by Emily Shore
Ruby in the Rough
Copyright ©2017 by Emily Shore
Cover Art: M.A. Phipps
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Dedication
To Rebecca McDonald for being the match to my oil:
You set me on a fiery path
And I will raise my daughters to be shrewd as serpents
Not dumb as doves
Author's Note
Ten years ago, as I stood in a pub in Germany with my fiancé, I overheard some men there talking about the Red-Light District. The words were foreign to me, but that was no surprise even at my 20 years of age. All I knew of prostitution was the belief that women choose to trick themselves out on the street: they can leave if they want to. When my fiancé took a moment to explain what the Red-Light District is, I couldn't wrap my head around such a place. To think that there were legal businesses and shops where these things were occurring. That night, I got my feet wet ― consider wet in oil.
Of course, I set out on a cliché path, watching the movie Taken, thinking that was how sex-trafficking looked. Years later, it was the film Nefarious: Merchant of Souls that was the first real spark, but my fire didn't quite catch until I attended a seminar through Women At Risk, International, an organization working to rescue vulnerable women and children and fight sex-trafficking all around the world. Rebecca McDonald was the match. Rebecca doesn't sugarcoat, and that sits well with me. With how well-traveled she is, Rebecca has a million stories under her belt. By that time, my first daughter was born, and I also had six nieces in my life as well. Since then, I've spent my time volunteering and attending seminars and speaking with everyone from trafficked survivors to counsellors to rescue workers to activists. I knew this was a subject I would raise awareness to for the rest of my life.
The real heroes are those organizations working in the trenches like Breaking Free, my local one. I do my part as an advocate. That is my main purpose in writing this book: to show a glimpse into the world of trafficking and to support an anti-trafficking organization. A portion of the proceeds of this book will go back to Breaking Free and Women At Risk, International. For more info about who I support, see the discussions and resources page.
Ruby in the Rough
The sweepers are coming.
We must get inside now.
“We cut it too close this time,” Ink says as we duck into a nearby alley that reeks of garbage ― mostly the rotted remains of dead rodents, their meat already stripped clean ― nothing useful for scavenging. “You’re not going to make it.”
He says “you’re” because his hide isn’t on the line. It’s not worth anything, unlike mine.
Tugging both sides of my cap down low over my ears, I scan the alley all around me; there’s always another route. I haven’t spent all this time on the streets without learning that. At the end of the alley is a wrought iron fence with razor wire at the top to prevent anyone from going over into gang territory. The razor wire glimmers like new daggers just daring me to give it a shot, but getting caught by the gangs is just as bad as the sweepers. All around me, the walls are flat. No notches or grooves for climbing, but as I inch closer to the dumpster with the tips of my fingers edging out from my sliced-off gloves, I sense a warm air current.
“Ink!” I whisper harshly as I flatten my palms against the dumpster. “Help me move it!”
By now, Ink has learned to obey my every command. I’ve gotten us out of enough jams ― well me out of enough jams. If it was us, my slate would’ve been wiped clean long ago, and I’d already be on my way to the cliffs and not stuck in this cesspool where I’m the new currency.
“It’s a vent shaft.” I smirk and grip it with my fingers.
“Yes, a vent shaft that leads right into the heart of the Brothers territory,” he reminds me even while helping. The collar of his shirt dips down ever so little, just enough to give me a glimpse of his namesake. I’m one of the few who knows how far down it travels.
From here, I can still hear the encroaching boots of the sweepers. We have moments left. One more tug, and it jerks free. I go in first. Ink doesn’t have to. Sweepers aren’t interested in him. Soldiers or gangs on the other hand...
“Don’t get that cape caught.” Ink shakes his head, a gesture I’m familiar with when it comes to the black cape I always keep knotted around my neck when I’m in the city.
Cramming myself into the narrow space, I hear Ink wedging the grate back into place and shifting the dumpster in front of it once again. One small corner gives me a peek into the street beyond, but all I can make out are Ink’s leather boots...and a few droplets of wine spilling like blood onto the street. What a waste. Even if it it’s cheap wine, it’s still good as treasure. Ink wanted to sell it, but I told him we were getting all sorts soused tonight. Maybe there will be some left. Judging by the faint stench, I’d wager not, but I know I’d have done the same in his place.
Just as predicted, the sweepers round the corner, their black polished shoes a dead giveaway. To think they used to protect and serve generations ago before everything collapsed. Now, they know only protection in exchange for getting served. They cart any girls they find right off to the Hotel.
“You, boy!” One sweeper marches up to Ink, who wobbles from side to side.
The sweeper’s gruff voice booms, and I almost think the grate will shake right off and expose my hiding place. Maybe I should start sliding down further, but the thought of leaving Ink behind makes my tongue feel like it’s licking the barbed wire. He might be good at charming or tricking himself out of any situation, but I know the streets better than he does. I don’t want to get separated.
“Girl come by this way?”
“Uh huh.” Ink doesn’t play dumb because that’d be a dead giveaway. The liquid sloshing alerts me that he’s getting more into his role. That ass! He better not drink it all before me!
“What’d you see, boy?”
Huh. Boy. I guess I’ve never seen Ink that way. Especially with most of his clothes off when we go wading in the pond outside the train yard. Anyone looking at him can see he’s skirting the edge of manhood. Whatever boy left in him is gripping onto his coat tails for dear life.
I watch his boots stumble around again.
“She...uh went over the wire.” He slurs his words like a pirate in a pub.
“Over the wire, you say?”
The sweeper’s shoes close in, and I hear Ink let out a yelp, which makes me think that he’s been grabbed. By the throat more than likely. He drops the wine bottle. Damn. That’s almost worth a life debt right there.
“Ya better not be lying to me, boy!” That voice is familiar.
“Come on, Tanner, kid’s too drunk to have seen anything.”
Great, Tanner. We’ve had a few near run-ins in the past. He doesn’t even qualify as a sweeper. More bounty hunter with sweeper background. I still wonder if he’s the one who coined my title that’s led to the chicken-scratch wanted posters all over the city of a red-head in a cape bearing the name of “Ghetto Fox”.
When Ink’s boots stumble backward, I know Tanner has released him. Still remaining in the role, Ink drops to his knees and scrambles for the wine bottle. Maybe there are a few drops left?
“Makes sense. Girl’s slick, this one.” Tanner’s boots stride out of my line of sight toward the fence. “She knows we can’t go into gang territory. Course, if she don’t make it out the other side, she’ll be regretting that move. And if she does, we’ll be waitin on the other side.”
“But that’s cl
ear on the other end of the Ghetto!” A sweeper complains.
Tanner growls back at him. “Any more complaints, I’ll see that hide of yers whipped for insubordination. And I’m sure I can find the ugliest girl in the Hotel for you.”
My cringe is automatic. The Hotel is the tumorous growth on an equally cancerous city. No cure for the disease. If it gets its claws into you, you’re infected. Unless you’re immune like Ink or if you’re…me. My eyes water, and I know it’s not just from the stench of rotting garbage outside or the heat on the inside that smells faintly of burnt flesh.
“Why’s this one so important?” asks another sweeper as Tanner’s boots stomp on the ground and pause right outside the corner of the vent. I could poke my long finger out and touch him.
“This one’s slipped my fingers too many times. Sly little fox but limbs like a monkey. Monkey of the city. But even monkeys like bananas. Just gotta find her weakness is all.”
If I have a weakness, he’s two steps away from Tanner. I’ll have to give Ink bonus points for keeping up his ruse. Licking the leftover wine drops straight from the ground almost has me convinced that he’s a drunk.
“Move out! Time to hightail it to the other side,” orders Tanner. Every sweeper obeys, and I wait until the sound of their shoes has faded like a forgotten echo. I wait a few moments more just in case, but this isn’t a spot we want to stay in too long. Not with Brothers territory right there.
“Psst!” I signal Ink, who ducks back to the wall and moves the dumpster on his own, the smooth ripple of muscles straining from the effort right before he grabs the grate and tugs it off to release me.
I roll out of the vent, and my hand performs a twirl for him as I bow my head. “Excellent performance, bravo!”
“Well, tha―”
He doesn’t get to express his gratitude when I sock him in the gut.
“What was that for?” He wheezes, clutching onto his stomach, doubling over just a bit.
Grabbing the wine bottle left by the dumpster, I press my eye to the opening and curse. Then, I shove it right into his ailing belly.
“Not even enough for me to get tipsy.” I grimace.
“Yeah, and I ruined my best shirt.” He gestures to the wine stains on his red tunic, the one that he always wears on our trips into the Ghetto because he says it matches my hair and can be a good reason for explaining to anyone who may ever notice a flash of red.
I trudge away from him, flicking his side with my cape and touting, “Boo hoo.”
“You realize how cute you look when you’re pissed?”
Incensed, I turn on him, but Ink stretches out his arms and adds, “You know, other than the boy clothes, the dirt that’s more parasite on your skin, and the fact that you smell like a buffalo’s butt.”
I stick my tongue out. “You smell like a drunk warthog.”
He steps forward and presses his forehead down to mine, challenging, “Smelly street rat.”
“Jackass carcass,” I counter, jamming my nose onto his.
“Skunk breath.”
“Sweeper shit.”
“Dung beetle dung.”
“Compost cockroach!”
Ink hesitates, and I grin before punching him in the arm and raising a victorious finger. “Ha! Beat you again. When will you learn all those musty books will never beat me in a battle of wits on the street?”
I dart my head around the corner of the alley, checking for sweepers or the gangs. We’ll move out in the opposite direction from the sweepers, but that’ll add hours to our time, and the sun’s already setting. Looks like we’ll be holing up in the heart of the Ghetto tonight. Can’t get anywhere near the Hotel. That’s where the most sweepers will be. It’s also a stretch of gang-affiliated territory mixed with sweeper homes living in close proximity like two invasive species. Any locals caught in the middle are older citizens since anyone young is a gang member. Older citizens who have been here since the gangs took the Ghetto. Too stubborn to pack up and leave. Ghetto grime is in their blood, so I can respect that.
We’ll need to avoid the bridges on account of the soldiers. They only hang around the big bridges. Should’ve known it’d be the tower tonight.
Ignoring my triumph, Ink follows my lead, zigzagging down streets on a pathway that would seem random to anyone else.
“I’ll get you next time.”
“You said that the last time,” I mention, catching the sight of my cape’s shadow which practically smiles, sinister as the reaper himself.
“Books are always good for something,” Ink blows out a breath as I pause, checking down another street lined with houses like cracked teeth. Most of this section is abandoned. People live closer to the Hotel where they can do business.
“Yeah, burning for warmth, I’d say.”
Ink sighs and takes my hand. “Mark my words, Ruby...” He trails his thumb from the tip of my long finger all the way down to my wrist, causing my skin to tingle even from beneath the glove. “I’ll get you to read someday.”
I snort. “Ya, over my gold-plated arse, you will.”
Ink and his books. I’m more into practical things like the sack of canned goods I’ve got slung over my shoulder. Compliments of your local Hotel truck shipment. My mouth watered when I caught a glance of the fresh fruit and vegetables in the crates toward the back, sparkling like multi-colored jewels, but the canned goods were easiest to grab, and you can’t stay long on a Hotel truck before you’re noticed. Most of the time, they have guards stationed inside, but there’s always a point between parking and unloading where the guards inevitably find themselves distracted by the hundreds of different eyelashes fluttering like bats from the Hotel windows.
Men!
We make our way down one more street and reach the business center closest to the tower. On this side of the building is a door. We don’t even keep it locked anymore since a locked door is always more of an invitation than an unlocked one. Ink starts to turn the knob, but I eye the iron handles a few feet away. Each one calls my name, the urge to climb causing my heart to beat faster than windmill blades.
“You go on,” I tell Ink.
His hand pauses, a fresh groan in his voice. “Not again, Ruby.”
Gripping onto one of the iron bars, I hoist myself up and inhale the scent of old grease.
Behind me, Ink shakes his head. “It’s going to get you into trouble one of these days. You could fall.”
I hiss down at him, anchor my feet on the first bar and swing myself up onto the second.
“You could be seen,” he tries again.
“It’s worth it,” I mutter.
Besides, even if someone did see me, there’s still no chance they could catch me. Ink should be used to this by now.
“At least let me take the sack,” he volunteers.
I don’t hesitate and drop it right into his waiting arms. Ink and I’ve been roaming the streets long enough together now. He’d never betray me even if he could figure out how with that gold heart of his. Gold heart and silver tongue with a trickster mind. Seems like a contradiction, but it works for him.
Climbing works for me.
I keep one hand around a bar’s frame and lean back to salute him. “I’ll meet you at the tower!”
“Keep both your hands on something solid please!” He kneads his brow, and I grin down at him. The wrinkles in his pale forehead are adorable, like broken, curled harp strings. When Ink thinks I’m in danger, he doesn’t function the same. He always fusses too much.
He will probably reach the tower before I do. His way is the easy way through the heart of the business district, across hollow lobbies like empty stomachs, barren halls the bloodless vessels with nothing to pump, and the skyway a single valve which will carry him straight to the old clock tower. Even if the hands stopped moving long ago, it’s still the heart of the Ghetto as far as I’m concerned.
Up on the roof, I see the Ghetto for what it is. In pieces. The buildings remind me of headstones while the stree
ts beneath are clogged with dead bones walking. Smoke plumes from the chimneys in the distance ― stagnant breaths of a city with its lungs long since blackened. Nothing but sweepers and gangs, soldiers and whores as they dub us. Many can’t even breed anymore, but no one knows why. The world is a broken music box. It can play just a few keys, but it’s winding down slowly, slowly, slowly ― the tune so soft and gradual, you have to listen to really hear it. That’s why we are the new currency. Especially if we are childbearing age. They’ll keep selling us for whatever they can ― a warm bed, a breeder, a maid, a nanny ― piece by piece until we are completely used up.
Except when I’m this high, it’s different. No, I don’t imagine what it must have looked like before the Fall. It can never go back, so there’s no point. But up here I’m Queen of the Ghetto. I’ve scaled the tallest building in the business district. Someday, I’ll scale straight up the Hotel and scream my lungs out right before I leave this rotting-toothed city behind. Even the parts where nature has grown through whole buildings — moss, lichen, vines, trees and their roots — are like old chunks of lettuce wedged between teeth.
Wind cracks against me, sharp and cold as new sewing needles. Instead of shivering, I throw off my cap, stuff it in my pocket, and start running. The cold goads me on, etching into my multiple braids that sail on the air. They snag on my hips every few seconds. Aware of everything, I leap across multiple metal tubes, never once stopping because my feet harmonize with the rest of my body. Rooftops are my mountaintops. The urban jungle is more than just a friend, it’s my lifeblood. But someday, I will climb real mountains with real cliffs, and I will stare straight down their steep faces to the ocean below.
Ink hates heights.
When I reach the far side of the rooftop closest to the clock tower broken only by the skyway, I hesitate at the metal trapdoor that will drop me down into the skyway entry. Instead, I eye the overhang and the six foot drop onto the skyway rooftop. I hear Ink’s voice in my head:
