"Graham? I am back."
Graham sat up from his half-sleep. He looked around, wondering what had been real and what had been a nightmare. He saw the apartment where he was trapped. He saw the bullet-riddled wooden wall on the north side of the room letting in little shafts of streetlight through each hole. He saw the broken window, boarded up so he couldn't escape through it. He saw the wooden table in the corner, stocked with valuables looted from town. In the corner was his bed. No, he thought. It's not mine. I'm just an accessory to it.
The door unlocked and swung noisily open, and Graham's enemy walked in. She removed the hair tie from her meter-long ponytail and let her shiny pink mane drop in a shroud behind her. She saw Graham and smiled. "Ah, you're a welcome sight."
At the sound of her voice, Graham remembered what she had done to him, and panic screamed in the back of his mind. He pushed it down and gathered himself. "Mixer," he said coldly.
Mixer wiped her brow. "Don't take that tone with me. I've treated you fairly. Now what have you gotten done?"
Swallowing his hate, Graham pointed to a pair of plastic trays full of fresh salvage from a ruined building. It had been given to him that morning, and he had spent all day sorting it.
Mixer examined his handiwork and nodded approvingly. "I see you've been busy."
"I could either do that, or just sit here." And he couldn't be idle. He had to keep his mind away from the horrors of the last few days. He could still remember Susan's expression of terror as the Mauves dragged him away from her. He could still feel a hundred hands muscling him into a warehouse with the other men. He shook his head, trying to drive it all out.
Mixer sat down on the bed and lazily began shucking off her armor, revealing patches of sweat underneath. When she finished, she had nothing on but a tattered red shirt and jeans that looked like they had not been washed in weeks. She looked at Graham with half-open eyes.
Graham's throat tightened. He knew that look. Mixer was about to force herself on him. It wouldn't be the first time. "Where have you been?" he asked, to distract her.
"At the feast," said Mixer casually. "Salt has succeeded Mauve, and the transition seems to have gone smoothly. No one can deny that it's her name in Mauve's secret will. I heard Misty saying that the will was faked, but that's what they said back when Mauve took over from old Blackbones. Really, it makes sense. Mauve had many favorites, and Salt might not have been the best warrior among them, but she will be the best leader, and I think we all know it." Mixer picked up one of her armor pieces and picked absently at a scratch in its surface. "Every sarge I speak to tells me that the hardest time of her life is immediately after she's promoted. And now I have to go through that just as power changes hands. I'll manage, though. Salt is a good woman."
"Now that you have new leadership, will anything change?" asked Graham. Will you stop taking our children? Will you let us have our homes back? Will you let me out of this room?
"Not likely," said Mixer. "Mauve was a strong leader. She led us to victory. Salt has an easy path because of all the new recruits Mauve won for us. If only she doesn't squander it, we'll prosper."
"Recruits? You mean slaves."
Mixer stood up, suddenly animated. "They are not slaves! New girls serve us just as we served our mothers before us. And if they do well, they win the right to replace us. We give recruits exactly the same opportunities as we give to our daughters. Our own children!"
"That's how you justify taking our children away? Tearing my family apart?"
"Enough!" The punch of her voice sent a bolt of lightning down Graham's spine. "We won't mention this again."
I've got nothing to lose, Graham reminded himself. "What have you done with my son, Morgan? I deserve to know."
Mixer's anger paled beneath a sudden spark of interest. "You have a son? How old is he now?"
"Seventeen."
"Ah, perfect. Young men give the healthiest babies. No doubt, he's husband to one of our greatest new heroes."
It would have been better if she had shoved a hot poker into his stomach. "Why?" he demanded. "Why do you do this? There has to be a better way to have children."
She grew a twisted smile. "You think I want you just for the children? You're rare, Graham. You're a treasure. You're my reward for all that I had to do to get here. I can have you, and common warriors can't." She sidled up close to him again, the husky intensity creeping back into her voice. "And that's what makes you so delicious."
"Then you don't want me. You want the status."
"Graham, you are status! Don't you see? For as long as I have you, I am above those peasants! I am proven! I've made it!"
The door rattled. "Ma'am!" said one of the omnipresent door guards. "Your presence is requested."
Mixer twitched with frustration. "I'll see you soon," she said. Before Graham could stop her, she grabbed him by the shoulders and kissed him. Without another word, she turned and slithered out the door.
Graham leaned back against the wall, heart thumping painfully in his chest. He had been raped twice before, and each time, it had only lasted moments. But the feeling of hollowness, of sudden vulnerability, the implacable sense that something important had been taken from him, would never go away. He imagined the same happening to Morgan, and his stomach lurched. He pawed around the room, searching for a safe place to vomit before his midsection contracted painfully, and he collapsed. For a minute, he lay sprawled on the floor, weathering one spasm of his stomach after another, feeling as if a ghostly hand were strumming a guitar string inside him.
Finally, he regained himself and sat up, poisonous thoughts trickling through him. Someday soon, the Mauves would be defeated. Graham didn't know how or by whom, but he had convinced himself the day would come. But what happens then? By that time, Mixer will probably be pregnant. What do we do with her? With the child? He shivered. What will Susie think?
He hugged the table leg, trying to think of something comforting, but horror had infected his mind. Everything was twisted.
Then he saw something in one of the bullet holes in the wall. It looked like a cigarette, a big fat one like what his uncle had used to smoke. It hadn't been there before. With a wary glance at the door, he seized the tube of paper and unrolled it. It was a note.
'Mister Senitiki,' it read, 'you ar not alone. The Moves and the CSF ar. We live under their nozes. Tell us evry thing you no, and we will keep you updated.'
The letter shook in Graham's hands. The rush of danger washed over him, thrilling instead of oppressive, and he scrambled for a pencil. Finding one, he quickly scrawled on the back:
'Mauve is dead and replaced by someone called Salt. Mauves are turning our girls into soldiers. Men and boys were abducted by Mauve leaders. I never see anyone except my keeper. They take me out twice a day for bathroom, never else.'
Graham wanted to write more. He wanted to give a full account of how he had been nearly shot in the fight, how he had been dragged into the windowless warehouse where had had nearly suffocated in the hot, stale air. He wanted to recount how he and the other men had been lined up and forced to stand still as they were hawked like trinkets at an auction, parceled out to newly promoted Mauve sarges. But there was not enough room. Instead, he wrote down four simple words and underlined them twice.
'FIND MORGAN. FIND SUSAN.'
Carefully, he coiled the note back up and stuck it where he had found it. His heart still buzzed. "They're alive," he said to himself, not entirely sure whom he was talking about. "Someone's still alive. I'm not alone."
He fell back against the wall, repeating tohimself, "Someone's still alive."
