Skin Trade Read online

  “How long have you known?” I asked.

  “I knew the moment I laid eyes upon you,” Mr. Boudreaux said, his grinning face looming over me as Dominic held me to the ground. “You might fool the sleepy Americans, but you will never fool a Frenchman with that poor disguise. Cut your hair short and wear trousers all you want, I know a woman when I see one. Or, I should say, a girl. And a very pretty one too, isn’t she, Domi?”

  Dominic nodded enthusiastically.

  “What do you want from me?” I asked.

  “Everything,” Mr. Boudreaux said, his grin turning into a leer.

  I looked to the revenant tied to the wagon, remembering the lecture on the worth of a male pelt versus a female pelt. Especially certain parts of the female. “I won’t let you use me like that. I’ll kill myself first.”

  “Don’t worry, child. As I said, I have other plans for your skin. Back east, a female pelt is worth twice that of a male, true. But out here a live female is priceless. It’s quite forbidden to bring ladies across the border. And one so young? So fresh? So innocent? Your purity will fetch a price beyond measure.”

  I did my best not to laugh aloud in his face. Fresh? Innocent? He had no idea. “How lucky I must be to miss out on Pete’s fate. And here I thought you were a cruel man.”

  Mr. Boudreaux pursed his lips and considered me for a moment. “When you realize what is in store for you, you will beg me to infect you and take your skin instead.” He leaned in closer to add, “And I will say no. And you will suffer. Greatly. I assure you of that. Then we shall see how cruel I can be.”

  I sucked in as deep a breath as I could manage and spat into his face. “Go to hell.”

  Mr. Boudreaux took a handkerchief from his front pocket and wiped away my saliva. “Too late, child. Far too late for such a curse.” He flicked the hanky at Dominic. “Harness her, and bind her mouth too. Let her walk with the revenant. Strengthen her thighs a bit. She’ll need such strength before long.”

  Once I was gagged and tethered to the back of the wagon, we set off again to the sound of Mr. Boudreaux’s maniacal cackle and Dominic’s quiet chuckle.

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  Chapter Eight

  They tied me to the left side of the back of the wagon, and Pete’s infected corpse to the right. Each of us was given a length of lead to move about, but not much. As we marched behind the wagon, I watched the revenant, my old friend, stumble along. He seemed docile, obedient, and I couldn’t help but wonder if this was typical of the breed or if Mr. Boudreaux had stumbled upon a mutation that created passive revenants.

  A few hours into our travel gave me the answer I sought.

  It lay in the bit, the mouth harness with which they gagged the revenant. While mine was a soft leather strap tied about my face, the revenant’s possessed an extra component: a hunk of raw meat that kept his gnawing teeth well occupied. What kind of meat, or where they kept it all this time, I didn’t know, nor did I wish to know. I watched on as Dominic exchanged the chewed and mangled chunk for a fresh one before we headed off again. This meaty mass kept the revenant distracted enough, though I was still mortally afraid every time the revenant’s steps drew close to mine.

  We walked for hours, I marching alongside the revenant in total silence. The men pushed us hard, stopping only a few minutes each hour for me to catch a much-needed breath. I suppose I could’ve put up a better fight, could have tried to loosen and free myself, but even if I did, where would I run? Where would I go? I was three days’ journey into the heart of that most dreaded of places. Mr. Boudreaux wasted his tether upon me, for in reality, I was stuck following his wagon to wherever he would go. And in the end, the place to which he led me I couldn’t have imagined in my worst nightmares.

  Sometime in the late afternoon, as the sun arced lazily to the far side of the sky, we crested a large hill and came to a halt overlooking the valley below. The second we stopped moving, my trembling knees buckled and I sank to the ground for a blessed moment of respite. Mr. Boudreaux leapt off of the buckboard and made his way to the back of the wagon, where he stared down at me in amusement.

  “We have arrived,” he said. “If you promise to behave, I will let you ride the rest of the way. Are you going to behave?”

  I nodded, almost in tears with relief. After walking for nearly ten hours with only a few minutes’ break here and there, I was ready to do anything he asked. Mr. Boudreaux removed the gag, lifted me and placed me into the back of the wagon with a surprising gentleness. I hoped, maybe, he’d had second thoughts about his plans for me. That perhaps he wanted to keep me for himself rather than sell my tender wares upon the open market. It wasn’t exactly paradise, but it was far preferable to the alternative.

  As the wagon moved into the valley below, I realized my mistake. My newly seated position wasn’t an act of mercy; it was so I could better appreciate the scene as it unfolded before me, without the distraction of concentrating on my aching steps. Mr. Boudreaux, in his immeasurable arrogance, had released my gag merely to appraise my reaction. He wanted to know what I thought of his home. But his home was not a home at all. It was better described as a ranch.

  A revenant ranch, to be specific.

  A large and beautiful house sat in the foreground, surrounded by a double layer of fences constructed of tight links of chain and topped by great coils of barbed wire. Between the fences, within a narrow band of dirt, crawled at least twenty or so of the most pitiful creatures I had ever seen. A sentry of undead guards. To my surprise, the corpses weren’t those of workhouse lads. They represented a wide range of ages, from teens to adults, a variety of sexes, and a diversity of ethnic backgrounds—some Negroes, some Caucasians, and even an Oriental or two. But most of them were Indians, which made sense, considering the infection started in their tribes.

  Aside from my undead friend tethered to the wagon, this was my first real glimpse of the undead menace. Boudreaux was correct about their smell too. The beasts gave off a distinct musky scent, like a cheese well past its prime. Not the putrid flesh I expected. And I should know, because we passed right in their midst. A narrow gated channel between the fences allowed us access to the house.

  We paused just after entering so the manservant could secure the gate, locking us inside this strange compound. The moment we pulled between the fences, the revenants rushed toward us, rising to their knees, arms outstretched for an attack. Pete’s corpse snarled at the revenants nearest him as if they could pry his prize from his gnawing teeth. I instinctively scooted to the middle of the wagon, shrieking in protest, but Mr. Boudreaux assured me they were harmless.

  “They have been neutered of all danger, as you can see,” he explained.

  As we passed through, I took a closer, calmer look. While the revenants held aloft their arms, each one ended at the wrist in a blackened stump with which they pawed at the metal fencing. In addition to this gruesome sight, a large section of their faces were gone as well; some were scooped clean away from nose to neck, while others were missing just their lower jaws and upper teeth. While they moaned for my flesh, there was little they could do to obtain it with no teeth or hands.

  “That is ghastly,” I said.

  “But much needed,” he said. “And they are all hobbled as well. Broken kneecaps and shattered femurs render them barely able to move about.”

  “Why bother?”

  “Because if they possessed their full capacity to run, they would inflict a fair amount of damage on anyone unfortunate enough to get in their way. Even without mouths or hands.”

  “No, I mean why keep them like this? I thought you tended and cared for your pelts.” I looked back to the revenants now behind us. “This isn’t caretaking. This is barbarism.”

  “I do care for them. I feed them and make sure they do not set too far into rot. But you mistake their purpose. They aren’t here for their pelts. They are simply … how do you say? A masquerade?”

 
; “A what?”

  Mr. Boudreaux nodded to the fenced-in revenants. “They are a shield against the revenants. We are surrounded by the infected, so other infected pass us by. N’est-ce pas?”

  I had to admit it was a sick but clever solution to a complex problem. Not a solution I could see applied on a large scale, nor one I could employ myself, but clever nonetheless. “If they are just a mask, then who provides your pelts?”

  Mr. Boudreaux nudged Dominic, who spurred the goats around the back of the house. There, spread between the borders of the fences, lay a wide and fallow field. Fallow, that was, of any living crop. For across the pasture, bound by hand and foot to wooden platforms in the style of the ancient Roman crucifixion, were more of the undead. They lined the earth in neatly planted rows, spread eagle and hanging on their individual wooden crosses like some kind of blasphemous Calvary. These undead appeared cleaner, less soiled, as if someone did in fact take care of them. Their clothes—those all-too-familiar dark blue coveralls of the workhouse uniform—weren’t as worn and torn as those of the fenced revenants, and above all, the bodies of the bound revenants were, for the most part, whole and unmarred. Perfect blossoms of death. A well-tended undead crop.

  The closer we drew to the crosses, the more each revenant writhed against his bindings, struggling to get free and feast upon the newly arrived meal. Our proximity alerted me to another sad fact: I was staring into the dead eyes of very young men. Boys, if you will, that couldn’t have been much older than I when each one passed away. More than a few had yet to see their teens.

  “They need moisturizing,” Mr. Boudreaux said. “I’m afraid their exposure to the constant heat has left them a bit drier than I would’ve liked. Especially the Negroes. See how wrinkled and ashy their skin gets? It just sucks up the heat. A few rains would have been nice. Rain is good for the skin, you know. Keeps it supple.”

  “How can you speak like that?” I asked. “These boys are suffering, and you talk about them like they are things.”

  “Livestock,” he corrected me. “And as any respectable farmer, I care for my animals as though they were my children.”

  “You’re sick.”

  “Do you desire to wear the gag again? Because I am only too glad to comply with your wishes, mademoiselle.”

  There was so much more I wanted to say, but I learned years ago that silence was indeed golden, for it was hard to beg for mercy if you were gagged. Not to mention that my jaw ached at the thought of having the leather thong shoved between my cracked and dried lips again. I shook my head and fell ashamedly quiet, biting my tongue and biding my time.

  “Good girl,” he said, patting me on the head. “Let’s get settled in, shall we?”

  Dominic prompted the goats into a modest barn adjacent to the house proper. There we disembarked, and I promised cooperation and obedience in exchange for full freedom from my bonds. I was instructed to wait at the wagon while the manservant searched the house for wandering undead and Mr. Boudreaux searched the barn. Once the men considered the place secure, I assisted Dominic with the goats and wagon, and Mr. Boudreaux led Pete into a small pen at the back of the barn. With everything squared away for now, we all retired to the house. I had no idea what was to happen next. My mind reeled with all manner of terrible plans and horrible deeds.

  To my surprise, Mr. Boudreaux was an almost pleasant host. Rather than fulfill my fear of locking me in a darkened cellar, he gave me a small tour of the house before the three of us sat down to a supper prepared by his ever-vigilant manservant.

  “What do you think of my home?” Mr. Boudreaux asked.

  I looked to my half-eaten meal, feigning disinterest in him.

  “I found it abandoned years ago,” he continued. “I like to think of it as mine now, but I wonder if the owners will ever return. Or if maybe they are out there in the fence.”

  I kept my eyes on my plate, refusing him a reply. Bullying me into a life of sexual servitude was one thing, but I would be damned before I would be bullied into hollow banter.

  “You may be as silent as you like,” he said. “Troubles me not. After all, I am used to doing all the talking in this house.” Mr. Boudreaux nodded to his manservant, who snickered in return.

  Curiosity got the best of me, so I lifted my eyes and asked, “Why can’t he speak for himself?”

  “Domi’s silence is the result of a strong illness.”

  This intrigued me. “You mean he survived the infection?”

  “Nothing so dramatic. A simple snakebite is all. His tongue swelled three sizes too large for his mouth. I had to cut it out to keep him from choking to death on it.”

  I cast a glance Dominic’s way to find the manservant wagging what was left of his stumpy tongue at me. The sight nauseated me, and I pushed my plate away, unable to finish the rest of my meal.

  “You see, I am not as harsh as I seem,” Mr. Boudreaux said. “I can be compassionate when the mood takes me.”

  “Compassionate?” I asked. “You call infecting those boys and leaving them out there to rot compassion?”

  “No, I call that work.”

  I tittered with a nervous and irritated giggle. “Why make it work when it could be so much easier? If you’re just going to skin them anyway, why mess with the trouble of infection? Why not just slaughter and skin them outright?”

  “Because revenant pelts are unusual. They bear striking differences from normal leather, such as the scarring of infection and discoloration. Things that are easy to identify and very hard to reproduce.” Mr. Boudreaux grinned. “Though not for lack of trying, I assure you.”

  My already roiling stomach twisted at his insinuation. “May I be excused?”

  “But of course.”

  Mr. Boudreaux escorted me from the dining room, taking me by the arm and leading me to a small bedroom on the second floor. A room decorated with very feminine tastes.

  “This was the previous owner’s room,” he explained as he pointed out the various feminine things. “I do not know who she was, but all of this was left behind when I commandeered the house for my work. Make yourself comfortable. Feel free to avail yourself of any of the clothing or toiletries you like. I’m sure you would love to get out of those boyish clothes.” He ran a hand down my back, sending a wave of gooseflesh across my skin.

  Here it comes, I thought. This is where he takes what is due. What he thinks belongs to him. But no. I sat on the bed, tensing all over as I awaited his rough touch, yet he moved away and backed out of the room, leaving me alone.

  “I will have Domi bring up some warm water,” he said as he paused in the doorway. “So you can have a bath, ma cheri. Anything else you require?”

  “Is this part of your so-called compassion?” I asked.

  “This is proper manners, child. I’m sorry you can’t tell the difference.”

  “You don’t fool me.”

  “Pardonnez-moi?”

  “You know what I mean. This whole charming act. If you think I will welcome you into my bed just because you showed me kindness for a few hours, then you have another think coming. I will not be taken easily. I will fight you. You’ll have to sedate me to get near me without losing your manhood in the process.”

  “Ma cherie, don’t flatter yourself. I assure you I have no intention of any such thing. You are but business for me. And I never ever mix business with pleasure.”

  “Is that so? And pray tell me, what does a man who kidnaps children and turns them into revenants do for pleasure?”

  He huffed, frustrated by my attitude. “If you must know, I do not ache for attention, physical or otherwise. I can get any woman I desire in the safe zone or the borderlands or even here in the Mauvaises Terres. I do not have to stoop to raping a child for satisfaction. But rest assured, there are many, many others who will gladly pay for such a chance.”

  “You disgust me. How do you sleep at night with so much on your conscience?”

  “On great piles of money, my dear. Great big piles o
f money. Get some beauty sleep and fret not about my wild and wanton ways. And don’t worry your pretty head about Dominic either. His tastes stray far from young runaways. Or females, for that matter.”

  This said, he closed the door and left me to stew in my anger.

  I placed a wooden chair under the handle to stop any attempt at unwelcome entry. When Dominic came later, I instructed him to leave everything by the door and go away. He did so, and after his footsteps faded, I snatched the water before barring the door again, helping myself to a brief but blessed lukewarm bath. Once clean, I sat back on the bed and did something that I hadn’t done for a long time.

  I wept.

  I hung my head, covered my face and wept. I wept for so many reasons. Partly out of exhaustion, and partly out of fear. I wept for poor Peter’s death. For all the suffering young men tied down and undead in the back yard. For my lot in life. For everything. For nothing. I wept and wept and wept until I had no tears left to spend.

  That night, I fell into a fitful sleep, rolling about in a constant state of half-awareness, expecting either master or manservant to break down the door and break their word as they broke me in. What little sleep I managed to muster overflowed with disturbing dreams of undead boys pursuing me over the open countryside, with Pete at the helm, accusing me of letting him die. Accusing me of killing him.

  His dream specter named me as his murderer.

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  Chapter Nine