Savage Run Book I Read online



  Savage Run

  Book 1

  E. J. Squires

 

  This is a work of fiction.

  Any characters, organizations,

  and events portrayed in this novel

  are either the products of the author’s

  imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Second Edition Mar, 2015

  ISBN-13: 978-1505406375

  ISBN-10: 1505406374

  Copyright © 2015 E. J. Squires

  All rights reserved.

  Other books Available by E. J. Squires:

  Savage Run 2

  Book 2 in the Savage Run Novella Trilogy

  Savage Run 3

  Book 3 in the Savage Run Novella Trilogy

  Wraithsong

  Desirable Creatures Series, Book I

  (Now available)

  Blufire

  Desirable Creatures Series, Book II

  (Now available)

  Alfablot

  Desirable Creature Series, Book III

  (Coming Soon)

  Winter Solstice Winter

  A Viking Blood Saga, Book I

  (Now available)

  Summer Solstice Summer

  A Viking Blood Saga, Book II

  (Now available)

  Midgard Fall

  A Viking Blood Saga, Book III

  (Coming Soon)

  Trepidation

  White Witch Black Warlock Series, Book I

  (Coming Soon)

  For more information, go to:

  https://ejsquires.com

  For my children.

  May freedom and love

  be the inspiration behind

  every choice.

  1

  Biking up the same mile-and-a-half-long asphalt hill is so much harder when I know that at the end of the journey I’ll either be an outlaw, or I’ll be dead.

  Rippling wind tugs at my black uniform as I push the pedals on my bike, one after the other. The rhythm of the squeaky, swooshing sound is as familiar as the fragrance of the seemingly never-ending lavender field to my right, the purple meadow that divides the Masters’ estates from the Laborers’ slum—the slum where I was born, the slum where I live, the slum I hope to escape from soon.

  I glance down at the prescription bag lying in the rusty basket attached to the handlebars. The bag is supposed to hide my father’s kitchen knife, but it has shifted, and the blade catches the sunlight, winking at me from the bottom of the basket. After a quick scan of my surroundings to confirm that no one is watching, I reach down and readjust the bag over the blade. And just in case, I glance over my shoulder to make sure the bag with two sets of clothes is still attached to the back rack of my bike. It is.

  Zooming up the wide, cracked road, I pass countless Laborers—nameless, faceless shadows—scurrying to their Masters in the mountains or toward the factories and fields. The muted, gray line of men, women, and children winds toward Mount Zalo and will eventually disintegrate as each person disappears into the white, gated estates they are assigned to. This long walk is the extent of a Laborer’s freedom. Most are forbidden to go anywhere without their Masters, unless they are traveling to or from work, before dawn—after sunset.

  I pass a few young men, guys I thought for sure would have signed up for the Savage Run, a grueling, new obstacle course program that for the first time in history allows inferior-class teenage boys to demonstrate their worthiness to become Masters.

  As I continue to bike ahead, I see my best friend’s mother, Ruth. Since Gemma left last year, Ruth has reduced to a walking skeleton. Not that she ever had any extra weight on her anyway. All Laborers pretty much have the same build with sunken cheeks and concave bellies grumbling on and on because the measly amount of food we’re rationed could never be enough. But unlike all the other Laborer women, Ruth’s hair is still short, even after a year—an indication that she’s been in trouble with the law. Normally I welcome any meeting with her, but because of where I’m headed, and because of what I’m about to do, not so much today. Yet gliding right past her and pretending not to see her is just not right, no matter what. Not after what she’s done for me.

  I slow my bike as I approach her and say, “Nice day for a walk.”

  “Ah, good morning, Heidi. You already running deliveries?”

  I eye the bag in the basket to make sure the blade isn’t showing again. “Yes, I’m on my fifth one.”

  “Where are you headed?” Ruth smiles, and the sides of her brown eyes crease like the wrinkles on a scrunched-up paper bag.

  Should I lie to save her feelings? I decide on the truth. “To Master Douglas.”

  “Ah…” The edges of her lips rise upward a little, but the rest of her face is like a dry ocean.

  I should have lied.

  “Tell Gemma I say…hello.” Her words carry the weight of our late-night conversations. But rehashing how her only daughter serves a Master who is rumored to have beaten two of his Laborers to death won’t help. I wish I could tell Ruth what I’m really doing, what I’ve been obsessing about for months. And I would if I knew I could pull it off. If I could look her in the eyes and promise her nothing would happen to her Gemma. But I can’t.

  “I will,” I say, then I quickly change the subject. “So, did you see anyone heading toward Culmination this morning?” President Volkov decreed today to be Savage Run registration day, a day off for male Laborers and Advisors ages thirteen through seventeen. “To give the least of us a chance at liberty,” he said. I thought for sure every Laborer who fit into those categories would jump at the opportunity. But as I rode up the hill, I hadn’t seen a single soul do anything other than depart their squat aluminum trailers and join in the march.

  “No,” Ruth says. “Trusting President Volkov’s words is like digging your grave with three sticks of dynamite.”

  My stomach sinks. A lot. “Well, I should get going so I won’t be late.”

  “It was good to see you, Heidi.”

  “You, too,” I reply with a smile.

  On my way to the mountains, I pass the tail end of the Laborers’ sector. In front of our sector, there are light waves that everyone calls “the veil.” They hide our less than aesthetically pleasing buildings from the Masters’ side of town. It would be a shame to ruin their view. I can’t see our trailers from here because of the veil, but each ten-by-twenty trailer is stashed on top of another, three high and side by side, fifteen in a row. When the Unifers built our housing, each trailer was intended to house one family. Now, two families occupy most trailers, though a few of us, like my father and I, are lucky and don’t have to share. When we’re not working, we spend our free time preparing lackluster meals around campfires or doing laundry. If we once in a while manage to have a few moments for ourselves, we huddle together around bonfires or visit with neighbors. I try to sneak in a visit with Ruth at least once a week, but with how busy my schedule has been lately, even that has proved difficult.

  I approach downtown and ride by the Colosseum, where many of the national sporting events are held. The cultural hub of Newland, Culmination is one of the country’s most esteemed towns and is the home of the Porto Tower, the tallest building in the world. It’s a town brimming with sculptures, mosaics, paintings, museums, and art academies, and it’s even rumored that the ancient statue of David and the Mona Lisa are kept beneath the Culmination Historical Museum. In Newland’s early years, many world-renowned architects and artists settled in Culmination, drawn here by the dramatic countryside, and by President Volkov’s Sr.’s offer of immediate Master status. Now, Culmination is the place to send your Master kid for an education in art.

  As I let my bike roll to a stop a generous distance away from Master Douglas
’s gate, the wind whistles through the trees, sprinkling some of the leftover raindrops on my hands and face. I’ve been here hundreds of times before to deliver medicine, but I have to admit that my hands have never shaken so much that I have had to white-knuckle the handlebars. Dare I go through with my plan?

  Lifting my gaze, I see the ivory stone wall that encases the white, oval mansion. The abode itself is at least fifty times larger than the trailer my father and I share, with six thick marble columns and more floor-to-ceiling windows than I would ever want to clean. Poor Gemma.

  Most girls my age are already stuck inside a mansion similar to this one—cleaning, cooking, serving, and washing clothes. But since my father has worked as a pastor at Culmination Hospital for decades, he submitted my name, hoping I would qualify as one of their prescription couriers. And I did. I quite enjoy my work. Although, I don’t like being under my father’s scrutinizing eye. He reminds me almost daily that I should abstain from all appearances of evil. Whatever that means. My father and I are fortunate to have great jobs, since working in the oil rigs off the coasts, sorting trash, harvesting fruits and vegetables, or laboring in sweatshops is the norm for Laborers.

  Venturing into the woods with my rusty three-speed, my sandals sink into the damp forest floor. The scent of the sodden, musty earth rises into my nostrils, and the earthy fragrance reminds me of when Gemma and I used to hang out in the woods behind our lane, commiserating about how unfair life is for Laborers. Her spontaneous laughter would vibrate off the sidings and bring life to all the rusty trailers on our street. It’s been almost a year since Gemma received her vocation, since I heard her laughter—that free and careless sound. Now, whenever I see her, her eyes are like dead stars.

  I never truly questioned my obligation to submit myself into the service of a Master—it’s a Laborer’s place, my God-given contribution to society. My father has pounded this fact into me since before I can remember. However, when I came to Master Douglas’s a couple of months ago and saw Gemma’s eye crusted with blood and swollen shut, everything I so blindly believed, lived, and trusted—the entire framework of our society—all came tumbling down at once.

  I sneak around the towering wall and all the way to the back of the Douglas estate, stopping at a soaring tree. Carefully, I slip my sandals into my bike’s basket for easy access just in case I have to make a run for it. And before I proceed, I glimpse at the knife and the tan plastic bag to ensure they are still there. They are.

  Grabbing onto the lowest branch, I press my feet against the trunk and hoist myself up. I climb high enough so that I can glimpse into the backyard. I see Master Douglas sitting outside on a garden couch, wearing a black silk robe over red silk pajamas. He’s eating sausages, drinking beer, and reading the newspaper. The man is known for his charm and charisma, and his name is on countless art museum contributor plaques throughout town, so it’s not hard to see why he’s popular and highly respected in Culmination. But even without considering the rumors I’ve heard, there’s just something about being around him, or even just thinking about him, that makes my skin crawl.

  I find a wide spot on one of the thick, lower branches and straddle it. I watch as Master Douglas tears out a Savage Run advertisement from the newspaper. He rips it to shreds and scatters the pieces so they fall to the white marble floor. I’ve talked to a few Masters about the Savage Run program, and it’s funny how all of them insisted that the survival of our nation depended upon individuals remaining in their class of birth. They couldn’t understand what President Volkov was thinking creating a program that made it possible for inferior-class citizens to receive Master status.

  My chest squeezes when I see Gemma come out with a silver tray filled with all sorts of heavenly pastries. She’s wearing a ruffled, peach, above-the-knee-length dress that has a low neck showing off her cleavage. Her long braid hangs behind her back and I see pink and silver strands intertwined between her blonde locks. Riding around town, I see more and more Laborers wearing fine clothing. In the past few years, it has almost become a competition among Masters to see who can have the prettiest and most well-dressed Laborer. Laborers don’t get to keep the clothing but change into it when arriving at their Master’s and leave it when they head home. Some Laborers, like Gemma, are forced to live with their Master and wear whatever they’re told whenever they’re told.

  Gemma approaches Master Douglas with slumped shoulders. Her gaze is down, as if she can’t take a breath. Seeing how she has turned into one of those nameless, faceless shadows makes me want to scream at the man.

  “What took you so long?” Master Douglas yells.

  Gemma opens her mouth to answer, but a gust of wind rustles the leaves above my head, overpowering her reply. He hits the tray out of her hands, sending it to the ground with a crash.

  My stomach clenches with anger.

  He demands that she clean it up and tells her to go get another platter with the crumpets. Gemma apologizes, cleans up the mess, and scurries back inside the mansion, her face as ashen as the scattered clouds above.

  Back when Gemma found out who she was being sent to work for, we joked that if things got too bad, we’d run away and somehow miraculously gain our freedom. I never dreamed that one day I’d actually find a way to make it happen.

  It’s not only Gemma who needs to get away, though. This morning my father woke me, shouting from the living area, asking where his lazy, good-for-nothing daughter was. As I served him breakfast, he continued to lecture me about how it’s not like I can skip a day’s worth of work and sign up for the Savage Run or anything. I’m just a girl—the wrong gender. He’s made it clear to me on countless occasions that I should have been born a boy. And besides, the hospital needed me to make an “emergency” prescription delivery to Master Douglas by 7:00 a.m. Yelling after me as I left, he said he’d pray that I’d swiftly repent of my irresponsible, lazy ways.

  Like my father, Gemma has no clue about my plan, and I’m not even sure she’ll go for it. It’s kind of like jumping from the lion’s den into the valley of death. However, being dead can’t possibly be worse than enduring the life I’m living now, or the life I’ll soon be forced to live. When I turn eighteen next week, I’ll be assigned to my own Master. My father says he’ll miss me, though he won’t miss having another mouth to feed. What he’ll soon realize is that he doesn’t even have to wait until next week to be rid of me. I should be well on my way when he finds the note I left under my pillow, explaining that I won’t be returning home anytime soon. If ever.

  Birds sing freely around me as I wait for Master Douglas to finish pigging out on the sausages. From my perch on the branch, I peruse the forest, making sure no one’s around. If caught straying from my responsibilities, I’d receive a harsh punishment. Solitary confinement and beatings are fairly common types of punishment, but they are still dreaded among Laborers. Not to mention degrading. But occasionally there are Laborers who, for whatever reason, openly defy their Master or try to run away. In those instances, the retribution is much worse. It’s always a heavy day when we’re forced to Skull Hill to watch a beheading.

  Sitting here is awkward, and my leg is starting to tingle. I shift a little to get comfortable and to prevent my leg from going completely numb. I peer over the wall again, but still no Gemma. What could possibly be taking her so long? Doesn’t she know that Master Douglas will ream her out again if she doesn’t hurry? And the longer she takes, the more likely it is that my plan will fall completely apart. Finally, Gemma comes out with a new tray overflowing with pastries and crumpets and sets it on the marble table. How much breakfast does the man need? Even for a Master, he has an exquisite taste for gluttony.

  From studying Master Douglas’s routine, I’ve figured that the best time to get Gemma and make a run for it is right after he leaves for his hour-long jog. Around that time, the front gates will be left open for about ten minutes to let in a shipment of goods. The Unifer guarding the gates will be busy with the delivery and w
ill take time to chat with the delivery driver. With a little luck, Gemma and I will slip behind the truck unnoticed.

  I lean my head back onto the tree trunk and let out a soundless sigh. This is taking way too long. Then suddenly, a lighthearted laugh catches my attention. I peek into the courtyard and see Master Douglas’s seven-year-old daughter hopping onto his lap and planting a kiss on his cheek. She’s always smiling and laughing, especially around him.

  “Hi, sweetheart.” His black, round eyes fill with adoring love for the child. “Will you be coming with me this morning to go horseback riding?”

  “Not today, Dada,” she says, hanging on his neck and stroking his graying hair. “I want to go swimming.”

  “Swimming?”

  “It’s so hot, and Gemma promised she’d take me.”

  “She did, did she?” He twirls her golden braid around his finger while staring at Gemma. “I’ll make sure I tell Gemma that she needs to take extra good care of you.”

  “See you later, Dada.” She slides off his lap and skips back into the house.

  Master Douglas gulps the rest of his beer, pushes his palms against the armrest, and rises to his feet. He flicks his wrist toward Gemma. “Get lost!”

  Gemma bends her head lower, and without a sound, she shuffles back into the house.

  Heading inside, Master Douglas lets out a loud belch. I’m not quite sure, but I almost think I can smell his beer breath from all the way over here. I cover my nose with my hand and feel pressure rising at the back of my throat. Well, at least he’s on the move.

  I hop down from the tree and shove my feet into my cold, wet sandals. When I arrive at my bike, my whole body is shaking. This is it.