As the man continued to beg, a rage built inside Thomas, his ears turning red. It was the audacity of this hypocrite, this whiner, this individual unable to see his own horribleness. He was only focused on a minor theft, but acted as an enabler for the rape of another, possibly several others. A complicit rapist, but a crusader against petty theft? The man's moral compass proved laughable.
Thomas shifted his weight toward the men, but felt an arm across his chest. It was James, taking on the unfamiliar role of peacemaker, casting aside his natural inclination toward instigator. “Let it go,” he whispered while pointing to the Butcher's guard approaching from the post.
“Hey! Everyone! Shut the fuck up!” The guard set his hand upon the pistol against his hip.
“But he—” the son started.
“I don't give two shits about any 'but he.’ You idiots won't be allowed in here if you don't end this now. This is a no bullshit zone.” The guard stared pointedly down the line at each of their faces. “Anyone have a problem with that?”
James spoke up, stepping slowly away from their bickering while grabbing hold of Thomas’s arm. “We have nothing to do with them, not going to have them ruin this opportunity for us.”
Thomas took the cue. “Check us over and what we brought. Let these idiots decide what's more important to them by themselves. We're going in.”
They walked up the service road toward the barricade.
“You're here with me,” the guard said, stopping James in the middle of the street. “Only one at a time, fellas.” Thomas slowed his steps. “Bill! Look alive!”
“I hear ya!” Bill stepped out from behind the barricade and brushed something from his pants. Thomas took a quick glance back at James, who had already taken it upon himself to strike up a conversation with the guard. The apprehension Thomas held going into this faded.
James seemed born for this situation. A natural liar—he seemed to have the ability to move from one character to the next, feeding into whatever line the next person they encountered needed to hear. They were just two guys looking for a good time—nothing more, nothing less.
“Quit your staring,” the guard said, pausing from his conversation with James. “Get your ass on up there.”
“Let’s go! We ain’t got all day here.” Bill pointed to Thomas. “Step this way and spread 'em.”
Thomas did what he was told—a slight hesitation to his movement. A little nervous touch to his “character” in this mission would carry well. Even the old pervert in all his excitement seemed to hold a little uncertainty in his words. No one seemed completely comfortable here.
“You don't have anything on you that's gonna hurt me, right?” Bill asked.
“Nope.” Thomas slid the book bag from his shoulder and let it drop to the ground.
“What's in there?” Bill nudged the bag with his foot. “Feels heavy.”
“Just a bag of books,” he said, making a point not to reveal the source.
As Bill moved into position behind him, Thomas spread his legs even with his shoulders and raised his hands above his head. “You think those books will get us what we need?”
“Depends on what you're looking to do.”
That comment made Thomas shudder. Of course he missed the touch, the softness of a woman, but these circumstances made his skin crawl.
Get into the role. “As far as I can get?” Thomas realized it came out as a question. Real smooth, damn it! “I’m just looking for some quick action, man.”
The words pained him to say it. He couldn't remember if his eyes closed while the words crept from his lips. Either way, the guard hadn't heard or noticed, he was too focused on exposing any contraband.
He knelt by Thomas’s legs, his hands sliding along, grasping for anything that might be hidden. Thomas looked down upon the guard—the man that had sold a portion of his soul, bore the scar of a mad man, devoted his life to enslaving others. “What won't these women do?” He tried again to get a reaction out of the man.
Bill’s laugh said it all. The filth attached to each pronounced “Ha!” left little doubt that these women had no choice—no say in how their bodies were used.
Thomas’s faith in humanity beyond the Second Alliance continued to plummet. It had only been two years, but for some people it hadn’t come soon enough. The decline only worked to reaffirm his desire to carry out the mission—to strengthen their influence over the region.
“What are we laughing about? It’s gotta be good if he’s in on it.” James winked to Thomas as he broke into the conversation, moving into the position where Thomas had just been cleared. “So... do we just give the women the books or how's that work?”
“You'll have to go to the money booth. Just take the crap over that you want to sell, and they'll figure out what it's worth.” Bill began searching James. “Once you get your chits, then you'll have a better idea of what you can get. There's food and stuff too, but most people come for the women.” He motioned for Thomas to come closer and lowered his voice for both him and James. “Use them like you want to. Depends on the one you get, but if you seek out the right ones there ain’t nothin’ they won’t let you do. Nobody’ll judge you neither. Costs a bit more, but where the hell else you gonna get this done for yourself.” Bill chuckled in his throat. “Hit ‘em, Choke ‘em. Whatever. Doesn’t matter—they’re owned property.” He patted James on the back and began with their bags.
Thomas’s heart dropped. He just stared blankly, frozen within this surreal moment. His hands pulsed, desiring to shred this man to pieces as he continued to speak. Thomas’s hearing diminished into a persistent tone that blocked the rest of what poured from Bill’s mouth. A large portion of Thomas was relieved that he couldn't make out what was being said. These poor women.
He could feel a great pleasure rising within his body as the thought of capturing, maiming, and killing the Butcher began to overwhelm him. To butcher the Butcher was all he could imagine.
Thomas waited patiently, letting his senses normalize as Bill finished searching through their bags. “Last thing—take these.” Bill pinned two badges onto their shirts. “Let’s us know who’s been through a checkpoint. Don’t lose these. If we find someone without it, then they’re gone, no questions asked. Any blowback and we’ll just kill ‘em.” Thomas looked to James. “Not to end on a sour note, so… Make sure you get your fill.”
Thomas smiled at the man. There’s a special place in hell for you.
“Sounds like we'll get our fill on whatever we need,” James said. “Let's roll, Tommy. We got a nice vacation ahead of us.”
“Just follow the sidewalk in,”—Bill snaked his hand toward the woods—”and it'll curve around through a little dip with a stream rolling by. Once you start up the hill, you might have a quarter mile or so. Your first stop should be to get some chits, so you don't have to lug those books around.”
Thomas and James stuffed the books back into their bags before stepping off. “We need to burn this place to the ground,” Thomas muttered.
All James could manage was a nod.
Thomas counted the joints in the sidewalk as he walked—anything to try and keep his mind clear. If he allowed the weight of these circumstances to crush him, he knew he might not be able to effectively complete this mission. A personal rage would not be a successful plan. It may push him through pain, but acting on raw emotion would not suffice. The knowledge of the impending freedom of those captive within the camp would have to suppress this hatred—this desire to free them immediately. They’ll have their turn. There’s not a chance in hell they escape what they’ve been doing to these girls. Just give it time.
“This place… I don’t know, man.” James said, now that they were well outside of earshot of the Butcher's guard. “I had no idea this place was like this. I may joke around a bunch and whatever, but this is insane, right?”
“Keep the act up.” Thomas looked back toward the barricade. The old pervert and his son prepared for admission into the ca
mp. The quiet stranger left, but others had replaced him. Even from here, Thomas could see their smiles—all lined up, bearing sickening anticipation. “Tonight, they’ll pay.”
…
The path cut its way between two ridges then met with the stream that Bill spoke of. The stream and path came within feet of one another, paralleling each other until finally parting ways as the walk bent to the northwest up a hill, and the stream stumbled down a few terraces. The water cascaded through, breaking on stones and sticks, bending around the ankles of two women standing just off the bank. Their backs bent—their busy hands cleaning a pile of laundry.
Thomas and James smiled as they stole the women's attention. He couldn't deny he enjoyed their state of nudity, but it wasn't the point of the smile—it was knowing that soon they would have a choice—a real purpose in life.
James raised a hand to acknowledge them, and the taller of the two waved him toward her, but once he took that first step, she quickly interrupted him. “Stop! Not you, sir.” Her true intent approached from behind them.
Three children, two girls and a boy, wheeled a cart filled with laundry down toward the stream. A few pieces of clothing slipped to the ground as the cart rocked back and forth. The girl in back picked them from the street, her arms struggling to carry it all. Thomas went to help. “Stop!” The woman shook her head. “Don’t help.”
Are they always like this? Thomas eyed the ridgeline. It seemed strange they were unattended—alone out here. He expected that a guard or caretaker of some sort would be present. “Do you women do laundry for everyone?” Thomas asked. “You don’t have to be afraid of us.”
The statement seemed to startle the women as they shielded the children and backed away from the wads of clothing resting on the stones.
“They'll do whatever you want.” A guard appeared from atop the ridge, adjusting himself then zipping up his pants. “I’d recommend something more exciting, but if you want to waste your chits on laundry, then you do what makes you happy.” He grabbed a rifle from the foot of a tree and slid carefully down the face of the ridge. “These women don't care if you smell or not. Right, ladies?”
The women hung their heads and said nothing.
“Right, ladies?” The guard swatted one of the women on the ass with the butt of his rifle, knocking her onto her hands and knees in the shallow creek bed.
“Yes, sir.” The women responded together. Two of the children rushed to aid the one that had been struck, but she brushed them back and stood.
Thomas suppressed his sense of duty and simply nodded to the guard. It would be better to merely pass through, make very little contact with others. In this way, Thomas and James would affect less, be able to observe the natural happenings of the camp.
As the two rounded their way up through the bend in the road, a low hum of voices grew to a steady roar within the air. The dense wooded area opened up, leaving the trees to wrap the perimeter of the Butcher’s camp. A throng of people gathered outside the restroom entrances carved into the hillside just below the white gazebo—dueling steps climbed the grassy hillside toward the top. One man stood outside the bathroom stirring a large pot—a weak fire below it—cooking what smelled like stew.
They pressed their way through the crowd, walking the street that circled back on itself, taking in what they could, observing everything it had to offer. An older man parted the crowd carefully with his shopping cart, ensuring that his goods were visible and doing his best to avoid people’s feet. “Get your rubbers!” the man shouted, as he accepted chits into a bucket and filled their empty hands with condoms.
Thomas took to the outside of the crowd and walked past the clusters of multi-colored tents that rippled occasionally from the wind. The gusts carried the foul stench of unwashed bodies throughout the camp. Women and men came and went with the sound of zippers. Muddy footprints painted a collage throughout the street. It was overwhelming, and being a natural introvert, Thomas found himself observing from where they first entered.
“This place is nuts, man,” James said. Two naked women ran past, and he couldn’t keep his eyes from them. “I’ve never…” A few others walked the other way, men’s arms slung over their shoulders. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”
“There’s too much going on here. I don’t know how we’re going to get accurate numbers. How the hell can we?”
“Shit, man. I don’t know.”
“Just stay cl—”
A scream—a woman staggering, clutching the side of her face as she made her way toward the gazebo from a collapsing tent. Blood ran down her arm. She sobbed while shouting, “Get him! Get him!” Her finger dripped with blood, pointing, sentencing the man running from the tent. Her knees hit the pavement, another woman bent down to receive her, wrapping her in a blanket to conceal her naked body.
“One hundred chits to whoever grabs that coward!” An unknown voice rang out.
With a single shoe and nothing else, the man stole for the walkway, his gait teetering with every step as most of the crowd turned to give chase. Thomas looked on as the man made for his escape, running straight toward him.
The plan of keeping to themselves had just been decided not but fifteen or twenty minutes ago. This event would make him the sore thumb, but even worse, an early enemy if he let the man escape. It left him with little choice as he grabbed hold of the man, jerking him by the arm and swinging him violently to the ground. The man's face erupted with a crunch as it hit the pavement. Thomas stood there, unmoved, stoic while looking down at a still body once again.
“One hundred chits to that man and his crony.” The unknown voice confirmed. Thomas scanned the crowd, but it seemed that anyone could have said it. The entire horde of people became engrossed with what occurred. A staggered line of people stood opposite them, staring from across the empty pavement. “Step forward, proud victors!”
A man stepped forward from the others—tall and slender. He glided toward them. His demeanor, his own sense of worth placed him above everyone else. It was surprising he had not been noticed sooner. While everyone else was dressed in mostly blue jeans, t-shirts, or jackets, he sported a suit, vest and all—a business man.
As he approached, it appeared that he had a facial disfigurement but not as pronounced as the others—a slightly raised discoloration on his left cheek. “To whom do I owe the pleasure?”
“Thomas.”
The man presented his large mitt to him. “Folks call me the Butcher, horrible name I know, but one that is quite fitting.”
Thomas accepted the handshake—although he hated to—although deep down he was murdering him through a sequence of vignettes that grew darker with each revolution. This man would not live to see tomorrow. There wasn't a chance, and Thomas knew this, giving him a harsh squeeze as the Butcher went to remove his hand. All the Butcher could do was hide his pain behind a distorted grin. He could show no weakness in front of his brood.
The Butcher turned from Thomas briefly and signaled to a couple of his guards with a snap of his fingers. Rushing to his side, the two men seemed eager, almost pleasured by the opportunity to serve. “It's nice to have obedience within the ranks,” the Butcher said while turning back toward Thomas. “You want to help these two string this example up by his neck?”
Thomas shook his head. “I'd rather not. I'm not here to make friends or enemies. I'm here to get what I want and leave.”
“I can respect that.”
The Butcher’s guards lifted the unconscious man from the street, one held him by the arms and the other by the legs. The man’s head began to sway as he worked to come back to this world. He groaned, and his eyes began to flutter as he was carried off. Thomas looked on, not necessarily feeling sorry for what occurred. The man had certainly asked for trouble.
“Where can we pick up those chits you were talking about?” James spoke up. “We got these books here too.”
The Butcher gestured over his shoulder. “Head over that way to the U-Haul
up the hill.” He took out a notebook, scribbled quickly, and ripped the page from the binding. “Take this and get your chits. Enjoy yourselves.” He gave an awkward wink as he handed it over. Thomas took it and glanced over the note. “Thanks again for grabbing this fool.”
“Don't worry about it,” James said.
The Butcher removed himself from their presence and pressed onward up the hill, following behind the doomed man that swayed within his subordinates' grips.
“I didn’t attack her!” he yelled, clearly aware of what was happening now that he had come to. “She tried to rob me in my sleep.” The group of onlookers parted themselves from the intended path of the Butcher’s men as he continued pleading his case. “I didn’t mean to. I was asleep and—” He groaned from a few cheap shots taken by members in the crowd. “I felt someone dig— her digging through my stuff, damn it! I thought I was being robbed. It was an honest mistake!”
Thomas could hear some of the men laughing, others grumbling amongst themselves. A mixture of thoughts tangled up with what to do with the man.
“Had I known it was her I would have just reported her!” he cried.
More and more people emerged from their tents and the immediate tree line—everyone seeking out the cause of the commotion. The whispers continued—some eventually grew to shouts. A few wore blank stares as the story spread. The attention had been drawn from Thomas and James and toward the gazebo.
They used this opportunity to circumvent the crowd, slogging through the damp grass and mud behind the tents and up a steep hill toward the U-Haul and pickup trucks. Thomas caught James’s eyes bouncing from person to person within the crowd.
“They're crazed,” James said.
“Just keep your head down and move.”
From the corner of his eye, Thomas could see them preparing the man, could hear his screams from across the park. The Butcher stood to speak and the crowd quieted.
Days Since...: Thomas: Day 758 (Almawt Virus Series Book 1) Page 12