ and ‘cosmopolitan’. When asked about the people, he’d often used the phrase, “streets full of busy fools.” The streets were still full, but instead of teeming with workers, residents, tourists and shoppers rushing around, they were filled with an endless myriad of walking corpses in various states of decomposition.
It was a quiet evening, relatively speaking. The ever-present groan that vibrated dryly with the bottomless hunger that these
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