by Britt Ringel
Rat leaned heavily on his cane and finished plopping to the ground with a groan. He reached out and accepted his succor. “Damn weather,” he complained. “Any time we get rain, my joints freeze right up.” He uncorked the container and drank greedily until it emptied. Staring pitifully down the neck of the bottle, he let loose a long sigh. “No more tonic ‘til Wednesday.”
Missy knelt beside the man. He gaped at her before reaching to the right side of her face, his expression twisting into confusion. “What the hell?” Rat’s grimy fingers pulled at the curled, charred hair. “Someone stick your head in a fire?” He made direct eye contact and grunted. “More bloodshot than my own.” A scolding finger wagged at her. “You got a bad habit, Missy. Ain’t gonna live long living the way you do.” His eyes slipped to the neckline of her gown, its simple but ill-fitting cut revealing more than she intended. “And dressed like that, you ain’t gonna enjoy much what happens to you while you’re still breathing.” Missy subconsciously pressed the gown to her chest.
“Who you talking to, Rat?” Missy recognized the crazy woman’s voice from beyond the trash barrier.
Rat slammed his cane against a metal bucket. The noise echoed down the alley even as urine sloshed from the makeshift toilet. “Shut up, you old buzzard!” His face contorted as he looked toward the trash wall. “Goddamned witch! Should’ve never tangoed with you! You keep quiet or I’ll climb over and beat you with my cane.” He regained his composure and turned back toward Missy. “It was a while ago. Man’s got urges,” he said simply, almost by way of apology.
She ignored the topic. “I need help,” she pleaded.
“You sure do,” Rat agreed. “Wanting to change is the first step. That’s what those preachers on the Strip keep screaming.”
“No,” Missy stated emphatically, “I need your help.” She looked down the alley desperately. The odd passersby paid them no attention. She shifted her weight painfully to one side to shield as much of herself from Rat as she could while lifting her gown over her hip. The bandage along her side now seeped a runny red and carried a putrid smell. She quickly pulled the gown back down. “I don’t know where I am or who I am or what’s happened to me,” she stated, tamping down a growing hysteria.
Rat made a face as he inhaled the smell from her wound. “You’re not gonna sleep that off, Missy. Stinks like it’s getting infected. No surprise since you’ve been sleeping in slop.” He shook his head back and forth in disgust. “Young lady oughta take better care of herself.”
She reached out to grab Rat by the shoulder. “I want to! Who will help me?”
“Doc Reynolds at the Beggar’s Market might have a poultice,” Rat answered. “You got any coins?”
Missy lifted empty palms skyward and looked down at her simple, soiled gown.
“Then maybe a preacher on the Strip might help,” he suggested. “I’d never trust one but you ain’t got no options.” He lifted the green bottle to his lips again and tipped it. After several moments of disappointment, Rat looked at Missy. “Whichever one you find won’t like what you’re wearing… or maybe he’ll like it a bit too much.” He chortled although his face showed anything but mirth.
Missy rose and moved back across the alley. She knelt cautiously and retrieved her self-defense wire. “What’s the Strip?”
Rat squinted at her and began to smirk, as if anticipating a punchline. When none came, he shook his head. “You really don’t know, do you? Take a left as you leave and follow the street until you get to First Street. That leads to Eastpoint, the checkpoint into Waytown. That’s the Strip.”
“We’re not in Waytown right now?”
“No, you’re in the shantytown that’s grown up around it. In fact, that’s what we call it. None of us here are citizens so we can’t get in Waytown. Lost my citizenship when the mine took my foot. Still get my disability payment from Porter though.” He paused. “I ain’t sharing it, it’s not even enough for me.” A long sigh passed from him as he stole a glance to the street beyond. “Better than what the worst off get now. Absolutely nothing.”
Missy swallowed. Her cracked lips hinted at a parched throat. “Well, thank you for sharing your alley, Mr. Rat.”
The man flashed a broken smile. “I ain’t sentimental but I’d loan you my coat if I thought you’d still be alive this time tomorrow to give it back.” He rose torturously and shuffled to a half-crushed wooden crate. He dug through the contents before producing a frayed rope. “Here, Missy. You can use this to tie the back of your dress shut. Walking bare ass down the Strip won’t end well unless you got yourself a pimp.”
“Thank you,” she said as she strode forward to take the pathetic cord. Blood stained a long segment of it. She wrapped the rope around her narrow waist and cinched the gown tightly shut, tying a secure knot. The minor adjustment helped ease her sense of vulnerability. With a final nod, she walked down the alley and turned its corner.
Chapter 3
Pedestrian traffic in Shantytown had increased threefold from the night before. Ragged shades of humanity traveled on foot, many carrying dilapidated goods, some holding nothing but a small cup to collect coins as they begged from the sides of the muddy streets. Regardless of circumstance, all met every stranger with the same darting, distrustful eyes that evaluated each approach for threat or opportunity.
At first, Missy tried her best to avoid eye contact and ignore those around her. By the end of the second block however, it had become necessary to discard the tactic as beggars reached out to pull at her gown in a bid to gain her attention. Her chosen path now weaved down the street, dynamically reacting to changes in the sea of people to keep the maximum distance possible between herself and the residents.
Halfway through her journey to the Strip, she spied an entrance to the Beggar’s Market at the corner of a major intersection. Actual ground cars, wheeled and tracked, occasionally passed down the rut-filled street on their way toward the main road that accessed Waytown. The street leading to the market had been completely taken over by vendors seeking entry to open their shops or set up their carts. Missy saw half a dozen intimidating men wearing yellow shirts keeping watchful eyes on traffic entering and exiting the market through a makeshift gate. Even early in the morning, the fervor inside and around the bazaar was impressive.
She continued on, walking barefoot another ten minutes before coming to First Street. She knew she had the correct road because it was the only street she had seen marked with a sign. The road was paved and provided a stark contrast to the dirt roads running through Shantytown.
She turned right on the Strip and walked anxiously down the side of the road. Signs ahead extolled the presence of Eastpoint, the checkpoint leading into the eastern district of Waytown. The buildings along First Street became more impressive as the distant Waytown edged closer. Crude sheet metal and wooden shacks gave way to brick and mortar structures. Closer still to Eastpoint, buildings of sturdier construction became more common. She saw her first unbroken glass windows.
The foot traffic along First Street intensified. Instinctively feeling safety in numbers, Missy self-consciously tucked her length of rusty wire into a fold of her gown and secured it with her belt. She walked with the flow of people, looking toward Waytown. Long lines at the checkpoint had already formed as Shantytown’s ragged residents queued to enter the city. She walked toward the checkpoint, ignoring the fevered sermons of street preachers at each corner. When she reached the end of a line, she intently watched the process to enter the town. Hopefuls offered their wrists or produced an electronic chip or card to be scanned by checkpoint officers. They then walked through a security arch before being granted access to the official settlement. She wondered how these people had obtained their credentials and what prevented them from simply staying in the town once they gained access. Her eyes returned to the corp-sec guards monitoring the gate. The sight of the uniformed officers made her blood run cold.
“You in line?” a gruff voice asked behind her.
A hand wrapped itself around Missy’s right arm and spun her around.
“Are you prepared for Armageddon?” a man boomed at her dramatically. He was dressed in some of the finest clothes she had seen. The parson’s shirt was a rich black with three red stripes that circled near the bottom hem. He wore black trousers and shoes without holes in them. His powerful gaze fixed Missy as he swept his hand skyward. “All wretches will leave this world but only the cleansed with be allowed admittance to the next!” The corners of his mouth turned down as his eyes swept over her body. “Repent your evil ways, child! Peddling that which The Creator made is the shortest path to The Beast!”
Missy brought a hand to the collar of her gown and pulled it tight.
“Will you repent? Will you accept our teachings so I can show you the one, true path?” People around the man eyed his target, drawn in by his theatrics.
“I, I need help,” she stated hesitantly. Her hand slid down her body to her hip. “I’ve been hurt and I need help.”
The parson’s expression lit up. “Yes, little lamb! Accept my word and the pain will stop.” The man turned triumphantly to the gawkers. “We’ve all been hurt and only The Absolute Being can heal us!” He took a step away from Missy but extended his hand to her. “Take my hand, child. Repent and accept my teachings.”
Missy felt her heart rate spike. Her instincts told her to run. I’ll just get some help, she promised herself. He’ll look over my injury and treat me. If I don’t get medical attention, the infection will grow. She timidly reached out and placed her hand in his.
The man smiled reassuringly even as he waved his other hand over the crowd. “Heed this example, sinners! Salvation is as simple as obeying The Word. This lamb has walked away from her harlotry and taken the first step onto the path of righteousness.” He squeezed her hand tightly and ordered, “Come, child. The path to redemption is a long one and time is short.”
Missy felt herself being pulled away from the onlookers. She took rapid steps to keep up but the parson’s pace was little more than rushed insistence. They walked in silence down First Street, away from Waytown. When they had turned a corner onto an unmarked dirt lane, Missy saw their destination.
The building was a two-story construction of wood. Boards covered the lower two-thirds of the front windows but the words “Tabernacle of the Merciful Way” marked the entry with large painted stencils over double doors. Two men stood near the entrance wearing clothes similar to the parson’s. Unlike the street preacher, both men carried rifles.
As Missy and the parson approached, the men brought their right hands to their foreheads in an awkward gesture. “Peace be with you, Third Minister,” they said in unison.
“Righteous is The Word and our cause,” the parson echoed back as he opened a door and stepped inside with Missy in tow.
She found herself in a large room free of the debris littering much of Shantytown. The wooden floor was warped and unfinished, but a faint scent of bleach suggested regular cleaning. Simple benches in orderly rows flanked an aisle down the center of the room that led to a raised dais with a cloth-covered shrine. A stylized painting of an open hand was the only décor at the stage. Sunlight streamed through the top thirds of the front windows to provide dim lighting. A young man dressed in an embarrassingly short smock knelt next to a bucket, scrubbing along the floorboards with a brush. At the parson’s appearance, the teen rose to his feet and repeated the same strange gesture of the outside guards while greeting, “Your Grace.”
The man merely nodded in response while pulling Missy toward a side room. “I must cleanse you, child,” he declared. “Only once you have been purified and your strumpet rags burned, can you begin your walk to redemption.”
Missy steeled her nerves and followed the man into the next room. Much darker, light trickled in from the top of a single window. The room contained a small stool next to an oblong tub of water, and a bed.
The man closed the door and wiped a meaty hand across his sweaty brow before pointing toward the tub. “Rid yourself of The Beast’s garments and bathe.”
Missy felt as if her heart might beat out of her chest. She faced the parson and asked, “Can I have some privacy?”
“There is no hiding from The Creator’s eyes, child. You must humble yourself if you are to accept His purity.” He placed a hand on her shoulder and prodded her toward the stool. “You reek of sin.” The hand began to drift down her back.
Despite the weakness in her knees, Missy quickly stepped away from the man’s touch. She reached the stool and nervously turned toward him. The room seemed to teeter as a pressure began to build inside her head and her body trembled uncontrollably. The parson was between her and the door. Missy drew a ragged breath and stated, “I only came here because a friend said you could disinfect the wound I have on my side.” She lightly patted at the bandage under her gown but was unwilling to reveal it.
“My touch can disinfect your soul, little one.” He reached toward her collar and his eyes stole a glance at the bed.
Missy inhaled sharply as she followed his gaze. The pressure in her head intensified as she imagined vile images of the lecherous man’s activities on the bed. She instinctively jumped away from his outstretched arms. “No!” she commanded in a voice well beyond her stature.
The man moved forward. “The harlot in you resists but my touch will purge the wickedness from your spirit!” He grabbed hold of her arm with one hand as the other sought the top of her gown.
Missy tried to bring her arms across her chest for protection. She leaned heavily away but couldn’t break the man’s grasp. As she screamed, her knee came up brutally but struck only a glancing blow to the man’s groin.
The impact caused the parson’s breath to explode outward in surprise and pain. His face reddened as a look of pure rage washed over him. He raised his free arm and delivered a sharp backhand to the right side of Missy’s face. The smack of the blow echoed off the wall but her cry cut it short. Her world turned on its side but she fought to remain conscious. Abandoning any hope of breaking the man’s grip, she reached behind her back and fumbled for her rusty wire. Head and heart pounding, she squeezed her eyes shut as her fingers wrapped around the thin rod. With a guttural shriek, she brought her hand around in one, wild motion toward her tormentor and felt wire pierce flesh. An instant later, she was free.
Stumbling backwards, Missy’s eyes opened wide in horror. The parson’s hands were wrapped around the wire jutting from his neck. Blood spurted between the man’s fingers as pitiful whimpers escaped him. Terrified breaths brought frothy, red bubbles to his lips. He looked wildly around the room as if he had lost his bearings before turning toward the door.
Missy regained her footing and push-kicked the parson’s back savagely. The unbalanced man flew forward and bounced off the door. He landed on his side and the steel wire torqued between the floor and his neck in the crash. The man keened in pain before resuming breathless gasps. “You bitch!” he gurgled as he continued feebly to stem the blood flowing from his neck.
Missy sprang over the man, nearly slipping in the pool of blood beside him. She frantically pawed at the knob before wresting the door open and bolted into the nave. The young scrubber still knelt at the floor and cast an uncertain look toward Missy when she raced past him for the front doors. Over the pounding of her pulse, she could hear terrible cries coming from the parson. She hit the double doors at a dead run and both flew open. The brilliance of daylight nearly blinded her but she ran straight ahead onto the dirt road as fast as she could.
“She’s stabbed the Third Minister!” a voice screamed from inside the sanctuary.
Riski
ng a glance behind her, she saw both guards raise their rifles. Her eyes fixed on the gaping barrels as the pressure inside her head reached a crescendo. Death was a heartbeat away.
The world spun as Missy turned and ran, even as her head pounded and her ears popped moments later. Intuition told her to dash in zigs and zags but stress and adrenalin had sent her perception reeling. She teetered on the wavering street, her breath coming in short pants as she focused on merely remaining upright. If I trip, I die. A street corner drew close. Her body felt as if it had already run a marathon. Despite her faltering canter, no bullets struck her. With each step, she braced for the sound of the gunshots that would end her life. None came.
Missy reached the corner and skidded around the turn. Her head began to clear despite the physical toll escaping the parson had cost her body but she knew that pure exhaustion would quickly surpass her ability to continue. She ducked into the crowd on the street, seeking to place as many bodies between herself and her pursuers as she could.
Several minutes later, her flight had drained her completely. She staggered toward a final corner before tripping in a pothole and falling to her knees. Explosive gasps sought to fuel her oxygen-deprived body. She was drenched in a clammy sweat and her gown clung to her as her eyes leaked tears. The tremendous exertion required to stand and carry herself to a small alcove of a condemned building sapped her remaining reserves. She brought a shaking hand up to wipe her face. It came away red. A brief exploration revealed a trickle of blood running from her right ear. Both of her ears still rung from the parson’s savage blow. Her head throbbed in accompaniment.
She furtively scanned the street as she rested but saw no pursuers. They must have gone inside to help the preacher, she reasoned. I’ve got to keep moving. She pushed off the barricaded door that supported her and stumbled back onto the street. Turning the opposite direction from the Strip, she trudged steadily into the crowd. The rain puddles from the night before had evaporated under the intensifying sun and the mud was starting to bake and crack. She gathered her tangled mane of dark hair into a ponytail to lift it off her neck, hoping to cool her sweat-drenched body as she wandered aimlessly deeper into the shantytown.