by D. L. Orton
I sit there on my bed, staring at him. “Peter?”
He takes the towel out of my limp hands and sits down next to me.
“They’re going to come tonight,” he says, and starts drying the tips of my hair. “But you’ll be safe in here.”
“Who’s coming?” I say and turn to face him. “What are you talking about?”
“The men from the Compound.” He glances back and forth between my eyes. “Twice a year they come here to… round up the Others.”
I stare at him, not understanding. “Why would they do that?”
“Because the Others are all women,” he says and then continues drying my hair. “The men capture them and make them… do things. If they refuse, they’re killed. The ones who submit are taken back.”
The horror I’m feeling must show on my face because he drops the towel and puts his hands on my shoulders. “Shannon, I won’t let them touch you—or take you back. I promise.”
“Tell me the truth about the Others,” I say, my voice icy cold. “Start at the beginning, and tell me all of it.”
He glances down at his hands. “Turn around, and I’ll braid your hair.”
I hesitate.
He pulls the rubber band off my wrist and puts it on his own. “Please.”
I follow his request.
He takes my hair into his hands and begins.
“When I was five, there were rumors of an uprising—mostly by the women, but some of the men too. My grandmother was one of the leaders, but my mother wasn’t involved—my father always treated her special, and she had me to take care of—his only son and the next king. But my father found out about the rebellion and had all of the suspects put in jail. There was a trial, of course—what Grizzly called a kangaroo court—and all of the accused were convicted of high treason and sentenced to death. My father planned to kill one person a day until all the guilty had been punished.”
I sit in silence as Peter runs the brush over my hair, his voice almost a whisper.
“The following morning,” he continues, “my father started executing the traitors. The first man was brought out, stripped naked, and forced into the airlock. The Outside door was opened, and people cheered and hooted as the poisoned air choked him to death. It became a daily ritual—a public spectacle. People brought out lawn chairs and argued over who got the best view and made bets over how long the next one would last.”
“So they’re true,” I say in a shaky voice. “The rumors that you killed all those women.”
“Yes.” He drops his hands to his lap.
It’s nearly dark now, and Peter gets up to light a candle.
When he sits back down, I ask, “What happened next?”
“On the day before my grandmother was to die, my mother begged my father to spare Gran’s life. I was in the room when she pleaded with him to have mercy—if not for her sake, then for his son’s. He got angry and started hitting her. I’d seen him slap and push her before, but this time it was worse. I tried to stop him, but I was only five, and he struck me hard enough that I blacked out.”
He sets the hairbrush down and starts dividing my hair into sections.
I wait for him to continue, and eventually he does.
“I think Mother knew he would refuse, and that night, she poisoned him. Once he had collapsed, she stole his keys, got the women out of jail—by then, all the men were dead—and helped them escape through the Barrier.”
I turn and look at him over my shoulder. “Why didn’t your mother go with them?”
“Because of me. Grizzly was watching over me that night—I was still recovering from the beating my father had given me—and my mother refused to leave without me. After the other women were free, she came back for me, planning to take me out of my bed and escape with me that same night.”
He stops braiding my hair, but I can hear his soft breathing behind me.
“But the poison didn’t kill my father,” he says. “I found my mother hanging from a rafter in the sanctuary the next morning.”
“Oh my God, Peter. I’m so sorry.” I try to turn around, but he won’t let me.
He holds on to my hair, pulling my head back so I can’t look at him.
When he’s certain I won’t try again, he continues with the story.
“My father assumed the women would all die once they crossed the barrier. There were stories about devil creatures that lived in the Wilds, and they would slaughter anyone brash enough to cross over. But the women managed to survive. My father would step through the Barrier every evening and see their cooking fires—and that made him angry. A few months after they escaped, he ordered the men to round them up and kill them all.” He clears his throat. “He made me go along with them so I could see what evil my mother and grandmother had brought down on his kingdom.”
He’s quiet for a bit, his hands still.
“It didn’t take long for us to find the women, and once they were rounded up, the men decided to take a few liberties before killing them. The women fought back, especially after they realized they were to be killed afterward, but it didn’t help. When my father saw what was happening, he decided to show mercy. He told the women that if they cooperated, they wouldn’t be killed—and most of them agreed.”
He runs his hands over my braid—and then undoes it and starts over.
“The raid proved popular, especially with the men who could never expect to marry and were not allowed to touch what few women remained in the Compound. So twice a year there’s a Culling. The Others are rounded up, and any man who captures one is allowed to keep her for three days and nights. When the Culling is over, the youngest captives are brought back to the Compound and beaten until they cooperate. The children—sometimes there are boys—are turned over to the Giver of the Law, and the girls who have experienced first sin are added to the Breeders.”
“First sin?” I ask, not understanding.
“The blood,” Peter says, “that God sends to punish women for tempting Adam.”
Maybe it’s because I’m so tired, but I still don’t get it. “Why would God send people blood?”
“It comes once a month unless a woman is with child.” He hesitates, and I feel my face get hot. “Do you not know of it?”
Sometimes you’re a real lolo, Shaz.
“You’ve been here over a month,” he says, tying off my braid, “and I’ve seen no blood.” He exhales, still holding on to my hair. “Are you carrying someone else’s child?”
I shake my head and then turn around so I can see his face. “In my biodome, girls aren’t allowed to get pregnant until they’re twenty-one, and they’re discouraged from having children until they’re twenty-five.”
He nods, still looking skeptical.
“But we’re allowed to start practicing—both the boys and the girls—once we turn eighteen.”
His eyes get big, so I know he understands what I’m talking about.
“And to keep from getting pregnant, all the girls have a small device inserted under our skin—one that is simple to remove when we decide to have children.” I show him the tiny scar on the inside of my arm. “It keeps me from getting pregnant—and also keeps me from having a period. The scientific word for it is menstruation, and it’s not God’s punishment or anything.”
“So…” he says, his eyebrows rising. “Have you, uh, practiced?”
I shake my head. “Have you?”
He drops his gaze. “No.”
“Peter,” I say and take his hand. “I like it when you braid my hair. I like it a lot. And I wish you would have kissed me last night instead of running away.”
He swallows, running his fingers across my palm. “Shannon, I—”
There’s a loud clanging sound outside in the Wilds, and we both turn toward the airlock door.
“How sure are you that the men don’t know how to open it?” I ask, knowing he won’t lie to me if I ask a direct question.
He looks at me. “The biodome is a big place, and
they don’t know we’re in here.”
“So you’re positive they can’t open our door, even if they find us?”
“No one but you—and now me—knows how to open it, Shannon. I’m sure of that.” He lifts my hand to his lips and kisses it. “But there’ll be fires out in the Wilds—that’s how the Others fight back—and it may take days, even weeks, for the smoke to clear.”
“That’s why you insisted we move the food inside? And why you hauled in all that water? So we’d be safe inside here?”
He shrugs. “Remember all the smoke when we first brought you in here? The Others must have seen us come through the Barrier and assumed it was time for the Culling.”
“Why didn’t you use the airlocks on the side with electricity?”
“Because they’re befouled. It’s forbidden to use them for anything except the Cleansing.” He drops his gaze, and I don’t have to ask what ‘the Cleansing’ is to know it’s something bad—and probably involves doing mean things to women.
“When will the men come?” I ask.
He looks up. “At dawn.”
“And if they do discover us inside here, will they be able to break down the door?”
“No. They’ll have knives and rope, but nothing heavy enough to break the glass. I tested that on one of the other airlocks—the morning I got up early.”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t more help,” I say, feeling embarrassed by all the work he’s been doing to protect us—protect me. “I’m glad I met you, Peter. And I’m glad you came with me to the Wilds.”
He runs his fingertip across my bare ankle. “Does that mean you still want to kiss me?”
I lean sideways and blow out the candle.
33
Who Let the Dogs Out?
Diego
After Bella leaves my hospital room, I try to get some sleep—but eventually give up.
I lie there in the dark, thinking about Isabel and imagining her in my arms again.
Wait for me, Iz. I’m coming home.
At 6 a.m., I get up, take a quick shower, and shave. Then I take the women’s clothing out of the bag Bella brought and pull them on over my own. There’s a blond wig and some thick glasses in the bottom. I set them on the bed and then fill up the empty sack with everything I can find.
A little before seven, there’s a knock on the door.
“It’s me,” Bella says and peeks in. “Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
She switches on the light and backs a wheelchair in through the doorway.
Why is it always wheelchairs?
“What did you do with my shadow?” I ask as I put on the wig and glasses.
“Nurse Sweet told him you didn’t get up until eight and suggested he get a cup of coffee in the cafeteria. He’ll be back in a few minutes. We need to hurry.”
I grab my backpack and the sack full of toiletries—and then hesitate.
“Have a seat.”
“I hate wheelchairs,” I say, knowing it sounds lame.
“You want to go home or not?” She puts her hands on her hips.
I sit down in the goddamn thing.
She takes my backpack and hangs it behind the seat. “Put the bag in your lap and keep your head down. With all the new people who arrived from the Lou today, no one’s going to look twice.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
She adjusts the wig, gives me a once-over, and pushes me out the door.
“Good morning, Mrs. Katz,” Nurse Sweet says as we come down the hallway.
I wave at her, unsure if I can do an old woman’s voice.
The elevator bongs—and then I hear the nurse’s sudden intake of breath.
The Hulk is just stepping out of the elevator.
Mierda.
Bella pushes me past the nurses station. “Tell proctology I’m bringing Mrs. Katz down now.”
“Of course, doctor.”
The big man strides past us, not even glancing at the old woman in a wheelchair.
Bella dives for the elevator door and then swings the chair around and backs me into the elevator.
She stabs at the lobby button as The Hulk disappears around the corner.
Nurse Sweet winks.
Just as the door starts to close, another doctor slips in with us.
“Morning, Dr. Kirk. Good to see you back on rounds.”
“Thank you, doctor. It’s good to be back.”
The man nods at me. “Are you one of the refugees from the Lou, ma’am?”
I clear my throat and then answer in falsetto, “Yes, sir. It’s very kind of you to take all of us in, and the hospital food’s been absolutely wonderful.”
“I’m… glad to hear that,” the doctor says, sounding surprised, and then nods at Bella. “Thanks to Dr. Kirk, I’m sure.”
Bella places her hand on my shoulder and gives it a painful squeeze. “Mrs. Katz has been having trouble controlling her bowels, but I’m sure we’ll get it sorted out soon enough.”
“I’m sure you will.” The elevator door opens, and the man gets off. “Good luck to you, Mrs. Katz.”
“Thank you, doctor. I’m hoping everything comes out okay.”
When the door shuts, Bella steps in front of me, her eyes like slits. “What in God’s name do you think you’re doing, Nadales?”
“Just being friendly, doctor.”
The door opens before she can respond.
She steps back around behind me, shoves the chair hard out of the elevator, and wheels me toward the exit—leaning over me and pretending to adjust my flowered blouse. “You do that again, buddy boy, and I’ll strangle you myself.”
“Promises, promises.”
She nods at one of the nurses coming in—who looks shocked to see her—and continues wheeling me toward the reception desk.
The young man sitting behind the counter jumps up when he sees us. “I’ve, uh, been given orders not to let anyone—”
Bella doesn’t even slow down. “I’m taking Mrs. Katz out to see what lovely… marigolds we have here at C-Bay. Please inform proctology that I’ll have her back in time for her exam.”
“Yes, of course, Dr. Kirk.” The youth sits back down. “Enjoy your, um, walk.”
“Marigolds?” I say when we’re out the front doors. “I hate marigolds. Can’t we look at the tulips?”
“You always were a pain in the ass when you were sick.”
I laugh. “That’s a low blow for someone on their way to proctology.”
She snorts. “Men.”
When we approach the main airlock, she stops the wheelchair and turns it to face the windows. “Shit,” she says under her breath. “Now what?”
There’s a group of Dave’s men standing in front of the airlock access doors—and one of them has a gun.
“Here goes nothing.” She wheels me closer.
All the chatting and laughter stops.
Bella pats me on the arm. “I told you, Mrs. Katz, everything is perfectly fine with the air pressure in our biodome. There’s no need to be worried about any failures. As you can see, these nice young men are working hard to make sure our seams are nice and tight, aren’t you boys?”
They shuffle their feet, and then one of them says, “Yes, Dr. Kirk.”
It’s Custer. I recognize the dandy boots.
Bella stops the wheelchair and turns toward them. “So why are you all standing around?” She glances at them, one by one. “I’m sure Mr. Kirk isn’t paying you to watch the grass grow.” She puts her hands on her hips. “Well, Mr. Armstrong?”
“No, Dr. Kirk,” he says. “We’ve been assigned to, uh, keep an eye on things.”
“I’m so glad to hear that because there’s a whole group of refugees back at the hospital waiting for someone to show them to their temporary quarters. You five would be perfect.”
They look at each other.
“Tut, tut,” Bella says in her doctor voice. “Go make yourselves useful before I tell Mr. Kirk he should transfer you to Sewage and Recla
mation.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Custer says, looking like he’d rather die than shovel shit for the rest of his life. He hurries off in the direction we just came—and the others follow.
“I’ve a bit of a reputation for being a bitch,” she says.
I laugh. “God, I’ve missed you.”
Bella keys in the code to the door, waits for it to slide open, and wheels me through.
“We need to hurry,” she says. “As soon as those goons get to the hospital, they’ll know something’s up.”
I take off the women’s clothes and wig and toss them into the seat of the wheelchair.
Bella takes off her white doctor’s coat and bumps a box with her foot. “All this needs to go.”
“Okay.” I start stuffing freeze-dried food into my pack while she changes her shoes and puts on a heavy sweater.
“David always leaves his Humvee parked in the loading dock,” Bella says. “You know where that is?”
“Yes,” I say. “You can see it from the airlock.”
“The gas tank should be full, and the keys should be in the cup holder—and they keep a twenty-gallon gas can in the back.” Bella holds up a long rubber tube. “For when that runs out.”
“Good thinking,” I say. “How are we going to get through the security fences?”
Bella hands me a garage door opener. “With this. Push and hold the button until the gate starts opening—it can be finicky. So don’t give up until you see the barrier start to move.”
“Okay—push and hold, don’t give up,” I repeat and then look up at her. “Why are you telling me?”
“Because I’m going to be driving,” she says. “My reflexes are better than yours.”
“But you don’t know where the hell we’re going.”
She crosses her arms. “Are you accusing me of not being able to read a map?”
“No. I’m just saying that I know how to drive a car, doctor.”
“Well, bully for you, Mr. Andretti.” She unzips the pack and rummages inside. “I’m driving.”
I know better than to argue with her when she starts calling me names.
“We follow the road around the lake going west,” she says and drops a compass around my neck. “You know how to find west, right? If not, give it back to me.”