The Oaken Queen by Lene Fogelberg

Author:Lene Fogelberg
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Dedaun Publishing
Published: 2023-10-27T08:16:58+00:00

28

Fauna

They’re all burned.

Singed trunks, scorched branches, black leaves scattered on the ashen ground.

Charcoal in the shape of a forest.

No singing birds, no humming insects.

Only the wind, howling through the twisted limbs.

But below my feet, I can feel the rage, like a tidal wave, rising through the blistering earth.

From root to root flows the battle cry: “Cut, cut, cut.”

29

Flora

The helicopter hits the ground, and I unlock my seat belt.

Jones, the beefy security guard who welcomed us to SEEDS the first night, ushers us through the door. “Go, go, go.”

I follow Chief Batista, Aaron, Carl, and the other guards out of the Black Hawk. Behind me, Dad lifts the bag containing the bio-com with a grunt, joining the rest of us in the field.

I take it all in: the crisp air with a hint of smoke, the thick tufts of grass under my black tactical boots, the birdsong piercing through the whirring of the helicopter as it powers down.

We’ve landed in what from above looked like a verdant island surrounded by a scorched landscape. The pasture seems deserted, the overgrown grass nearly as tall as a corn field, except for around the helicopter where it’s been beaten to the ground in a perfect circle from the downwash of the rotor blades. The edge of the forest lies about a hundred yards from us, the trees surrounding us on all sides like silent soldiers watching our every move.

“Flora.” Carl grabs a helmet and tosses it to me. “Don’t forget.”

“I don’t need it.” I’m about to toss it back, when Jones snatches the helmet from my hands and presses it onto my head.

“Everyone.” He gives me a hard pat on the helmet. “No exceptions.”

“I’m not gonna be marked,” I mutter as I snap the straps together under my chin.

Over by the front of the helicopter, the two pilots are leaning against the aircraft, a whiff of cigarette smoke trailing across the field, along with cut-off fragments of their conversation.

“. . . Can’t wait to get out of here . . .”

“. . . Yeah, the sooner the better . . .”

Carl and Wade, both with their black safety helmets on, are unloading bags of equipment, with the help of the silent guard who was with us by the maple tree back at SEEDS. He wears a constant frown under his helmet. Jones is walking around giving mono­syllabic orders with his booming voice: “. . . Here . . . You . . . This.”

Carl is wearing the same tactical wear as the other guards, and he has lost all resemblance to the ripped-jeans, backpack-carrying high schooler I once thought he was. Aaron and I were given new clothes this morning before we took off: khaki cargo pants and shirts with the SEEDS logo on our chests, branded like we belong to this dubious company. I’m just grateful I’m dressed in something that isn’t gray. The stiff fabric seems to absorb the hot morning air, and I roll up my sleeves, feeling the sunshine tickle my scarred skin.

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