Savannah's Chance

by D. A. Maddox

  Is that what I think it is?

  Ruefully, Scott nodded as though in response. Yep. That’s what it is.

  From the third truck, Malcolm emerged—and in his hand he brandished something Savannah could easily identify. Her father was a cop. In the small and relatively peaceful town of Lake Ridge, he’d used it all of two times, both times on belligerent drunks.

  Only cops were supposed to have Taser guns.

  “Hop on out, pigs! Time to bring the herd around back!”

  Rusty undid the back door to their flatbed and made a wide gesture as though a red carpet lay before them. “Last one off gets zapped,” he said, making it sound playful, waving the prod. “Should’ve gotten here on your own. You’d already be safely on your way to the coffle and Pen.”

  It took a couple seconds for Savannah’s head to catch up to the half of what he’d said that she actually understood. By then, her flatbed was half-empty. The first one off had been the anonymous man whose friend had bowed out on the Commons, and the second had been Melody.

  Melody was already looking back at Scott and Savannah, almost weepy with guilt.

  Scott took her hand, led her to the edge. Made as though they were going to step off together. Take that, Rusty.

  Savannah wasn’t fooled. He pulled back at the last second—and so did she.

  He’d been trying to fake her out, to get her to go first and spare her the shock. It made her want to push him, instead.

  So she did.

  ****

  The shock wrenched a cry from her, but nothing more. Nothing like what Malcolm’s Taser would have done. Scott doubted Malcolm would actually use the Taser. Those things could be dangerous, or so he’d read.

  He took Savannah’s hand again—and she let him, rubbing her hip where that fuckjob Rusty had zapped her. But she then pointed her finger at him and gave him a very severe stare that he wouldn’t have guessed was in her. The message was clear: Don’t do that again. I can take care of myself.

  He promised with a nod. He should have known better. He did know better. Savannah wasn’t doing this just so he could rescue her.

  With less than a complete breath, he whispered “Veronica” in her ear—because here Veronica came now, trailed by her psycho paddle-wielding sidekick, the bitch he thought of as “Ginger”. And even though he didn’t know that one’s real name, he identified her to Savannah as well.

  “Shoes off!” Veronica barked. “Back of the trucks! Toss ’em!”

  A clatter of men’s shoes on metal. Savannah, resigned, tossed her slippers away underhanded, like a softball pitch. Scott was glad to be rid of his, and made like he was attempting free throws in basketball as he tossed them.

  “Line up! Boy-girl-boy-girl, just like in grade school!”

  There was a total of thirteen of them, now converging to a single mass, slowly falling into order.

  “Hurry the fuck up!” Ginger literally screamed, her voice high and shrill, her mouth wide with outrage. She had her paddle out. Then, not so shrill but just as loud, “So help me God, I’ll swat the fuck out of all of you! I’ll beat your tits and dicks off!”

  Falling in behind Melody, in front of Savannah, Scott saw that every one of The Select had their toys out. Paddles and cattle prods, canes, riding crops. Malcolm had sheathed his Taser, and instead now brandished what looked like a cat-o’-nine-tails without the metal bits. He cracked it in the air.

  “Put your hands on the shoulders of the pig in front of you,” he calmly said. “We’re gonna steer you on your way. We’re gonna guide you to the next checkpoint.”

  Scott put his hands on Melody’s shoulders, giving them what he hoped was a comforting squeeze through the shawl. He felt Savannah’s fingers take hold of him from behind.

  Malcolm went to the boy in front, who had no one to grab onto, forced his hands behind his back, and crossed them there. Then he cracked his toy again.

  “And you will keep this order. You will keep your hands in place. And you will run, all the way around back to where the other pigs are already waiting.”

  The six members of The Select took up position on either side of the line: two at the rear, including Ginger, two at the middle, and Veronica and Malcolm up front.

  “Go!” Veronica commanded them—and zapped the line leader’s ass with her cattle prod.

  At the back, Ginger’s paddle come down on another. Scott heard the boy squeal. Just like a pig, he thought, moving with the line. I won’t do that. I won’t make that noise, and I won’t beg.

  He heard Savannah cry out, right behind him, as someone struck her with the riding crop.

  But the line moved fast, and Scott moved with them. He kept his hands in position, perhaps squeezing Melody a bit too tightly when the cane slashed across his leg.

  Scott didn’t squeal, but he did holler. Fucking thing hurt.

  ****

  I can do this, Savannah promised herself. Can’t be—

  She hissed as another blow fell over her.

  …more than half a mile to where we’re going.

  Much of that distance would be crossing the Concrete Lawn to the front of the Student Union building. It couldn’t be more than a quarter mile after that to hustle around back. Couldn’t be.

  Thwap!

  The sting wasn’t quite bad enough to slow her or stop her. It was at just the perfect pain level for motivation. She wasn’t getting it as badly as some.

  Ahead of her, Scott grunted and cursed as he was struck again, and again. Every time he expressed his pain with words, the woman in black running alongside him struck him, shouting at him to shut the fuck up.

  Savannah was better at following the order than he was, but still she felt the riding crop a third time. The Select weren’t allowing them to cut a diagonal path and shorten the run to the back of the building. They filed straight to the building at a uniform trot, the best they could manage and keep position.

  It was all so mean, so unfair. None of them had done anything wrong. But one thing kept her from being overwhelmed by the sense of powerlessness The Select were trying to beat into her, into all of them: the power of her choice. When that went away, what would she be left with, relief or despair?

  Both, she figured. When you give that up, you’re in uncharted territory.

  The face of the Student Union was a long, wide, roofed-over stone patio with twin rows of Greek columns. The glass doors that led inside were padlocked. The inside was wholly dark, almost black.

  As their procession turned right and hurried between the rows—crying out and hollering with each blow they endured—they started to achieve a better group synchrony, better timing, more speed.

  And they were being hit less frequently. The Select were running, too, and Savannah supposed that it must take real effort to keep up and keep torturing them at the same time. Poor them, she thought bitterly. Give them an “A” for effort.

  Back on grass, now, their line wrapped around the corner of the building. And already, they were going downhill. Savannah knew the Student Union had a basement. Somewhere down there was a computer lab and an archiving room with records that predated the digital age, but she’d never had occasion to see either of those places.

  There’d be a way into the building from back there. After that, who knew?

  The ground leveled off at the final turn. Savannah suffered another thwap from the riding crop and a hearty smack from Ginger’s black wooden paddle before Malcolm called a halt. And suddenly, all fell quiet—save for the whimpering of a few of the freshly-delivered “pigs”. But they weren’t alone. Far from it.

  And there was a lot to take in.

  Between the back of the building and the drop-off into the steep wooded slope of Crestwood Summit, there was a perfect lane of grass as long as the building and probably thirty yards in width. Above it, the second-floor balcony was alight, swarming with students in ordinary clothes—quite different from the members of The Select who had brought them here, and also different from th
e ones who awaited them at ground level.

  The men on the ground were pretty much uniform in their collared, open-chested black shirt and vest ensembles, but the women were as varied and as outrageous in their attire as the color black allowed them to be. Huddled in their midst like flies waiting to be descended upon by spiders was a cluster of white-garbed newbies, or “pigs”, that numbered fifty at least. These, the ones who had arrived on time, had been rewarded for their punctuality by getting their blindfolds early—and by being partially stripped.

  A pile of shawls lay heaped in a wheelbarrow to Savannah’s right. To her left was a second wheelbarrow with a heap of black pants.

  Savannah put her hand to her mouth. Among the blindfolded pigs that had come before, every single man had his naked butt hanging right out there in the wind. As for the girls, the shawls hadn’t been much to begin with, and she didn’t relish the prospect of being reduced to a slip and a pair of panties in front of the dozens of fully clothed students all around, but the guys…

  “Okay, pigs,” Malcolm said, “you can stop holding onto each other. We’ve arrived at the next checkpoint.”

  That checkpoint also included a shallow blue plastic swimming pool, a soft-cornered rectangle ten or twelve feet long, five or six wide, no more than a foot deep. But it wasn’t filled with water.

  Oh, no.

  Mud. A six-inch depth of mud filled it instead. A pair of garden hoses with pistol-shaped spigots were strung out at its far end. Savannah followed their lines back to the building.

  Yep. Good and ready and plugged into the school’s water supply. Convenient.

  Savannah took her hands from Scott’s shoulders, even as Veronica walked the line and snatched up the shawls one by one. Savannah had hers in hand by the time Veronica reached her.

  But Veronica didn’t take it right away. “Don’t you look me in the eye,” she said.

  Savannah returned her gaze to Scott and found him already facing her. His lips were drawn thin, the color high in his cheeks. He could see as easily as she could what was coming.

  Veronica said, “If you’re going to give it up voluntarily, then give us a curtsy, princess.”

  Savannah lowered her head and curtsied, still holding the shawl out for her.

  Veronica took it, patted the top of her head, and continued down the line.

  “All right, boys,” Malcolm then said, “drop ’em. Shirttails tucked to the waistband, asses out where I can see ’em.” He winked at Savannah. “I do like me a good piece of ass. Male or female, don’t mean a thing.”

  ****

  No big deal, Scott thought, unbuckling his belt. It’s my butt. So what? Everybody has one.

  He unzipped his fly, let his pants drop, and kicked them away. Of all the people watching him—And the other six guys, he reminded himself—the one he was least concerned about was Savannah. She’d had this much and worse happen to her already. He was willing to share in this misery with her.

  No. What bothered him was the sight of Zeke and Rusty, at the edge of his peripheral vision, chuckling at him. Pointing at him. Having a grand time at his expense. That was humiliating, almost as much as the stupid blush reflex he could feel in his cheekbones and couldn’t will away.

  He tucked his shirttail into the back of the waistband, as instructed. At least it still hung down in front of him, over the ridiculous supporter. Not far from him, one of the guys—the former line leader—actually kept his hands crossed back there, palms out, covering himself as best he could. As if it made a difference. Still plenty of crack there for the audience to enjoy.

  Savannah took his hand and locked eyes with him, seeming to telegraph a brainwave that read, I see only your face, Scott.

  To which he wanted to respond, Seriously, you can look. It’s a nice ass. I’ve worked on it. Not as nice as yours, though.

  Their escorts among The Select guided them to blend in with the larger group. Scott looked around. Was this the dreaded “Pen”, maybe? But—no. He doubted it, anyway. This was just a … gathering. There was no fence, no cage. Nothing.

  There was only Ginger, coming their way. And Zeke. And Rusty.

  Each carried a handful of blindfolds.

  Chapter Nine:

  Forfeits

  Savannah watched Rusty step behind Scott with the blindfold. Scott half-turned, making as though to take the blindfold himself.

  “Nah, buddy,” Rusty said, straightening Scott’s arms by his sides. “Don’t be that way. I’ll do it. You accept. That’s all that you do. You can still duck out—but if you stay, you deal.”

  You’re not very good at accepting, Scott, are you? Savannah thought, noting his clenched teeth, his narrowed eyes, his hands balled into fists. You want to be in control all the time.

  Nevertheless, the blindfold went on. Under it, his lips moved. They made no sound, and they didn’t tremble. They grumbled silent curses.

  “Dude, Scotty, you’ll be fine,” Rusty said, laughing a little, clapping him first on the back, then giving a single open-handed swat to his ass—

  Oh, jeez, he’s going to punch him now.

  …before moving on to the next pig. And, miraculously, Scott restrained himself. Savannah sighed in relief.

  Meanwhile, the woman Scott had identified as “Ginger”—Savannah doubted it was her real name, too convenient—came to her, the blindfold stretched out between her hands like a thin flag.

  I should have been first, she thought. He could have watched me and known it was okay. I would have shown him how this is done.

  She steadied her breathing, easing her heart rate back to almost normal, and closed her eyes. She flexed her fingers, then let them hang limp, as Ginger circled her, holding her at the elbow, stopping at her back.

  Savannah felt her head clear as Ginger leaned in past her neck, peering at her face from behind, studying her like a curious kitten. All around her, the sounds of inarticulate protest, mutterings and whispers and whimpers. The pigs wanted to know what was happening, what The Select would do to them next. Among them, Melody sounded decidedly distressed.

  Savannah offered Ginger her softest smile. What was it like for you when it was your turn? she wondered. Did you beg and scream and complain? Did you cry?

  She closed her eyes.

  Acceptance isn’t weakness, Scott. It’s strength. Nothing takes courage like surrender.

  She let it happen, wincing just slightly when Ginger knotted the blindfold hard at the back of her head, just over the necklace that lay hidden beneath her hair.

  Out of the dark Savannah went, and into the black.

  ****

  “Mom, I can’t do this. I’m practically naked!”

  That was overstating it, but Savannah didn’t think by much. She was in a one-piece bathing suit. Her arms and her legs were right out there, and the “neckline” dropped more than an inch from her actual neck. Nervously, she scrunched her toes against the tiles, which felt cold, even though the bathroom itself was warm, borderline hot.

  This was so uncomfortable.

  On the other side of the closed stall door, her mother giggled. Savannah listened to her force calm on herself. She could feel the effort of her mother’s will through the metal barrier.

  “Vanna, come out. Please. There’s no one here but me.”

  For the moment. But they were at the Prince William Rec Center, and outside of the women’s bathroom, there were, like, a zillion people out there. It was enough to make her hyperventilate.

  “Vanna, you saw everyone coming in, right?”

  She had. Mentally, she could get her head around the fact that they were all in bathing suits like hers, even her new friends Bianca and Cathy. They were in the pool, waiting for her. And Bianca’s mom was her mom’s friend—which meant Mom had a friend waiting, too.

  It’s just—this was nothing like West Valley City. In Utah, swimming meant putting on a wetsuit, like scuba divers. Until last month, West Valley was all Savannah had known.

  Mom had alway
s hated Utah. She much preferred Virginia.

  “Vanna, you answer me.”

  “Yes, Mama,” she reluctantly agreed, staring at the bag with her normal clothes in it. She rolled her eyes for the benefit of no one. “I saw.”

  “This is perfectly normal, Vanna. Come on.”

  “They’ll make fun of me.”

  “They’re your friends. They won’t.” Pause. “And if they do, I’ll kill them both.”

  Savanna literally caught and trapped the laugh with her hands. On the other side of the door, a tapping foot. A bare foot with pink nail polish.

  Hugging her arms in front of her, Savannah opened the door and came out of the stall. She saw her mother standing there in her one-piece like it was the most regular way to be in the whole wide world.

  “Fine,” she said. “Here I am. Awkward city.”

  Mom took a knee and lifted her chin with a finger. “You and I, girlfriend,” she said, “are going to walk out of this bathroom and into the pool room like we own that joint. You got me?”

  Like they owned the joint? Savannah didn’t even own a card to the teen section of the library.

  “I’m not pretty like they are,” she said, lip trembling.

  “Oh, Vanna,” her mom said, a distinct hint of sadness creeping into her voice, “first of all, you don’t judge your friends based on how they look, do you?”

  “No,” she said with perfect honesty. She’d never done that.

  “Then don’t judge yourself that way. Second, not that it should matter, but how can you say that? I couldn’t have gotten a prettier daughter if I’d sold my soul to the goddamned devil.”

  At eleven, Savannah was smart enough to know when her mother was being sincere and when she was full of it. Both of them had that power over each other. So, she smiled.

  “Every second we’re in here,” Mom said, “is a second closer to boys’ hour, Vanna. Let’s go.”

  And, finally, Savannah relaxed. “Oh-kay,” she said, big emphasis on the first syllable.