I open my mouth to tell her what I have planned but words fail me. Gemma has always been the type of person who knows exactly what to say—just like how she knew what to say the first time I met her.
That day I had been delivering medicine for my father. I was ten, and new to the job. And I didn’t really understand all the crazy long codes or colors or different types of bags. Though my Pharmaceutical Scantron did help a lot. Don’t get me wrong, the training was extremely thorough—a Master would never send out anyone to another Master without it being up to standards. Impossibly high standards. Keeping up with all the biking and never receiving enough food to have the strength when I needed it, I felt like I was falling farther and farther behind. Yet, there was simply no other choice than to keep moving and hope—pray—for the best. If I asked too many questions, I’d receive an angry reprimand from my supervisor. If I, heaven forbid, was late for a delivery, and my father heard about it, he’d bring out his Palka the second I walked in the door and use it on me, the iron stick thrashing against my ten-year-old palms. He would deliberately hit the insides of my hands so that no one else would see. “Can’t be looking like that delivering to our superiors, now, can we?”
On the day I met Gemma, I had been working at the hospital for six days. It was in the dead of winter, and the snow was coming down like a solid white curtain. Biking around kept me from freezing to death, but my knuckles and toes were numb—frozen stiff. I had just finished delivering thirty-one deliveries—the most I’d ever had. Returning to the hospital well after dark, the snow coming down hard, my legs felt like overstretched elastics and all I wanted was to sink myself into bed and get warm. But just as I was leaving to go home, an emergency delivery came in on my Pharmaceutical Scantron for Mistress Johansen—the chief surgeon’s mother. Of course I couldn’t go home, but I wanted to, oh, I wanted to. Dragging my feet to the pharmacy, my PS stopped working—I think the battery ran out. I told the apothecary I was there to pick up the prescription for Mrs. Johnson. Coincidentally, there was a prescription there for that very person. Since the names were so similar, and I was exhausted and hadn’t had anything to eat since breakfast, I didn’t notice that I had pronounced the name wrong. The apothecary said she knew about the delivery, and she handed me the prescription. I rode all the way to the very uppermost house on Mount Zalo, delivered the medicine, and returned to the hospital with the old lady’s signature. When I came back, there was a different apothecary. He noticed the mistake almost before I had walked through the door, and contacted Mrs. Johansen right away. Thankfully, she hadn’t taken the drugs yet. Not that it mattered. It would only have knocked her out for the night with no damage done. The apothecary was nice enough about it, letting me off with only a few harsh words. I hopped on my bike and headed home. But the closer I got to the Laborer sector, the stronger the nervous gnawing feeling grew in my gut. I knew that my father would find out sooner or later, if he hadn’t already. I waited outside the entrance to our sector, tall steel gates guarded by Unifers twenty four seven. I couldn’t go home. I knew what was in store for me, and I thought it might be better to stay out here and die than face what was coming. But a Unifer noticed me hiding behind the bush and fired a couple of shots in my direction so I’d come out. He didn’t hit me, but it scared me half to death. Grabbing me by the arm, he escorted me home.
Walking through the narrow mud-packed streets to our trailer, I passed a woman I had never seen. She smiled at me with an encouraging and warm expression before vanishing into a trailer close to ours. Approaching home, I saw my father waiting at the front door, beating the Palka in his hand. He thanked the Unifer and apologized profusely on my behalf for being such a defiant, ignorant child. I still remember watching as the Unifer walked away, and I even found myself wishing that I could go with him. Instead, I forced myself to walk inside, the feeling of utter terror coursing through my veins. Had I just had some strength left in my legs, I would have run away, but my legs didn’t have an ounce of strength left in them.
The physical punishment wasn’t as bad as I imagined, an angry fist in my face and a few dozen Palka lashes in my palms. But there are some punishments that last so much longer than physical pain. With each whip, my father repeated over and over, how all these years, he wanted a boy, but he only had me. A girl who had murdered the love between him, and the woman he loved. Murderer! Murderer! He would say again and again as the lashes slowly drew out the blood from my palms.
At age ten, I wasn’t mature enough to realize that I didn’t murder my mother. That the circumstances that led up to her being dragged away from the Unifers weren’t my fault. Nothing was. All I knew was that he believed it was true, so I did too. I didn’t have the wisdom to see the lie he was telling me. And himself. See how much he was hurting and finding only relief through putting the blame on others. After that night, my father threw the Palka away and never touched me again—I think he felt bad about what he did.
After lying in my bed awake for hours, pressing my cheek against the expanding wet spot on my pillow, I decided to run away. I climbed out of my window, found a secluded spot in the woods, and was just trying to figure out a plan. When Gemma walked by, it was well past midnight. My fingers and toes had frozen stiff, and I had grown weary of watching the white vapors of breath rising from my mouth. The first thing she said was that she liked to walk outside at night to watch the stars—it made her feel connected, as if everything had purpose. Her comment took me off guard. Purpose? There is no purpose to this. She asked me if it was all right if she could sit down next to me, and I nodded. Sitting so close she studied my face for a moment. I know she saw the bruise on my cheek, and I even think she had her suspicions about what had transpired between my father and me, especially by the way her face warmed with compassion, but she didn’t prod—just stated that she was so glad she’d found someone to talk to.
She explained that she and her mother had just moved to our street that day from another Laborer sector right off the east coast. Several had been relocated because there simply was no more room. The Unifiers had gone through the city and handpicked the women and children to be sent to Culmination. The oilrigs don’t need pretty faces, they had told them, but the cultural hub of Newland does. When they arrived, the Unifers crammed her and her mother in with the Porter family. They’re nice enough—a little too involved in the neighborhood gossip, but decent folks.
After telling her story, Gemma invited me over to her home, and her mother offered me a cup of peppermint tea and a bowl of rice and lentils. Ruth was the same woman I had earlier passed on the streets, and I wondered if it was her who had sent Gemma out to me, witnessing how my father had waited for me with his Palka. This made me feel embarrassed, but they didn’t bring it up at all. Not once. Sitting up until three a.m., we exchanged stories about our lives and laughed until my cheeks cramped. At the end of the night, Ruth said she would be my substitute mother since I didn’t have one, and ever since that night, she would ask how my day was and how things were at home. It was that night of kindness that made me think that maybe, just maybe, there’s some purpose to this crazy life after all. That it might be worth living for a few rare moments of bliss. Although my father never found out about that first night, he did catch me sneaking out a few months later. That’s when he barb-wired my window. But even though he had taken so many things from me and continued to do so over the years, he could never touch the part of me that holds my most cherished memories.
But I am not Gemma and I don’t have a velvet touch when it comes to difficult conversations. I’ll just lay it all out in one clear, unapologetic statement.
Just as I’m about to say it, she points at my bike. “You have a flat tire.”
My heart misses a beat. In all my planning, I hadn’t planned for this. I look her straight in the eyes. “I don’t have time to fix it. We’re going to register for the Savage Run.” My lungs constrict as I wait for her reply.
Gemma’s eyes widen. “This isn’t the
time to joke around.”
“Sergio can get us fake IDs.”
“Who?”
“Never mind, it’s a long story. Will you do it?” I ask.
“Wait—you’re serious?”
I pause a moment before I answer. “Completely.”
“But they’re not going to let us register!”
“If we get new IDs from Sergio, they will,” I say impatiently.
She shakes her head and her hand hits her temple. “This is so bad. Totally illegal. If they discover us, we’ll be outlaws. Or they’ll take us to Skull Hill!”
“Well, we kind of already are,” I remind her.
She gives me an annoyed look. “And—what—we’re supposed to pretend to be guys?”
“Yes.”
“But…we’ll just…die in the Savage Run. Haven’t you heard that the obstacles are deadly?”
“Well, they estimate that around seventy-five to eighty percent of the participants will make it.”
She pauses as if to think. “I can’t do it.”
“We’ll die if we stay here.” My pulse quickens. Surely, she must see that?
“Was this your plan all along?” Her tone is accusatory.
“Yes.”
“But it’s crazy!” She breathes erratically and paces back and forth. “I should just go back to Master Douglas and beg for his forgiveness before he kills me.”
“This plan is way better than returning to Master Douglas. This way we have a chance to be free.”
Her body goes rigid and she glares at me. “Don’t you remember the time you convinced me to climb a tree and I fell and broke my arm?”
I do and I felt really guilty for pressuring her into doing it. But she’s older now and must have become at least a little stronger. “You were twelve.”
“All those dangerous obstacle courses—I don’t have a chance.”
“You do have a chance, and besides, wouldn’t you rather die trying than…just die?”
“I don’t know, Heidi. I remember we joked about something like this before, but I didn’t think we’d actually be considering it!”
I groan and let my head fall back. “Well, do you have a better plan? If we go back to your mother or my father, Master Douglas will find us.”
“What about living in the mountains? I could fish and pick berries.”
“Where would we live? In the trees?”
“I don’t know. But we could work it out.”
“Gemma…”
“We could just move to another country where everyone is free.”
I had thought about it, but in all reality, where would we get the money to travel? Or eat? We would still need fake IDs to get out of the country, and what would we do once we arrived somewhere else, unfamiliar with the language? I figured the chances of making it were much greater if we sign up for Savage Run.
“I don’t want to die!” Her hands flail for a moment before she buries her face in her palms, sinking to the ground, her back against the dumpster.
The ground is covered in trash and is damp from the rain, but still, I sit down next to her.
Her hands drop into her lap and she exhales at length. “Isn’t there any other way? There has to be.”
“Listen, I don’t want to rush your decision, but we have to get going if we’re going to make it. The registration ends at noon.”
She takes a deep breath and remains still for a long time, chewing on her bottom lip.
“We’ll do it together. I’ll help you. You’ll help me.”
She pauses for so long that I think I might rip my hair out. Sitting up a little straighter, she says, “Fine. I’ll agree to do it if you promise you’ll stay by my side the entire time.”
“Promise.” Pressing my lips together, I notice that my shoulders relax a little. “Let’s go to Sergio’s.” I grab the bag of clothes from the back rack of my bike, and we’re off.
Chapter 3
Sergio’s place presses up against the backside of a massive abandoned factory and is situated across from a transporter scrap yard. The wooden shack has tinted windows and a slanted aluminum roof—a perfect place for unlawful dealings.
I hand the bag of clothes to Gemma and knock with a leaden hand. Closing my eyes, I touch my locket, asking for some help for just this one thing. I listen for movement inside, but all I hear is the sound of metal clanking from the scrapyard. Pressing my hands against the filthy, water-stained window, I glimpse inside, but other than the shadows, it’s completely dark.
It was an accident how I found out about Sergio. A few months ago, I had been ordered to deliver prescription medication to him, but when I arrived, no matter how many times I knocked no one answered. Knowing I couldn’t return to the hospital without a signature confirming the delivery, I stepped inside. To my surprise, I found an open trap door in the floor. Stressing about how I needed to get to my other deliveries before time ran out, I decided to descend the stairs and noticed that the light bulbs along the stairwell were lit—even though it was well past seven o’clock in the morning. We Laborers have electricity rationed to us from five to seven a.m. daily, and the government is infallible at keeping the electricity shut off the rest of the day. When I reached the bottom of the staircase, I overheard someone talking about counterfeit IDs.
And that’s when it all came together and the idea of registering for the Savage Run came to me.
I stopped breathing at this point and quickly decided to make the other deliveries first. When I came back to Sergio’s place, I found him eating lunch. I’ve made two deliveries to him since then, and each time brought a bottle of my father’s beer and smiled as I listened to him complaining about his ex-wife. I never brought the whole fake ID thing up to him, but he’s definitely some type of underground rebel, which is just the type of man I need.
I knock again—harder and longer this time.
Be home, please be home, I plead quietly to myself.
Suddenly the door flings open. Sergio’s dark blond, curly hair is messy and he has bags under his green puppy-dog eyes. “I did not order medication,” he says in a thick Eastern accent, a frown on his lips. He’s holding a beer bottle and smells like he hasn’t showered or changed in weeks.
Although I had this entire refined speech memorized, I can’t remember a single word of it. Instead, I just blurt out, “I’m not here for that. We’re here for fake IDs.” I inhale and hold it.
His right eyebrow twitches once. He grabs my elbow, pulls us inside, and slams the door shut. The room is a dark, stuffy, beer-smelling cave.
Pointing his index finger right in my face, he says, “I don’t know what you talking about, but talking like that is trouble for you and me both. Now get out of here!”
“No! I rescued my friend Gemma from a cruel Master and he said he was going to kill her, and he’ll kill me, too, so the only way to get out of this mess is if we join the Savage Run. And for that I need my ID card to say that I’m a guy.”
He runs his hands through his hair before studying me for a moment. “I don’t know what you even talking about. I don’t have such fake IDs.” His tone is more nonchalant than before, flippant even.
I take a step toward him, my heart like a drum. “I know what you do. You have a trap door below that rug there.” I point and continue to say, “And if you don’t help us, I’ll notify the authorities.”
He frowns. “You do not have any proofs, little pteetsa.”
Pteetsa? “Then I’m sure you wouldn’t mind when the Unifers search your house.” I grab the rusty doorknob, silently praying he’ll buy my bluff.
“Wait!” he says, hitting my hand away from the doorknob. “Ah! Stupid girl! How you pay me?”
I repress a smile. “Your payment is that I won’t give you away.” I expect him to go ballistic on me, knock me unconscious or pull out a gun to get me to leave. He seems like the type of guy who doesn’t take any crap from anyone, especially a young Laborer girl without money or influence. “And if I survive,
I’ll…remember you and send you money. And more beer.”
He starts to laugh, softly at first, increasingly louder until his round shoulders roll. “You survive Savage Run? You never will survive and I never will get pay.”
“But at least I’ll go to my grave with your secret.”
He pinches his upper lip, huffing loudly. Then, his eyes fall upon the locket around my neck and his eyes narrow.
“You give me necklace, I give you IDs.”
I reach up and curl my fingers around the smooth golden surface. My mother’s locket? Just thinking about giving it up it makes me feel as if I’m parting with a piece of myself. But there is no time to waste and it has to be done. Ignoring the ache in my chest, I yank the chain from around my neck and hand it to Sergio.
“You are stupid girl for doing this. In few days when you die, I shed no tear.”
“Then you will have lost nothing.” My voice is dull.
Sergio bolts the lock on the front door, and then peels the rug back, exposing the trap door. Gemma grabs my arm when she sees it. “Come, my little pteetsas.” He lifts the circular latch and pulls the trap door open.
“What does pteetsa mean?” I ask when I pass him.
“It mean…‘bird.’”
I step down the metallic spiral staircase, steadying myself on the wobbly rail. I’m not particularly fond of dark, confined spaces—as a matter of fact, I hate them—but having Gemma here helps put me at ease. The room’s walls are made of rock, and the floor is an uneven slab of concrete. I get the distinct feeling that I’m in a forbidden place where hundreds of illegal transactions have taken place over the years. Oddly enough, it doesn’t bother me at all.
Sergio presses the button on the old laptop and sits down on a creaky wooden chair. He drums his fingers on the desk while he waits for the computer to warm up.
Savage Run Page 3