He shuffles uncomfortably and his pimply cheeks redden impossibly more.
“Chosen may not know the names of the soldiers. Please, follow me.”
He turns and disappears.
Well, shit. I hastily make my way outside the room and look down the hall. His long legs are traveling fast, so I jog to catch up, noting another soldier standing still as a statue by the far wall. I look over my shoulder, and sure enough, another stands at the one behind me.
Pimple Face turns down a corridor before we reach the soldier ahead of us. I catch his eye and send him a twinkle-fingered wave just for the hell of it. He quickly averts his gaze, as if burned or caught doing something forbidden.
We take another turn and face a set of swinging double doors with windows in the upper halves. Two more soldiers stand on either side of them. When they see us approaching, they nod at Sir Pimpleton.
Pimple face stops suddenly, and I quickly make my own feet stop before I walk straight into him and get pimple juice all over me. Gross. My imagination was not doing any favors to my already queasy stomach.
“This is the dining hall. From now on, you must find your way here and back to your room for every meal. Anyone remaining in or out of their rooms outside of the allocated time frame will be punished and confine- “
“Confined to my room for the rest of my stay,” I cut in sweetly. “Understood.” I stand to attention and give him a salute and a wink, to which he immediately blushes.
He nods, turns, and walks away.
“Uh, excuse me…?” I stop him, realizing something. “I, uh, didn’t happen to take note of my room number…” I trail off, hoping he will catch on.
He does.
“Room 1229,” he says simply, before turning back around and marching away. Good, maybe my appetite will return now that I don’t have to look at all those pimples.
I turn back to the double doors, ignoring the stationed soldiers as they ignore me. I don’t bother scouting the room through the window. No point in delaying the inevitable, and, besides, surveying from the outside seemed weak.
So, I straighten my spine and push the doors open.
The buzz of many conversations in a small area reaches my ears as I step through and let the door close behind me. I pause as I take it in.
Statistically speaking, each floor should hold fifty women. There’s maybe half that here. I frown before remembering that the lottery drawinghasn’t happened yet. These women were like me. Someone hadsoldthem too.
Conversation stutters as the ladies turn to take me in.
“Ah, another one?” A woman on the larger side of the scales with a short buzz-cut and tattoos decorating both arms from shoulder to fingertips, calls. “Who’d you piss off?”
The women in her little posse laugh with her, and I cringe. This was just like high school all over again, and they were the jocks. To-cool-for-school-bullies.
The other small groups of women get back to their conversations, completely ignoring me now that they have had their take of me.
A petite and young Asian woman gets up from her small group and comes towards me. She wears her thin black hair in a neat bob at her shoulders, with an overgrown fringe pushed to the sides.
“Hello,” she says. She smiles warmly at me, and I can’t help but smile back. She is one of those people you can’t help but adore. Which could be conflicting in the long run, considering where we are headed. “My name is Akari. What’s yours?”
“I’m Delta,” I reply.
Akari reaches out her hands and I instantly place mine in them. They are small and cold, but she has a firm grip as she squeezes mine.
“Delta. A beautiful name for a beautiful woman.” I can’t help but blush at her analysis. “Come, let me show you where to collect a tray of food.”
She keeps one of my hands as she leads me toward a buffet. It’s on the smaller side, but I’ve never been one to complain about a freaking buffet,though I am devastated I had missed breakfast. What better way to start the day than by guiltlessly overindulging on bacon and eggs?
Akari follows at my shoulder as I choose to make a sandwich from the salad bar and fresh meat collection. The dessert selection is disappointing, what with the jelly cups, custards, and variety of biscuits.
“Don’t worry,” Akari says, “the real desserts come out at dinner time.” She winks.
“Thank God,” I groan. “I would die if all the desserts I ever got to choose from again were jelly and custard.”
