Dystopia Pt. 01

The brunette took the money and he followed her as she walked up to the kitchen window, handing the coin over to a very plump and cranky looking woman he assumed was the owner, reciting his purchases. The woman grunted and handed the girl a key with the number four painted on it and a second key with a 'W,', and he followed the brunette up the stairs in the back of the shop to a room halfway down the hallway on the right. She unlocked the door and pushed it open, showing him the rather disappointingly small room for his hard earned twenty silver, and unlocked a door immediately across it which made his heart sing. There was an honest to goodness washroom, complete with full sized tub with a drain built into it, a fire fueled water tank for hot water and a pump handle for cold water. The girl went over to the water heater and lit the fire beneath it to start the heating process, and then handed him a large canvas bag.

"Clothes go in the bag, leave the bag inside the washroom, and we'll deliver your clothes in the morning at daybreak. No shoes. The fire in the tavern is always lit, and the blankets are thick so don't worry about freezing. If you need extra warmth, my name is Lacy," she said with that wicked smile on her face again. This time Emil was ready for it, and he looked her square in the eye and...

"NOTHATSOKTHANKSILLBEFINE!" and immediately started kicking himself.

'Wow, you couldn't talk to a girl if your life depended on it, could you?!'

Lacy just laughed at him, "Whatever you say," and walked out of the room with that sway in her hips that every woman knows makes men stupid. Well....more stupid. Emil just shut the door and thanked whoever would listen that at least he didn't make an even bigger ass of himself, though part of him wondered if that was even possible.

Drawing water for his bath he filled up the bathtub about halfway from the cold water pump while the hot water came to boiling, then opened the hot water pipe to fill it the rest of the way. It was still a little colder than he wanted, so he drained a little and added more hot water so it was just on the other side of too hot. He shed his boots, jacket, overshirt, undershirt, pants, thermal bottoms and socks, reveling in the feeling of being naked for the first time in over a week. He climbed slowly into the tub and after a quick scrub, sank mercifully beneath the water, feeling the heat warm his core in a way he had very nearly forgotten about.

He started when water splashed his face, sputtering at the sudden shock bringing him out of a sleep he didn't remember falling into.

"No drowning at the Pony, it's against policy," said a voice from above Emil.

He rubbed his eyes free of the droplets and smiled as he looked up, expecting the pretty brunette...but instead of the flirty barmaid, he locked eyes with the chubby frown of the cranky owner, with grease on her elbow and what he desperately hoped was chicken blood on her apron. His smile faltered and he sat there, aghast, staring up at her while she looked down on him, chortling.

"Water got cold, eh?"

Blushing like a teenager who'd just discovered kissing, he quickly tried to cover himself as best he could while the owner just stood there and smirked. "You're lucky I don't have any more customers who ordered a bath tonight. Hurry up and git yourself out of here." She turned on her heel and stomped out of the room.

Emil waited to hear the door slam and quickly hopped out of the now tepid water to wrap himself in a large towel and bolted across the hallway to his room. Leaning against the door he caught his reflection in the small steel mirror beside the bed.

'You are the king of retards,' he thought to himself. 'At least this day is over with, tomorrow can't possibly be this bad.'

If there was one thing Emil should have learned from the philosopher Harry Dresden; it was to NEVER give the universe an opening like that.

Chapter 3

Isla shivered in the back of the cargo truck as it bounced along down some god forsaken road in the middle of nowhere. She had been to many cities over the last few months, but this place was so much colder than she was used to.

'People still live here?!' she thought angrily, 'What sort of person would move so far away from where it is warm? It's August for crying out loud!'

She huddled her arms closer around her, wishing that her back wasn't to the wall of the truck, but instead in the middle of the bodies that packed the space so at least the body heat might be able to keep her from hypothermia. The rags she was wearing provided almost no protection from the elements and barely covered her skin, but no one cared what happened to a slave. She could fall over dead in the next few minutes and the only thing the slaves dealers would care about would be the loss of profit, as they stripped her corpse out of the rags and passed them along to another.

The truck made a hard right turn, shifting the mass of bodies within the truck and causing Isla to lean away from the wall and when the truck righted itself the mass came back in a rush, slamming her against the wall of the cargo hold.

She cried out as something sharp dug into the back of her skull, and she reached up to feel a gash on the back of head from the jagged end of a bolt. Her hand came away covered in blood, and she whimpered softly. The slavers were not going to be happy about this...if they thought she was trying to damage herself so no one would buy her, she would be beaten within an inch of her life....if they were feeling generous. She had already been to three different auctions and so far the only one that had bought her was another slave caravan. The last thing she needed was for them to think any of this had been by design, and she was already terrified that if she didn't get bought soon, they would slit her throat and leave her for the wild dogs to set an example for the rest.

She quickly felt around in her pockets for a scrap of cloth, or paper; anything to stop the blood from pouring down her neck. As she scrambled, a hand reached over with a small scrap of dirty cloth and she looked up into the sad, blank eyes of the slave next to her, and nodded in gratitude. She held the cloth to her head and pressed hard and after a few minutes she thought the bleeding had stopped. She was suddenly actually a little grateful for the cold, as it eased the throbbing and probably helped the blood clot.

A few more minutes of rattling over what felt like every pothole ever made, the truck came to a stop with a squeal of brakes and a few grunts from the people at the front of the cargo hold. Isla heard the engine turn off, followed quickly by the doors of the cab opening and closing as the slave drivers got out. She listened to the voices as they were joined by a third person, and tried desperately to make out the words, but they were too far away and the walls of the truck were too thick. The voices faded off into the distance and the slaves were left with nothing but their thoughts and the dim light coming in through a crack in the roof of the truck. Someone towards the back was sobbing quietly, while the rest just waited for the slavers to come back with silent dread.

After what felt like an eternity, there came a loud bang against the door of the truck and several voices started with fear. The door swung open to the laughing face of one of the drivers, who barked a simple "OUT!"

The truck quickly emptied into a small field, where they were allowed to stretch and relieve themselves out in the open like common livestock. One of the drivers stood nearby with a woman and they were arguing about percentages, while the other driver stood nearby cradling a rifle like it was a newborn. Isla looked around and saw the flat barren terrain spotted with small houses and the thought of running never even crossed her mind; with that rifle he could kill any of them without moving.

She found herself huddling next to the truck engine where it was still a little warm from the drive, pulling her rags in close against the wind. After a few heated words the driver and the woman shook hands and the woman began walking off towards a large rectangular building, while the driver walked over to Isla yanked her to her feet by her shirt, tearing it in the process and shoving her after the woman, barking to follow her. Isla stumbled after the woman, her bare feet numbed by the icy ground, and tried to hold the now torn shirt closed before the wind froze her tits off.

The woman led them through the building and into a dark concrete room with stacked beds where Isla was chained to a bed by an ankle manacle, the same as everyone else. When the task was complete the woman left them in the room and slammed the only door shut with a loud metallic clang, and locked it shut with a steel bar and padlock, and was gone.

Isla laid down on the soiled bed, and began to cry quietly. Soon she would be sold, or the slavers would cut their losses and sell her to the first work camp they came across; either way her life was almost over.

The next day she woke to the door slamming open, as a series of slaves with their feet hobbled by chains came in and began distributing small hard loaves of bread to them under the watchful eye of the auctioneer. They left only to return with several pitchers of water and some rags.

"Clean yourselves up my pretties, today you get bought!" shouted the woman, looking around the room without focusing on anyone, until she spied Isla and her torn shirt. "Oh hoho! I like the way you think girl, trying to get a man's attention? It would work better if you weren't so fat. Where did you come from where you got so fat? Must've been from a rich family, huh? Well here you're just a slave, and tomorrow you'll be sold to anyone who will pay for you. Maybe a brothel, or maybe a camp. Who knows." The woman smiled wickedly. "I doubt it'll be a brothel though. It's likely the work camp for you, they'll probably think you'd last longer with all that padding." She threw back her head, laughed, and slammed the door shut, leaving Isla to contemplate her future.

Isla looked around the room and saw a few women give her a sad look. The men avoided her gaze entirely, knowing that the auctioneer probably spoke the truth. Isla would soon end up at a work camp and be dead within the year; nobody ever made it to two.

Quietly, Isla began to sob.

Chapter 4

Emil woke up very confused, with a sensation he was not used to; comfort. No frozen nose, no ice crystals on his upper lip. Or his balls. This, he could get used too. The miracle of ancient insulation. Why had he not made it more of a priority to buy this stuff beforehand?!

As he rolled out of bed he promised himself that he would buy whatever insulation he needed to set his house up to live like this on a daily basis. The only problem was, if he didn't get help (and soon) he wouldn't be able to keep up with the ranch. Soon bits of the ranch would start to break, and then his flock would get sick. Heaven forbid he had an outbreak of ecthyma, he could lose half his goat herd in a week. No way about it, he needed help and he needed it desperately BEFORE things got out of control.

Emil looked around the room for his clothes, before realizing that the cranky manager still had them. He padded over to the door, cracked it open, and was grateful to see the clothes bag hanging from his doorknob. Grabbing his clothes, he quickly dressed and headed out the door, down the stairs to the fire pit which was already being tended by one of the bar maids. He slowed down to appreciate the view of a woman bent over performing a task, then went over to the bar and knocked on the counter. The cranky manager popped her head around a corner and grunted at him. She vanished only to reappear with a bowl of some sort of brown stew, a large piece of what he thought was burnt bread, and a mug of steaming coffee. She plopped it down on the counter with a grunt.

"You done with the room? Checkout is noon."

"Yeah, thanks, I'm done. I'll finish my meal and be out of your hair. Hey, I'm looking for a farm hand, do you know anyone who's interested in an apprenticeship?" Emil asked tearing off a hunk of bread and letting it reconstitute in the soup.

"I know the Tanners have a son, have you asked them?" she replied pulling out a rag and mopping up a bit of mystery liquid on the counter.

"Yeah, I already checked with them. He's already covering for someone with a broken wrist."

"Millers?"

"Only daughters, and they're too young."

"Rivers?"

"It's just the old man, and he's too old."

The owner's frown deepened as she contemplated the issue. "Well, you could always buy a slave at market, but they're really expensive to keep."

"Where's the auction? It couldn't hurt to look." Emil spooned up some of the soup and frowned over the unique taste to the meat that he couldn't identify except as 'purple.'

"About fifteen miles south, big brick building just off the left side of the road. Ask for Regina, she's the owner."

Emil nodded as he mopped up the last of the soup with the world's hardest lump of bread and choked it down. Pulling on his jacket, he walked out to his truck and began inspecting his supplies. After double checking that everything he purchased was still where he left it, he tromped off to the to the blacksmith to buy those damn ceramic briquettes.

'Only took about twenty-four wasted hours and an additional twenty-nine silver over the actual cost of the damn briquettes,' he thought with a scowl.

As he was walking back to his truck, he contemplated buying a few more bundles of insulation, but he didn't want to spend any coin he didn't absolutely have too. His future was uncertain and he would need every last copper to reinvest back into repairs and vet bills.

He hopped back into the truck and fired it up, smiling at the roar of the engine. In this harsh world, you have to look for the little things, like a piece of well cared for machinery that works properly...every time. Kicking the truck into gear he headed south down the pock-marked road towards the slave auction and began running the numbers for feeding an extra body. He already had the infrastructure but how much could he save skimping on a slave? This might not be the worst idea ever.

Chapter 5

Isla couldn't sleep. She fidgeted and shivered in her bunk, staring blankly at the wall, imagining all of the horrible things that would happen at the work camp. She wasn't sure which was worse; the rumors, or her own imagination.

She tossed and turned for hours with visions of working her fingers to the bone from sunup to sundown, beatings, rape, and should she fail for any reason...being fed to the dogs. Alive. Isla had heard whispers of men and women who were bought simply to be used for sport, hunted like animals. Of women who were cut into and modified to be displayed as grotesque pieces of art.

Humanity had fallen, but some people had fallen further than others and those at the bottom paid the price for humanity's depravity. Isla felt like crying again, but over the last few days she had shed all the tears her body had, and now she just felt a pit of dark emptiness where her soul used to be. She picked absently at the brick wall, and tried to quiet her mind.

Just as she began to doze off from sheer exhaustion, the bolt screeched, and the door slammed open. Regina the slave owner walked in with at least a dozen large men all hobbled with ankle manacles. Her bleached white pants and jacket were covered in fine lace with silver rabbit fur trim, which contrasted starkly with the slaves', dressed in rags that had been tied together to cover as much skin as possible.

"Gooooood morning my pets! Today is your big day so rise, shine, and big smiles all around. Big smiles means big bids, and big bids mean wealthy owners....and big profits..." she mumbled to herself. With a flair she snapped her fingers and gestured to the slaves that were cowering in the room, "Get them ready!" she huffed, and turning on her heel she stormed out.

Moving quickly, the hobbled workers shuffled forward and began grabbing and stripping the slaves of what little clothing they had. A woman screamed, but most just stood there blankly as they were forcibly disrobed from the tatters of protection they possessed. Isla stood quietly as the worker didn't even bother trying to save the sack she was wearing, and just tore it from her frame leaving her bare in the room with so many others. One slave, however, snapped. A man of middling age and thick wrists turned on the worker that attempted to relieve him of his clothing. With a roar, he surged up against the small dark skinned worker and slammed him against the wall, grabbing his hair and slamming his head against the wall over and over again, screaming.

"I'm not a slave! I will never be a slave!" the man raged, eyes wide and spittle coming from his lips.

The small hobbled worker screamed and clawed at his attacker, attempting to defend himself, until with a sickening crunch he suddenly jerked and stopped moving. Blood began to flood from his ears and from the back of his now misshapen skull, a pool of it sending up wisps of steam as it rapidly cooled in the cold dirt. Isla recoiled with a horrified gurgle at the sight; she had never seen anyone killed in front of her before, let alone so violently.

Four of the remaining workers piled on top of the large man, dragging him to the floor and lying on his limbs, as he screamed obscenities and writhed against their weight.

"What in fucks name is going on?!" Regina shrieked in anger, face red as she surveyed the scene, then sighing in exasperation as she walked through the blood that was rapidly cooling on the dirt floor, staining her once white boots a dirty red. She quickly took in the mangled corpse of her worker and glared at the man being restrained on the ground next to him.

"Get him up and against that wall," she said, pointing.

The workers hauled him up and slammed him against the wall, holding him there as he screamed hate and profanities at the top of his lungs. Regina eyed the man up and down with disgust.

"You don't choose to be a slave. You simply are a slave. You are property, a thing, for me to do with as I wish. You've killed one of my slaves, a valuable piece of property that I have spent months training to behave in a manner I find pleasing. You took something of mine, so now I'm going to take something from you." From the small of her back she withdrew a sharp knife with a thin blade and a wicked looking edge.

"When a young bull gets too aggressive and violent, measures must be taken to ensure the safety of the herd." With a quick movement she grabbed the balls of the slave...

And cut them off.

The poor man opened his mouth to scream, and she unceremoniously stuffed his own sack into his mouth. With the palm of her hand she slammed his jaw shut, not that it slowed down his screaming...but it did make it substantially quieter. She held it shut, the only sounds in the room were the muffled screams of gelded man, the steady drip of his blood mingling with that of the man he just killed, and the sound of Isla vomiting into a corner. She had tried to hold it in, to quell the nausea and not attract attention, but the sight of a man gagging on his own genitals proved to be too much. She emptied what little her system still had.

"You little shit, you killed him! Now you are going to have to take his place. Not just as a tool for me, but also to serve as a living effigy of what happens to a slave who thinks they are anything more than property." She spun to face the room of nauseous and terrified slaves.