Sinners 01 - Branded (3 page)

Only sinners grind away, doing the cleaning, bidding, and serving. They’re transported
out of the Hole by train to work each day, but High Society members are too afraid
to associate with them, even if they once knew each other. Even commoners, those who
aren’t sinners or High Society, refuse to acknowledge them. Instantly, they become
strangers.

The guards prove the exception and do whatever they please
.
They make the arrests, enforce their laws, and even dictate education. High Society
is oblivious to the real gritty stuff, though my father was aware of it. I once heard
him whispering to a friend about it over a cup of coffee at the kitchen table. His
hushed words come back like a nightmare now. If only I could remember everything I
heard that day.

“There’s been word of mass rapes and beatings outside of here,” his friend said. “Keep
your children on a tight rope. It’s not safe.”

“I know. It’s getting worse by the day. Yet somehow, they manage to cover up most
of it. I’m not sure we’ll ever know the full magnitude,” my father replied. I remember
peering around the corner from the staircase to listen and pinching my nose to hold
back a sneeze.

“I’m hearing rumors of lab testing too
”

“Shhh, that’s enough. We need to take this conversation somewhere else.” Their chairs
scraped on the tile floor, so I tiptoed up the staircase before they spotted me.

I always took for granted that my father would be there to protect me. Now, I’m seated
in a Jeep with the enemy he tried so hard to shield me from.

Cole keeps his eyes on the road and rubs the back of his neck. He joins a procession
of vehicles from the transformation center, escorting new prisoners to the Hole. Roadblocks
occur every few miles and he flashes his identification each time. I’m scared to look
at him, yet I find myself glancing in his direction more often than I’d like. His
sharp jawline and intense expression never falter as he grips the steering wheel.
It’s as if he’s expecting trouble ahead. I don’t know why, but his close proximity
makes me self-conscious.

Part of me desires strength to deal with my present situation; the other half wants
to collapse from mental overload and exhaustion. I give in to the latter.

I close my eyes and daydream. I bring myself back to my father, to the tall grass
fields out west, to times of love and laughter, and in my dream I’m okay.

“Wake up!” my father says, but I realize it isn’t his voice. A hand shakes me awake,
and I open my eyes as Cole turns in his seat.

Holy crap. I did fall asleep.

“We’re here,” he says. “You’re likely the first sinner to ever fall asleep during
the transport.”

“I wasn’t actually sleeping, more like daydreaming with my eyes closed.” I lie because
I don’t want him to know the truth. When I feel overwhelmed, I tend to fall asleep,
as if my mind is trying to keep me from exploding.

I shake my head and rub my bleary eyes. Before me looms a twenty-foot cement wall
ominously rising from the earth. Barbed wire wraps around the top like a snake. There’s
no green, just a thick cloud of dust kicked up from the tires of passing vehicles.
A colossal protrusion from the wall grabs my attention.

“What’s that?” I ask, pointing to the immense structure.

“That… is none of your concern,” he says, stopping the Jeep. We’re at another checkpoint,
and Cole flashes his ID. A young guard standing at the gate inspects it and then looks
at me. He grins.

“She new?” he says with a smirk. “Damn, man. Why can’t I have your job?”

“Yeah, she’s new,” Cole snaps.

“Your best yet.” He winks at Cole and then looks at me. “Good luck, sweetheart. You’ll
need it.” He opens the massive metal gate, and we follow the others through. It closes
with a screech, a thud, and a distinct locking sound.

Cole parks the Jeep in an open space alongside other vehicles carrying newly branded
sinners.

“One more stop before you see your new home,” he says. “Orientation.”

I climb down and my joints crack, feeling achy from sitting so long. My neck radiates
with burning heat from the brand that permanently labels me a whore. I drop my eyes
to the dusty ground, feeling ashamed even though I know it’s not true.
But they think it is.

He gives me a quick shove in the direction of the door where I see others with bowed
heads and new brands brightly singed into their skin. I imagine that we look like
one sad convoy of losers filing into a small, dirty room. The fluorescent lighting
flickers and there’s standing room only. Cole leans against the wall with the other
guards, observing us carefully, while we squeeze into the room like cattle.

A large screen mounted on the wall in front flips on automatically as the lights go
out. A female voice, powerful yet sweet, begins giving the history of the Hole.

“Fifty years ago, after World War V, society was downtrodden from years of fighting.
Bombs destroyed highly populated areas, leaving the former United States with high
crime, unemployment, and depravity.” Black-and-white images of the last war pop onto
the screen—people running as explosions burst in the background. Children screaming.
Bodies lying unattended in the streets of war-torn neighborhoods that once flourished.
“Then our Commander, our Savior, and our Leader came to power.” The screen flips to
a photo of the Commander, wearing a black mask to protect his identity. “After witnessing
decades of crime, he saved us from our sins—revamping our judicial system and creating
jobs for all. Bringing peace and security to our country once again.”

More like demolished our judicial system,
I think. I barely remember my father talking about the war before the Commander. Most
of my recollections are of my father cautioning me on being careful about what I say
to others to avoid being accused.

Rough footage of the Hole being built by sinners pops onto the screen and breaks into
my thoughts. “He created a system by which we would know, forevermore, who the criminals
in society are, thereby protecting us from their crimes. By keeping all the criminals
confined to the Hole, our society would remain pure and uncorrupted.”

To my surprise, the video shows a state funeral with mourners dressed in dark clothing,
parading through High Society. “After our dear Commander passed, his protégé, handpicked
and trained, rose up to carry on our beloved traditions. We owe him our allegiance,
our thanks, and our praise for saving us.”

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.