“What is the Terror Race?” a young girl asks Joan. “Is it some sort of competition?”
Joan ignores her questions.
“We all want to know what we’ll be training for,” the girl persists.
I hear the well-known sound of a whip slicing through the air and the girl’s astounded cry. Covering her face, she takes a step back from Joan. My legs turn weak and I start shaking. The girl pulls her hands away from her face and I see a deep bloody cut across her right cheek. All the servants grow silent.
“Like to have some more, sweetheart?” Joan asks.
“No, please,” the girl mutters.
“Ask one more question and you’ll have no skin left on your face or back,” Joan threatens.
The girl lowers her head in submission, blood trickling down her neck. I feel sick.
“You people! All of you! Listen carefully!” Joan glares at us. “You’re not here to ask questions. You’re not here to wonder about the Terror Race. You’re here to train and do precisely as you’re told. Stop thinking. Stop trying to show how smart you are. Be disciplined, follow instructions and train hard. Got it?”
She faces us and pauses, firmly gripping her whip. We all nod compliantly.
“Part of my job here is to teach you discipline,” Joan adds. “My methods may seem harsh, but at the end of the day you’ll be grateful for them. Your very survival will depend on the skills you’ll acquire during your training.”
Our survival? What exactly will we have to survive? The Terror Race?
I don’t get any answers for my unspoken questions. Joan orders us to continue receiving our clothes and we obediently carry out her order.
***
Afterwards, we’re allowed to shower and proceed to our quarters. I leave my clothes inside a small room with four beds, grab a uniform and run into the shower facility ahead of the other racers. Still shaken, I stand under the spray of hot water. I close my eyes and try to relax but can’t stop thinking of Gabriel’s handgun, Joan’s whip and the bloody cut across that poor girl’s face.
Back in my room, I find two young girls sitting on beds. They’re about eleven or twelve, and both look like scared little mice, complete with long noses and black round eyes. My roommates. I say hi and tell them my name.
“Hi,” one of the girls utters in a childish voice. “I’m Topaz and this is my sister, Martha.” Martha smiles shyly, waving. “We’re from Central Settlement.”
“I’m from the Recycling village,” I answer, forgetting that I had decided to conceal the truth about that particular detail.
I place my clothes on the bed closest to the window. The girls don’t say anything more, being too shy to speak. I can’t think of any topic to discuss with them either. The door swings open, smashing into a wall, and the blonde beauty with green eyes marches in. She struggles with a huge bag filled with clothes.
“Oh gosh, that’s heavy!” she groans, dropping the bag in the middle of the room. “I should’ve had those guys carry it for me.”
She laughs, wiping the sweat from her forehead.
“Oh my!” she exclaims, looking around. “This is what I call a really tiny room. Do they really expect the four of us to live cramped in here together?”
I wonder what kind of place she came from, if this room isn’t good enough for her.
“I’ll take this bed,” the blonde states, heading toward my bed next to the window.
I step in front of her. “I’ve already taken this one.”
Frowning, the girl abruptly stops and we face each other. Her huge exotic eyes study me for a moment, and then she smiles.
“No big deal. I’ll take this one then,” she says, motioning toward the bed next to mine. “I’m Amethyst by the way. But everybody calls me Amy.” She extends her hand.
“Kora,” I say, shaking hands with her.
“Oh, I love your name!” Amy exclaims.
Wide-eyed Martha and Topaz introduce themselves in a whisper.
“You’re named after a precious stone just like me!” Amy exclaims to Topaz. “Are you guys attending the welcome party? They’re building a campfire outside.”
The two young girls shake their heads no, looking more and more intimidated with each passing minute.
“I don’t know,” I mutter, being fearful of any events where I may have to face a lot of new people. Too stressful.
“Oh please,” Amy begs, approaching me. “Please come with me. I don’t want to go all alone.”
“All right,” I give in, unable to say no under such intense pressure.
She lets out a shriek of delight and gives me a hug. I temporarily lose my breath, unaccustomed to this type of behavior. Stiff and awkward, I put my arms around Amethyst, mirroring her actions. Is this how friends are supposed to act around each other? I don’t know. I’ve never had a true friend.
Amy releases me from her hug and undresses, changing for the party. She’s almost as tall as me but is a little more filled out, with nice round breasts and hips. Her face is completely smooth and flawless. Deep painful sores used to cover my face during part of my childhood, a common affliction among trash pickers due to constant exposure to the dirt and chemicals. I
