State of Chaos

Sophia and I walk through the showers. The water is freezing and the pressure is so powerful that feels like I’m being stabbed with a thousand tiny needles.

Dear lord, this is like P.E. all over again.

Okay, maybe not, but still…I keep trying to relate this to real-life experiences to make it seem normal. But it’s hard, because this is not normal. This is a nightmare.

When we finally finish the never-ending shower run from hell, we stumble onto the other side of the locker room. More female Omega troopers are waiting. Half of them are armed. The other half is standing there, chucking towels in our faces. I catch one. It’s covered in dirt and grime. Lovely. I wipe the water off and try to shake the moisture out of my hair.

On the bright side, I’m clean.

On the not-so-bright-side, I still don’t have any clothes.

I keep my eyes glued to the wall or the ground, afraid that if I look up, I’ll realize how embarrassing this situation really is and have a full-on panic attack. I’m already on the edge as it is.

After everybody has dried off, we literally get clothes thrown in our faces. I grab the material. It’s rough, brown and the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen. The fashion police would shoot me on sight if I walked around in this thing in Los Angeles. But it’s something to wear, so I throw it on. It’s a shapeless piece of cloth, little better than a potato sack. Your basic set of trousers with nothing more than a piece of string to keep them around my waist. We all get beat-up tee shirts, too. I look like a stereotypical hillbilly now.

Sophia gives me a once over when we get the clothes on.

“Pretty bad,” she mouths.

I almost smile.

We’re given cheap shoes next. They’re all different sizes, like somebody fished them out of a dumpster. I get stuck with a pair of cheap gladiator flip-flops that are two sizes two big.

These won’t last more than a day.

Kamaneva and her guards throw open the rear-exit to the locker room.

“Alright, this way. Get in line!”

We start moving again. At the door, a couple of women are waiting with scissors. I blanch. They’re cutting off the prisoners’ hair. I grab my long red locks, hair that falls all the way to my waist. Hair that I’ve been growing out since I was in Middle School. Sophia stands motionless in the doorway. Her hair is already above her shoulders, therefore they only end up cutting off a few inches. Just enough to make it a generic, masculine hairstyle.

I’ve still got Chris’s necklace between my teeth, so I keep my mouth closed. But I’m nothing short of horrified. Take away my clothes and dignity, but don’t cut off my hair. Ever. The woman with the scissors takes my wet hair in her hand and holds it for a minute. I swear she almost looks sorry.

Almost.

I hear the hair being hacked off and when I’m pushed through the door, my head feels like it’s floating above my shoulders. The weight is gone. I touch my scalp. My hair is probably only a few inches long. Long enough to be combed over, but not long enough to put in a ponytail.

I. Flip. Out.

I spit the necklace into my hand and tie it around the inside material of my stupid outfit. And then I start crying like a little girl, shocked with the loss of my long hair, marching around naked through a bunch of showers, being hauled in a semi-truck like a piece of livestock. It’s like a tornado of bad luck. A hurricane.

A blizzard.

Sophia is the one who saves me from myself. She takes my face between her hands and grits out, “Stop crying. We’re not safe yet.” She gives my shoulders a rough shake. “Cassidy? Come on. We’ll get through this together.”

I take a deep breath, barely able to see her through my tears. Sophia nods and hooks her arm through mine, and then we’re moving again. There’s really no downtime around this place, is there?

We’re led away from the gymnasium, back towards the center of the school. Towards the classrooms. I see a science building, a history building…I sigh. History was always my favorite subject growing up. Why does Omega have to take anything that’s halfway decent and turn it into something twisted?

Kamaneva and her guards open up another set of doors. A classroom marked LAB. We’re marched inside. Chairs, desks, books, pencils and anything else of remote convenience have been removed from the room. All that’s left are some plain counters, minus the vials and test tubes. The only windows are small slits near the top of the ceiling, making an escape through a those openings impossible.

Kamaneva walks up to a giant chalkboard at the front of the room. She grabs a piece of chalk from the lip at the bottom of the board — I’d like to know who left chalk in the room but took everything else — and starts writing. Nobody dares say a word. There are about thirty or forty of us packed inside the room.

She writes:

Group 13.

“You are Group 13,” she states, turning to face us. She folds her hands behind her back, staring at everyone with a cold expression. “When you hear your number, you respond immediately. If we call Group 13 out in the morning, you come right away. If you disobey regulations, your entire group will be punished.”

“What are the regulations?” somebody asks.

Afraid to turn my head and see who spoke, I keep my eyes trained on Kamaneva. She draws her hands down to her sides, taking a deep breath.

“Regulation Number One,” she says, taking a commanding tone. It’s kind of a

“Inspirational speaker,” I mutter.

Sophia slaps my hand. I guess some of my sarcasm is returning.

“Regulation Number Three,” she continues, looking amused. “No prisoner at any time is to ever carry a weapon. If you are found in possession of a weapon, you will be executed immediately.” She pauses. “Regulation Number Four, obey all of the above regulations, or you’ll be killed. Are we clear?”

Nobody says anything.

This seems to make her happy. She gives a brief nod, walks towards the door, and bam. We’re moving. No more than five minutes of peace. We’re walking back out the doors, away from the chemistry lab, and I’ve got a bad feeling about where this whacked out tour is headed.

We’re rounded through some more double doors and enter a huge room with plastic tables and chairs everywhere. A long table is set up in the back. Omega guards are posted at every corner. A group of about twenty male prisoners are huddled around tables, eating something that looks suspiciously like a mud puddle in a cup.

“This is where you will eat your meals,” Kamaneva a

We reach the outside of the school, where the orange groves are growing in abundance. The bushy green trees are overgrown, aligned in perfect rows. Oranges are hanging heavy on the branches. They’re ready to be picked. Outside of the orange groves are several empty fields, and down from that, more oranges.

“Group 13,” she says. “Your job will be harvesting the fruit that is already on the trees. When you are done, you will move on to planting.”

I share a glance with Sophia.

Really? Omega brought us all the way out here to do some farming?