Роберт Уилсон - Days Since... - Thomas - Day 758

“This place… I don’t know, man.” James said, now that they were well outside of earshot of the Butcher’s guard. “I had no idea this place was like this. I may joke around a bunch and whatever, but this is insane, right?”

“Keep the act up.” Thomas looked back toward the barricade. The old pervert and his son prepared for admission into the camp. The quiet stranger left, but others had replaced him. Even from here, Thomas could see their smiles—all lined up, bearing sickening anticipation. “Tonight, they’ll pay.”

The path cut its way between two ridges then met with the stream that Bill spoke of. The stream and path came within feet of one another, paralleling each other until finally parting ways as the walk bent to the northwest up a hill, and the stream stumbled down a few terraces. The water cascaded through, breaking on stones and sticks, bending around the ankles of two women standing just off the bank. Their backs bent—their busy hands cleaning a pile of laundry.

Thomas and James smiled as they stole the women’s attention. He couldn’t deny he enjoyed their state of nudity, but it wasn’t the point of the smile—it was knowing that soon they would have a choice—a real purpose in life.

James raised a hand to acknowledge them, and the taller of the two waved him toward her, but once he took that first step, she quickly interrupted him. “Stop! Not you, sir.” Her true intent approached from behind them.

Three children, two girls and a boy, wheeled a cart filled with laundry down toward the stream. A few pieces of clothing slipped to the ground as the cart rocked back and forth. The girl in back picked them from the street, her arms struggling to carry it all. Thomas went to help. “Stop!” The woman shook her head. “Don’t help.”

Are they always like this? Thomas eyed the ridgeline. It seemed strange they were unattended—alone out here. He expected that a guard or caretaker of some sort would be present. “Do you women do laundry for everyone?” Thomas asked. “You don’t have to be afraid of us.”

The statement seemed to startle the women as they shielded the children and backed away from the wads of clothing resting on the stones.

“They’ll do whatever you want.” A guard appeared from atop the ridge, adjusting himself then zipping up his pants. “I’d recommend something more exciting, but if you want to waste your chits on laundry, then you do what makes you happy.” He grabbed a rifle from the foot of a tree and slid carefully down the face of the ridge. “These women don’t care if you smell or not. Right, ladies?”

The women hung their heads and said nothing.

“Right, ladies?” The guard swatted one of the women on the ass with the butt of his rifle, knocking her onto her hands and knees in the shallow creek bed.

“Yes, sir.” The women responded together. Two of the children rushed to aid the one that had been struck, but she brushed them back and stood.

Thomas suppressed his sense of duty and simply nodded to the guard. It would be better to merely pass through, make very little contact with others. In this way, Thomas and James would affect less, be able to observe the natural happenings of the camp.

As the two rounded their way up through the bend in the road, a low hum of voices grew to a steady roar within the air. The dense wooded area opened up, leaving the trees to wrap the perimeter of the Butcher’s camp. A throng of people gathered outside the restroom entrances carved into the hillside just below the white gazebo—dueling steps climbed the grassy hillside toward the top. One man stood outside the bathroom stirring a large pot—a weak fire below it—cooking what smelled like stew.

They pressed their way through the crowd, walking the street that circled back on itself, taking in what they could, observing everything it had to offer. An older man parted the crowd carefully with his shopping cart, ensuring that his goods were visible and doing his best to avoid people’s feet. “Get your rubbers!” the man shouted, as he accepted chits into a bucket and filled their empty hands with condoms.

Thomas took to the outside of the crowd and walked past the clusters of multi-colored tents that rippled occasionally from the wind. The gusts carried the foul stench of unwashed bodies throughout the camp. Women and men came and went with the sound of zippers. Muddy footprints painted a collage throughout the street. It was overwhelming, and being a natural introvert, Thomas found himself observing from where they first entered.

“This place is nuts, man,” James said. Two naked women ran past, and he couldn’t keep his eyes from them. “I’ve never…” A few others walked the other way, men’s arms slung over their shoulders. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

“There’s too much going on here. I don’t know how we’re going to get accurate numbers. How the hell can we?”

“Shit, man. I don’t know.”

“Just stay cl—”

A scream—a woman staggering, clutching the side of her face as she made her way toward the gazebo from a collapsing tent. Blood ran down her arm. She sobbed while shouting, “Get him! Get him!” Her finger dripped with blood, pointing, sentencing the man running from the tent. Her knees hit the pavement, another woman bent down to receive her, wrapping her in a blanket to conceal her naked body.

“One hundred chits to whoever grabs that coward!” An unknown voice rang out.

With a single shoe and nothing else, the man stole for the walkway, his gait teetering with every step as most of the crowd turned to give chase. Thomas looked on as the man made for his escape, running straight toward him.

The plan of keeping to themselves had just been decided not but fifteen or twenty minutes ago. This event would make him the sore thumb, but even worse, an early enemy if he let the man escape. It left him with little choice as he grabbed hold of the man, jerking him by the arm and swinging him violently to the ground. The man’s face erupted with a crunch as it hit the pavement. Thomas stood there, unmoved, stoic while looking down at a still body once again.

“One hundred chits to that man and his crony.” The unknown voice confirmed. Thomas scanned the crowd, but it seemed that anyone could have said it. The entire horde of people became engrossed with what occurred. A staggered line of people stood opposite them, staring from across the empty pavement. “Step forward, proud victors!”

A man stepped forward from the others—tall and slender. He glided toward them. His demeanor, his own sense of worth placed him above everyone else. It was surprising he had not been noticed sooner. While everyone else was dressed in mostly blue jeans, t-shirts, or jackets, he sported a suit, vest and all—a business man.

As he approached, it appeared that he had a facial disfigurement but not as pronounced as the others—a slightly raised discoloration on his left cheek. “To whom do I owe the pleasure?”

“Thomas.”

The man presented his large mitt to him. “Folks call me the Butcher, horrible name I know, but one that is quite fitting.”

Thomas accepted the handshake—although he hated to—although deep down he was murdering him through a sequence of vignettes that grew darker with each revolution. This man would not live to see tomorrow. There wasn’t a chance, and Thomas knew this, giving him a harsh squeeze as the Butcher went to remove his hand. All the Butcher could do was hide his pain behind a distorted grin. He could show no weakness in front of his brood.

The Butcher turned from Thomas briefly and signaled to a couple of his guards with a snap of his fingers. Rushing to his side, the two men seemed eager, almost pleasured by the opportunity to serve. “It’s nice to have obedience within the ranks,” the Butcher said while turning back toward Thomas. “You want to help these two string this example up by his neck?”