by Rene Folsom
Outside of camp, life will be harsh. It’s a risk I’m willing to take. We’ve all heard the stories of what happens in the wastelands. People can die from a variety of things. An animal dying of starvation will very likely maul a nomad. A wound could develop, causing an infection when there are no meds to be found. Or, like the fate of my mother, one could die of exposure, which is a torturous death—one which pains me to think my mom had to endure after the medics took her. There are several unthinkable ways to seal a person’s fate beyond the boundaries of our colony’s fence line. Still, I don’t give two fucks about that. Not even three. Anything is better than this soulless place.
“Take her. But make sure you watch her closely. She’s trouble. Tobias lost his life because of that wench.”
“He touched her?” the medic asks as he reaches for me.
Yeah, he tried. The feel of his slimy hands is something I will never forget. It was worth it in the end, though. I confirmed two things that day: I can fight. And if thrown into the nastiest of circumstances, I will remain vigilant in my efforts to survive.
“It was all caught by the sentinel feeds. She fought back. Tobias was executed the next day, and she spent seven days in the hole.”
“And she lives to tell the tale,” the medic holding my arm responds with amazement, looking over me as if he sees me as a challenge instead of a threat.
The fact they continue to talk about me as if I’m not standing here, not able to hear or comprehend their words, irritates me. Still, I stifle my annoyance and hold my chin high.
The other medic nods, affirming the assumption of his comrade. “After twenty-one days in the facility… she did. I’m surprised. Most of them don’t last an hour down there. But she did.”
I did survive. I refuse to speak of my time in the hole, regardless of the outcome. If given the punishment again, I’d walk out of that godforsaken hole with my head held high. I will never let them get the best of me.
Not again. Not ever.
The medic facing me motions with his hand, forcing me to follow him. I do so willingly.
This is it. It’s now or never. Never might be a strong word, but it’s a solid portrayal of pure determination. With that being said, I might not get the chance again for at least another five years.
The word never doesn’t exist in my vocabulary.
The medical tents they set up just inside the fence are pre-treatment areas, but the camp knows it as a quarantine. They are required to first give a cursory examination before moving us to the area where they take weight, height, and retina scans, even though we know they do more than that in the concealed tented areas. Everything about us is tagged—from our eye color down to the number of toes we have on our feet. I’m surprised they don’t count the amount of hair follicles on our heads.
“Height—five foot seven inches. Weight—one hundred thirty pounds.” I try to keep from reacting when the robotic, computerized voice rattles off my measurements as I stand in front of the scanner.
The medic shoves me forward, almost making me trip.
“Hair color?” the computer asks. I’m taken aback that it is unable to scan such a minor detail until I hear its robotic voice add, “Hair color unknown. Requesting sample for analysis.”
The medic stands in front of me, and I can’t help but react to his nearness. I still can’t let him know he irritates me, so I stand straight, gazing beyond him like he’s not even there. Still, I watch as he reaches forward with his left hand, his other wielding a pair of cutters. It isn’t the cutters that move me into action; instead, it’s the medic’s vulnerability.
His arms close in, exposing his armpits like a target specifically made for me. I don’t waste a single second. Striking fast, I punch him in the stomach. He starts to reach for his gut, but I catch him in the throat as he’s going down, ensuring he can make no sound. After, I bring the heel of my boot down hard on the back of his head.
The medic is taller than me and his shoes are larger, but I am well known for making do with what I have at my disposal. The blue cap on his head is the only thing that manages to fit my body perfectly. The rest of his clothing is loose on me. I might not be thick like Greann, but I have muscle bulk. I hurriedly arrange the medic’s clothing on me so I at least don’t look like I’m being swallowed whole.
Shutting the tent flaps behind me, I secure his hand-held in one arm and make my way toward the fence. No one even glances in my direction—not the guards or the other medics. Making sure I don’t walk too fast or too slow, I match pace with the other medics, ensuring my boots don’t trip me up.
The opening to the gate is in my sights. My heart pounds in my chest. I almost stumble, gripping the edge of the opening in order to stay upright and keep my composure.
Curses.
I’m clearly not paying attention as my hand gets caught on an exposed wire. I also don’t realize how cold I am until the warmth of my blood coats my hand.
The moment I step free of the fence, I pull in a deep breath. The air feels like freedom. I can taste it.
But before I can take another step, I start to stress. It’s not quite panic mode yet, but my breaths become erratic as I think of what I have to do next.
I don’t know how to drive.
It’s never been in my plans to steal a vehicle. I just assumed I would hitch a ride in one.
I’m suddenly startled by a loud scream from behind. Turning, I realize it was Greann—she’s been chosen this selection. Tears of joy stream down her face, the salty liquid streaking through the dirt and grime coating her cheeks and leaving pale white skin beneath.
That’s the cleanest her skin has ever looked.
Greann shoves a few girls out of her way just as the medics form a barrier around her. There is no hesitation or stutter in their footsteps as they all turn and begin to head for the gate.
On the other side of the fence, some women are crying while others are cheering her on. There are a few who have looks of relief on their faces, though it pales in comparison to the others who are consumed with utter disappointment. The relieved group of women are the ones who know what will really happen to Greann. The woman is stupid if she thinks she’ll come out of this process alive. If she doesn’t bear the Prime children in what they deem an appropriate amount of time, she’ll be sent to work in one of the factories or, worse, killed.
I stay silent as I step inside the back of the medic vehicle. There is one other person sitting there already, his head down. His arms are folded across his knees like it is expected of him to be obedient. I mimic the same pose. He begins to sniff the air in front of him, causing me to peer up while keeping my head down so as not to bring attention to myself. He does it once, twice, three more times, before he abruptly stands. The weight of the van tilts as he makes his way to my side. All I can see now are his shiny black boots. He stands there, no sounds leaving his lips except for heavy breathing.
Frozen, I don’t make a sound.
The back of the door to the van opens, and another medics steps inside. This man stops abruptly.
“What’s wrong, Cade?”
“Seems we have a stowaway.” The one called Cade has a gruff voice. It’s booming—echoing through my bones. A meaty finger is shoved in my direction. “Check the medic tents for Brent. This isn’t him.”
Shit.
Cade has me in a chokehold before I am able to react, lifting me from my seat. My feet dangle as I struggle for breath, causing the hat to fall off my head. His hand is large and calloused. The heat from his flesh burns my throat as I try to swallow. Large black eyes glare into mine. His nostrils flare. I see spots—bright white lights that flicker in and out as I continue trying to pull in a much-needed breath.
It’s life to me now. Air. I need it.
Desperate, my hands go to his wrist. I struggle, but my energy is fading along with my strength. I’m fading. My ears begin to ring, and my body goes slack under the crushing weight of his hand. The last words I hear are off in t
he distance, almost muffled even though I know it’s Cade’s voice. It’s deep, dark, and has an evil twang to it.
“Bring her along for the ride.”
3
When I open my eyes again, I’m sure I’m dreaming. Something smooth and soft hugs my body, and the smells that assault my senses are aromas I’ve never experienced before. My clothes have been removed. Whatever fabric is in their place is cool against my skin—soft and delicate. The material tickles as I slide my thighs together. I don’t know where I am, but the ceiling above me is beautiful. Stars twinkle brightly, and the clouds appear to be moving. Is it a trick of the mind or is there no ceiling at all, but instead the true backdrop of the night sky? Back at the colony, the air was polluted from the nearby factories we were forced to work in.
I don’t want to move.
Why should I even try?
This is better than any facility visit.
My heart races, sweat popping like raindrops on my skin. Where am I? I wasn’t selected. Greann was. I tried to escape, but I was caught. At least, that’s the last thing I remember. One of the medics recognized me before the van left the colony. Cade. That was his name. I remember him choking the life out of me, but after that, my memory is nothing but a blur. A door opens off in the distance, startling me as I turn toward the noise. I see nothing. There are other beds in here, that much I can tell. All of them lined up. Six in total. They’re empty.
Footsteps get closer. One foot drags as the other makes a tapping sound. The person approaching has a limp. I wait. If I try to run now, I will surely be caught again.
Why am I not being punished?
I should be in the hole, or worse. I’m surprised I wasn’t beaten within an inch of my life. When I try to move my body, the fabric surrounding me gets tighter… almost to the point of pain.
“You can move all you like, but it will get you nowhere.” The words are coming from above me—a woman’s voice.
“The bed is to make you comfortable enough, but it can and will kill you if I so choose it.” The woman speaking to me is dressed in a grey robe. Her face is weathered, and her right eye is missing. The deep lines in her skin make her age obvious. Her head is covered in a white cap, and there’s some sort of device I don’t recognize on her wrist.
“My name is Sister Abby. You will always address me as such. Are we clear?”
I grunt, unable to make more sound than that, and she smirks before touching her wrist. Whatever she presses makes the bed squeeze tighter. The sensation of being crushed overwhelms me to my core.
“Again, I’m Sister Abby, and I will be addressed as such. Do I make myself clear?” Her voice is both demanding and careful, almost thoughtful. It’s a deception. If she didn’t want to hurt me, she wouldn’t have used the device on her wrist. There was a woman at the colony the guards showed favored to. She would often use her status against other women in the camp whenever it was beneficial to her.
“Crystal,” I manage to grit out, more for her than myself.
“Good,” she croons. “Welcome to House Kincaid. Although your stay here will be short, there are two things you’ll abide by while here. Never speak unless spoken to and keep your head down. Life here can be easy; my job is to see that everything and everyone flows without a hiccup. You will do as I say, when I say, or there will be consequences.”
To prove her point, she adjusts the settings on the bed. As it squeezes this time, I feel as if a million needles are penetrating my skin. I thought I was ready to take on the harsh environment outside the fence. Never in a million years had I considered I’d trade one hell for another. All at the cost of freedom. It’s what I want, what I crave. My mother was free before she was brought to colony. I was born inside the walls of it. A miracle she called me. To this day, I don’t see being born as a miracle. It was more of a curse with the way our society is run. I can’t even find a beneficial reason for my existence. Seriously—who would want to bring a child into this world?
With the confines of fine fabric consuming me, I do my best not to scream. My silence is clearly not to Sister Abby’s liking. She wants to hear me cry out in pain. Maybe she lives to see others in anguish. Or maybe her worth is judged based on how she controls the help. No matter the reason, hate for this woman fills me.
The fabric on the bed continues to squeeze. Tears gather in my eyes and spill over onto my cheek, the heat of each drop almost soothing in some twisted way. I can’t take much more of this without being crushed, so I give her what she wants.
I scream… and scream… and scream even louder… until I rupture my voice box.
Until I’m coughing up blood.
My eyes flutter. Blinding light floods my vision.
“It’s about time you came to,” chimes a familiar voice from everywhere and nowhere all at once. My throat feels stripped, causing me to wince when I swallow—the sandpaper feeling overwhelming my insides. I feel like I’ve gargled with broken glass that’s still stuck there.
The room is too bright. I can’t see who is speaking.
“Sister Abby,” the female voice calls out. “She’s finally awake.”
Again, that familiar drag and tap sound of labored footsteps inches closer to me.
Sister Abby.
Whoever else is in the room, the female who summoned the sister, still eludes me, even though I know for a fact the voice sounds familiar.
“Get up,” Sister Abby demands, poking my side with what I assume is a stunner, though she doesn’t zap me with it. Still, the threat of electrical shocks coursing through my body is enough to get me moving, even if I haven’t gotten control of my balance yet.
I’m no longer constricted in the soft, unforgiving fabric. So, with my limited freedom, I allow my legs to swing over the side of the bed, my feet finding purchase on the cold, hard floor.
Wood.
At least, it feels like wood.
I allow my eyes to adjust. Soon, I realize just how awful I look. Not that fashion has ever been something I had to worry about. Still, I’m no longer wearing the medic’s uniform. Rags barely cover my body.
I suddenly feel naked.
My head whips up to see who is in the room and able to see me in such disarray.
There, standing in front of me as I examine every inch of my surroundings, is Sister Abby and—surprise, surprise—Greann.
I hold out my hands, studying my palms to see if this is real… if I am real.
“Stand up,” Sister Abby barks. I’m still trying to focus, to gain my balance, when she yells louder than I’ve heard any woman yell when not in pain. “Now!”
I flinch, startled at the loud sound, and jump to my feet, almost falling in the process.
“As I said before you soiled the bedding with your dramatic coughing fit, welcome to House Kincaid. You are not here because you are desired. You are not here to make friends. Your sole purpose in this house is to do what you’re told when you’re told, no questions or excuses permitted.”
I keep my head down, my eyes focusing on Sister Abby’s shabby gray boots, one turned in more than the other—her limp immediately comes to mind.
“I didn’t hear you,” she prompts.
I know what she’s seeking, and it almost kills me to give in—to go from one subservient colony to another is painful.
My escape has failed.
I have failed.
Sister Abby’s good foot stomps, her boot clopping hard against the wooden floor.
I try to hide the stunned shiver that runs up my spine. “Yes, Sister Abby,” I say with a bow to my head, my insides cloaked in defeat.
The sister doesn’t respond as she turns and limps out of the room, leaving Greann and me alone.
“Don’t worry,” Greann says, her voice like a songbird’s chirp echoing off the vast walls of the room we’re in. “I told them your name and that you’re a hard worker. According to Cade, you were already selected for house detail.”
Being selected for house duty was what I h
ad counted on, but only as a means of escape. I had no intention of coming to work in one of the houses. Not House Kincaid, the first house of all the Primes. I should have had a contingency plan—a backup of sorts.
If only I had the forethought to plan that far in advance. I’d only prepped for the moment I made it outside of the colony. Getting caught wasn’t on my radar. I know better now, and I won’t let it happen again. My next escape will cover all scenarios: the good, the bad, and the successful.
Now that we’re alone, I face Greann—look into her eyes—rage creeping up my neck before I can comprehend how miffed I’m getting.
“Why would you do that?” I clench my fists in an attempt to calm my voice, rein it in before the volume of my tirade gets too loud and attracts attention. Lowering my voice to a whisper, I step closer to her so she can hear. “Why would you tell them anything about me? I was planning to get out.”
“Get out of what?” Laughing, Greann crosses her arms over her chest. Before she utters another word, she covertly glances around, making sure no one else can hear. “Get out of breathing air? As far as I can tell, you’re shit out of luck without oxygen.”
I shake my head, pissed that Greann of all people is the lone soul to come to my aid. “I was looking to get out of this hellhole of a life.”
Again, she laughs, this time covering her mouth with her hands to keep from making any loud sounds. “And go where, Zhavia?” She shakes her head, casting her gaze down before finally meeting my eyes again, all laughter gone from her expression. It’s replaced with more seriousness than I’d ever seen in her. “There is no other life. Just lay low, do as your told, and maybe you’ll be transferred as a breeder before long to one of the house personnel.”
She doesn’t bother to say anymore as she turns on her heel and walks out of the room, following the same path as Sister Abby.
The house has dressed her nicely, her hips accentuated by the slinky dress they’ve thrown over her rather unshapely body. My hands tremble in response as I paw at what they’ve outfitted me in—ratty slacks and a dirty white tank top that clings to my skin. No one is going to want me as a breeder, not when I resemble toe fungus. Not that I want to breed with anyone. It hasn’t even been confirmed I can breed. The medic never got the chance to test whether I’m fertile.