Outlanders

Chapter 3: Proletarian

"Thanks again for letting us stay here," said Leif, as he sat down at a farmer's table.

"We don't get many visitors," said the sour-looking farmer. "What are you doing here?"

"We're wanderers, mostly, but we're always ready to help folks out. Is there anywhere that needs help?"

"We all need help," grumbled the farmer.

Leif gave Petrus a stymied look, and the boy gazed passively back.

"Could you be a bit more specific?" asked Leif, his tail swishing quizzically.

The farmer palmed his eyes with a coarse hand, letting out a long and heavy sigh.

"I know what you're thinking of," he said. "There's a place around here. Many places, in fact. When someone says they're from around there, we just send them on their way. Slaves thank their gods that they've never been there."

"Okay..." said Leif, intrepidly. "Where can we find it?"

"It's a few dozen miles down the road you came from, south and a little east of here. It's called Textile Town."

Leif tilted his head slightly, then stood up and said, "Thank you, sir." He looked down to Petrus and asked, "Are you ready?"

Petrus nodded curtly. He shot the farmer one last suspicious glare, then turned and followed Leif out of the farmhouse.

Leif took a long breath of sweet country air and said, "Textile Town, here we come."

* * *

With an acoustic, grinding wail, the bell sounded, signaling the end of a shift. Zoltána, the forty-two-year-old mill worker, dropped her crate of wool where she stood and lurched out of the factory. As she did, she tried to avoid eye contact with the sullen wave of workers who trudged in to replace her.

"But I'm on time!" someone cried.

"That man said he'd work for less."

"But... he'll starve. I'll starve! You can't just give my job away!"

There was a pause.

Yes, he can, Zoltána grimly thought.

Outside the factory, her decade-old shoes crunched on the cold, muddy gravel. Brick buildings, new but worn before their time, rose on either side of her, leaving room for nothing between them but dirt and the poor commuters it was caked on. High above, there may have been managers who could look down and congratulate themselves for not being workers. But they had bosses of their own to fear.

This was Textile Town- a city of bullies, where none were free of the whip of the bigger bully, and where charity was the only crime. Even the town's name was foisted upon the people by the factory bosses; the town had existed before the industrialization, but its old name had been forgotten.

Zoltána had worked in that textile mill for thirty-two hours over the course of the last three days. Technically, her daily shift was meant to last only ten hours, but her boss had ransomed her job to her for overtime. Zoltána had gone against her nature and acquiesced.

Sunday- her one day off of work- would not come before three more days. At least thirty more hours of hauling around wooden crates stood between her and one day of freedom. That was too many. Zoltána needed a distraction. Turning at an intersection just before her tenement, she began for an establishment where women like her could get it.

"Good evening, Zoltána," said the owner of the establishment, affable as ever.

"Good evening, Jan," she languidly returned. She deposited a few coins on his counter and asked, "Is Jozef available?"