Chapter 11 Chapter 11: Work Duty
I swallowed hard, gripping my tag tighter. One wrong move, and I’d be just another body dumped in the wasteland.
Suddenly, it was our turn for inspection.
“Don’t look anyone in the eyes here,” Max whispered out of the corner of his mouth.
“Tag,” the nearest guard barked. I handed mine over, and he scanned it with a bored flick of his wrist. The device beeped. “You’re new?”
“Yes, sir,” I said, as he shoved the tag back at me.
“Well, you’re here to work. No funny business, got it?” Before I could answer, his helmeted head snapped to Max. “Hey, you! What the hell are you doing here? You can’t earn here; this is for real people.”
Max grinned and straightened to his full height, though his missing leg still gave him an uneven stance. “Guy’s orders. I’m with her, show her the ropes. And he said I get paid same as the rest.”
The guard scoffed, the sound distorted by his helmet’s vocoder. “You can’t work, cripple.”
Max’s smile didn’t waver, but his shoulders sank just a little. “She’s strong, she’ll do the heavy lifting. I tell her what to do. We’re a team. Boss’s words, not mine.”
The guard spat to the side, a dark glob hitting the mud. “Fuck it. Fine. But she better work like two, or you’re both getting a beating. Now move.”
We were funnelled inside, and the strangest, most archaic sight I’d ever seen lay before me: enormous wooden wheels, like giant hamster wheels turned on their sides, each filled with a dozen humans pushing against inner rungs in endless, gruelling circles. There were about fifty people in total, muscles corded and straining, faces masks of exhaustion. The air was thick with sweat and creaking wood.
One of the foremen, a brute with a knotted club, walked up to us. “Two bells on Pump 4, get to it,” he barked, jabbing a finger toward one of the massive mechanisms. Three pairs of men were already waiting; bodies slick with sweat. Two slots stood open, just enough space for us.
I took my place, my shoulders finding a groove worn smooth by countless others and started pushing. The resistance was immense. Max simply plopped down on the platform beside my feet, making himself comfortable. “Like I said, you’ve got to push for both of us. Rules are rules,” he said cheerfully.
Still heaving against the impossible weight, my muscles screaming in protest, I gasped, “Damn it, Max, this is going to kill me. What the hell are these things even for?”
He glanced up, sweat already dripping down his face from the mere effort of being there. “Pumps for Sections 3 through 6. They need clean water, and the sewers gotta drain. Can’t waste electricity on pumps when we’ve got plenty of manpower down here, men and women.” He let out a wheezing laugh.
One of the other men pushing next to me, a brute as ugly as the foreman but with one milky eye, grunted, “Hey, you’re the one who Nate brought in …”
I ignored him, focusing every ounce of strength on the wheel, wanting to drive my elbow into his throat, but no, second rule of The Sisters: do not show weakness. Endure.
The work was gruelling, mind-numbing torture. If I slowed even for a second, the watchers shouted threats, so I pushed and pushed for what felt like an eternity, letting my mind wander to survive:
How can I make real money here? Was coming here a catastrophic mistake? What if they find my book and can translate it? How do I get my buried supplies into the city, enough to build a real life and earn real Chids?
But more than anything, my thoughts circled back to Nate, his smug grin, his betrayal. Why didn’t he help me? Is he even alive? If he is, I hate him. If he’s not… The thought brought an unexpected pang of loss more confusing than the pain. I think I really do like him.
Finally, the fourth bell rang, only the second since I started pushing, wrenching me from my thoughts. The wheel ground to a shuddering halt, and I nearly collapsed, my legs buckling under the sudden absence of strain. Staggering toward Max, I gasped, “I need food. Water. A damn shower, Blessed Mother, I reek. This whole damn town reeks.”
Max just grinned, slapping my sweaty shoulder. “We did it, though. Now we get paid, eh?”
On the way out, we flashed our tags and collected our wages, one Rad pill and five Chids each. The foreman loomed too close, breath sour with cheap liquor as he leered. “Don’t spend it all at once, girl.” I was filthy, sweat-streaked and stinking, but he and his hungry eyes were worse. “Might clean up nice,” he mused, his fingers brushing my breast, no accident. I forced a thin, sickly smile and bolted, dragging a protesting Max with me before the bastard could say more.
“Max, show me where to get a damn shower, or I swear I’ll kill you and leave you in this mud.”
“No probs. Max can do anything. Come on, I know the best spot in town.”
Exhaustion clouded my senses, and I barely noticed the twisting path we took. But soon enough, we stood before a door bathed in the glow of a flickering red bulb, a sign above it, reading: The Thrill.
“Max!” I nearly shouted, my voice cracking with disbelief.
“I know, I know,” he smirked. “But it’s got the best baths in Irish-Section 1, know what I mean? Trust me. Jenny runs a clean operation.”
Reluctantly, my desire for cleanliness overriding my pride, I followed him inside.
The place looked like a child’s idea of a brothel, red velvet smothered every surface, clashing with the single flickering bulb masquerading as a candle. Its dim light fell on the cheerful, buxom woman behind the counter, her claw-like nails painted a garish red to match the décor. She was meticulously polishing a glass.