Chapter 1: The Raid
This is the beginning of the book, our very first introduction into Zafira’s world.
Content Note: graphic violence, death, psychological horror, gore. Reader discretion is advised.
Some of that day I don’t remember, but I remember how it began very clearly. I even remember my old name: Kara Sofinak. But that name is long dead and so is that child, hidden deep within me like a sleeping desert turtle underground in the coldest of winters.
The sky was still deep twilight when we were startled awake as my mother yanked aside the canvas covering the end of our wagon.
Get up!” she hissed at us, her four young children who blinked sleepily at her from atop the thin blanket my father laid down each night. My parents slept under the wagon in a tattered and failing sleeping bag, holding each other tight when the desert chose to be unforgiving, waking up with our breath in the air.
My brother Henry looked frightened and sat up. He was the baby at three years old and clutched his ever-present stuffed rabbit under one arm.
I had never seen that look on my mother’s face before. Wild panic tightened her lips into a mask that was still her, but was not anyone I had ever met before. Cold filled my stomach. I heard shouting, and a distant popping that echoed over the scrub brush and cactii. Even at six years old I was familiar with the sound of rifle shots.
“Get up, we have to go,” my mother began hissing instructions to each of us. “Kara, get the horse. Lordes and Sandra, pack the wagon. Grab whatever you can. Henry, come here.”
Henry sat, gripping the rabbit, uncertainty on his face.
“No time for this,” she muttered and snatched him up. He began to cry. For once she paid him no mind.
“Brenda, let’s go! They’re coming!” my father’s low voice carried but he said it hushed and through clenched teeth. Lordes, Sandra, and I hopped out of the wagon and began our tasks. I ran through the brush towards the horse who was some ways away, chewing on a mouthful of the sparse grass that sometimes sprouted between the sand and rocks, staring with ears pricked at the chaos far down the wagon train. I slowed as I’d been shown before approaching him, Samson was his name. As I reached out for his bridle another pop rang out and I heard a woman’s scream midway up the caravan. Hoofbeats approached on the road from the back: a riderless horse raced by, headed straight for Henderson (our destination as well). I remember thinking that runaway horse would get there first, which wasn’t fair because I wanted to get there first. There was more popping, and more screaming. I grabbed Samson’s bridle and pulled him back towards the wagon and, luckily, he trotted along willingly (though his ears remained pricked).
My family had managed to get most of our belongings in the back while I was gone, my father and mother both throwing things in with all their might, but I could not tear my eyes away from the column of black smoke that now rose far back along the caravan.
“Mama, what is going on?”
“Raiders. Hurry, we have to get in the wagon and run away. Give me that.” She snatched the reins from my hands and pushed me towards the back, hurrying to secure the horse to the wagon. I hoisted myself up and held my hands down to my sister Lordes who was a year younger than I. She handed me Henry and then climbed up the wooden planks herself, taking my hand to help her ascend. Sandra was not inside.
“Mama!” I yelled towards the front. “Is Sandra with you?”
“Keep your voice down!” she hissed. “She’s not with you??”
I heard my father growl, “We REALLY don’t have time for this, Brenda!”
“Sandra! SANDRA!!” my mother’s voice ramped up from a hissed whisper to a desperate cry. I heard a man yell something close by and more popping, louder than ever. It sounded like it came from a few wagons back. The wagon shifted as my father jumped down and I heard my parents crashing through the underbrush.
A muffled, “There you are!” and the sound of my sister Sandra crying out. There were more yells and a distant explosion. I could no longer stay my curiosity. I poked my head out of the wagon and looked back towards the end of the wagon train.
Utter chaos. Half-naked men in black pants and vests, armed with machetes, knives, and guns chased people I knew. Three wagons were on fire, just from where I could see. A horse screamed its dying breath, crushing the man beneath it, who struggled and cried out and twisted in vain until I could see his face, eyes bulging. My friend Nina’s dad. She was my age. I saw her then, huddled with her brothers under their wagon, eyes wide as they watched a Raider walk up and shoot their father point blank in the head. He collapsed and lay very still. There was more screaming, and I didn’t know it came from my own mouth until my mother clapped her hand over it.
“Get down, be quiet, and stay still,” my mother hissed, closing the canvas flap of the wagon and disappearing from view. Sandra was wet down the back of her dress and legs and smelled of urine but no one seemed to care. She sniffled and lay down, curling up against the sideboards with her thumb in her mouth. The wagon shuddered and my father shouted “Heyah!”. We lurched into motion so fast the four of us slid amongst the boxes and furniture.
After a long minute of rattling around the back of the wagon we heard multiple hoofbeats approaching. My mother burst through the canvas that separated the wagon’s driving seat from the body of the wagon. She carried our family’s huge rifle and crawled over the boxes and all our possessions, her long skirts unceremoniously knotted up to her thighs, a grim look of determination on her face.
“Mama!” I cried, but she did not even look at me. Instead she got on her knees at the very back of the wagon and pushed the canvas flap back with the barrel a few inches, peering out.
“Fuck.” She didn’t use that word very often, especially around us. She put the flap back and found my eyes. “Kara, come here and hold these. Give them to me one at a time, okay? Do not drop them.” She held out 6 long fat rifle bullets with pointed tips that glinted dully in the low light.
“Yes, Mama.” I fell twice trying to climb over our possessions and my siblings as the cart bounced and swayed, but eventually made it to her.
“Hurry,” she was already loading the first bullet into the big rifle. My father had said it could hunt elephants but it would just as easy put a hole in people too, and that’s why we had it. My mother took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and once again pushed back the canvas.
“Cover your ears,” she said, glancing at us. As she did so, a loud pop sounded very close and my mother cried out, falling backward into a box. Blood blossomed on her right side and she pressed her hand to the wound.
“Mama!” Henry cried. But my mother looked directly at me.
“When we stop, find a place for them to hide or run away,” she commanded.
I nodded, unsure what she meant. Then she groaned and got back on her knees, picking up the rifle once again. “Kara. Hold this canvas for me. When I say so, pull it back, but stay out of sight.”
We got in position. I gripped the canvas so tight my fingers hurt. I was terrified of messing up and being the reason my mother got hurt again. She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders, lined up her sight, and winced. Her lips were pale. I saw her finger find the trigger. Then, without glancing at me, she said, “Now.”
I whipped back the canvas. My siblings had their ears covered. There was a flash and a tremendous bang; a loud whine in my ears. Then she whipped the canvas from my hand, pulled it closed and sat back. “Another.” Her voice was muffled but I realized she was pointing to the bullets that were gripped in my fist. I handed her one. She loaded the rifle again, and we repeated the process. And again. On the fifth shot she said, “Shit!” and lay back against the side of the wagon. Her face was pale now, too, and beads of sweat had formed on her brow. Her nightshirt had a dark wet stain that had grown. She gasped and slowly crawled up to the front of the wagon, leaving bloody handprints in a dark smear along the canvas walls.
“Nathan! I’m shot,” she didn’t bother opening the flap. We heard my father curse. “There were ten right behind us. I only got four but I can’t hold the rifle up anymore.”
“How bad are you?”
“Not good.”
He cursed again. “Can you drive?”
“Yes.”
“Come up here. Trade.”
There was momentary silence, or as much silence as can be had in a wagon shaking itself to pieces.
Then my father cried, “No!” as the wagon veered suddenly. A loud pop and a bullet ripped through the canvas of the wagon. The hole in the canvas was very close to Sandra’s head, I noticed. We heard hoofbeats come up next to the wagon and more gunshots, hurting my ears almost as much as when my mother’s rifle went off. My mother screamed, and more gunshots. There was a pause, then two thuds, then laughter somewhere behind the wagon. A strange man’s voice said, “Whoa,” and the wagon began slowing down.
My siblings and I crouched down amongst the boxes and belongings. I threw a blanket over Sandra and Henry. Lordes hid behind our cooler. I curled up tight under a rolled rug and listened. When the wagon stopped, someone dismounted a horse very close. The wagon shook as someone climbed into the back. Heavy footsteps thudded on the boards, and a man came into view.
The man was not my father. He was a sunburned white man, young but still growing a widows peak where the hair thinned at his forehead. He had probably been cleanshaven a few days ago. He had dark circles under his eyes.
He found us immediately.
“More children!” the man shouted over his shoulder and we were yanked one by one out of our hiding spots. The man grabbed me by the upper arm and pulled me up. I felt something pop; my shoulder ached for days after.
I remember the Raiders mostly as ugly. Pockmarked men and women, scarred, angry eyes. They wore only black, and most of them were bare chested. They looked at us, apparently disappointed by what they saw, and began cursing and spitting. Henry started crying again and was smacked in the face until he lay silent curled up on the ground, staring at nothing.
Us three girls remained quiet, huddled together on the dirt. I was frightened, yes, but more than anything I was angry. I could feel it burning in the pit of my stomach and in my throat, a sour feeling as I looked back the way we came and saw two lumps in the sand, one on each side of the wagon tracks.
With an icy jolt I realized those were my parents.
They lay very still. There were two men searching through their pockets but my parents did not protest, and I understood then.
Tears blurred my vision but I would not weep. I would not show them how small I felt, how scared I was. My anger took over then.
One of the men came up to us, nudging Henry with his worn boot.
“Leave him alone!” I shrieked, and ran at the man. I’m not sure what I intended to do but I swung my fists at him, hitting him harmlessly in the stomach and thighs. He laughed and trapped my arms against me. “This one’s feisty!” He cried to the others, slapping me until I stopped struggling and then pulling my face close to his with grimy fingers. He squinted hard and declared, “And pretty! She’ll fetch a good trade. Show me your teeth, girl.” When I refused he slapped me again and tears fell out of my eyes of their own accord. Burning with shame, I grudgingly opened my mouth to show him my teeth. Mama always made sure we took care of our ‘pearly whites’.
“Good girl. See? You do what I tell you to and I won’t hit ya. Got it?” I stared at him sullenly and closed my mouth, furious at the betrayal of my own tears down my chin. I wished desperately to claw his eyes out but guessed it would get me beaten, or worse, and a cold snake of anger was born then, deep in my belly. I stayed still and watched him with the black eyes of that snake, waiting to see what he would do next. Waiting for an opportunity. Testing the air.
Finally, he frowned at me, perplexed I was not more frightened of him, and turned away with a grunt.
“What about the others?” one of the men called to him.
“Bring them too. Always need good workers.”
I was thrown atop a horse, still shaking with fury, and was forced to hang on to my captor for dear life. Henry, still unresponsive, was lashed to another man’s saddle and my sisters were in the laps of two more riders. As we rode back towards the caravan I saw the last of the Raiders begin picking through our wagon, tossing my mother’s valuable pearls in a sack and throwing our family bible onto the ground.
I began to cry for real.
The horse thundered directly past my parents and away from Henderson, back to the burning caravan and the other men in black clothing picking through their own smoldering wagons. Seeing our parents lying motionless on the ground as we passed, my sisters started wailing, “Mama! Daddy!”
That was the last time I saw my parents: two crumpled figures lying in the dirt, my father’s eyes open, staring at nothing.
It still haunts my nightmares.
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