by Oliver Atlas
I’ll only ever be exceptional if I remember I’m not the exception. I’ll only ever be a good if I come to grips with my own pull to darkness.
Skiss must see all this in my face. “Do you understand?” she asks, a tear running down her cheek.
I blink.
My own eyes brim over.
Do I understand? I don’t know. I know I want to.
I try to say as much, but it turns out all I can do is nod, all I can do is open my arms and hold her.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Something Like Dignity
Skiss and I stay up for hours. We talk about our families, our fears, our understandings of what we can hope and we ought to desire. We even talk about her dad, what she remembers, what I remember. We talk about the mysterious reasons he was murdered and why people in the Territory want Milly and I dead now.
Schlozfield is the obvious answer. Something about his research threatens someone. But in the end it sounds like just another conspiracy theory and I begin drifting off. The last thing I remember is Skiss kissing my forehead and resting my head in her lap as we sit on the floor beside the bed. For an instant I think about getting up. This is all too intimate, too sudden, too soon. Being surprised into intimacy with Milly was one thing, but this is another. With Milly, the boundaries of attraction and flirtation were still in place and clear. With Skiss—well, I can’t tell what is boundary and what isn’t.
Still, I’m too tired, too sad, too confused, and too comforted to move. I’ve already tried to kick her out, to hold her at bay. I’ve already made it clear I don’t want her serving me or trying to please me. I say as much again, mumbling that she should take the bed and go to sleep. She nods and smiles a mysterious smile and tells me to keep quiet. So, entranced by her insistence that I receive care through simple touch, I stay where I am, letting her hands run through my hair until I fall asleep.
I wake to find myself on the bed, under the covers. Skiss is outside pacing under the budding sunlight, acting as my sentry, steam poofing with her breath in the cool of morning. Clementine is still on the bureau and I shake my head with a rueful chuckle. How Skiss meant to protect me from anything other than a cold, I can’t imagine.
“Good morning,” I say, opening the glass door.
She smiles warmly in reply and it takes every bit of my self-control not to engulf her in a hug. I can’t tell for certain, but that I don’t seems to dim her smile a little. She remains where she is, near the smoldering brazier.
“I think you should come with me to Portland,” I say.
Her momentary disappointment melts beneath a childlike gasp and she leaps forward and throws herself around me.
“But Skiss,” I chuckle, fighting to breathe despite her bear-hug. “I mean it as a brother to a sister, okay? Come start over in Portland. I can get you a job at my brother’s tea shop. You can go with Hope and the girls to their church if you like. You can be who you want. You can be with whom you want.”
Somehow, her vice grip tightens. Her intensity makes me intensely happy and I try to laugh but it comes out as a squeak. Finally, Skiss laughs too, loud and long. She relaxes her grip enough for me to join her.
“But first things first,” I say, stepping back. “I need to meet Milly tonight at the Gala and find out what her plan is. Helping her is why I came in the first place.”
“Then I’m going with you,” she says, reaching up with a teasing finger to stop the objection already forming on my lips. “You’ll need a date, after all.”
I frown and complain that if I show up with a date East might not ask me to dance.
Skiss pities my wit with a har har and a punch in the shoulder.
At house brunch, Madame Rogger remains oddly quiet, shooting furtive glances at Skiss and me. Gemma and the other girls do too. Finally, full of biscuits and bacon and strawberries and eggs, I stand up, ringing my fork against a glass, and announce, thank you all, that Skiss and I have a beautiful platonic friendship. The room erupts in nervous laughter. Skiss blushes. I bow. Madame Rogger shoots me a suspicious look. Why a man shouldn’t indulge in her house’s full services makes no sense outside of the chance that I’m gay or religious. But I hope she’ll consider that things like self-control and respect still exist outside of dogma. Maybe we’ll even get a chance to converse about the matter.
The day leaves little room, though, for talk of anything outside of the Festival. We’ve already missed the Balloon Rodeo and the Three-Legged Zombie Race and the ladies are emphatic about getting good seats at the noontime Screamer Scamper. Although I’d rather clean the town’s outhouses than sit through another gruesome contest, the ladies drag me along, and Skiss has the good taste to look embarrassed at their ardor.
Another oddly warm autumn day. Another raucous crowd. Another front row seat. The Screamer Scamper, it turns out—and I can’t believe it—is simply a giant, do-or-die version of my old gym game, the Quick and the Dead. Across from the southern grandstands, a fenced enclosure the size of a football field has been raised. On each end of the enclosure stand two pylons forming an invisible safety zone. In the safety zone, to our left, forty challengers in running suits are warming up and stretching. Beyond the safety zone, five Screamers roam about snarling, kept out by shock collars synched with the pylons.
“Oh, hell,” I sigh.
Over the P.A., the festival announcer launches into a countdown from fifty. The crowd immediately picks up the count. Forty-five . . . thirty-two . . . thirteen . . . five, four, three, two . . . ONE!
The pylons protecting the challengers click off and the erratic Screamers suddenly turn and sprint straight for the line. With a battle roar, the forty runners leap forward too, making for the other end of the field and the new safety zone. Five go down within seconds, each clotheslined by one of the fleet-footed zombies. The Screamers dive onto the bodies, rip out a choice artery, and spring back into the chase. Unlike other zombies, they seem to have retained the inveterate human knack for hoarding.
Two more contestants fall wailing before the remaining thirty-three make it into the safety zone. The press box announces a four minute rest and hawkers begin shouting to the crowd, peddling popcorn, sodas, and tubular meats. Soon, I’m sitting in a miasma of buttery smutchings, sugary slurpings, and noshing prognostications about which runner will survive. It almost makes me long to be out on the plains with the dead.
During the next four passes, an average of six challengers fall. I can’t imagine what kind of people would sign up for this sort of game. I can’t imagine what kind of culture would sit watching, cheering, betting on who will survive. But I don’t have to imagine it. Here I am. “Get him!” I hear the crowd yell during the fourth pass, as two Screamers chase a straggler rumored to hail from Portland. Skiss, who is sitting to my left, must sense my rising temperature. She reaches over and takes my hand.
I suddenly hear a line echoing in my head, a chorus of voices from my past. Books, friends, professors, know-it-all aunts, embittered coaches—I can hear them all insisting, hope for a better world is too good to be true. The echo persists through the next two passes, until the challengers have managed to hobble two Screamers with kicks to the kneecaps and the Screamers have mowed down eight more runners. Three people remain, one man and two women. They’re bent over in the safety zone, catching their breaths, the crowd already yelling out the countdown. For the first time, I get out my spotting scope and try to make out their faces. I wonder if they hear the chorus too. Hope is too good to be true. Hope is your enemy. Over the chorus I can hear my mom singing—I’m heading for a time of solitude, of peace without illusion, of peace without illusion—and I’m overcome by the desire to yell to them, No! We’ve gotten it all wrong. Hope for a better world isn’t too good to be true. The world born from our hopelessness is too bad to be true.
I shake my head, amazed. “It’s too bad to be true.”
“What?” Skiss squeezes my hand.
“Nothing,” I say. “I’ll tell you later.�
��
When later comes, one woman remains standing, along with two run-ragged Screamers. Just like in my old gym class, she doesn’t have to face them alone. Once she is the last standing, safe behind the pylons, the game is declared over. She thrusts her fists into the air, the crowd cheers, two sniper shots ring, and the remaining Screamers drop dead. An armed convoy zooms out to the fence to retrieve the bodies. Bravo.
No longer able to care if I seem standoffish, I skip the afternoon’s remaining games. Skiss comes along, unwilling to leave me unguarded. She tells me Union Powder has a church, though she’s never been. We pay it a visit only to discover it was converted into a gambling hall twenty years ago.
“Yeah,” laughs the owner. “People come from far and wide to go to my church.”
“Brilliant,” I comment dryly. “Very sexy marketing.”
He notices my tone and my cross and waves a dismissive hand in my face.
By supper time, I’m more than sick of Union Powder. I mostly carve my lasagna and move it around my plate.
“Did you tell her you were coming with us?” I ask Skiss afterwards, in the solarium. She’s helping me straighten the blue necktie that goes with the dark gray suit I borrowed from Madame Rogger.
She nods, avoiding my eyes.
“How did she take it?”
“She’s been like a mother to me. She feels like I’m judging her suddenly, that I’m being ungrateful.”
I squeeze her arm. “That’s natural. Parents feel hurt all the time when their kids leave or choose a different path. But what’s important is that it isn’t true, Abbey. You’re not judging her and you’re not being ungrateful. She’ll understand in time.”
“Blake, this is . . . different. It’s not like I’m leaving farming for baking. I’m leaving the security I’ve known, the family I’ve known, the world I’ve known—for a life of complete unknowns. She’s afraid for me. And I think she feels . . . ”
Her voice trails off, so I pick it up. “Like you’re judging her?”
Skiss nods again and brushes tears away.
“Are you?” The words come out of my mouth before I can stop them.
She steps back from me. “Of course not!”
“Why not?” I say, gently as can be.
Skiss’s eyes are wide, as though I’ve gone mad. “Because she’s a kind woman doing the best she can to protect girls in a town where . . . Blake, do you understand? They bring us to this town—men bring us for other men. Then we’re trapped. There’s no way else to earn money. They make sure of that. So we’re here. We’re trapped. We’re desperate. We’re alone. Maybe there’s somebody out there smart enough and strong enough to help us in a better way, but Madame Rogger did her best. She was a girl just like us, and she found a way to give us something like a home, and something like a family—something like dignity. And the thought of her feeling accused by me breaks my heart.”
My own heart feels pretty heavy, but I keep my voice calm and soft. “Then why don’t you want to stay?”
“Because,” she says. A simple, sad, glorious smile creeps onto Skiss’s face. The solarium glass gleams with the orange of sunset and her almond skin is aglow. “Because I want something more. Is that wrong? Because while Madame Rogger has given me a glimpse of home, I don’t want to stay in the glimpse. Blake, does wanting more than she’s been able to give mean I’m unthankful?”
“I don’t think so, Abigail,” I say. We’d agreed last night that I’d continue calling her Skiss for secrecy’s sake, but we’re alone, the moment feels important, and I want to call her by her true name. “She wanted more for you than you had when you came here. The moment she took you in and loved you, she was teaching you to want more—no, to want better. She was teaching you something about love. And now it’s your turn to love her back, to want better for her than she wants for herself. You don’t have to claim to know what that better is—not, at least, until you can invite her to taste it, to come join you. But that’s where we’re going: to scout for a better country. That’s a big part of what going west has always been about, from time out of mind.”
She sighs. There is a smile in her eyes, a gleam of affection, a twinkle of sadness. Her perfect hands reach up and straighten my hat. “We’re going to be late for your big night.”
At her words, a chill runs up my back. I wish we could skip my big night. Actually, I wish we could skip town altogether. My gut tells me there’s trouble in the air.
Chapter Thirty-Five
To the Victor
When we arrive at the Grand Hotel, we are indeed late. The concierge greets us in the lobby. He is an extremely round man, bald and bearded, with a forced expression of calm on a naturally flushed face. He blusters at first, insisting we’ll have to wait to be seated because he won’t risk interrupting the Mayor’s welcome speech, but when I pull back my jacket to reveal the black Ranger badge, his bluster turns to grovel. Thirty seconds later and he’s seating us at a round dining table at the back of a glitzy ballroom, packed tight with more such tables, each piled with drinks and delicacies, each circled by Union Powder VIP’s. The room’s crystal chandeliers give off an oddly crisp, white light, not the hazy gold illumination of the Territory’s ubiquitous gas lamps. My guess is the old boat is equipped with an electric generator.
The room itself is electrified, abuzz with excitement about the evening ahead. I recognize no one at our table, unless maybe the slender brunette across from us is the woman who won the Screamer Scamper. It’s possible, but hard to tell. No one pays Skiss or I any attention as we settle into our seats. Mayor Quincy has everyone enrapt.
“And once our champions have picked their prizes, our famous twenty-two course dinner will commence! Chef Klaus Von Scellick has outdone himself this year, taking a team all the way to New York to raid the kitchens of the finest restaurants in the land. The maestro himself will be on hand, passing through the room, enlightening us all as to the artistry going into our mouths.”
Everyone applauds. To the right of the Mayor, off stage at the edge of the room, a stone-faced man in white chef’s attire nods in acknowledgement. Chef Klaus, apparently.
“After dinner,” continues the Mayor, “we will, of course, indulge in an hour of dancing. Pink Daiquiri, the only Portlanders beloved in Union Powder, are here to give us a beat.”
At this announcement the crowd goes wild. A few tables even jump to their feet and start swaying, as though they’d be happy to forego dinner. The Mayor only laughs and coaxes them back to their seats.
“And finally,” he says, “we will all vote for the Champion of this year’s Outbreak Festival, the one champion whose feat impressed us all the most, the one champion who will be awarded, as always, a lifetime’s citizenship in Bentlam.”
An awed ripple runs through the room. I’m sure everyone knew what was coming, but it doesn’t seem to matter. A lifetime in Bentlam obviously strikes my fellow VIPs as the best award possible. With one exception.
Yaverts.
He’s yawning.
I spot the big man from across the room. He’s dressed in a black tux, his golden hair is slicked back, his beard even trimmed. He catches my look and grins impudently back, nodding suggestively across the table from him. There, with her head resting against a tall man’s shoulder—Damon’s shoulder—is Milly.
I fight back a wave of anger, trying to keep my face unreadable. But I must fail, because Yaverts starts chuckling silently. That makes my anger all the worse.
At that moment, Skiss leans over and whispers in my ear. “East.” Her eyes flick opposite the room from Yaverts, where the black-bearded Ranger sits, his face hidden behind a large martini glass.
I nod, immediately noticing the pistol beneath Vandercain’s jacket. We all may have dressed up for the Gala, but everyone is still packing heat. Anything could happen before the night is up. I simply want to reach Milly and hear once and for all if she needs my help or not.
“And now I’d like each of our ten champions to
join me on stage,” announces Mayor Quincy, ramping up his voice as he begins to clap and the crowd begins to cheer. “Let’s welcome the champions of the Crawler Mauler! The Three-Legged Zombie Race! The Screamer Scamper!—” I was correct. The brunette at our table rises at mention of the Scamper—“The Moat Push! The Crown Blood Cup! The Lobe Lopping! The Hellhogtie! The Balloon Rodeo! The Torcher Torture! And, last but not least, the Bleeding Heart!”
Yaverts rises. Damon too. And Milly. What did she win? Does she really get to share in Damon’s Crown Blood Cup? Apparently so. She joins the others on stage as if she owns it.
And, in a sense, she does.
Wearing a sweeping peach evening dress with a single shoulder strap and long white gloves, with her hair worn up in a crown of dark fire, she is truly radiant. The crowd hoots and shouts until she humors them with a series of curtsies and twirls, and, when they seem appeased, she takes her place beside Damon, hand in hand.
I can’t believe she’s being such a fool. How can she not see straight through his dashing facade? I find it especially ironic that the handsome villain has chosen a white suit for the evening. Even his tie is white. I snort aloud. Talk about over-disguised.
“Here they are!” shouts Mayor Quincy, ready to whip the crowd into an approving frenzy.
The crowd, though, simply stares at him.
For a split second, the Mayor seems befuddled. He makes a show of counting on his fingers and when he reaches ten he cries, “Eleven! Dear friends, you must forgive me. There are annual challenges and there are timeless challenges, and it is very rarely—very, very rarely—that anyone meets the demands of the latter. All the same, this year we are privileged to have a hero among our champions. Therefore, it is my honor—and slight, forgetful embarrassment—to welcome the champion of the Hero’s Crossing—the only individual ever to pass solo from Baker’s Flat to Union Powder by horseback—the Western Ranger!”
