by K T Rose
“So everyone here volunteered for…the show?” Jessica asked.
“Oh no, sweetie. Some did, like Orion, who’s a recruiter, Mercury, who’s the compound chef, and McGee, the stylist. Others, like the kids, were either runaways like Billy, Blaze, and Tate, or came as a package with their parents like Nutty and Tilly. Most, especially the experts, like Techy, Doc Viper, and Ms. Orleans, were drafted through a specialized test aimed for those who had a desire, but lacked the means, to own their own businesses. It was also aimed at those who were on suicide watch and suffered emotional trauma. But there is a rumor that Father Paul bribed them with loads of cash and freedom from corporate gain and other adult stuff that ruins most people’s love for their craft or special abilities. Luckily for you, you never have to deal with that.” She smiled and rubbed Jessica’s arm. “What is it that you want to be when you grow up anyway?”
Jessica hadn’t put much thought into that. Before the compound, she was sure she’d end up working at the local drug store in town and advance to store manager one day. She knew she’d live in Granny’s old house, passing it down to her own kids when she met her last days. But even that was a lie. She aspired to be like Father Paul, but she wasn’t sure how. “I guess. Just work. That’s what people do, right? Work to live?”
Sister Green smiled. “Not here they don’t. Here, you can be what you want. You still get the challenge of being responsible and manage at the same time. You get top-notch meals that most people pay fifty bucks a plate for, an education that I’ve personally spent thousands on, and the love and appreciation you only see in the movies and read in novels. This is heaven on earth for us. And you know what? We live to die because Father Paul will usher us over into the afterlife with his tender hand. Wait and see, sweetheart. You’re with family now. A family that will never leave you or lead you down the wrong path. You’re safe.”
***
That night was a long one as Jessica laid still and listened to her breathing, willing sleep to take over her mind. She concentrated on the dark gray ceiling, counted backward from one thousand and even listened to nothingness pass by her window. The compound seemed to fall asleep well before she did most nights. But how many of them slept in a dead woman’s room?
Marla used to sleep in that very bed, sit at that very oak desk, and chat with Hazel in the hallway on the opposite side of the door. Her memory made an impact around the compound; people brought her up as much as they brought up Dale and Jessica’s ‘almost’ escape. She’d overheard Blaze making passive-aggressive remarks to Orion and Domo like, “Well, thank goodness Father Paul didn’t strip anything away after you know who did you-know-what.”
If anything, Jessica wanted to forget about Marla and Dale.
But she couldn’t help but think about the woman as she slept in her bed. It took a week to convert Marla’s room into Jessica’s. The white bedpost and dresser were painted black, just as the walls went from beige to midnight gray. Blaze took the liberty to help, and boy was her mouth much unneeded during the process.
“This paint stinks.”
“Ugh, some of it got in my mouth.”
“This is so dark. Let’s mix it with white.”
“I’m hungry.”
“I’m tired.”
The girl went on and on about everything that was wrong and wondered why Jessica never cared to chat in return.
Even as Jessica laid there, reliving the senseless whining, her head started to hurt. As she wavered off into the dream world, her thoughts took over, tricking her mind into venturing into a recent past. She remembered what it felt like to meet her hero. It was every bit as she’d dreamed, facing Father Paul. Breathing the same air and feeling his breath against her ear as he said:
“You’re with me now and I will never leave you or lead you down the wrong path. You’re safe.”
The whisper crept through her bones as she held her pillow tight. In his quarters, she belonged. Under his supervision she’d be on her way to true salvation. Fear be none. She was loved by the most feared. She was graced by the most damned and praised by the man who sat highest on the food chain. A sense of confidence and security she never felt before washed over her.
Father Paul was everything that her oblivious father, Ron, wasn’t and what her selfish mother, Jena, couldn’t dream to be.
Jessica tussled with her sheets, burrowing deeper into her mattress. It squealed underneath her weight.
Jessica, please. Dale’s deep pleading cry sounded as real in her mind as it had on that night.
She scrunched her face, squeezed her eyes tight. Along with the honor of being initiated by Father Paul, himself, was the damning tears.
Dale blubbered as his saddened eyes drooped and terror-stricken body shook while she stood over him. His body seized once the hammer swung down and the congregation rejoiced. Marla’s murderer had been put down. Jessica was the hero.
If it was so right, why the guilt? Was it because this stranger tried and failed to save her under any means? Dale fought next her, remained loyal to the cause when he could’ve left her behind or worse, gotten her killed by Mr. French or Blue. But he didn’t. He killed Blue to get away and she blew Mr. French’s blond cap across the wall for the same reason.
Her heart lurched.
No one on the compound made too much of a fuss about their now dead friends, but she knew, secretly, there was an unknown hatred for her existence by no other than Mr. French’s younger blood brother, Boaty. In her past life, Jessica could’ve seen herself crushing hard for him. It could be his bright blue eyes, sun-kissed skin, or broad shoulders. Or his strong voice that embodied confidence as he talked about numbers and logistics with Sister Green.
Jessica’s heart jumped.
Or maybe it was because he didn’t bother giving her the time of the day, which she thanked herself for. He’d cut his eyes away in the dining gazebo or crossed the walkway much like an athlete did with a straight back and a manly strut, avoiding crossing paths with her when she left the bodega for the night. Purposely, he avoided her. Even when he came by the bodega in the middle of the day to chat about the inventory and what to put on the ordering list, he’d tug at the blond strings that hung from his clef chin when he was deep in thought, and adverted all eye contact with Jessica who stood next to Sister Green most times.
Here was this boy, her age, wearing a vintage graphic t-shirt and fitted jeans with a thin jacket hanging off his shoulders, spouting out numbers and managing the inventory across the entire compound. Funny. Jessica and Brandy used to make fun of guys with man buns and tapered sides. In fact, not too long-ago Jessica wished she had Father Paul, who turned out to look different than she imagined.
He was much older than the man she thought lurked behind the ski mask and fitted black sweater. In fact, he was old enough to be her father. But his smooth, tanned face, pencil-thin mustache, and head full of thick, black hair said otherwise. It was as if age fucked off, or he killed it before it came for him. He was lean and slender, thin enough for anyone to break in half. But no one was crazy enough to try as his demanding tone or his dark-eyed, condescending glare wouldn’t allow. Then there was the part about him not fearing death but claiming it as his job in the afterlife. His views were enough to send a cold shiver up Jessica’s back.
She’d seen it all up close and personal. Not only on the internet, where he sliced people up for thousands of dollars at a time, auction style, but when he forced her to kill Dale and join him.
An apprehensive sense of neglect twisted her belly. Dale would’ve never done that to her. She could feel it deep in her bones. He would’ve kept trying, went down while trying to free them from The Silent Red Room Clan. Almost like Jessica helped Brandy by stopping Franny from constantly humiliating her in front of the school, by using the internet to force Franny’s suicide. And almost like Granny had tried to free Jessica from the personal hell on earth that her parents tossed her into. Granny stopped her half-sisters, Becca and Beth, from cutting h
er hair in her sleep and locking her in the closet. She stopped them from beating her with pillow cases full of soap and books. Moreover, she stopped Whitney, their mother, from watching, allowing, laughing and taunting: something that Ron had avoided stopping and Jena thought would be a better environment for Jessica. Granny stopped it all. The thought of her pale crinkled face flushed in tears brought tears to Jessica’s eyes every night.
Oh, what the old woman must be going through these last several weeks. Jessica’s heart sank, forcing her off her belly and onto her side.
Just don’t think about it, she pleaded with herself. But her mind reeled, pulling her further from sleep.
She was left to think most days as she helped Sister Green in the convenience trailer. Even during their pointless chats about the interesting geology of Haiti and how politicians were shit no matter what side of the fence they reined, there was Granny, worried half to death about her Jessica. Even when Billy came around with jealousy and hatred glinting across his face, there was Granny’s face and voice, calling for her.
Most of all, when Sister Green wasn’t talking, there was Granny and Brandy, contemplating whether they should blame themselves for Jessica being MIA or not. Then there was Dale. The sweet stranger determined to get her back home. The man who fought to get them away from this place, only for her to become a part of it.
It was far too late to make it up to him now. Far past reconciliation.
All she ever did was wonder while sleep dwindled out of touch. She threw the covers from her body and cried softly.
Chapter Two
A harsh splash of sunlight snatched Jessica from her slumber. “Fuck,” she grumbled.
“Come on.” Hazel stood next to the window holding one of the curtains in her hand.
“What the hell?” Jessica looked over at the clock on the desk. Its hands pointed at 7:15. “I don’t have to be at the store until ten.”
Hazel dropped the curtain and trudged over to the open door. “You’re not working at the store today. You’re doing something else.”
“Who said?”
“I said. Now get up and get dressed.”
Jessica wiped her eyes with the backs of her hands. This was the first time in a while that Hazel had bothered speaking to her, early in the morning after a sleepless night. Jessica grunted, “Lady, I don’t answer to you.”
Hazel huffed and pursed her lips as she glared at Jessica. “Listen, Olive, you are going to get dressed or I’ll have St. Pete come up here and hold you down while I dress you myself. Then, for the inconvenience, I’m going to tie you to the bumper of Ol’ Tin Can with a hemp rope and drag your dumb ass across the snowy field and into the woods. By the time I’m done with you, you’ll be black and blue with frostbite. No one will recognize that pathetic pout that’s forever stained across your face! Now if you’re done being a little asshole, I suggest you get dressed. You have five minutes.”
Hazel slammed the oak door behind her.
Annoyed and perplexed, Jessica pulled her arms free from her t-shirt and launched into the back of the door. The last thing she wanted was to get on anyone’s bad side, especially Hazel. But why should Jessica care? She only had to answer to one man: Father Paul. Not his lackeys.
But for the sake of saving face, she pulled on a pair of jeans from the hamper that sat catty-corner to the dresser. Fresh laundry had never come to her hand washed. McGee must’ve dropped them off sometime during the night. It totally slipped her mind to pick them up after her shift.
The sweet smell of berries lingered around her clean clothes. The fruity goodness softened her nerves and made her mouth water. It was Tuesday morning, Pancake Day up in the kitchen trailer. Belly grumbling, she slid her feet into her snow boots, wrapped herself in a puffer coat and pulled the door open.
Hazel stood at the top of the steps, right outside Jessica’s door and next to her own. She stopped picking her fingernails with her knife and tucked it into her boot. The Center was quiet, atypical enough. Even though Jessica, Hazel, and St. Pete lived on the second floor, Father Paul had the entire third floor to himself. She’d never been up there, but Sister Green assured her that it was every bit as sophisticated as an expensive antique collectors’ study. Jessica only imagined what Father Paul was doing up there as he played his violin or listened to the audio from one of his streams on full blast. Bach chimed out, taking her back to those days she laid on her belly, staring at her laptop screen, deep in wonder. The ruckus usually started up at around six am and stopped around ten in the evening.
Hazel stomped down the steps first and Jessica followed close behind. “Where are we going?”
“Town hall meeting.”
“What’s that?”
Hazel opened the front door at the base of the steps and allowed the screen to swing closed behind her, slamming it into Jessica’s shoulder.
A fresh coat of snow rolled over the compound. The sleeper, duplex trailer across the way were covered in the stuff, as was the one next to it along with the gravelly walkway that rounded the house in the center of the compound, or the Center. Hazel veered left and followed the short trail to the Ol’ Tin Can, the pick-up that never quit, where St. Pete had the engine going.
“Hello? Anyone going to answer?” Jessica asked.
“Get in the bed. I’m riding up front.”
Hazel let herself into the passenger side and Jessica crawled in the back, thankful for the blue tarp that covered the floor.
Before St. Pete could put the thing in the drive, Jessica slapped the window.
He slid it open. “Yeah, what’s up, Olive?”
“Ol—” She sighed. She’d deal with the weird name calling later. “What’s a town hall meeting?”
He chuckled. “It’s exactly what it sounds like.”
She rolled her eyes as warm air blasted her in the face, making her hair blow backward. She backed away from the window as St. Pete closed it.
The bitter cold wind chewed at Jessica’s cheeks as she winced and buried her face in her hands. She looked up to find Hazel peering at her, smiling, getting a kick out of the bullshit. There was more than enough room for one more to ride up front. Especially Jessica, who weighed a buck twenty. But she kept her mouth shut. Perhaps getting snarky was what put her back there in the first place.
The old pickup rumbled as they drove on the trail through the woods. Sticks poked and scratched her. One even smacked her in the forehead and caught her hair. Laughter erupted from the cab.
Those assholes are enjoying this.
Shortly after, the woods cleared, and flat acres rose. The land seemed to go on for miles, shiny and unscathed.
In the distance rose a familiar place, hidden by the winter gloom. The sight of the barn made her heart leap. She hadn’t been back there since she saw Dale. When she knew death was imminent for them both only for it to be meant for one of them. It felt like they both died that night. Although she was still breathing, she felt as if she signed her soul away.
Once they parked alongside the barn, she climbed down from the truck bed, with no help from Hazel or St. Pete, who got out of the cab and walked around front. She followed several feet behind. A shiver shot up her spine. The blood-red wooden walls rose high up until they met the arched roof. She’d been in there before. Chained up and scared half to death. “Father Paul is gonna kill me.” The words tasted new on her tongue. Then, she wouldn’t’ve guessed she’d be stepping inside as a resident. She never thought she’d be awake to see such a day. But she also didn’t think she could kill someone up close and personal. The scene stained the back of her mind, etched behind her pupils.
Boots crunching the snow, she entered through the open garage which was raised high, allowing the sun, that struggled to break through the morning clouds, to bathe the cement floor. People sat on hay bales the size of small ponies as they laughed and chatted. Some faces, she didn’t recognize. Like the thin, silver-haired woman who Sister Green squawked at about her magazine. And the littl
e boy, no more than nine years old, that tugged at his afro and wiped stray snot away from his nose while McGee scowled at him for not saying excuse me when he pushed past. McGee griped and flayed his arms around, allowing his silver silk sleeves to move this way and that.
“God, you kids are so damned rude,” he said, before sitting down and running a hand through his short platinum curls. He looked like a misplaced celebrity with his naked face and clear pale skin who’d taken the wrong turn on Hollywood Boulevard and ended up in the middle of nowhere.
Jessica took her spot in the back, standing against the chilly wall. Though it was far off from the podium that sat up front, just in front of the staircase that led down into the dungeon, there was still a clear view over everyone’s head. Next to it was a small oak table and next to that was a very familiar steel chair: the one from the videos that landed her in this place.
Heart racing, she looked for a distraction and decided to watch as Father Paul, dressed in his signature black outfit from neck to toe, snickered and chuckled at Techy as he made strange gestures and flopped his dreads around. Then he pulled out an air guitar and rocked out to the wind. The short man was animated, to say the least, and as goofy as they came. Techy wore weird holy pants and a bright orange, flamboyant loose-fitting shirt. Once he stopped with his imaginary music, he stroked his naked chin and shrugged before saying something. Jessica couldn’t quite hear, but Father Paul got a kick out of it as he let out an outrageous laugh. It was so loud that the crowd joined in on the fun.
All except Jessica. She watched as some of them forced up a laugh, just so they wouldn’t be left out. Sheep, she thought.
“Alright, alright,” Father Paul raised his cheerful voice. “Everyone, have a seat, it’s time to start.”