Skin Trade Read online

  I started, surprised by this news. “We’re going into the Badlands?”

  Mr. Boudreaux smiled that wicked know-it-all grin. “But of course. We go where our quarry roams. Sleep tight, mes amis. For tomorrow is a good day to die. No?” He closed the door behind him, the click echoing ominously across the now-quiet room.

  I plunked onto the bed beside Pete, who had already succumbed to his buckling knees. There we sat, staring at the space where Mr. Boudreaux stood a moment before, the pair of us silent for what seemed a very long time.

  “The Badlands,” I whispered at length. “Why would we go into the Badlands?”

  “Because that’s where our quarry roams,” Pete said.

  “Why would he drag us out there? Nothing but death is out there.”

  Pete looked to me and repeated, in a flat voice, “Because that’s where our quarry roams.”

  “What quarry? What kind of pelt is worth risking your life against those things out there? What kind of skins could he possibly be after … that … he …” I didn’t finish my own question, because as I spoke the words, I knew. I saw it on Pete’s excited face. I could read it in his eyes teeming with fear and anticipation. I could sense it in my own stupid question. I repressed a girlish gasp. “No! No, no, no. You have to be joking.”

  Pete shook his head. He wasn’t joking.

  The quarry was the revenants themselves.

  ****

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  ****

  Chapter Four

  Laughing aloud, Pete smacked his forehead with the heel of one hand. “Wow. I can’t believe he works the skin trade.”

  “The skin trade?” I asked.

  “You’ve never heard of it?”

  “Not really.”

  Pete narrowed his eyes at me. “What kind a’ sheltered life you been living?”

  I bristled at his accusation, recalling similar words Mrs. Fathom said before I finally escaped. Face it, child, you’re far too sheltered to live any life but this one. This is your destiny. This is your fate.

  “Just tell me what the skin trade is,” I snapped.

  Cool as a cucumber sandwich, Pete shrugged and said, “Trapping and skinning and curing revenant hides, of course.”

  “You can’t be serious.” Bile rose into my throat at the mere suggestion of such a terrible deed.

  “I’m as serious as sin. Revenant leather is real big back east. You sure you ain’t heard of it?”

  “Well … yeah. I thought it was, I don’t know, a fable or something. Something the merchants just said to gouge folks for extra money. But skinning revenants for real? Why on earth would anyone want to do such a thing?”

  “You said it yourself. Money. The reason Mr. Boudreaux looks rich is because he probably is. There’s a lot of call for revenant pelts. People back east go crazy for them. Hundreds of dollars they’ll pay for just a few inches of the stuff. The skin trade is big money and big business.”

  My old bunkmate Betsy claimed that one of her regulars had given her a clutch made from revenant leather, and I called her a liar. Mind you, Betsy was given to fanciful tales, so you can’t blame me for not believing her. The clutch didn’t look especially human, or revenant. I just assumed it was made from rawhide and she was putting on a show to be special. I reckoned I owed Betsy an apology for calling her a liar to her face.

  Aside from the obvious revulsion I felt, both about being so mean to Betsy and the knowledge that revenant pelts were in fact a real thing, the particulars still didn’t add up. The border along the infected front was under constant quarantine, patrolled by well-placed guards and, in some cases, whole troops of the U.S. Army. The kind of folks who dared to slip across the border were those of a criminal mind. Murderers, thieves and their ilk, seeking to escape the gallows by trading one death sentence for another.

  “I thought only outlaws went west,” I said.

  “Sure, the west is filled with outlaws,” Pete assured me. “Well, those and the exiles.”

  The exiles. Ah, yes. I had all but forgotten about them. It was a touchy subject for the American people, this barbaric practice of forceful expulsion. Not everyone agreed with it, yet it found its way into widespread use. Most states found it easier to banish repeat offenders rather than deal with the expense of prisoner upkeep. Times were hard enough for law-abiding citizens without having to worry about how to feed the mouths of common criminals.

  “How will we cross the border if it’s against the law?” I asked.

  “It’s not against any law to cross the border,” Pete said.

  “It’s not?”

  “Heck no. The trouble is in coming back. It’s against the law to cross west to east, you see. You can go west; you just can’t come back. Unless you got a hunting permit. My dad tried to get on the skin-trade route for years, but they wouldn’t let him, because he had too much family depending on him at home. The government doesn’t let just anyone work in the trade. Officially, I mean.”

  It might have sounded a casual remark, but the depth of what Pete was saying slammed against my very being. “That’s why your folks came out to the borderlands in the first place. Wasn’t it? Your daddy wanted to get into the skin trade that badly.”

  Pete nodded but looked away, unable to face me with the truth. “There is so much money in it, Sam. So much money. Money we needed. Money we didn’t have, just there for the taking.” Pete swallowed hard, holding his sorrow in check. “He used to go into the hot zones and trap and hunt for them. And he was good at it too. Real good. But he could never figure out the tanning compound. If you don’t tan a revenant hide just right, it’s useless as leather. And worse than that, it carries the infection back home.”

  And again, the subtle choice of his words carried more meaning than he would dare to say aloud. This must’ve been how his dad died. He brought the infection home on a poorly tanned revenant pelt. I was left to wonder how much of his large family succumbed to the illness before they realized what was happening to them. Catching the infection was just short of a death sentence, with almost imperceptible odds of surviving the terrible symptoms brought on by the ensuing illness. (I had never heard of anyone actually fighting the infection enough to live.) And anyone who died as a direct result of the infection, which was pretty much everyone who suffered it, came back as a revenant.

  “Oh, Pete,” I said. “I’m … I’m so sorry.”

  Pete shrugged again, as if this awful truth meant nothing at all. “It’s a trade secret, you see. Only those with a permit learn the secret. And they’ll take it to the grave before they share it with anyone else.”

  We fell silent again for a few minutes. I stared down at our feet—his shoes so large compared to my feminine instep—and pondered his words and his sorrow, as well as his need for closure.

  “Pete?” I asked.

  “Yeah?” he asked.

  “You still want to do this. Don’t you?”

  “I think I have to. For my dad. Don’t you?”

  “Yeah, I think you sort of have to as well. I suppose it’s your duty.”

  “No, I meant you still want to too. Don’t you?”

  “I guess so. Yeah. Where else will I go?” And aye, there was my rub. As gruesome as it was, I needed this job. I couldn’t go back to the workhouse. Wouldn’t go back to my old life. I had nowhere else to turn. I was but a grain of sand in this hourglass of events. All I could do was tumble along and hope for the best. “It’ll be dangerous.”

  “I know.”

  “You heard the innkeeper. Boudreaux goes through new apprentices like water.”

  “I understand why now.”

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “Sam?”

  “Yeah, Pete?”

  “You said doody.”

  There was a pause between us before we devolved into a pair of sniggering idiots. A soft knock arose from the door, snatching away our laughter and bringing both of us to our feet. For a flash, I hoped it was Blevins, come to
apologize for sending us away so rashly and offering to take us back to the workhouse. But no, it was a porter with our meal. Pete dug in, hungry as always. As for me, while the meat was tender and the accompanying side dishes lovely, the food fell to ash in my mouth. There was no pleasure to be had in it, for my meal carried the suspicious feeling of the last supper of a condemned man.

  Or in my case, condemned girl.

  Mr. Boudreaux woke us bright and early the next morn, and I was surprised that I had been able to sleep at all. I recall going to bed with the worry of the next day’s tribulations, but the comfort of the bed combined with the absence of a full day’s work and the relative silence of the inn made for the most restful evening I’d had in a long time. Pete spent half the night chattering about how excited he was to follow his father’s dream and awoke with a roar, full of vim and vigor at this new turn of events. I had not the nerve to tell him how macabre I thought the whole thing.

  After a large breakfast, we took to the road again at first light, pressing hard to the Badlands’ border twenty miles from Stanley. Our mode of transportation changed a great deal from the previous day. Instead of the swift-moving carriage, we trundled along in a wagon drawn by a pair of huge and frightening goats. (I swear each bordered on the size of a mule!) Pete and I were thrust unceremoniously in the back, while Mr. Boudreaux and his manservant rode the buckboard front seat. The wagon was loaded down with several weeks’ worth of rations and other supplies, plus a plethora of what I assumed to be tools of the trapping trade. All things I expected to learn more about in the near future.

  Our taskmaster’s mode of dress changed as well. Gone was the white silk suit, replaced by a pair of sensible breeches and button-down shirt. Working clothes for a working man. On each hip sat a holstered pistol, with the rest of the leather belt weighed down with extra ammunition. Dominic was armed as well, sporting a good-sized rifle alongside him in the front of the wagon. I wondered if we would get our own firearms in due course, or if Pete and I were to rely upon our host for defense.

  Travel was painfully slow. With the goats straining to pull the weight of the wagon, it took almost four hours to reach the outskirts of the hot zone, and another full hour to crawl along to the Badlands’ border. Pete and I both offered to get out and walk to lighten the load, but Mr. Boudreaux said our time for walking would come soon enough and we should enjoy the rest we were afforded. As we trundled along, I peered over the lip of the front seat, watching the lazy steps of the goats and contemplating why on earth we forwent the fast-moving horses in favor of these sluggish beasts of burden.

  “I see you are eyeing Daisy and Maxwell,” Mr. Boudreaux said.

  I shrank back, embarrassed at being caught in the act of staring. “Sorry. I’ve just never seen such huge goats.”

  “I’m not surprised. You’re unlikely to see such an animal in the safe zones. These goats are special, bred exclusively for our work. Unlike mouthy apprentices, they are priceless.”

  “I must admit, they are impressive.”

  “That they are. The assets of a good goat far outweigh those of any other pack animal.”

  I furrowed my brow at him. “The speed of a horse isn’t an asset?”

  “Horses are fast, yes,” Mr. Boudreaux said. “But also of a nervous disposition. The presence of the undead exacerbates this. Makes them anxious. Restless. If you are surprised by a horde of revenants while you are on a horse, you will end up with your back broken when the nag throws you and runs away. And she will. Every single time.”

  “Which leaves you at the mercy of the undead,” I said, coming to a full understanding.

  “There is no mercy from them. Only death, my small friend. Only death.”

  “I take it these specially bred goats are braver than horses.”

  “Yes, but it is more than that. Revenants have little interest in animals aside from man, but goats in particular seem invisible to them. I suspect it has something to do with the smell.”

  “Goats don’t mind the undead smell, you mean?”

  “That and a road-weary goat is ten times as pungent as a revenant.”

  “How can a goat smell worse than a walking, rotting corpse?”

  “Easy. The undead do not stink as much. And what surprises me is that, for a lad who works so close to the border, you’re painfully ignorant of the way of things.”

  “Sam’s a bit sheltered,” Pete said, poking me in the side with a meaty finger.

  “I am not,” I insisted. “I just didn’t care to hear about the undead before all of this. That’s all.” The truth of the matter was quite different. While I was sure Pete had heard the tales before—from his dad and other sources—under Mrs. Fathom’s employ, such topics of discussion were not only discouraged, they were forbidden. The information I gained about the undead menace was all just hearsay and gossip, rumors brought to my bedchamber by clients who had other things on their minds than discussing the disgusting undead. In short, I knew nothing of the revenants, aside from their mere existence.

  “And now?” Mr. Boudreaux asked. “Do you wish to hear about these animals?”

  I was surprised by his cruel description of those poor suffering folks. “Animals? Surely you don’t think of these unfortunate people as-”

  “People?” Mr. Boudreaux asked over me. “Who’s talking about people? I speak of the beasts that roam the open hills, tearing and slashing and shredding anyone in their path. The animals that will chew the very cry from a man’s throat while he screams for mercy. Those that will rip an unborn babe from the belly of a mother, then consume it before her dying eyes. The same animals that feast on their own dead and fallen just as readily as they do the living. Are these people I speak of? Do they have an ounce of humanity left? No. I think not.”

  There was nothing I could say to that. I swallowed hard to hide my fright and embarrassment.

  “Mon ami,” Mr. Boudreaux said, “the first thing you will come to understand about these vermin is that they are no better than animals. Slavering, vile beasts that will stop at nothing until you and everyone you love are dead, or worse, like them. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said.

  “They may have been men once. Once, but no more. They stopped being human the instant they caught the illness. Many of them revert to the state of a pure animal while still in their sickbeds. Crawling around on all fours. Baying at the moon. Snapping and snarling for human flesh, all before the illness even has a chance to take their lives.”

  “I had no idea,” I said softly.

  “He’s right,” Pete said. “They are just like wild animals. In fact, a revenant will often come at you on his hands and knees.”

  “They are also unnaturally quick,” Mr. Boudreaux added. “I’ve seen a pack of the things take down a horse at full gallop, just to get at the rider.”

  “And they can climb too,” Pete said. “Ladders, trees, anything you can scuttle up, they can follow.”

  I tried to repress a shudder, but failed. “Then how do you protect yourself?”

  “Easy. You pray often, and you bring along a friend.” Mr. Boudreaux threw an arm around Dominic, pulling the manservant closer to him. “Isn’t that right, Domi? We watch each other, oui?”

  Dominic nodded his agreement.

  “A partner helps you keep a steady watch,” Mr. Boudreaux said. “Here near the border, we can take it easy, but once we reach the Badlands, we will be on constant guard. Any other questions, my curious friend?”

  I could tell he was mocking me, but I reckoned now was as good a chance as any to get as much information about our prey as I could. “I just don’t understand how you can skin a revenant.”

  “You skin them like you would any other animal. Granted, it is hard work, but it must be done.”

  “No, what I mean is, I don’t understood how there is any usable skin at all. I would think after a few days or weeks or what have you, the corpse would just rot away.”

  “Ah, but of cour
se. You are thinking logically. You must stop that while out here. All logic is challenged in this place. Facts are turned to fictions. Lies become truths. In Mauvaises Terres, things are never what they seem.”

  I nodded but kept my attention on him, waiting for more.

  Boudreaux sighed, made weary by my vexing curiosity. “I do not claim to understand the complexity of it. There is something about the infection that dampens the corpse’s decomposition. After all, how can the illness employ the body if the body falls apart from decay?”

  “So they don’t rot at all?”

  “No, they rot, just very slowly. And it is only from the inside that they do so.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I mean aside from the sun and wind and rain, there are few outside influences on their decay. Normally, death attracts a spectrum of helpful beasties, but the revenants seem to all but repulse these same forces. Vultures spurn the infected bodies outright. Flies will not settle on their flesh. Ants decline to make homes of their bones. The wild animals refuse to make a meal of a rev when it falls truly dead at last. It seems that every aspect of nature knows the danger of the infection and avoids it. Every aspect, that is, save for man. Which leaves one to wonder if we humans are as clever as we have been lead to believe. Oui?”

  This also served to explain why there were still so many revenants wandering the Badlands nearly fifteen years after the Great Uprising. Rather than corpses picked clean by animals and insects, the infected bodies roamed without natural predators and with the added benefit of a sluggish decomposition rate.

  Mr. Boudreaux then went on to explain a brief history of his trade. It seemed the first of the trapping permits were, in fact, hunting permits paying top dollar for each revenant killed. Hunters did what came naturally in their work, dragging back bits and bobs as proof of the number of undead they slew. These bounties were destroyed as soon as they reached the border, for obvious reasons. Before long, some clever trapper developed a process of curing the hides in a manner that removed the infection and thus made the skin useable. This evolved, as most things do, out of greed and public demand, into the full-blown skin trade.