* Author : WC Dunlap * Narrator : Kimberly Taylor * Hosts : Matt Dovey and Khaalidah Muhammad-Ali * Audio Producer : Eric Valdes * Discuss on Forums PodCastle 808: ANNIVERSARY SPECIAL: The Settlement is a PodCastle original. Content warnings for violence and adult themes Rated R The Settlement by WC Dunlap They file out into the predawn chill before the rest of the settlement is awake. Cloaked by a thick fog and the still darkness of a waning night, they carry shovels and picks. Despite the high collars and low hats that conceal their faces, their attempts at anonymity are wasted. I recognize them instantly through the frost of the kitchen window, their layers of clothing stitched by my own hand or those of my brethren. I see you Reverend John Able, Matthias Smith, Thomas Gore, William Roe and Matthew Surgeon. And God sees you too. They are silent in their duties, barely even looking at one another. Their breath visible in heavy puffs that quickly condense into white frost, as they pound the hard, frozen earth. They dig deeper, until the ground cracks, and still farther until they hit bone. It is hard work and it takes an hour before the first body is pulled up. They pull up three this time, quickly stashing them away before their minds can register name or memory. They stuff them into sacks that do little to conceal the shape of a human body and hastily refill the holes, haphazardly replacing wooden crosses, markers and other mementos from the living to the dead. Why do they even bother with the funerals now? They drag the bodies away before the sun cuts the horizon. Our meat for the week. Matthew enters shortly after, somber from the sacrilege he’s forced to perform. He discards his great coat and peels away the layers as I pour his bitter morning brew. His wife and child still asleep, exhausted from empty bellies and the cold—we have but an hour to ourselves. I sit next to him as he sips, staring straight ahead into the fire. One hand grasping the cup, the other gently on my thigh. Slowly he begins to rub, his movements hesitant, even shy at first, but progressively more intent as he takes the last sip. By then his fingers are pressed firmly against my groin. I guide his rhythm now, one hand clasped around his arm, the other working his fingers in the perfect motion. Just as I am about to moan, he places thin, rough lips over my mouth and kisses. Abruptly, he rises and throws a cloak across his shoulders. He beckons and I follow. We fight against the wind, towards the woodshed. It is freezing but our bodies are boiling. We enter discreetly, but as soon as the door closes he is on me, pulling my skirt above my thighs while I unlace his breeches. I wrap my dark legs around his goose-pimpled pink flesh. His fingers trace the scars on my back—from when they broke me as a child—to the outline of the brand that signifies my servitude. But his cold calloused hands offer little comfort, so I move them gently to my breasts. It is only now that he speaks. “Dear God, I love you Abiona,” he gasps as he enters me. They called me Abigail, but it is in these moments that Matthew acknowledges my birth name, the name taken from me when I was but a child. It has been our secret since I sprouted breasts and hips. “Abiona,” he’d whisper in my ear as he tickled my sides. “Abiona,