The Protectors Read online

  The Protectors

  Ryan King

  Copyright © 2013 by Ryan King

  The Protectors

  Copyright © 2013 by Charles R. King. All Rights Reserved.

  Cover Art by Caspar David Friedrich, "The Abby in the Oakwood" 1809

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  The Protectors

  by Ryan King

  Copyright © 2013 by Ryan King

  I was born in the Dust Year, exactly twenty years after the Plague Year when my mother was born. That means this December I'll be sixteen and able to Take the Chit if I want. Not that we're that bad off since Mother knows how to sew, but plenty of girls have.

  "Get back to work, Teal," hisses Mother under her breath, not even daring to look up at me. Reaper, the Protector assigned to watch us leans against a nearby wall, his long whip curled around his massive tattooed neck.

  Plunging my hands back down into the rich earth, I pull out weeds carefully avoiding the tender shoots of carrots. I feel the other women and girls around me. We communicate in subtle ways. Miriam who supposedly was once a math teacher, whatever that is, moves casually as if to tend the melons, but we all discretely spy on her shadow. It is almost lined up with the first corn stalk. When that happens we will get a break for lunch. Most of the women will go to other assigned tasks, but Mother and I will return home to work on clothes for our fellow Newton residents or possibly a new order from the Shriekers.

  I steal a glance at the Protector. The Shriekers were once a road gang back when there were such things. You could still see the rusting relicts of their motorcycles in front of the courthouse if you liked. It wasn't simply the fact that gasoline was as scarce as to be nearly mythical, but except for the small roads and tracks around town, it would be suicidal to travel at any speed on the old highways. Those long wide roads are covered in thick layers of kudzu that is nearly a foot deep and to ride a bike on them would be impossible. The motorcycles are now worthless for anything more than a monument to the Shriekers', now our Protectors, earlier days.

  "Alright," says Reaper staring at one of the few functioning watches strapped to his beefy arm, "that's it for Morning Shift, my little doves. Take your breaks and then report for Afternoon Shift."

  We all stand as one and move to the fenced-in garden's one exit, all of us funneling into a single line and consciously avoiding Reaper's gaze. Even so he slaps us all lightly on the butt with his whip as we depart, the closest thing to affection this man is probably capable of, I imagine. Cringing as he slaps Mother's rear, I prepare to walk through myself. Reaper's arm reaches out to block my way. Instinctively, I stand there still and silent, so like a rabbit under a circling hawk, hardly daring to even draw breath.

  "Look at me, little dove," he grumbles.

  Reluctantly I raise my eyes up to his oversized shaved head. Cruel eyes and a wicked smile greet me. He licks his lips.

  "You're about ripe there, my little tomato," he says. "Come see me first if you decide to Take a Chit. I treat all my girls good, you'll see." As if to prove it to me he reaches out and caresses one of my small breasts lightly showing me his gentleness.

  I feel Mother tense in front of me, but I dare not look at her. Technically, it was against the rules for a Protector to touch a girl in such a way if she hadn't taken the Chit, but who was there to complain to?

  I nod and force a weak smile.

  He removes his hand from the front of my course shirt and slaps my ass with his coiled up whip. "Get along then, my little cherry tomato."

  Forcing myself not to run, I walk out of the garden and Mother falls in beside me. I can tell she wants to talk about what just happened, but what is there to say?

  It doesn't take us long to walk home. Newton was once a much larger town, but after the Great Plague and the Black Years, every home and building outside of a quarter mile circle was burned to the ground. The reasoning given, burning the dead bodies and their numerous scavengers while making it easier to defend the town against road gangs, had certainly made sense at the time. Now we understood it also made it easier for The Shriekers to control the dwindled and traumatized population.

  We recognize faces as everyone returns to their homes or the Dormitory after Morning Shift. Few people speak although it is allowed. We limit our interactions to brief nods or light waves of our hands. Several pretty girls stroll more casually with no regard for time as they do not have to work outside of the Shrieker House. They wear a round chit of wood around their neck by a cord. On the wood is a symbol corresponding to the Shrieker they were "mated" with. Several of the women wore chits upon which the original symbol had obviously been scratched out and changed, evidence that they had been traded for something or someone.

  Mother crossed to the other side of the street as she always did when we approached her own mother's old bridal shop. The actual dresses were all gone. Lace and veils had been taken to cover broken windows, satin long ago gone to bind wounds or sores. Peering through shattered windows you could see dusty floors littered with naked female manikins, many of them defaced by paint or knife.

  I still liked to gaze in there and see the faded pictures on walls. The women seemed too clean and healthy and happy in their unearthly white dresses. Nothing was truly white anymore, not even the clouds. I imagine that if I could glimpse an angel, it would closely resemble one of these women. Grandpa assured me that it was not uncommon for women to dress this way for something called a wedding, but I had learned to disregard much of what the old man said. It wasn't that I doubted its truth, the information simply wasn't useful.

  "My mother taught me to sew," Mother says suddenly.

  I was so startled I almost stopped walking. It was unusual for her to talk about anything that was not absolutely necessary. "You told me once," I finally respond.

  Mother's eyes were distant. "She was already sick by then. Grandmother and my brother all died from the Plague, but she had something else."

  "The Small Pox?" I ask with a shudder.

  Mother shook her head. "No, it was another disease. Doesn't matter. She knew she only had a limited amount of time left and wanted to teach me what she could."

  "Had the Shriekers come yet?" I was always eager for information of those days.

  "Not yet," she says, "although we were under near constant attack by other road gangs and lunatics. Even what was left of the army came through once and took all we had. We were still struggling to find our way. I think most people at the time were surprised they were still alive and figured it was only a matter of time before they weren't. There were still so many bodies and rats and wild dogs, you dared not go into a strange house or building even if there might be food hidden away."

  "Was this after everyone had to eat other people?" I ask without thinking.

  She looks at me sharply, "You know it was. This was after the Year of Despair. Let's not talk about that," she says and picks up her pace.

  I knew the conversation was over and was angry at myself. I had killed the spell by asking something that she didn't want to remember or talk about. There were so many unknowns to the past and these frequently corresponded with times that gave Mother pain.

  The blackened ruins of old houses were now before us. Mother had been fortunate. Her house was just inside the protective circle designated by the Shriekers. Everything outside was blackened and burned heaps and the area was now referred to as the Borderland. When I was younger I used to sneak out late at night and walk among the old ruins. I imagined what these neighborhoods had been like before with families and children living in them. Their ghosts were so clear to m
e I could almost see them. In a manner I recognized as odd, their haunting filled me more with wonder than fear. These apparitions were more comforting that the real monsters that walked among us.

  Seeing our little house, I glance at Mother with a silent question and she nods. I run around the back of the house to the small workshop where I know I'll find Grandpa. Before he had been something called a mechanic and the Shriekers allowed him to stay and work in his shop. Grandpa had the ability to identify or fix any Artifacts the scavengers brought back.

  I knock lightly before pushing the little screen door open. Grandpa sits at the short table in his wheelchair, spectacles perched on the end of his nose. He looks up at me from behind an odd tangle of metal and wires. At the sight of me he pushes back from the table. I bask in his obvious warm affection, so out of place in my world.

  The stumps of what were left of his legs always make me sad and angry at the same time. Still a powerfully build man, Grandpa could pull himself around without the chair if needed, but recognized its practical benefit.

  I briefly think of what he would have looked like standing on his own legs and push the notion aside. With those legs, the Shriekers wouldn't have let him live. All the men had been killed after the Rebellion. They had only spared the very young, the old, or the crippled. It was grandfather's luck or curse that Clay had shattered his legs before then as an example to Newton of what happened to those who opposed him. Although Doc Huck had splinted the legs, gangrene had set in and then the legs had to come off.

  "Hey, Teal," he says looking up at me with a sad smile. His arms unconsciously open wide and then settle back into his lap embarrassed.

  The Old Ones had a thing for hugging and touching each other. It was strange and also forbidden. Many had been beaten for forgetting.

  "Hi," I respond with a grin of my own. "What are you working on?"

  "An alternator," he answers picking up one of the pieces.

  I stare at him quizzically.

  "Something that powers the lights and the music and movies at the Shrieker House," he explains. "This is hooked to a crank or a stationary bike and when turned makes electricity."

  My eyes widened as I walk closer to touch the Artifact. We had seen the electric lights and heard the music, but it was still mystical and my grandfather was as close to a magician as the True Old Ones from Before.

  Grandpa watches me closely and nods knowingly. It seems like he can always read my mind. "There's nothing mysterious about it, Teal. This is science, nothing more."

  "Science?" I ask. He had talked of this before, but I still didn't understand.

  Grandpa's brow furrows. "Electricity is the flow of electrons through a conductor. Those electrons heat up a light filament or power a radio. Very simple, actually."

  He frequently spoke this way. All of the Old Ones did. Many called them the Sad Ones because whenever they talked about Before, it brought longing. I had heard about pizza and music and a group of musicians called "you too", and roller coasters, but these things were as mythical and mysterious as electricity.

  "Never mind," he says with a sigh. "How was the gardening?"

  The memory of Reaper squeezing my breast leaps to mind unbidden. I cross my arms protectively over my chest.

  "What happened?" he asks repositioning his chair to face me.

  I don't want to tell him, but know it would be futile to resist his inquires. He would stalk me like a cat until I told him. Grandpa said secrets between family were dangerous tumors. I wish he could convince Mother of that.

  "One of the Protectors offered for me to Take the Chit from him," I finally say. "I'll be old enough soon."

  Grandpa's jaw tightens and slowly relaxes. "You don't have to worry about that. We do fine."

  "But a lot of girls do it," I say.

  His eyes close briefly before opening again, "Yes. They need the extra food or protection or because they're scared. It's horrible."

  "Horrible?" I asks in surprise. "Wasn't the Chit one of the benefits of the Treaty with the Protectors? After the Rebellion? So that what happened to Mother doesn't happen anymore?"

  Grandpa doesn't answer for a long time. "That was a dangerous time, but in some ways these are worse."

  "How can they be worse?" I ask. "Road gangs taking women by force. Isn't the Chit better? No one goes with a Protector against their will anymore."

  Smiling at me with sad eyes, Grandpa shakes his head. "That decision is an illusion. At least when a woman is raped she knows she is a victim. That it was against her will. The Chit takes that away, makes a woman believe it was her choice to become a piece of meat traded and gnawed on by dogs. It rips away their self respect." He looks down at the stumps of his legs as if to illustrate a point.

  I know we were alone, but I glance around nervously anyway. Such talk could get us both whipped, or worse. I decide to change the subject. "I better go help Mother. Can I bring you some lunch?"

  "No," he smiles weakly picking up the Artifact and a tool. "Not hungry. You run along, dear."

  I turn away feeling guilty. My questions had saddened him. It was so hard to have any conversation with an Old One that didn't depress them. I had learned to navigate most any interaction as I did the booby traps around the outskirts of town, but sometimes the Sad Ones rushed into their comforting despair.

  *******

  Mother and I work the rest of the afternoon in the sewing room on her weekly quota after sharing a potato and a few leeks for lunch. The quota left little room for relaxation, though neither of us complain. We know we are better off than most others. Making and repairing the clothing was always difficult even with adequate materials; however, what the scavengers returned with lately was nothing more than old moldy curtains or rotting automobile seat covers. Even that would run out soon. Mother had told our Block Foreman that we would need to build looms and learn how to produce cloth and thread soon. That particular Old One is a coward though, too afraid to bring this information to the Protectors' attention.

  We don't talk much, mother never one for conversation. I can tell the steady familiar tasks comfort her. After a few hours she tells me to take a break and then to go to my Afternoon Shift.

  "I don't need a break," I say. "I can keep working a little while longer."

  Her sad eyes regard me kindly, "Everyone needs breaks and rest. Especially young girls." She reaches out and touches my hand surprising me. Looking at her own offending hand she pulls it back as if embarrassed. "Go on now, Teal. I'll be able to finish up before dinner."

  Not really needing an afternoon break, I leave and walk slowly, careful to make sure none of the Protectors see me. They would resent my casual nature. On the other hand, it is also dangerous to report for duty early. Things like that made them suspicious and draw attention. I had learned from a young age to be as unobserved as possible.

  The work schedule had me tending the goats on the south edge of town. This was an easy chore and my favorite duty. Much better than looking after the chickens, sheep, or cows. It also allowed me to pet the herding dogs and steal a few drinks of goat milk. Sometimes I could even fill one of the old plastic bottles with milk to take home if no one was watching too closely. No such luck today, Jonesy protected us. He was only a few years older than me and not one of the original Shriekers, only a Prospect, although he was one of the few who had advanced to the ranks of Protector. It was not that the young Protector was any more diligent in his guarding than others, quite the contrary, but he seemed to have a special interest in me lately. Maybe he wanted me to Take the Chit from him too, I think. I have a wild urge to tell him about Reaper's offer. Maybe I could get the two fighting over me. With any luck they would kill each other. I push the useless thought aside and walk into the field.

  "You're a little early today," says Jonesy with a smirk that only shows a single gap. "You must have missed me."

  Realizing I have arrived early despite my care, I look away, the best response I know. Making my way towards the milling h
erd of goats in the field, several of the dogs bark in greeting. They are a hodgepodge group of canines who take their duties seriously and had shown they were willing to die to protect their charge. Just last year Becky, one of my favorites, had died after fighting off a huge bobcat.

  Rodney, the large Doberman, runs up to me and I ruffle his head before I grab two pails. It is my responsibility, along with several other girls, to milk the goats and then lock them away in their pens for the night. Someone else would let them out to graze the next morning. The dogs would find their own way as they always did.

  Three other girls are there too. No one speaks. We simply divide the herd evenly as if by telepathy. That was one of grandfather's strange words, one I particularly like. Maybe that is how we are learning to communicate, I think. Sending and receiving messages without conscious awareness, like the flocks of birds that all turn in unison.

  Simeon, the old dam is giving me trouble. It's hard to milk the old goat when she's rubbing affectionately against me and trying to lick my face. I often find it odd that it is okay to get physical affection from an animal, but not humans. The Protectors would say that touch makes people love and love is forbidden. It was love that killed all of Newton's men they tell us.

  "Hurry up girls," yells Jonesy.

  I peek in his direction and see that he is leaning back against a tree. No need to rush. I have time to finish milking and walk the full pails to the hand cart. Finishing the last two goats in my section, I trudge over and load the pails in beside the others and we cover them with old pieces of plastic sheeting to keep out the flies.

  Jonesy flicks his whip more for emphasis than effect, and I grab one of the front handles of the cart. Sarah, a girl who lives in the Dormitory takes the handle to my right. The remaining two girls will put the goats in their pen and then fall in behind us. We begin pulling the cart into town and Jonesy stays with us, probably believing his greater responsibility lies in making sure we don't sneak a drink of any of the goat milk.