Abigail Ketner - Branded

The propaganda video ends as static charges across the screen. Not a word is said among all of us while we wait. The guards straighten up as the lights come back on, dimly flickering as one guard stands in front of the room. He barely glances at us as he reads from a paper in his hands.

“You’re all here because you’ve been accused of crimes and branded as criminals of the state. The Commander is the ultimate power over all. From here on, you have no rights. Each sinner will be assigned a job upon arriving to your quarters and you will report to your jobs daily as commanded. The siren is your warning to report immediately to your bus. Buses will transport you to the trains at the main gate. Do not miss your bus unless you’re dead. You will obey all laws in the Hole. There is a hospital, but you may only seek treatment for your health if approved by a guard or if it is detrimental to the health of the guards. One guard will escort you to your new quarters and most of you,” he says while glancing at me briefly, “will be on your own afterward. No questions allowed.”

Fear catches in my throat. I’m no longer considered human.

My guard, Cole, pulls my elbow and leads me out of the dingy room into the hot bright light. He practically shoves me into my seat before sliding into his. I squint my eyes and bring my hand up over them as they adjust.

Nothing could’ve prepared me for what lies ahead. Along the main road, people sit in squalor, begging as each vehicle passes. Eyes mixed with hopelessness and despair meet mine. Children run in dirty, tattered clothing, chasing each other while women yell at them to go inside. Two men beat a woman in the shadows of a side street while guards stand watch with their hands in their pockets. Why aren’t they stopping it?

The smell of sewage pierces my senses as dirt swirls in the air. The landscape never deviates the farther we travel. One block, two blocks, three blocks pass as the immensity of the Hole begins to choke me. Terror creeps into my chest, making it almost impossible to breathe.

“Hang on,” Cole says, tapping the roll bar. “If you fall out, they’ll kill you.”

I give him a questioning look but obey out of fear. The roads narrow, and gradually, crowds of people spill out from every crevice available. They rush the vehicles in the convoy, begging for food, water, and anything of worth to trade. Someone grabs my arm, screaming into my face.

“Slut!” Her fingers tear at my hair, my clothes, and my body. I grab her wrists and send her backward into the fray.

“I bet she didn’t see that one coming,” Cole says.

“I want you!” a man shouts. “Come here!” He clings to the back of the Jeep.

The crush of people suffocates me, and I frantically fight off their hands. “Don’t touch me! Don’t you dare touch me,” I yell before shoving a scrawny man off my leg. The massive crowd slows our speed until we’re almost at a complete stop.

“Grab her!” someone shouts.

“She’s mine!” a dirty-faced man with multiple tattoos bellows and clambers onto the bumper. I stand, holding on to the roll bar, and kick him in the chest, knocking him off the Jeep into the swarm of dingy colors surrounding us. They grab my ankles, scraping my skin, and start pulling me off.

Cole slams the Jeep in park, stands up with his gun in hand, and indiscriminately fires at them to scare them off. Splashes of red explode across my vision, but everything within me fights to stay on the vehicle. I wipe off my face with my sleeve, look down, and see chunks of flesh hanging on my arm.

“Ahhhhhhh,” I shriek. “Get it off me.” I wave my arms wildly but can’t dislodge them all.

I grab the bar again, but my hands and arms drip with sweat. I’m slipping. “I can’t hold on much longer!”

He clenches his jaw and grabs on to my shirt. Like that’ll help. Just then, all hell erupts as multiple guns open fire. Bullets ricochet off the walls to our left and right, chipping them and sending people for cover. The guards on the rooftops fire without restraint. Screams and shouts echo throughout the street, and bloodied bodies lie alongside our Jeep.

“Get down,” Cole orders. I drop to the floor and cover my head with my arms, shaking uncontrollably with fright. All the while, Cole doesn’t flinch. He sits back in his driver’s seat and steps on the accelerator, rolling over the dead people in the street. The crunching of bones and constant thumping of the vehicle over their bodies turns my stomach and the acid burns my throat.

“Don’t move,” he says. “We’re almost there.”

In my shocked state, I follow his orders without question. My hands tremble from adrenaline and my throat stings from screaming. I feel their grimy handprints all over me. Their miserable, desperate faces encroach upon my thoughts as I relive the horror of their hatred.

They think I’m just a whore… not a real person.

Turning into a side garage, Cole turns off the engine, but I’m too traumatized to get out when he opens the door. Instead, I lean over and throw up. He steps back before I splatter his boots and waits for me to finish before dragging me out.

“Follow me. Don’t run and no talking,” he orders. The sour taste in my mouth and shear disgust paralyzes my vocal cords, so I nod in reply.

Then I puke again.

I move one foot in front of the other, slogging along. My feet feel like weights attached to my ankles. I just want to break down and cry, but now is obviously not the time, and there are too many things to cry about. I wouldn’t know where to start.

Not too long ago I wanted to end my life… and now I’m fighting to survive. Why? Maybe it’s pride. Purple and blue would go well together. Then it hits me.

“Because this wasn’t my choice,” I say out loud.

Cole whips his head around. “I told you not to talk.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Shut up!”

So I do.

Graffiti marks the walls of the garage with words I wouldn’t dare say at home. The bold colors stand out, stark against the muted gray everywhere else.

Clouds of dust follow each step and I hop to avoid the broken glass strewn along the street because with one misstep, the glass would go right through my shoe and pierce my foot. Tall, worn-down buildings made of cement blocks line every road. Cole checks on my progress, only to move faster. He shows no signs of pity or emotion about having to shoot those people earlier. And yet, he’s not outright mean to me, either. I have no doubt what some other guards would’ve done in his situation. Just the thought makes me swallow hard around the lump in my throat.

We come to an intersection. I turn my head to the right, and men with no shirts lick me up and down with their eyes like I’m a fillet, ready to eat. To my left, brightly painted and scantily clad women summon Cole. They clap as I walk past.

“What diseases do you have?” they ask me. I ignore them, keeping my eyes forward. “How many have you screwed?” The women sneer. They laugh at my obvious discomfort.

I trip over an empty bottle, but Cole grabs me before I fall. His touch refocuses me.

“Watch where you’re going,” he says while glancing at me. “Look straight ahead and don’t pay attention to them.”

I wish I could be so confident.

A massive building with a clean façade appears through the dusty cloud in front of us. It towers over the other buildings, making it an easy landmark. Vehicles pull through a checkpoint in the back. Small groups of people loiter outside, smoking and talking. It’s almost normal, except for the armed men in black mounted on the rooftops.

“That’s the hospital. Where you’ll be working,” Cole says. “All citizens of the Hole are required to work. I’ll escort you there and back. You can’t miss a day of work unless you’re on your deathbed, understood?” He glares at me.