Savage Run

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Savage Run Page 4

by E. J. Squires


  “How is it that you have electricity right now?” I ask.

  He stares at me for a second, his eyes as icy as his frown, and I prepare for a lecture on how I should shut up and just be grateful that he’s helping us. “Have you heard of generator?” He cocks his head to the side and slumps back into his chair.

  “Yes,” I say, having seen gigantic ones at the hospital. We would use them if there were a power outage.

  He nods toward a small beat up machine in the corner, its hum so low that I hadn’t noticed it.

  “I build it with my bare hands.” He lifts his beefy, oil-stained fingers so we can see them.

  “And you’re from the Eastern Republic, right?” Gemma asks.

  “You dead soon so I tell you story. I kill a man in government because he kill my sister. He murder her in front of my old mother’s eyes. The government coming after me after I stab the man dead, so I get on boat and come here. If you tell anyone, I kill you.”

  “Oh,” is the only sound I manage to produce for a second. “We need the IDs today.”

  “Fine, but it take me few hours to hack into system to add your new IDs to list.”

  “No! No, you need to do it sooner than that!” I yell, my hands flailing. “The Savage Run registration ends at noon, and we have to be in the governments database by then.”

  He looks at me like I’m growing a third eye. “If I rush, it won’t work.”

  “If you don’t rush, we’ll die,” I reply.

  “Well, I already tell you, I don’t care if you die.” He slumps back in his seat, and lights a cigarette, inhaling deeply and blowing the white smoke out by the side of his mouth.

  “I don’t care that you don’t care. We need to get into Savage Run!” I say.

  “I not sacrifice my whole operation so you can die.”

  “Well, if you don’t, I guarantee that you’ll be caught.” I feel kind of guilty for blackmailing him, but at this point, if I don’t, my entire plan will crumble to pieces and Gemma’s and my fate will be in the hands of Master Douglas.

  “You worse than Masters!” he says with anger crinkling his heavy eyebrows.

  I’ve pushed him to the limit, but I’ll keep pushing. “You’ll never hear from me again after this—I promise.”

  “Finally, one thing I looking forward to,” he says as he types something into his computer. “Okay, okay, I make it happen. I need to take picture of you and you.” He studies us both for a while. “We must make you look like boys.”

  “I brought clothes,” I say, lifting the bag from where Gemma placed it on the floor beside the desk. “And a pair of scissors to cut our hair.”

  Gemma immediately wraps her hands around her long, blonde braid.

  I lift the scissors out of the bag. “I’ll go first.” Pulling the elastic out, my thick black hair cascades down my back. I hand the scissors to Gemma, and sit down in a brown, leather chair. I can’t explain why the thought of cutting my hair brings a tear to my eye—it’s only dead protein. It’s not like I’m nervous Gemma will do a bad job. And even if she does, who cares?

  “Ready?” Gemma says.

  I nod. When I hear the scissors snap and feel the tickling of my roots as Gemma slices off the first chunk, I don’t cry. But I do ache.

  “Have you pick out name?” Sergio asks. His eyes are glued on the screen.

  I think for a moment and settle on my father’s least favorite person from the Bible. “Joseph.” My father says he was an unrealistic, arrogant, self-righteous man who thought too highly of himself. But in the end, as I recall, Joseph triumphed over everything. And everyone.

  “You, other girl?” Sergio draws a deep look at Gemma.

  “How about George?” she says, still cutting away at my hair. “It’s not perfect—a little too long and shaggy around the edges. It will just look like you haven’t had a cut in a few weeks.”

  “There’s mirror upstairs in bathroom. With different clothes and make-up you look like pre-puberty boy.” He smiles grimly at me. “What is word? Sissy boy?” He laughs dryly.

  I narrow my eyes at him, letting him know that I don’t appreciate the sarcasm. And with that, I stand up and head upstairs with a change of clothes in hand.

  At first, when I enter the tiny bathroom, I avoid looking at my reflection in the mirror. I head straight for the faucet and slide my palms beneath the running water. The water stings my raw flesh and turns the sink red. I stifle a cry and pant instead. I grab a washcloth from the cabinet, wet it, and wipe the blood off my knee and leg. The gashes aren’t too deep, but they sting like crazy. Rifling through the bag for my shirt, I catch a glimpse of myself in the cloudy, cracked mirror. The short haircut accentuates my pointy chin and pouty lips, and my slightly slanted, dark brown eyes look huge, as if I’m trying to make out something in the dark. There are plenty of young men with those features, aren’t there? However, my neck looks way too thin to be a guy’s. My hand touches the place where my mother’s locket used to hang. I feel so bare, so exposed without it. But even though how difficult it was handing it over to Sergio, using it to get the IDs was the right thing to do.

  I make a few serious faces and furrow my brows in an attempt to look like a fierce competitor. I release a sharp breath. It’s useless. They’ll never let me sign up, and even if they do, I’m sure the other participants will suspect.

  What am I doing? I must have lost my mind! I can’t fathom why I thought this was a good idea; clearly, I haven’t thought this through. Because if I had, I would have…I don’t know. I feel so lost. So many changes in a few hours, and it’s all coming down on me at once. I realize there’s no turning back now, but am I a complete idiot for having done this?

  No.

  I can’t start to believe that about myself now. But what if my father is right? He has told me countless times that I’m a good-for-nothing, weak-minded, and irrational being. What if my sanity has withered away after having angry, hateful words directed at me for so many years? What if I have indeed lost my ability to think straight? What if I never actually had the ability to think straight? Only a crazy person would do this, right? Or a desperate one. One desperate enough to voluntarily register for a life-threatening obstacle course where I have a twenty-five percent chance of dying. Yet, what if I make it? What if I actually win my freedom? Goosebumps tingle my neck and arms. If I register, at least there’s a chance. At least I’m living life on my own terms and not being forced to be a Laborer without any choices. Better to be dead than a coward fearing my dreams.

  I wrap my chest tightly with gauze, and change into the black t-shirt and faded jeans I stole from my father. With the last piece of gauze, I loop it through the belt holes and double-knot it. Once I get back downstairs, Gemma’s hair is already cut, thanks to Sergio.

  “Computer thinking,” he says, as if to justify why he cut Gemma’s hair, instead of letting me do the honor.

  The short hair brings out Gemma’s heart-shaped, rose-red lips and high cheekbones. Her eyelashes reach all the way to her light eyebrows and her small, thin nose sits like a button in the middle of her face. This will never work.

  “Do I look bad?” Gemma asks.

  “No, I’m just…worried…” I let my voice trail off.

  “Me, too,” she says.

  After Gemma changes into her clothes—a gray long-sleeved shirt and hunter green cargo pants—Sergio takes our pictures. While he continues to work on the computer, he says there’s water upstairs. Parched, I climb the stairs and head to the kitchen. Gemma excuses herself saying she needs to use the restroom. When she doesn’t return after I finish a whole glass of water, I press my ear against the bathroom door. I hear her silent sobs.

  “Gemma…?”

  Pause. “Just a minute.”

  I hear her blow her nose and flush the toilet. She opens the door—her eyes red. “I just want to go home to my mother.”

  The word ‘mother’ makes me immediately reach for my chest where my necklace used to hang. Instead
I find nothing but bare skin.

  I suppose I would want to go home, too, if Ruth were my mother. She’s the type of person who makes sure you’ve had enough to eat, asks you how you’re feeling, and really listens to you when you speak, and never asking anything in return. In fact, she’s the closest thing I have to a mother since mine vanished sometime shortly after I was born.

  “Just think, if we make it through the course, you can visit her anytime you want.”

  The left side of her mouth rises a little—it almost looks like the beginning of a smile. “That would be nice.” She sits down on the edge of the tub. “I just want to thank you for risking your life to help me. I’m sure he would have finished me off if you hadn’t intervened. He kept saying it every time he would become angry with me—that one day he’d get so angry that he’d kill me.”

  “Of course I couldn’t just leave you there.” I sit down next to her.

  She takes a deep breath. “Master Douglas is a horrible, horrible person.”

  Dare I ask her about what she’s been through? I decide that it might help her to talk about it. “What did he do?”

  She glances at me briefly before looking away, seemingly ashamed and not sure whether or not to tell me.

  “You know I would never judge you. What happened isn’t your fault.”

  Gemma bites her bottom lip and heavy tears tumble down her cheeks. “He drugged me…and beat me…and…locked me up…” Her voice fades lower and lower as she speaks until it’s barely even a whisper. “Raped me…” She buries her face in her arms, uncontrollable sobbing juddering her body.

  “Shhh…” I don’t really know if she wants me to stroke her back, but it’s the only thing I can think to do. “I’m so sorry. It will never happen again, you hear?”

  I listen to her cry for a while, and all I can think is that I should have done something sooner. Much sooner.

  Gemma sniffles, lifts her head, and wipes her nose with her forearm. “I think I would have killed myself sooner or later if I had to stay there.”

  “Oh, Gemma…”All this time I made deliveries to Master Douglas, at least once a week for the past year, I saw her eyes deaden a little more each time. I suspected he was being cruel, but raping her? Drugging her?

  “You didn’t know.” She puts a hand on my shoulder. “Just promise me we’ll do this together.”

  I nod. “Every step—all the way.”

  Sergio enters the room and hands us our new IDs. They look identical to the ones the government issues—electronic chips, 3-D Newland emblems and all. My name is Joseph Wood and Gemma’s is George Washington.

  “Seriously?” Gemma says after reading her new last name.

  “You don’t like?” Sergio asks with a wry smile.

  “Well, don’t you think that it’s a little too obvious?” she says.

  “It popular to name sons after former president of the home of the brave.” Sergio nods. “And when you think of name during obstacles, you remember, you are brave.”

  I don’t know whether he’s being a complete jerk or if he’s being sincere. My guess is a little bit of both and definitely a smartass. I notice he changed my birth year to two years later than my actual birth year without me having to tell him to do it. I smile. If there’s anyone who knows how to trick the system, it’s Sergio.

  There’s little time, so we head out into the living area to say our good byes.

  “Just—don’t die right away, okay?” Sergio says as I open the door.

  “I’ll do my best. Thank you Sergio.” I hold my hand out and he takes it. We shake.

  He smiles a little and then crosses his arms in front of his chest. “Now get, get.”

  Chapter 4

  “Life,” my father would always lecture me, “isn’t meant to be lived in the shadows of timidity. Man has a spirit of hope and faith.” I’m sure he would vehemently disagree with how I’ve interpreted his statement.

  Gemma and I elbow our way through the crowded streets toward the registration booth, clenching our fake IDs in our fists. The wind blows through my short hair, and the sun warms the back of my neck where my ponytail used to fall. It’s a few minutes before noon, the time the registration will close, but we should be able to make it just fine.

  Soon I see Pavlova Yard. The square cobblestone-paved area is enclosed by a large wrought iron fence, and dozens of Unifers stand at attention guarding the premise. There’s a canopy and above it waves a red flag with an abstract, yellow saber-toothed tiger head. There are two registrars that I can see. The woman—maybe in her forties—looks like she’s from the East, with slanted eyes and black hair. She has wide shoulders, strong legs, and a flat chest. From the look on her stern face, I can only imagine that she’s had to fight her way to every promotion in this man-dominating field. The young man—probably in his late teens or early twenties—has tan skin and chestnut hair. He wears an expression of serenity, and I get the feeling that I’ve met him before. School? No. I’d remember him from there. Maybe I made a delivery to him at some point.

  Three sturdy boys—undoubtedly the last of many here today—stand in the registration line, ready to gamble their lives for a chance at a better future. They’re handing the registrars their ID cards and signing something appearing to be a waiver or contract. I wonder what circumstances drove the boys to come here today—and if any of them are as desperate as I am.

  Then I notice—at the end of the line stands Arthor, a boy from my primary school class. He still has the fiery, red hair, but now it’s longer and curlier. Why did he have to be here?

  Then I realize why. Several years back, Tristan, Arthor’s older brother and an extraordinarily strong Laborer, competed in a regional Laborer obstacle course in hopes of winning food rations for his family. Every Laborer in our city cheered for Tristan, whose presence in the race somehow brought hope that good things could still happen to the subordinates of Newland. But he didn’t make it. Tristan drowned after falling from a one hundred-foot cliff. His family was just devastated—as were we all. Right after finishing school, when we still kept in touch, Arthor used to tell me how one day, he’d find a way to honor his brother’s memory.

  This is very bad for us. If he sees me, then he’ll blow my cover.

  “What?” Gemma asks, when I don’t continue on.

  “Arthor,” I whisper.

  She gazes into the yard. “Oh, no.”

  “The only way around it is to wait until he leaves.”

  She nods.

  Once in a while, by passers stop to see what’s going on inside Pavlova Yard. A few haven’t moved from the fence since we got here. Looking closer, I recognize one of the lingerers as Arthor’s mother. She’s clenching the iron rods, pressing her face between the gaps in the fence, her red, swollen eyes fixed on her only living son.

  Eventually Arthor signs the paper and starts to walk away from the registration booth. Behind us, a throng of protesters enters the streets, waving their anti-Savage Run signs and chanting: “No, no to the Savage Run waste!”

  Taking advantage of the distraction, I say to Gemma, “Let’s go.” Walking toward the gates, I reach up to touch my locket, but when my hand is halfway up, I remember how it’s no longer there. I lower my hand.

  We approach the Unifer guarding the gate and hand him our ID cards. My heart beats so hard that I think he might hear it. Looking at us with haughty eyes, he hands us the cards back and tells us to proceed. Moving ahead, I glance at Gemma. But instead of a confident façade, her face is fallen and ashy and she’s white knuckling her ID. With no time to spare, we pick up our pace and run toward the booth.

  Out of nowhere, a Unifer pummels me to the ground and presses himself on top of me so I can’t breathe. The attack is so sudden that I don’t even register a single thought before I react. I scream, and somehow manage to wiggle my leg free, kicking the Unifer in the groin. He rolls over, moaning and grabbing his crotch, his face contorting in pain. As quick as a cat, I hop back onto my feet and look
for Gemma. To my dread, I find her pinned beneath two of Master Douglas’s Unifers, and they’re holding her at gunpoint.

  “Gemma!” I shriek, my heart jumping into my mouth.

  “Heidi, run!” she yells.

  The Unifers look up at me and my initial thought is to flee the scene—abandon my mission. Save myself. One of the Unifers points at me and commands the other one to get me. In a split second, a moment so condensed I feel like the bubble of time might burst, I have to make a decision. Do I continue to run toward the booth and save myself, and maybe Gemma, too, by declaring that we both want to register? Or do I turn back and try to help her? The Unifers are so large, and they carry firearms, so I have absolutely no chance against them. But I can’t desert Gemma! Although if I continue toward the booth, I might be able to save her also by announcing she wants to register. If I try to help her, we’ll both be taken into custody and back to Master Douglas. Some seconds are so decisive that they have eternal repercussions.

  “Heidi, run!” Gemma yells.

  I spin around, hoping amnesty sets in the moment I declare that we want to register, desperate that I made the right choice. Instead of sprinting forward, I run into someone’s chest, and that someone grabs my shoulders.

  “What’s going on here?” a deep, direct, voice says.

  I look up into his face and see that it’s the male registrar. Our eyes lock for a split second, but I look down quickly, afraid he might be able to tell that I’m a girl, disguised as a guy, trying to register for the Savage Run. A split second is long enough to recognize that he carries an aura of confidence and power—this is a man used to taking charge and staying in control. He’s built like an athlete: tall and muscular. Then, it hits me like a brick from the sky. The registrar is President Volkov’s son—Nicholas. I’m so done for.

  “I…we’re…we…we came to register for Savage Run,” I stutter.

  “Sorry—the registration just closed,” he says.

  I take a step back and look into his eyes again, pleading. “Please…just let us join. I know we’re a few minutes late, but this is a matter of life and death.” I glance over my shoulder and see the Unifer making his way toward me, and Gemma struggling against the others.

 

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