The Silent Years [The Complete Collection]

by Jennifer R. Povey

  Finally, a thin-faced woman approached. "Welcome." She looked them over. "Come with me. How old are you?"

  "Thirty-two," Dorothy provided, glancing at Marisol. She had not actually asked her age.

  "Nine."

  "Good...good." Then quietly, "Don't try to leave. Believe me...this may not be the best place, but I've seen what Chuck does to people who try to leave. Especially women."

  In that moment, Dorothy vowed that she would escape with Marisol. "I don't understand."

  "We have to do what we have to do to survive. We need more women. It's a shame you aren't a few years younger. Any children?"

  Dorothy felt like clamming up completely. "Not anymore," she said finally, her anger flowing outwards.

  Anger felt good, suddenly. She had needed to be angry and had lacked a target for so long. "And you can't keep me here."

  "Says who? There isn't any law any more. There's nowhere else for you to go anyway. At least here, you'll get three squares and protection from the Silents and the wildlings."

  Dorothy wondered if the girls were still out there. "Maybe," she said. But she had always had her freedom. Thomas had never been one to keep his woman close, the way some men did. He had always trusted her and she him. She felt no trust here. But she had more to worry about than herself. She had Marisol, even if she barely knew the kid. A substitute for her own children, she knew, but that substitution was what was keeping her sane. She would probably have killed some of these people were it not for Marisol. Then again, maybe she...

  She stopped that thought. "Where's Marisol?"

  "Do you want her in with you, at least for now?"

  "Yes." At least she would have that, and if they were together, escape became more possible.

  Assuming they would want to escape.

  -#-

  It was that last thought that carried her into the night. She did not sleep, but lay awake on the cot they had given her. Dorothy and Marisol shared one room, and she listened to Marisol's soft, even breathing. She envied the child, who slept the sleep of the innocent or the exhausted.

  For Dorothy, oblivion did not come. Everything circled around in her head, buzzards threatening to pick off what remained of her soul. She never imagined being this empty. She could not even grieve. There was just not enough left of her for that.

  No, she could grieve. She had grieved. That empty ride west alone with no destination. That had been her grief, her madness. It had brought her here. She supposed, places like this were inevitable; people would band together, and there would be no law. The wild children and these men were two sides of the same coin.

  There was one word and only one for what they would do to her. But at the same time, it had been a woman's duty once and now perhaps again. A woman's duty to mate with the man chosen for her and bear his children, setting up a shudder within her, but she could not escape. Freedom was an anomaly in history, and Marisol would probably forget it.

  Marisol's daughters would know no better, unless... Unless they took a stand now for women to be more than chattel.

  Was that the truth? Maybe it was just a small group of assholes expanding their power over men and women alike. That made as much sense as anything else. They were bandits; they had robbed and kidnapped her, albeit somewhat gently. Perhaps they really thought they had done her a favor.

  One room: that was the only part of the house that was habitable. She could fix that, given time, trust, and some freedom to steal — no, scavenge — what she needed. That was the way out. She needed to convince them she would always come back, then grab Marisol and go, if she could stand this long enough.

  The next day, there was a communal breakfast. It was simple and there was no meat. She saw that the colt was still tethered, the mare loose with their horses. She suspected it was the colt they had wanted as much as anything else. The food was better than she had expected, though. At least it wasn’t all canned rations.

  "Have you eaten enough?" A male voice.

  She looked up. It was not the man she suspected was the leader, but a different one. They all seemed the same. All white, the men with some degree of beards, the women with long hair. Marisol stood out with her dark skin, and she saw no others. Were they driving black people away, or was it pure coincidence? "Yes."

  "Come, then." He clearly expected her to obey.

  She wanted to balk but no, gain their trust, convince them she was a docile woman. Whatever they needed her to be, she could be in order to survive. She stood and followed him.

  "I'm Edward, by the way. We need all the warm bodies we can get."

  "Especially women," she said sourly.

  "More men seem to have survived. We do need women. It makes you valuable."

  "I don't want any more children," she said, evenly.

  "I'm sorry, but that isn't on your list of choices. The man, that we can let you choose, but we don't have enough women for any to..."

  "I'm too old to do so safely without medical support."

  "That's the risk we all have to take."

  She seethed. He was a man. He could not understand. "I'd be more use as a teacher." She had Marisol. She'd willingly take on several more children who needed a mother figure...but another pregnancy, at her age, with no doctor?

  "Not the way things work. I'm willing to take you myself."

  "If you touch me, that's rape." She kept her tone even. "I would assume you still consider that a crime, even if theft and kidnapping aren't."

  "Your survival chances were low, and you know it."

  "Better than with you." She tensed, ready to do something if he did decide to force the issue. She had a vision of Marisol fifteen years from now, already an old woman, worn out by hardship and children. Yet would anywhere else be better? Painfully, Thomas' face came into her mind. "Besides, I'm still in mourning."

  "A luxury." He reached out, tried to grab her wrist.

  She stepped back. "Don't touch me."

  "I can be quite reasonable. You're the one being unreasonable."

  "You're the one making all the threats. I'm leaving."

  "Without your daughter?"

  That hurt. She knew she could run now, get into the wild alone, but she'd never manage to get Marisol out. "She'd be better off with the wildlings," Dorothy snapped. She did not question 'daughter.' It was better for Mari to be treated as her daughter than as an orphan.

  "She's a good kid. She'd never last with them."

  "And you'll turn her into a broodmare."

  "And they wouldn't? They'll probably be worse with no adults like that."

  She remembered the wildlings inviting her to come. They wanted adults, perhaps, but these men could not be trusted, and how many others like them were there? "Do you blame them for being careful about who they trust?"

  "No, but we'd take the entire lot of them in. They don't want to know."

  "Probably worried you'll split them up or something." That would be a sane fear, a sensible one. Splitting them up would be the logical thing to do, anyway. Separated, they would not be a political force. It was more than strange to think of kids that way.

  "We might have to..." He tailed off. "Look, what we care about here is humanity. Do you want us to have a future?"

  "Yes. A future as the people we can be, not this..." But the wildlings had it, too: absolute leadership.

  Tribes. They were forming tribes again. They knew Marisol was not really her daughter, and suddenly she feared for the girl. A tribe did not appreciate difference. "We're human beings, and we have and know more than survival."

  He had the last word. "Not anymore."

  Chapter Ten

  Edward left her mostly alone for the rest of the day. She helped the other women prepare meals...there was a definite division of labor. She did not mind that part.. Marisol was seldom out of her sight. She even managed to play.

  Maybe she, at least, would be happy here. Or maybe not. That fear still floated in Dorothy’s mind. Marisol might not be fully tribe, a
nd thus...what was the answer?

  Dorothy knew she herself could not stay here. Nobody talked to her much, she was left fairly alone. She supposed they were giving her time to consider the question of which man. None of them were appealing. She would rather have Leroy. Hell, she would rather have Galatea Crow.

  It was ironic that name would come to mind at just that juncture. Three men came into camp, dragging a woman kicking and screaming. Her hair was over her face, so it took a moment before the sting of recognition hit.

  Galatea wore rags and had a good sized shiner on her left eye. She was pushed into the camp.

  "This is what happens to those who are stupid enough to think they can walk alone, outside the community." They stepped back, away from her. "Survival comes from numbers. Survival comes from everyone doing their part."

  It was not a religious ritual, but it felt like one. Or perhaps like something that might grow into one given time. A shiver ran through Dorothy. She wanted to escape even more.

  Now, though, she was sure her chances had increased.

  They left Galatea tied to a tree until the evening meal, presumably to make their point. Dorothy was careful not to meet her eyes. She was careful to show no sign that she knew her. At one point, Galatea seemed to notice her and her face showed accusation. 'Et tu, Dorothy,' perhaps.

  She wished she could say something, but dared not. An ally less than ten feet away and they were like ships in the night. They had to be, until the time was right.

  Dorothy found her opportunity the next morning. There was no running water. The women washed in the stream, and while the men kept an eye on them, they were not that close. Besides, the men did not want to pay too much attention; it was unseemly.

  "Galatea."

  "You're in with these..."

  "They caught me two days ago," Dorothy murmured. "I haven't seen a good opportunity to make a break for it yet."

  "Rapists," Galatea said.

  Dorothy wondered what had happened to her. The crystals and jewelry were gone, but so was the brightness, the bird-like joy in life that had once seemed so annoying. Now Dorothy craved it, longed for it, even desired it in a non-sexual manner. "There's also a kid I picked up on the road. I don't want to leave her with them either."

  "No, we don't."

  That we meant so much. All of a sudden she felt that she was no longer alone. "I've lost everyone."

  "That sucks." The underestimation was delivered with a wry tone. "If everyone here stood up to that Andrew guy?"

  Dorothy had to think before remembering that the leader's name was Andrew. She glanced around. "They won't."

  Galatea nodded. "The ones with any power, any strength, will support the source of it. Human nature. We're better off grabbing that kid, maybe a couple more, and running."

  "The smaller of the two wagons is mine. So is the chestnut mare." She didn't mention the colt. Stealing one horse might be managed, but two, with one of them being treated like a king? Not likely. "And a dog. I'm not leaving the dog."

  "Where is it?"

  "With the kids."

  "Okay. Small or big?"

  "Small."

  That was as much time as they got to talk, but Dorothy felt herself more alert. Her eyes scanned constantly for opportunities, even as she kept her head down most of the time. Playing along was still the best way to get through this.

  That night, Edward took her out of the hut she was sharing with Marisol and raped her.

  -#-

  Dorothy had previously thought her life had hit rock bottom. She was wrong. Had he treated her with the same respect he had initially showed, instead of like a horse that was to be broken...maybe she might have accepted him.

  Well, he had not. Getting out before it happened again took on a certain urgency. At least Marisol was too young - but she would not stay that way forever.

  The other women were more open towards her at breakfast. It was as if she had been initiated into their society. She did not warm to them. Dorothy thought of secreting away a knife, imagined herself plunging it into his heart.

  She did not try to. Instead, she thought of distances, of paths, of getting to the horses. Maybe the wagon was beyond their reach, but if she took two of the riding horses...Marisol could ride behind one of them. Toby? She'd work something out...

  "Hey, Toby?" she called softly after breakfast.

  At least she could trust Toby. He padded over to her, wagging his stump. She scooped him up into her arms and whispered, "We're getting out of here."

  Whether he understood or not, there was no way of knowing. He licked her face. She laughed a bit, without humor.

  Perhaps this was all a game to him. She had always felt dogs treated everything like a game, no matter how serious. His nightmare was over, how could he understand that hers had only become worse?

  Dorothy did not let him down, but rather scanned the camp with a critical eye. They had set up around a cul de sac, taking over the houses that surrounded it and starting to extend down the street, using the space between them communally. In the few days she had been here, she had established that there were twenty men, eleven women including herself and Galatea, and six children, including Marisol. It probably was hard to winkle the kids away from the wildlings. Many would dream of living without adults.

  The children that stayed were not the smart ones, perhaps. Or maybe they were. Perhaps whatever new society came, the children would lead. Then she remembered what the wildlings had looked like: thin, ragged, hungry. The people here at least were slightly less thin, ragged and hungry. If anyone was winning, these people were.

  They should make their move about an hour before breakfast, Dorothy thought. That seemed to be when everyone was asleep. Which horses did they take? The matched pair of black geldings came to mind. Not just because they were nice horses, but because they were Edward's. It would be revenge to take them. She thought of taking other things too, but she was not sure she would have a good opportunity.

  Okay. Supplies? Dorothy and Galatea would probably not be able to take any. The bearded men had taken her gun after the first day, and they did not allow the women to have weapons. That struck her as a less-than-smart decision. In a massive attack, she'd want everyone over the age of ten to be armed.

  What would the camp do when they ran out of ammo? The answer came to her: Learn to use bows and arrows. Those could still be made if anyone knew how.

  A vague sense of doom came over her. She had not thought of that. Perhaps everyone would simply have to learn when to run. Was she not running? She had run for weeks, and run right into this rather than away from it, and now she had to run again.

  A bow and arrows. She could envision one, but was sure there was more to making it. No. A sling, that she could make. She'd done it before, as a girl.

  She managed to slip away for an hour. That was all it took. An hour and a stolen scrap of leather combined with rags, and she had a serviceable sling. And while she did not have iron balls, she had pebbles from the river. It would have to do. She hid it inside the waist of her jeans.

  At least they had not tried to force her into some kind of impractical dress. Yet. Some of the other women were wearing Amish-style skirts, but that might well be what they had arrived in.

  Dorothy needed to get out before Edward came for her again. Perhaps her captors had sensed that, for her brief freedom was all she got that day. She was also being kept well away from Marisol. Galatea was even worse off. As far as Dorothy could tell, she had spent all day scrubbing pots under close supervision.

  Even the women seemed to support the punishment, their heads down with no sign of defiance. She knew what this place would become. Only the shortage of females was keeping them from polygamy. That would probably not last forever. Protect the women because they're valuable, and slowly the ratio is bound to shift the other way. Even she knew that.

  So she had to tolerate another night with him, praying to nothing that she would not conceive. She could not stand
the thought of his child, a child of rape. She could not understand how women had ever lived like this, as they once had for generations. She wanted to stick a knife into him, feel his warm, wet blood.

  Instead, her revenge was more subtle. When he slept satiated, she got up. She relieved him of his gun, although he had no ammo. Just for good measure, she also picked up his pants and tossed them out of the window. Had she had a knife...but she did not. Marisol was in the next room.

  How much had she heard? How much trauma would she experience? Would she hate men for all eternity?

  That was entirely possible, but healing would have to come later. She woke the girl with one hand over her mouth.

  "Come. Bring Toby."

  Silently, Marisol pulled on the nearest clothes, a dress that had clearly been recently made from patches of cloth.

  Now for Galatea. That was the hard one - she was clear the other side of the compound and they had a night watch posted.

  The guard turned, and she did what she had to do. Not the gun — that would have woken everyone. Silently, she placed a stone in sling and then released. Yes! She could still do it, and a man was an easier target than a squirrel...even if she did have to take him down quickly.

  Now they had to move. Marisol was silent, her eyes white. She might not understand why they were running. After all, she, had not been abused, simply treated as the child she was.

  Move. She remembered which hut Galatea was in. The two women who were in there with Galatea opened their mouths. She pulled Edward's gun on them. "If you scream, they'll come, but you'll be dead before they do."

  They both fell silent. They had tied Galatea to the bed. Without a word, Marisol walked forward and untied her.

  Dorothy let out a sigh. Perhaps the kid understood after all. Toby was outside, having followed her scent. As they walked out, Marisol picked him up, his stub of a tail wagging.

  They took the black horses. Marisol rode behind Dorothy. Away, away into the night and no shots came after them.

  -#-

  Dorothy hoped that the men would not be willing to shoot women or valuable horses. As they rode through the darkness, she had to trust her horse's night vision. Fortunately, the men pursuing them were in the same boat. It was probably the world's slowest chase scene.