Prologue

“Roach, what was that noise?”

“Go back to sleep, Precious.”

As Roach heard the soft rustling of the sheets behind him, his trembling hand again brushed back the thin, tattered curtain. Through the pallid trunks of the trees surrounding us, he could see the flickering flames of torches navigating the forest silently. The beams of moonlight that streamed down through the branches of the trees illuminated the masked faces of the figures moving like specters through the brush. Drones, Mothers, and Workers alike had come to find them, bearing not only torches to guide them through the shadows cast by the canopy of intertwined branches and leaves, but glimmering guns and axes and one Drone had even brought a pitchfork. To Roach, the mob looked like demons lurking about with the flames of Hell dancing above their heads. They were screaming in fear and rage as they neared the cabin where Roach and Precious hid.

And there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth.

Roach shivered, letting the curtain fall back into place as he turned his back to the window and sank down to the dirt floor, prodding the dusty surface with the big toe of his left foot. His dark brown hair fell in oily clumps about his face, and he lifted one delicate hand, brushing it through the tangles painfully. The action brought tears to his eyes and he stopped, cupping his hands over his knee caps wearily.

The cries were closer now, and Roach could make out their hateful words as they spilled brokenly through the filter of the gas masks.

“Burn them! Burn them!”

Roach’s black eyes burned as he lowered his hands and turned onto his knees, crawling to the window and tentatively brushing back the fabric to peer out into the night. The mob had formed a semi-circle a couple yards away from the cabin, their torches held high and their weapons shimmering in the glow of the flames.

“Roach, are the boogeymen coming?”

The boy felt his body stiffen, and the tears came at last, dampening his dark eyes and flowing down his drawn cheeks to curve around his jaw line in thick rivers. Behind him, the sheets rustled, and the springs of the thin mattress creaked. Roach took a deep breath and brought a violently shaking hand to his face, rubbing the tears away with his index finger and thumb. “Stay still, Precious.” He hissed, turning once his face was dried. “I’m coming.”

He let the curtain fall back into place and stood, crossing silently to a small bed in the corner of the single room cabin. Beneath the two pale sheets laid a skeletal figure wearing a pair of old, worn pajamas that had once been a pale blue color. Now, the fabric was a mix of muddy browns and the colors of vomit and blood. The figure’s once long, healthy blonde hair hung in uneven strips sporadically over the boy’s’ balding scalp. Clumps of the youth’s flaxen hair pooled on the flat pillow and all over the sheets. Roach cringed, his eyes falling on the thick boils and the peeling flesh that marked the other’s face and neck and the backs of his hands. Precious childishly stretched out one hand, which was missing its pinky finger. “Roach, I can hear the boogeymen, they’re coming for me aren’t they?”

Roach took the extended hand and brought it to his face, letting the other’s rough flesh brush against the unscarred skin that was pulled taunt over his cheekbone. “Precious, pay no mind.” He whispered, lowering himself to sit down on the edge of the bed. The springs of the mattress groaned and screeched in agony beneath him, and Roach held Precious’ hand to his chest, letting his companion feel the steady, firm drum of his heart against his ribcage. “I’m not scared.” Roach assured the other as Precious turned watery, infected eyes toward the window where orange light from the torches was spilling between the holes and tears of the curtain.

“What is that color? It looks like the sun.”

Roach looked from the feverish boy to the window and swallowed hard. “Its dawn, you should go back to sleep, Precious. Its very early still.”

“May I have some water?”

He lowered his eyes again, noticing the hoarseness of Precious’ voice. “There is no more water, Precious.” He admitted guiltily. He did not add that there was also no food. It doesn’t matter anymore, Roach thought to himself as Precious scooted over in the bed.

“I’m frightened, will you stay in the bed with me?”

Roach nodded, forgetting that Precious might not be able to see him now that his sight was failing. He laid down, grimacing as he settled onto the uncomfortable mattress and laid his head on the sweat dampened, hair covered pillow. “You won’t let them get me, will you, Roach?”

“No,” He replied shakily as he heard the thumping of wood against wood. “I promise. I’ll not let them hurt you. Just sleep, Precious. I’m here.” Tears sprang to his eyes and he draped his arms about the boy’s emaciated frame.

Someone had thrown their torch.