by Tillie Cole
It Ain’t Me, Babe
by
Tillie Cole
It Ain’t Me, Babe
Copyright© Tillie Cole 2014
All rights reserved
Cover Design by Damonza at www.damonza.com
Copyedited by Cassie McGowan at www.gatheringleavesediting.com
Formatted by Polgarus Studio at www.polgarusstudio.com
eBook Edition
No Part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photography, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written consent from the publisher and author, except in the instance of quotes for reviews. No part of this book may be uploaded without the permission of the publisher and author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is originally published.
This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, actual events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters and names are products of the authors imagination and used fictitiously.
The publisher and author acknowledge the trademark status and trademark ownership of all trademarks, service marks and word marks mentioned in this book.
Dedication
To the brave people who inspired this story.
May you finally find your happiness.
And may your voice be heard.
Contents Page
Author’s Note
Glossary
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Epilogue
Playlist
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Follow Tillie at:
Author’s Note
I just wanted to take a moment to explain why I wrote certain aspects of this book.
For my undergraduate degree, I studied Comparative Religion. Due to outstanding lecturers, many who were considered experts in their chosen field, I was given the opportunity to meet various people from an array of cultures and faiths.
One of my specialised areas of study in my final year was in ‘New Religious Movements (NRM’s), Cults and Sects’. I was lucky to meet, and work with, members and former members of such religious groups. Most were happy with their lifestyle choice, others were not. I would say that ninety percent of the people I interviewed and worked alongside belonged to the former, but I will never forget the harrowing, and sometimes disturbing, testimonies and witness statements from the latter.
Unfortunately, amongst the genuine and sincere members of some NRM’s, there are also a very small number of opportunists and individuals who, for reasons unbeknownst to most, choose to use religion, and its influence on innocent people, for their own personal gain—whether it be for power, control, or sadly, for something much more sordid.
‘It Ain’t Me, Babe’ was inspired by the testimonies of ex-members from several NRM’s and the leaders that abused the power they had over their members—especially the women.
The female protagonist in this novel, ‘Salome’, endures situations inspired by real events told to me personally by survivors of such groups. Addressing this topic was very important to me, as it is an area of life, of humanity, in which most people are unaware.
Victims of these ‘opportunist’ groups are often not given a voice and I wanted to give the many women I was so fortunate to meet a chance to be heard.
‘It Ain’t Me, Babe’ is a work of fiction, but the doctrines, practices and experiences of ‘Salome’, her sisters and The Order in this novel are also inspired by several brave women who chose to share their story with me.
I am a thorough believer in the freedom of religion and respect, and have many friends, from many faiths. Most NRM’s that I worked with were honest and good people and do not deserve the bad reputation many of them acquire. What I do find unacceptable however, is when certain people take vulnerable, pure and God-fearing people and abuse their trust and kindness for their own selfish gain.
Thank you for taking your time to read this note and I hope you enjoy the novel.
Tillie x
Glossary
(Not in alphabetical order)
The Order Terminology
The Order: Apocalyptic New Religious Movement. Beliefs based on selected Christian teachings, strongly believe the apocalypse is imminent. Led by Prophet David (declares himself to be a Prophet of God and a descendant of King David), the elders and the disciples. The members live together in a secluded commune; based on traditional and modest living, polygamy and unorthodox religious practices. Believe the ‘outside world’ is sinful and evil. Have no contact with non-members.
Commune: Property owned by The Order and controlled by the Prophet David. Segregated living community. Policed by disciples and elders and stocked with weapons in case of an outside world attack. Men and women kept in separate areas of the commune. The Cursed kept away from all men (except the elders) in their own private quarters. Land protected by a large perimeter fence.
Elders: Comprises four men; Gabriel, Moses, Noah and Jacob. Charged with the day to day running of the commune. Second in Command to Prophet David. Responsible for schooling the Cursed.
Disciple Guards: Male members of The Order. Tasked with the protection of the commune lands and the members of The Order. Follow the command of the elders and Prophet David.
Lords Sharing: Ritual sexual act performed between male and female members of The Order. Believed to help the male get steadily closer to the Lord. Performed in mass ceremonies. Narcotics often used for a transcendental experience. Females are forbidden from experiencing pleasure as punishment for carrying the original sin of Eve and must perform the act when required as part of their sisterly duties.
The Cursed: Women/Girls in The Order deemed too naturally beautiful and inherently sinful. Live separately from the rest of commune. Seen as too tempting to men. The Cursed are believed to be significantly more likely to sway men from the righteous path.
Original Sin: Augustine Christian doctrine that says mankind is born sinful and have an innate urge to disobey God. Original Sin is the result of Adam and Eve’s disobedience to God when they ate the forbidden fruit in the Garden of Eden. In The Order’s doctrines (created by Prophet David), Eve is blamed for tempting Adam to sin, thus sisters of The Order are seen as born seductresses and temptresses and must obey men.
Hades Hangmen Terminology
Hades Hangmen: One-percenter Outlaw MC. Founded in Austin, Texas, 1969.
Hades: Lord of the Underworld in Greek mythology.
Mother Chapter: First branch of the club. Founding location.
One-percenter: The American Motorbike Association (AMA) were once rumored to have said that 99% of bikers were law-abiding citizens. Bikers who do not abide by AMA rules name themselves ‘one-percenters’ (the remaining non law-abiding 1%). The vast majority of ‘one-percenters’ belong to Outlaw MC’s.
Cut: Leather vest worn by o
utlaw bikers. Adorned with patches and artwork displaying the club’s unique colors.
Patched in: When a new member is approved for full membership.
Church: Club meetings for full patch members. Led by President of the club.
Old Lady: Woman with wife status. Protected by her partner. Status held to be sacrosanct by club members.
Club Slut: A woman who comes to the clubhouse to engage in casual sexual acts with the club members.
Bitch: Woman in Biker culture. Term of endearment.
Gone/Going to Hades: Slang. Referring to the dying/dead.
Meeting/Gone/Going to the Boatman: Slang. Dying/dead. Referring to ‘Charon’ in Greek mythology. Charon was the ferryman of the dead, an underworld daimon (Spirit). Transported departed souls to Hades. The fee for the crossing over the rivers Styx and Acheron to Hades were coins placed on either the dead’s eyes or mouth at burial. Those who did not pay the fee were left to wander the shores of Styx for one hundred years.
Snow: Cocaine.
Ice: Crystal Meth
The Organizational Structure of Hades Hangmen
President (Prez): Leader of the club. Holder of the Gavel, which is symbolic of the absolute power that the President wields. The Gavel is used to keep order in Church. The word of the President is law within the club. He takes advice from senior club members. No one challenges the decisions of the President.
Vice President (VP): Second-in-Command. Executes the orders of the President. Principal communicator with other chapters of the club. Assumes all responsibilities and duties of the President in their absence.
Road Captain: Responsible for all club runs. Research, plan and organize club runs and ride outs. Ranking club officer, answering only to President or VP.
Sergeant-at-Arms: Responsible for club security, policing and keeping order at club events. Reports unseemly behavior to President and VP. Responsible for the safety and protection of the club, its members and its Prospects.
Treasurer: Keeps records of all income and expenses. Keeps records of all club patches and colors issued and taken away.
Secretary: Responsible for making and keeping all club records. Must notify members of emergency meetings.
Prospect: Probationary member of the MC. Goes on runs, but banned from attending Church.
Prologue
“You stay here, River. Got it?”
Turning up the air-conditioner in the truck, I nodded and signed, Got it.
Slamming the driver’s side door, my pop and the prospect headed off into the woods, the first body bag of the four dead Mexicans being carried by them.
Waiting until they were all out of sight I jumped out of the truck, my feet making a crunching sound as they hit the dried grass.
Tipping my head back, I breathed deep. I loved being outdoors, loved being on the back of my pop’s bike, loved being anywhere away from people expecting me to talk.
Making my way toward the bed of the truck, I snapped a long spindly branch off a nearby cedar and began whacking the reeds around me just for something to do. Sending stiffs to the boatman could take hours—digging, lime, and cover-up—so I made my way toward the trees and set to searching for snakes in the high grass.
I don’t know how long I walked, but when I lifted my eyes, I found myself deep in the forest, the air around me completely still and me completely lost.
Shit. Pop’s instructions were as clear as day. “Stay here, River. Got it?” Hell, he was gonna kill me if he had to come looking. The rules for dumping stiffs were simple: dig, dump, dodge.
Searching around me, I spotted a rise and headed for higher ground. I intended to work my way back to the truck before my pop turned up and got pissed.
Using the trunks of the trees to hold on to, I climbed the steep hill and, when I reached the top, began dusting the dried mud and bark scum from my jeans. When they were sorta clean, I scanned the horizon and frowned. About two hundred yards ahead was the biggest goddamn fence. My mouth dropped at its size; it was higher and wider than anything I’d ever seen before. It reminded me of prison, with curls of razor wire wrapped ’round the top wall. I looked all ’round me, but there were no signs of life, nothing to be seen behind the fence but more forest. I wondered what it was. We were deep in the boonies, miles and miles from the outskirts of Austin, miles and miles from anywhere. Folks don’t really come this far outta town… they know better. My pop said only bad things happen ’round these parts: death, disappearances, violence and other unexplainable things. It’d been that way for years; that’s why my pop chose it as a drop site.
Now completely distracted from finding a route back to the truck, I began wading through tall grasses toward the edge of the fence. Curious excitement buzzed through me. I loved to go exploring, but then I jumped out of my skin when, suddenly, something behind the fence caught my eye.
Someone was there.
I froze, focusing my eyes on the outline of a tiny slim person, the small frame of a young chick dressed in a long gray dress, her hair pulled back in a funny style at the back of her head.
She looked ’bout my age. Maybe a couple ’a years younger?
Heart beating fast in my chest, I crept toward the chick, her tiny, frail-looking body drowning in the dark material of her dress as she curled herself in between the roots of a large tree. Her shoulders were shaking as she cried, her body shuddering with sobs, but not making a sound.
Dropping to my knees, I threaded my fingers through the links of the fence and stared. I wanted to say something, but I didn’t—couldn’t—speak to anyone but Kyler and Pop. Even then it weren’t often.
I closed my eyes, concentrating on trying to loosen up my throat, fighting to free the words that never wanted to come. A battle I always tried to fight but one I rarely won.
Dropping my mouth, I set to relaxing my face muscles when the tiny chick froze on the spot and her eyes locked on mine. I stumbled back, my fingers slipping back through the fence. She had huge, blue eyes rimmed with red marks. Her small hand moved to her face to wipe at her wet cheeks; her bottom lip quivered and her chest heaved hard.
From my new position, I could see her hair was as black as coal and her skin so pale. I’d never seen no one like her before. Then again, I didn’t know many kids my own age; no one did in club life. There was Kyler, of course, but he was my best friend, my club brother.
Suddenly, the chick panicked; her face blanched, she shot to her feet, and her head turned back toward the forest. I scrambled to the fence again at her movement, the metal screeching at the contact. The chick froze and looked back, gripping a branch as she watched me.
Who are you? I signed real fast.
The girl swallowed nervously and tilted her head. Cautiously, she edged forward in silence, curiosity etched on her tiny face. She was staring at my hands, watching me sign, her dark eyebrows pulled down real low.
The closer she got, the more my breath came short and I felt warm all over. Her jet-black hair was tied in a tight knot at the back of her head, covered by a weird white cloth. I’d never seen anyone dressed like her before. She looked so strange.
When she stopped ’bout two yards away, I sucked in a breath, squeezed my stomach muscles tight, and signed again. Who are you?
She didn’t speak, just stared at me blankly. Goddamn it! She didn’t understand ASL. Not many folks did. I could hear just fine, but I didn’t speak. Ky and Pop were the only folks who could translate for me, and right now I was on my own.
Sucking in another deep breath, I swallowed and tried really hard to work loose my throat. Closing my eyes, I thought through what I wanted to ask and, holding a slow, controlled exhale, I tried my damnedest to talk.
“Wh-wh-who a-are y-y-you?”
As I fell back in shock, my eyes widened. I’d never been able to do that before, speak to a total stranger. My hands fidgeted in excitement. I could talk to this chick! I could talk… that made her number three.
Driven by curiosity, the chick moved closer
still. Only a few feet away, she slowly knelt on the forest floor, her head cocked to one side, just staring at me with a funny expression on her face.
Her big blue eyes never once moved away from me. I watched her slowly scan me from head to toe and then back again. I thought about what she must be seeing: my dark, messy hair, black T-shirt and jeans, heavy black boots, and leather cuffs on my wrists showing the Hangmen patch.
As her eyes met mine once more, her lips seemed to curve upward slightly into a small kinda smile. I crooked my finger in her direction, urging her to come closer.
She quickly turned, searching all ’round her. Seeing we were alone, she stood up—slowly, as before—and she inched forward toward me, the bottom of her long dress dirtying on a patch of muddy ground.
Now, as she stood before me, I couldn’t help but notice again how tiny she looked. I was tall, so she had to tilt her neck back to look up at me. As I pressed into the fence, my stomach churned. She looked so tired and her blue eyes winced in the corners as she shuffled toward me, like she was in pain.
Noticing she was uncomfortable, I pointed to the forest floor, indicating we should sit. She nodded her head, lowered her eyes and slowly, painfully, dropped to her knees.
She didn’t make a sound. Hoping for another miracle, I inhaled deeply, then exhaled slowly. “Wh-what i-is this p-p-p-place? D-d-do you… l-l-live h-here?” I stuttered, occasionally pausing and thinking through my words as I struggled to push them out. A wave of excitement washed through my stomach… I was talking… again!
Her eyes focused on my mouth, but she still kept quiet. Her black eyebrows were pulled tight and her pink lips were pursed in concentration. I knew she was wondering why I talked funny; everyone always did. She would be wondering why I stuttered. I didn’t know. I just always had. Gave up trying to fix it years ago. I talked with my hands now. Didn’t like being laughed at for having a stammer… but she wasn’t laughing at me… not even a little bit. She just looked, well, confused.