The Final Trade

by Joe Hart

  Vidri’s breath plumes out in the cool air. He’s breathing faster and the scent of booze nearly burns her nose. “Come on, honey, just a little taste before we get to the whole shebang tomorrow.” He forces her hand down below his belt to the bulge in his pants. “Oh. What did you find there?” She tries to squirm away but he holds her fast, making her stroke him. “I’m gonna treat you so good. You won’t even know why you held out this long.” His voice is airy, strained by lust.

  Wen’s gorge rises and she searches again with her foot behind her.

  Nothing.

  “Oh, I’m gonna take you so hard. Make you say my name.” His breathing quickens and he rubs her hand faster.

  She’s screaming inside, wishing for something, anything, to kill him with. Because she would. If she had any type of instrument there would be no hesitating. She’s about to recede within herself until it is over, until he’s gotten what he came for, when she realizes she can still see the shine of his eyes.

  Wen reaches up and gouges her thumbnail deep into Vidri’s right eye socket.

  The effect is instantaneous.

  He shoves her away, a short mewl coming from him as he stumbles in the dark. She doesn’t falter, uses the motion he put her in to run and jump as high as she can over the pile of equipment.

  Her feet graze something and she tumbles forward, losing all sense of direction.

  Her hand strikes something hard, shoulder bashing against the ground. Then her face.

  Dirt grinds into her mouth, coats her tongue as she rolls over and sees the sky again. Her lungs are locked shut, air smashed out of them from the impact. She pushes up from her back, gets a leg beneath her as something hits her in the side of the head.

  The world cartwheels.

  Her vision spins and the stars blur as she tumbles across the ground. When she raises her head Vidri is there, coming closer, blocking out the glimmering sky.

  “You dumb bitch! I’ll fucking kill you.”

  She scrambles backward, trying to gain her bearings. A hundred yards to the nest. Twenty yards to get between tents she can hide behind. Where are the guards doing their rounds? Why isn’t anyone coming? But maybe Vidri’s planned this well. Being the captain of the guards has its perks.

  She gets her feet under her as he looms closer, one arm cocked back. She knows she won’t see the blow coming, and part of her is thankful.

  A band of light illuminates the top of Vidri’s head and he pauses, fist clenched beside his ear. He glances toward the light’s source and Wen follows suit.

  Four sets of headlights are approaching from the east, the rumble of engines becoming clearer. Several guards appear out of the shadows surrounding the tents and take up positions near the drive that cuts through the center of camp.

  “Scavenge returning!”

  “Let ’em through!”

  Vidri turns his attention back to her and for the first time she can see the damage she’s done to him.

  His right eye is a mass of blood, the corner seeping crimson tears onto his cheek. The eye is still there, still tracking her as she begins backing away, but he keeps blinking more and more blood onto his face and doesn’t move to pursue her.

  The convoy rattles closer and she hurries away, one hand cupping the side of her head where Vidri struck her. There are several more calls announcing the return of the scavenger group, a few lights flickering between tents, some of the men eager to see if there’s anything they can trade for before inventory takes over the collected goods.

  Wen jogs between two temporary shacks and finds the modified mess hall in the next section of camp. It is only the kitchen and the serving window, but it looks like a sanctuary to her. She pushes through the door into the faint light thrown by the single lamp over the stove and collapses against the farthest cabinet, sliding down to the ground. She holds herself, mind racing, nausea roiling inside her.

  How could they? How could the Prestons give in to that monster?

  But of course she knows how.

  It is plain as day. Plain to anyone who has ever come into contact with the trade.

  The Prestons are insane. And this is how they “care” for women.

  Her thoughts are a whirlwind that won’t slow down no matter how hard she tries. Vidri will have his way with her tomorrow. There will be no stopping him. She just sealed her fate by fighting back. Tomorrow she’ll pay for it.

  Or maybe she’ll pay tonight.

  Wen freezes, halting the forward-and-back rocking she didn’t realize she was doing. What if Vidri comes looking for her now? Would he go outside of the Prestons’ orders? Would he risk it? It’s only one day. Perhaps they would forgive him for being anxious.

  She forces herself up enough to reach the knife block on the counter beside her, fingers scrambling across handles until she finds the right one. She sits back on the floor, butcher knife clasped in one hand, and waits, listening for sounds outside the mess building. There are the distant yells of men, exclamations and curses carrying on the air. Then something else. Something that cools her blood.

  Footsteps. Close, and coming closer.

  Adrenaline jets into her system, tensing muscles, prickling the hair on the back of her neck. She stands, making her decision.

  She will fight and kill or die right here.

  She regrips the knife, steadying her stance, listening to the footsteps come nearer and nearer.

  They stop outside the kitchen door.

  The hinges squeak and a shadow steps inside.

  Wen raises the knife and is about to rush forward and bury the blade up to the hilt in Vidri’s chest when she notices the shadow is too thin, too tall.

  Robbie stands inside the doorway holding a thick canvas bag by a strap over one shoulder. His face is smudged with road dust, but he’s grinning and he doesn’t seem to register that she’s pointing a knife at him.

  “I found it,” he says, swinging the bag off his shoulder. “I finally found it.”

  14

  It takes several seconds for Wen to process what he means.

  “You what?”

  “I found the ten-eighty,” Robbie says, and truly sees her for the first time. “Oh my God, what happened to you?” He drops the bag and comes forward, placing a hand on her face where it’s tightening with a bruise.

  “They finally gave in to Vidri.”

  “What? How could they?”

  “He wore them down. It doesn’t matter. He found me tonight while I was waiting for you to get back. Tried to get a head start on tomorrow’s festivities but I got away.”

  Robbie touches her ear, which feels like something inanimate glued to the side of her head. “Doesn’t look like you got away clean.”

  She tries to smile and turns back to the counter, dropping the knife into its place in the butcher block. “I thought you were him. I was going to . . .” She tries to continue but her throat cinches shut and all the strength goes from her spine. She bends forward and places her forehead on her hands atop the counter. Robbie is there, arm around her, supporting her so she won’t crumble to the floor. Because that’s what she wants to do. She doesn’t want to be a comet anymore. She could fall down, break apart, and become the rubble that she feels like inside, everything held together simply by necessity.

  “It’s going to be okay,” he whispers. “Everything’s going to work out now that we’ve got it.”

  Wen fights the instability, the sensation of disintegrating, and gathers herself, slowly straightening. She looks at the bag on the floor and swallows. “You’re sure it’s the right stuff?”

  “Positive.” He hurries to the bag and opens it, pulling out multiple canned goods, a faded package of flour, a large bucket marked “vegetable oil,” and finally a small silver canister with a blue cap on its top. “I found it in the back of a barn that was falling down. The container it was in was buried under a pile of old hay that was turning to dust. Most of the label was rusted away, but I could still make out the numbers on the side.�
�� He hands her the small canister. “You said we didn’t need very much, right?”

  Wen twists the cap off and holds the bottle beneath the light so she can see its contents.

  The white crystals shine up at her, some of them discolored from time and moisture. She shakes the container and the poison shifts inside. It looks exactly like salt.

  “You did it, Robbie.”

  “We did it. I wouldn’t have known that stuff from table salt.”

  “Well, that’s the point, isn’t it?” She spins the cap back on and sets the canister down on the counter between them. They both stare at it.

  “How much will you put in their food?”

  “I’m not exactly sure. It depends on how much they weigh. But I’m guessing it’ll take less than an ounce between the two of them.”

  “Shit,” Robbie breathes, wiping his hands on his pants. “I touched some of it. Do you think—”

  “No. But wash them just in case.” He hurries to the sink and scrubs his palms for several minutes before returning to the counter.

  “How fast do you think it will work?”

  “Fast. We’ll only have ten minutes or so before they notice something’s wrong. Maybe twenty until they come looking for us. Will Fitz be ready?”

  “He damn well better be. The man’s not the smartest I’ve ever been with, but his heart’s in the right place and he wants to leave as much as you and I do. I’m not going to tell him how it’s going to go down though. I don’t think he wants to know.”

  “As long as he’s got the vehicle ready outside the gate, we’ll be fine.”

  “When can we . . .” He gestures at the poison and motions to the rest of the kitchen.

  Wen sighs. “We have to wait until setup and opening night. Which at the rate we’re going will be within the next week or so. The Oregon border’s not too far off.”

  “Another week. Are you sure we can’t—”

  “Yes. Like I said, we have to wait until there’s enough distraction. Opening night’s perfect for that.”

  Silence grows in the kitchen. Outside the yells and excitement of the returning supply run have died down. The trade is quiet once again. She’s about to hide the ten-eighty away when Robbie clears his throat and glances around the room, looking everywhere but at her. He’s done this so many times she doesn’t even need to ask what he’s thinking.

  “I’ll be fine, Robbie.”

  “They’re going to make you test their food, just like you do every day.”

  “Yes. They will.”

  “And you’ll have to eat it.”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ll get sick.”

  “Most likely, yes, I’ll get sick. But it will be a much smaller amount since I only take a bite of their meals.”

  “You might die.”

  “I’m pretty sure I won’t.”

  “But you don’t know.”

  “No.”

  “But what if—”

  “I don’t know!” she yells, and Robbie recoils as if she slapped him. “This is the best I could come up with and it’s all we’ve got.” He looks down at the floor, mouth working soundlessly. Wen puts a hand to her temple, which aches from where Vidri struck her. “Look, I’m sorry. I know it’s not perfect, but I’m willing to go through with it. I have to. We don’t have any other choice.”

  Robbie shifts from foot to foot and runs a hand through his hair. “I know. The only reason I said anything is that I don’t know what I’d do without you. I would’ve put a gun to my head years ago and pulled the trigger if it hadn’t been for you and Fitz. What I’m trying to say is I love you and don’t want to lose you.”

  She looks at him, emotion tightening her throat again, and crosses the distance between them. Wen embraces him and he squeezes her tightly, the two of them not moving for a long time in the center of the dingy kitchen. Finally she draws away, seeing the tracks his tears have carved on his dirty face. He rolls his eyes.

  “Damn you. Smeared my mascara.” They both laugh and he clears his throat. “I should get to my tent. If a guard happens to step in here . . .”

  “Yes, go.”

  “Do you want me to hang around outside your tent tonight in case Vidri tries something?”

  “No. I’ll stay here. There’s an old blanket under the sink to catch leaks. I’ll be fine.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. I’ll feel better here. At least I can brace the door and have weapons if he does come poking around.”

  He surveys her for a long moment before nodding. “Okay. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Bright and early.”

  “God I miss sleeping in, lounging around my apartment in the mornings. You think we’ll ever get that back? Pieces of our old life?”

  She hears a baby’s tinkling laughter somewhere in the wings of her mind that she’s almost completely boarded shut. “Let’s get some sleep, okay?”

  He grimaces and heads for the door, stopping outside in the night coated in milky starlight. “You’re the strongest person I’ve ever known,” he says, then is gone, disappearing amongst the layered shadows.

  His words keep her rooted in place for nearly a minute before she shuts the door, using the handle of a pan to wedge it closed. The blanket from under the sink is damp but she barely notices it as she lies down, all of her adrenaline depleted, strength drained from the fight. She tucks her arm beneath her head, keeping her opposite hand wrapped around the handle of a butcher knife.

  Tomorrow night I’ll be sleeping in an entirely different place, she thinks. And there will be no one to help me. But no one’s really ever helped her before, not counting Robbie. All her life she’s had to fight for the things she’s wanted. And this is no different.

  I’ll do the only thing I know how to.

  She closes her eyes and begins to drift away from the pain and into the promise of sleep.

  I’ll help myself.

  15

  It is not yet dawn when Wen rises from her makeshift bed, unrested, sore, joints throbbing, with a spinning sense of vertigo so strong she rushes to the sink and vomits.

  She wipes her mouth with her arm and rinses the sick down the drain, splashing her face several times with icy water fed by a tank attached to the roof outside. She steadies herself against the counter and breathes.

  Concussion. Has to be.

  The room pivots around her and she fights the nausea. Her ear is a crooked piece of meat that brings tears to her eyes when she touches it, and when she finds her reflection in the bottom of one of the baking pans, there is a purplish bruise growing out of her hairline and down below her eye. She looks like hell.

  “I’m getting too old for this,” she says. But her joke falls flat in the empty kitchen. She moves to the door, pulling the pan’s handle from where she wedged it the night before, infinitely glad it wasn’t needed.

  The camp is still quiet, a distant bird’s call the only thing breaking the solitude. Slowly the queasiness passes, and she is able to start working.

  She opens cans, tears sealed packets apart, smelling odors from another time, preserved by the miracle of plastic and aluminum. She mixes, fills a huge pot full of water that will be the base for a new soup, one of the easiest things to make while on the road. Her large fridge is on one of the trucks, so her supply of fresh ingredients is limited to what she can keep in the more mobile and compact cooler in the corner of the room.

  After working for nearly an hour, she hears the beginnings of movement outside, the trade shaking loose its slumber to continue the never-ending trek down the highway to the next town or settlement filled with men who will pay for what Elliot Preston calls “the last, greatest show on Earth.”

  Her hatred for him and his wife is so strong, so potent, she imagines for a moment she can taste it. But it is only the acidic remnants of bile in the back of her throat.

  She spits into the sink and is about to begin cleaning a dirty mixing bowl when the door to the kitchen
creaks open. She doesn’t need to turn around to see who it is. She can smell him already.

  “Good morning,” Vidri says. She dries her hands and turns to face him, forcing away the swaying in her vision.

  The captain of the guards is dressed in his usual attire: dusty boots, stained jeans, a ratty work shirt, but his face is what catches her gaze and holds it.

  His eye is swollen nearly shut and what of it she can see is red as a desert sunrise. The blackness of his pupil stares out at her and there is a long scratch leading up to his temple that she assumes came from her thumbnail.

  “Did quite a number on me last night,” he says, coming closer. She says nothing. “Could’ve blinded me, you know.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Vidri’s eyebrows rise. “Are you?”

  “I didn’t mean to hurt you that bad. I was still trying to process what you told me.”

  He smiles, revealing teeth in serious need of brushing. “Don’t think you can go butter up Ma and Pa with some fancy cooking and a sob story if that’s what you’re trying to do. I already have permission. You’re mine now.”

  “I know that. I’m coming to terms with it.”

  Vidri studies her. “You’re not going to fight me again?”

  “Would it do any good?”

  “No.”

  “Exactly. I know there’s no changing what’s going to happen. I’m trying to adjust myself, that’s all.”

  Vidri’s smile widens and he steps closer, only an arm’s length away. “I can be nice, you know. I can be real gentle. If you’re good to me, I’ll make your life easy.” He reaches out and traces her undamaged cheek with one finger, trailing it down past her chin and onto her chest, where it lazily makes a circle. “Real easy.”

  It takes every ounce of will to stand still, to not scream, lash out, and stab him with the knife on the counter behind her. Vidri comes closer, reaching around her back to pull her to him.

  She places her hands against his chest as he dips his face down to hers. “You need to wait. At least until tonight. Give me today to get ready. This evening I’ll have all my things moved to your tent and you’ll be able to do what you want. I won’t stop you.”