It didn’t take a genius to figure out that the slavers were worried that someone, or a group of someones, might attack the column and steal the slaves. For one brief moment Lora would have welcomed that. But then she realized that it wouldn’t help her. A slave was a slave.
Under close guard, the prisoners marched down what an ancient sign said was Interstate 15. They camped in the lee of a low-lying hill south of Shelby and passed through Conrad the next day. That was when the women passed another column of slaves. It was clear that the people in charge didn’t like the Crusaders, because they shouted all manner of insults at them. Competitors, then? Or was something more at work?
They were getting close by that time, that’s what the guards said, and the mood was glum. The long march had been a trial, but all of them knew that what lay ahead would be worse, and they barely spoke to each other as a result. As Lora, Cassie, and two other women were released to “take care of business,” as one guard put it, the teenager’s thoughts were on the ordeal ahead.
Lora had finished and pulled her pants up, when Cassie pushed her way through the bushes. There was a strange expression on her face. “This is for your own good,” the older woman said. “Try not to make any noise.” Then she punched Lora in the face.
It hurt, and Lora stumbled. She was about to fall when two women grabbed her arms. “I’m going to change the way you look,” Cassie explained, and hit Lora again.
Lora uttered a cry of pain as a bony fist hit her in the eye. “Sorry,” Cassie said, “but it will heal.”
The beating lasted for another minute or so, and by the time it was over, Lora could barely see out of her left eye. Her lips were swollen, her right cheek was sore, and blood trickled down onto her chin. Cassie withdrew, the women let go, and Lora stumbled out into the open. She felt dizzy, paused, and nearly fell.
A guard saw Lora as she approached the column and turned toward the others. “You, you, and you,” the Crusader said as he pointed at Cassie and the women who had assisted her. “Who’s responsible for this?”
It was impossible to tell if the guard saw the beating as a simple breach of discipline or understood the true nature of what had occurred, as Cassie stepped forward. “I hit the bitch,” Cassie said loudly. “She had it coming.”
Lora heard a collective intake of breath from the other prisoners and started to say no, but it was too late. The whip made a swishing noise as it passed through the air. That was followed by a cracking sound as it connected with bare flesh. Cassie uttered a cry of pain, staggered, and tried to free herself from the loop of tightly braided leather around her neck.
The guard kicked his horse into motion, jerked Cassie off her feet, and began to drag her across the ground. There was no telling what would have happened next if a second guard hadn’t intervened. He cut the first man off and ordered him to release Cassie. “We want to sell her, fool . . . not bury her. Stop this nonsense and chain up. We have ten miles to cover before nightfall.”
Lora was already connected to the main chain by then and turned to look at Cassie. “You look terrible.”
Cassie rubbed her neck. “You look worse.”
“Thank you.”
“I did it for your father.”
Lora began to cry then. But if any of the other women noticed, they didn’t seem to care. And why should they? All of them faced the same risks that Lora did and had the same fears.
Lora continued the march with one eye swollen shut. That, plus the pain, made for a miserable afternoon and evening. They spent the night in a town called Vaughn. It was a short walk from the interstate to the L-shaped school. A Crusader gave bullets to the locals so that the prisoners could sleep in the old gym.
Lora noticed that the doors could be locked from the outside. That plus the metal rings attached to floor were clear indications that slavers stopped there all the time.
The floor was hard, but being inside was better than being outside, and despite the pain, Lora fell into a troubled sleep after fifteen minutes or so. She awoke with a headache and the knowledge that she would be someone else’s property by the end of the day, the equivalent of a horse or cow. The prospect filled her with dread. She had to force herself to eat and could tell that the others felt the same way.
The next few hours were spent hiking through the ruins of Great Falls, Montana. If there were things to see, Lora couldn’t appreciate them. One eye was still swollen shut, and the other was blurry with tears.
Eventually, after innumerable twists and turns, they passed through a gate and entered a holding area outside what had been a ballpark, a place where people played a game called baseball. Now, though, in the aftermath of the second civil war, the notion of playing ritualistic games seemed unreal.
Judging from the sound of a much-amplified male voice and occasional bursts of applause, it sounded as if the auction was under way. Before the Crusaders could march their wares into the park and put them up for sale, they had to pay a fee to the local slave lord. Once that was out of the way, the women were forced to stand while prospective buyers trooped past. Some wore fancy clothing and some didn’t, but all of them had hard eyes.
In addition to the stares, there was a good deal of poking and prodding as the buyers sought to figure out which prisoners were in the best physical condition. Lora had to close her eyes and grit her teeth as a middle-aged woman felt her arms and legs. “She’s strong,” the prospective buyer said, “but what happened to her face? The girl is uglier than the back side of a barn door.” And it soon became clear that the male buyers shared that opinion—because Lora was spared most of the groping that many of the others suffered.
That process took the better part of three hours, so it was late afternoon by the time the Crusaders led the prisoners through a second gate and into the park beyond. The bleachers were filled with buyers, sellers, and spectators. A wealthy few sat in boxes separated from the rest, but most occupied bench-style seats. Vendors were hawking food and drinks, people were chatting with one another, and the whole thing had a festive feel. Some of the spectators were more serious, however, and took the time to eye the slaves through binoculars.
A raised platform occupied the center of the arena, with ramps to either side. The man standing next to the portly auctioneer had black skin and was stripped to the waist. He had long hair and a powerful build and was barefoot. As the auctioneer spoke into a microphone, his voice boomed through speakers located all around the park. “Need a field hand?” the man demanded. “If so, Jim here would do real fine . . .”
Lora felt sick to her stomach as bidding began, the column came to a halt, and the guards started to free them. “Stay here until you receive orders to walk up the ramp,” one of them said as Lora’s bracelet fell off. “Then do what you’re told.”
The wait began. Once the male slave was ordered off the platform, the Crusaders sent a woman up and the bidding began. Lora tried to understand what was taking place but soon gave up. The auctioneer was talking too fast—and it was difficult to tell who was bidding.
So Lora looked up at the flat-bottomed clouds that were scudding across the pale blue sky, at the flagpoles from which tattered pennants flew, and at the blur of faces in the stands. She could hear them as they applauded the winner of an especially heated bidding competition or booed what they considered to be subpar goods, completely oblivious to the horror they were participating in.
Then it was Cassie’s turn. As they sent her up the ramp, Lora wanted to shout, “Thank you! Thank you for making my father happy, thank you for being a friend, thank you for trying to protect me.”
But it was too late. Cassie was up on the platform by that time, her long hair whipping in the breeze, while the monsters in the stands judged her worth. Then, in a matter of moments, she was gone.
Tears were running down Lora’s cheeks as she made her way up onto the stage and the auctioneer started his spiel. It was hard to follow the singsong cadence of his words. But Lora heard occasional phrases like,
“young woman of childbearing age,” “strong enough to work the fields,” and “knows how to read.”
The last came as a surprise. How did the Crusaders know that? Perhaps a prisoner had mentioned it. Or maybe one of them had been standing nearby as she remarked on a sign. “Sold,” the auctioneer said. “Send the next one.”
Lora made her way down the ramp on the other side of the platform to find that a man in western attire was waiting for her. He had a leathery face and might have been any age between thirty and fifty. Not a word was spoken as he led her across an open area, through a gate, and out into what had once been a parking lot.
Groups of slaves could be seen here and there and were waiting—for what? More people to join them? Their owners? That made sense, and Lora’s theory was confirmed a few moments later when she was delivered to the point where about sixty people were gathered around a pole. It stood about twelve feet tall with a piece of wood on top. The letter “V” was centered on the sign. And there were guards, about a dozen of them, all on horseback. They were watchful but made no attempt to organize the crowd.
It seemed as if some of the slaves knew each other, but most didn’t and were waiting to see what would happen. They were dressed in all sorts of clothes, many of which were homemade or pieced together from other garments. The group looked like a convention of scarecrows.
Lora stood on tiptoes in order to look for Cassie but without success. It appeared that the older woman had been purchased by a different buyer. “So where are you from?” a female voice said. Lora turned to find herself looking at a young woman who might have been two or three years her senior, with a child on her hip, a serious-looking little girl who was busy sucking her thumb.
“I’m from up north,” Lora said vaguely. “From Canada.” Ever since she had been captured, Lora had made it a practice to avoid any mention of the Sanctuary. She despised the keepers but felt protective of the community and knew what would happen to it if the Blood Kin or the Crusaders learned of the habitat’s existence.
The other woman nodded. She had light brown hair with straight-cut bangs. Her eyes were green and separated by a small, well-defined nose. “My name is Sissy. Cristi and I are from Williston. Or nearby anyway. Have you heard of it?”
Lora shook her head.
“It’s in what used to be North Dakota,” Sissy said. “What’s your name?”
“Lora.”
“Well, Lora . . . if the rumors are true, we’re headed for a place called Star Valley in Wyoming. A food lord named Luther Voss bought us.”
Lora looked at the sign with the “V” on it. It was funny in a sad sort of way. After being taken out of the Sanctuary and forced to walk for hundreds of miles, she would be raising food again. The thought was comforting since the process of growing food was something she understood. She looked from Sissy to Cristi. “How did you wind up here?“
Sissy made a face. “My husband and I had a place way out in the hills. It was pretty well hidden, so I figure one of our neighbors sold us out. Tom fought back when the slavers attacked. He killed two before they gunned him down. I would have died with him if it hadn’t been for Cristi . . . Maybe I should have . . . But I couldn’t bring myself to kill her.”
Lora winced. “No, of course not.”
“So, if you don’t mind my asking, what happened to your face?”
“It’s a long story,” Lora said, and might have told it, except that there was a sudden stir as a woman on a black horse arrived. She was wearing a brown hat with a flat brim, a leather jacket of the same color, and khaki-colored riding breeches. They were tucked into knee-high lace-up boots, and the woman was armed with two pistols. But rather than carry them herself, the woman kept her weapons in specially crafted holsters secured to both sides of her saddle. Her face had a skeletal look to it, her voice had a hard-edged quality, and the guards called her “Mrs. Voss.” Luther’s wife? Probably. “Okay,” Mrs. Voss said. “We’re ready to go. Get ‘em processed.”
Orders were shouted and whips cracked as the slaves were formed into a column of twos. Lora found herself ahead of Sissy and behind a man with a large bald spot. Cowboys, all mounted on horses, herded the slaves like cattle. With the woman leading the way, they were chivvied out of the parking lot and onto a street. From there a series of turns took them to a facility topped by a huge sign that read, “Elephant Car Wash.” It featured a cartoonish pachyderm spraying water out of its trunk. Except that it wasn’t a car wash—not anymore. It had been converted into a slave-processing facility.
There were two lanes, one for men and one for women, separated by a wall made from sheets of weathered plywood. Judging from how well organized the facility was, Lora could tell that it had been in operation for a long time. Employees gave the same instructions over and over. “Men here—women there.” “Remove your shoes but keep them.” “Remove your clothes, and yes, that means all of your clothes.” “Throw your clothes over the outer wall. No, the other wall, idiot.” “Hold your hands over your head.” “The water will be cold.”
And the water was cold. Having removed her boots and disposed of her filthy clothes, Lora staggered as jets of water hit her from all sides. Then, as something stung her eyes, she knew there was some sort of disinfectant in the water. It seemed that Mr. Voss wanted to keep his property healthy. That was fine with Lora. She hadn’t had a shower in weeks and welcomed it.
Not all the slaves were so cooperative. As Lora passed through the gauntlet of nozzles, she heard complaints followed by the occasional crack of a whip and the inevitable yelp of pain. Like the rest of them, Lora was completely naked as she followed another female into the building beyond. It looked like an add-on, a structure that had been built adjacent to the old car wash using recycled materials. The tables that lined both sides of the shelter were loaded with clothes, and as the women passed through, they were given a bra, panties, a button-up shirt, a pair of jeans, and a hip-length jacket. There were benches in the open area beyond. A stern-looking matron with a cane-style whip was present to provide instructions. “Put everything on except for the shirt and jacket.”
Lora finished fastening her bra and turned to see if Sissy needed help, but the matron frowned at her. “This ain’t no church social . . . Keep moving.”
With the shirt and jacket in hand, Lora went over to join the line that led to a door. Each time it opened and closed, she took a couple of steps forward. Then the woman in front of her stepped through the opening, the door closed, and she heard what might have been a muffled cry.
That was strange, but before Lora could give the matter much thought, the door opened and it was her turn. As she stepped inside, a man wrapped his arms around her while another pressed a red-hot iron against the upper part of her right arm. Lora heard a sizzling sound, caught a whiff of burned flesh, and experienced a moment of excruciating agony. Then she screamed.
The man let go, she stumbled forward, and someone doused the fiery wound with cold water. Then, half-supported by a person she was only vaguely aware of, Lora was escorted into a rustic recovery area. Somehow, much to her surprise, the shirt and jacket were still clutched in her left hand.
A man entered via a different door, swayed, and fainted. Lora felt dizzy, saw benches, and hurried to sit on one. She was looking at her arm, trying to see the wound, when a woman arrived. She wrapped a clean bandage around the burn and tied the loose ends. Then she left to treat the man.
Lora heard a distant wail and stood as Sissy was escorted into the room. There was a grimace on her face and a bright red “V” on her arm. That was when she realized the truth. They had been branded. But the crying . . . Cristi . . . Surely they hadn’t?
Lora heaved a sigh of relief as a woman appeared with Cristi in her arms. The little girl was screaming but unharmed. Lora went over to accept the child, winced as the pain flared, and took Cristi over to where her mother was seated. Sissy’s face was white and she was shaking. “Th-th-thank you.”
Cristi wanted to be
with her mother, so Lora put her down. “She’s okay . . . They didn’t brand her.”
“Th-th-thank God for that.”
It was, Lora decided, the one thing they could give thanks for, because any hopes of being treated in a humane fashion had been dashed. The stories were true. There was a hell, and for reasons Laura couldn’t fathom, she was in it. She went to retrieve her clothes and put them on, but the weight of the jacket made the wound hurt more, so she took it off.
Once the slaves had been “processed,” they were ordered outside and formed into a rough column of twos and threes. Rather than chain them, the way the Crusaders did, the cowboys preferred to herd them like cattle. Mrs. Voss led the way and three wagons brought up the rear. The long, painful day ended in a place called Fife.
During the days that followed, the column trudged through Monarch, up over Kings Hill Pass, and south through the towns of White Sulphur Springs, Ringling, and Clyde Park. From there the trek took them through what people still referred to as Yellowstone National Park to Jackson, Wyoming. The entire journey took twenty days.
During that time, their wounds healed, or most did, the exception being a man who developed a massive infection and begged the slavers to kill him, a chore that Mrs. Voss handled personally. Lora knew she was Luther Voss’s mother by that time and, having seen in her action, had plenty of reason to fear the son.
The mercenaries weren’t spared either. A sniper killed one of them. It could have been an old grudge, a case of mistaken identity, or target practice. Whatever it was, it gave the slaves a reason to rejoice, albeit very quietly, as they ate their dinners that night.
The other event of note, insofar as Lora was concerned, was the night that Mrs. Voss sent for her. It wasn’t a first. About two dozen slaves had been interviewed by then, although nobody could say why they had been chosen over all the rest.
The Seeds of Man Page 15
