“And what’s in those bags there?”
They plopped their book bags onto the table and began stacking book after book in front of the man. He glanced at each one, taking a few and setting them to the side. With the others, he abruptly began to shove them back inside the bags.
“You only want those three?” James pointed to the ones the guard set aside then started to take the others from the bag, looking at their covers. “You didn’t even really touch these here.”
“The ones I took are the ones we want.” He refused the books that James had attempted to force back upon him. “Take it or leave it.”
“How much?” James sounded disappointed.
We aren’t here to actually… Thomas stopped his judgment of James, remembering that they needed to stay in character. James is slick. “Yeah, what can we get for those?”
“Five chits would be fair. That and the other hundred should get each of you a round or two with one of the average girls, or should at least.”
“That’s it?” James asked.
He grabbed ten chits from a bag, then five from a large, plastic bucket. “You’ll have to negotiate with them. I can’t guarantee the price.” He slammed the chits on the tabletop. “Enjoy!”
James snatched the flat, gold-colored chits from the table. “This will do,” he grumbled under his breath while doling out half of them to Thomas. “We aren’t lugging this crap around. Just keep them.”
“I want this one.” Thomas took the Aesop’s Fables and stuffed it back into his bag.
A collection of cheers broke through the camp as they hiked back down the hill. Thomas turned, seeing the body drop—a lawn chair tumbling off from underneath his feet. The taut rope vibrated as it snapped into place. It quivered while the man struggled, causing his body to sway violently. The knot groaned and shifted around the thick branch of the old elm tree.
One of the guard’s took to pushing the body, and the man tried to fight back. The guard played his sick game—an unnecessary display of power—to toy with a man as he took in his last moments of this world. His jaw worked to curse the guard, but nothing could escape. The path from brain to lungs was cut off, and all the man could do was gasp. All he could do was spin in place.
Chapter Nine
Thomas sat on a wooden bench within the stand of trees surrounding the camp. He kept his head down, watching his half of the chits rattle about in his hand as he shook them. That soft clanging noise couldn’t distract him from the sound of the rope creaking from several yards away—the man’s feet twisting from south to west to north and back. Most had already forgotten about the hanging. The horde gradually dispersed, and those who were a bit more cautious had left camp altogether. It was only the body and Thomas that remained on that side of the gazebo.
In the moment Thomas acted against the fleeing stranger, he never could have imagined they would have killed him so quickly or at all. There wasn’t a trial, not even an informal statement of facts. There was no one to speak for the man, to tell what little there may have been to say about his life. No one cared to hear it. His sentence had been decided the second that woman pointed her finger at him. Idiot! Why the hell’d he think he could hit her and get away with it?
He kept his head down, maintaining the pretense of mourning, knowing damn well he didn’t feel it in the slightest. It was from here he could observe the camp without interruption while James milled around the common area, discreetly brushing against people as he checked for weapons. Only occasionally did James actually stop and speak with anyone. They could never be sure that the scar was universal. It was possible that others could be present working in a covert capacity for the Butcher.
As James continued among the deviants, Thomas riffled through his bag, grabbed the book he saved, and cracked it open. The page didn’t matter. It was the letters he needed. He ran his fingertips across them, appearing to read, but in reality, he was preparing for the assault. Two guards in the front outpost. He creased the first two g’s with his fingernail, leaving a slight indentation across them. The guard by the stream. He did the same to the next ‘g’. Two women and the three kids. Two w’s and three k’s. He kept tally of weapons—crossing r’s for rifles, p’s for pistols, and s’s for shotguns. With anything noteworthy, he continued his count through the page in this same manner.
Finally, a capitalized ‘b’—he looked toward the gazebo where the Butcher had retired for the time being. From how the hill broke, he could just make out a single guard posted at the Butcher’s door. There were several others surrounding the gazebo like dogs in a junkyard. The cook stood at the head of a line that wrapped the hill away from Thomas.
He closed his eyes and sighed while rubbing his hand across his brow. The women are property. Bill’s words reverberated in his head. Without question, they believed this—apparent in how they guarded them, corralled them into controllable positions. Even the common area where the women appeared able to walk freely remained under lock and key. With a guard posted at each cardinal direction, how much freedom could they have? One could observe it in the women’s eyes that stood amongst the crowd as the guards ensured they acted appropriately for the task at hand.
One woman, naked like the others, walked briskly from the Butcher’s quarters—her eyes lowered as she circumvented the crowd. It wasn’t until she found herself outside an unoccupied tent that her demeanor changed, winking and pawing at several men that walked by, but there were no takers. Eventually, she gave up and found herself mingling within the throng of men gathered in the middle—the group of strangers smoking cigarettes and nursing warm beers, speaking loudly to one another. One sweet cigarette… just a taste. Wonder how many chits those go for?
An uneasy smile spread across the woman’s face as she tucked herself into the muscly chest of a man that barely paid her any attention. Did James check that guy? It struck Thomas oddly that she would seek solace in the arms of a stranger. There didn’t seem to be any chits to earn from this man. He remained indifferent to the woman as the others chatting around him poked and prodded her casually, grabbing upon her flesh. Even those simply walking past took a piece for themselves. I may need to add him to my count.
Thomas brought his attention back to his book when he realized the scraping across the ‘B’ had worn a hole in the page. His mind had wandered too far into the crowd. He did his best to keep track of the women, counting the travelers would do no use—they would all be gone come dusk. With his tally complete, he tucked the book away. Page 101. He repeated the page number a few more times in his head as he stood from the bench.
The group of guards unwinding near the gazebo had taken notice of Thomas’s fake grieving—a couple of them mocked him with fake sobs, another gesticulated as if he were being hanged. They erupted into laughter, patting one another on the back in crude celebration.
“You guys alright?” Thomas asked.
“You’re the one cryin’ like a bitch.” A guard slipped from his seat atop the banister of the gazebo and tossed an empty beer bottle into the grass. “Why you cryin’ over this dude? You’re the one that fuckin’ slammed him.”
“I didn’t know you guys operated like this.”
“What’d you expect?”
Some punishment, I guess, but not killing the guy. You guys probably beat on these girls harder than he ever could have. Thomas chose to keep his comments to himself. Instead, he grabbed his bag and moved toward the body.