Chapter 5
The sun is setting when I lower myself down the makeshift ladder out of my bedroom window and slip away from the compound into the woods.
I move swiftly through the forest brush and tall grass, staying off the main road, but the men’s clothes and large hood I’ve changed into catch on branches. They make me noisy. Slow.
When I reach the eastern boundary of the Dresden camp, I crouch next to a rickety log home built around a couple of pine trees. It rises multiple floors. A literal treehouse. Once clear, I weave around more small shelters, most of them looking like one strong gust of wind could blow them down.
Long ago, Atlas decided to preserve the forest within Notting territory, both for cover and to draw in wildlife for extra food.
Except the ‘no-logging’ rule only applies to the Dresden, forcing them to use disintegrating scraps of wood to construct their homes or risk leaving militia territory to gather something else to build with.
It also means the only way the forest dwellers can cook their food and not freeze to death in the winter, is to burn coal: coal they have to earn by working in the mine, in addition to the coal they need to extract to pay their rent and security fees.
So it makes sense they’ve built their homes in a ring formation with communal firepits in the centre. To survive, they have to share.
The firepits are mostly empty now as a solemn line of people wait at collections.
I inch closer in the shadows, taking in the coal-dust-covered faces of the people who’ve only just finished their shift.
The line leads to a table lit by torches – and God’s breath, it’s Soren and Diggs running the show tonight. I can’t think of a worse combination.
Well … I guess Coatl could be here, too.
Beside them is a horse-drawn trailer filled with what I assume are the usual forms of payment for not meeting quotas in the mine: scavenged berries, bags of feathers, or handmade items, like mats and baskets woven with grass.
Hetty Hatfield’s there with her bars of soap, which she makes from lye and pig fat that she scavenges from the militia kitchen.
A chicken clucks from somewhere in the collection pile – a lucky few manage to maintain a small area of animals.
Everyone else buys their supplies from us.
The top half of a rocking chair sticks out of the trailer – a true treasure and likely a painful sacrifice for one of the nearly ninety Dresden who live here.
‘Next.’ Soren’s voice rings out into the evening air.
A pale-skinned man with a torn and filthy shirt shuffles forward, clutching a small basket. He’s probably only in his early thirties but looks much older.
‘Name,’ Soren snaps.
‘Arthur McBee.’ His words whistle through his missing teeth.
Soren studies the ledger. ‘There’s nothing here. You didn’t work this week?’
‘I hurt my back.’ Arthur places his offering on the table. ‘But I made this basket with willows and inside are …’
Diggs leans over and snorts. ‘Pine cones? You want to pay your rent in pine cones?’
‘Th-these are spruce cones. Male species, but only the baby ones. When boiled in honey they can be a nice treat. Even makes a syrup. You can eat them, I swear – I just, I don’t have any honey to make it for you.’
‘If they’re edible then …’ Diggs raises his baby-faced chin, perpetually trying to make his short frame look taller. ‘You should eat one.’
Soren chuckles darkly next to him.
Arthur blinks. ‘But they have to be cooked first. Like I said –’
‘Eat. It,’ Soren says, voice dropping low.
My pulse pounds heavy in my ears as a tension fills the air. Soren’s only grown crueller in the time we’ve been apart. Arthur reluctantly nods and attempts to bite one of the green cones. He winces.
Both guardsmen dissolve into snickers.
My anger turns caustic as it simmers in my chest.
‘That’s what I thought,’ Diggs says, dumping the remaining spruce cones on the ground. ‘The basket will count for one unit, and that’s being generous. You still owe twenty-nine more to cover your debts for the week.’
Soren flips a page in the ledger. ‘One more week like this and you’ll be exiled. If I were you, I’d hand over that ring on your finger before it’s too late.’
Arthur covers it with his right hand. ‘I still have a week.’
Soren glares, then waves him off. ‘Next.’
It takes ages to get through the rest of the line, and just when I think they’re done, Soren points out something to Diggs on the ledger.
My heart drops. If a splinter could be a person, that’d be Diggs.
Tiny, annoying and infuriatingly successful at causing pain and getting under everyone’s skin.
He draws his wooden baton and storms off, weaving around the firepits and makeshift tables.
Who didn’t pay? With a curse under my breath, I stealthily skirt the circle of homes and stop when Diggs reaches a draughty, one-floor shack.
‘Collections,’ Diggs shouts, banging on the door. He barely waits before pushing inside.
‘Get out of my house,’ shouts a small, angry voice. Little John.
Diggs stumbles back as if pushed. Then an angry seven-year-old appears, swinging a small wooden sword. ‘Get away from my mama!’ With a loud crack, he clubs Diggs on the shin.
The guardsman yelps, then raises his baton.
I push into the open, but Brother Thomas appears out of nowhere and hauls me back behind a tree. ‘You can’t,’ he says, voice a harsh whisper.
Oh, but I can. Maybe I don’t care if it exposes me.
‘I’ll handle it. Stay here,’ he hisses and hurries off.
I half follow, but heads swivel in my direction, and I stop, grinding my jaw. I stand out like a torch, especially with my hood.
Clara flies out of the door and scoops up her enraged boy. ‘Stop, baby,’ she scolds.
Little John fights to be set down and wins, but Clara shoves him behind her. ‘I’ll pay soon,’ she says breathlessly to Diggs. ‘Just give me another couple days. I’ve been sick.’ Her legs are bare under her nightgown and seem to wobble as she clutches her stomach.
She has? Clara has always been quick to offer me a smile or some clever comment.
And I’ve had no choice but to discourage it, even to the point of being rude.
I’d love to be friends, but we can’t be.
It’s too dangerous in Atlas’s world. That hasn’t stopped me from keeping tabs on her, though, so I do know that she’s friends with Brother Thomas. Why hasn’t he helped her?
Diggs glares at the young mother. ‘You have to make a payment today.’ He shoves past her, entering her ramshackle home. Little John chases after him, but Clara snags her son by the arm.
‘Get out of our house,’ Little John screams after him.
Diggs reappears with a flat body-sized pillow. Likely their only mattress, a sack filled with feathers and rags. ‘I’ll take this. That’ll buy you two days.’
Clara moans. ‘Please, we need it to sleep.’
‘No.’ Arthur limps forward and removes his wedding band – the one he wouldn’t part with before. ‘This is Clara’s payment. Take it.’ Jaw clenched, he holds it out.
Diggs stares for a long time, as if disappointed he now needs to rescind his casual cruelty. ‘Lucky,’ he mumbles, dropping the mattress in the dirt. He opens his hand and accepts the ring.
But then he lunges at Little John and rips the wooden sword from the boy. ‘I’ll be taking this, too.’
Little John’s cry is quickly smothered by his mother’s arm. Diggs waits for a menacing second, begging for a reason to use his baton. Then, like a taunt, he tosses and catches Arthur’s ring as he walks away.
I have to run to get into position, drawing the attention of a couple of Dresden. A woman calls out, ‘Slow down. Where you going in such a hurry?’
I adjust my hood and make it to my spot among the trees with seconds to spare. The horse trailer filled with collections ambles up the road towards the compound. My lungs are on fire with breathlessness – or maybe that’s my anger still seething beneath my breastbone.
Diggs holds the burning sulphur-and-lime torch, his horse riding slightly ahead as Soren guides the mare pulling the trailer. They talk and joke loudly. Nice and distracted.
The earthy tang of grass fills my nose as I lower myself, lying flat.
Normally at this point, I’d be debating whether this is a stupid way to die.
But after watching Diggs tonight, I’ve never been more ready to go.
They pass by and I spring up, then mount the back of the trailer.
It dips with my weight, but the endless array of potholes in the road makes it less obvious.
Moving quickly, I drop canvas bags, baskets and boxes of food into the weeds lining the road.
In the darkness outside the ring of torchlight, the spoils easily disappear.
Briefly, I wonder where Diggs might have shoved Arthur’s ring – probably in his pocket. And I’m sure that shifty parasite won’t even turn it in.
My efforts slow as bare spots appear on the trailer floor. As quietly as possible, I slide a few items over to cover them. If I take more, they’ll notice when they get to the storehouse, and I can’t have them looking for any lost goods.
I’m careful not to jostle the trailer as I climb back over the edge and drop to the ground, rolling into the ditch.
The crickets fall silent. Something scurries through the long grass around my head and my eyes squeeze shut as I resist the urge to scream.
Agonising minutes pass before the trailer is a safe distance away.
Now begins the tedious part – finding my new treasures in the dark.