It's dark. He slowly rises in a daze. His blurred vision isn't helped by one locked eye. Beneath the cold steel floor is a rhythmic thumping. Train tracks?
He rubs his good eye and it adjusts. His good ear catches it first. He's in a metal box filled with crying boys. They're all children his age or younger, not many are injured but some are worse off than he is.
Breathing, moving, thinking; all painful. Billy thinks back to history and the second World War. Suddenly he's filled with panic. The train leads nowhere good. Time to think.
One crack of light in the roof, a sliding door, likely bolted, little room to maneuver. One steel door on the far wall, likely the next train car.
"Evvrone ohhkey?" Intense pain. Talking is a bad idea right now. Maybe get one word right? No, he can't say it. He's in a steel box with children in it. Who knows what might happen if struck by lightning? Too dangerous.
"You okay, kid?"
He snaps to his right, "Is oo?"
The same kid from the dean's the other day, only a few scrapes on him, "Name's Lester, you're that kid from school right? You look messed up, man. He break your jaw or somethin'?"
Billy nods. Words are becoming something to fear.
Lester leans in, "I don't know $#!& about doctor stuff, but that looks bad. Can I pop it back in or somethin'?"
Billy takes a big step back as his eye goes wide.
"Bad idea? Nevermind."
Billy sees only one way out: up.
In the next car over, Banjo enjoys a delicious beverage and a huge sandwich when his phone vibrates.
"Banjo singin'."
"Evening Mr. Banjo."
He chokes a moment and spits his food out, "-Minerva!"
"Try again, darling."
"Sorry, Ms. Minerva."
"Better. Train on schedule?"
"Yep."
"How many should we expect in this batch?"
"Twenty-seven, ma'am."
"What? You couldn't even harvest thirty? What are you, some amateur? Last month alone you brought a healthy stock, sixty strong! Many of them have graduated up river already. I need more soldiers!"
"Next shipment will-" the line dies.
He calmly places his phone in his pocket, takes a deep breath, and faces a wall. He drives his fist into the metal and his wrist sprains.
Two bald soldiers in full black, neither older than twenty, stand stiff behind the bar. He turns to the nearest.
"You. You're tough?"
"Yes, sir."
"Strong are ya?"
"Yes, sir."
"Devoted to the cause as well?"
"Yes, sir!"
"Wanna test yourself?"
"Yes sir."
He plants his feet and sends his injured fist through his disciple's nose, twisting it to the side. His head knocks back and blood pours into a glass, Banjo promptly fills this glass with whiskey.
He pats the boy's shoulder, "Drink up."
The other soldier chimes, "Sure, I'd like to test myself as well."
"Either that or you're just thirsty, huh?"
He starts chuckling. Slowly the boys join in. After a merry moment, Banjo snatches the drink and shatters it against his head.
He drops but doesn't make a sound. When he returns to his feet, Banjo places a large bottle of whiskey between them, "You guys are alright."
Billy yanks at his shirt. Sporadic grunts and shallow gasps mark his lack of progress.
He hears a shirt shredding next to him, "Lucky I wear layers kid. Take it."
"Ank oo," he takes the strip of cloth and tightly wraps around his jaw and top of his head.
Lester plops down beside him, "You think we're gonna be sold? Like a slavery thing? Or maybe they're gonna drop us into the forest and tell us to fight. Maybe they are gonna use us for organs?"
Maybe it doesn't matter why they're here, just how they get out.
Billy taps Lester's shoulder and points up to the vent. He smiles and looks around, "Who isn't too injured?"
A dozen hands shoot up. The group of boys lift Billy ten feet and he grabs tight the vent. He punches and slams and tries to pry the lid, loud grunts all the way. His exacerbated cries must've been heard.
The thick steel door swings open to reveal Banjo and his goons, all holding machine guns except Banjo holding a shotgun, "Y'all boys actin' up, now?"
He steps in and most of the older ones seem to have the thought to swarm him. He cocks his weapon and points it to Billy, dangling from the vent, "Drop or get dropped!"
He tries to swing and kick but Banjo just grabs his ankle and yanks him to the ground. He rests the barrel on his forehead.
"Y'all listen good, now. Ya ain't shackled cause we want ya minglin' and ya ain't prisoners! You're workers! Soldiers! Ya ain't boys no more, you're men! Ain't no way off this train without my say so! Y'all wanna rebel? Get violent? I get violent and you get punished. I appreciate the strong will to carry on with your old lives, but it's over! Move on, new era. Y'all are gonna save this nation, damnit! Y'all are family now. Deal. I'll see ya in the mornin'."
With that, they leave. There's a long silence. A young boy says, "We're soldiers?"
Lester shouts, "We're men!"
A third of them cheer. Billy can't believe these idiots. One threatening speech and they believe every hateful word? None of them miss their family? None of them hate that asshole? Hopefully, they're just scared.
One thing has become clear: He's not gonna get them all out.
The next morning the train stops. The container slides open and fifty bald men, barely adults stand with Banjo. They line the boys up in height order. They shake and some are still crying. Some of the boys defecated on themselves and some are covered in dry blood. None of them are dressed for the cold.
Billy notes the chain-link topped with razor wire. Climbing would be dumb. Even if he got out, they're in the middle of nowhere.
She is too tall, far taller than any of her henchmen. Her burgundy dress is flared and the bottoms are kissed with snow. Her heavy makeup attempted to mimic her youth forever lost to her. Her neutral, painted expression never waivered.
"Good morning, boys," she marches up and down the line, "The rules will be followed. I will be obeyed. You will hang on my every word, and there will be no weakness, no laziness, no cowardice, and no insubordination. You will work, you will do what I, or any member of my staff instruct. You will all visit our resident doctor for ailments and physicals. Are there any questions?"
A small boy raises his hand timidly, "Can I go home?"
She kneels to be only a head taller than the boy, "This is home. We are your family."
She makes her way to the smallest among them, "What's your name, dear?"
"Martin…"
"Short stack, ey? How old are ya?"
"Eight…"
"Aye, so you'll surely grow. You look like a healthy boy. No major injuries, no clear abnormalities," she points to a soldier, "Follow him."
She makes her way up the line, sorting the weak from the strong. Each evaluation is seasoned with warm affirmations and backhanded compliments.
"Shashmm, Shasham, shassam," each mumbled attempt is a hammer on his cheek. Though, he keeps trying with each breath.
He shut up when he is sure she could hear. Sooner than he'd like her eyes are less than a foot from his.
She gesturedto his wrapping, "Is this your doing?"
He nods.
"That's some good old fashioned problem solving, young man. I'm truly sorry for your injury. Mr. Banjo's brashness no doubt. I imagine it's painful to speak, but I'd like to know your name."
"Wuss oors?"
"Tenacious. Inquisitive. I'm willing to trade names on three. Deal?"
He nods.
She counts down on her fingers.
"Blly."
"Billy? Nice to meet you," she directs him to the healthy line.
She finishes up and takes a particular interest in Lester. Once everyone is sorted, "Gentlemen, the healthy among you are to go to the showers and the ill among you are to see Mr. Who, our resident physician. Good night all, and I'll be seeing you for supper."
They depart. That is the last time anyone sees the boys who went to the doctor.
"Mr. Banjo, you're dismissed. Bring a better batch next time. If I ever get less than fifteen healthy recruits again, you're going to serve us in the House, rather than on the streets."
Billy and the rest have their clothing taken from them, they shower in a group. Some hold an odd sense of enthusiasm. They're outfitted with black sweat wear and escorted to the barber.
Once Billy has his head shaved, he's given a heavy dose of anesthesia. He comes too in empty barracks, jaw wired shut. First thing, find a weak point. There's a loose bolt he might be able to do something with, but it isn't much.
Before he can do much more searching, Lester knocks, looking pretty unchanged by the haircut, and pretty unshaken by the abduction.
"Come on, kid. Pork and potatoes await."
When he gets to the cafeteria he realizes he can't chew, nor chomp. They gave him no utensils, save for a straw in his milk. He finds himself without a choice. He rips his porkchop into the smallest pieces he can, mixes them in with the mashed potatoes and milk, and slurps his 'smoothie' until completion.
It's about the least appetizing way to eat this, but food is food. Minerva never took her eyes off the process.
Ting ting ting ting ting.
She taps a fork to her glass until everyone finally shuts up, which takes longer than it should. She doesn't address a small room of boys. She speaks to hundreds.
"Supper has concluded, and our newest arrivals have successfully accomplished their first day. She gives a pause, the boys give applause, "Sweet dreams, my sons. May you be the healthy future of the great race!"
With that word, Billy knew exactly who these people are. He might not recognize the name but this lady is definitely a white-supremacist and she definitely wants him to be one.
What's the best option here? Play along and earn her trust? He considers dropping under the radar, except he's already been noticed.
Pray for the Wizard?
That guy can't even figure out the correct champion after millennia. Even with magic, Billy is probably going to die in some sick conversion camp.
The boys all file out, "Billy, Lester, walk with me," she struts to her office, towering above them. Lester is relaxed but Billy is stiff as stone.
They enter her lavish office where she gestures to chairs as she claims her own. Everything in the room has a feel of generations passed. The grandfather clock looks antique in the truest sense, yet it chimes. Billy scans the room for a weapon until he faintly hears a click under her desk. Knowing his situation, angering her is ill-advised.
"You two boys enjoy a drink?" She pulls out a bottle of something older than she is, and definitely something Billy knows he shouldn't touch. Without waiting for a response, she pours three glasses and puts a straw in one.
Lester enthusiastically slams it back and his face sucks into itself as he processes that decision. Minerva allows it to air before taking a sip. She stares at Billy.
"Drink, darling. It won't hurt you. I promise."
He gently lifts the glass and pours it on the floor. Her expression remains neutral.
"You like to keep sharp, I can respect that. You're both quite tenacious. Strong wills are the backbone of this family and I know a stubborn man when I see one."
"Thank you, Ms. Me and Bill are grateful, even if he doesn't like to drink," that last line smacked Billy with a hint of scorn.
"Of course, my boy. It is in fact that gratitude which brings you both here. Some of the younger ones are confused, they don't feel that gratitude. However, they look to you both for inspiration."
"We will reassure them," he nudges Billy under the table, "and we'll report any broken rules."
One drink can turn a drug dealer into a snitch? Maybe it wasn't the drink.
She looks to Billy, "Are you both prepared for a leadership position in our family?"
The more she says family, the more vomit he has to suppress. He nods.
