Page 24 of Mayflower

There are four of them, all girls ages about five to nine. They sleep on cots, surrounded by four concrete walls and a dull lightbulb for light, but they smile and whisper to each other as they talk about Ali and me.

Ali and I sleep on the blankets on the floor between the cots.

Skiba’s stab didn’t get any vitals, thank God, otherwise I would’ve been fucked. Ali helps me change the bandages and clean the wound, and I manage to sit up even through the sharp pain.

The oldest girl collects her bravery and brings me warm water to clean my facial wounds. She brings me a small mirror, and when I look at my face, there’s no surprise why the girls stare wide-eyed at me—my nose and one eye are swollen, lips busted, bruises darkening on the side of my jaw and cheek.

The girls show us the food supply in a neat cupboard. They make us instant noodles for lunch and tuna sandwiches for dinner. There are no windows, so the only indication of time is the clock on the wall.

On day two, I’m on my feet. The pain is manageable with painkillers. But if I have to move or run, I need to get better fast.

Candy shows up with medical supplies and a change of clothes for me and takes my dirty bloodied ones with her.

“Not sure if we can wash off all this blood.”

The new shirt is black and long-sleeved with some type of bright-colored embroidery ornament along its neckline, too big for me, but it works.

“One of the girls’s boyfriends,” she explains, noticing me studying it with interest.

She gives us a warning not to set foot outside the door.

“You are under the Venus Den,” she explains.

She looks different than I remember. Barely any makeup, no nail polish, no fancy dress but wide pants and a tank. Her jet-black hair is tied in a bun on top of her head—a drastic change for a woman whose business is supposed to be looking sexy for her clients.

“Under?” I ask.

“Yes. I can’t bring you upstairs. Things are not the same around here lately.”

“Not the same how?”

She turns to the little girls, who watch us with intense curiosity, and nods at the far corner of the room. “Go, read something.”

They scatter, pushing each other but still staring at us from across the room.

Candy’s voice is reduced to a hushed whisper. “My establishment and my girls, the ones left… We are now completely taken over by Butcher’s gang. If my girls want to take clients, they have to pay Butcher.”

“This is extortion.”

“Right. They call it business. Except, for two years since the Change, we did fine on our own. Now we have to pay almost all we make, but…” She sucks in her cheeks, her eyes acquiring an angry squint.

“But when they want something, they just come and take it,” I finish her sentence.

“Correct. They call it protection.”

“Protection from who?”

“From them,” she blurts and laughs devilishly. “Motherfuckers,” she hisses. “I swear, I wish I could blow them all up. They took several of my girls.”

“Took?”

“Yeah. The girls live with them, service them, who knows how many men in a day. One tried to run away, got caught, and was shot. They didn’t take me because they wanted a service station here.”

She says it with so much poison in her voice that it makes me shiver, and I thought I’d seen it all.

She pulls a cigarette pack out of her pocket, takes one cigarette out, but looks at the girls and doesn’t light it.

“So…”—she studies me, keeping the cigarette between her fingers—“you can’t leave this room unless you want to leave for good. There is almost always one of his men here.” She motions with her eyes upstairs. “I thought about bringing a doctor. One of them is a good guy. But he drinks. He can blabber something about you here, and then…”

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