365 Days At War

by Nancy Isaak

  * * * *

  “That was stupid!” Erroll hissed at me. “Like that had to be one of the most stupidest, reckless things you’ve ever done.”

  I shrugged. “That’s saying something, considering how many stupid, reckless things I’ve done this last couple of years.”

  If there hadn’t been Crazies on the other side of the rusting school bus we were hiding behind, no doubt Erroll would have yelled at me. As it was, he had to content himself with merely shaking his head and looking disappointed. In a way, he reminded me of my mom, the way she would get when I’d upset her. That made me smile under my sheet—which probably would have really irritated Erroll if he could have seen it.

  “And if he had called for a White Shirt,” Erroll continued, “you know that we would probably have had to kill him, right?”

  “I made a judgment call.”

  “And put all of us at risk…including this stupid plan of yours!”

  “It won’t be so stupid if it works,” I insisted.

  Ryan put his arm out between us. “Can we not do this here? Like maybe we can wait until we reach Alice’s.”

  Erroll snorted, unhappy. “As if it would make any difference anyway. She’ll just go off and do what she wants…she always does!”

  Lifting his end of the chain, Nate gave it a little shake. “I can take care of that.”

  I immediately grabbed my own end of the chain and shook it—hard.

  “Take care of that!” I snapped—as the heavy links whipped up and down, yanking at Nate’s hand.

  “Okay, everyone just calm down,” said Ryan, sounding almost reasonable. “This is actually a good thing that Kaylee did. At least I think so.”

  Both Erroll and Nate looked at him, as if he was losing it.

  Ryan held up both of his hands. “Why do you think I let him see that I was a Star in the first place? Kaylee probably saw the same thing that I did. The kid is one of the good guys.”

  “You didn’t know that for sure,” Erroll insisted. “You couldn’t know…you were just guessing.”

  “This whole thing is a matter of trust, bro,” said Ryan. “We trust you guys, you trust us—now Kaylee and I are trusting him. And frankly—that’s important right now—because we need more people…our people, Crazies…if this plan is going to succeed.”

  You’re bringing him in?” I asked.

  “I’ll come back tomorrow,” said Ryan. “Sound him out. If it still seems like he’s legit, then there’s a good chance he and his buddies will fit right in with what we’ve got going.”

  “He’s a big kid,” Nate noted, warming to the idea. “Like really big. That will help when the time comes.”

  “Plus, I’ll bet he’ll pass the word,” added Ryan. “The right people knowing that Kaylee—that Mother—is in the Conejo Valley can only be a good thing.”

  * * * *

  I had hoped that we wouldn’t have to actually pass the ‘slave market’.

  Unfortunately our route took us right through the middle. As we pushed our way through the dozens of guys waiting for the ‘auction’ to begin, hands reached out to grab at me, some actually trying to pull the sheet away from my face.

  For the first time since I’d put it on, I felt protected by my sheet—another line of defense between myself and the Crazies. Of course, my guys were also there. Erroll, Ryan, and Nate surrounded me on three sides—using their bodies and their fists to deflect anyone who came too close.

  It was frightening—and humiliating.

  When I looked around at the sheeted-girls in the cages waiting to be sold, however, I knew that I couldn’t complain. The girls were huddled together, crouched in the center of their prisons, as far away from grabbing hands as they could get. There were chains around all of them—on their wrists, as well as their necks—and I noticed that many of the sheets they were wearing were stained with blood. It sickened me to think of what might have caused those stains—what inhuman horrors those poor girls must have had to endure.

  I wondered if any of the silent, downcast forms were those of my friends, former classmates from Agoura High. Most likely, there were girls in those cages from my old community—girls who had now been betrayed by their very leaders—

  —by Orla and Tray.

  * * * *

  The crush of Crazies became greater as we made our way to the far side of the slave market. More guys were coming in through the gate there—an opening between two large trucks that had been turned on their sides.

  There were White Shirts all around the gate—some with large broomsticks that they used to push guys along.

  Or—if someone offended them for some real or imagined reason—the broomsticks would come down on the offender’s back. If the guy was lucky, he’d continue on with only a nasty bruise; if the White Shirt’s aim was off, however, then the broomstick came down on his head.

  We witnessed one young Crazy who moved a tad too slowly and took a blow to the nape of his neck. The kid fell to the ground, blood spurting. He laid there—unmoving—until two White Shirts lifted him up and carried him away.

  At one point, a roar rose up—guys hooting and hollering as three small shapes in sheets were given entry through the gate. By their size, I suspected that there were girls no older than Lily and Hannah under those sheets. My heart dropped as I realized that we wouldn’t be able to save them; that those little girls were destined for sale.

  They were chained together, with five White Shirts prodding them along—three guys on one side, two on the other. I noticed that the crowd moved back immediately, leaving more than enough room for the girls and the White Shirts to get by—heading toward the piled-up crates that would be serving as the stage.

  In front of the crates, chairs of different shapes and sizes had been set up in rows; most of them were already filled by grinning guys. Two rows in front were completely empty, I noticed. In fact, there were White Shirts stationed there with whips, ready to lash out at anybody who came too near the ‘reserved’ seats.

  The hackles on the back of my neck rose up.

  Trying not to be obvious, I pulled on my neck chain, wanting to catch Nate’s attention. He ignored my tugging, however, as he pushed through the crowd of incoming Crazies, ever closer to the opening between the two trucks that led out of the market.

  Angling slightly, I changed directions, inching toward Erroll on my right—making a psst! sound. This close to the White Shirts at the entrance gate, I didn’t dare use actual words—afraid that I might be heard.

  Unfortunately, Erroll was so intent on the Crazies flowing past him, that he didn’t notice me—at least, not until I pretended to stumble. He caught me easily as I fell toward him, and I quickly whispered into his ear. “Empty row of chairs...I think company’s coming!”

  Immediately, Erroll spun around to stare toward the makeshift stage. The young girls had just reached it and their White Shirt captors were pulling them up the stairs and onto center stage.

  Apparently, they were to be the first sales of the day.

  “Ryan!” barked Erroll, at the same time pulling on my chain, so Nate would stop. When both guys turned toward him, Erroll pointed to the two empty rows of chairs in front of the stage. “Who sits there, Ryan…in those chairs?”

  Before Ryan could respond, however, a trumpet sounded; its bleat was one long note—low and mournful.

  At once, the White Shirts began moving into the crowd, shoving at people, pushing them down onto their knees. Whips rose up, flashing down again and again onto backs, arms, legs—urging the Crazies to move faster.

  Suddenly—there were hands on our shoulders.

  One moment, we were standing there, half-frozen; the next, we were being pushed down to the ground by what I assumed had to be White Shirts standing behind us. Only—when I turned my head to look—I discovered a young mohawked kid of about fifteen.

  “Hurry!” he cried. “On your knees quickly!”

  There were other Crazies behind Nate and Erroll, pushi
ng them down. Ryan, however, was falling to his knees on his own.

  “Down now…before they see you!” urged the kid behind me.

  He increased the pressure on my shoulder and I hit the ground with a thump—so hard that I knew that I would have bruises on my knees in the morning. Only then did the young Crazy’s hand lift up from my shoulder. As it did, I caught a quick glimpse of a tattoo between his fourth and pinky finger on his right hand…a star.

  Just how long had these guys been behind us?

  Was this Ryan’s doing? Had he set up Stars to shadow us?

  And if so—why hadn’t he told us?

  * * * *

  We stayed on our knees for a good five minutes before they arrived.

  During that time, the White Shirts moved among us—arranging us into organized lines, checking to make sure that all slaves not in cages were with their appropriately-numbered owner.

  At one point, there was a slight commotion in front of us as three huge guys were pushed down onto their knees by a team of six White Shirts. While the beefy guys weren’t exactly resisting, they also weren’t making it easy for the White Shirts either.

  For a moment, I wondered if perhaps it was because the three guys were Stars. Then, I saw the tattoo on one of the guy’s shoulder.

  A set of upside-down angel wings.

  As if in response to what I was seeing, my own angel wings began to itch furiously—my back becoming all prickly and irritated. I was terrified that the Crazy in front of me would turn around suddenly and recognize me. After all, I was the Local who had ordered those upside-down wings tattooed onto his back in the first place. No doubt he would remember me as the bitch who had kept him in a cage—and eventually marked him.

  Irrational, I knew—considering that I was under a sheet.

  But fear—as I had come to learn—went hand-in-hand with irrationality.

  Slowly—trying not to let anyone notice—I nudged Erroll, just enough to make him turn and look at me. As soon as I had caught his gaze, I gave the slightest of nods toward the upside-down angel wings. It was obvious that Erroll recognized its owner as one of our previous prisoners, because his eyes went wide and he leaned over and whispered into Nate’s ear.

  Things became suddenly worse as a White Shirt began stalking toward us. My heart dropped—certain that he must have seen Erroll whispering to Nate.

  Only the White Shirt merely motioned to the line of Crazies kneeling in front of us instead. As a group, the guys rose up—including the Crazy with the upside-down angel wings—and followed the White Shirt to a new position behind the stage.

  There was now a clear space in front of us—a small aisle where the White Shirts began to walk back and forth.

  I had only a short moment to breathe easier.

  Then, the trumpet sounded once more.

  And all around us, there arose an excited murmur.

  * * * *

  The soldiers came first—twenty of the largest kids I had ever seen. A few I recognized from the Agoura Hills and Oak Park high school football teams. The rest must have come from out of the area, because I’d never seen them before.

  All of them were well-armed—carrying semi or automatic rifles.

  A few of the soldiers also carried whips, while one menacing Crazy dragged an actual axe along the ground. It squeeeeed across the pavement, the noise so irritating that many of the guys around me actually plugged their ears.

  When the soldiers reached the stage area, they fanned out, circling the audience and the cages of girls. Six of them divided into two teams of three—each team taking an opposite watch perpendicular to the rows of empty seats.

  After the soldiers, came the trumpeter.

  He was surprisingly young—no more than nine or ten—but he blew the horn with all the confidence of a musical prodigy. The song he was playing was a football fight song, one that I recognized from having been played often during halftime breaks at our high school’s games.

  The kid marched straight up onto the stage, taking his place a few inches from the front edge—dead center. With a few final bleats, the kid gave a little bow, tucked his trumpet under his arm, then stuck one finger up his nose and began digging away.

  Ewww! The disgusted groan came from the guys seated in the chairs directly in front of him; the rest of us, however, were too nervous to respond—especially with White Shirts marching through our ranks, their hands ready to bring their whips and clubs down on our backs for any infraction.

  “Heads to the earth!” yelled one of the soldiers suddenly.

  All around me, guys leaned even farther forward, touching their foreheads to the ground. A hand pushed at my foot from behind, prodding me to hurry; I quickly slouched over—holding my forehead an inch above a small pile of broken concrete.

  On the far side of the crowd, meanwhile—out of the corner of my eye—I saw a White Shirt raise his rifle. It came down moments later with a solid crack!

  Two other White Shirts rushed over to his position and the three of them carried an unconscious Crazy away. Blood trickled from an ugly looking indentation on their young victim’s head and—even from where I knelt—I could hear the kid’s pain-filled moans as he was carted away through the crowd.

  The trumpet sounded again…duh-da-da-DUH!

  All heads turned toward the opening between the overturned trucks, to the pastel vision entering there…Orla!

  She was dressed in a pink sweater and skirt set, and the heels she wore had to be at least four inches high. As she walked along the open space in front of me, I marveled at how clean she looked—and smelled. Her red hair gleamed in the sun, styled in a loose bun at her neck that allowed a few tendrils to escape, framing her face.

  I hated to admit it, but Orla actually looked beautiful. We all watched her—angling our heads just enough—as she strode confidently onto the stage.

  In response to her nod, the young trumpeter immediately moved back, so Orla could take his spot dead center. All around me, meanwhile, I could hear guys murmuring over the way Orla’s skirt hugged her bottom, how her cleavage was peeking out of her low cut blouse.

  Until Tray entered.

  Almost instantaneously, Orla became less once more—unable to compete with the girl who now glided along the aisle toward the stage—and me.

  A slight groan traveled through the rows of guys on their knees as Tray walked slowly along, a not-so-subtle acknowledgement that they were in the presence of unearthly beauty—a dystopian goddess—almost too exquisite for mere mortals like themselves to gaze upon.

  Indeed, a number of the guys actually covered their eyes, as if just looking upon Tray was too much for them. Other guys, I noticed, had the opposite problem; even with their foreheads to the ground, they leered hungrily at Tray, twisting their heads to gape as she passed—their buttocks clenching and unclenching for reasons I really didn’t want to think about too closely.

  * * * *

  For almost a year, Tray had tormented me.

  She had tried to seduce me; she had certainly played and bested me.

  Now—here she was—striding past me in her statuesque splendor and all I wanted was to reach out and grab her thin ankles and…pull hard!

  If it wasn’t a near certainty that I would be dead within moments, I would have definitely made the effort.

  Sadly—Tray made it past me untouched.

  There was an enormous grin on Tray’s face as she climbed onto the stage beside Orla. She stood there, staring out at her appreciative audience, secure in the power of her beauty.

  Tray was dressed in tight booty shorts and a gold bikini top that barely held her perfectly pert breasts in check. Roman sandals laced up to her knees and a webbed army belt at her waist held a sheathed knife, revolver, and her infamous whip. With her shining black hair held back in a high ponytail, Tray reminded me of Lara Croft—the sexy heroine of the adventure video games so many of us had played back in the old world.

  “Hi, babies!” she cooed at the crowd aro
und her. Tray’s voice was deep and throaty—exuding an innate sexuality that—(and I hate to admit this)—even gave me a little warm tingle in my mid-section.

  There were a few nervous titters from the guys nearest Tray—others mumbled a ‘hi’ back, their foreheads still plastered to the ground.

  Orla, meanwhile, just shook her head at Tray’s antics; she, at least, wasn’t impressed.

  “But where’s my other baby?” Tray asked, using a little girl voice. She swiveled her hips a few times, just enough to induce groans from the more randy guys. “I need my little baby, my little pet, my puppy. Has anyone seen my little puppy?”

  At her words, a White Shirt appeared at the entrance to the market, dragging a long chain behind him. The kid was big and beefy, with long black hair that fell to his shoulders, and his arms were covered in tattoos that were visible even through the sleeves of his White Shirt.

  Like everyone else, I swiveled my head to watch as the beefy kid pulled on the chain—assuming that some kind of dog would eventually emerge from the space between the two trucks.

  But it wasn’t a dog

  It was Connor!

  I must have gasped a little, because Nate gave a quick tug on my chain, while Erroll turned and shushed at me.

  Beside me, Ryan merely shook his head.

  Up on the stage, meanwhile, Tray giggled and leaned forward, her breasts practically spilling out of her bikini top, “There’s my puppy…come here, little puppy. Come and give mommy your little puppy kisses.”

  A Crazy somewhere behind me murmured under his breath to his buddies, “I’ll give that bitch puppy kisses!”

  There were a few muffled chuckles at that, just enough to catch a nearby White Shirt’s attention. He shushed menacingly at the guys—silencing them.

  Meanwhile, Connor was being pulled along the open space toward me. He was stumbling forward, his feet bare, hands at his neck, trying desperately to keep the heavy chain from chafing.