The Season Trials

C H A P T E R S I X

Unedited. 

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C H A P T E R        S I X

As it turns out, Sergeant Holmes is young and bald. As I'm dragged from the side of the stage, he waits there, arms crossed over his muscled chest which is covered in a black shirt. There's a floor length coat wrapped around his body, next to thick black pants.

The man looks like his title—a sergeant prepared to go to war and murder innocents.

My feet stutters beneath me, ankle burning savagely. But I refuse to fall. Refuse to let the man that now, for all intents and purposes, owns me, see the pain. The crippling fear that threatens to wash me over like the waves I've only ever heard old fables about.

"This her?" His voice is deep and gravelly, a permanent undertone of savage anger there.

One of the soldiers grunts affirmatively, his hand tightening on my arm.

Sergeant Holmes grins, taking in my tattered clothing and bruised body. "She'll fit in real well. My daughter's in needs of someone to keep her company. The last one tragically fell ill—I had no choice but to put her down."

My heart stutters momentarily. His voice is indifferent, cold as if he's speaking of a worthless animal.

"Follow. I don't have all day."

Sergeant Holmes turns and marches in the opposite direction, exiting the dense, green foliage. It looks so out of place—so bright and optimistic, when just metres away people are being sold as livestock.

Knowing I have no other choice but to follow, I hobble behind, having to hold back tears that threaten to fall. For that fear of not knowing what will happen to me. For the injustice of it all. The simmering anger at the idea they think money grants them with everything. Gives them excuse to murder in cold blood and sell their own kind.

God, what will happen to me? Torture? Abuse? To them, he owns me. That means no one will stop him. No one will ask questions.

The realisation is spine chilling. The person they shot back on the plane . . . he was given mercy. He was saved from this. The fear. The pain.

A road comes into view, nothing like the ones outside our house. It's smooth and looks silky. The one outside our house is rough and jagged. In front of the road is grass, thriving and soft under my feet.

Lining the road are . . . I don't even know what. They're the vehicles I've only ever heard about in stories—ones that move using electricity. Electricity, back at home, we went without. The sun is the only form of light. Candles are all you have at night, otherwise you're shrouded by darkness.

There's hundreds of them, just sitting at the edge of the road.

My steps falter as I gaze around in wonder. It looks like a scene out of something magical, surreal.

Anger follows the wonder, replacing it instantaneously, quick as rapid fire. The people here are living in this, surrounded by expense and beauty, while we've been living under the threat of dying of famine, fearful of soldiers invading with weapons at hand.

"In. Now."

I blink sluggishly. Somehow I've been following mindlessly, I haven't even noticed we'd near one of the vehicles. This one is stark black, with giant wheel along the bottom. It's longer than anything I've ever seen before.