“Some tourniquet,” says Mitch. “The cassette player in the van is ruined with Lance’s blood, thanks to you.”
Then they hop to their feet and put on their caps.
“Hello, Judith,” says Jerome.
“Good evening, Judith,” says Mitch.
“What’s all this about?” says Judith, a tall woman with a sawed-off shotgun and a clipboard.
“Mitch left Frenchy at the scene, Judith,” says Jerome. “The wrong scene, incidentally. We never got anywhere near the work camp.”
“I’ve heard,” says Judith. “We’ll need to talk, Mitch.”
“I think that’s an excellent idea,” Jerome says. “Somebody really needs to talk to Mitch.”
“I’ve got something to say,” Mitch says. “You people are always yapping about oppression this and oppression that, but you certainly don’t seem to mind oppressing me.”
“Nobody’s oppressing you, Mitch,” Jerome says. “Get off it. If anything, I’d say you’re attempting to oppress us, by accusing us of oppressing you. Wouldn’t you say so, Judith?”
“Did you hear that, Judith?” Mitch says. “Did you hear how he turned that around? It’s always my fault, and if that’s not oppression I don’t know what is. Just because I’m one of the few rebels with an internal Flaw, you people think you can treat me like dirt. If you think a perforated duodenum is somehow less significant than an extra arm or some open facial lesions, you’re just plain wrong.”
“This has nothing to do with your duodenum, Mitch,” says Judith. “This is strictly a performance issue.”
“You want to talk performance?” shouts Mitch. “Ask this little fart where he learned to fire a machine gun! There he was, spraying friend and foe alike, this smug look on his face, and now he has the gall to accuse me of a performance issue?”
“Leave it to you to bring my size into it,” says Jerome.
“For your information, my size is related to my pituitary, which in turn is related to a suite of mutagenic effects, so what you’ve just done, whether you’re man enough to admit it or not, is make fun of my Flaw, which last time I checked was exactly what we were fighting against, Mr. Shits-in-a-Bag.”
“That’s enough, you two,” Judith says. “Mitch, go walk the perimeter.”
“Who died and made her queen,” mutters Mitch.
“Phil did,” Judith says sharply. “And his last words to me as he died gutshot were: Continue my work.”
“Oops,” says Mitch. “Guess I sort of hit a nerve there.”
“What else is new?” says Jerome. “Open mouth, insert foot.”
“What was the first thing I did after Phil put me in charge, Mitch?” Judith demands, holding up her left arm, at the end of which is a reddened stump. “What did I do to make myself a more valuable commander?”
“Cut off your hand with a hacksaw to get your Flawed bracelet off,” Mitch says, hangdog.
“That’s right,” says Judith. “And why did I do that, Jerome?”
“To be able to more convincingly impersonate a Normal, ” says Jerome, equally hangdog.
“Correct,” says Judith. “And what was my first solo mission, post Phil?”
“You went to Denver and ingratiated yourself with a federal judge and made off with ten grand of his loot,” says Mitch.
“And what did I do with the money?” says Judith. “Did I buy myself jewels? Did I flee the country?”
“No,” Jerome says. “You bought weapons and food.”
“That’s right,” Judith says. “Weapons and food. Now. If you boys have finished presenting an absolutely shameful first impression of the movement to our guests, I’ll tend to my wounded.”
She leaves. Mitch and Jerome flip each other off and stomp away in opposite directions.
“Nice people,” says one of the nuns.
“Charming,” says another.
Then an old man brings us each a cup of cocoa and a questionnaire, which we fill out by candlelight to the sound of coyotes.
In the morning the old man shakes me awake and leads me to Judith’s tent. Judith’s sitting outside, wearing fatigues and hair rollers and sipping coffee.
“Good morning,” she says. “Welcome to freedom. I’d like to take a few minutes to tell you a little about our operation, if I may. Please have a seat.”
I sit at her feet and she gives me a cup of coffee and a sugar packet and some creamer.
“Stole these on a recent raid,” she says. “A little indulgence. In general, however, our resources are rather scarce. So, after a liberation, the rescued Flaweds are basically on their own. Your cavemates of last night, for example, have been sent stumbling out across the canyon in their high heels with five dollars each, regrettably still wearing their habits, because we have no budget for clothing. It kills me, but it’s all we can do to replenish our ammo and buy eggs from sympathetic farmers, much less subsidize jeans for liberated whores. Which brings me to you. I understand that you saved Mitch’s life by stun-gunning a Normal. That was impressive. That took guts. That implies to me that you may be a fantastic potential guerrilla. What do you say? Have you ever considered joining the movement?”
In truth I didn’t even know there was a movement. At Bounty Land we had Maurice Rabb, a malcontent who advocated armed Flawed rebellion. Then one day he tried to burn off his Flawed bracelet and ended up with a scorched wrist and a demotion to Porcine Reproductive Services. I’d often see him in the Birthing Barn, elbow-deep in pig afterbirth, still arguing the merits of a separate Flawed state. I tell her my story. I tell her I’m not joining anything until I find out what happened to Connie.
She removes her stump and hands me a Danish with a perfectly good hand.
“Surprise, surprise,” she says. “Step inside a sec.”
Inside the tent are pictures of Lincoln and Che Guevara and an extra-large Baggie stuffed with spare fake stumps.
“Here’s the thing,” she says. “I’m Normal. Never even had a bracelet. A few years ago I looked at the movement, or what passed for a movement, and said to myself, this is no movement, this is a bunch of uninspired yahoos waiting to be led to the slaughter, except that their moribund leadership couldn’t locate the slaughter if the slaughter sent up flares. So I invented a myth and invested in some fake stumps. I stopped being Lynette, a shy debutante with no marital prospects, and became Judith, the one-handed scourge of north Texas. Now every month or so I disappear and go to the bank in Lubbock and hit my trust fund and come back with a couple grand and a wild story about robbing a convenience store or seducing a senator. Is that wrong? Is a lie told in the service of good still reprehensible? These are the types of questions I ask myself every night as I apply antifungal to my hand, which is prone to infection due to these cheap stumps. But your people respect me. They work hard for me. Some have died for me. For themselves, actually, and for you, and for Connie. Ask yourself this: if you’d go through all you have to save your sister, what would you do to save a million sisters? Imagine a Connie in every town you’ve passed through, Connies of all ages, babies in cribs, bitter crones, pigtailed girls, children yet unborn. You could help give them dignity, a chance at careers, children, homes, husbands, peaceful dotages. Isn’t that something to work towards? Wouldn’t that be a way of honoring Connie’s memory?”
Her memory? I think. She’s not dead. At least I don’t think she’s dead. She may be a high-volume whore in some frontier brothel but she’s not dead.
“I can see in your eyes that you’re still mired down on the petty personal level,” she says.
“I guess so,” I say.
“Regrettable,” she says, then hands me a pocket atlas and a bag of apples and tells me mum’s the word on her stump and waves me out of the tent.