The Beautiful Ones Page 4

  “But,” Ceyonne says. “I—”

  Her mother shakes her head. “Go, now. Be with your friend.” She looks over Ceyonne’s shoulder at me and nods. “I love you, Ceyonne. Until life brings us together again.”

  “Until life brings us together again,” the girl says, then leans forward and kisses her mother’s cheek.

  After reaching down to take hold of her knapsack, Ceyonne turns and advances toward me.

  It is only when she is sure she is out of her mother’s range of hearing that she lets out a startled, uncontrollable sob.

  “Hey,” I say, reaching out to press a hand against the girl’s bare arm. “It’s okay. Everything’s going to be just fine.”

  “How?” Ceyonne asks.

  I don’t know how to respond. The false platitudes I offer are merely that—false. To think that I could actually offer comfort at this time, while admirable, is ludicrous, and for that reason I remain silent and instead turn as the clip-clap of high-heeled shoes enters my ears.

  Mother Terra, the Gentlewoman, draws near, the dome of her hooded head glimmering in the light of the overhead moon. “Girls,” she says.

  “Revered Mother,” we both reply.

  “I expect you completed any unfinished business?”

  We both nod even though there is truly no way we could ever say goodbye to our families.

  “Good,” she says. “We will be departing shortly. Now—if you would follow me, please.”

  I look over at Ceyonne for a brief moment before I begin to follow in the Gentlewoman’s footsteps, careful not to overshadow my fellow Beauty as we make our way across the square and toward one of the massive vehicles, which stands at least six feet high. Heavily-armored and shaped like a rectangle, the vehicle—which bears three sets of wheels on both its front and back halves and comes to a rounded point at the front—is extremely intimidating, and obviously built for battle. Several SAD agents surround it as they load the equipment from today’s Procession into the back of one of two vehicles.

  “We’re riding in… this?” I ask, looking up at the vehicle.

  “Yes,” the Gentlewoman replies. “Our agents will help you inside.”

  I am baffled as to how or where the vehicle opens up, but that question is quickly answered when a steel inset parts and the door opens up toward its roof.

  Inside, a SAD agent extends her hand. “Come,” she says.

  I gesture Ceyonne to go first, given her emotional state, and watch as the girl steps forward on flat-footed shoes before climbing into the vehicle.

  As I follow, realizing that this is the last time I will likely ever set foot on my home of Sandstone Hills, I take a moment to breathe in the sweet if somewhat-arid night air, then climb inside and settle myself down into one of the rough plastic seats—which, though secure, is not comfortable. Our predicament is only made worse when the SAD agent straps two belts over our chests to hold us in place.

  “We will be making our way to the train station in approximately ten minutes,” the Dame says, looking from me, to Ceyonne, then back again. “I will warn you: once we leave the village, we will be traveling at extremely high speeds to make our way to the station. You are likely to experience nausea. If this occurs, continue to watch the outside world. Do not—and I repeat, do not—throw up inside the vehicle.”

  “Yes ma’am,” I say. Ceyonne merely nods, her gaze still set on the outside world.

  “All right,” the Dame replies, climbing out of the vehicle. “Until later, then.”

  She slams the door shut behind her, leaving Ceyonne and myself in complete and utter silence.

  I take this time to ruminate on what will occur in the coming moments—knowing, without a doubt in my mind, that what will soon transpire will ultimately remove us from the world as we know it forever. Though I am aware that the train station is approximately ten miles away from the Sandstone Hills, I am not aware of any potential dangers that we may pass. As a child, I was always made aware of the wild javelina that roamed the hills, as well as the coyotes that stalked the dunes. As a young woman, however, I was made privy to those who prey upon the wandering caravans. Road bandits, they were called—men and women who, driven to the extreme, would do anything to survive this cruel and savage world—and though I knew little about why they did what they did, I was explicitly told never to wander outside of the town’s grounds unless I wanted to risk being captured.

  They’ll kill you, my mother had once said. Or worse.

  She hadn’t explained what was worse than being killed, but as I got older, and as I began to learn more about myself and what others—particularly men—wanted, I’ve been able to fill in the blanks on my own.

  The sudden start and then rumble of the vehicle’s engine jars me out of my thoughts.

  “Here we go,” Ceyonne says as the vehicle begins to roll up the hill.

  I am left in stunned silence as I watch our homes pass by outside—as I witness those declared unfit part curtains to look out and into the night. As we pass the row of homes that my mother and I live in, I try to catch a glimpse of her in the house, watching, waiting, anticipating my departure, but see nothing. At first I am saddened, and hurt, but realize that we have already said our goodbyes and that she doesn’t have to see me off again. With a kiss and a hug she’d promised me my future. She needn’t do any more than that.

  A single tear rolls down my face as we pass the edge of Sandstone Hills, marked plainly by a weathered sign that bears a cow’s skull on its surface, and into the desert beyond.

  While a part of me can’t believe I’m leaving home, another part of me revels in the future that I will soon be a part of.

  A Beautiful One, I am apt to think, going to the Glittering City.

  The vehicle quickens. Soon, we are speeding across the countryside and making our way toward a place I have only heard of and seen in my dreams.

  Ceyonne leans forward and braces her head between her knees.

  “Are you all right?” I ask.

  “Sick,” she says, though whether it is because we are leaving home or because of the vehicle I cannot know.

  I press my hand to the small of her back and knead the tense muscle there as she sobs, uncontrollably, her tears falling to the floor below.

  In doing this, I wonder, briefly, why I myself am not crying.

  It doesn’t take long to remember that I have wanted this my entire life.

  A new home, a new life, a fresh start in an exotic city in a faraway place: this is what I have dreamed of since I was a little girl. Knowing, now, that I am going, makes it seem all the less real.

  The outside world passes by in a blur as the driver of the heavily-armored vehicle maneuvers through the dunes. Rolling up inclines, sliding down declines, dodging hills, rocks, boulders and more, little can be seen of the environment, and even less can be told of what might await us outside.

  I tighten my hold on Ceyonne’s moth-eaten shirt.

  The girl chokes on phlegm, then leans back and allows her tears to course down her face. “Thank you,” she says.

  “We have to stick together,” I said. “We only have each other now.”

  I present my hand. She takes it, and squeezes.

  It seems like we’ve only begun to make our way through the desert when the vehicle lurches to a sudden stop. Jarred, forward, in my seat, I cough and lock eyes with Ceyonne as she stares out the window at my side.

  “What?” I ask.

  “It’s the station,” she replies.

  I turn.

  Outside, the train station stands solemnly—a testament to a world long past and the ingenuity that came along with it. At its side rests a single vessel, primed and ready to begin departure whenever ready.

  The door beside me opens.

  Mother Terra, along with a pair of SAD officers, stands outside. “Now then,” she says as one of the agents crawls in to undo the restraints holding us in place. “Let us go.”

  We climb out of the vehicle in s
ilence and approach Mother Terra hesitantly. Knapsacks in hand, we wait for further instruction as she gestures the Dame who’s driven the car the whole way here to secure the vehicle in the port alongside the station.

  “Mother Terra,” I say.

  “Yes, Kelendra?” she asks.

  “How long will it take for us to arrive in the Glittering City?”

  “There will be several stops along the way,” the Gentlewoman replies, turning and motioning for us to follow as she makes her way toward the train station. “One in Gladberry, another in Thomasburg, a third in Kingston. Afterward, we will make our way through the heart of the Great South and arrive at the Glittering City sometime later. In all, it should take us twenty-four hours. But fear not. The train has accommodations to ensure a pleasant travel. Food, running water, flushing toilets.”

  Ceyonne and I both stare at this last part.

  “A latrine, dears—one that uses water to flush waste.”

  “Where does it go?” Ceyonne asked, obviously just as baffled as I am. In all my life I’d never heard of such a thing.

  “In a tank alongside the train. Do not worry yourselves over it, though. That is a job only for someone Unfortunate.”

  I nod, along with Ceyonne, and mount the steps that lead up alongside the station. Two SAD officers stand at the ready beside the twin doors that lead into the train.

  “Let these Beautiful Ones in,” the Gentlewoman says, “and check to ensure a maid has ensured their quarters.”

  “Yes ma’am,” the officers say. They then turn and, with a wave of a small card around one’s neck, watch as the doors open before them.

  “Follow us please,” one says.

  We mount the slight step and enter the air-conditioned train, which smells of old wood and a harsh, bitter scent which reminds me of the cleaning concoctions my mother uses.

  The SAD agents are quick to flag down a stranger making her way down the hall. “Maid,” they say in a casual, bored tone. “Maid.”

  “Yes?” the woman asks. She is dressed in a black-and-white striped top and skirt and wears a black bonnet over her head.

  “See these Beautiful Ones to their rooms, please.”

  “Yes ma’am,” she says, then gestures us forward. “Come, please.”

  Though Ceyonne is quick to follow, I’m left in a state of shock over seeing what is essentially a slave.

  A maid? Here? On the train? So far away from the Glittering City?

  Up until this moment, I’ve thought that they were nothing more than fantasy—an idealized manservant meant to cater to the upper class’ every whim and need.

  A SAD officer gently nudges me forward. “Go,” the Dame says.

  And I follow, behind Ceyonne, trying not to stare at the maid who, though obviously enslaved, seems content to do her work. She leads us down the long hall toward the back of the train—past several doors within which are glass panels that one can look into.

  When we come to the last two in the rows, the maid turns to the two of us and says, “Your rooms, dearies.”

  “Thank you,” Ceyonne says, and I nod, truly thankful but unsure how to properly address the woman before me.

  The woman nods and scoots by us, but not before brushing a hand along my arm.

  I shiver in the moment thereafter—unsure if it was because of the contact or the possibility that she might not technically be allowed to touch me—before adjusting my hold on my knapsack and looking at the door to my left. Ceyonne, likewise, looks to her right.

  “If you need anything,” I say as I crack the door to my room open, “all you need to do is knock.”

  “Okay,” Ceyonne says, then adds: “Same to you.”

  “Thank you.”

  The girl then turns and enters her room. It isn’t long before she draws the blind down and thrusts herself into darkness.

  I stand in the hall for a moment, waiting to see if she will reemerge. When she doesn’t, I push my door open, and step inside.

  Though cold, I am immediately impressed with my surroundings. A plush seat sits at one side, while opposite it exists a bed I will access via a small ladder. Directly in the corner of the room exists a small bathroom—which contains a toilet, as the Gentlewoman says, and a small receptacle in which exists a lever and a spouting head of some kind.

  After stepping into the room and experimenting with the lever, I find that it draws and produces water from some unknown source; and with several turns of the lever, discover that I can change the temperature at will.

  “Amazing,” I breathe.

  It doesn’t take long for me to undress.

  Once beneath the water, I wash myself clean of the dirt plastered to my skin, the sorrow impressed upon my flesh. Then I exit, slide into the sun dress—the only proper clothing I own—and climb up the ladder and snuggle into the soft sheets and linens awaiting me within the bed.

  I breathe. I sigh. I close my eyes.

  Though not tired, and more afraid than I could possibly imagine, I find myself dozing in the moments thereafter.

  Vibrations echo throughout the train.

  Movement begins shortly thereafter.

  Soon, we are disembarking, and leaving our world forever behind.

  Four

  My dreams are pleasant, my sleep undisturbed. In them I am staring at the shimmering countenance of the Glittering City, whose landscape is unlike anything I could have ever possibly imagined. Endless, it seems, and stretching high into the sky, I watch as beautiful people of all shapes, sizes and colors mill about and make their way to and from the pristine buildings that surround them. It is a sight impossible to ignore—a spectacle that I cannot deny—and is so breathtaking that I wish not to leave.

  Take me there, I want to say, even though my lips are sealed by the magnitude of dream.

  I never want the vision to end.

  Unfortunately, it does.

  Voices are what wake me. Their tones are what inspire dread.

  “Shut up,” I hear a man say. “Don’t say a word or I’ll gut you like a fish.”

  My first instinct is to freeze—to hide away in my bunk and keep quiet.

  Then I realize that there could only be one person they are talking to.

  Ceyonne.

  “Please,” I hear her say. “Don’t hurt me.”

  A hard thwap of a hand meeting flesh rings throughout the back cabins and reverberates throughout my ears, causing chaos to instantly alight in my brain. My breath trembles, my mouth dries, my heart thuds like a beating drum inside my chest. Where are the SAD agents? I wonder. Why aren’t they helping Ceyonne?

  Unless…

  I swallow.

  I struggle to believe that the man inside has gone undiscovered.

  It is late, and the rumble of the tracks is likely enough to mask the sounds that are coming from the room. The man whispering, Ceyonne crying, another slap as he tells her, “Shut up”—all are shrouded by the sound of the train as it makes its way due east for the settlement called Gladberry in the lands beyond our own.

  There is no denying what I must do.

  With trepidation, and fear I cannot have ever possibly imagined facing, I swing my legs over the side of the safety railing and begin to descend.

  When my feet land on the floor, I am consumed by the desperate need to find something I can defend myself and Ceyonne with. But what? There are no weapons here, no shock rods or stun batons I can use to assault the man who is holding the other Beauty hostage. He is likely armed, and will pose a significant threat to me once it is revealed that I am in the room directly across from her.

  I try to rationalize a plan in spite of the panic forcing adrenaline through my veins.

  What to do, what to do—

  It hits me, hard, and inspires within me a courage I have not had before.

  I instantly delve into my knapsack.

  Within moments I am pulling articles of clothing free, discarding them until I find the diary that lies at the very bottom of it. Tho
ugh inconsequential to most, it bears rounded metal edges around its thick tome that, if improvised correctly, could prove to be a deadly weapon.

  I look from my clothes, to the diary, then back to the clothes again.

  It takes seconds for me to wrap the diary in my moth-eaten sweater.

  After tying and securing it in place with my sleeves, I crouch down, lift the improvised weapon like a flail, and take a deep breath.

  I reach for the groove in the door just as the man hisses something foul to the girl in the room across from me.

  I grab on.

  I pull it open.

  The tone in the air instantly changes. Now able to hear Ceyonne’s muffled sobs, I brace myself for what is to come by pressing myself against the wall and rising to my full height.

  The man says, “What was that?”

  Ceyonne replies, “I don’t—”

  But she is slapped again—silenced prematurely.

  I hear footsteps soon after.

  The man is stupid. He does not expect me—another Beauty, a seemingly helpless victim—to have created a makeshift weapon to stop him in his tracks. The fact is enough to give me courage as he crosses the short hall separating the two cabins, as his figure appears in the doorway.

  He turns.

  I swing.

  The flail-like weapon collides with his head and sends him stumbling into the wall.

  “What,” he starts.

  But I’m swinging again—harder this time—and strike him with enough force to break his nose and send blood splattering down his dirty front.

  He recoils, lifting his hands to his face to reveal the glimmering knife in his hand, jagged and broken and aged beyond compare. The bladed weapon shines in the moonlight streaming in from the nearby window and stuns me into submission for a brief moment before I attack him again.

  This time, the diary connects with his hand, and the knife goes sailing from his grasp.

  “Bi—” he starts.

  But I’m on him like a hellion, swinging my flail and bludgeoning him to the ground.

  Ceyonne screams.

  The man lunges.

  He grabs me.

  I punch and kick.