by Keri Lake
“You work for her? Madame Beaumont? As a …” Clearing my throat chokes back the word I hesitate to say.
“Whore? Only when she asks.”
“She asks?”
“Of course. No one is forced to have sex here.”
“Then, why would you?”
“It’s the condition of staying here. We all pay our way, and in return, we live better than most.”
I can’t presume to know how much worse the Deadlands could possibly get, considering my experiences so far of having been nearly raped by a Rager and picked up by a band of criminals.
“It’s a pretty fair setup, if you ask me,” the girl adds.
“How does she keep the men in line?”
“Henry, mostly. He’s extremely loyal to her. And all the men respect him. Just seems to work out.”
It seems to work out too conveniently, and call me a skeptic with an overly analytical mind, but I know something else is at play here. Something I’m missing.
“Does she take in many girls?”
“Ones she deems worthy.”
“Worthy of what?”
The drag of the cloth comes to a stop, and as I twist, I catch the troubled look on her face before it flickers to a smile.
“Worthy of what?” I ask again.
Resuming her scrubbing, she clears her throat. “Staying here. She’s very particular.”
“Why?”
“Well, no man wants to sleep with an ugly girl. A diseased girl.”
“But I’m not expected to sleep with anyone.”
“No, I suppose you’re not.”
“Then, what made her choose me? What made her take me in?”
A long, disconcerting pause follows my question, only the quiet drip of water filling the silence between us. “There. All washed. I gathered you some clothes.”
I reach out, splashing water over the edge of the tub as I grab hold of her arm. “Tell me.”
Lips tight, she wrenches her arm free of my grip. “I don’t know. But why don’t you just be grateful you’re one of the chosen?”
The Chosen. I’ve heard that before. I was that before all of this. But at least then my purpose didn’t lie at the bottom of a murky motive. I knew exactly what was expected of me, and I chose to reject it.
I haven’t a clue what Madame Beaumont wants with me, which may very well make her just as much of a risk as the Ragers and marauders, if I give any thought to chancing escape.
Father Parsons lets his robe slide to the floor, his lower half concealed behind the edge of the altar, as he makes his way to the steps. “Relax, child. This will be over before you know it.”
Wriggling free is useless, with my arms shackled to the table, as he freely crawls his way up my body. When he reaches my exposed lower half, he pauses and lowers his head to between my thighs. “Sweet, nubile creature.”
I kick and squirm to get away from him, and when he raises his head, I’m staring into the soulless eyes of a Rager.
“No!” Jolting upright, I glance around the dark, empty room that’s lit only by the gossamer beams of moonlight streaming in through the drapes. Every muscle quivers from the lingering rush of fear thrumming through my veins. I lift a trembling hand across my damp brow, and force myself to breathe slowly.
Just a nightmare.
Exhaling a shaky breath, I lie back onto the pillow, but pause at the strange sounds bleeding through from somewhere. A dull thump. Soft moaning.
Throwing my feet over the edge of the bed, I pad toward the door, cracking it open just enough to see a man standing against the wall, his pants slung low on his hips, exposing most of his ass. Slender legs stick out either side of his back, toes painted red, and I follow their length up to the redhead from the pool earlier. When the man turns his face slightly, I just catch a glimpse of Henry’s profile, before I step back into the shadows.
A smile stretches across the face of the redhead as she tips her head back against the wall, clearly enthralled by the act. Not in any sort of distress, it seems.
So much for not touching the girls.
It makes sense why he stays here now. He doesn’t have to take what’s given so freely.
Chapter 7
The hours blur into days, wasted away in the kind of gluttony that feels unbalanced. Madame Beaumont comes and goes, sometimes with a few of the girls, sometimes only with a few of her men. Her scarcity makes it nearly impossible to glean any answers, and by the end of the week, I’ve given up on trying. The only thing I’ve learned of her in my time here, is that she seems to be obsessed with collecting the rare and unusual, has an obsession with the Roman era, given her choice in books and art, and puts far more faith in her men than makes sense.
Everyone does their thing at dinnertime, so there’s no gathering for a feast, like at most of the households in Szolen. Meals are served in rooms by servants, who ensure that the dishes are swiftly gathered afterward. My chances of interacting with Madame Beaumont are virtually nonexistent. Mornings are spent reading with coffee, my eyes constantly wary of the men whose glances I catch, when they don’t think I’m looking.
Yet, not a single one acts on whatever compels them to stare.
The girls mostly keep to themselves, which suits me fine, except that they, too, fail to offer much explanation for all this.
Maybe Yasmin is right. Maybe I should be grateful for the few blessings thrown my way.
The place is paradise, after all. An oasis to anyone trying to survive the Deadlands.
I feel like I’m merely existing here, though, biding the time for something I can’t see on the horizon.
As if the world outside this compound no longer exists, everyone here seems to rejoice in odd simplicities. The lazy pleasures of food and drink that are served in abundance, and wasted in a way that belies the surrounding famine.
While life in Szolen is similar in some ways, at least we recognize what’s beyond the wall, and remain fearful for the day our barriers might crumble to something stronger.
The hedonism of this place would have my mother’s knees bleeding from ardent prayer.
I miss her, sometimes. Even if she can be overbearing and unreasonable, her arms were a comfort when I felt lost.
Except when my father died. The tragedy somehow stiffened her embrace, turning her colder.
I daub the drops of water from my skin and wring the saturated hem of my T-shirt. Having grown up with a nearby lake, I’m accustomed to swimming, and enjoy the freedom to do so during the afternoons. But while the others swim topless, I opt for a long T-shirt that not only covers my body from prying eyes, but also protects my skin from the blazing sun that bears down in an endless beam of agonizing heat.
“You’re enjoying my home, I see.”
At the sound of Madame Beaumont’s voice, I spin around, eager for the opportunity to talk to her again. “It’s comfortable.”
“It pleases me to hear that. I’d like you to accompany me on my next excursion into the city.”
City? What city? “When might that be?”
Fanning herself, she plops down on one of the poolside lounge chairs beside me. “A few days from now. Once every six months, we gather in the great stadium. Men from hives in the far north come, bringing treasures for a chance to spend time with my girls. You’ll come along as my guest.”
“What do they gather for?”
“The games.”
“What games?”
“It’s an athletic event, where men show off their brawn and boast the size of their cocks. But for us? It’s a landslide of business. It happens once in winter, and once in the summer months.”
I stare off at where a drop of water on the concrete fades with the sun’s evaporation. “Athletic event. Like the Olympics?”
“You’re familiar with the Olympics?”
“We studied it.”
“I suppose you could say it’s similar.” Hand waving in dismissal, she seems to be impatient with my questioning. “Week’s end. Yo
u’ll get to see how these things around here work.”
Finally. And perhaps I’ll get some much needed answers.
Darkness settles over my room, as I lay on my side, staring out at the swaying palm trees. Admittedly, if this is human trafficking, it’s certainly not the terrifying chained in a cellar stories I’ve read about from before the Dredge. In fact, it’s oddly peaceful.
Nothing like the iron fist of the church, where I was headed for the next five years.
My thoughts take me back to two years ago, and a story the younger sister of one of the girls in my congregation told, about Mother Chilson withholding food when the girl questioned one of her stories about the apostles. For seven days, she was given nothing but water and a single slice of bread.
That alternative is certainly no better than this, and again, I can’t help but wonder what my father would say if he were here.
A soft knock on the door tenses my muscles. No one has come to my room this late before, and as the light slices across the room, I stare at the reflection in the window, noting the small silhouette creeping through the cracked door.
“Thalia.” The whispering voice of Yasmin carries across the room, and I turn over on the bed to find her tiptoeing towards me, dressed in a bright teal nightgown that does a poor job of cloaking her in shadow. “Listen to me … there’s something you should know about the games ...”
Piqued by her comment, I sit back against the pillows, and it’s then I notice the way her brows are winged up, her eyes weighed by fear.
“What is it?” I ask, patting the mattress for her to sit beside me.
Another figure, bigger and more intimidating, takes up the width of the doorframe.
Whipping her head toward him, Yasmin’s eyes widen, and she shakes her head. “I’m just … I was just … I’m sorry!” She quickly shuffles toward the giant spying on her.
“Wait, Yasmin.” I lurch in her direction, undeterred by the guard waiting there. “What were you going to tell me?”
“Nothing. I wasn’t going to tell you anything.” Slipping past the burly man, she doesn’t spare me so much as a glance on her scamper out of my room.
The sliver of light retreats, shadows moving back in when Henry closes the door, and once again, I find myself alone in the dark room.
Chapter 8
“Merciful heaven, you are a vision!” Madame Beaumont holds my hands out to the side, as she examines the frilly white dress she’s insisted I wear. “A goddess of purity and hope.”
“Is that what I’m supposed to be?” The apathy in my tone couldn’t be more unenthusiastic if I actually made the effort.
Her outfit is far less ornate, with her flowy top, and pants that look more like a skirt with the way they float about her legs when she walks. Like water. Yes, that’s it. She reminds me of a walking tide pool. Animated, but shallow.
“Yes,” she says. “Lack of hope gives rise to all manner of things. Crime. Murder. Rape. When there’s hope, there’s possibility. Ambition.” Lowering my arms, she reaches for the pearl necklace set against my collarbone. “In Roman times, pearls were considered a symbol of wealth and prestige. Julius Caesar insisted that only the ruling class wear them.”
“They were my grandmother’s. She was a farmer before the Dredge.”
Rolling her shoulders back, she lets the necklace fall against my skin and pats down what must be a stray curl on my head. “Well. Times have certainly changed since the days of Caesar.”
“They have. I doubt a dictator would have any authority in this world.”
“Perhaps not. That’s not to say we couldn’t use a bit of structure.” Fussing with one of the pleats on my dress, the woman makes me want to rustle the fabric just to see if she’d try to smooth it again. “Come, darling. We don’t want to be late.”
“Have you seen Yasmin this morning?” I ask, following her out of the room and down the staircase toward the foyer.
“Probably bustling about,” she says over her shoulder, her top dancing around her. “She doesn’t accompany us on these outings.” Changing topics, she chatters on about the games, and Roman gladiators, a topic in which I’m well versed, thanks to the excessive reading I’ve done over the last week.
Once outside the house, my eyes catch on a trailer hitched up to the truck that’s parked in the circle drive. A flash of metal distracts my thoughts, and I slow my steps, heading toward the back of it. A quiet, thumping sound draws me closer, and Madame Beaumont’s chatter grows distant. Through the grates of the trailer, I notice something shiny. Enormous. It thumps, and I jump back.
Arms band around me, and I let out a shriek.
“Child, what are you doing? The bus is over here.” Gripping my shoulders, Madame Beaumont tugs me to follow after her, but I resist.
“What’s in there?”
“Equipment.”
Another glimpse of the trailer, and I narrow my eyes on her. “Equipment that moves? Like something is inside of it?”
“Get on the bus, Thalia. No more questions.” The unyielding look in her eyes reminds me of my mother’s whenever I refused to cast my inquiries aside.
“Yasmin was going to tell me something. About the games. Something important.”
With a sigh, she tips her head, frowning. “Yasmin came from a very bad situation. She doesn’t trust anyone, or anything. She feels anxiety around large groups of people. It’s not surprising to me that she’d try to warn you against going.”
“Anxiety in crowds.” My tone reflects only a fraction of the skepticism stirring in my thoughts.
“She’s a very troubled young woman. Now, come. Today will be fun. Your only task is to remain by my side as a beacon of virtue and faith. Do you think you can handle that?”
After another glance at the trailer, I nod. Not because I trust her, or what any of this means for me. But because this might be an opportunity to chat with the others. To learn some things about Madame Beaumont. Maybe even figure out if there’s a better alternative to this place. A chance for escape. “Sure.”
It seems as if every hive left on earth is packed inside what Madame Beaumont referred to as the coliseum when we first arrive. Housed inside an enormous dome, the stadium boasts a massive, open field below made of dirt, the circumference of which is lined with barbed wire, and behind that, steel bars that climb up the walls, giving the appearance of a cage. The dusky sky overhead darkens the open space below, and as the evening sun dips below the dome’s wall, a half dozen floodlights flicker on, casting beams of light across the enclosure. Within it, the posts at either end bear resemblance to what my history teacher referred to as goal posts for a game that used to be widely popular decades ago, known as football. The boys back at Szolen often play this game against each other in small tournaments, but nothing as palatial as this. In a morbid twist, chains now hang from each corner of the post, and the attached shackles suggest they’re meant for imprisonment.
The seating that overlooks the field could easily hold enormous gatherings of people, perhaps thousands in one place. Glass-encased rooms sit above those seats, one of which extends out over the field. Though a number of people bustle through the stadium now, where merchants line the outer circle, selling everything from food to clothing, there aren’t enough left here to fill every seat. A sad sentiment for how much the human population has declined.
And still, it’s the biggest crowd I’ve ever seen. Bigger than the public executions back at Szolen, which tend to draw a lot of spectators.
A feeling of exhilaration hums through my veins as I take in the grandiosity of it all. What it must’ve felt like to be here back in the days of the big games! In class, we learned that people would gather in parking lots beforehand, rejoicing and drinking.
The scent of meat fills the air as we pass a merchant stand, but I’m so glutted on food, it fails to break my staring of the stadium beyond the small table, from where the man calls out to Madame Beaumont and me. An abrupt quiet follows, drawing my eyes to his,
as he stares at me in passing, his mouth gaping.
It’s then I notice the crowd ahead parting for Madame Beaumont and I, their echoes of shouts and conversation dying to quiet. My skin crawls beneath their leering eyes, something I continue to feel even as I turn away. Most dress in rags and tattered clothes, and I feel utterly ridiculous in this dress. Like a walking lie.
“You see, my dear?” Madame Beaumont whispers in my ear. “They cannot take their eyes off you.”
I’d give anything to shrink and scamper away, their attentions a heavyweight bearing down on me, as my escort leads me toward somewhere on the other side of the stadium.
As we make our way around the perimeter, the crowd continues their ogling of me. The dress is suddenly too tight against my breasts, the lace fabric scratching against my skin, and for once, I’m grateful for Henry at my back. The touch of his hand on my shoulder, guiding me through a sea of people, is a comfort I failed to appreciate before.
We finally reach a staircase that disappears into a dark corridor above, empty of prying eyes, and when we breach the top of it, I’m greeted by the open expanse of the stadium directly below my feet. The glass box sits over the field. Wavering at the threshold, I stare down at the dirt and goal post below, a wave of dizziness sweeping over me.
“It’s a little unnerving at first, but come, it’s safe to walk on.” Madame Beaumont steps up into the glass box and flicks her fingers for me to follow.
Toeing the glass, I set one foot down on the surface, testing its strength with a wobble in my knees, but I keep on, and soon, I feel like I’m walking on air.
I can’t help but smile as I pussyfoot my way to the other end of the box. Hands splayed against the glass, I stare down at the field. Weightless. A giant. It’s the strangest and most thrilling sensation I’ve ever felt.
“Pretty cool, huh?” Madame Beaumont says beside me.
“It’s incredible. We can watch the games from here?”
