Karrin Warrior Child

by Sahara Foley

  Karrin flinched, tiny face white with fear.

  Cook laughed cruelly. "So, if I ain't looking, and you think you can sneak out the door and run, go right ahead. I got plenty more collars and each year we get more and more of you retards."

  Karrin stared at the other black, leather collars hanging from the rack. They each had a red, marble-sized stone on them. The image of her head blowing off made her want to cross her legs; afraid she was going to pee. Transfixed by the neck-bombs, she stood, trembling.

  The oversized cook leaned over, staring into Karrin's face, a merciless smile crossing her thin lips. She nodded. "Now, I got your attention, you listen up. These are my rules. When I tell you to do something, you MOVE, you got that, half-wit?“

  Without waiting for an answer, Cook continued. “If you're too stupid to understand, or can't figure out how to do something, you just stand there until I ask you why you ain't moving. When you answer me, you best be respectful and call me 'Cook.' I won't tolerate no backtalk. If you got a question, raise your hand. Be warned, this is the only place in the Home where questions are allowed.”

  The stern woman pointed a finger at the child. “If you see something burning, or somebody is bleeding, you yell out 'Fire, Cook', or "Trouble, Cook.' You don't just stand there, watching like the idiot you are." She squinted at Karrin. "Well, I knows you can hear. Best be seeing if you can talk. Can you talk, girl?"

  Karrin was afraid to talk or move her head. What if I set off the bomb? Faint memories of an explosion and her body flying through the air caused tears to form. She squeezed her eyes shut, fighting back the unwanted response. No crying allowed.

  She jumped, eyelids flying open at the touch of Cook's hand on her shoulder. "Don't worry, girl. You'll not be blowing up by moving. Only if you try to escape out the door. So, can you talk or not?"

  "Yes, Cook," she whispered, barely moving her lips.

  The intimidating woman snorted. "Hmph! Guess that'll do. Last retard Matron stuck me with couldn't hear or talk. The only thing she was good for was scrubbing the walls and floors.”

  Cook turned to her overflowing table and shuffled some papers around until she found what she wanted. She glared at the note in her hand. "Looks like you're on the dinner shift for today. We're having mashed potatoes tonight. Your job is to load and unload that machine over there until all the potatoes are done."

  Karrin's gaze flicked to where Cook was pointing, then her eyes widened at all the five-gallon buckets full of potatoes. She counted up to fifty-five before Cook interrupted her, snapping her fingers a few times in front of Karrin's face.

  "Listen up. Once you're done peeling the potatoes, I'll show you how to boil them. I don't talk for nothing. You listen and learn, or I cut you up for stew. It's been done before. You understand me?"

  "Yes, Cook," she answered, staring into the woman’s brown, unforgiving eyes.

  Cook gave a curt nod. "Come on, then. Let's get you busy."

  Still afraid of setting off the neck-bomb, Karrin walked with stiff arms and legs as she followed the foreboding woman. They stopped at a white drum that resembled a giant-sized, old-style washing machine.

  It has room enough for me and three of my friends to have a tea party in. Karrin sighed, her heart aching when she remembered she didn’t have any friends.

  Cook turned, thick brows furrowed as she studied her new helper. "I don't like trusting no retard, but my best two girls went over to sixteen and got sent out to the farms. So, I need helpers, bad. But, I'll be keeping my eyes on you. Now, all you gotta do is dump the buckets of potatoes into the drum until they reach this line here. Then, you close the lid and turn this handle here, and watch.”

  Karrin stared at the machine, not sure if she was supposed to move or not.

  “Well, come on, girl," Cook said with an impatient motion toward the buckets, "pour those potatoes in there. I don't have all day to show you."

  Cook watched the little girl, skinny arms trembling, as she struggled with a bucketful of potatoes that weighed as much as her.

  Bending her knees, Karrin braced the bucket against the outside of the drum. She shoved it upwards, inch-by-inch, until it reached the rim, then tipped the bucket. The potatoes thumped to the bottom of the drum. A few spilled over the side and bounced to the white, tiled floor.

  Arms crossed under her breasts, Cook nodded. "You done well. You're strong for such a whip of a girl. You just be sure every one of those potatoes ends up in the machine. You'll get better at it as you go along."

  With a determined gleam in her eyes, Karrin took the empty bucket and turned it upside down. She picked up a full one, and stepping up, dumped the potatoes into the drum. Every one made it into the machine. She turned to Cook with a triumphant grin.

  Cook snorted. "Hmph! Not bad for a little retard. That's enough potatoes, girl. Turn her on."

  Karrin moved the handle and the machine began to turn and shake with a loud rumbling noise. Fascinated, she peered into the window and watched the potatoes tumble around, water pouring in through a hole at the top. The inside walls of the drum had a coating like sandpaper, and as the potatoes were thrown against the walls, they were peeled.

  After a minute, Cook shut off the machine and opened the lid. Reaching inside, she picked up a perfectly peeled potato and held it in front of Karrin. "Okay, girl, when they look like this, shut her off. Don't let them keep going, or else they'll peel themselves down to nothing. When you get all these potatoes done, come and find me. Now, get busy.” The terrifying cook stomped away.

  Karrin surveyed the buckets of overflowing potatoes. The burns on her feet and knees stung like crazy from the two buckets she already did. All she wanted to do was curl up in a ball and cry from the pain. However, crying and whining weren’t allowed here.

  With a resigned sigh, she began taking out the peeled potatoes. She found a smaller one, which reminded her of an apple. Peering at Cook, she noticed she wasn’t being watched, so she took a tiny bite. It didn’t taste as good as an apple, but it was something to eat. Soon, her stomach quit rumbling.

  Cook sat hunched over her cluttered table, writing instructions for the dinner meal. She had four meals a day to prepare: breakfast, lunch, dinner, and late dinner, which was midnight. The late dinner meal was reserved for the girls working in the drug processing plant in the sewers. Since the plant ran twenty-four hours, seven days a week, her kitchen ran day and night.

  Breakfast was easy, as it was always the same – oatmeal, bread, and water. Lunch and dinner were the challenges, as they varied from day-to-day. The midnight meal consisted of that day's leftovers.

  Chewing on the end of her pen, eyebrows furrowed, she was debating over how to prepare the meat – hamburger or shredded – when her phone beeped. With a huff, she picked up the ear-fob and adjusted it in her ear. This better be important. I'm too fucking busy.

  As she listened, her lips became thinner and her eyes squinted. After a few minutes, she snarled, "Listen, cousin. I don't give a flying fuck about the Boys Home. I ain't got the help I need to get my own work done. I lost two of my best fifteen-year-olds, and all Matron gave me to replace them was a half-wit."

  She listened some more, tapping her pen louder and louder on the table. "All right, all right," she growled. "Send them over. I'll try to figure it out and get back to you later. You warn them boys, I ain't putting up with none of their shit."

  She flung the ear-piece on her desk in irritation. God, just what I need, today. Not only am I short-staffed, now, I got to feed the fucking Boys Home, too.

  Leave it to her cousin, the Warden, and her sister, the Matron, to concoct another scheme to put more coins in their pockets. Even the asshole, Master-of-the-Boys-Home, was in on it.

  They want to shut down his kitchen and run all their meals through mine. And, I get stuck with all the work. She ground her teeth in anger.

  "The bastards need to take better care of the kids instead of trying to cheat every credit into their accounts. If they
did, half the problems around here would disappear, overnight," she grumbled. Especially the drug processing plant, which she despised.

  When had everything turned so bad? With a heavy heart, she knew the answer. After her sister became Matron.

  All that power went to her sister’s head. She started indulging herself in ways Cook didn’t want to think about. It was disgusting, but Matron was her sister, so she turned a blind eye. Besides, Matron and Warden were as thick as thieves.

  That’s exactly what they became. Thieves. Cook hated the stealing and scheming done by her sister and cousin. Every penny Cook stashed in her account was legit.

  Irritated with her family, she leaned back in her chair and looked over her domain. Maybe it was time for a change. The problem was, she really did enjoy the challenge of meal preps and cooking for a large body of people.

  Where else would I go? I’m too old to start over.

  Like Matron, she’d spent most of her adult life here. Her reason for coming here was different, though. She squirmed in her chair and fiddled with the pen, not wanting to think about the past.

  In exasperation, she threw the pen on the desk. Okay. Okay. I know why I came here. To hide. To hide from him and what I couldn’t give him.

  Her throat tightened up, eyes prickling with unshed tears. She swiped at them, refusing to rehash her past, once again. The deep of night, when she was unable to sleep, was the only time she allowed herself to relive her choice. Right or wrong.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Cook saw her newly acquired retard stuff another potato in her mouth. She shrugged. Usually, she would’ve cuffed the girl for stealing, but she was just too busy to care.

  The girl stepped up on the bucket and winced. Then, she started taking out the peeled potatoes.

  Cook frowned, narrowing her eyes in anger. Look at all those burn marks. Those bitches for guards got her good last night. It’s a wonder she can work at all. Matron might’ve made a mistake this time. That girl ain’t as stupid as everyone thinks. Hell, she figured out how to get around being too short.

  Right then, as Karrin stepped off the upside-down bucket, her foot slipped on the wet floor and she went tumbling to the floor. Her eyes and mouth were as round as saucers and peeled potatoes rolled across the floor.

  It was such a comical sight. Cook hurriedly put her head down on her crossed arms, trying to hide her laughter. Images of other girls, including herself, doing precisely the same thing made her chuckle some more.

  My, that'd been funny. I haven't laughed that hard for some time. But, I’ve got to get back to work. I've got 417 more mouths to feed, every day. Still chuckling, she wiped her eyes, and went back to working on her menus.

  Several minutes later, a short, thin guard stood fidgeting next to her table. Cook looked up with a frown. "Hmph!"

  The guard cleared her throat and shifted her feet. "Uh, excuse me, Cook. I'm new. The ratter crew be back. Uh, where do you want them?" Revulsion flickered across her ugly face.

  With lightning quick motion, Cook grabbed a gleaming, long butcher knife off her table and pointed it across the room. "Same damn place they been going for the forty years I've been here, you idiot!" She grinned in satisfaction when she saw terror reflected in the guard's brown eyes. Best to instill the fear of God from the start.

  The guard flinched and backed up a few steps, her frightened gaze glued on the very sharp- looking knife. "Uh, yes, Cook," she stammered before turning and rushing off, back stiff, like she had a bull's eye painted on it.

  Cook grunted, again, and shook her head. I swear, some of these new guards are dumber than the half-wits. She glanced over at her new helper, a smirk on her lips. Okay, little retard. Let's see how you like raw rat meat. Eat my potatoes, will you?

  First, she had to take care of the bullshit the Master of the Boys Home was trying to pull. She picked up the earpiece and keyed in the number for Warden.

  As soon as the connection went through, she gruffly said, "That bastard at the Boys Home can set his schedule according to ours. I ain't changing nothin' for him. We eat at 6:00am and 6:00pm.”

  Jabbing savagely at the off button, she disconnected the call. She looked up to see the little dimwit standing in front of her desk. "What?!" Cook bellowed as she scowled at her.

  The little girl blinked her oddly colored eyes at her. They were a strange blue color that changed to silver when she moved her head. "Potatoes are done, Cook," she said calmly.

  "Okay, I'll put them on to boil. I got another job for you," Cook said with a jeering grin. "Follow me, girl."

  She took off across the vast room, the girl trailing behind, almost running to keep up with Cook's longer strides. The massive woman stopped in front of a wide, wooden door with a small window mounted up near the top. So far up, Karrin couldn't see into the room, even on her tiptoes.

  Stepping to a rack full of rubber aprons, Cook selected one and put it on. She riffled through a few more before she found a smaller one and handed it to Karrin. The apron was the size of a blanket compared to the little girl.

  Cook snickered as her helper fought with the cumbersome garment before she finally got it fastened around her small frame.

  Pulling the shiny, chrome handle, Cook opened the door and stepped inside.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Karrin shivered, puffs of steam escaping from between her chattering teeth when she entered the refrigerated room. From a rack fastened to the wall next to the door, Cook took a large, sharp knife. She stopped in front of a blood-stained table in the middle of the area.

  She glared down at the girl. “‘Till I say different, after you're done with potatoes and boiling the rice, this will be your job. Now, watch closely."

  On the floor, next to the table, were a dozen burlap bags, large enough for Karrin to crawl into. Cook untied one and reached inside. Her hand searched around a bit before pulling out a two-foot long, dead, tailless rat.

  She plopped it on the table. With firm strokes of the knife, she chopped off the head and feet, slit open the belly, and pulled out the guts. She slid the blade up to the neck and deftly peeled the skin off.

  Little Karrin made a gagging noise, bent over, and puked all over the floor.

  A knowing look in her eyes, Cook pointed her knife at the pile of vomit. "Aha! That looks like raw potatoes. You been eating my potatoes, girl?"

  Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, Karrin meekly said, "Yes, Cook. A few. I was hungry."

  Cook got ready to backhand the little twerp, like her sister would've, when the uplifted chin and proud look in the girl's strange eyes stayed her hand. "You know I'm going to hit you for that, don't you, girl?"

  "Yes, Cook," said the curly, dark-haired girl as she stood tall, wrapped in an apron three times too big for her.

  Cook studied her. At least, the little retard didn't try to lie, and she ain't got a lick of fear in her eyes.

  Those large, blue-silver eyes never wavered as she stared defiantly back.

  Cook slowly lowered her arm and scratched at the whiskers on her chin. She ain't no dummy. I got a feeling this little one can't be broken. She could beat her, break her bones, even kill her, but she would never break that defiant little spirit. The older woman felt a twinge of respect for the little twit.

  "Hmph!" she grunted. "When you’re done with the rats, you gotta clean up your puke. We need the cleaned rats for dinner, girl. You saw me butcher one, so get busy. Once you're done, put all the skins in one bag and put them over there. And, don't be making a mess of the skins neither because the Warden sells them.

  “You'll wash the meat up over there in the sink and drop it in this here slot, which goes into the cooler next door until we use it. All the innards go in this tube here. We feed those to the pigs and chickens. When you're done, come find me. Now, get busy and don't cut your fingers off. Understand, girl?"

  Karrin picked up the knife Cook had used, which made her six-year-old hand look even smaller. "Yes, Cook."

  She squatt
ed and reached into the opened burlap bag. With a grimace, she took out a dead, tailless rat and laid it on the table.

  The big woman nodded and left, shutting the door behind her. Taking off her beige rubber apron, she peered through the small window on the door. Her new helper had already cut off the head and feet and was slicing up the belly.

  Once she was done, Karrin set down the knife and, with a shudder, reached inside the cavity of the rodent.

  Cook turned away from the window and hung up the apron. "Retard my ass." Why would a family give up such a cute, sweet, little girl?

  Karrin was full of defiance and pride. Traits a person are born with, not taught. She shook her head, thinking back on all the retarded helpers she had over the years. None of them possessed those traits.

  Placing peeled potatoes in several huge kettles, she muttered, "Well, you'll be safe with me ‘til you turn sixteen. After that, it's outta my hands." Cook's heart clenched when she thought of Karrin's fate.

  The guards thrived on the rumors they whispered among themselves of the terrible deeds perpetrated on the female retards at the male prisons. Every female half-wit ended up there. Cook tutted to herself, as she poured in water and turned on the burners.

  A clanking and whipping noise drew Cook's attention toward the doorway. Six orphans from the Boys Home shuffled into the kitchen, chained together at the feet. The guard was mercilessly whipping them, a gleeful smile on his pock-marked face.

  Narrowed eyes and clenched teeth, Cook stomped over to him and snatched the small whip out of his hand, and snapped it in two.

  "Unchain them and get your ass out of my kitchen before you end up being part of dinner. MOVE!" Cook roared at the guard. Being four inches taller and one hundred pounds heavier, she towered over the quaking man.

  While he hastily unsnapped the chains, Cook stood in front of the boys, hands on hips, scrutinizing them. The boys were from eleven to fourteen years of age, and all skin and bones. They looked like they hadn’t been fed in days. Cook hissed in disapproval. No one under her charge went without proper meals, even if it was only rat meat.