Emmy Laybourne - Savage Drift

The kids go off to find a table in the corner and Mario and I get on line.

I keep my eyes on the floor. That’s the best way not to engage.

Before the disaster, Plaza 900 was probably a very cool place to be. Luxurious, even with different food stations scattered in the giant hall. From the signage, you can see that before it was Pizza Time! Or diners could have Zen Gen Sushi, or Tío’s Burritos or Omelets Your Way!

They all serve the same dishes now: Everyone Eats Oatmeal! And for lunch, Always Soup! And for dinner, Eternal Spaghetti!

They serve us in shifts.

Excellence and Responsibility eat from 6–7 a.m.

Discovery and Respect eat from 7–8 a.m.

Gillett and Hudson from 8–9 a.m.

There is pushing in the food lines, and fighting. Every meal. Over oatmeal. (Actually the fighting isn’t over the oatmeal, but over the sugar we get to put on the oatmeal. Two packets apiece and people are always accusing one another of taking more.)

We get in line.

I’m shoved. I take no notice. Mario’s shoved. My head goes up.

“Good morning, Mr. Scietto,” comes a voice from behind.

It’s Carlo. The leader of the Union Men, one of the three gangs of idiots that vie for control of the Virtues.

One’s all Latinos and is run by a guy named Lucho. There’s the Clubbers out of the Discovery dorm. They have clubs they hit people with. They also have a way with words.

And the one based in our dorm calls itself the Union, and its members are called Union Men.

I don’t want to take them seriously. I want to blow them off, pretending that they are just men playing at being hoodlums. But they hurt people.

Sometimes they hurt people in public. While the guards look away.

Carlo puts his hand on one of Mario’s thin arms.

My blood amps up for a fight, immediately.

The sounds from the rest of the room seem to dim and my sight somehow takes in only Carlo, and the three Union Men with him. One broad, one tall, one teenager.

“It’s time for you to start paying your share,” Carlo murmurs. He’s dark-skinned. Shaved head. Has watery brown eyes and a calm, dignified “comportment” that seems fashioned after some Bond villain. He almost speaks with a British accent.

He wears a mostly clean button-down shirt every day, tucked into tight black jeans. A mostly clean shirt takes a lot of resources here.

“You’re holding up the line,” Mario grumbles.

“Mario Scietto, you’re a mystery to me. Do you know who gives us tribute? Do you? The old and the weak,” Carlo says.

“Maybe you should look in a mirror, Scietto,” says the teenager. He has a thin, wispy mustache and the teeth of a smoker.

“Brett’s right,” Carlo says. “You truly fit the description. Both old and weak. And those kids rely on you. Mr. Scietto, what if something happened to you?”

“Leave us alone,” I choke through gritted teeth.

“Oooh,” Carlo purrs. “She speaks. We were beginning to think you were a mute, little sister.”

“I’ve heard her talk,” says the homely Brett guy.

I have no memory of him whatsoever.

“Someone tried to take a towel away from one of her brats and she nearly took his head off.”

I do remember the jerk who’d tried to snatch one of our two towels from Heather, but I have no memory of this Brett.

“Yeah,” he continues. “She’s feisty.”

I hate that word. It’s used to describe any woman with an opinion.

“Move the LINE!” some deranged someone shouts from behind us.

I push forward, taking Mario gently by the shoulder, trying to move him away from the Union Men, but they push through the milling people to catch up with us.

We put our trays on the line and the cafeteria workers set out bowls for us.

“You got four little ones, right, mi amor ?” the lady asks Mario.

“Good morning, Juanita. Yes. There are six of us total.”

Juanita spoons the porridge into six bowls and starts sliding them across the glass to us.

“All we want today is a percentage of your rations, Mario,” Carlo says, lifting a bowl off Mario’s tray. God knows what they would want tomorrow.

“That’s not for you, pendejo !” Juanita bellows.

“It’s okay,” Mario tells the serving lady. “I’m not hungry today.”

Juanita slips me our twelve sugars as Mario and I move forward. I put them in my pocket.

We push past the Union Men. I see the kids at a table in the corner. They look small and scared as usual.

“And I’ll take those sugars.” Carlo holds out his hand.

“Go to hell,” I say.

Carlo steps close and puts his foul-smelling face up in mine.

“We’re already there, sweetmeat,” Carlo murmurs.

“Give him the sugars, Josie,” Mario directs. “Go on, now.”

BAM, BAM, BAM goes my heart. Oh, the bloodlust is up and I want to hurt Carlo. I could hurt him so much. And Brett. Entitled, arrogant idiots. Hurt them both.

And I see Mario there, standing next to me, a light, God help me, shining in his eyes.

I take our sugars, most of them anyway, and shove them into Carlo’s hand.

“See? She knows what’s good for her,” the creep Brett says with a smile.

He slides his hand onto my hip and pulls me to his body.

“We got a table, Uncle Mario!” chirps Heather, pushing through the crowd to us.

I see Lori standing, craning her neck, watching us anxiously.

“Come on,” Heather insists. I follow Mario as Heather leads us away.

“Don’t worry, Uncle Mario,” Carlo calls. “You’re under our protection now.”

Mario’s hands shake with the tray.

He glances at me and sees my expression.

“Never mind,” he says. “One less bowl of mush. Big whoop.”

“We need the food,” I say.

“We do what we gotta do to stay safe,” he murmurs. “Heck, maybe it’ll do us some good.”

I let him think that and I swallow down what I know to be true: give in to a bully and he always wants more.

We like to eat early, all together. It’s funny how quickly we found a routine here—all the refugees have. When your life is utter chaos, you cling to little things like sitting at the same spot at dinner each day. Fistfights have broken out about the seating. I’m not kidding. Alex and I found the group at our regular table.

The little kids were writing and drawing. Who knows how Mrs. McKinley got hold of the construction paper and markers. They keep saying they’re going to set up classes for the kids, but everything’s still in a state of flux.

“How do you spell ‘celebrity’?” Chloe asked as we sat down.