by Nancy Isaak
The big blond guy pointed to Wyatt and Erroll, instructing them to open their backpacks for inspection. From what I remembered, he was an enforcer on the football team, the go-to player for busting knees and knocking heads. It was the angry-looking bald kid who took charge of Nate and me who really scared me, though. He was smaller than the blond, but had way more muscles—the pimply, steroid-type. I remembered him as always being this close to being out of control; the type of kid who would push down a cheerleader or spit on a fan whenever he got too excited.
“What’s she like?” the bald kid asked Nate, grabbing at my left arm. My ‘slave number’ had been tattooed there and the White Shirt pushed the sheet up just enough so that he could check the number against the one tattooed on Nate’s arm.
“I’ve had better,” Nate shrugged.
“You putting her up in the market?”
“Yeah, probably.”
The bald kid leaned forward and sniffed at me. “Better wash the bitch, first. She reeks.” Then, he took a hand and placed it over one of my breasts. I tried to pull back but Nate yanked on my chain.
“Stop it!” he ordered.
I was shocked. Even though I knew that Nate was playing a role, his behavior still stung.
Meanwhile—perhaps as a punishment for my insolence—the bald guy continued to touch me, his other hand now reaching down to cup one of my buttocks. “Girl’s got a rocking bod. What’s her face like? Maybe I’ll bid on her. Like stink can always be washed, right?”
Nate snorted, pretending to be amused. “Bitch is a butter face.”
Beside us, the blond guy finished going through Erroll and Ryan’s backpacks and turned to grab ours. “Butter face?”
“God, you’re an idiot!” the bald kid said. He gave my butt and breast both vicious squeezes, then let me go, turning to his friend. “You know—girl’s got a great body, but her face.”
“I don’t get it,” said the blond guy.
“But-her-face…butter face.”
It finally sunk in.
The blond guy frowned at his co-worker. “That’s stupid.”
“You’re stupid,” replied the bald kid.
And—just like that—the two White Shirts went at each other—a mean-spirited pushing match that eventually landed the blond kid down on his back, one hand to his bloodied nose.
“Throws a punch just like he did a football,” snickered the bald kid, turning back to us. “Too bad you can’t juice for that, right?”
Nate and Ryan both chuckled appreciatively; Erroll, however, said nothing as he picked up his backpack. He was obviously angry, trying hard to mask his fury. I moved slightly, so that I would be between him and the bald kid—which, unfortunately, caught the White Shirt’s attention once more.
“Still might bid on the bitch,” he said, reaching out for my breast again. I stood still this time, enduring his touch. “She do what she’s told?”
Nate gave him a big grin. “Do any of them?”
The White Shirt burst into laughter. He finally removed his hand from my breast, clapping it on Nate’s back instead. “You’re all right, dude. Listen, you know you don’t have to let her wear clothes under that thing, right? Like as long as she’s covered with the sheet, whatever floats your boat underneath is copacetic with us.”
I heard a small growl behind me.
Quickly, I moved my foot, trying to camouflage the angry noise Erroll was making by pushing at the loose gravel on the roadway. Luckily, neither one of the Crazies seemed to have heard—their attention already turning toward the next group in line.
“Head on in,” said the blond kid, motioning toward the market behind him. “You guys are good to go.”
As we walked past, he reached out and pinched me hard on my butt. “That’s to remember me by, sweetheart. Until I see you later on today when I buy you. Then, we’re really gonna’ have some fun, bitch…aren’t we?”
* * * *
Less than twenty yards inside of the market, Nate had us stop behind a row of grimy tents. For the next few minutes, he leaned over—dry heaving. Meanwhile, Erroll, Ryan, and I stood around him, not knowing what to do—just waiting.
Finally, his retching over, Nate stood back up, wiping at his mouth. “Sorry about that,” he said, embarrassed. “I just…just…” His voice failed him; he couldn’t go on. There were tears in his eyes and he looked absolutely miserable.
“It’s okay, Nate” I told him, squeezing his arm. “You did amazing back there…so, so good.”
Nate shook his head. “It’s just that…I shouldn’t be here. Like I didn’t even want to come back. I just wanted to be with my brother and surf—and with San…that’s all I wanted to do.”
Erroll smacked him in the arm—a solid punch that made Nate step back, shocked. “We all want to be somewhere else, dude. But like—man up! You don’t even have to do the really hard part, so what gives you the right to be such a baby?”
“Oh god!” Nate began to cry, his shoulders heaving, tears streaming down his cheeks.
It mystified me—how this blubbering wreck of a kid had just taken us through a checkpoint, laughing and joking along with two murderous White Shirts.
What happened to that courage now?
“Please don’t,” I begged him. “Please…”
There was a worrisome itch developing at the back of my neck, a fear that we weren’t moving fast enough, that the White Shirts would catch us if we couldn’t get Nate under control. “Look, bud…I know this isn’t fair to you—to any of us. But we just have to keep going, right—get through this together and make everything normal again—well, as normal as it can be. But to do that, we need you. Nate, you’re so important to this plan. So, please don’t fall apart on us. Because we need you so much…I need you.”
“Someone’s gonna’ come!” warned Ryan, his head whipping this way and that as he scanned the area for Crazies. “Kaylee, we have to move…now!”
I nudged Nate, giving his body a little push with my sheeted one. “You want to know how much I need you, Nate? Dude, I can’t leave without you.” Holding up the chain that connected us, I jiggled it. “Like—literally!”
“Seriously!” hissed Ryan. “It’s time to go!”
“Move it, Nate!” Erroll commanded.
Slowly, Nate nodded; he wiped at his eyes, mopping up his tears. Then, he stood up straight and tugged gently on my chain.
“But if I get a chance,” he said, quietly—not looking any of us in the eye, “I’m gonna’ kill Brandon.”
“Don’t worry,” I grinned—even though I knew he wouldn’t see it. “I’m gonna’ kill him first.”
Beside us, Erroll snorted; he placed one hand on each of our backs and pushed us forward. “Screw Brandon—you guys are killing me!”
* * * *
It wasn’t just my body that smelled bad; the market itself stunk!
A variety of nasty odors assaulted my nose as we walked along. Even under the sheet, my nostrils wrinkled at the smells—the whiff of fermentation rising up from the rotting fruit and vegetables crunching under our feet, the bad breath and underarm stink of any number of guys we passed and—worst of all—the stench of urine-soaked excrement piled up along the edge of the highway.
It appeared that good hygiene had gone the way of the old world.
There were hundreds of guys everywhere, most of them unwashed, their hair stringy, their clothes as filthy as my sheet. They wandered throughout the tents and small shacks, picking through the goods being sold or traded.
Clothes, shoes, food, weapons—everything that could be scavenged was being traded here. If you didn’t find what you wanted at one ‘shop’, just keep walking and you would surely come across what you were searching for at another.
At one open tent, a pile of what I assumed to be weed was being picked through by two Crazies, its leaves and seeds sorted into separate sandwich bags. At another tent nearby, three White Shirts browsed rows of prescription bottles, while the ‘shopkeeper�
�—a small kid of no more than ten—nervously waited for them to make their selections.
“There’s so many of them!” I whispered to Ryan. “There has to be a couple hundred Crazies here—at least.”
“They’re coming in for the Arena,” he explained. “Almost everyone has to attend.”
“Aren’t they worried about leaving their homes and farms alone?” asked Erroll, quietly. “Like what if someone breaks in while they’re gone?”
Nate was walking slightly in front of the rest of us. He turned and frowned at Erroll. “Wouldn’t happen…all the bad guys are here.”
A Crazy walking by—a short kid with red hair and a mass of freckles on his cheeks turned and gave Nate a dirty look.
Immediately, Nate puffed up; he glared at the kid, thumping a fist against his own chest. “What, bitch…you gotta’ problem with that?!”
The redhead quickly hurried on.
“Dumbass,” muttered Nate, watching him leave.
Meanwhile, Ryan reached out and pulled Nate to him, hissing in his ear. “You’re the dumbass. So, don’t do that again—because now you’ve got them looking!”
My head spun about, searching the crowd around us. Sure enough—it appeared that Nate’s macho outburst had gained us way too much attention.
Two guys sitting on the ground—a pile of cutlery on a rug in front of them—were looking up at us with open interest. Beside them, at a stand of watermelons, a White Shirt was turned toward us—his left hand hovering near a gun holstered at his waist. Meanwhile, three other guys—and a ghost-slave chained to one of them—had stopped their inspection of a small red wagon to gaze curiously in our direction.
“Follow me!” ordered Ryan.
He began to weave in and out of the crowd of Crazies—slowly leading us through the market toward the Kanan Road checkpoint. As we moved, I couldn’t help but notice how many armed guys were milling about.
The Crazies had so many potential soldiers just in this market alone. Even without the help of the guys at the Point Mugu Naval Station, there was no doubt in my mind that, when the next battle came—the Locals would easily be overrun.
It would be a slaughter.
To distract myself from such a distressing thought, I tried to concentrate on the commerce going on all around me. At one tent, I watched as a young kid traded three precious eggs nestled in bubble wrap for a machete. Meanwhile, a rickety stall directly opposite held four White Shirts fiercely outbidding each other for a crate of chocolate Kinder Surprise Eggs.
And—though I barely caught a glimpse as Ryan rushed us past—at the side of the highway, two older guys were leaning over the hood of a vehicle, counting out coins to purchase five boxes of sanitary pads.
“It’s probably not for them,” Ryan said, noting my interest.
“You mean they’re buying them for their slaves,” I muttered.
He looked down at me and frowned. “You know we’re not all crazy up here, Kaylee. Those napkin-thingies could just as well be for their sisters or their girlfriends. Like they’re probably just normal guys trying to do the best they can, right.”
I felt sufficiently chastised; for once my sheet served me well. At least, Ryan couldn’t see the embarrassment on my face. It really was stupid of me to jump to that conclusion. Because if there weren’t good guys up here—we should have just stayed home. Our whole goal of killing Brandon and taking over the Crazies was so that ‘normality’ could return.
Which meant that we needed to be able to recognize the good guys from the bad.
“What I want to know,” asked Erroll, looking at the deals going on around him, “is how come I’m seeing money? I mean, have you noticed that some of the guys are buying with actual coins and bills? Like they’re not trading at all?”
“That’s new—something that Orla started,” explained Ryan. “She put out this notice that we needed to go back to a currency-based system. She said that we won’t be a true civilization until we do. So, now it’s a law that you have to accept money—but you’re still allowed to barter, too. But that’s going to change at the end of the year, though. Then, we’ll be going full currency.”
“How very progressive,” Erroll said—not really meaning it.
Ryan was about to respond, but Nate suddenly stopped, pointing to the side of the road, where three long surfboards leaned against a rusting Mazda.
“Ohmigod!” he exclaimed. “Those are freaking Roy Stuarts. Like the guy’s a total artist!”
Forgetting that I was attached to him, Nate jogged over to the Mazda. Having no choice, I followed closely—my right hand clutching at the heavy chain between us, trying to keep the bouncing links from shredding my neck.
“Where’d you get them?” Nate asked a big Hawaiian guy sitting on the hood of the car—the surfboards arranged on either side of him. “I saw a Stuart down at Huntington Beach during the U.S. Open, but like, dude…you’ve got three!”
“No matter where dey come from anymore, eh.” The kid had to have been about eighteen or nineteen and was so heavy that the hood of the Mazda was actually crumpling in at the middle to accommodate his weight. A puka shell necklace hung from his neck and his wrist was ringed with geometric Polynesian tattoos. “You got somethin’ to trade, brah? And don’t say dis wahini…86 that thought, brah, ‘cause I be smelling her from here. Anyway…don’t matter, right. Like your wahini could be da cute, brah, know what I mean.” The kid thumped his chest once, then sliced out with his hand to emphasize his point. “Still not throwing down with that. Just ain’t happening, brah.”
“Yeah…of course.” Nate murmured, not really listening as he ran his hand lovingly over one of the boards. “You take money now, right, brah…old world coin?”
“Got no choice. Rather have food, though…or seeds. Like you got anything for growing. Not weed, though,” said the big guy. “My makuahine—my mom—she would skin me, I be smoking, you know what I mean. But you got seeds for carrots, potatoes—stuff like dat—you choose any one of these babies.” He slapped at the boards on either side of him.
As Nate and the Hawaiian were talking, Ryan and Erroll had held back, keeping an eye out for anyone taking too close of an interest in us. Now, they both moved forward, and Ryan leaned in to talk quietly with the surfboard trader.
“This kid behind me,” Ryan motioned with his chin toward Erroll. “Heading for the Arena.”
“Yeah, so?” Something flared in the big Crazy’s eyes, something that looked suspiciously like—hope. He looked Erroll up and down, considering. “You really gonna’ challenge, brah?”
Erroll shrugged. “That’s what the Arena’s about, right—challenge, fight…win.”
“Lotta’ talk about Arena,” admitted the Hawaiian. He looked around slowly, his dark eyes scanning the crowd behind us, not speaking again until he was certain that no one else was near enough to hear. “Like lots of us…we wondering what happens Brandon goes down…like maybe we get us a new chief. Still some challenger spots left, you know. Like maybe I might sign up, take the dude down myself, eh brah.”
“Taking down Brandon,” said Ryan, carefully. “Now, that would take a real star.”
The Hawaiian froze at Ryan’s words; his eyes snapped downward—searching. When he saw the little star tattooed between Ryan’s fingers, he looked back up with something close to awe.
“Like there’s been rumors, brah,” he whispered. “Never believed them, though.”
“Of course, I have no idea what you’re talking about,” said Ryan.
“Oh, yeah, brah,” the guy said, quickly. “Like definitely.”
The Mazda creaked as the big Hawaiian jumped off the hood of the car and took Ryan’s hand in both of his, holding on tightly. Then, using his chin, the Crazy motioned toward me—the look on his face questioning.
“Worth more than all your surfboards put together,” Ryan told him. “Like the kind of wahini who can change your life, brah.”
“She free?” asked the Hawaiian.
Ryan leaned in even closer. “Aren’t they all?”
Tears came to the big guy’s eyes. He was still holding onto Ryan’s hand, but he let it go now, reaching out to give my shoulder a quick squeeze.
“Ain’t right, what’s happening to you girls,” he told me, keeping his voice low. “Got three sisters—all younger. So, you need anything—something to eat, maybe place to hide—you come find me. I’m not here, it be another Hawaiian—not as handsome as me, but you can trust him. Okay, sister?”
Ryan was right—there were good guys in the Valley.
For the first time since we’d entered into the market, I felt hopeful again; like we were doing the right thing—not just for the Locals, but for the Crazies as well.
I leaned forward, speaking softly, so only the big Hawaiian could hear. “Listen close, my friend. Because when the time comes, you stand up for yourself and for your sisters. And when you stand…you will stand with us.”
He leaned back from me, staring—caught somewhere between confusion and understanding.
“This be your fight, sister?” he asked, quietly.
“This be all our fight,” I answered. “And, brah…I’m not your sister. So, you can call me Kaylee…or you can call me Mother. It’s your choice.”
The big Hawaiian was so shocked, he actually lurched backward—pushing against a surfboard that Nate just barely caught before it tumbled to the ground. Erroll and Ryan, meanwhile, moved to either side of me, scanning the Crazies nearby for any imminent threat.
“Nate, leave the board!” ordered Ryan. “We’re going…NOW!”
Even as Nate was setting the board against the hood of the Honda, Erroll was grabbing him. Together, the four of us hurried off—Erroll pulling Nate by the arm, Ryan leading, and me—hands around the chain—trying desperately not to be choked.
As the distance between us and the Hawaiian lengthened and no cry of alarm went up, I turned and looked back just before we disappeared around a corner. The big kid had returned to sitting on the hood of his Mazda. He had his head in his hands and—from the way that his shoulders were heaving up and down—it appeared that he was sobbing.
