Oh. A bath.
The tub is completely filled with fresh water; they must have used one of the nearby wells to get so much, because the plumbing no longer works anywhere. Next to the tub I see a cake of soap and a thick brown towel. This…this is luxury. Add this on to the dress and I’m more than a little worried. “You guys gonna make me go whoring?”
The soldier snorts and gives me another shove forward, then produces a key. “Hold your arms out.”
I do, and he unlocks the cuffs and then moves to the door. I rub my wrists and consider running, but I’ll never get far in a barracks full of soldiers, and I like not being riddled with bullets. “What’s the dress and the bath for, then, if not whoring?” Not that I want to whore, mind you. It’s just…the most logical conclusion.
He ignores my question and gives me a pointed look. "Use the soap. A lot of it. Make sure you wash off your smell."
“Wash off my…smell?” I smell—everyone does now that deodorant is a thing of the past—but I’m not rank. He smells, too. Everyone does. I tilt my head, curious. “I don’t understand.”
"Yours is not to question. Yours is to do."
“And…you’re not going to pass me around?” Because I’ve heard stories of pretty girls disappearing into barracks and never returning. And while I wouldn’t call myself pretty, I’m here and being told to bathe, so I’m freaking out a little.
The fear must be showing on my face, because the guard shakes his head at me and gestures at the tub again.
“We’re not going to hurt you. Just clean up and get dressed and we’ll explain.”
He shuts the door, locks it, and then I’m alone with the tub. I stall for a little bit, uncertain, rubbing my wrists as I stare longingly at the water. I’d love a bath, but I can’t get over the feeling that there’s some sort of trick that I’m not aware of. Like the moment I undress, a dozen guys will storm in the room or something. Why are they insisting I bathe? It doesn’t make sense.
But…the water smells so clean and fresh, and the soap has a hint of herbs to it. I pick it up and sniff it. Lavender. Oh wow. It’s an old store soap. And I’ve been stuck in a sweaty, musty jail cell for two weeks. I stink of ash and sweat and god knows what else.
Fuck it. I pull my clothes off, toss them aside, and slide into the tub. If I’m gonna be raped, I might as well be squeaky clean.
I sink in the water up to my neck and groan. It’s utter bliss. It doesn’t matter that it’s lukewarm. It’s a bath. My last one was Before. Ever since, it’s been a scramble to get enough food and water, much less bathing. Most days I settle for a quick wipe-down with a wet cloth, and a lot of people don’t even do that. But all this water? This is luxury. Amy would freak out if she knew…
Amy. I fight the urge to cry. Please be all right, Amy. I’m going to get out of this and then I’m going to come back to you.
The tub loses a bit of its charm once I think about my sister. I soak for a minute longer, and then use the soap to methodically scrub at my limbs and hair. I wash several times, until my arms no longer streak with dirt when the water runs down them, and my hair feels tangly and squeaky with cleanliness.
By the time I finish, I can hear the guards outside the door talking in low voices, as if they don’t want me to hear. I wrap the towel around my body and tiptoe forward to listen at the door, but I can’t make out what they’re saying. Crap. I want to know about the five other girls. The bait thing.
I want to know what’s going on.
I fold my filthy clothes as delicately as I can, because I want to take them with me when I go home. I refuse to allow ‘if’ to creep into that statement. I will be going home. I examine the ‘dress’ I’ve been given and have to turn it over twice before I figure out which way it goes. It’s an odd piece of clothing, little more than a square of fabric with arm holes and a neck cut into it. Why on earth would they want me to wear it?
This entire set-up reeks of weirdness.
With nothing else to do, I sit on the edge of the tub and wait, staring at the door.
With my hands free of cuffs, I could escape. Maybe. Providing I can get past the dozens of guards that seem to be swarming the barracks…where would I go? Fort Dallas is small, and someone would be all too willing to sell me out again for a bit of reward money. I can’t go back home with a price on my head.
But what’s my other option? Leave the city? Let them exile me like they want? I’ll die for sure. The Scavenge Lands are empty for a reason—no one can survive there any longer without protection. Sometimes protection comes in the form of a group, sometimes a building. I’ve been told there are maps that can show you a safe route between forts…for the right price. Without it? You’re on your own, and the dragons are especially bad in the north, or so the rumors say. I’ve never gone farther than Fort Dallas. No one does. You find a place that’s safe, and you stay. Plus, I’ve always had Amy to worry about, and now my friend Sasha. Poor Sasha. Trouble seems to follow her even more than me.
I’m stuck, like it or not. I can’t abandon them. I hate that I’m being screwed over for something everyone does. Do they think no one scavenges but me? Bullshit. Everyone does, because there’s never enough food to go around, and the only job that a woman with no connections can get is on her back. I won’t do that, so I scavenge. It’s so ridiculous to be arrested for it that it almost feels like a set-up.
After a moment, there’s a polite knock at the door. I stand, my clothes tucked under my arm.
The guard pops his head in, and he glances around the room, then at me. “You done?”
I bite back a sarcastic retort. “Done.”
He nods and enters the room. “Hands back out, please.”
The cuffs again? Damn it. I set my clothing down on the sink and then obediently hold my arms out. “What’s going to happen to my clothes?”
“You can come pick them up later.”
That…was not the answer I expected. “Really?”
“Yup. Captain’s orders. After tonight, you can go.”
That sounds too good to be true. I gaze up at him, but he won’t look me in the eye, and that gives me a weird feeling. “What happens tonight?”
He says nothing. Not good. Whatever it is that’s going down with me and bait girls? It’s bad. That’s why they won’t talk to me. I lick my dry lips and nod toward my folded clothes, even though I’m getting the sinking suspicion that I’ll never see them again.