She jerks her arm out of sight.
“I’ve treated you like guests in my home,” he says. “But this is still my home. There are rules and regulations that all, even honored guests, must abide by. I’m sorry you chose to run afoul of these rules. But that was your choice.”
He gazes at the girls with a look of fondness. Their heads downturn as his eyes fall on them, their postures closing inward like sleeping grass touched. “These bylaws and precepts that you have such narrow opinions on? They are nothing more than the blanket that bestows warmth and coziness to this community.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t feel a lot of warmth or coziness here,” Sissy retorts.
“My, my, aren’t you full of interesting comments today.” He snaps his fingers, and a girl approaches with tumblers of whisky on a tray. He downs a shot, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, but roughly, smearing a trail of whisky on his cheek. “Let me give you a small suggestion. You’ve been through a lot, okay. You look tired. Why don’t you just relax over the next few hours? Make the Mission your own veritable Shangri-la retreat. Until tomorrow when you—all of you—depart on this train for the Civilization. So in the meantime, just sit back, stop asking pesky questions, and simply enjoy the rest of your time here in this happy place.”
“You say the Civilization is a paradise?” I say, stepping in front of Sissy. Krugman’s demeanor is making me suspicious all over again. I’m feeling less optimistic by the second.
“Very much so,” he says.
I pause. “Then I’m confused. Maybe you can help me with something.”
“How so?”
“If the Civilization is such a wonderful place…”
“Yes?”
“Then I’m wondering why the Scientist chose not to go there. Why he chose never to board the train.”
The leer on Krugman’s face dies. The eyes of the elders behind Krugman swing toward me, their irises taking on the quality of cold steel.
Krugman stares at me for a long time. “We’ve been through this already. He was a disturbed man.” His words come out not as a suggestion but as a threat daring me to disagree. “Our mistake was not forcing him back to the Civilization. The man needed professional treatment. He needed to be institutionalized.”
“Really?”
“And besides, who can blame him for wanting to stay here at the Mission? Granted, it’s not the Civilization, but it’s not exactly the dumps, either, now is it? A close second, if I may say so myself. A pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, a ray of buttery sunshine. Where singing and smiles and joyful dispositions are de rigueur.”
“Well, that begs another question,” I say.
“Go ahead.”
“If this village is such a ray of sunshine…”
“Yes?”
“Then why did the Scientist kill himself here?”
Silence.
“Careful, boy,” one of the elders warns.
“No, I mean, you just said this place was the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. That’s exactly how you put it. So why do you think he decided to hang himself if this village really is so great?”
Krugman’s words snap out quickly. “Like I said, who can explain the actions of a madman? But he was the exception. Everyone is happy here. Look around for yourself and tell me you don’t see the smiling faces abounding.”
“You mean the faces tattooed into their arms?” Sissy asks.
“Well, no, I wasn’t referring to those ones. But we can go there. The girls wear their tattoos proudly; in fact, they love to flaunt their Marks of Merit. They’re like trophies. It really feels like that for them. Notches on their belt marking their dream-come-true ticket to the Civilization.”
“Seems like everyone wants out of here,” Sissy says.
A cow in the last train car moos loudly.
“Seems like nobody particularly cares for this place. For its rules. For—”
“Enough.” Krugman says.
“—the elders, the—”
A movement to my right, an elder taking one step forward, his finger pointing at Sissy. “She’s gone too far! We should just feed her to the dus—”
“Enough!” Krugman’s voice booms, jowls vibrating, jolting me. The flesh of his face loosens from his skull and his hairy mole bounces on his bobbing chin. The elders tense like a collective muscle around me, like a tightening noose. For a few moments, Krugman sighs heavily, as if with regret at his outburst. But when he whispers his next words, slowly, each word fraught with a menacing undertone, it’s clear that regret is the last of his emotions.
“You will all get on the train tomorrow. There’s nothing further to discuss.”
“Oh, yes there is. There’s plenty to discuss. But we’ll discuss it privately among ourselves. Just the six of us. Come on,” Sissy says to me. “Let’s go. This conversation is over.”
“It’s over when we tell you it’s over,” barks a salt-and-pepper-bearded elder.
“Let me spell something out for you,” Sissy says. “We’re going back to the cottage now. And we’re going to be left alone. We will decide for ourselves whether we get on that train or not. If we decide not to, don’t worry, we’ll get out of your precious village. We’ll head on out, see what’s out there. But we decide our own path. Until then, the six of us will be preparing and eating our own food.”
“Now you just hold on—”
“C’mon Gene,” Sissy says, pulling me along, “let’s go.” We start moving backward. “We don’t want choirs with singsong voices coming to wake us up with a song. We don’t want any food deliveries by smiling girls waving GlowBurns—”
“You’re a piece of work, you know that?” Krugman shouts suddenly, in a volume and with a venom previously unheard. Something has finally snapped in him. It is as if a totally different person has taken over his body.
The group of village girls closest to us shuffles quickly away.
“You should know your place, girl!” Krugman’s ears ring bright red. “You see any other girl interrupting me, you see any even speaking to me, even daring to look me in the eye? You’ve learned nothing,” Krugman says, his voice lower but tense with rage. “One branding wasn’t enough, was it?”
“If there’s anyone who needs to be branded,” Sissy retorts, “it’s you.”
Krugman’s mouth drops open. His cheek fat wobbles sideways as if he’s actually been slapped across his face. “You ugly, big-footed, opinionated wench,” he whispers. “You don’t speak to me like that in front of the elders and expect to get away with it. You don’t speak to me like that in full view of all the girls and not face consequences.” And he takes three quick steps toward Sissy, his fat-swollen hand raised.
I step in front of Sissy. “Enough!” I shout.
Krugman stops midstride. His eyes are lava pits of fury, the redness spreading into his cheeks. Nostrils flaring, his barreled chest heaves up and down. His stare knifes through me, trying to penetrate through to Sissy.
“I’ve been playing nice,” he says. “Asking politely. That’s clearly been the wrong approach. But I can be tough. Is that what you want?” he says, glaring at Sissy. “Because Daddy can play rough if you want.”
And he suddenly leaps forward with frightening speed, bum-rushing me into the crowd of elders behind. Something hard smashes against the back of my head, and my body turns to mush. I collapse on the ground.
“Gene!” Sissy screams through my haze.
I hear the slap of skin and fight to regain consciousness. It’s then I see Sissy picked up around the neck like a puppy. Dragged away, toward a train car, fat, hairy arms cinched around her neck like a choke leash.
“Take her!” Krugman yells to the other elders. “Lock her in the train!”
“Get your hands off her!” I shout, and I’m somehow back on my feet, charging forward. I grab at the man restraining Sissy and he’s all blubber and liquid fat. I deck him in the face. I feel the crunch of bone, see flabs of fat wobble across his face. He crumples to the ground on one knee, dropping Sissy. He wipes his face and his hand comes away with a smear of blood from an opened gash.
“Now you’ve done it,” he says and I feel a chill in my bones.
I kick him in the face, and he falls to the ground nose first.
A mob materializes in front of me. They are all arms and fists and kicking legs that pummel my midsection. I parry as many blows as I can, but there are too many of them. I get spun around, the air sucked out of me. My vision grays. Arms snake around me, and hands grip over my body, like the talons of a grappling hook.
From behind me, the clink of blades, a flash of sparks.
Sissy.
In her hands are a pair of daggers. One from her belt. The other from the secret compartment in her boot. She twirls the daggers, but it’s not for show. That much is clear from the look on her face. She will do business with anyone who interferes. She will inject lifelong regret into anyone foolhardy enough not to move out of her way.
Krugman underestimates her. He suddenly lunges toward Sissy.
She leaps up, her right hand raised above her head. She swings that hand downward as Krugman flies at her; and just as I’m expecting the sickening squish of metal blade into fatty flesh, I hear a thudding clunk.
Sissy has crushed Krugman’s skull with the handle of the dagger. She came down hilt—and not blade—first.
Krugman wavers, then his eyes roll up, whites showing. His eyelids snap shut and he collapses into a heap on the platform. His body wobbles back and forth. He groans.
Their leader dealt with, the elders quickly wilt.
Sissy and I make our way toward the stairs. The girls are looking at us with fright, but in a few, I detect a kind of awe in their eyes.
“He had it coming,” Sissy says to them.
