by Sam Clark
Czarina went from being sure she would achieve her goal of seeing Marisa naked, to seeing all the progress slip away. Idealist! In what world does her talking to you for like two seconds translate into her wanting to hook up with you? Only in the fantasy world in your head. The thought was a slap in the face, and Czarina found herself once again condemned to the mind-numbing monotony of her life, and she couldn’t take it. Wouldn’t take it. She had to do something to stop that from happening.
As Marisa went to move past her, Czarina placed an arm in front of Marisa to bar her way. “Wait!”
Fortunately, Marisa stopped and looked up, her sparkling green eyes meeting Czarina’s.
Czarina desperately tried to figure out something to say. She looks different—not nervous anymore. Bah, no time for that. Come on. Come on. Wow, her eyes are green. Focus. You know she doesn’t get along well with her brother and father, use it.
“Well?” Marisa said.
Fuck it. Fortune favors the bold.
“Marisa, I’m going to kiss you now, and you’re going to like it.”
Marisa gasped and leaned back a bit.
“And everybody else is going to hate it.”
A slight smile touched Marisa’s lips.
For once in her life, Czarina didn’t hesitate. She leaned in and kissed Marisa.
Eventually Marisa pulled back and said with a sly grin, “You’re right, I did like it. But I don’t think I’m the only one who did.”
Czarina laughed before responding. “You’re right about that. I thoroughly enjoyed myself.”
Marisa placed a hand on Czarina’s left hip, and Czarina felt her heart shift into another gear. “Meet me tonight,” Marisa said in a low, sultry voice, “in the Corridor A supply room, an hour before lights out. And you can thoroughly enjoy yourself some more.”
Marisa patted Czarina twice on the hip, then stepped past her and walked away without waiting for a response.
SIXTEEN
Location: Underground
Date: 9-1-61
Czarina was a bundle of nervous energy in the hours leading up to her rendezvous with Marisa, stalking back and forth through her quarters, drawing several admonishments from James to “Watch where the hell you are going” after she bumped into a stack of books, sending some toppling. The third such occurrence was just before the designated time, and after she hurriedly returned some books on Native American history to their place, she said, “I think I’ll roam the halls for a bit. Work some of this energy off.”
“That is probably for the best. Stay out of trouble,” James said.
“Anything’s possible.”
“But not everything is likely,” James said with a laugh.
She exited her family’s quarters and was relieved to be away, but she quickly found herself nervous for a whole new set of reasons. I can’t believe this is really happening. I’m going to meet Marisa. Holy shit, I’m going to meet Marisa! She wanted to run through the halls to burn off some of her nervousness—or excitement, or whatever the hell it was she was feeling—but she wasn’t normally out and about at this hour, especially in Corridor A, and she didn’t want to attract any extra attention. Far more importantly, she didn’t want to start sweating.
It didn’t work. When she finally arrived at the supply room, she felt like she had run. She could feel beads of sweat trickling down her spine, making her shirt cling uncomfortably to her skin. Her heart smashed against her chest like it was desperate to break free, and her palms were a clammy mess. She wiped her hands on her pants several times, to little effect, before finally giving it up as hopeless. Nothing left to do but get in there, Czarina. One deep, cleansing breath to steady her nerves, a quick look to the left and right to make sure nobody was coming, and then she opened the supply room door just a crack, slid through, and shut it behind her.
She hadn’t spent much time in the supply rooms before—she’d never had a reason to, apart from occasionally being sent to fetch supplies. It was pitch black inside, so she figured Marisa wasn’t there yet. She felt around for the light panel, eventually finding it. Fluorescent light filled the room, and she cringed at how bright it was. She was worried the light would be seen under the door from the hallway. Thankfully, she was able to turn off the main overhead lighting while leaving the emergency side lighting on, casting the large room in an eerie glow and dense shadows.
There were several large supply rooms throughout the complex. This one was just like the others she had seen, but with a lot less stuff in it. Most of it was stacked against the walls, leaving the middle of the room mostly empty, except for a small folding table with four chairs around it. While there were a few boxes of prepackaged meals, gas masks, ammunition, and other survival gear, this supply room primarily contained furnishings. One wall was filled with stacked tables and chairs. Along the opposite wall was a stack of the thin, single-person cots she was all too familiar with.
Fortune favors the bold.
She walked over to the cots and pulled one down, managing to do it without making too much noise. She briefly debated whether to lie on the cot, sit on it, or remain standing. Lying down, she decided, was too presumptuous; standing next to the cot not presumptuous enough. After all, she had a goal to achieve, and while she still had almost two months left to do it, she had every intention of checking it off tonight, if she could. But she had to be careful. Don’t press too hard tonight and blow it because you can’t be patient, Czarina. You still have fifty-four days left. Plenty of time. So she sat.
And waited.
Then waited some more.
After about twenty minutes, she began to wonder if Marisa was going to show. Maybe it’s all some sort of trick. To what end? To humiliate me? Maybe, but it’s not like I’m sitting here naked. I’m just sitting in a supply room. People already think I’m weird. So no harm done. No, she’s not standing me up, at least not as a trick. Maybe she can’t get away. Maybe Steve caught her sneaking off, or her dad. Czarina didn’t know which of the two would be worse.
She was about to call it quits and head back to her room when the door opened, and Marisa walked in.
Marisa was dressed differently than normal. Instead of a too-tight top with a deep slit down the front, she wore a light gray t-shirt that was neither too tight nor too loose, with ARMY scrolled across the chest in blocky, black letters. Rather than her signature cutoff shorts, she wore pink and white flannel pajama pants. Even though she was showing a great deal less skin than normal, she still looked every bit as good. Maybe better.
Czarina wondered how many people outside of Marisa’s family got to see her dressed in such plain clothing. She doubted there were many, and the thought filled her with confidence.
“Have you been waiting long?” Marisa asked, walking toward Czarina, smiling.
“Only a couple of minutes.” No reason to let her think I’ve been sitting here like a chump for twenty plus minutes, twiddling my thumbs.
Marisa’s brow furrowed slightly, and the corners of her mouth turned down. “Oh.”
Does she know I was lying? No, there’s no way she could know. Not unless she’s been pacing the halls, trying to work up the nerve for the last twenty minutes. And there’s no way she’d do that. Too likely she’d be seen by someone, and they’d ask what she was doing walking the halls in her pjs. But why the look then? Eh, who gives a fuck.
Marisa’s face relaxed, the smile returned. “Still, I’m sorry you had to wait, even for a few minutes.”
Czarina flashed a big grin. Fortune favors the bold. “I’m sure you’ll think of some way to make it up to me.” She patted the edge of the cot.
For the first time, Marisa seemed to realize Czarina was sitting on a cot. “My goodness, Czarina. I don’t know what you expect to happen here, but I’m a good girl.” The throaty way Marisa said the last part suggested to Czarina that she was anything but, a thought that sent Czarina’s blood boiling.
Czarina said nothing, figuring at thi
s point that saying too much was far more likely to mess things up than saying too little. Rather, she just fixed Marisa with an expectant gaze.
Marisa took the few remaining steps to the cot. Then, just like that, they were embracing, lips meeting, hands wandering.
After a few minutes, Marisa pulled back with a wonderfully wicked grin that accentuated her pouty lips. She placed one hand on Czarina’s chest, then pushed her down onto her back, none too gently. Czarina did not resist as Marisa climbed on top of her, her thighs straddling Czarina’s waist. Marisa leaned forward, her silky hair tickling Czarina’s face. It smelled fresh. As their lips met again, Marisa began to slowly grind her hips against Czarina’s body.
The next time Marisa pulled away from Czarina, she showed that same devilish smile, and then reached up and pulled her shirt off. Czarina saw one last obstacle to be overcome on the way to her goal: a black, unadorned bra that stood out like a beacon against Marisa’s fair skin. Czarina was so close. She had to go for it and go for it now.
As the two began kissing again, Czarina ran her hands up the smooth skin of Marisa’s back to the clasp holding her bra on. Czarina’s trembling hands began to work in earnest. And as her fingers fumbled with the clasp, she wondered at how such a seemingly small obstacle could prove to be so damn insurmountable. She’s going to laugh at me and leave, all because I couldn’t unhook her bra. Brav-fucking-o, Czarina, bravo. Maybe you should wear something besides a sports-bra from time to time, then you wouldn’t get into this kind of mess. It’s okay, though; Napoleon had Russian winters, and you have bras. Why can’t I get this thing open?
Marisa pulled away. Here it comes.
She smiled and gave a small laugh. However, much to Czarina’s relief, she didn’t get up and leave. “Would you like some help with that?” Marisa asked.
“Yes, please,” Czarina blurted. Never be too proud to ask for help, Czarina.
Marisa reached around her back and unhooked her bra with the greatest of ease. She let it begin to slide ever so slowly down her chest.
So close. Czarina knew she was grinning like a fucking idiot, but for once in her life, she didn’t care how she looked. She gave no thought to trying to exert control of her facial muscles; she wouldn’t have been able to anyway.
Just a little bit further.
“What the fuck is this!”
Marisa let out a startled cry, yanked her bra back up, and jumped off Czarina.
Czarina tilted her head around Marisa to see the doorway: Steve.
Worse, he wasn’t alone. The Tim-Toms and Vinny—a guy who had graduated to full militia last year and kept his lips firmly planted on Steve’s ass—crowded the entryway behind him.
Shit. This is gonna hurt.
SEVENTEEN
Location: Maize City
Date: 9-3-61
The Gingers are a curious group. Akin to the Roma of the Before Times, the Gingers are a nomadic people often persecuted simply for existing. They travel the land collecting relics from the past, which they refurbish, repair, and repurpose for trade on the outskirts of towns and cities. Their veneration of the Before Times infuses many of their practices and customs. For instance, they name their children after words on found objects such as glass bottles and aluminum cans.
Somewhere along the line, a belief arose that red hair came from the fires of hell—although why this and not the opposite, i.e. from the cleansing fires of the Rapture, I do not know. The view that they are demons makes people both fascinated by and terrified of the Gingers. People may gladly visit their caravans for a day or two, but should some random accident occur, such as a stillbirth or a cow losing its milk, they conclude God is punishing them for welcoming Satan into their midst. They then chase the Gingers off with torches and pitchforks. When the Gingers return a year or so later, the cycle inevitably plays out again in an identical fashion.
The Church, with its distrust of pre-Rapture technology owing to the Sirian Uprising, does nothing to dissuade people of their superstitious fear of redheaded individuals. That being said, the Church welcomes them with open arms, so long as they are willing to dye their hair.
—An excerpt from Brother Helix’s A Contemporary History of the Dakotas During the Great Tribulation.
Thoka sat across from his wife Sunkist in their sparsely furnished sitting room, while their son Guinness sat on the floor building a model. The king skimmed the contents of the letter one more time in a futile effort to delay what would inevitably follow. When he finished, he carefully folded it back up before setting it down on the table between him and his wife.
“What does it say, my Ska Chetan?” Sunkist asked.
Ska Chetan was the name of a dead man. At least as far as Thoka was concerned. And just about everyone else too. His wife was the only person who tried to keep White Hawk alive. But Ska Chetan had died the day his uncle Otaktay had exiled him. From that day forward his people had called him Thoka: outsider, foreigner, enemy. Thoka had come to accept the death of Ska Chetan. He still had the speed and the streak of white in his otherwise black hair that had helped earn him the name White Hawk, but he was no longer that man, and he couldn’t go back any more than a river could flow uphill. His wife, however, was less willing to accept the change. Sunkist refused to bend to the will of the universe. More to the point, she expected the universe to conform to her wishes.
“It says the same thing it always says, my queen.”
“Another noble dead?”
“No, not this time.”
Sunkist picked up her wineglass from the table, took a sip, then said, “That doesn’t mean I’m wrong, you know.”
His wife was obsessed with the idea that someone was killing nobles and their heirs for some reason, and that it was only a matter of time before they came for him and Guinness. But Thoka wasn’t so sure about that. Everyone died. People were here one day and gone the next. That was how it worked.
One of the first things he had realized when he was sent out to learn the ways of the washíchu was that they were always trying to find explanations for things that needed none.
“It doesn’t,” he said, deciding that talking about this so-called conspiracy might be worse than talking about what was in the letter.
“But you’re still not convinced?”
“No, my love, I’m not.”
“So if it’s not another dead noble, then there’s only one thing it can be at this time of year. A challenge?”
“Yes.”
“Ska Chetan, will you finally do what you’re supposed to do?”
Thoka knew exactly what his wife was referring to but decided to play dumb. “And what am I supposed to do?”
He watched as his wife’s chestnut brown eyes narrowed slightly. He was playing a dangerous game. His wife was never more beautiful than when she was angry, but get her too angry and that passion would be wasted throwing things at his head and cursing the day he was born, as opposed to more enjoyable activities.
“You’re supposed to kill him.”
Sunkist was not a woman to beat around the bush. Her tone had taken a hard edge and her complexion, normally alabaster, had reddened slightly. A very fine line.
Thoka often thought about why he let Edison live each year when they fought. He knew it was only a matter of time before the situation was reversed. At thirty-three, he was only going to get slower, weaker. At twenty-four, Edison was just entering his prime. Add to that the fact that Edison was a better swordsman, and it didn’t take a genius to do the math. Thoka could probably only hold him off for another two, maybe three years tops. And that might be wildly optimistic. Maybe he’d already missed his chance.
It had taken him some time to figure out the real reason he let Edison live, time to peel back all the lies he’d told himself. At first, he’d said it was because he enjoyed the challenge. After all, he was king of nothing. His power stopped at the steps of the Corn Palace—and that assumed he had any power within its walls, a claim Su
nkist would contest. The only excitement he ever got, the only time he felt truly alive, was when he fought another man in single combat. In the first year of his reign, the challengers for his throne had come often. Most of them had no business being in the arena with him. That wasn’t the case with Edison Rhodes. So he had let Edison live because he was the only worthy challenger he’d faced since being exiled, other than Edison’s father.
Or so he had told himself. It was a lie. He knew that now.
He’d let all the unworthy challengers live, too. Sure, he’d hurt most of them, sometimes badly, but he never killed any of them. For a time, he justified it by saying it would demean him as a warrior to kill an unworthy opponent. Then he realized that if he couldn’t kill a worthy opponent because he respected the challenge they represented, and he couldn’t kill an unworthy opponent because it would taint him, then the only logical conclusion was that he couldn’t kill anyone. He was a fighter, but not a killer. He could never earn a name like Otaktay, which meant ‘to kill many.’ Maybe if he could have, he wouldn’t have been exiled in the first place. And maybe Dowanhowee, Tashunka, and Mankato would still be alive if he could kill. And maybe Chumani wouldn’t… no, best not to think about any of that. He had moved on. He had accepted that he couldn’t change the past.
Too bad that didn’t mean it couldn’t scar him.
He couldn’t tell Sunkist his real reason for letting Edison live: that he didn’t want to kill again. That he probably couldn’t. He still didn’t know how he’d managed to do it once. He had just been so angry, so fed up. It was as if he’d been possessed by a wakhanshicha. He’d never been so angry before or since, and hoped never to be again.
He also didn’t dare tell her that if he could just give his crown away without losing his life, he would do so in an instant. That he wanted nothing more than to be a simple farmer, or a baker—anything other than king. However, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t imagine his queen, his love, as a farmer’s wife. She, like her people, had scraped and clawed for everything she’d gotten, in a world that hated her for something she couldn’t control, something as meaningless as hair color. No, it wouldn’t be fair to Sunkist to relinquish the crown. She hadn’t married a farmer. She’d married a king.