Savage Run

Savage Run

E. J. Squires

This is a work of fiction.

Any the characters, organizations,

and events portrayed in this novel

are either the products of the author’s

imagination or are used fictitiously.

Smashwords Edition

ISBN-13: 978-1505406375

ISBN-10: 1505406374

Copyright
©
2014 E. J.
Squires

All rights reserved.

Other books Available by
E. J. Squires:

Wraithsong

Desirable Creatures
Series, Book I

(Now available)

Blufire

Desirable Creatures
Series, Book II

(Coming Dec. 31,
2014)

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 Dec. 31,
2014)

Trepidation

White Witch Black Warlock
Series, Book I

(Coming Feb. 14,
2015)

For more information, go
to:

http://ejsquires.com

For my children.

May freedom and love

be the inspiration behind

every choice.

Part 1

The Escape

Chapter 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 another. 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 steering wheel. The bag is
supposed to hide my father’s kitchen knife, but it has shifted and
catches the sunlight, winking at me from the bottom. After a quick
scan of my surroundings, confirming 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 change of clothes is still
attached to the back railing 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 to travel to or from work,
before dawn—after sunset.

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

As I continue to bike ahead, I see Ruth, my
best friend’s mother. Since Gemma left last year, Ruth has
diminished into a walking skeleton. Not that she ever had any extra
weight on her. 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, 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 creasing 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 her I say…hello.” Her
words carry the weight of our late-night conversations. But
rehashing how her only daughter serves a Master, who it’s whispered
beat two of his Laborers to death won’t help. I wish I could tell
Ruth what I’m really doing—wanting to share with her 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.” Then I quickly
change the subject. “So did you see anyone heading toward
Culmination this morning?” President Volkov decreed Savage Run
registration day a day off for male Laborers and Advisors ages
thirteen through seventeen. “To give the least of us one chance at
liberty.” I thought for sure every Laborer who fit into those
categories would jump on the opportunity. But as I left, I didn’t
see a single soul do anything other than depart their squat,
aluminum trailers and join in the march.

“
No. 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.”

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 hide our less than aesthetically pleasing buildings from
the Master side of town. It would be a shame to ruin their view. I
can’t see it from here because of the veil, but each ten by twenty,
squat aluminum trailer is stashed on top of another, three high,
and side-by-side, fifteen long. When they built our housing, each
trailer was intended to house one family. Now, two families occupy
most trailers, though there are a few of us that are so lucky and
don’t have to share. Outside of work we spend our free time around
campfires preparing lackluster meals or doing laundry. And, if we
once in a while manage to have a few moments for ourselves, we
huddle together around bonfires or visit with neighbors.

I approach downtown and ride by the
Colosseum where many of the national obstacle courses and sporting
events are held. The cultural hub of Newland, Culmination is one of
the country’s most esteemed towns with 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 World Historical Museum. In Newland’s early years,
Culmination was where many world-renowned architects and artists
settled, being given immediate Master status by President Volkov
Sr., and being drawn to the dramatic countryside. Now a little
Rome, this 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, my hands have never shaken so much I
need to white-knuckle the steering wheel just to steady them.

Lifting my gaze, I see the ivory stonewall
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.

Most girls my age are already stuck inside a
mansion similar to this one—cleaning, cooking, serving, or washing
clothes. But since my father had worked at Culmination Hospital for
the majority of his life as their pastor, 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 appearance of evil. Whatever that means. As
Laborers, he and I are fortunate to have such great jobs where
working in the oilrigs off the coasts, sorting trash, harvesting
fruits and vegetables, or working in sweatshops are the norm.

Venturing into the woods with my rusty
three-speed, my feet 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 of 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, as it’s been pounded into me
by my father since before I can remember. But a couple of months
ago when I came here, and one of Gemma’s eyes was crusted with
blood and swollen shut, everything I so blindly believed, lived,
trusted—the entire framework of our society—came tumbling down at
once.

I sneak around the towering wall and all the
way to the back of the Douglas household. Carefully, I slip my
sandals in 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, hoist myself up, and climb high enough that
I can glimpse into the backyard. I see Master Douglas sitting
outside on a garden couch, wearing a black silk robe over silk
pajama bottoms. He’s sipping tea, eating pancakes and sausages, and
reading the newspaper. The man is well known and highly respected
in Culmination, and from his good looks and over-enthusiastic
charisma, I can see why. 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. Still keeping Master Douglas within
eyesight, I see him tearing 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, which 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. Riding around town, I see
more and more Laborers wearing fine clothing. And it’s funny how 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. Of course a Laborer doesn’t get to keep the clothing, but
changes into it when arriving at their Master’s and leaving it when
they head home. Some Laborers, like Gemma, are forced to live with
their Masters and wear whatever they’re told whenever they’re
told.

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

“
What took you so long?”
Master Douglas yells. She 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 so it lands on the ground with a
crash.