After (48 page)

Even the ”lucky” ones. The bleeders.

As soon as they were robed, Amy was taken off on her own, nervous, but more excited than scared, and Andrea felt sorry for her. Andrea thought of her mom and figured that, really, Amy had it the worst of all of them. Even if her first wasn't so bad, as soon as she'd had her baby, she'd see.

Old Miss Mary herded Andrea and the other three downstairs, into a dark and polished chamber furnished differently than any of the rooms the girls were normally allowed to enter, with upholstered chairs and sofas, colorful drapes, and wooden tables with gleaming surfaces and ornate legs.

“Be still and quiet, now, until we're summoned,” Miss Mary ordered in a hushed voice.

All the times she'd thought of this day, Andrea had imagined how she'd be brave.

Not scared. It was just her body they'd own and use. Her self, her soul, would always be hers. But waiting in that somber room, it was hard to believe in the distinction. The thought of some strange person, a man with a rough face and rough hands, licking and touching and lying on top of her twisted her insides in a knot. The waiting, there in that foreign room filled with all their nervous uncertainty, her hands were ice cold and damp.

She felt a little dizzy.

A heavy knock on a door by the window rattled her body under that heavy white gown.

“Keep quiet now, girls, and do just as you're told,” Miss Mary admonished for the hundredth time, and led them through the door.

* * * *

Keeping her ears tuned on every little sound around her—Char's nervous breathing, the faint crunch of gravel under boots whenever one of them shifted their weight where they squatted—Nix checked her watch again. Why was Anna so late? By now, they'd probably started. Nix stared at the kitchen door, willing it to open, and tried to push away the images of the scene inside.

* * * *

Silent except for the rustling of the white cloth draped around them, the four followed Miss Mary into the adjacent room. Then there was a small sound, like the sucking of air from a room just before the wind slams a door shut. The sound of four women catching their breath.

Andrea fought to keep her gait even, to do as Miss Mary was directing, but the stares of all those men, it was like a wave rushing at her, pushing her over, sweeping her feet out from under her. It must have been worse for the others. At least Andrea had seen men before.

As the four took their places, lining up along a wall papered in russet hyacinths on a yellow background, Andrea counted them. Eleven. Like she remembered from before the orphanage. All of them bigger than the largest of the girls or their watchers.

Taller, wider, older, rougher.

Would they do it right here? With Miss Mary watching? Would it be all of them at once? Or would three girls watch what they did to the first, each knowing her turn was coming? Andrea glanced over at the others, and regretted her silence. The last few days of peace weren't so precious they were worth the shock, the terror they'd endure, now. She should have told them. Should have coached them, the way her mom and the others had coached her.

Just a body. Just a body. Just a body.

“Let's start.”

Andrea followed the strange bass voice to the man sitting at the center of the semi-circle of chairs. Blue eyes. White hair. Older, smaller than the others.

“Tamara.” Miss Mary took the first girl's arm and led her before the crescent of men, their eyes following her, locking on her as Miss Mary let go of her arm and retreated to the wall, beside the other three. From there she instructed, “Tamara.

Remove your gown.”

Again there was that soft, quiet sound of air pulled from the room. Tamara stood there, her arms at her sides, fingers twitching to clutch at the white cloth or ball into fists or cross over her torso. They hadn't been trained to undress before strangers, but they'd been conditioned, ruthlessly, to do as they were told. Always. But she seemed frozen there, except for those twitching fingers, and her chest, heaving up and down under the folds of her gown.

“Tamara.”

If they hadn't been in the presence of the men, she wouldn't have gotten that warning.

Andrea breathed, “I'll go first.”

“Shhh!” Miss Mary hissed back.

Tamara seemed to fix her gaze on the gold tassel at the end of a braided cord adorning one of the curtains behind the men staring at her. Her hands shaking, she undid the clasp behind her neck, and her gown fell to the floor, leaving her pale form naked to the eleven men. She brought her arms back down to her sides to stand as she'd been taught, except that her hands were balled in two tight fists.

The men's eyes scanned over her body.

In her stern, quiet voice Miss Mary commanded, “Turn around.”

Keeping her light gray eyes fixed on the wall across from her, after a moment of hesitation Tamara pivoted slowly around, giving the men a chance to examine her from every angle. When she was back to facing that gold tassel, Miss Mary told her to pick up her gown and return to her place by the wall. Some of the men started writing on white, rectangular cards.

“Go on,” the watcher said to Andrea when Tamara had rejoined the others.

Trying to look calm, to keep her hands still and her gait steady, Andrea stepped before the men. All of them were looking at her, some studying her face, some already appraising her body through the folds of her gown. None of them seemed to actually see her. Except one. One, three over from the left, with dark hair flecked with gray that matched his dark gray irises. He met her eyes.

Miss Mary's voice. “Your gown.”

Facing those eager, unseeing eyes, focusing on taking deep, even breaths, Andrea kept her hands steady as she unclasped her robe and bared herself to the men.

Even as she turned, she kept her eyes on them as long as she could, daring them to really face her. Then she picked up her gown and returned to the others.

“Jessica.”

Even though nothing so awful had happened to Tamara or Andrea, Jessica just stood there, shaking, ashen, like she was deaf or paralyzed. Andrea touched her wrist, and she shuddered, then moved forward, so unsteady Andrea wondered if she'd fall down. When Miss Mary gave the order, Jessica touched the clasp at the back of her neck, then froze, tears rising in her eyes, spilling down her cheeks.

“Don't embarrass us, Jessica,” Miss Mary threatened.

God, Andrea wanted to punch that old bitch in the face and tell her to shut the fuck up. Jessica let out a shuddery, wet sob and crumpled down to the floor, hugging herself as if to cling to the gown she expected would be torn off her any moment. Miss Mary lunged forward, her switch already raised. Andrea braced herself for the crack of the lash and Jessica's scream.

But there was a bang. The thick wooden door flung open, and struck the wall behind. Watchers and girls poured in, pointing guns and barking orders. Only they weren't watchers and girls. They were strangers, dressed in their clothes.

“You! Men! On the floor! Face down!” A tawny hand pushed back the red hood as the woman's black eyes swept over the room. She caught Miss Mary's arm and hurled her toward the men, then placed herself like a wall in front of Andrea and the others.

“You, too. On the floor.”

Andrea choked on a breath as the man with the gray eyes and salt-and-pepper hair pulled a gun from under a sofa cushion. One by one he took aim at the men who had not dropped to their knees, and fired. Andrea remembered what gunshots sounded like. But this was quiet. And there were no screams. No blood. After a few seconds, though, the men who'd been shot fell to their knees, sank onto their hands, and finally collapsed. And then he shot Miss Mary, and her sharp eyes dimmed and closed.

“Char, get this one over to the others,” the black-haired, black-eyed stranger called to a younger woman wearing the simple black dress the girls usually wore.

Char caught Jessica by the arm and dragged her to the others.

“All of you. Get out of those robes, and put these on.”

She unfastened and upended a pack, and shook out a pile of dark clothes. Shirts and pants. Socks and shoes.

When she'd dressed, Andrea helped the others with the unfamiliar garments, looking up every few seconds to watch what was happening. Four of the eleven men were still standing; the man with gray eyes, and three others. She waited for more shouting, for the loud bang of gunfire, but then she understood; those four men were with the women.

“Who's our hostage?” The black-eyed woman asked.

“This one.” The man with gray eyes pointed his gun at the white-haired man who'd sat at the center of the semi-circle.

“Nice of him to be so small. Give the others a triple dose.”

“If I do, they'll—“

“Any reason I should feel bad about that?” The black-eyed woman asked.

“No. No, they're all in the game.”

“Go on, then.”

Some of the men on the floor were crying, shouting, “No. Don't. Please.” Saying things about money. The man with gray eyes fired his quiet gun at each of them. Now that they were all still, Andrea could see three little red tags protruding from their clothing.

The black-eyed woman checked her watch. Andrea had seen those before, too.

“Nix? Where's Jan?” Char asked.

“Just brief them. She'll be here.”

Char told Andrea and the others, “We're going to get you out of here. As soon as the others come, we'll leave by the kitchen. We've got horses out back...”

Andrea watched Nix, how her eyes kept sweeping the room, the man with gray eyes keeping watch over the hostage, the rest of the men and women, guns in their hands, peering between barely-parted curtains, watching the grounds.

“I want to stay here,” Jessica mumbled through tears.

“Why? So they can auction you off to the next pack of slavers?” Nix asked.

There was a round of knocks, a staccato pattern, and the door flung open again.

Now, a sea of women and girls flooded into the room.

“Jan? What is this?”

“We've got to take them, Nix.”

“They're too many. We can't take the young ones. You know that.”

“We can't just leave them here. We may never get another chance like this. You know what'll happen to them.”

Nix, to the tide of girls churning by the door, “Who here is thirteen or older?”

Four raised their hands.

“Twelve?”

Two more raised their hands.

“You six, wait over there with Char,” Nix said, pointing. Then, to Jan, “That's all we can take. We don't have enough horses to take more.”

“The men can each ride with one of the bigger girls. The horses can take a woman and two of the smaller girls.”

“It'll slow us down. We risk losing everyone, like that.”

“Come on, Nix. With the ones who are of age gone, they'll bend the rules. You know what'll happen to the others. What do they care if they're only eleven or ten?”

“They wouldn't risk it. Not knowing if they're breeders. They're safe, for now. The others aren't.”

“You're a heartless bitch.”

“You don't mean that, Jan. You know I'm just trying to keep everyone safe.”

“I can ride,” Andrea piped up. “If it helps, I can take two of the younger ones.”

Nix turned. Looked her over. “You're a wiry little thing. What do you weigh?”

“Barely a hundred pounds.”

“You can really ride?”

“Yes.”

Nix sighed. “Alright. Two more.”

Only one child was eleven. Three were ten. Nix chose the tallest. The likely one for being passed off, illegally, as soon as she could pass for a woman.

“Okay, that's it. The rest of you, you have to stay here. People are going to come.

Men. Looking for us. They're going to ask questions. They're going to be mad. Don't be scared. They won't dare to hurt you. Just tell everything, just like it happened, and everything will be okay. Just one lie: Miss Anna was asleep in the hallway by the dining hall, the whole time. Just like Miss Mary and these men are, here. If you weren't in that room, if you wouldn't have seen her, you don't know anything about Miss Anna. Alright?”

A dozen small voices echoed back, “Alright.”

“You four, you were given traveling cloaks for this afternoon?”

Andrea told her they had been, and Nix had her run and fetch them.

“Put these on. Keep them closed, so The Guard don't see what you're wearing underneath.” When Nix gestured, the four men who'd watched Andrea and Tamara disrobe, then shot the other seven, came over. To the girls, Nix said, “You're going to leave with these men, in pairs, just as if they'd bought you. But they're your friends.

They won't hurt you. They may have to say some ugly things to the guard, but it's just a trick. Don't let it scare you. Alright?”

The four nodded. Except for Jessica, the one who wanted to stay.

“They know the plan. How to get you to where it's safe. So listen, and do what they tell you.”

While Nix talked, four of the resistance women were putting on the red, hooded robes of the watchers, drawing the crones' cloaks close around their young faces.

“You,” Nix said, “the one who can ride. Can you shoot?”

“Yes.”

“Yeah? What are you used to?”

“Small arms. Pistols. Revolvers.”

“What's your name?”

“Andrea.”

Nix leaned in close, asked in a confidential hush, “Ever killed anyone, Andrea?”

“I'm not sure. I fired. I hit a couple. I hope they died.”

“Here, then. You take this. You know how the safety works?”

“Yes.”

“Keep it well hidden until you're outside the gates. Then keep it ready.”

In threes, twelve went out, each group—a man, a cloaked girl, and a counterfeit crone—waiting several minutes before they followed the one before. Each group was met at their carriage by a pair of guards with the dubious duty of ensuring no orphan girls left the facility without authorization, despite being forbidden from looking directly at the virgins in their ceremonial cloaks. To scrutinize the face in the shadows of the red crone's hood would be to invite suspicion of lasciviously ogling the youth by her side, so the guards had long since adopted the habit of obsequiously holding the gaze of the girl's new owner, content in the knowledge that their rank ensured them the privilege of being among the first to plunder the riches of the young woman, even if they could never afford to be the very first. To strip the ceremonial robe from those smooth, trembling shoulders.