The Hive: Part Three (special preview)

He’s handlers are Thirty-Six and Eighty-One, and both have human bodies, although I have yet to see them. He has told me about them and about the Kennel where he was taken. They were apparently the top breeders for what He calls the Hive, but their main female hasn’t gotten pregnant in years now, so they’re hoping to get another from me and He.

At the Kennel there were more humans like him. Some were nomads like we were, some could speak, and others had been raised alone so they were nonverbal ad being taught. There were who had lived in small colonies, and built lives together before being caught by those belonging to the Hive. Due to the nature of the Hive, once they took over a human body, the body was no longer able to reproduce, hence the need for more. For a while, the Hive just used, never thinking there would be an end to the supply.

The Hive as it was, remained in one central location where He’s kennel had been. Those who did not have a human body used something else like Twenty-Two and Forty do. He told me about this place, a city He said, with buildings as tall as trees, lots of sounds, lots of others around. But it was all the Hive, he and the other humans were kept in the kennel, only taken out for experiments or entertainment.

I feared when my cycle would finish, because that was when Twenty-Two said I would be fertile again to get pregnant. I did not want to be kept this way. He reassured me he would take care of me and stay with me and, together, we could escape. We would try to plan, but sometimes, if the music played, we would get distracted. It’s was frustrating, especially now since He made me aware of the music and the possible influence it held over us. Aside from delivering food to us, we had no contact with those from the hive. They’d left us alone to bond and get used to one another. I wonder if they had any sort of inkling that He and I already knew one another. They had been watching us this entire time I’m certain. If they know, that could be trouble. But once again, the music makes it hard to worry.

“What do they call you here?” He asks.

I barely open my eyes. I have been enjoying listening to the beat of his heart. “Darling. Do they have a name for you?”

“The handlers call me Boots, but in the Kennel, they call me Hemlock.” He rubs his hand up and down my back slowly, comfortingly. “Was there something you were called before all this?”

“My father never gave me a name.” I press my forehead against his chest. “It was never needed when it was just the two of us.”

He kissed the top of my head. “Can I give you a name?”

I sit up to look into his eyes, they’re deep and dark, much like the fertile earth I used to follow. “What would you call me?”

His palm rests on my cheek and strokes down. I lean into that touch, letting him feel as much of me as he wants. “The first time I saw you, you were kneeling in blackberries.”

My father had taught me that if I hide in places with thorns, most of the Others wouldn’t go to look there because of the thornes. I used to get scratched and cut all the time, but I grew used to such places. “I was safe there.”

Sitting up, he places his hand upon my face. His touch is warm and there is a softness to his skin that makes it feel new. “Bramble,” he whispers. “That is what I will call you.”

“Bramble, I say the word romantically.” Aside from Forty calling me Darling I had never had a name before. There had never been a reason for someone to call out to me. There had never been someone to call for me. I stretched out my leg and then pulled myself on top of him. I knew they were watching us, but it didn’t matter to me. Let them, I think. They want for Hemlock and I to be this way, so what is the point in worry? In a way, I want them to see.

“Is everyone like you?” I ask as I run my hands down his body. “At the kennel, do they all want what you have offered?” He has taught me to be careful with my words, in case they are listening. We either speak softly, or change our words.

He shakes his head. “Some are used to this life, they either like it or are too afraid.” His hands go up my hips and to my waist. “Others have just given up.”

Some of my blood is on his thigh, and I am relieved to see it. “Has anyone ever been unhappy at the kennel?” The music begins to play, or perhaps it has been playing all this time and I never noticed it. It is getting harder and harder to recognize that, I fear.