Summer Lane: State of Chaos

“Then what are we here for?”

Sophia’s eyes narrow.

“To work.”

I don’t get a warm and fuzzy feeling from that statement either. All of this is way too much to take in, so I focus on putting myself into a mental box and locking everybody out. I think about Chris and only Chris.

What is he doing right now? He’ll discover that I’m gone when he comes back from his hunting expedition into the great unknown. He’ll be mad at me at first. He’ll think I went looking for him. (Well, technically I did , but that’s not how I got caught.) And then he’ll flip to battle mode and start searching for me. But how will he be able to track a truck? How will be ever find me?

He won’t , a little voice says. Its name is common sense. You’re on your own.

No way. I’m not alone. Chris will find me.

Even if he doesfind you, you’ll be dead by the time he does .

I shudder. Common sense really needs to take a hike.

All through the night, the truck keeps moving. When the soft glow of morning hits the opening at the end of the trailer, I strain to see where we are. I can’t see outside, though. Not with the enormous amount of arms and legs blocking my view. Sophia falls asleep on my shoulder. I’m too exhausted to shake her off, and besides. The girl did take care of me when I was unconscious. The least I can do is be a human pillow.

And then we stop.

I freeze. Doors slam. Men’s voices echo outside the trailer. The rumble of nearby engines. Sophia snaps awake beside me. She grabs my arm, looking scared.

“We must be here.”

There’s movement at the end of the trailer. I wobble to my feet, wincing with the pressure. My ankle is still sore from being hit with a stun gun, I guess. Unsurprising. There’s a hushed murmur right before the crowd surges forward. It’s so sudden that Sophia and I get smashed together. I can’t breathe. Somebody at the entrance of the trailer yells, “EVERYBODY OUT!”

I’m guessing that means us.

We’re dragged out of the truck along with the other prisoners. When we reach the mouth of the exit, I’m blinded by the sun. It seems unnaturally bright compared to the darkness of the truck. Everything moves in slow motion. Somebody grabs my arm and throws me to the ground. I land in a heap just as Sophia slams into my back. She gets to her feet, grimacing.

“Sorry,” she breathes.

I look around, trying to get my bearings. We’re on a dirt road, and all around us are rows of perfectly aligned fruit trees. Oranges, by the looks of it. An irrigation canal is running alongside the road. I get a good look at the truck: A semi with a fruit packing-shed insignia on the side.

Wow. I’m nothing but a piece of fruit, now?

Wonderful.

Omega guards in dark blue uniforms are surrounding the truck, literally throwing people out and lining them up. “Come on, line up. Move it.” An Omega trooper with thick black hair and pale skin shoves his gun into my back. I scramble to my feet just as Sophia clutches my arm. We’re pushed into a group of people guarded by troops. As we round the side of the truck, my jaw drops. Three other trucks are parked in front of us, all of them packed with prisoners. About fifty yards down the road is a huge complex of buildings. The structure is gray with dark orange roofing. A makeshift fence has been erected around the entire thing, topped off with coils of barbed wire.

This obviously isn’t your average prison.

“Move it, go forward. Come on.”

The same pale guard brings up the rear of this group, and I notice something else. Our truckload is made up of female prisoners. There aren’t any men in our group, although I can see a group of men farther down the road. They’re keeping us separated, which is the only positive thing that I can see about this situation.

“Do you know where we are?” Sophia whispers.

The two of us are linked arm in arm, afraid of being separated. We’ve only known each other for a couple of hours, but already we’ve latched onto an important survival instinct: stick together. It might be the only thing that keeps us alive.

“No, but…” I trail off as we approach the fence. Guards are standing at the gate, watching the prisoners get shoved through the entrance. The complex is surrounded with concrete. An asphalt road surrounds the property. A sign marked School Crossingis leaning sideways over the pavement. That’s when it hits me. This is — was — a school. The name of the school has been ripped off the front of the building. In its place is a rough outline of where the letters used to be. I feel chilled to the bone. Sophia sags against my shoulder.

“I can’t believe they would use a school to house prisoners,” she bites out.

“I can. They’ll use anything they can get their hands on.”

I shut my mouth as the pale guard comes up beside us, practically flapping his ears to get in on the conversation. When we pass through the front entrance, I experience a sudden rush of desperation.

Out of the frying pan and into the fire.

As soon as I step foot on the sidewalk, my heart sinks. We’re inside , now. Getting out is going to be difficult, if not impossible. Outdoor halls, offices, administrative buildings, classrooms and a gymnasium dot the property. Everything was once well watered and green. Flowers had been planted in front of the main office. Now everything is dead. Yellow. Sections of the school have been separated with cheap but effective fencing, making the entire complex one big series of inescapable walls.

If you get past one wall, you just have to get past another one.

Nice.

Our group is led down a long outdoor hallway, heading towards the gym. It’s like high school all over again, I swear. I always hated P.E. This is cruel irony.

When we approach the gym, I notice that the front doors are propped open. Vending machines are sitting dead around the perimeter. We step inside the gym, and I’m immediately hit with the same gross stench I had to put up with in the truck.

Sweat. Vomit. Other unmentionable scents better left unsaid.

The gym is crawling with prisoners. They’re being herded into different rows and Omega officers are crowding men and women into separate locker rooms. I get a fleeting glance at the empty bleachers and a giant blue and gold banner tacked above the backboard of the basketball court:

GO TIGERS! FIGHT!

If only.

Sophia and I squeeze into a single file line. She goes in front and I follow behind her. I’m trembling from head to toe with adrenaline and fear. The pale guard with the black hair — I’m going to call him Grease, because it looks like his hair hasn’t been washed in a couple of centuries — gives me a long, creepy look before heading off to join the men’s group. He’s replaced by a score of female Omega guards coming in from the locker room. They’re all fair-skinned, dark haired women with loud voices. One woman in particular catches my eye as she walks to the front of the line. Her hair is pulled back so tightly that it looks like it might tear her skin off.

A small nametag is shining on her breast pocket:

V. Kameneva.

Russian. She notices me staring at her and flicks her laser gaze right at me. It’s beyond uncomfortable. Worse than the look my dad would give me if I were slouching at the table in a public restaurant.

My cheeks warm and I stare at the ground, praying that she won’t speak to me. She doesn’t, but she keeps throwing glances in my direction as we pass. Because of her nametag and the red band tied around her left arm, I make an assumption that she’s an officer rather than a mere soldier. She’s overseeing the arrival of new prisoners.