1 • Red
When I was six years old, I plucked out the eyes of my teddy bear so he would never see the color of blood. The variations of red both frightened and fascinated my little mind. There was vibrant, silky scarlet and sticky, dull maroon. I thought about it often because, unlike my fortunate teddy bear, I saw a lot of blood where I grew up.
I painted with it.
Madame would find me white-washed cutting boards and upon that exquisite blank canvas I would make my masterful creations. Stick figures, of course. But to me the squiggles were artful renditions of decapitated, floating heads and dismembered limbs, or hands with bloody stumps for fingers.
Sometimes it wasn't even people. I painted the tarnished red trains that littered our valley, or the bright red baseball cap I found on one of the dead raiders. It was too big for my head at the time, but I kept it anyway.
Around sunset, when the air wasn't so hot, I'd find a rocky outcrop to perch on with a grand view. I was a daring climber, and with my teddy bear snuggly secured between my belt and stomach, I never felt alone high up in the winds.
The raiders let me alone. I was just a strange, quiet child, too scrawny and filthy to care about, and with no slave collar around my neck, I had the freedom to do as I wished. I wandered with blood dripping from the tips of my fingers, aching to express the world around me in a way I could control.
All the things I saw, I drew in blood. Red was my favorite color. My only color. People did not bleed in blue or green.
My teddy bear never saw the finished paintings, not with his button eyes tucked safely away in my tattered pant pocket. "It's better this way," I told him.
Sometimes, I liked to imagine what his world looked like in his mind's eye. In his world, the sky was a clear blue, like my father's eyes, and not the murky yellow-green that hung above me. In his world, color was alive. Vivid greens danced over the rocks and reds gave way for explosions of orange and yellow.
I stared down at my blood-smeared cutting board and sighed.
Madame was delighted when I showed her what I had done and urged me to also show my father. I adored him more than anything in the world. His name was Smiling Jack, but he never smiled, not with anyone–except me. I was the only one who could bring a smile to his face, but when I came to him with my bloody painting, his smile faltered.
He said nothing, just walked away.
Later that night, when I was curled up beneath the pool table, my teddy bear held tightly beneath my arm, I overheard my father arguing with Madame. I knew it was her because she was the only one allowed in my father's bed. All the other whores had to sleep in the foundry cells.
"You're her mother, for fuck's sake. What're you doing?"
"What am I doing? Dammit, Jack, she's a child in Evergreen Mills. The only other children her age are slaves. Would you have her play with them? No? Would you have me send her to work the poles with Tit and Tight inste–"
"Don't you fucking start," my father hissed.
After an uncomfortable silence, Madame said in a more reasonable manner, "I'm sorry. It's just–the girl needs something to do, like it or not, or she'll be moping about, lookin' for trouble–and she'll find it! Before you know it, she'll be out there gettin' touched by Flame or some other son of a bitch with a taste for young poon. She doesn't know any better. They don't know any better!"
"No one touches her," my father hissed. "I make sure of that, not you."
Madame exclaimed, clearly agitated, "Come on, Jack, she likes it! Painting is good for her."
"Good for her." The anger in his voice scared me.
I turned away and stared into my teddy bear's eyeless face, his fuzzy, fraying coat soaked in blood, until I fell asleep, the world fading into shades of grey.
Suffice to say, my paintings stopped. From then on, I stayed in my father's shop behind the wooden counters and earned myself a living counting bullets. I was no longer allowed outside near the train yard. I wasn't even allowed in the foundry anymore. My whole existence became that cavernous expanse deep within Evergreen Mills.
Traders came and went, and I became good at math.
I had Red (I finally named my teddy bear) sit on the opposite side of me, propped up against one of Madame's larger whiskey bottles. All sorts of bullets laid between us in perfect little piles.
I happily instructed Red in the magical arts of addition and subtraction.
"Two for me, two for you, three for Father, and one for Madame. That makes eight bullets!" I happily told Red.
Our lesson was cut short, for Madame's feet, blackened by dirt and ash, suddenly invaded my space, trampling my neat, little piles of bullets. She snatched the whiskey from behind Red and growled at me before leaving in a whirl. It wasn't the first time she got frantic over finding whiskey.
I took away Madame's bullet (now that's subtraction) and gave it to Red in apology. He sat on my lap from now on.
When I was through counting, my father taught me how to sort and load the bullets into clips and magazines for various guns. I memorized the taste and feel of each kind of bullet. I could tell the difference between a .32 and .308 caliber with just my tongue. One was for a basic hunting rifle, the other for a larger, more powerful sniper rifle. I knew because my father taught me to recognize and handle every gun that went through his shop at one point or another.
I was the daughter of a raider after all.
It was obvious I wasn't getting any younger, and so my father thought it wise I learn how to protect myself properly.
It started with a switchblade.
I liked it because it fit my small hand and had a shiny red handle. My little fingers fumbled over the release button, but after hours of practice (I took my father's lessons very seriously), I could confidently spring open the knife in the blink of an eye. Once this was mastered, my father took me out to the slave pens. At that point, it had been several months since I'd even seen the sky.
I took Red with me.
Above, it was much as I remembered. Limbless bodies hung from meat hooks and blood-stained mattresses were flung limply over corrugated metal wrested from the more heavily damaged trains. Here and there, train tracks edged along the perimeter, defiantly holding ground against the tumble of rock. At times, it felt like the whole valley would one day cave in over Evergreen Mills, swallowing it forever.
My father held my hand as he led me through the train yard to the outskirts of the valley where the slaves were kept behind tall chain-link fences. An elaborate system of raised walkways and rocky projections ensured the slaves were always being watched from above.
About a dozen raiders were milling about when my father and I arrived at the slave pens. They were in good cheer, smoking cigarettes and downing copious amounts of beer. Rifles hung on belts around their shoulders, long since forgotten. A few had their pistols drawn and were taking potshots at the slaves' feet while the others laughed. They enjoyed making the slaves "dance."
Only one seemed to be seriously patrolling, his gun at the ready. He held a flamer and had a tank of fuel on his back. His name alone ignited terror in the slaves who caught his eye.
My father acknowledged him with a nod, "Flame."
The raider's dark eyes were steady and calm. He returned his nod, simply replying, "Smiling Jack." As my father turned away, reaching for the key to the slave pen gate, Flame's dark eyes took the opportunity to glance up and down my small body. He gave me a chilling smile, but when my father turned back, it was gone. Flame asked as he descended the nearest ramp, "Need a hand there, boss? Picking a pretty one for Madame, are ya?"
"Not this time. Brothel's full enough," my father replied as he swung open the gate. The slaves stood in lonely islands, silent and afraid. Bright collars encircled the necks of each slave, glinting in the sunlight.
None of them looked at the open gate.
"Shame. That one's a real looker," Flame said, now standing beside my father. He gestured to one of the women and she visibly flinched, taking a few useless steps back. I stared at her, fascinated. I had never seen green eyes before. Flame asked, sounding bored, "So whose pick?"
"Honey's pick," my father replied. His blue eyes were hard as he added, "Knife practice."
Flame laughed, "A playmate for the little queen."
I suddenly felt lightheaded, my heart hammering in my chest. I had felt this way only once before when I had climbed up to the highest point overlooking the valley. I remembered leaning out over the edge, a wave of dizziness crashing against the back of my eyes. Just as then, I pulled back from the edge.
I didn't move. The raiders watching from above began to snicker. My father sighed and placed his large hand at the nape of my neck, roughly pushing me forward, deeper into the slave pen. My stomach lurched, sick with bewilderment and fear. Who was this stranger? My father had never hurt me before–I made him smile, no one else.
He wasn't smiling now.
It was as though he was a different person in front of the raiders.
He knelt down before me, and seeing him at eye level calmed my fears somewhat. His blue eyes were always reassuring to me. He said in a near whisper, "Honey, you have to learn. Don't you want to be a big girl? Just pick one, okay?"
"Pick the screamer!" one of the raiders hooted from above.
I remained still, staring into my father's eyes. He dryly said, "Alright, sweetie, my choice." He stood and glanced at Flame, "Who's the screamer?"
"He's new. Caught him myself in last night's raid. Thought I'd be rollin' in the caps, but look at him now. He ain't worth shit." Flame spat in disgust. "He fancied himself the first slave to ever escape and made straight for the break. Hit a landmine, of course, and now his feet are history."
"How'd he get out?"
Flame sighed and replied in a low voice so the raiders above couldn't hear, "Been some long, cold nights out here, boss. They've been keeping the gates open at night, having their fun with the ones that actually try to escape. But those raiders, they're not like you and me. They're stupid and sloppy. They don't understand the business of slavers, the merchandise quality–"
"Alright, alright," my father grumbled. He was not pleased hearing about the gate being left open. If my father was anything, he was a businessman first, and out in the Wasteland, slaves were big business. He said, "Let's get this over with. Grab the screamer. Honey can practice on him. With the condition he's in, he's as good as dead anyway."
There in the slave pen, I learned to use my switchblade on a dead man who wasn't really dead. He was drugged up on chems and had a black sack over his head, but I could still hear his whimpers and cries. The slave woman with the green eyes quietly stared at me the entire time.
"Not nearly as loud as last night," Flame remarked somewhere between my liver and spleen demonstration. I learned where to poke the point of my blade for the deadliest strikes. I learned to twist the knife and never show mercy. After all, I was just a little girl and if someone did attack me, I'd probably only get the one chance before becoming overpowered. That was my father's explanation anyway.
When it was done, my arm covered in blood up to my elbow, my father patted my back in approval.
He smiled down at me.
That night, curled up under the pool table, I took hold of my teddy bear's ears and cut them off with my switchblade. They went in my tattered pocket alongside his button eyes. I cried to him, "I'm sorry, Red. I'm so sorry you had to hear that. Never again, I promise." I fell into sleep, my only friend snuggled against my chest.