Dandelion Iron Book One (5 page)

I couldn’t help but notice her lacy underwear and curvy, muscled body. She moved and flexed like a million-dollar racing pony. Not like me. I was built like a draft horse after a week in an ugly pen.

She tugged on the jeans, then the frilly white top, which she only half-buttoned, showing skin, not caring. Her Springfield 9 went into the back of her skin-tight jeans, covered by the blouse.

Wren turned to me. “Put on them clothes. I’ll do up your face. And then we’ll play it like I say.”

Fear jumbled my insides. We had to hurry, but I could guess what her plan was, and I couldn’t do it—not even for a disguise. Not even to make Mama’s funeral.

“You want us to dress like ladies of the night,” I said.

She rolled her eyes. “Ladies of the night? Jesus, am I absconding with Sally Browne Burke?”

“Good word, absconding. Figured you’d be limited to two syllable words.”

Her mouth got small. “We don’t have a choice. This’ll work. Them Yankee cops are looking for a schoolgirl from your fancy Academy, so if we go out there as party girls, it’ll trick ’em. Yankees think everybody from the Juniper is the same. To them, we’re all just party girl harlots, dumb as dirt. Well, we’ll give them what they want, and you won’t have to do anything unseemly. Trust me, I’ll get those jeans on you, even if I have to bloody you to do it.”

“Fine. Just don’t look.”

Through the wall, we heard a stall door slam open. It was the cops, checking the ladies’ room next door. We were running out of time.

“Cavvy, this is not the time for modesty. They’re coming. We have to hurry.”

“Turn around anyhow.”

She did, grumbling, “Hell, this is so stupid, we both got the same parts. And we’re sisters.”

Yeah, sisters, and she’d make fun of every mole just to be mean.

Putting on those jeans was torture, skin-peeling, fat-pinching, embarrassing torture. I got them over my hips, but I couldn’t get them buttoned. The blouse was skintight. Even so, I buttoned it up to my chin.

Wren sighed and started undoing buttons. “For this to work, Cavvy, you gotta show ’em what the Lord gave you, but the Devil wants you to use.”

She really had done those dirty things in Amarillo that Sharlotte had wrote me about. Which made me kind of feel sorry for her—my sister, doing those desperate things ’cause she couldn’t tolerate our family. Sure, the non-viable boys made money that way, but so did girls brought low by our troubled times, and they made a quarter of what the parlor boys made. Sad. All of it so sad and tragic.

Another stall slammed next door in the ladies’ room. Bang.

Wren moved like lightning. She hair sprayed and teased both of our hair until we had halos of frizz, then she painted herself, painted me, and did it quick and good and in a flash. When she powdered my face, the scratches Becca Olson gave me burned, but I hardly felt the pain. Too nervous.

The door to the men’s room opened. Wren and I froze, staring into each other’s eyes. We heard the footsteps on the floor. Then a zipper. Then, I won’t say what we heard, but it wasn’t the police.

The bathroom door creaked opened again. A woman’s voice called in, “Excuse me, is the men’s room clear?”

The guy answered, “No, ma’am.”

The guy would smell the hairspray and know we were girls. Would he tell the police?

The guy washed his hands and left, but we could hear him, “Yes, officer, someone is still in there. They’re almost done I think.”

Good. Gave us a minute. And the guy didn’t mention the hairspray smell.

Wren and I packed up our dresses, hers in her army duffle and mine in the new backpack. But not before I saw what was inside—clothes, brand new, high-quality North Face polypropylene long underwear, Nferno synthetic wool hat and scarf, Secondskin gloves, and a big Mortex parka, brown and sagebrush green.

I zipped up the backpack and asked, “Is all that stuff for me? It must have cost a fortune.”

“Maybe, but I didn’t buy it.”

“Wren, it’s wrong to steal. Eighth commandment. You wanna burn in hell forever?”

Wren hit us both with eye-blistering perfume. “Don’t get scary on me, Princess. What I done already is gonna make me burn, so one more little sin isn’t gonna do much. I’ll deal with hell once I get there. For now, I have a passel of other demons to fight. Might as well start with those cops outside.”

We left the handicap stall and my reflection in the mirror above the sink showed a stranger, mostly harlot, but a little bit pretty, too. I almost looked good, as long as I kept my eyes on my face. Once they wandered over to Wren, I felt like a grease-painted clown. Wren was goddess-hot—any viable boy for kilometers around would kill to be with her but not me.

I had my dignity, chastity, and womanly modesty. Sally Browne Burke said those were more important than beauty. I wanted to believe that was true. Standing next to Wren, though, the words felt hollow.

She examined me. “Good. You’re young, and the young in you will sell this.

Anyone looks at you, you wink and smile like you wanna party, and it’ll shock ’em back. If you gotta talk, twang up your language to show them how country-stupid you are, and they’ll never know how smart you are.”

I was too shook up to appreciate the compliment.

I figured we’d go out to face them right away, but Wren had another surprise for me. She went to the sink and not only brushed her teeth, but flossed them as well.

Instead of asking why the dental hygiene at a time like that, I took the Mortex parka out of the backpack and slipped it on—kept my hands in my pockets, one holding the stunner. If Wren drew her gun, I’d zap her. There’d be no killing if I could help it.

Wren turned, noticed the coat, and nodded. “Good. The coat makes you look like you’re ashamed, and the cops might like that. I’ll do the talking, and you just smile at them like you love them. Can you do that?”

I nodded, though I doubted I could ever do such a thing.

“What are you going to do?” I asked.

Wren gave me a long look, her black eyes cool and completely inscrutable. You’d need a gosh darn Rosetta stone to figure out some of the looks she gave me. But just when I thought to give up, I noticed how tired her eyes were, and not just tired, but like she was defeated, deep down in some dark place inside.

I followed Wren out of the bathroom and right into the scorching gaze of the three policewomen, Cleveland’s finest, two with Thor stunners and one lugging a Zeus 2 charge gun.

“There they are,” one said, pointing at us.

Chapter Four

The liberals want to confuse the issue by calling the women
gillian
, which comes from a Chinese phrase, both disgusting and un-American. Use whatever word you want, but God created women to give themselves to men. Better a woman lose her life than to let go of her honor, for the Lord will never forgive the unrepentant sinner. Not in these impossible times. Not ever.

—Reverend Kip Parson
General Secretary of the New Morality Movement
April 2, 2057

(i)

With the policewomen staring at us, Wren burst out laughing, suddenly as silly and dumb as a puppy. “Gosh, Elly May, we were in the men’s room? Goodness gracious, what a dumb thing for us to do!”

I thought we were going to try to sneak by the police, but instead Wren was making a spectacle of herself. I had no idea what was going on, only that she was calling me Elly May and my hand was sweating on the handle of the stunner in my coat pocket. My hammering heart sucked the spit from my mouth.

One of the policewomen stepped up to us. Her nametag read Officer Dee Kane, and she was an unimpressed, long-haired woman in a starched and ironed dress, New Morality for sure. She stopped Wren. “Excuse me, ma’am, can we have a word with you?”

“Sure, Officer, but we’re not in trouble for being in the men’s room, are we? I hope not.”

My sister had gone from warrior to wanton flirt, all girly ’strogen, friendly, kissy. The transformation was unnerving.

“Can we see some identification?” Officer Dee asked.

“Sure, sure,” Wren said. “Hey, Elly May, you got your ID, right?”

My face collapsed into slack-jawed stupid. “I ain’t got none.” Which was the Lord’s truth. My wallet with my Territory ID was back in my room at the Academy.

Wren touched my arm. “Ah, Elly, I told you to remember to pack it. Well, you always were a little slow, but you’re still pretty as a picture. We’re both a little flustered on account of my mother dying.” Her smile faded. Her eyes misted. “My mother, Elly’s auntie, dead. It was all so sudden. Heart attack.” A tear tracked down her cheek.

Officer Kane put out a hand to Wren. “Can I see
your
ID then?”

Wren reached back.

My fingers tightened on the stunner, ready, if my sister went for her pistol.

Instead, she pulled a Territory ID card out of her back pocket. Didn’t need a driver’s license in the territories ’cause we drove horses, buggies, bicycles, and only rarely a truck or minivan fitted with an ASI steam attachment.

“Sure thing, my ID, Officer, sure.” Wren handed it over sweetly, like her spit was honey.

Officer Kane studied the plastic card. “So you’re Willimina Carson from Amarillo? When does your train leave?”

Of course Wren would have a fake Territory ID.

“Oh, you can call me Willie,” Wren grinned with tears still in her eyes—flirting and somehow meaning it. “We’re on the Capital Limited to Chicago, 12:58 PM. Is there a problem?”

Officer Kane shrugged. “Just looking for some girls, sisters. We think you might be them.” She gave the ID back to Wren.

Wren nodded real seriously and shoved the card in her back pocket with a ridiculous little wiggle. “Well, we’re girls, Officer. Are you sure we’re not the ones you’re looking for?”

I was dying inside. Why was she pushing our luck?

“I’m not sure yet. Would you allow us to do a retinal scan?”

“Sure,” Wren said. “Anything you want to do to us you can.”

I blushed at what she said. Shameless.

“What about you, Elly May?” Officer Kane asked.

“Okay.”

After the SISBI laws were passed, the police were allowed to scan eyes for identification purposes. Most everyone at my Academy had had their eyes mapped and put in the big federal database, but of course that meant a signed parental consent form. Not sure Mama ever got the letter asking for permission ’cause no permission ever came back.

Officer Kane took out her slate and inserted a scanner in the USP3 slot. She held it up to Wren’s eyes, and a light flashed, followed by an ugly beep. I could picture the dialogue message:
Eyescan not found.

One of the other policewomen talked to Wren while Kane moved over to scan me. Officer Betty Pell’s short hair and short-sleeved dress proved she wasn’t New Morality. The third officer held her charge gun loosely and a look of boredom sat squarely on her face. A jumpsuit covered her, but nothing covered her scalp—she had a buzz cut. Girls at school would’ve called her
gillian
, but I tried hard not to stereotype people.

“Where in the Juniper are you girls from exactly?” Officer Pell asked.

“Lamar,” Wren replied. “In the Colorado territory.”

“What did your mama do before she died?”

“Ran cattle on her own for a long time,” Wren said, “before Dob Howerter bought our ranch, and then she worked for him.”

“She squat for land?”

“Yes, ma’am, got a big stake. Held it for as long as she could. I never liked cattle work none so I went to Amarillo. Took Elly May with me on account of all the girls in our family. Not a single a boy. Like most folks.”

Officer Kane brought the scanner up to my face. I opened my eyes wide. The light flashed, leaving dots that blurred my vision.

Another ugly beep. Nope. Not in their system.

“What were you doing in Ohio?” Kane asked me.

Wren answered her instead. “Came for a big party, danced for lots of rich women, and I bet you even would know some, though I won’t say who was there. Me and Elly May need to be discreet.”

Officer Pell and Kane exchanged a glance. A big scandal had rocked Philadelphia not a month before—politicians caught with party girls and parlor boys.

Officer Kane pulled Officer Pell away. “Excuse us for a moment.”

The two talked, and I couldn’t hear much, only that Kane wanted to take us in and Pell didn’t want the trouble. They went back and forth, and then dang me if Officer Kane didn’t wave us away. “You’re free to go.”

“Thank you, officer,” Wren said. “Good luck catchin’ those sisters. Come on, Elly.”

Casually, we headed toward the door to the platform. Wren wasn’t smiley, girly ’strogen, flirty anymore. Her face was cellblock stone, and weary, as if all that play acting had cost her everything she was inside.

“Walk slow, Cavvy, but trust me, we’re not out of this yet. That old gal Kane is trying to outthink her instincts, but her instincts are prolly too true to ignore.”

We hit the empty platform and waited for the train. Not a lot of security for train travel, not like airlines, so we didn’t have to worry about metal detectors. Lake Erie’s wet stench mingled with the oily smell of the tracks—like a fish crawling through mud. Many of the wood planks of the platform had been replaced with Trex boards, composites synthesized from recycled materials. Across the tracks rose the gray wall of Cleveland’s skyscrapers.

As we waited, my insides turned into cold mash.

We’re safe.

We’re not safe.

Wren is a genius.

Wren is crazy.

A sleek, silver train clattered in. Faces peered at us through clean plastic windows.

My heart leapt. We were going to get out of this. Somehow, Wren’s disguises and acting had saved us.

The doors opened and we climbed into an empty train car. But not before I heard a voice yell out our fake names, “Willie! Elly May!”

The three policewomen marched out onto the platform, coming toward us.

We weren’t safe. And Wren was most definitely crazy.

(ii)

I shuffled into a row of seats but didn’t sit down. It felt like someone was trying to drown me in my own cold fear. How could Wren live like this?