Ch. 57
In the Land of Traitors
"Was it bad? The fight?" Ellie took a long drag from the cigarette before ashing it. "When Sam came back to the bunkhouse, he looked like hell. Was that how the fight was?"
"Worse," Silas bowed his head and then took his own long drag of the cigarette, blowing the smoke out of his window. "He choked the life out of that boy."
"Joey," Silas looked back to Ellie who bowed her head quickly and seemed to sink back into the soft bed she occupied. "His name, it was Joey."
Silas nodded and looked back out the window. "Sam choked the life out of Joey. He didn't die easily. And they all cheered for it. My sister, her men, even my mother was smiling. Smiling!"
Silas took another drag then flicked the cigarette out the window. He still couldn't get the image of the boys broken body from his mind. The bloody mess his face had become, the scattered teeth and pooled blood that filled his mouth as if it was some sort of twisted stew. It was impossible to erase the horrible image that had been seared into his mind.
"How can they smile at that?" Silas turned from the window and walked toward a small mini bar above the mantle that he kept stocked. He poured himself a drink and nearly swallowed it in one go, before pouring himself another.
He had seen death and seen the horrors that the outside world had inflicted. His family running the plantation the way they did, he knew what people were capable of. The kinds of cruelty that were committed onto the slaves of the plantation were not lost on him. No, he needed to only look to his bed to see what kinds of degeneracy and lack of morality occurred in the place he called home.
But even then, there were varying degrees of cruelty and dread that he, his family, and the guards could commit on the slaves. Beatings were common, he had ordered a few. Killings were rarer, usually reserved for extreme cases of discipline that would occur, such as a slave raising a hand to a guard, or even the death of a guard that needed justice.
It was all well and good, in fact, it was common practice. One only needed to investigate the history of the plantation to find out where Silas' family had gained inspiration for their operation. All they needed to do was crack open the books so to speak.
The Wraith family had found themselves in the trades of flesh and cotton from over one hundred and fifty years ago. They had been good at it, and they had thrived until the Civil War, manumission, and everything else that came with the post-Antebellum era.
But now, they were masters again. They had men who would fight and kill, and slaves to work the fields. It should have been perfect, except Silas, still could not fight the dread that filled him. It filled him after every session with Ellie, after every beating he ordered, and it filled him, whenever he closed his eyes and saw the boy from the tent.
He thought back to the cruel hands of the guards. Silas was a simple man. A semi-pretty girl like Ellie, food on his table, and protection from the guards was all he needed. If he had that, then he would have considered himself fine and would have done nothing else.
But the guards and his family were an entirely different story.
They seemed to revel in the cruelty. As if the slaves, they commanded were the ones responsible for the affronts that the Wraith family encountered all those years ago. With most guards, beatings were common. As were rapes and all other manner of cruel deeds. But Silas remained quiet. If it weren't for the guards, then there would be no protection and no one to keep the slaves in line.
No one, except for Anne Wraith.
Silas shuddered as he thought of his sister. A complete mad woman she was. While Silas was born for a life of leisure and reading, Anne was born for the Apocalypse.
Hardheaded and unafraid of anything, Anne reveled in the chaos that the Apocalypse brought.
She had overseen the giving out of punishments for the ringleaders of the rebellion, a task she took to like a fish to water. Lynching's, beatings, burnings, even a castration. She ordered and watched it with ease, seeing those who she put to death as nothing more than some cheap entertainment. Of all the things that kept Silas up at night, his own sister was high on the list.
Silas put down his drink. He climbed into bed and stared up at the ceiling. His thoughts went back to the other night. The images of Sam beating that boy to death still filling his head. The sounds of laughter and cheering as the life was squeezed from his body.
"They laughed," Silas said in disbelief. "They cheered. How can they, do that?"
Ellie blew out smoke from her cigarette and shrugged. Silas looked to her, and she smiled. But he saw through it. It never reached her eyes, and her hands tapped the bed sheets impatiently.
He knew there was no love, and there never would be. He enjoyed what she did for him, and he would use her whenever he wished. But now, he thought of how she felt. How she saw him. If he was to her what Anne was to him. A cruel and sadistic monster that took their pleasure from others' discomfort and enjoyed the power that came from flexing their authority, only to disregard the ones they used when they grew bored.
He felt queasy and rose to fix himself another drink.
"Leave," he said, not facing her and pouring himself a tall glass of rye.
"Silas?" her voice was confused then dropped down to seductive, "Baby, come on, I know that you still have some more stress. Don't make now me go baby. We can do that thing you like."
His hand gripped the glass of whiskey tightly and he screwed his eyes shut. He tried to take several deep breaths to calm himself, but all he managed to do was ball his free hand into a fist.
Ellie came to him and began kissing his neck and he felt his body begin to respond. He began to return Ellies frantic, worried kisses. His hand groped her breast and soon they found themselves in the bed.
Silas rutted himself into her and spent himself on her. His mind and body were exhausted, and he rolled over to allow himself to drift off into sleep. He had that luxury Afterall. To forget the horror and savagery that his family wrought onto others.
The sun beat down on the slaves working the fields of fruits and vegetables that kept the plantation running. Guards riding horses moved between the rows of crops and shouted for the salves to work faster.
Wiping the sweat from his brow he surveyed his surroundings. The plants before him were patches of potatoes and carrots. He bent over and began to pull out the plants and then tossed them into a basket that was brought by a small girl, no older than twelve.
The work on the plantation was mundane and hard. Fixing fences that cattle brought down, picking potatoes, carrots, squash, beans, and every other plant that resided on the damned plantation. Plenty of water was given to the workers and Sam figured that it was so that their labor didn't drop from exhaustion. But that wasn't to say that the guards were gentle in their treatment.
Whip cracks were common. Beating less so but, it was rare for there not to be at least a few any given week.
"Lunch!" a guard called from his saddle. "One hour! Get food! Get water! I don't need any of you bastards dying on me!"
Sam stood up and flexed his hands. They were covered in dirt and a few hard calluses were working their way up his fingers.
The line of men and women getting food and water grew large and Sam felt the piercing glares from the salves around him. Though it had been some time, the death of Joey was something that many people hated him for.
Sam, understandable of their need of an outlet for their hatred, felt that it would have been better directed at the Wraith family. They were after all their jailers and masters.
But it seemed that hatred and fear trumped reason and so Sam was now the outcast of the slave population. He ate alone, he worked alone, he slept off in a corner alone. It seemed that an act of self-preservation had the ability to make him a pariah.
"You Conall!" Sam tensed up. Since his beating and attempted hanging at the guards' hands, he had been living in fear that Willy, the head guard, would change his mind and string him up.
Sam had been forced to endure certain humiliations from the guards. They had kept him from being fed, from sleeping and tied him to a tree until he had defecated and urinated himself. Over the past several weeks Sam knew that they would continue to be cruel to him until he either died or they got bored of him.
Sam turned and faced the guard that he called him. He was a youthful man, much like Sam. Except he had blonde hair and no facial hair. He was handsome, like a storybook hero that would ride into danger and save the fair maiden from evil.
Sam almost chuckled. How his looks betrayed his nature.
"Come here Conall!" Sam obeyed and shuffled over; his head bowed. "Boss wants to talk to you."
The guard turned and Sam began to follow. They passed several lines of slaves waiting for their meals and water before they came to a small rickety shed. Inside were several buckets and a bar of soap.
Without being asked Sam began to clean himself. He doused himself in water and began to scrub at his skin until all the dirt and grime was washed away. He repeated the process and when he was sufficiently clean was given a towel and a fresh set of clothes.
From there it was a short walk to the main house. As he approached, he spotted many of the children and older members of the Wraith family sitting on the porch that wrapped around the entire house. The sounds of happy children and small talk seemed so foreign. The ease and comfort that the people that ran the plantation lived in was, alien.
Sam watched as the children laughed, and the adults sipped ice cold lemonade from mason jars. Their clothes were meant for their looks rather than practicality. They were all spared from the outside, spared from the muck and the grime of the new world.
He followed the guard into the house and was led back to the familiar office of Margret Wraith. The old crone was sitting behind her large oak desk, scribbling on a piece of paper. Her face was pinched as she focused on the document.
"Thank you, Oliver, you can leave us," she said, her face still focusing on the paper.
"Ma'am," the guard said before leaving the room.
Sam stood there and watched as the older woman worked. He felt his hands ball into fists and his eyes went from the fountain pen in her hands, to the scissors that were off on the side of her desk, to the heavy desk lamp that was providing the desk with light.
"It's been what, four months since you've been with us?" She asked.
Sam nodded. "Yes."
"And you've made it this far," she stopped writing and capped the pen. She looked up and her icy blue eyes seemed to pierce Sam. "I'm surprised."
"I can work," Sam said.
"I know that. Now. From what my men say, back breaking labor and killing men are two very different types of work." She shrugged and stood up. "No matter. I called you here to ask a few things."
She walked to a minibar she had off to the side of the room and poured herself a drink.
"You killed that boy those months ago. Choked him to death after beating him halfway there. It was impressive," she took a drink and then took a seat. "I've seen my fair share of violence, living in the times we do, and with the recent, and put down, revolt, there's been quite a bit of violence. But what I saw that night, it was impressive. Most of my men, they have a knack for it, they have ideas for punishments, and they can fight and kill good as anyone. My daughter Anne can outshoot almost all of them though. But, when I see those boys fight, I see something different than what I see in you. Most of those boy's fight to practice their form or exercise their strength."
Sam saw how she smiled, and it made him uneasy. "But?"
"But?" She laughed and rose to pour herself another drink. "That is not what I saw with you and that boy. You didn't waste your time making it a fight of strength or form. You didn't make probing attacks; you didn't try to gauge his strength. You went for the kill right from the start. You didn't fight that boy, you killed him. And he never stood a chance."
It sounded like a complement, and Sam tried not to think of the blood that still dripped from his hands.
"I know we discussed it before, but you are a killer. A good one. And my outfit needs men like that. Especially after the revolt, we need good men to keep the rabble in line. I know we had a rough start. What my son did to you was something that shouldn't have happened. But we can put that behind us. Girls!" She called out and the door to the office opened.
Sam turned his head, and he felt a surge of heat flood toward his nether regions. There were two girls that had entered the room. They were dressed in short revealing night gowns that filled Sam's mind with ideas of what he could do with the body's underneath.
One of the girls was tall and had red hair that matched her green eyes and bright red lipstick. She giggled at him and waved before blowing him a kiss.
The other girl had curly blonde hair and bright blue eyes. And Sam knew he wanted her. He wanted her so badly. Her nose was small, and her lips seemed to be full and a perfect shade of red. She was shorter, but her height would have complimented his own. How he wanted to scoop her up in his arms and take her.
But he knew he wouldn't. It was the way she looked that kept him from doing it. That, and the knowledge that she was out there. She was alive and breathing, and he wouldn't settle for a cheap imitation.
"You can have them." Margret said. "You'll have the benefits of an overseer. You'll be able to take what you want from them, so long as you don't kill anyone. We need the workers. A dead worker doesn't produce. Cruelty and fear are our best weapons."
Sam swallowed as he looked over the girls. Their bodies screamed sex and pleasure, and he wanted nothing more than to take them right there. He took a deep breath and caught hints of perfume in the air. He closed his eyes and knew he would regret his next words.
"No," he said, shaking his head. "No."
He looked over to Margret and reveled in the shock and anger that marred her face.
"What?" She asked, her brow furrowing and her eyes going from the girls back to Sam. "If Penelope and Amber aren't to your liking, I'm sure we can—"
"No," Sam turned away from the girls and fully faced Margret Wraith. "No, I'm not some weak-willed idiot you can win over with the promise of women and power. What you do here, what your practice, I won't be a part of it. There are lines, I told you. And I won't cross them. No matter what you offer, or what your promise, I won't help you."
Margret looked like she had just swallowed a lemon and motioned for the girls to leave the room. They did so with quickly, and then slammed the door behind them, hoping that they would avoid Margrets wrath.
"You fool," Margret told him, her voice as cold as the ice blue chips, she had for eyes. "I offer you the carrot and you decide on the stick. Don't tell me you enjoy the fields. The heat, the guards' whips and cussing at you? That you enjoy being a pariah to the other slaves for killing that boy. Oh yes, I know all about that. Just like I know that Willy and Jesse tried to lynch you before the fight. Nothing happens on this plantation without me hearing about it. Boy this is a land of traitors, a land where anyone will sell you out for any reason. Slaves, guards, they're all traitors, or will be traitors. We've survived so long because we know how to use traitors. I thought I could use you, but now, well you just proved me wrong. Oliver!"
The man entered the room, his hand was on his gun, and he looked from Sam to Margret.
"Take him back to the fields. I'm done with him."
Cassius Madison had considered himself to be a simple man. Prior to the apocalypse, he had worked a nine to five like most other people. He had a small office job where he handled the accounting for a mid-sized farming equipment supplier.
When everything had gone to hell he had panicked and fled the cities like most people. When things had really gone to hell, he had run and stolen, and even killed. But so had everyone. Death and chaos spilled into every corner of the globe in the early days.
It was only a few months after everything fell to pieces that he had stumbled onto the Wraith Plantation. He had thought they would provide shelter, and a haven for him to live. Instead, it turned into nearly a decade of misery.
He worked and toiled until his hands bled, just as his own ancestors did over a hundred years ago.
Cassius Madison had considered himself a simple man. But the Wraiths and their practices made him an angry one.
He had joined the revolt, just as others had. He fought, killed, nearly died. He watched the reprisals, the lynching's, burnings, and all manner of cruel deeds done to the people he considered friends. He felt sick when watching the bodies swinging in the wind. Crows plucked the eyeballs from the sockets of the dead before they reanimated. Soon the leaders of the revolt were swinging Reapers, thrashing about on the ropes that hanged them. Friends, and leaders, innocents, their bodies swinging, unable to be put to rest properly. There were many inhumane practices on the Wraith plantation. Too many to count. But the reprisals were the darkest period that Cassius had lived through.
The smokey bunkhouse that he inhabited with the other slaves was filled with idle chatter. Some spoke of the world outside the plantation. Of how the US government was still active in a bunker, people were going to put things in place and bring order to the rotting world. Cassius rolled his eyes closed and leaned his head against the wall of the bunkhouse. If there was a world beyond the plantation, he didn't care for it, for it obviously didn't care for him.
Before long the gossip around the campfire turned to the newest addition to the Wraith Plantation labor class, and that was Samuel Connal.
Cassius opened his eyes looked over to the far-off corner where the man sat. He was alone, of course, he always was. No one wanted to talk to the man that had murdered Joey. Cassius thought back on the kid. Kind, respectful, not someone that deserved to die. Most of the plantation workers were.
"I heard they found him in Canada," a woman spoke softly. "They found him surviving in the forests there. He was half insane and was ruling over a cannibal tribe."
"No, no, no," a boy around ten said, "he was a gladiator for the cannibals. They would make him fight ten Reapers at a time and he would kill them with his bare hands."
"You're both wrong! He was a General that fought against a tribe of cannibals out in California then he came out here to reestablish the US!"
"Why would he be from California? He's Irish!"
"Why would he be in Canada?"
The discussion dissolved into arguments. Cassius sighed and looked back to the Irish kid. He wasn't anything impressive. He was lean, scars covered his arms, a few were on his face. The area around his eyes was dark and bruised. Cassius sniffed and wiped his nose. He didn't appear special. Yet everyone was getting worked up about him because he had killed Joey.
Looking back over at Sam, Cassius intended to put the comments to bed. He stood up and began to walk over but stopped in his tracks. A girl, a red head, Amber he thought her name was, walked up to Sam and smacked him. Cassius stopped in his tracks, and he could hear the rest of the Longhouse go silent.
She swore at Sam, called him several vulgar names.
"You fucking asshole!" She spat out, "I was this close to not going back out into the fields! All you had to do was get it up and you couldn't even—"
Another girl, another girl known for trying to use her body to get out of the fields, Penelope, Cassius thought her name was, walked over to Amber and grabbed her by the waist.
"Not now Amber, everyone's watching."
"Let them watch! Let them know! You fucking asshole! You could have had it made, but what, we're not good enough! We could have lived in the big house!" Cassius knew what had happened then. Pretty girls like Amber and Penelope were known for being in the fields for a few weeks before getting scooped up by an overseer and living like a broodmare. Most of the slaves looked down at the girls for that but understood the appeal of getting out of hard labor.
"Amber come one please," Penelope said. "Amber, please."
"You'll regret it!" Amber promised, being half dragged from the fire that Sam was sitting by. "I swear to God, you'll regret it!"
Cassius chuckled at that and looked around the room. Dirty and hungry slaves all looking on with intent. He shook his head and walked toward Sam. If God was real, he didn't exist in central Georgia.
"Hey," he called out walking over to Sam. "You!"
Sam looked up. "What? You going to call me an arsehole too?"
His voice had the accent, Irish. He sounded tired, like he hadn't slept properly in years.
"You killed Joey huh?"
"Christ, tell me what you want or get out of here. Everyone knows I killed Joey. I didn't want to, but if I didn't then they would have shot ten of you at random." He shook his head and looked back into the fire. "Then those two get offered to me on a silver platter and get mad when I refuse them."
"Yeah, heard about that," Cassius laughed and sat down across from Sam. "You really turned down those two? And a position as overseer? No offense but, you out your goddamn mind?"
"Some lines you don't cross," Sam said.
"And fucking girls and not breaking your back is one of them?"
"Some lines you don't cross," Sam insisted. "I won't turn my soul black for this place."
"So, a martyr? I wouldn't have pegged you for one."
"You met many?"
Cassius nodded. "There were a couple of 'em. They got strung up. After the revolt."
"How many died?" Sam asked.
"A lot. We fought hard. But they had more guns than us. Strung up the leaders, the fanatical ones, then put the rest of us to work again." Cassius looked into the fire and heard the screams of those that had been beaten and raped. He could see the pile of corpses set on fire with living people piled at the bottom.
"Did you fight?"
"Of course. I thought death was preferable to this," Cassius cracked a grin, "Then I saw death looking me in the face and decided that I liked living a lot better."
Sam chuckled and nodded. "I understand. Everyone's ready to die for a cause until it's time to die."
Sam stretched his back and Cassius heard the vertebrae pop. He looked into the fire then up at Cassius.
"I'm not dying here. And I won't be a slave."
"Dangerous words when you're here and a slave." Cassius looked at the gathered crowd in the longhouse that had long since gone back to their whispered discussions. "But say a man might be sick of being a slave himself. Would you be willing to cut him in on a plan."
"Thought you weren't the one willing to die for a cause?"
Cassius's smile dropped from his face, and he drew back from the fire. He shook his head and stood.
"If you wanna start another slave revolt, then find someone else. But if you ever plan to escape then come find me." Cassius dipped his head to say goodbye and promptly left the fire that Sam had claimed as his own.
He wasn't one to seek death. He wanted to live. And to live as much and as long as he could. Another revolt stacked the deck against him. He hated being a slave, but he feared dying more. Since the revolt he had worried that death would come for him. A guard angry about the men he had killed, the things he had done. But he had escaped death, and he would do everything in his power to keep himself on the right side of the ground.
Finding his bedroll, he climbed inside and set his head on the rough ground.
Ton Neville yanked a potato from the ground and slid it into the burlap sack that he wore across his body. His back complained to him about the strenuous work of picking the vegetables, and he wished, not for the first time, that he was back in an air-conditioned insurance office, listening to client's sob stories hoping that his company would cover the damage to cars.
He had been good at his job, working in middle management, with a nice office and his own secretary. He and his wife and child lived in a good neighborhood with good neighbors. He had a good 401K, drove an expensive car, even had his son's college fund collecting interest so that by the time he graduated high school he'd be able to go to Harvard with not a single loan taken out.
Then the world ended, and it all meant nothing. There was no cushy office. No secretary. No air-conditioning. No college fund. His neighbors either died or tried to kill him for food, then they had died. He had led his family through the apocalypse, and ultimately to their enslavement.
They had been picked up outside of Savanah after they had spent weeks attempting to get to the city, only to find it overrun. He had gotten the good idea to escape to the countryside. And the rest was history.
When the revolt had come, Tom hadn't fought, he had fled. He wouldn't die to leave his wife a widow, nor his son fatherless. They ran as far as they could, and then they had been recaptured.
Tom wiped the sweat from his brow. He looked to the overseers riding their horses, wearing their coats. It must've been sweltering underneath the thick woolen coats, but they were as much a status symbol as anything could be. The coat meant you could have a full plate of food, a soft bed, and a life without fear. The rags Tom wore on his back meant the opposite.
"Goddamn Greenbacks," Tom muttered quietly to himself. He lowered his head quickly and then continued to work. Being caught slacking was cause enough to get whipped.
A guard trotted by his hat covering his face, but Tom was able to see the dark skin and indignant look. He wanted to spit at the man. To knock him off the horse and break his skull open with a rock. He wished he didn't care if he lived or died, he wished that he was sure that his wife and son would be taken care of if he was. But he wasn't, so he kept his head down and worked.
When midafternoon came, the guards called for a lunch break and so the slaves rushed to the shade where they drank water and ate the fruits of their labors under the watchful eyes of the overseers.
Tom ate the apple and orange he had picked for his lunch quickly, savoring the sweet juices that shot out from the fruit. He licked the juice clean from his fingers and then drank some more water, preparing himself for the next six hours of his work shift.
"I need six for a working party!" Willy shouted, his horse kicking up dust as it road into the slave's rest area. "We're building a new bunkhouse for y'all!"
None of the slaves raised their hands and rushed at the chance for the working party. All that meant was digging through the torn down structure of the old bunkhouse and sifting through the dead bodies that burned inside when the revolt had happened.
"I need six!" Willy shouted again. And again, no one responded. "Fine! You! You! You! You! You! And You! Let's go!"
Tom forcibly bit back his groan and stood up following Willy and two other horsemen. Looking over the crowd he spotted a few familiar faces, and then one face that he wished had been left back at the fields.
Samuel Connal seemed to be an ever-present fixture in his life since he had shared the carriage ride with him back from central Ohio. They lived in the same bunkhouse. They worked the same shifts. But they had never interacted except for the brief moments on the ride back to the plantation.
Together, the six men were marched to the torn down bunkhouse from before the revolt.
The wood was charred, and a thick layer of ash still clung to the ground. Small plants sprouted from the ground and there were faint moans and groaned from underneath the structure. A sign that when the bunkhouse had been torn down, there had still been people inside.
"Alright," Willy said spitting a long string of tobacco juice onto the ground. "You six are gonna take the wood off the foundation then kill any shamblers that are there."
Tom knew it would be a long project, and he wished anyone else other than him and the pariah of the Bunkhouse was with him. But he had learned in the years since the world ended that life wasn't fair.
Together the small group began to work. Taking long pieces of wood from the burnt-out husk and piling it off to the side. The few walkers that they had found were charred small bodies that must've been eager to finally die.
When they sun finally began to set and the men working the special detail were soaked in sweat and dust their guards called them all to leave and return to their bunkhouses.
Stumbling off the men returned and walked back slowly. The shower lines would be empty by the time they returned. The water low, but hopefully enough to allow them all to shower. Otherwise, there would be a hike to the well carrying the heavy wooden pails.
"Fucking Wraiths," the men stopped walking. They looked to each other and then to the newest slave on the plantation. Samuel Connal wiped his face of the sweat and dust and spat on the ground. "Fuck 'em."
"That's dangerous talk," Tom said, "Very dangerous."
The others nodded and Sam smiled. "Then let's talk."
Tom glanced around at the others. The Wraith's were on edge. The rebellion a year before was fresh on all minds. A new revolt would only lead to more punishment. More death.
"We're not talking," Tom said. "Not now. Not ever. The Wraiths will cut off your tongue. Then your cock. Then they'll nail you to a tree and cut little bits off you every day. I've seen them do it. We all have. You think you can come here and start a rebellion? Mother fucker we've already had one. We lost. You've been here a few months. I've been here years."
"And you're fine with it?" Sam asked. "With the abuse? The food? The work? It's all okay with you?"
"We lost. And I ain't dying for my kids and wife to be left alone," this drew nods of agreement from the men around them.
"So, what's the answer? Let your kids be slaves?"
"Better than 'em being dead!"
Sam smiled. He shook his head and spat on the ground. He walked up to Tom and rested his hands on his hips.
"What would you do, if you were separated from your wife and kid," Sam held up his hand when Tom opened his mouth to respond. "What would you do, if you were forced from home, forced to be away from everything and everyone you loved, away from your wife, and unborn kid. Then, you're forced to be a slave. Forced to kill a kid that didn't deserve it, because if you didn't, they'd kill everyone that you shared a wagon with. What if they did all that? What would you do?"
Tom balled his hands into fists and took a step back. He knew the answer. But it wasn't him in that situation. He wasn't the one separated from his wife and kids. He didn't need to escape. He needed to survive.
"It's not my problem. I don't owe you a damn thing," Tom pushed past Sam and looked at the other men that surrounded him. "If you wanna hang, listen to him. If you wanna live, go to sleep."
Tom walked through the fields and arrived at the bunkhouse, happy to see the group he had been with walking far ahead of Sam Connal. Satisfied, Tom entered the bunkhouse and walked over to the fire that was heating up a bubbling pot of stew. His wife, Julia was sitting beside the pot and spooned mouthfuls of the stew into her mouth. Kneeling, Tom grabbed a bowl and began to spoon the stew in.
"Late?" Julia asked.
"Clearing the Bunkhouse. The fucking stray wanted to talk," Tom sighed and began to eat.
"What about?"
"Nothing important. Nothing that matters," Tom ate and looked around the Bunkhouse. Several kids were off playing, many of the adults were already in their bunks trying to get a head start on sleep before it was time to begin their work.
"I have to help in the peach orchard tomorrow," Julia said setting her bowl down and standing up. She leaned down and planted her lips on Tom's. "I'll be up for about ten more minutes. Don't take too long."
Tom smirked and watched as she walked away, enjoying the swing in her hips. Turning back to his bowl, he took a few more mouthfuls of stew and then refilled it from the pot.
"Tom," he froze at the voice and turned back to see who had spoken. Internally groaning, Tom turned back to the bowl and ate another mouthful of strew.
"Cassius," Tom finished the bowl and set it down. "What do you want?"
"That any way to treat an old friend?"
"We friends?" Tom looked back and saw the smirk that Cassius wore. He wished he could punch the arrogant prick. But Cassius held some sway over the Bunkhouse.
"I don't care if we are. I wanna know about your friends. Specifically, one."
"The Irishman," Tom said. "Not my friend. And you don't wanna be his."
"Whys that? Is it 'cause he wants to fight?" Tom froze and said nothing. "He said something to me a few weeks ago. When those girls went and yelled at him, he said he was no man's slave. I thought he wanted to escape. Turns out—"
"He wants to fight," Tom said. "Boy tried to recruit me and a few others. No one wants to fight though. Everyone's tired of it. And I'm not risking my family."
Cassius nodded. "I knew you were smart. I'll let you head to bed Tom. Stay safe."
Tom nodded. Rising from his spot on the ground he made his way to Julia and climbed into their bed, sleep far from his mind.
At this point in his life, there was not much that surprised Sam. He had seen a great deal, as well as done a great deal. But through it all he had lived, and he had survived. The horrors he had seen had shaped his life and molded him. While he did not consider himself prideful to the point of flaw, he did know one thing.
Samuel Connal was no man's slave.
Toiling the fields and shifting through the burnt-out husk of the ruined building had made him angry. Killing that boy had made him livid. And he was prepared to make the entire plantation burn to ash and salt the earth on which it sat.
But that would take time. He would work on the resentment of the slaves. Their failed rebellion of a year and a half ago would make them scared, weak, and utterly useless. But the embers were there. All Sam needed to do was fan them and a new fire would be burning in no time.
But a weak fire was useless. He needed a scorching inferno. He needed fire so hot it would turn sand into glass. And it would take time.
"Connal!" An Overseer came forward and pointed at Sam. "Boss wants to see you."
Sam rolled his eyes and began to follow the man. He was once more subjected to an impromptu bucket shower. Then he was led to the big house. Walking through he noticed the halls were empty. He found himself surprised when he walked past the office of Margret Wraith. Instead, he was led to a grand staircase that spiraled up.
He continued to follow the guard, glancing around at the empty hall he found himself and the guard in. He could kill the guard. He was sure he could overpower him, take his gun, gear, and coat. But the body and blood would be discovered too quickly, and he would be killed before he could make a proper escape.
"In here," the guard said motioning toward a shut door.
Sam grabbed the doorknob and entered the room. As he stepped through, the scent of flowery perfume caught his nose. The guard shut the door behind Sam, leaving the boy alone in the room.
There was a large bed, neatly made with soft-looking pillows and several folded blankets laying at the foot of the bed. On the far side of the room, there was a gun rack holding a collection of lever-action rifles and a few modern ones.
Sam took a step into the room and bumped into the tall coat rack that stood just to his left. He grabbed the rack and steadied it, but not before a large, brimmed hat tumbled to the ground.
He picked it up. It was black and wasn't like a normal cowboy hat that he was used to seeing on television, the brim was flat all around without any sign of it going up.
Sam set the hat on the rack and went back to the large room before him. His eyes went back to the gun rack. The more modern guns had no magazines, and the bolts were out of battery showing that they were empty. Sam wagered that the rest of the rifles and pistols on the rack would be deprived of ammo as well. It wouldn't make much sense to keep a slave near the weapons.
There was a loud click on the opposite side of the room, and a large dark door with a bright golden knob opened.
Sam swallowed as the figure before him stepped out.
She was beautiful. Long blonde hair and dark brown eyes were the first things he saw, a sizable bust contained by a white button-down blouse was the next. As Sam's eyes traveled to her wide hips and long legs, he snapped his eyes back to the woman's face.
She was smug, she had the right to be.
"Well, hello there," her voice was smooth, sweet, and cold. "You're the new one, right?"
Sam nodded, his head bowed and eyes sticking to the floor now.
"I saw you. The day I got back about six months ago. In the tent with that kid," she smiled fondly as she thought of what had happened. "Man, that was something wasn't it? Good job by the way. I wanted to see you and talk to you earlier, but well, I have my own duties around the plantation. You understand how it is don't you?"
Sam's hands balled into fists, and he could feel the built-up callouses. But he bit his tongue. He felt and resisted the urge to run up to her and strangle her with the silk sheets. He swallowed the anger and simply nodded.
Show walked further into the room and Sam saw the sway of her hips and the upward tilt of her lips. He could smell more of the intoxicating perfume with her every step, and he set his jaw.
"That boy you killed, he didn't even have a chance, did he?" She laughed and sat on the bed across from Sam. "You're good at it huh? Yet momma said you turned down her offer. You bat for the other team?"
She began to unbutton her blouse and Sam felt his face flush and he looked away. He heard her chuckle, and she worked her fingers, until the buttons on her fresh white shirt were all undone, revealing the lacy black bra she wore underneath and the creamy white skin to match.
"Hmmm, no, defiantly not for the other team," she laughed.
He wished he could strangle the woman. Choke her and grab one of the guns and leave. But killing her was a death sentence for him too. She knew that and he knew that.
"You are an interesting man," she sighed as she began to kick her boots off. "You could have been an Overseer and had your pick of the litter from those whores that want to get out of the fields. Why'd you refuse?"
Sam felt his throat tighten. It seemed ludicrous that no one else understood his reasonings for not becoming a slaver.
"I'm not like you," he said simply. "I'm not going to be like you."
She smiled and leaned back on the bed. She brushed her hair back behind her shoulder and Sam wished he could be blind. He had a clear view into the valley between her breasts. The pale smooth skin teasing him with glimpses of what was just out of sight. Sam sighed and turned his head.
"No," she said, her voice sharp, her eyes gleaming with excitement. "Look."
I'm going to hang you and let you turn. Sam set his jaw and looked back at the woman. His fingernails dug into his palms, and he felt the stinging of broken skin and the warmth of blood. She sighed and moved her shoulders, letting the pale shirt slide from her body and around her waist. She chuckled and her hands moved behind her. Sam felt an uneasy breath leave him as he took a few steps back before he felt the doorknob jab him.
"This is happening," she said, her black bra falling to the ground. Blood rushed where Sam wished it didn't, he called out to God in his mind, begging him to not allow this to happen. But God was quiet on a lot of issues regarding the world recently. "So, you might as well accept it."
I'm going to burn this entire place down. Sam felt the hatred fueled fire in his belly grow as she sat there smiling.
"Take your pants off," she ordered. "Or maybe I'll tell my momma about that conversation you had with the boys on your work detail. She'd be ever so interested."
Sam remained still for a moment. He remembered what the pain from whips, and the punishment that the Guards could dole out. Most of all he remembered Beth, and the kid he had yet to meet. He couldn't die yet. He couldn't die, so instead, he would have to suffer.
Silas woke up warm and with a full bladder. Groaning softly, he looked over to Ellie, her eyes closed and her breathing steady. Silas allowed himself to smile and, as carefully as he could, got out of bed. Wrapping himself in a fluffy robe and sliding into his most comfortable pair of slippers, Silas entered the manors hall and began to walk toward the bathroom.
He passed several portraits and images of lush landscapes being explored by men on horses. Silas smiled silently to himself, as it was, the path to civilization was still some ways away, but it was coming. Soon his family would be able to do away with their way of doing things. All would be good, and this moment in their family's history would be seen as an unfortunate necessity.
Finding his way to the bathroom, Silas began to relieve himself. However, just as he was putting himself away, he heard a commotion nearby. Frowning he flushed the toilet and washed his hands, before going off to find out who was making a racquet so late in the evening.
Opening the door, he stepped out into the hall and spotted a sliver of light from around the corner of the hall. Walking forward he turned the corner and opened his mouth to give whoever was being so inconsiderate a piece of his mind. However, as he turned the corner, any semblance of words was lost as he spotted what had made the sound.
Standing in the doorway to Annes room, was Anne herself, a guard, and the old familiar face of Sam. Anne had a robe on, her hair was disheveled, but she had the same self-satisfied look on her face. The guard had his back to Silas, but he seemed to be chuckling at something that Anne had said. Then, Silas looked at Sam.
His face and arms were covered in welts, his lip was busted, but not bleeding. He had the same disheveled look to him, but none of the satisfaction that Anne had. Looking up, Sam's eyes met Silas's. Silas was frozen, his eyes went wide, and he felt his throat constrict until he could not breathe. Silas could see it, all of it. The hatred, the anger, the innate desire to see everything that Silas and his family held dear destroyed. But above all, he could see the pain, the fear. It had always been so abstract, so far away, so irrelevant. But now, the fear was real. It was there, it was manifested in a young man who had only God knows what done to him.
The guard clamped cuffs onto Sam's hands and dragged him away. The guard bowed his head respectfully to Silas. Sam glared at Silas, but his lips remained pressed together. He strode past Silas, and the man watched him leave, and then turned toward his sister.
"Anne," Silas said rushing up to her. "Anne what the hell did you do?"
"What?" Anne shrugged and walked into her room, Silas walking in after her. "I just had some fun. Not unlike you."
"I don't brutalize the women that I—"
"Whores. They're whores Silas, plain and simple. All of them, even the ones we don't fuck," Anne sat in front of her vanity and began whipping her face with a wet cloth. "And please, how is what I do with my whores any different than what you do with yours?"
"Are you telling me Sam wanted to be in here with you?" Silas demanded.
"Are you saying any of those whores you fuck want to be with you?" Anne laughed and turned to face Silas. "Please Silas. You think they love you? You think you get them off? You think they like it and come back for more? No, they fear you. Jesus Christ, you don't get it do you? You never have. The revolt made them think they can have freedom. Now we have to break them like horses. We have to remind them what they are. They're ours. Ours to use, ours to fuck, ours to hurt."
"I know what they are, but Jesus Anne, his face. His arms—"
"And that's just what you saw," she chuckled and turned back to the vanity. "I have needs and wants just like you Silas. I don't judge you for yours, so don't you dare judge me for mine."
She rose from her seat and turned back to Silas. "Besides, this was about more than me getting my rocks off. A snitch told me something interesting. It appears that little Sammy boy was planning another revolt. Or trying to, at least. Most of the slaves still remember the consequences of the last revolt, and none of them are eager to see that again."
"So, you thought it was necessary to fuck Sam!"
"There was more to it than just pleasure dear brother. What happens when the salves forget? What happens when the slaves decide that it might be worth it? We need to hurt them. We need to break them. We need them to fear pain more than they want freedom. More than they hate us. Christ Silas, just go back to your room, fuck your little blonde whore, and forget about the way the world is. You think one expedition to find half-starved slaves makes you experienced? It just means your braver than our brothers, which is hardly saying anything at all," Anne placed her hand on Silas' chest and shoved him out of the room. She slammed the door, and Silas remained there for a moment. His body refused to move, too scared of what he would find in his room. To emasculated by Anne. Silas stood there for a time, shaking with fear and anger.
When he finally found the urge to move, Silas found himself standing before his door. His hand gripped the glass doorknob. As he attempted to turn it, he found his strength sapped from him. The weight of the knob was too heavy to turn. He felt hot tears in his eyes and tried to steady his breathing. He tried to turn the knob again, but his fingers slipped off the glass. He brought his hand to his face and saw blood. He smelt the copper, felt its warmth. His stomach turned and Silas shook his head as bile rose up from his stomach.
Managing to find the strength he opened the door and flew into the room. Ellie was thrown awake, and her eyes darted around the room before focusing on him.
"Silas?" she asked, pulling the covers up to cover up her naked form. "What's wrong?"
"Get out," Silas felt the whisper come out softly. He walked to the bar and poured himself a whiskey. Downing the contents of the glass he poured another and then downed it again, and again.
"Silas, it's okay, just tell me—"
"Get out!" Silas felt pain shoot through his hand. He screamed and released his grip, shards of glass falling to the floor and embedding themselves in his skin. Blood dripped, this time it was real, showing the truth of the Wraith Family and their associates. "Out! Out! Get the fuck out!"
Ellies eyes went wide, and she quickly pulled on her night dress. Silas screamed for her to leave again, and a guard appeared at the door, rifle raised.
"Sir?" He asked.
"Get her out! Get her out!" Silas screamed. "Shut the fucking door!"
The guard rushed Ellie and pulled her arm. There was a pop and Ellie screamed, but the guard carried out his task. Shutting the door behind him, Silas fell to the ground and felt several sobs rise to the top of his throat. He clutched his bleeding hand and screamed.
It was fitting in a way. He had presented himself as a southern gentleman, a leader. He had imagined himself as a great man meant for great things. But as he sat on the floor of his room, in his fluffy robe, his hand bleeding, Silas realized exactly what he was.
It was dark when Sam arrived back at the bunkhouse. The guard that had been guiding him back had been cracking jokes about all manner of acts that Anne had most likely made commit. The welts and pain that were strung across Sam's body were enough evidence to the validity of those comments.
Entering the bunkhouse, he saw most of the residents were asleep, only a few milling about the fires. Sam swallowed the lump that was in his throat and pushed forward. Some looked over at him and whispered. Sam knew that there would be rumors as to why he had been called to the big house. He knew that they would all be untrue. He knew no one could have guessed what went on in that room.
As he sat by an empty fire, Sam let out a sigh and closed his eyes. Hid body was throbbing and thee cuts on his body were stinging with sweat. He sniffed and wiped his face, trying to cover his eyes. He felt a lump in his throat and ground his teeth together. Sam cursed the Wraiths for not the first time. He cursed Anne, Silas, Margret, the Guards, Willie, and Jessie. But in the fiery fury that was blowing through his mind, he imagined one face.
Brown hair, hazel eyes, and a hard look to her. So self-righteous, so sure that she is right. He wished he had a knife. He wished he had a gun, he wished she was before him so he could wrap his calloused hands around her throat and watch the light go out. It was her fault that he was there. And if he had his way, he would make here pay for every second that he spent on the plantation.
There was a loud bang, and Sam turned, standing up and facing the door. He ground his teeth together, his fists clenched tighter than ever. He felt pain, he felt shame, he felt anger. He wanted to kill something, and whatever he saw come through that door would be his target.
A guard pushed into the bunkhouse and was dragging a girl behind him. Her hair was blonde, her face was sallow, but there was some makeup covering her so that it would make up for it. She was scrawny as could be, though her night shirt allowed one to see that it was in places it didn't matter to much.
Sam crinkled his nose and spat on the ground. She was innocent in all of it. The guard wasn't. Sam had to bite his tongue as Ellie was thrown to the ground and the guard brought his boot to her stomach. Ellie coughed and then vomit shot from her mouth. The guard laughed and then kicked her again.
"Night night assholes," the guard shouted before closing the bunkhouse door.
Silence reigned over the bunkhouse and Sam's eyes went from the door to the girl writhing around on the floor, in a puddle of her own vomit. Swallowing his anger, Sam walked forward. Passing a chair, he found a discarded blue coat hanging there and grabbed it. Ellie was still moaning on the floor and Sam knelt beside her.
"Hey," he said plainly. "You need help."
Ellie groaned and nodded, not realizing that Sam wasn't asking. Regardless, Sam gripped her arm and began to pull, but the girl cried out and pulled away from him. Sam furrowed his brow and saw the shoulder was red and swollen. He remembered the guard dragging her.
"I think your shoulders dislocated," Sam said, he set the coat down and gently prodded the shoulder. Shee sucked her teeth and he nodded. "Never mind. It is dislocated. Here bite down on this."
Sam picked up a stick and placed it in her mouth. Ellie whimpered but bit down hard, taking several shaky breaths. Sam placed his hands on her shoulder and nodded to himself. It would go back in, but it would hurt.
"Okay on three," Sam snapped the joint back into place and Ellie let out a screech and kicked out her feet. Sam held her down and her screech shifted from screaming bloody murder, to heavy slow breaths as the pain began to fade. "Good, very good."
Sam had her move her joint around and though she winced and sucked in several sharp breaths while doing so, her shoulder would be fine. At least, that was what Sam had hoped.
"Here, sit up," Sam placed his hand on her back and pulled her up.
"Thank you," her voice was tired, and she groaned as she gave her shoulder one more rotation. "Fucking asshole. I do whatever he wants, lick what he wants, and now what? He just throws me out. Fucker."
"Who was it?" Sam asked.
"Silas. Oh, come one, don't look at me like that. I won't last more than a week in physical labor. Laying on my back and letting that fat fuck rut into me, it was better than working outside," Ellie laughed and shook her head, tears welling up in her eyes. "I figured it would happen sooner or later. I just hoped later rather than sooner."
Sam bowed his head. While he had been shocked at her choice of partner, he wasn't one to judge. Survival was survival. While she wasn't forced the same way he had been, she had been forced in an entirely different way. He patted her good shoulder and smiled sadly.
"Someone's a rat," Sam said. Ellie let out a soft laugh and shook her head.
"Of course, someone's a rat Sam. Look at where we are. There's nothing but vermin here. Everyone's trying to get a bite of something good and get the fuck out of here. You won't find more rats than in here," Ellie glanced around the room and then leaned toward Sam. He shuffled back, his hand balling into a fist, but relaxed after a moment. "Here, you can count on everyone to be a rat. Even me. What is it Margret always says, 'This is a land of traitors!'"
"I just thought everyone would be desperate to leave."
"We are. And if you can find a plan, I'm your girl. I'll do anything if you can work out a plan of getting out of here. But if you want people to fight, then you should have been here a year and a half ago. We might have even won."
"I won't lose," Sam said turning his head back to the fire. "I'm going to burn this godforsaken place to the ground. Wraiths in it."
"Don't say it too loud. Land of traitors and all that," Ellie rose from her spot on the ground, groaning and with a stumble. "If you plan to escape, let me know. But if you're gonna fight, leave me out of it."
Ellie left and Sam remained at the fire. He clicked his tongue and spat into the fire.
"Funny," he whispered, "someone else said something very similar."
AN: Hey... so I've been gone. Life got crazy. I got my degree, gonna start working as a teacher. Also I got engaged, we get married in November, you're all invited, the bar will be ID'ing however. I started this story when I was 17, I'm 23 now, and i can't believe its still going. Yeah i took a two year hiatus, sorry for no warning, but life got crazy as I said. I kinda got discouraged with this story. I try to not let reviews get to me, but you know. I never thought I was going to finish it, but well I'm dipping my toes in the water so to speak. To everyone who's been with me for a while, thank you for your support, your kind words, and for trusting me to take this story where it needs to go. I know my writing can be unpleasant, but you're still here. Thank you. I hope you guys enjoy this 10K word chapter. I have a new one in the pot right now. Also it may be a little late for this, but does anyone wanna beta future chapters and the rewrite? Review! ~Pacco1
