“Down!” Brutus yells. “Get back on the ground.”
I release the rope. Sweat drips freely, my skin red and hot. I’m wearing only shorts, sports bra and a pair of running shoes, yet I’m still overheated.
Dennis and Sandro sprint past, another furious dog giving chase. I grab cover behind a pile of stacked tires. I freeze, trying not to move, trying not to breathe, and suddenly hear the scream. One filled with pain and desperation. I cautiously glance around my cover and see a young girl spread across the ground, a crazed dog ripping the muscles and tendons from her legs. Something tightens in my chest and I want to turn away, yet continue watching. I don’t even know her name, but feel like crying anyway.
I hear a low growl and notice movement off to my left. I take off, sprinting desperately toward the fence, hoping to climb it. But the dog is only a few feet away and I’m way too slow.
Suddenly, Topaz cuts in between, redirecting attention to herself. Snarling, the dog greedily gives chase but Topaz makes it to a dangling rope. She jumps, catching the rope and trying to climb higher. But her arms aren’t strong enough so she only manages to ascend a few feet before stopping. I watch in horror as she begins to slide back down the rope, screaming. The dog raises on its hind legs to meet her. I feel a sickening sensation in my stomach, a mixture of anger and shock. I don’t have time to think or analyze what I’m doing. I just grab a dried-out branch off the ground and run straight for the dog.
“Back! Get away!” I shout so loudly that my own ears begin to ring.
I swing the branch around at the dog. It turns to face me, backing off a couple of steps, barking and sneering. I bare my teeth. I continue yelling hatefully. I’ve never really been scared of dogs, as we had plenty of them wandering about the Field back in the Recycling village. Some were friendly so I played with them, but others were dangerous. I’ve learned you have to stand your ground, showing no fear and behaving just as viciously as them.
This dog isn’t used to facing humans. It’s used to seeing the backs of the frightened and fleeing. The dog charges at me, but at the last second changes its mind and backs away. I step forward, swinging the branch violently and shouting. The dog runs around me, attempting to flank me and attack from behind. I quickly spin around to meet its charge. It’s like we’re performing some sort of wild dance, each growling, spinning around, lunging forward then stepping back. White foam drips from the dog’s snout. Spittle flies from my mouth. I continue snarling and turning, swinging the branch and always making sure to face the dog.
Joan finally grabs the dog’s collar and pulls it away. I kneel on the ground, still sneering in anger and panting.
“What was that?!” Joan shouts. “You weren’t instructed to fight the dogs. You must run from them.”
“I’m not afraid of dogs,” I utter, although the words make little sense even to myself.
Joan strikes my bare calves with her whip. I flinch in pain, my eyes watering. She orders me to stand up and continue training. I look down at my legs to see long red gashes from the whip.
Shivering, Topaz stands a few feet away.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
At the end of our training session, Joan tells the other racers about what I’d done. She calls me a disobedient servant. She makes the other racers run ten circles around the track, then perform push-ups in puddles of water. I stand motionless, watching. It’s my punishment, doing nothing but watching the others suffer. After Joan finally dismisses us, most throw hateful glares my direction.
I guess I’m being made into an outcast. Again.
***
Over the next five weeks we run from the vicious dogs ten more times. The brutal exercise soon becomes routine, and doesn’t cause as much shock or panic. I no longer attempt fighting the animals. Four other racers get injured during this time and we never see or hear from them again.
We wake at sunrise each day and run six to ten miles along the shore. Then we perform exercises, eat breakfast, nap and continue training. We overcome obstacle courses and do interval training, building up our speed. We crawl on our hands and knees through mud, jump rope and run stairs. Then eat our final meal before returning to our quarters and passing out until the next morning, when we have to train again. It’s the same never-ending cycle. My legs and arms ache constantly. Cuts and bruises cover my entire body. I have blisters on my feet and my right knee hurts sometimes, so I wear a knee-brace during training.
I frequently curse myself for leaving my village. Being constantly worn out and in pain, I hate my new occupation. Only during the long distance runs along the shore can I relax and enjoy being a racer. Running gives me a sense of freedom. It makes me feel strong and powerful, and I can even temporarily forget the fact that I’m just a slave.
The meals are first rate. I somehow manage to put on a little weight, even with all the training. Maybe it’s because I eat twice as much as any other racer. Sometimes eating a second helping of stew or savoring a delicious banana, I remember an old book I read back in Augusta’s library. It was a story about two kids who met a wicked witch in the woods. She vigorously fed the boy only to later try to kill him for dinner. I wonder whether there’s any similarity between our fates.
Hard work and plenty of protein soon change my body. Muscles on my arms
