“I’m from up north,” Lora said vaguely. “From Canada.” Ever since she had been captured, Lora had made it a practice to avoid any mention of the Sanctuary. She despised the keepers but felt protective of the community and knew what would happen to it if the Blood Kin or the Crusaders learned of the habitat’s existence.
The other woman nodded. She had light brown hair with straight-cut bangs. Her eyes were green and separated by a small, well-defined nose. “My name is Sissy. Cristi and I are from Williston. Or nearby anyway. Have you heard of it?”
Lora shook her head.
“It’s in what used to be North Dakota,” Sissy said. “What’s your name?”
“Lora.”
“Well, Lora… if the rumors are true, we’re headed for a place called Star Valley in Wyoming. A food lord named Luther Voss bought us.”
Lora looked at the sign with the “V” on it. It was funny in a sad sort of way. After being taken out of the Sanctuary and forced to walk for hundreds of miles, she would be raising food again. The thought was comforting since the process of growing food was something she understood. She looked from Sissy to Cristi. “How did you wind up here?“
Sissy made a face. “My husband and I had a place way out in the hills. It was pretty well hidden, so I figure one of our neighbors sold us out. Tom fought back when the slavers attacked. He killed two before they gunned him down. I would have died with him if it hadn’t been for Cristi… Maybe I should have… But I couldn’t bring myself to kill her.”
Lora winced. “No, of course not.”
“So, if you don’t mind my asking, what happened to your face?”
“It’s a long story,” Lora said, and might have told it, except that there was a sudden stir as a woman on a black horse arrived. She was wearing a brown hat with a flat brim, a leather jacket of the same color, and khaki-colored riding breeches. They were tucked into knee-high lace-up boots, and the woman was armed with two pistols. But rather than carry them herself, the woman kept her weapons in specially crafted holsters secured to both sides of her saddle. Her face had a skeletal look to it, her voice had a hard-edged quality, and the guards called her “Mrs. Voss.” Luther’s wife? Probably. “Okay,” Mrs. Voss said. “We’re ready to go. Get ‘em processed.”
Orders were shouted and whips cracked as the slaves were formed into a column of twos. Lora found herself ahead of Sissy and behind a man with a large bald spot. Cowboys, all mounted on horses, herded the slaves like cattle. With the woman leading the way, they were chivvied out of the parking lot and onto a street. From there a series of turns took them to a facility topped by a huge sign that read, “Elephant Car Wash.” It featured a cartoonish pachyderm spraying water out of its trunk. Except that it wasn’t a car wash—not anymore. It had been converted into a slave-processing facility.
There were two lanes, one for men and one for women, separated by a wall made from sheets of weathered plywood. Judging from how well organized the facility was, Lora could tell that it had been in operation for a long time. Employees gave the same instructions over and over. “Men here—women there.” “Remove your shoes but keep them.” “Remove your clothes, and yes, that means all of your clothes.” “Throw your clothes over the outer wall. No, the other wall, idiot.” “Hold your hands over your head.” “The water will be cold.”
And the water was cold. Having removed her boots and disposed of her filthy clothes, Lora staggered as jets of water hit her from all sides. Then, as something stung her eyes, she knew there was some sort of disinfectant in the water. It seemed that Mr. Voss wanted to keep his property healthy. That was fine with Lora. She hadn’t had a shower in weeks and welcomed it.
Not all the slaves were so cooperative. As Lora passed through the gauntlet of nozzles, she heard complaints followed by the occasional crack of a whip and the inevitable yelp of pain. Like the rest of them, Lora was completely naked as she followed another female into the building beyond. It looked like an add-on, a structure that had been built adjacent to the old car wash using recycled materials. The tables that lined both sides of the shelter were loaded with clothes, and as the women passed through, they were given a bra, panties, a button-up shirt, a pair of jeans, and a hip-length jacket. There were benches in the open area beyond. A stern-looking matron with a cane-style whip was present to provide instructions. “Put everything on except for the shirt and jacket.”
Lora finished fastening her bra and turned to see if Sissy needed help, but the matron frowned at her. “This ain’t no church social… Keep moving.”
With the shirt and jacket in hand, Lora went over to join the line that led to a door. Each time it opened and closed, she took a couple of steps forward. Then the woman in front of her stepped through the opening, the door closed, and she heard what might have been a muffled cry.
That was strange, but before Lora could give the matter much thought, the door opened and it was her turn. As she stepped inside, a man wrapped his arms around her while another pressed a red-hot iron against the upper part of her right arm. Lora heard a sizzling sound, caught a whiff of burned flesh, and experienced a moment of excruciating agony. Then she screamed.
The man let go, she stumbled forward, and someone doused the fiery wound with cold water. Then, half-supported by a person she was only vaguely aware of, Lora was escorted into a rustic recovery area. Somehow, much to her surprise, the shirt and jacket were still clutched in her left hand.
A man entered via a different door, swayed, and fainted. Lora felt dizzy, saw benches, and hurried to sit on one. She was looking at her arm, trying to see the wound, when a woman arrived. She wrapped a clean bandage around the burn and tied the loose ends. Then she left to treat the man.
Lora heard a distant wail and stood as Sissy was escorted into the room. There was a grimace on her face and a bright red “V” on her arm. That was when she realized the truth. They had been branded. But the crying… Cristi… Surely they hadn’t?
Lora heaved a sigh of relief as a woman appeared with Cristi in her arms. The little girl was screaming but unharmed. Lora went over to accept the child, winced as the pain flared, and took Cristi over to where her mother was seated. Sissy’s face was white and she was shaking. “Th-th-thank you.”
Cristi wanted to be with her mother, so Lora put her down. “She’s okay… They didn’t brand her.”
“Th-th-thank God for that.”
It was, Lora decided, the one thing they could give thanks for, because any hopes of being treated in a humane fashion had been dashed. The stories were true. There was a hell, and for reasons Laura couldn’t fathom, she was in it. She went to retrieve her clothes and put them on, but the weight of the jacket made the wound hurt more, so she took it off.
Once the slaves had been “processed,” they were ordered outside and formed into a rough column of twos and threes. Rather than chain them, the way the Crusaders did, the cowboys preferred to herd them like cattle. Mrs. Voss led the way and three wagons brought up the rear. The long, painful day ended in a place called Fife.
During the days that followed, the column trudged through Monarch, up over Kings Hill Pass, and south through the towns of White Sulphur Springs, Ringling, and Clyde Park. From there the trek took them through what people still referred to as Yellowstone National Park to Jackson, Wyoming. The entire journey took twenty days.