From the Shadows

by Jacqueline Brown

  The trucks stopped in front of the building with the chimney. Harvesters climbed from the truck. Only five per truck, which was fewer than I’d expected. The four on motorcycles pulled up behind the last truck. One of them opened the back of the truck while the others stood, weapons in hand, as people came from the restaurant, only their feet visible below the truck. At the back of the truck they came into sight. Large flat crates heaped with vegetables were held out to the man on the truck.

  Behind me, Blaise gasped and quickly looked down to focus on the weeds at her knees. I waited a moment and then lifted my head. On the truck, loading a crate was her father. Two men handed him crates. A moment later two other people came, one carrying a crate, the other a gun. Both women. I gasped and lowered my head. The one with the gun was Blaise’s mom.

  Twenty-Six

  The one with the gun was Blaise’s mom. The one with the gun was Blaise’s mom. The one with the gun was Blaise’s mom. The thought continued, on a loop in my head, making less sense every time I heard the words in the silence of my mind.

  In front of me, Blaise was staring at the ground, her shoulders moving slowly up and down. She wasn’t crying. They were moving in a way that told me she also didn’t understand.

  I turned my head from my friend. Suddenly, all the women in the field lifted their head, like groundhogs watching a rattlesnake approach. The movement was startling. Each had turned, watching one of the harvesters who had arrived by motorcycle. The woman went steadily toward the children’s field. She strode up and down the rows. Each child cowered at her approach. Fear and hatred entered my body, causing me to tremble. But theses emotions were not my own. They must have been coming from those around me; these must be their feelings for that woman.

  She pulled a girl up and the emotions in my field changed: relief, pity, sadness, and finally, horror, from the woman a few rows in front of me.

  The harvester shoved the girl forward, out of the field.

  “Annalise?” the woman in my field said in shock, her hand clutching her own frail neck.

  A moment later she was standing, running toward the child. From across the street, framed by a setting sun, a man rose from his plot of dirt and ran toward the woman and the child.

  This was his family—his wife and daughter. My pulse quickened as the parents rushed to defend their child. The harvesters ordered the man to stop. He did not slow. They did the same to the woman; her response was the same as his. Together, they entered the space where their daughter was, the gravel lot of a small country church. Had this small family of three lived here in this town? Had they attended this church? Eaten barbeque at this restaurant?

  A shot rang out.

  I fell to the dirt. The damp earth was cold against the seat of my pants.

  The man lay on the gravel, the white and gray stones around him starting to turn crimson.

  The girl screamed and sobbed, but her mother grabbed her hand and pulled her away from the harvesters’ truck. The harvesters waited for a moment, speaking to one another. Blaise’s parents stood there with them. I imagined them defending the family, telling the others not to shoot, to allow them to live.

  Blaise’s father took the gun from his wife’s hands, raised it, and fired. The mother stumbled and fell only a few yards from her husband. Blaise’s father handed the gun back to his wife and turned, going back into the restaurant.

  The girl, Annalise, knelt, sobbing beside her mother. A gun fired. The sobbing stopped. The girl’s body jolted, an expression of pain-filled shock on her young face as she fell to the ground between her parents. Blaise’s mom lowered the gun from her shoulder, turned, and followed her husband into the restaurant.

  The wind picked up, carrying with it the scent of jasmine. I closed my eyes and thought of Mrs. Pryce, of Haz, and of the girl they had both loved and lost. I didn’t understand the world and knew in this moment I never would. I would never understand how some people fill their lives with hate, while others fill their lives with love. I would never understand how two people who had spent their lives loving one another and their beautiful daughter could kill someone else’s wife, someone else’s daughter.

  Blaise sat, unmoving, staring at the bodies that were staining the gravel red.

  From the corner of my eye, I caught movement. I kept my head straight but allowed my eyes to turn toward the children’s field. Juliette was running—unnoticed by the guards—into the woods.

  I felt numb, though I knew I should be happy she escaped. Somewhere inside I was happy for this, but that emotion would not come.

  The woman harvester who had selected Annalise was returning to the field. She chose a boy, shoving him forward. If the boy was loved by a woman in my field, she did not think him worth dying for. The same was true in the men’s field. Without argument, he climbed into the truck and sat.

  In a few minutes, the trucks were rumbling, the motorcycles following them. They were gone, and I knew inside I was glad, but still the emotions would not come.

  Men from the field approached Annalise and her parents. Against the bright light of a low sun, I saw Jonah and Josh. They went first to the man and lifted him, carrying his body behind the buildings. A moment later they returned for the woman and then for Annalise. Emotions returned when I saw Jonah. However, it wasn’t about love or longing for him and who he was to me. It was one of gratitude for who he was to the dead he carried.

  Haz was right. Jonah was always praying and now would be no exception. He’d offer silent prayers for this man, this woman, and their daughter, offering them peace and love as they passed from this life into the next. He and Josh would treat the bodies with respect and kindness. The dead would be honored. With that awareness, my tears threatened to spill, but I refused. I refused to allow tears of love to fall in this place of hate.

  Blaise’s parents didn’t come back outside. I was grateful for this. We all fell sometimes in life. We were all far from perfect, especially me. But even I understood that this level of fall was different; it wasn’t a small transgression. It wasn’t an accident or a mistake or an unknown evil. It was known and it was purposeful and it was categorically different than anything I had witnessed before.

  These had been good people. Kind, loving, altruistic, churchgoing people. They loved their daughter. They taught her right from wrong, and by doing this they saved her from creating pain in her own life. And yet … and yet, they killed a father and a mother and a child.

  To know we had risked our lives, that we were still risking our lives for them, infuriated me. To know my best friend’s parents were murderers broke my heart in a way it had never been broken before.

  ***

  Juliette was gone, disappeared like a shadow into the woods, and the harvesters had not noticed.

  I offered a silent thank-you.

  Astrea would be there waiting for her. I hoped together they would go far from this place and never return.

  They wouldn’t know how to get to my family home, but Juliette was smart and she never got lost. She could find her way back to the town, or she could survive on her own. She knew which plants to eat and she could hunt small creatures. She was stealthy and could go unnoticed. Astrea would help her and guard her at night. They would be okay—I had to believe that. I would miss her for the rest of my life, I knew, but I shouldn’t think of that now. There would be time, if I lived, to think of that another day. A day when I was stronger.

  The wind blew again, this time with a chill I hadn’t expected. The sun had all but disappeared, and the blue sky turned a deep shade of purple—as if bruised. At a different place, at a different time, I would have marveled at the beautiful evening, with its cooling breeze and vibrant colors. Now my thoughts turned to the contrast between nature’s beauty and the repulsiveness of human nature. It had never been clearer.

  Twenty-Seven

  Through the windows of the old church, I saw the men leave their field. Jonah, Josh, and Hayden were among them.

  I was shov
ed forward by a guard, forced to take an empty bench. Or perhaps it was called a pew, since it was in what had once been a church. A small plain cross hung at the front of the wall. Seeing it there added to my discomfort and made me again question how God could allow this.

  I doubted I would ever stop asking that question.

  Six guards each said a number. When they were done, the seventh one said, “It’s you two tonight,” pointing to the man and the woman with the blonde ring at her shoulders.

  The other five left, these two remained. She had a scowl on her face; he had a different expression, one I liked much less. His eyes bounced from woman to woman. They settled on Sage. My face flushed red with anger. Sage must have felt his eyes on her. She lifted her head toward him. He smiled at her without kindness; his desire was to cause pain. The sun would be gone in a matter of minutes and when it was, he would come for her.

  We settled into our pews, the woman guard taking a blanket and pulling it over her body. Clearly, she felt no reason to actually guard her captives. The other women each silently lay their head on the wooden pews. I did the same. Sage was in front of me. I wanted to whisper and tell her it would be all right, that I wouldn’t let him hurt her. But the space was too quiet.

  In the dark, I heard the loud snoring of the two-toned guard. Then the sound of footsteps against the wood floor. Heavy and loud, he was not attempting to hide his impending attack, and that awareness only increased my anger.

  Attacking women and girls was normal for him and he believed he would face no consequences. In this building full of women, he must have believed none would step up and protect another. How many others had he hurt? How many of the hollowed-out eyes were because of him and others like him?

  My face flushed hot with rage as he walked into the bench in front of me. Sage was sitting, the vaguest hint of her shadow visible in the darkness. She knew he was coming for her. Did she know I was crouched behind her, waiting to attack him?

  He sat, the wood squeaking beneath his weight. Sweat soaked the palms of my hands as he leaned against the back of the bench. His arm was above me, propped on the back of the pew, as he slid it around Sage.

  “Lie down,” he said in a rough whisper.

  I shifted to grab his arm and felt someone brush against me. I was not alone in my row. Before I could act, someone else was there, crouching beside me, arms outstretched. The man jerked back, arms flailing. Sara was beside me, pulling tight against the man’s neck. Sage held one of his arms against the pew. I held the other. I worried the woman guard would come for him as he kicked and thumped, but he quieted and slumped to the bench, and the room went silent, except for the rattling snores.

  I retrieved the gun from his side. Sara remained, her hands tight around his neck. His body jerked and then quieted. Still she did not release.

  “He can’t hurt her now,” I whispered. “Let go.” She loosened her hands, pulling a string free from his neck. His head slumped. I lowered his body to the floor.

  Blaise crawled in beside us, while Sara re-laced her shoe. I handed Blaise the gun. She hesitated as if unsure of herself.

  “Don’t think, not now,” I whispered.

  She took the gun. I was sure her face had lost its emotion, replaced with resolve that would keep us alive.

  I signaled that Sara and I would go one way and Blaise and Sage the other. We’d meet on the other side of the building, where the woman guard slept.

  As we neared, I felt Sara’s body shaking beside me. The reality of what she had done was sinking in. I would tell her that she had no choice and we didn’t know if he was dead—though I was sure of it. His death would haunt her. Killing was not as easy as Hollywood used to make it seem. Or perhaps that wasn’t true. Killing was that easy. Living with yourself when you caused the death of another person, even an awful person, was the hard part. I held her hand, trying to steady it as the woman’s sleeping outline became visible.

  I stood over her, but she didn’t move. I gently removed the gun from her hands, and she awoke, startled.

  “If you scream, we will kill you,” I said, touching the gun to her forehead.

  The woman made no sound.

  By now, the other women were silently watching us from their pews. Beside me, Sara began to strip her clothes off.

  “What are you doing?” I asked in shock.

  “I know now’s not the time to care about fashion, but I can’t stay in those clothes. I can’t do it,” she said, pulling on her own clothes that still lay beside the pile of slave uniforms.

  Sage and Blaise exchanged a glance and then did the same. I handed my gun to Sara and changed clothes too. Sara was right. This was not about fashion; this was about control and we were taking it back.

  “Stand up,” I said, holding the gun to the back of the woman guard and pushing her forward, to the front of the church.

  “We are leaving. You should come,” I said softly to the women in the pews.

  No one moved.

  “You see? They are so stupid, they don’t even know to escape,” the guard said.

  “Take off your shoelaces,” I ordered, pointing the gun at her head. “Now.”

  She sat and unlaced her shoes.

  “We know you have been here a long time and have suffered terrible abuse,” Sara said softly to the women, “but you don’t have to stay any longer.”

  The women began to shuffle in their seats.

  “What if we are shot trying to leave?” one woman asked timidly, and I wondered how long it had been since she had spoken.

  “That is a risk,” I acknowledged. To my thinking, it was far worse to stay here than to be shot.

  “Come on,” Sage said, pulling us toward a side door, “we need to move.”

  “Just a minute,” Blaise said. She was helping me tie up our prisoner.

  “You are so dead,” the guard said as we tightened her arms and legs together in a crisscross pattern.

  “That reminds me,” Blaise said, pulling the filthy socks from the guard’s feet. She stuffed one into her mouth, using the other one to tie it in place.

  “I think you need some silent time,” Blaise said.

  The guard coughed, which only made the sock fill her mouth that much more.

  “Come on,” Sage said with impatience, pulling on Sara’s arm.

  Slowly, women began to stand as if unsure of their ability to do so. Some came toward us, while others went to the other side door. Still others stood motionless.

  “There are two,” Blaise whispered.

  We stepped back from the door.

  I chewed my lip. We could fight them or shoot them, but either way was bound to make noise, and noise would bring more guards.

  I jumped as a scream rang out into the night. I turned. The door at the other side of the building was open. Moonlight streamed in as women ran out. A woman’s body, a guard, lay beneath their trampling feet as they ran from their prison.

  It was no longer time to discuss or think of options. I flung the doors open, hitting one guard with a door. Blaise kicked the other guard from the stoop. We ran down the stairs, into the darkness.

  The prison was erupting into screams and gunshots as the women fled. Some of the prisoners fell. Most continued on, some running into the woods, the others running either toward the children’s prison or the men’s.

  We stood beside the old restaurant. I had unwillingly followed Blaise here. It made sense, though. The men’s sleeping quarters were farther away, and if we stopped the harvesters in the restaurant from going to the men, the odds were better. I wondered, though, what Blaise was planning.

  Inside, there were shouts and commands and the sound of running on an old wooden floor raised above the ground. Our bodies pressed against the wall—Sage beside Blaise and Sara beside me. My hand was sweating with the weight of the pistol it held.

  The screen door slammed back against the wood of the building. Two people ran out. They were not Blaise’s parents. We remained … waiting in the
shadows. A moment later two others emerged, moving with speed but not with emotion.

  From behind them, Blaise spoke, her gun pointed at their backs. “How could you? How could you shoot that family?” Her voice was heavy with hurt.

  They turned, guns in their hands. “Blaise?” her mother said, her voice shaking.

  “Drop your guns,” Blaise ordered.

  I stood beside her, following her lead, my gun pointed at their chests as they approached us. Sara and Sage were behind us.

  “Blaise, is that really you?” her father asked, taking a step forward.

  Blaise grimaced and said, “Don’t move. You taught me how to shoot, remember? I don’t miss.”

  “You’re alive?” her mother said, coming closer. She dropped her gun.

  Sage retrieved it.

  “How can you be here?” Blaise’s mom said, stumbling closer.

  “Are you with them, or us?” Blaise asked, her gun pointed at her mother.

  I pointed my gun at her father.

  “With you, of course,” her father answered.

  “You don’t wear the clothes of slaves,” Sara said.

  “That doesn’t change what we were,” Richard answered.

  “How could you kill that woman and girl?” Blaise said, her voice cracking and her resolve cracking with it.

  “I’m sorry you saw that,” Felicia answered as her hands touched Blaise’s face.

  Blaise collapsed into her arms. Heedless of the gun I held, her father rushed to them and wrapped his arms around his daughter and his wife.

  “My girl, my darling girl,” he whimpered.

  I lowered my gun. I didn’t trust them, but I didn’t think they would kill us—at least not at the moment.

  A cloud moved and the sliver of moon brought light and clarity.

  Sage was already running, on her way to the men’s camp, Sara following close behind.

  “I’m going to Jonah,” I told Blaise and her parents, hoping they would remember we were in the middle of an escape.