Page 376 of Rage

Witch’s Revenge

By: R.K. Pierce

Chapter One

August 23, 2050

The sound of a gunshot explodes through the commotion. My ears ring, and a body in the crowd crumples to the ground—dead.

No one dares move a muscle.

The Peace Officers pointing guns at us won’t hesitate to shoot again.

Sickly yellow light from the setting sun casts long shadows over the officers’ faces, contorting their features until they resemble what they really are: demons. It’s no secret that ‘peace’ has nothing to do with their station. They’re all cold-hearted, evil bastards who’ll do anything to please the High Majesty.

The collar of my work dress clings to the back of my neck with sweat, and a bead of perspiration rolls down my temple. My stomach is growling after five hours of gardening and harvesting the limited herbs and vegetables left for the season. Every inch of me aches. All I want is to go back to our sleep quarters, shower, and rest, but we aren't going anywhere until everyone lines up and is silent.

This is the way, as it must be.

I lean forward slightly, my gaze falling between the cluster of gatherers to see the unmoving form on the ground. All I can make out is the black veil covering her face and the puddle of crimson slowly pooling around her abdomen. I don't yet know which of our house sisters won't be returning with us, but I'll find out soon enough.

I wish I felt anything more than a slight depression in my chest. Rage, hatred, contempt, sadness,anything.But for the most part, I’m numb.

From birth, I’ve been desensitized to the cruel, harsh conditions of our society. I've seen so much pain, torture, and death in my nineteen years that it doesn't faze me anymore. I'm hardened to the difficulties of my reality, as much as I wish they were different. All I can do is keep my head down, follow orders, and try to survive.

This is Merik. This is the will of the High Majesty.

This is the way, as it must be.

Thankfully, no one else moves. The leading Peace Officer swings his gun left and right, the barrel directed at each of us for a fraction of a second. He wears the same red coat all Peace Officers wear, a pointed, red hood covering most of his dark hair. The pale skin of his face is creased with wrinkles, but it doesn’t matter what he looks like.

All the officers are the same. Nameless loyalists with a dangerous hive mind, only interested in one thing: pleasing their ruler.

My stomach pitches when the barrel of the gun points at me. As much as I try to reassure myself that I haven’t done anything wrong, that doesn’t ensure my safety.

Nothingensures my safety.

“I told you bitches to shut the fuck up and get in line,” he growls, his black eyes gleaming with malice. “I'll kill everyfucking one of you and tell the High Majesty it was a pack of wild dogs. Now,move.”

A sensation hooks behind my navel, and my feet move of their own accord, obeying the command. We line up, just as we do every morning, noon, and night. At nineteen, I’m the oldest harvester in our group—one year from aging into the breeder faction—so I lead our group to and from our daily activities. The rest follow me, oldest to youngest, with the thirteen-year-olds bringing up the rear.

A glance over my shoulder gives me the answer I've been dreading. There’s an empty space between me and the next girl in line where another person should be. It dawns on me that the second eldest of our faction, Rebeka, is the one lying in a crumpled heap on the ground a few feet away.

She turned eighteen just last month, and now she will forever be eighteen.

“Stop wasting my time,” one of the Peace Officers snarls. “Move.”

Swallowing down any hint of emotion, I follow orders, keeping my head low so the dark fabric draped over my head masks my face. I march us back toward the tiny village we call home, a mile away on the other side of the crop fields. The crunch of our footsteps on the dirt is the only sound in the oppressive silence that strangles us.

The village consists of five large ranch-style houses, positioned perfectly around a circular clearing. They represent and house the female factions of our state: younglings, gatherers, breeders, homemakers, and elderly. In the middle of the clearing there is a platform with a single noose hanging from it, a constant reminder of what awaits any who disobey.

This is the way, as it must be.

After depositing our harvest into several wooden bins outside of the homemakers’ house, we file into our own withouta word. Peace Officers stand on either side of the door until we close it behind us, and all but one of them heads back to the men’s mansion for the night.

One officer always stands guard, making sure no one leaves their house until morning when they come to collect us for breakfast.

We may be trapped in the house with no way out, but at least we’re safe for the night.

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