Gray (Book 2) (19 page)

The hours alone allowed her to think more about escape. The cabins were stone, but the roofs were flammable. Instead of sneaking out, what if she set the place on fire that night? They’d be busy trying to put out the fires and fewer could be spared for chasing after her. Maybe she and Benjamin would not be missed in the confusion.

But as she played out that possibility, she saw it wouldn’t gain them much time. They’d see their two captives were missing soon enough, and they could spare a couple of the men to chase her.

Better to be stealthy, to get away at midnight, and have it be perhaps as long as six hours later before they were missed.

She thought, too, about using Jubilee and the possibility he’d give her away with his braying. She didn’t know a thing about donkeys. Mules were known to be stubborn. Were donkeys? Not a clue. If she had to drag him, or if he balked, or if he bugled out an alarm, he’d be more trouble than he was worth.

If he could be made to pull them—or if one could ride and one be pulled—would that help them outdistance their pursuit? She’d watched a couple of Kentucky Derby broadcasts in her life. Horses could run that pretty fast. A race was about a mile, she thought, and they ran it in a couple minutes. Of course, this was a donkey, but if they could get even a couple five-minute miles from the donkey it before it stopped.... She shook her head at herself. It was all pure conjecture. She had no idea if Jubilee would cooperate at all, how noisy he might be, what sort of terrain they’d encounter, or how many miles the donkey would go before he refused to move another step.

She wanted, so much, to talk with Benjamin about this. Twenty minutes alone with him would make a plan come together; she was sure of it. And it’d do her a world of good, too, to make sure he wasn’t converting to this ridiculous religion, to hear his voice, or to sit quietly next to him while he sharpened their knives.

She patted her pocket again, feeling the reassuring solidity of her pocket knife. That was one thing she had going for her. She still had the paper and pencil lead, too, to communicate with Benjamin, so two things. She had less time befriending the donkey than she’d have liked, and she didn’t know how realistic of a plan stealing him was, but there was that possibility, too. A slowly developing trust from the cultists had been another resource, but today she’d blown that all to hell. Why didn’t she have better self-control? She’d never been a fighter or a screamer before.

Water under the bridge.
Her grandmother’s voice came to her, saying those words. It was done. No taking it back now, and no benefit to obsessing on how she’d screwed up. She’d have to move on somehow, snatch all opportunities she saw, be on her best behavior, and find a way to meet Benjamin at the outhouse in three nights.

She went to the door and pushed the blanket back an inch, peering out. She wasn’t being guarded. Back at the bunk, she drew out the pencil and paper and wrote Donkey + cart—yes or no? Alternative weapons? Flashlight? Food? Cave? She’d add more later, as she thought of it, and get the note to him when she could.

She heard the wind pick up outside. The blanket door stirred in the breeze. Maybe a storm was blowing in. If one blew in the night they left, the snow could cover their tracks.

How she wanted to leave.

Not tonight. Not tomorrow night. But the next. She only needed to hang on for that long.

By the time the men came for her, she had to pee pretty badly. She asked if she could visit the outhouse. The men looked at each other and finally one of the ones whose name she didn’t know went to ask Tithing. It was spooky, how they couldn’t think for themselves, despite all being grown men.

She was given permission and had two men accompany her down the path. In the outhouse, she took the note from Benjamin from her pocket. She tore it into little pieces, wrapped it in a sheet of the brown paper and tossed it in. Then she emerged and was marched back to the dining cabin, a man behind her, a man ahead.

As she approached the cabin, her heart beat harder and her palms grew damp within her gloves.

Only the men were inside the main room. She had no idea if the women were in the kitchen or not. The door between the two rooms was shut, and there was no sound coming through the wall.

Tithing was standing before the dream catcher on the wall. The men were seated, facing him, but as one, they turned when she entered the room. Benjamin was nowhere to be seen. She hoped she hadn’t gotten him into trouble, too.

“Where is he?” she asked. She glanced around at the men. “Where is Benjamin?”

No one answered. She was pushed up to Tithing, and he pointed to a spot for her to stand.

She took her place.

Tithing began to speak in his meeting voice. “The Reaping has begun.”

“And we are The Seed,” responded the men.

“Our time finally has come,” he said, “And we rejoice. But we also have a problem.” He looked at Coral.

“We need to be told if this one is Weed or Seed.” He raised his hands, palm up. “We need to be guided. And so, we test her.”

Coral’s throat was dry and she felt like she was quivering all over. Maybe she was trembling, and visibly. She shoved her hands into her pockets to keep anyone from seeing the tremors there.

Tithing motioned for her to approach him.

Damn damn damn.
She did not want to go. But she made herself take a step. She could feel that her shoulders were hunched. When she saw him raise a pair of scissors, she stopped.

He beckoned her with a forefinger. The gesture was really creepy, somehow, creepier than the whole rest of the scene.

She swallowed, swallowed again, and coughed. She took another step, another, and was looking up at Tithing’s face, close enough that she could count his pores.

He looked troubled but calm. A man trying to be fair, having an unpleasant duty but knowing he needed to do it. He reached out to her face and pushed down her bandana.

She flinched from the touch of his fingers.

He pushed back the hood of her jacket. She drew a shaky breath, trying not to pull away from him.

He raised his hand, and the blade of the scissors glinted yellow in lamplight.

The breath caught in her throat.

Gently, he pulled her hair out from her collar. Then he took a hank and cut it off, so close to her scalp, she could feel the cold blades brush her skin. Her skin was all gooseflesh. He cut another hank, and another. When he let go of each chunk of hair, it slithered down her jacket, making a whispery sound.

Methodically, he cut her hair off. Then he reached into his pocket and brought out a razor and began shaving her head.

Coral couldn’t say how she knew, but somehow, she felt a wave of sexual excitement coming from someone—or more than one of the men—behind her. If gang rape wasn’t planned, she feared it might happen anyway, spontaneously. The feeling of her awareness of them—some of them? all of them?—lusting for her only grew as he shaved her.

Without any water or soap or foam, the shaving was a dry, painful process. The razor blade wasn’t terribly sharp, and it caught at her scalp. He cut her, and she jerked at the hot sensation. His hand took her chin, cool fingers holding her steady.

She realized she had started breathing again at some point, for she was panting now, as if she were running uphill. He gave her a “turn around” gesture, and she turned, closing her eyes, not wanting to see the gleaming eyes of the men who were excited about this, not wanting to see anything, wanting to disappear, to not be, to never have been.

That’s what they want.
The thought came to her in Benjamin’s voice. Her eyes popped open. He was nowhere to be seen, but the cult’s men were all there, staring at her. She made herself meet their eyes, one by one. Alva looked away. So did Jim. The rest looked at her, or at her head and the razor being guided by Tithing’s hand.

Finally, it was over. Her head felt strangely light.

From behind her, Tithing said, “Apologize to Pratt, now.”

She looked at Pratt. He was smirking. Her voice was steady, and she was heartened by that, made braver by hearing herself sound brave. “I’m sorry I flew at you like that. I know it must have scared you.”

“I’m not scared of a girl.”

Coral almost smiled at his defensive tone. “I promise you, it won’t happen again.”

Tithing said, “Give me your jacket.”

Coral’s pleasure at provoking Pratt fled. She really, really, really did not want to be raped. She’d managed to avoid it so far, and before the Event she had hoped she’d make it to old age without having that experience. Maybe it was inevitable in this new, lawless world.

“Now,” he said.

She turned back to face him, peeled off her jacket, and handed it to him.

“And your gloves.”

She handed them over.

“And that sweater.”

She pulled it off. She still had on the thin turtleneck beneath it. She shivered. The cabins weren’t all that much warmer than the outdoors, and it was hovering somewhere below freezing in here.

“You will not harm another of this Farm again. Or you will be cast out into the world naked.” Tithing’s voice was stern. “Do you understand?”

She nodded.

“You’re going to spend the night here, without your jacket, without your gloves, to get a taste of how that will feel.” He lifted his chin and spoke over her head. “Go on about your business.”

She could hear a murmur of disappointment. They’d wanted more—they’d wanted worse for her.

Soon all of them had filed out but Tithing.

“You may not last the night,” he said.

“I’m relieved you didn’t hurt me.”

“I don’t need to hurt you. You seem to do a very good job of hurting yourself.” He took the lantern, turned it off, and stepped to the inner door, the one that led to the kitchen, and put a key in the lock. He turned the key, rattled the doorknob to make sure it was locked, and walked to the main door.

“Tithing, wait. Where’s Benjamin? You didn’t hurt him, did you?”

He paused and turned to look at her. “He didn’t want to come. He said you shamed him.”

He slipped outside. She listened for the turn of the lock. It was a quiet sound, barely audible.

She was locked in. Night was falling. And she was already cold.

Coral brushed her palm over her head. “Missed a spot, asshole,” she muttered. The nick was damp with blood, but it wasn’t flowing fast. She untied her bandana from her neck and held it to the spot.

What had he said about Benjamin? Shamed by her? She couldn’t believe that. He’d been banned from coming, more than likely, by Tithing. She wondered if someone had an eye on him. Probably Brynn was guarding him.

She brushed her hand over her bald head. It could have been far, far, worse. She was expecting worse. The guys behind her—a few of them, at least—had been hoping for worse. She shivered at the memory of that feeling, the crawling sensation on her neck of knowing that anyone had wanted to use her.

The shiver was warranted as much by the cold. The fading light outside wasn’t penetrating the cabin. There were two windows, but there were shutters on them blocking the light. The temperature would fall further with every passing hour. There was nothing here to wrap up in. Not a tablecloth, not a blanket, not even a wall hanging. She figured her choices were three. Stick her arms under her shirt, sit in a corner, and shiver all night, hoping she didn’t die from hypothermia. Or she could pace all night and hope that kept her warm. Or she could break the hell out of here.

She wondered what old Coral would have done, and she realized she had no idea. That girl, that university student, pretty good sister, that would-be doctor was dead. This Coral had fought, and won, and survived, and taught herself to shoot a bow—

Damn. Her bows and arrows. Her chest hurt at the thought. She would grieve their loss for a long while.

She went to the front door and leaned against it, listening. She heard nothing. Carefully, she tried the doorknob. It was locked. Crossing to the inner door, she pulled out her pocketknife. When she reached the door, she knelt and looked at the lock. It was below the doorknob, not embedded in it, a pretty modern lock, but not brand-new, either.

She’d never picked a lock before, but this seemed a good time to teach herself how. She began opening, one by one, every blade in her knife. One by one, she shut most of them. First she dismissed the blades—too wide. The can opener, ditto. Little scissors, rejected.

When she was done closing each of those tools, she was left with the four thinnest arms: a corkscrew, a tiny hook, a miniscule nail file with a hole in it, and a pointy thing she forgot the name of. There was also, stuck in the end of the knife’s body, a toothpick, detachable. She detached it and gripped it between her front teeth.

Okay. She started with the hook, probing the lock. People seemed to manage this in the movies. Was that only Hollywood nonsense, or could it be done?

The light was fading fast now, but light wouldn’t help her much anyway. She felt something give under the hook, then spring back. Again, she pushed. Same thing. Okay. That was something. Now what? A visual memory came to her, from a movie or TV show. The person had both hands at the lock, and two deeliebops in there.