Gray (Book 2)

by Cadle, Lou

  Water under the bridge. Her grandmother’s voice came to her, saying those words. It was done. No taking it back now, and no benefit to obsessing on how she’d screwed up. She’d have to move on somehow, snatch all opportunities she saw, be on her best behavior, and find a way to meet Benjamin at the outhouse in three nights.

  She went to the door and pushed the blanket back an inch, peering out. She wasn’t being guarded. Back at the bunk, she drew out the pencil and paper and wrote Donkey + cart—yes or no? Alternative weapons? Flashlight? Food? Cave? She’d add more later, as she thought of it, and get the note to him when she could.

  She heard the wind pick up outside. The blanket door stirred in the breeze. Maybe a storm was blowing in. If one blew in the night they left, the snow could cover their tracks.

  How she wanted to leave.

  Not tonight. Not tomorrow night. But the next. She only needed to hang on for that long.

  By the time the men came for her, she had to pee pretty badly. She asked if she could visit the outhouse. The men looked at each other and finally one of the ones whose name she didn’t know went to ask Tithing. It was spooky, how they couldn’t think for themselves, despite all being grown men.

  She was given permission and had two men accompany her down the path. In the outhouse, she took the note from Benjamin from her pocket. She tore it into little pieces, wrapped it in a sheet of the brown paper and tossed it in. Then she emerged and was marched back to the dining cabin, a man behind her, a man ahead.

  As she approached the cabin, her heart beat harder and her palms grew damp within her gloves.

  Only the men were inside the main room. She had no idea if the women were in the kitchen or not. The door between the two rooms was shut, and there was no sound coming through the wall.

  Tithing was standing before the dream catcher on the wall. The men were seated, facing him, but as one, they turned when she entered the room. Benjamin was nowhere to be seen. She hoped she hadn’t gotten him into trouble, too.

  “Where is he?” she asked. She glanced around at the men. “Where is Benjamin?”

  No one answered. She was pushed up to Tithing, and he pointed to a spot for her to stand.

  She took her place.

  Tithing began to speak in his meeting voice. “The Reaping has begun.”

  “And we are The Seed,” responded the men.

  “Our time finally has come,” he said, “And we rejoice. But we also have a problem.” He looked at Coral.

  “We need to be told if this one is Weed or Seed.” He raised his hands, palm up. “We need to be guided. And so, we test her.”

  Coral’s throat was dry and she felt like she was quivering all over. Maybe she was trembling, and visibly. She shoved her hands into her pockets to keep anyone from seeing the tremors there.

  Tithing motioned for her to approach him.

  Damn damn damn. She did not want to go. But she made herself take a step. She could feel that her shoulders were hunched. When she saw him raise a pair of scissors, she stopped.

  He beckoned her with a forefinger. The gesture was really creepy, somehow, creepier than the whole rest of the scene.

  She swallowed, swallowed again, and coughed. She took another step, another, and was looking up at Tithing’s face, close enough that she could count his pores.

  He looked troubled but calm. A man trying to be fair, having an unpleasant duty but knowing he needed to do it. He reached out to her face and pushed down her bandana.

  She flinched from the touch of his fingers.

  He pushed back the hood of her jacket. She drew a shaky breath, trying not to pull away from him.

  He raised his hand, and the blade of the scissors glinted yellow in lamplight.

  The breath caught in her throat.

  Gently, he pulled her hair out from her collar. Then he took a hank and cut it off, so close to her scalp, she could feel the cold blades brush her skin. Her skin was all gooseflesh. He cut another hank, and another. When he let go of each chunk of hair, it slithered down her jacket, making a whispery sound.

  Methodically, he cut her hair off. Then he reached into his pocket and brought out a razor and began shaving her head.

  Coral couldn’t say how she knew, but somehow, she felt a wave of sexual excitement coming from someone—or more than one of the men—behind her. If gang rape wasn’t planned, she feared it might happen anyway, spontaneously. The feeling of her awareness of them—some of them? all of them?—lusting for her only grew as he shaved her.

  Without any water or soap or foam, the shaving was a dry, painful process. The razor blade wasn’t terribly sharp, and it caught at her scalp. He cut her, and she jerked at the hot sensation. His hand took her chin, cool fingers holding her steady.

  She realized she had started breathing again at some point, for she was panting now, as if she were running uphill. He gave her a “turn around” gesture, and she turned, closing her eyes, not wanting to see the gleaming eyes of the men who were excited about this, not wanting to see anything, wanting to disappear, to not be, to never have been.

  That’s what they want. The thought came to her in Benjamin’s voice. Her eyes popped open. He was nowhere to be seen, but the cult’s men were all there, staring at her. She made herself meet their eyes, one by one. Alva looked away. So did Jim. The rest looked at her, or at her head and the razor being guided by Tithing’s hand.

  Finally, it was over. Her head felt strangely light.

  From behind her, Tithing said, “Apologize to Pratt, now.”

  She looked at Pratt. He was smirking. Her voice was steady, and she was heartened by that, made braver by hearing herself sound brave. “I’m sorry I flew at you like that. I know it must have scared you.”

  “I’m not scared of a girl.”

  Coral almost smiled at his defensive tone. “I promise you, it won’t happen again.”

  Tithing said, “Give me your jacket.”

  Coral’s pleasure at provoking Pratt fled. She really, really, really did not want to be raped. She’d managed to avoid it so far, and before the Event she had hoped she’d make it to old age without having that experience. Maybe it was inevitable in this new, lawless world.

  “Now,” he said.

  She turned back to face him, peeled off her jacket, and handed it to him.

  “And your gloves.”

  She handed them over.

  “And that sweater.”

  She pulled it off. She still had on the thin turtleneck beneath it. She shivered. The cabins weren’t all that much warmer than the outdoors, and it was hovering somewhere below freezing in here.

  “You will not harm another of this Farm again. Or you will be cast out into the world naked.” Tithing’s voice was stern. “Do you understand?”

  She nodded.

  “You’re going to spend the night here, without your jacket, without your gloves, to get a taste of how that will feel.” He lifted his chin and spoke over her head. “Go on about your business.”

  She could hear a murmur of disappointment. They’d wanted more—they’d wanted worse for her.

  Soon all of them had filed out but Tithing.

  “You may not last the night,” he said.

  “I’m relieved you didn’t hurt me.”

  “I don’t need to hurt you. You seem to do a very good job of hurting yourself.” He took the lantern, turned it off, and stepped to the inner door, the one that led to the kitchen, and put a key in the lock. He turned the key, rattled the doorknob to make sure it was locked, and walked to the main door.

  “Tithing, wait. Where’s Benjamin? You didn’t hurt him, did you?”

  He paused and turned to look at her. “He didn’t want to come. He said you shamed him.”

  He slipped outside. She listened for the turn of the lock. It was a quiet sound, barely audible.

  She was locked in. Night was falling. And she was already cold.

  Coral brushed her palm over her head. “Missed a spot, asshole,” s
he muttered. The nick was damp with blood, but it wasn’t flowing fast. She untied her bandana from her neck and held it to the spot.

  What had he said about Benjamin? Shamed by her? She couldn’t believe that. He’d been banned from coming, more than likely, by Tithing. She wondered if someone had an eye on him. Probably Brynn was guarding him.

  She brushed her hand over her bald head. It could have been far, far, worse. She was expecting worse. The guys behind her—a few of them, at least—had been hoping for worse. She shivered at the memory of that feeling, the crawling sensation on her neck of knowing that anyone had wanted to use her.

  The shiver was warranted as much by the cold. The fading light outside wasn’t penetrating the cabin. There were two windows, but there were shutters on them blocking the light. The temperature would fall further with every passing hour. There was nothing here to wrap up in. Not a tablecloth, not a blanket, not even a wall hanging. She figured her choices were three. Stick her arms under her shirt, sit in a corner, and shiver all night, hoping she didn’t die from hypothermia. Or she could pace all night and hope that kept her warm. Or she could break the hell out of here.

  She wondered what old Coral would have done, and she realized she had no idea. That girl, that university student, pretty good sister, that would-be doctor was dead. This Coral had fought, and won, and survived, and taught herself to shoot a bow—

  Damn. Her bows and arrows. Her chest hurt at the thought. She would grieve their loss for a long while.

  She went to the front door and leaned against it, listening. She heard nothing. Carefully, she tried the doorknob. It was locked. Crossing to the inner door, she pulled out her pocketknife. When she reached the door, she knelt and looked at the lock. It was below the doorknob, not embedded in it, a pretty modern lock, but not brand-new, either.

  She’d never picked a lock before, but this seemed a good time to teach herself how. She began opening, one by one, every blade in her knife. One by one, she shut most of them. First she dismissed the blades—too wide. The can opener, ditto. Little scissors, rejected.

  When she was done closing each of those tools, she was left with the four thinnest arms: a corkscrew, a tiny hook, a miniscule nail file with a hole in it, and a pointy thing she forgot the name of. There was also, stuck in the end of the knife’s body, a toothpick, detachable. She detached it and gripped it between her front teeth.

  Okay. She started with the hook, probing the lock. People seemed to manage this in the movies. Was that only Hollywood nonsense, or could it be done?

  The light was fading fast now, but light wouldn’t help her much anyway. She felt something give under the hook, then spring back. Again, she pushed. Same thing. Okay. That was something. Now what? A visual memory came to her, from a movie or TV show. The person had both hands at the lock, and two deeliebops in there.

  Reaching up, she plucked the metal toothpick from her teeth. Could she fit both these things into the lock? She took the hook out, put it back in at the top, and stuck the toothpick underneath it. Tight fit, but they both were in there. Of course she had no idea what she was doing with them. But she had all night to fiddle with it.

  She settled into lotus position and began to experiment. One tool up top, one on bottom. Up top was where the action was. Soon she had found a two springy things up there. Push them, they sprung back. Push them, they sprung back again. Push them, hold them, wiggle the bottom thing, nothing.

  Hmm. She tried the doorknob, hoping somehow she’d miraculously unlocked the thing without knowing, but it was still locked. There had to be better tools for this job than the ones she had on the knife.

  She swore, if she ever wandered into a hardware section of a Walmart with Benjamin again, she was going to make them camp out there for a month while she learned how every damn thing in the aisles worked.

  She brushed her hair back—oops. No hair. Weird that the urge to push it back as still there. Habits can be strong.

  Hmm. She wondered what habits of the cult she could exploit to help her escape. She’d think on that later on, after she’d gotten through this lock. She stretched her neck back and forth to ease the tension and began again.

  Finally, she figured out there weren’t just two springy things but more. The third one was so tight, it took several minutes to figure out that’s what it was. The spring was tighter or something. She wiggled the toothpick under it and pushed, but the toothpick’s narrow point wasn’t enough surface area to gain pressure on the thing. She reversed it so the back end, thicker, was in there. It took her a minute to find the edge of the spring thing—whatever the hell it was called—again, and this time, when she fought the pressure of the spring, it retreated with a solid click. And it stayed there.

  Aha. Now she was getting somewhere. She tried turning her hook again like a key. No dice. Toothpick in again. Damn, the strong spring had released again. So back to it, push that out of the way until it stuck, and dig deeper. Another springy thing. Push that one. The hook-key still wouldn’t turn.

  It took many more minutes before she realized that if she kept the bottom thing half-turned, like a key, the spring things up top, whatever they were, stayed in place once she had shoved them back. Finally, she figured out that there was a fifth spring, too. Two loose ones, a hard one, another easy one, a hard one.

  Full dark had fallen, bringing with it a drop in temperature, and now she had to stop every few minutes to warm her fingers by sticking them in her armpits. The cabin was pitch dark, so she was working entirely by feel and sound. Every little click made hope rise in her chest, but the lock wouldn’t budge.

  Until, with a loud snick, it did. The hook turned, like a key, and the door popped open, brushing her face.

  Damn! Coral did a seated happy dance. She had a new career as a lock-picker. Although, in the post-Event world, really, a person could normally bludgeon a door, tear it down, and leave it in ruins, and no one would complain. And there weren’t many doors left in the world anyway. So it probably wouldn’t be much of a career.

  Beat the hell out of alien brood mare, though.

  She was cold and stiff. She hadn’t noticed the cold so much while she was focused on her task. But now she realized how freezing she was. After tucking away her knife, she rubbed her arms, shook out her legs, and entered the kitchen. There was a lamp somewhere in here, and matches.

  Oh, wait. Maybe not a good idea. Could they see the light? She tried to imagine the building. No windows back here. As long as she kept the door between the dining area and kitchen shut, she should be able to risk putting the lamp on low.

  She fumbled along the counter until she found it. Then she pawed around until she found the matches. She struck one and turned on the lamp, turning it low. It went out. She tried again, and this time she turned it down without putting it out. It cast a pale yellow light over the kitchen.

  There was no reason to steal food for the trip—not yet, at least. On the night they escaped, maybe she could pick the front lock, too, now that she knew the procedure. She almost started eating the carrots from the bin, but then she realized it would be better if they didn’t know she had gotten in here. No one was obsessive enough to be counting the carrots…but still, for now, she let them be.

  She found the stack of dish towels and took them out, tying them together at the ends, until she had a small, lumpy shawl. She stuck it over her head and shoulders. That was better. Between that and keeping active, she might not freeze to death this night.

  She carried the lamp into the back alcove. There was the radio. That was what she had wanted to get to—ever since she had first seen it. Somewhere out there, people were still alive. If this Farm place, and if another in Oregon had survived, so had other people. And a few of them must also have radios.

  Her ignorance about radios was as pure as her ignorance about lock-picking. She studied the dials on the front of the device. Taking a deep breath, she flicked the off-on switch and listened. It was entirely dead. No static. Not so much a
s a click when she turned it on.

  So the stationary bike must make it work. Someone had complained about the charge, but they hadn’t said it wasn’t working at all. And they had gotten the news of the baby being born, right?

  She hoped the thing was all hooked up, because she was entirely out of her depth here, and biking was the one part of it she did know how to do. She climbed on the bike and began pedaling. Almost immediately, a light glowed on the radio. She stopped pedaling, the light went out.

  Huh. She couldn’t be in two places at once, so this might not work at all. Still, at least biking would warm her up. So she set to it, pedaling fast, until she began to pant. The light on the radio burned brightly. She pedaled and pedaled, until she was gasping for air, then stopped. The light didn’t go off.

  Eureka! How long would the charge last? No matter, she could always pedal some more later.

  She pedaled again, more slowly, while she thought about this. What if the radio were set at a place where only the Farm people were listening? It probably was set to a, whatsit—frequency, that was the word—where the Oregon Farm and maybe others had agreed to meet this one. So maybe she should turn some of those dials before she started talking.

  Off the bike, then, with a plan. She leaned over the desk, adjusted the lamp a bit higher, and studied the dials. Preselect, range, gain, mode, unlabeled. All that meant nothing to her. Wait. Mode had an “AM” setting—as in AM radio? AM, CW, SSB, FSK. It was pointing to SSB.

  Really, she didn’t have a clue what any of it meant. Preselect, though, might mean what it would mean on any radio. It was on 2, and there were 10 settings. She’d avoid 2 for now. She clicked through each setting, listened, but heard nothing but faint static. She hoped that static meant she was on the right track. She turned up the volume, and the static grew louder. She turned it back down. She made it through all the numbers, turned back to 2, and listened for a longer time.