State of Chaos (Collapse Series)

by Summer Lane

  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 big complex is surrounded with concrete. An asphalt road surrounds the property. A sign marked School Crossing is 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. Apparently Sophia is just as disgusted as I am about this development because she sags a little 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 just about the most uncomfortable stare I’ve ever had to experience. 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 at me 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.

  “Cassidy,” Sophia hisses, stiffening.

  “What?”

  I peek around her, watching the line of people disappearing into the girls’ locker room. As we’re pushed inside, we have to cram between rows of lockers. Everything from happy face stickers to musty bathroom towels are scattered around the floor. I’m guessing when the EMP hit, this school evacuated fast. Maybe they were in the middle of a basketball game when it all went down...

  Flecks of cold water hit my face, and I get a glimpse of what’s going on down the line. All of the showers are running at full blast. The privacy curtains have been torn off, and everyone is being forced to strip and walk through the showers.

  “How do they get the plumbing to work?” Sophia whispers.

  “They must have their own generators,” I reply. “Maybe they’re tapped into a private well or something.”

  “Alright, strip down and leave your clothes at your feet!” The woman named V. Kamaneva marches down the aisle, gesturing to the showers. “Walk through the showers quickly. You will be inspected and then you will be given new clothes. Move it along quickly! No delays!”

  I’m momentarily frozen. Embarrassment, shock and a thousand other emotions rush through my system, and before I know it, I’m standing at the front of the line, right next to Sophia. We’re both terrified. Sophia looks like she’s going to pass out. I might, too.

  Kamaneva claps her hands together in front of my face.

  “You’re holding up the line! Move it, move it!”

  The armed female guards in the corner of the room look bored with what’s going on. I stare at the floor and strip off my clothes – even my awesome combat boots. When I’m done, I realize that the only thing I haven’t removed is the necklace Chris gave me months ago. His graduation necklace. Panicked at the thought of losing it, take it off my neck and pretend to set it in my pile of clothes. With all the noise and commotion – not to mention the absolute humiliation of being forced to march naked through a row of showers with a bunch of soldiers watching – I pop it into my mouth. The gold tastes sour against my tongue, but I don’t care. I don’t want to lose the necklace.

  Sophia and I walk through the showers. The water is freezing and the pressure is so powerful that feels like I’m being stabbed with a thousand tiny needles.

  Dear lord, this is like P.E. all over again.

  Okay, maybe not, but still...I keep trying to relate this to real-life experiences to make it seem normal. But it’s hard, because this is not normal. This is a nightmare.

  When we finally finish the never-ending shower run from hell, we stumble onto the other side of the locker room. More female Omega troopers are waiting. Half of them are armed, the other half are standing there, chucking towels in our faces. I catch one. It’s covered in dirt and grime. Lovely. I wipe the water off and try to shake the moisture out of my hair.

  On the bright side, I’m actually kind of clean.

  On the not-so-bright-side, I
still don’t have any clothes.

  I keep my eyes glued to the wall or the ground, afraid that if I look up, I’ll realize how embarrassing this situation really is and have a full-on panic attack. I’m already on the edge as it is.

  After everybody has dried off, we literally get clothes thrown in our faces. I grab the material. It’s rough, brown and the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen. The fashion police would shoot me on sight if I walked around in this thing in Los Angeles. But it’s something to wear, so I suck it up and throw it on. It’s a shapeless piece of cloth, little better than a potato sack. Your basic set of trousers with nothing more than a piece of string to keep them around my waist. We all get beat-up tee shirts, too. I look like a stereotypical hillbilly now.

  Sophia gives me a once over when we get the clothes on.

  “Pretty bad,” she mouths.

  I almost smile.

  Next, we’re given some cheap shoes that look like they came from the bottom of the bin in a clearance aisle at a thrift shop. They’re all different sizes, like somebody fished them out of a dumpster. I get stuck with a pair of cheap gladiator flip-flops that are two sizes two big. I strap them on and sigh.

  These won’t last more than a day.

  Kamaneva and her guards throw open the rear-exit to the locker room.

  “Alright, this way. Get in line!”

  We start moving again. At the door, a couple of women are waiting with scissors. I blanch. They’re cutting off the prisoners’ hair. I grab my long red locks, hair that falls all the way to my waist. Hair that I’ve been growing out since I was in Middle School. Sophia stands motionless in the doorway. Her hair is already above her shoulders, therefore they only end up cutting off a few inches. Just enough to make it a generic, masculine hairstyle.

  I’ve still got Chris’s necklace between my teeth, so I keep my mouth closed. But I’m nothing short of horrified. Take away my clothes and dignity, but don’t cut off my hair. Ever. The woman with the scissors takes my wet hair in her hand and holds it for a minute. I swear she almost looks sorry.

  Almost.

  I hear the hair being hacked off and when I’m pushed through the door, my head feels like it’s floating above my shoulders. The weight is gone. I touch my scalp. My hair is probably only a few inches long. Long enough to be combed over, but not long enough to put in a ponytail.

  I. Flip. Out.

  I spit the necklace into my hand and tie it around the inside material of my stupid outfit. And then I start crying like a little girl, shocked with the loss of my long hair, marching around naked through a bunch of showers, being hauled in a semi-truck like a piece of livestock. It’s like a tornado of bad luck. A hurricane.

  A blizzard.

  Sophia is the one who saves me from myself. She takes my face between her hands and grits out, “Stop crying. We’re not safe yet.” She gives my shoulders a rough shake. “Cassidy? Come on. We’ll get through this together.”

  I take a deep breath, barely able to see her through my tears. Sophia nods and hooks her arm through mine, and then we’re moving again. There’s really no downtime around this place, is there?

  We’re led away from the gymnasium, back towards the center of the school. Towards the classrooms. I see a science building, a history building...I sigh. History was always my favorite subject growing up. Why does Omega have to take anything that’s halfway decent and turn it into something twisted?

  Kamaneva and her guards open up another set of doors. A classroom marked LAB. No offense, but that doesn’t exactly give me a warm, comforting feeling. We’re marched inside. Chairs, desks, books, pencils and anything else of remote convenience have been removed from the room. All that’s left is some lab counters, minus the vials and test tubes. The only windows are small slits near the top of the ceiling, making an escape through a window impossible.

  Kamaneva walks up to a giant chalkboard at the front of the room. She grabs a piece of chalk from the lip at the bottom of the board – I’d like to know who left chalk in the room but took everything else – and starts writing. Nobody dares say a word. There are about thirty or forty of us packed inside the room. I haven’t had time to even think about doing a headcount yet.

  She writes:

  Group 13.

  “You are Group 13,” she states, turning to face us. She folds her hands behind her back, staring at everyone with a cold expression. “When you hear your number, you respond immediately. If we call Group 13 out in the morning, you come right away. If you disobey regulations, your entire group will be punished.”

  “What are the regulations?” somebody asks.

  Afraid to turn my head and see who spoke, I keep my eyes trained on Kamaneva. She draws her hands down to her sides, taking a deep breath.

  “Regulation Number One,” she says, taking a commanding tone. It’s kind of annoying. “You do not speak unless you are addressed first or asked a direct question.” Burn. “Regulation Number Two, you do not make a move without direct orders to do so. This includes, eating, sleeping, walking, talking, moving, working and thinking.”

  “Inspirational speaker,” I mutter.

  Sophia slaps my hand. I guess some of my sarcasm is returning.

  “Regulation Number Three,” she continues, looking amused. “No prisoner at any time is to ever carry a weapon. If you are found in possession of a weapon, you will be executed immediately.” She pauses. “Regulation Number Four, obey all of the above regulations, or you’ll be killed. Are we clear?”

  Nobody says anything.

  This seems to make her happy. She gives a brief nod, walks towards the door, and bam. We’re moving. No more than five minutes of peace. We’re walking back out the doors, away from the chemistry lab, and I’ve got a bad feeling about where this whacked out tour is headed.

  We’re rounded through some more double doors and enter a huge room with plastic tables and chairs everywhere. A long table is set up in the back. Omega guards are posted at every corner. A group of about twenty male prisoners are huddled around tables, eating something that looks suspiciously like a mud puddle in a cup.

  “This is where you will eat your meals,” Kamaneva announces. “You will get two. Breakfast and dinner. You will never take more than the portion given to you. Stealing food will result in severe punishment.” Her lips curl up at the corners. “You’ll have ten minutes every morning to eat. Ten minutes at night.” She makes a motion and the guards fall into place around us, goading us outside again. “While you are here you will move quickly and listen without speaking.”

  We reach the outside of the school, where the orange groves are growing in abundance. The bushy green trees are overgrown, aligned in perfect rows. Oranges are hanging heavy on the branches. They’re ready to be picked. Outside of the orange groves are several empty fields, and down from that, more oranges.

  “Group 13,” she says. “Your job will be harvesting the fruit that is already on the trees. When you are done, you will move on to planting.”

  I share a glance with Sophia.

  Really? Omega brought us all the way out here to do some farming?

  Male Omega troopers move in and surround us. A couple of pickup trucks covered in mud roll in, each of them hauling trailers. My jaw drops. It’s been months since I’ve seen a working vehicle outside of Omega’s designated military Humvees. This isn’t possible. Not unless Omega was a lot more prepared for an EMP than we were. In that case, I can think of several theories...

  But not right now. Troops are popping open the trailers. Ladders, sacks and boxes are packed into the bed. Kamaneva points to the trucks. “You will harvest the entire orange crop,” she announces. “Fill your sacks, bring them back to this point, then place them in boxes. You will have water periodically, when troops provide it. You start today. There’s no introductory period. Go.”

  Just like that. I finally got a job.

  Sophia and I lace our hands together, moving towards one of the pickup trucks. The early morning sunlight is
breaking over the horizon, illuminating the distant Sierra Nevada mountain range. I can see Mt. Whitney sparkling with snow from here. It must be nice to be unmoving and unaffected by everything around you. To stand for thousands of years and stay the same.

  I’d like to be a mountain.

  Then again, I’d also like to visit McDonald’s. Welcome to my world.

  “You.”

  Sophia and I come to a halt at the same time. Kamaneva is standing a few feet behind us, her hands clasped in front of her. Up close I notice the wrinkles around her eyes. The frown lines around her mouth. She’s older than I thought.

  “You’re sisters?” she asks.

  I manage to shake my head.

  “Hmm.” She steps closer, placing one finger under our chins. “I had two daughters, once. They were young like the both of you.”

  I have to fight to keep my facial expression neutral.

  “One of them died,” she goes on. “The other one lived.”

  She removes her fingers and steps back.

  “It would be such a pity if you found yourselves in the same situation.”

  She gives us a long, hard look before turning around and stalking off. Sophia stares after her. “What the hell was that supposed to mean?” she whispers.

  I lick my lips.

  “She’s got a chip on her shoulder,” I say.

  “Hey, you two! Get to work!”

  Grease the guard is back. Darn. He throws a couple of cloth sacks at our feet. Sophia and I bend to pick them up, slipping the thick strap over our shoulders. Some of the other women are hauling heavy ladders into the field. Omega guards are barking orders. Everybody is tense, afraid to ask questions, afraid to defy the instructions.

  We’re terrified.

  It would be such a pity if you found yourselves in the same situation.

  It sounds to me like V. Kamaneva is a strange and cruel character. And I haven’t even seen this woman in action yet. Sophia and I follow the other workers into the fields, Grease keeping close to us. “You pick the oranges, put them in the sack,” he commands. Then he points to the end of the row of trees, where male prisoners are bringing out large boxes. “You put the oranges in there. Other workers will sort them. You don’t worry about that. You just pick.” To my surprise, he gives us a smile. A creepy, make-me-want-to-crawl-in-a-closet smile. Sophia pushes up next to me. “Is it just me or is he bad news?” she asks.