Walk Among Us, page 22
He’s telling me about this old warehouse in industrial southeast where he’s been staying since waking up craving blood when Lucille shows up.
Lucille is old, powerful, and profoundly disinterested in everything around her except her art. This is her retirement plan, though she doesn’t help me run it at all; hasn’t since our first six months. She doesn’t dress like a farmer, choosing fine cashmere sweaters and woolen skirts, most of which I made for her. Tonight she has her long blond hair in two French braids and is at least wearing boots.
She takes a seat near us without a word. Kasim cringes away reflexively.
“Well,” I say. “Let’s get started, then.”
Whatever amount of comfort he’d gained from our easy little chat is gone. I told him to come ready to show off, but he doesn’t know what that means. And he can tell Lucille is . . . old.
“What exactly am I getting into?” he asks.
I like how direct he is.
“Exactly what it looks like,” I say. “Exactly what we say it is. We’re an arts commune with a mission to prioritize the forgotten, the disadvantaged, the downtrodden.”
“And they’re—human.”
“Yes.”
“Except for you two.”
“Except for us two. And you.”
He frowns, looks around as if he could see past the painted wooden walls, the pens, the bales of hay, and the farm equipment. “And this is—what, a humanitarian mission?”
Lucille’s lips quirk. She’s likely thinking of the linguistic relationship between humanitarian and vegetarian.
“Yes.” I watch the confusion, the disbelief, deepen. “And more.”
He turns that over in his head. “But not hunting grounds.”
“Not exactly.”
Another beat.
“Holy fuck,” he says, finally, eyes widening. “It’s a farm.”
I grin. He’s succeeding at showing off—that he’s got some amount of brain between his ears. “It’s a farm,” I agree. Better than ecovillage death camp, which I half expected him to call us. But no, he’s not disgusted. He’s riveted as I begin outlining the structure of our little enterprise, how the majority of our stock just provides blood donations, the ones Robin was so distressed by. The blood is taken in daytime, by human phlebotomists, the majority of whom are in some way linked to the local Camarilla superstructure of the city. While they do take a portion of the donated blood to its ostensible, official purpose, a certain amount is kept pure. No fractionation, no CPDA-1, so it’s a little chunky when it comes out of storage, like unhomogenized, unpasteurized milk, but it’s safe.
We keep that blood on-site, far from the human housing, and I make deliveries weekly. We can only support so many customers like that, and even with the general distaste for bagged blood, demand still outstrips supply. Human bone marrow only pumps out new red cells so fast, no matter how much iron-rich food and nutritional yeast I put into the herd.
For live feedings, our supply is even more limited, but we make a good enough product to charge a premium. “We keep records on just about everything regarding our community members,” I explain. “Those records are obfuscated by a numbering system that matches our nonhuman livestock; we record share purchases of sheep and deliver human blood along with lamb rib roasts. Physical traits, personality traits, personal histories, current and past medical status including drug habits, religious beliefs, orientation . . . the list goes on. It means we can match buyer with product.”
“What do you do with the bodies?”
“We try to minimize loss.”
After all, blood is a renewable resource.
“Fuck,” he says, leaning back in his seat. “You really have this all figured out.”
“Everything except scale,” Lucille says.
“We’re growing at a sustainable rate,” I counter, sweetly.
“So, you do this all yourself.” He glances over at Lucille, and he’s keeping up well enough that I can guess what he’s thinking. He’s figuring out she’s not hands-on enough to be much help.
But she’s not the only set of hands I can trust here.
“The majority of the ecovillage’s functioning handles itself,” I say, “but for the few tasks that Lucille and I can’t manage on our own, we keep retainers.”
He doesn’t like that. His brow darkens, his shoulders stiffen. I ignore it, continue on. “We pick carefully, people who already trust us, so they’re not in too much cognitive dissonance during the day or when we’re not around. We currently have five retainers, including Key, who’s watching the office as we speak.”
The horror on his face, the righteous anger, is growing.
What happened to showing off, sweet boy?
“And you think that’s—okay?” he asks, finally.
“I think it’s practical,” I say. I don’t tell him that they’re not bound to me, that I rely on Lucille’s greater power to keep them held. Again, he doesn’t need to know the details, how we sneak our Blood into their food in special one-on-one meals, how we groom them until they’re entirely loyal, in love with not just us but the land we’re standing on.
I think, briefly, about how wonderful it would be if Robin knew. If Robin were bound to me. But I don’t have time for thoughts of Robin now, not with how Kasim’s agitation is growing.
“You’re drugging them. Forcing them to be—complicit. Compliant.”
Actually, he sounds quite a bit like I’d imagine Robin would in this same position.
“They’re happy,” I say, thinking of Key’s undying loyalty, their joy in serving.
“Without the ability to say no, no amount of comfort or happiness is real.”
Yes, definitely a philosopher-king. Kasim’s lived on the streets for years and still believes in objective good, ideal situations. He has likely killed to survive, if not as a human then certainly as a struggling, desperate lick, but he doesn’t yet understand the need to manage, to cull, to craft an environment of success for oneself and those we depend upon.
“And yet the lamb is not allowed to say no, either, nor the herding dog, unless their caretaker allows them to,” I say, gently, until I realize gentleness is only angering him more. I change tack. I become cold. “True informed consent is a beautiful dream. And it is a lie. It will always be a lie.”
I wait for an argument. It doesn’t come.
Ah. I’m influencing him, perhaps unduly. It slips out, sometimes, when I am determined to win; but winning isn’t the point here.
This is his test.
I back off. Watch him shudder. Watch him glance, desperately, at Lucille, who is looking at one of the sick sheep, at the colors of its shit streaking its rear.
“There is no consent,” I say, drawing his attention back to me. “Not for animals, not for humans, not for Kindred. There is only the illusion. There is only our interpretation of what is done to us. If you cannot understand that, you don’t belong here.”
I expect him to stand, to leave, or to at least shout and argue, but he surprises me. He asks, “And what about me?”
“You don’t bind anybody without our permission.”
“Not what I meant,” he says. “I mean—I mean, are you going to have me drinking your Blood? As insurance, or . . . ?”
Not a bad idea, but I dismiss it immediately. “No,” I say. “Not unless you think it’s necessary. And if it is, I don’t want you here.”
And really, it’s more a matter of resources. I don’t want to stretch Lucille’s influence too thin.
“Fair,” he says. Goes quiet. Thinks. Still doesn’t get up to leave, even as I watch him struggle to reconcile his concept of justice and free will with everything we’ve built. Finally, he rubs at his eyes, laughs weakly. “They don’t know, all the rest of them. That you’re feeding off them.”
“No. But they freely give anyway.”
“And they get”—he waves a hand at the whole place—“all this in return. They’re not hunted. They’re safe.”
I nod.
“I guess it makes sense, that some sacrifices have to be made to get something this—this humane.”
I smile.
“Glad you agree,” I say.
Of course, things are not as idealistic as he seems to think. He is too gentle for us, too hopeful; it will break him soon enough, his love for people, his desire for a better way. But isn’t this the better way? More humane, as he said? I think he’ll fit in here, better than any other of our kind I could pluck randomly from the streets. It takes a real progressive thinker to switch from what we’ve been doing to this new system of ours.
“We keep the Masquerade here just like we do everywhere else. Which means you don’t tell anybody here, not even the retainers, what you are. You don’t tell anyone—period. As far as they’re concerned, you’re another human working the night shift. And if you break that one rule, you’re out. Understood?”
He nods. “Yeah, I understand. But they’re not going to notice the whole . . . nocturnal thing?”
“Not unless you make a big deal out of it.”
“Right.”
“I’m serious. We’re an active farm—there’s work every day, every season. And you’ll be a part of it,” I say. He bristles a little. Doesn’t like taking orders is my guess, and I can only imagine the intensely shitty ones he must have followed to be approved by the Prince of Portland. “Your choice on what that part is. You can work in the fields like the humans, or take on some light security, surveillance on feedings, running messages, resolving human issues—there are a lot of options.”
He subsides. “Got it.”
“We’ll provide sustenance as payment,” Lucille says.
I’m quick to add, “From the bagged product. No live feeding, not on site.” That’s my own rule, one Lucille isn’t bound by, but I’ll be damned if I let this unproven child out among my flock. He eats like I do, or he’s gone. “And you will stay fed. Drink twice a day, if you have to. I recommend far from the source, because habit is important. I’ve found it’s helpful to abstract feeding from humans as much as possible, in order to take better care of them.”
I spend my entire life not just in a world of humans, but intimately involved in them. I resolve their disputes, I clean up their messes, I even handle minor medical issues. A shepherd starving to death would predate upon his own flock out of season.
What a waste of resources.
He nods, quickly. “Yeah, sure. Sure.” He’s young enough, and likely hates himself enough, that he’s not fazed by this, even though bagged blood doesn’t taste anywhere near as good as the real thing.
“And you stay away from the sheep,” I remind him. “No live feeding.”
“Got it.”
“Then welcome to the farm,” I say as I hold out my hand. “Let’s get you settled in.”
Domestic Dispute
Robin is adapting well. She has made friends easily, and I’m told she is a good listener. She’s a quick study, too. Key finished training her in all the basics—who to call for various forms of emergencies, who lives where, how to update our community newsletter—and tonight she’s in for her first evening shift. With me.
I start her with the paperwork.
“This is how we track each animal,” I say. “Divided into shares.” We’re looking at a sheet I’ve pulled up for one of the Dorset lambs. “Contact info for the buyer here, current status of the animal including veterinary history, record of down payment.”
She nods, but I can see she’s looking at the shares column. I imagine what she’s going to say, about how unsettling it is to see a life divided up mathematically like that and turned into dollars. But instead she says, “Is it just proportional or is there a specific weight per share? Do we true up later?”
I can’t help my smile. Maybe she can’t bring herself to say slaughter just yet, but she’s being a professional. I appreciate that.
“Proportional. We have a minimum slaughter weight, and we raise more animals than we sell, so if any don’t reach the weight contracted for, we keep them. And if they come in more, then that’s a bonus.” I shrug, leaning back in my chair, drinking in her presence. “We’re generous here whenever we can afford to be. And the cost of raising one lamb is more or less the same as another.”
She likes that concept. And it’s very true, for all the animals. The sheep have rotated pasture and competent veterinary care, our poultry free-range among our gardens, and our humans live a good, enriched life.
Work is optional, and art is encouraged. Medical care is free to our members and we’ve created a low-judgment environment. Every new member is given their own private room. We have entire apartments available for families, of which we host twelve, and we allow for bunking together in certain circumstances, as long as it’s two months from when they join. We want to make sure everybody’s more or less settled before such close living occurs. Shared houses can be powder kegs enough. We serve communal breakfasts and dinners, cooked by a rotating list of members. All chores are handled that way, with weekly meetings to discuss adjustments to the roster. We have multiple communal spaces. Two are open use and can be reserved for up to an hour at a time, while the others are themed: painting studios, a ceramics building, a quiet room.
Most of my management is done this way, without any human involvement and barely any conscious notice. Making certain things available with ease, making sure everybody has enough food, making sure they’re safe. It’s the same tack we take with our sheep: providing solid fences, winter feed, water, all without their notice or care. It increases happiness when intervention seems low.
But there are some limits. We restrict cell phone usage on the grounds. It’s optional, which means a surprising number of people participate. We tried banning phones at first (we’re careful, but the omnipresence of cameras these days is always a security risk), but that led to people not trusting us and finding ways to keep their phones secretly. By making it just a suggestion and wrapping it up in the rhetoric of reducing distractions and engaging with the land, we have a much higher compliance rate.
Robin still has her phone. She’s checking it a few hours later when there’s a knock at the office door. I grudgingly get up from where I’ve been working at the small lap loom I keep for slow nights, but all lethargy disappears when I see Kasim next to a panicked-looking Ethan.
“Oh good, you’re in,” Kasim says. “I, uh. I found Ethan, wandering. I think he’s coming back down.”
He’s shaking head to toe. I hold out my hands, palm up, not too close to him. He sees them. Fixates on them, ignoring Kasim, ignoring Robin. I have that effect on our members, a combination of comfort, trust, and a habitual use of just a fraction of my less-than-human power of attraction. (I try to keep a hold on it, but at this age, it just slips out. And it has its benefits. Fewer people argue with me when I’m wearing a raiment of calm charm.)
It’s enough to bring his desperate guard down a little. He puts his hands in mine. He breathes a little more easily.
“It’s okay, Ethan. What happened?”
His pulse flutters. Jumps. I catch his gaze and hold it, and soon his breathing begins to match mine; a measured performance that’s enough to keep his panic at bay.
“It’s Jason and Bill,” he says. “They’re at it again. It sounds bad this time.” His fists clench and his thumbs scrape at my knuckles, full of tension. Behind me, I hear Robin move; she probably feels she needs to be close enough to intervene. She can’t know that Kasim and I have this handled.
“Jason and Bill,” I repeat.
He nods. His grip loosens, just a little, because he knows I’ll handle it. Jason and Bill don’t live in the same building as Ethan because this isn’t the first time they’ve gotten loud and angry, and it sets him off. But I’m glad Kasim found him, glad he’s here to tell me, so that I can fix it.
“Right, I’ll handle it,” I say. I nod at Robin, drawing Ethan’s attention to her gently, letting the world back into his attention. “Want to stay here with Robin?”
She’s watching the two of us, biting her lip. In hindsight, maybe separating her from the other members wasn’t the best idea. She’s behind on learning the various dynamics on site.
“No, I just want to go home,” he says.
“I can take him,” Kasim says. “Unless you think you’ll need me . . . ?”
I weigh the options. “Ethan, are you okay walking with Kasim?”
“Yeah,” he says. He lets go of my hands and runs one hand through his hair. Kasim’s a better fit for him; Robin’s clearly a little distrusting still of Ethan’s “stability.”
“He’ll take care of anything you need. Don’t worry about asking, okay?”
He nods, and Kasim smiles. It’s gentle without being patronizing. I’m glad Kasim found him; he’s clearly got experience with things like this.
As they leave the office, Robin asks, “What should I do?”
I glance at her as I put on my coat. “Stay here. Hold down the fort.”
“What if there’s another . . . issue?”
She’s got a point. She’s not ready. I survey the room. “Okay. Can you put up a sign with my cell number saying I’ll be back as soon as I can, then lock up?”
“I can help,” she says.
I can’t stop my smile, even though I’m working through a hundred permutations of what I’ll find when I get to Bill’s. “I know you can,” I say. “Meet me at the central housing building when you’re done. But if things are at all overwhelming, stay at the edges.”
“Do you really think it’ll be that bad?”
“No,” I say, “but I don’t want you to think you have to help me if you feel out of your depth.”
And then I make myself leave, because Jason and Bill need me more than Robin does right now.
