Unworthy: Marked to die. Raised to survive. by Joanne Armstrong Page A

to lose the farmhouse from sight as we enter the valley between the hills. “Minerals?”
    “I don’t think so. Something much more valuable - information. I’ve visited many such dwellings dotted around the sectors. What would you have done if I hadn’t insisted we keep moving?”
    I’d have approached it, as most would. He’d read me perfectly, and I have nothing to say to that. Instead I pursue his need to be secretive when it comes to the Polis. “Why do you want to avoid them so desperately?”
    His answer is direct, “My orders.” He uses a tone of voice I might adopt when explaining a menial task, as though it should be obvious. I can just about see him shaking his head again at my ignorance.
    “What about the refugees though? You encouraged them to go to Greytown. What if they talk to the soldiers there?”
    “By the time they arrive in the hub it won’t matter. If we aren’t in the City by then, something will be seriously wrong.”

    Chapter Thirteen
    The grassland desert and occupied house safely behind us, we pick our way through the rocky pass in the hills. Once out of the bowl, it’s not long before we find the tributary Hayes described. On the map it heads in a north-easterly direction, taking us along the route he has planned. The shallow stream glistens over a shingle bed, and the land rises on both sides of us until we are in the base of a narrow gorge. We take to the shingle riverbed and the horses splash noisily downstream with deliberate steps. Hayes is keen to mask our route, and the water erases all evidence of our passage.
    After an hour travelling down the picturesque gorge, the gagging stench of putrefaction reaches me on the breeze. Up ahead there will be a carcass decomposing in the warmth of the spring day; a beast drawn to drink from the meandering stream. The smell gets stronger after a few more paces, and even my guard’s usually expressionless face is registering discomfort. The horses are noticeably nervous, needing encouragement to continue towards the source of their unease.
    At a break in the willows along the eastern bank, we spy the source of the smell, and try to guide the horses up out of the water, but they refuse. An abandoned campsite littered with implements and odd bits of clothing greets us, and I scan the scene for the decaying beast.
    At first I think that clothes have been tossed around, perhaps by thieves or raiders, but as I stare into the clearing before me, realisation and horror are spreading icy tendrils in the pit of my stomach.
    The bodies are human. The scraps of clothing strewn around are attached to body parts.
    The Polis monitor shows no sign of life. Hayes has dismounted and I do the same. We lead the nervous horses further up the riverbed, away from the butchery, and tether them out of the water. We are both cautious as we loop back, but I realise that the grisly scene must be weeks old.
    I am covering my mouth, repulsed both by the smell and the carnage, but unable to tear my eyes away. Hayes stands in the centre of what may have been their campsite, surveying the scene. A boot attached to a leg is near him; the boot’s partner two metres away.
    He is lost in his thoughts, and pays me no heed. His expression is one of disgust.
    “Animals?” I ask him.
    He looks up at me, as though he had forgotten I was there.
    “Wild cats and other animals have been here, but that’s not what killed them.”
    His answer makes me look more closely. Limbs have been separated from torsos, heads from shoulders. I’m familiar with butchery and have handled the carcasses of sheep or cattle often enough, but suddenly I have had my fill of the gore and return to where we have tied the horses.
    With the image in my mind, I realise that the limbs had been cut, not torn apart. This was done by people with weapons.
    I take the jumpy horses and leave the soldier in the clearing, moving further into the brush, until I can no longer smell them. For the first time he’s