1
RACHEL
I wake up to just another day in Fort Dallas.
My wind-up alarm clock goes off, and all four of us in the room groan.
Yawning, I scrub my hand over my face and glance at the whiteboard calendar on the wall. Today’s not a bathing day. Rats. I slide off my bunk, smacking my lips. Underneath my top bunk, Jenny is curled up in the bottom one, her pillow over her face.
“Five minutes,” she mumbles.
“You always say five minutes,” Manda adds in, slightly cranky. She’s always cranky before breakfast.
“You know the rules,” I say, tapping Jenny’s hip with my hand. “We have to show up for inspection.”
Kristi hops out of her bunk and stretches, then heads right out for line-up. Manda makes a face at her back, but I just shrug. Out of all of us, Kristi’s the most dedicated to the job. Rumor has it that she wanted to be a soldier back in the day, but then the Rift happened and screwed her and everyone else out of their dreams. It’s just rumor, though. Kristi doesn’t talk to anyone—can’t or won’t—so people just speculate.
“Come on,” I tell Jenny one last time. “Panties off or they’re gonna come in after them.”
That makes Jenny jump to her feet. “I’m up,” she gripes, rolling out of bed. Manda silently strips her own panties off and then hugs her arms over her chest, tugging the hem of her nightgown lower in the vain hope it’ll cover everything.
A louder alarm goes off just outside, this one to wake the entire barracks. It makes me race out the door, though, because I need to get to the front of the line for food. The end of the line always gets shafted, which is why I set my own alarm clock.
“Come on,” I say to Manda and Jenny, stepping out of my own panties and scooping them up as I head out the door. The floor is cold under my feet as I head into the hall. There’s door after door opening and other women coming out, so I walk faster, determined to get to the end of the hall before the line gets too long.
Manda and Jenny are a few steps behind me, tugging on the hems of their shirts as we walk. I don’t bother. I’ve only got one hand and it’s currently holding my panties for turn-in, so I let my shirt ride up, not caring if my ass hangs out. No one ever looks at my ass anyhow.
I’m first in line. The soldier at the end of the hall eyes me, pulls out a ziploc bag and tongs, and takes the panties I hand him.
“Period?” he asks.
“No.”
He gives me a quick up and down inspection, then gestures me on through and puts a mark on his clipboard. After packing up my panties, he pulls out another baggy and turns to Manda. She meekly hands her panties over.
“Period?” the soldier asks in the same bored voice.
“Not for another week.”
He waves her through, too.
We wait for Jenny to go through inspection, and then head toward the cantina. In front of the doors is another table, this one guarded by an armed soldier who smirks at us as we approach.
“Morning, ladies,” he says with a leer.
“Fuck off,” I say cheerfully and grab a packet of freshly laundered and plastic-bagged underwear. I pull them out and step into them, then hand over the baggy for recycling.
“You know the rules,” he says, bored. “Don’t touch any underwear but your own.”
I make a face at him as he eyeballs Manda with far too much interest. “You busy Saturday night?” he asks her, grinning. “I’ve got some extra coin and need a date.”
She immediately flushes and shoots me a terrified look.
I grab her and pull her to my side, sliding her behind me so I can shield her as she puts her new panties on. “She’s not interested. Fuck off.”
“Offer stands.” He eyes me and then shudders. “Not for you, though.”
I smirk, even though I know it pulls the tight side of my mouth into a weird shape. Sometimes I hate my grotesquely scarred face, but at times like this? I’m glad these guys find me hideous. It’s kept me safe all through the After. Most everyone I know has been raped or forced into prostitution, but nobody wants the ugly scarred chick with just one hand.
Suits me just fine. I’ll die a virgin if these creeps are my only options.
“No thanks,” Manda says meekly, clinging to my side as Jenny hastily dresses.
When we’re all good to go, we enter the mess hall. A few of the soldiers eating there hoot and holler at the sight of women in nothing but a T-shirt and panties coming in for breakfast, but we ignore them. At least, I do. Not just because of my scars, but because there are armed guards watching who gets a food tray. The soldiers can hoot and catcall all they want, but they know and I know that they’re not allowed to do more than look.
The strange new program we’re in that feeds us and clothes us also keeps us weirdly safe. The men aren’t allowed to touch us—like physically touch us—until bath day. Then, some of the girls sleep around to make some coin, but once we’re bathed? No one’s allowed to put a hand on us.
I ignore the men and usher Jenny and Manda ahead of me to get trays. Manda holds one out to me and then hesitates, and I bite back a caustic comment because I know she doesn’t mean harm. It’s just irritating. “Thanks,” I manage, and put my tray down on the cafeteria tray rails as we wait to be handed food bowls. I grab silverware wrapped in a cloth napkin, grab a plastic cup and fill it with water, and then take the bowl of corn-mush and tomato that’s offered to me. I bend lower to balance the tray properly in my arms, but just because I only have one hand doesn’t mean I’m helpless, and I hate that Manda flicks another glance at me before moving on.
Even though we’ve both been in the program for two months now, she still doesn’t seem to grasp that I can handle myself just fine. Ironic, because I’m always the one the others go to when they feel scared. I know she means well, that we’re just looking out for each other, but it still rankles.
We take our trays and head to one of the designated women’s tables in the cafeteria—also watched by an armed soldier—and sit down to eat. I immediately start scooping my breakfast into my mouth, but Jenny picks at hers. “I can’t believe this is breakfast.”
“Believe it,” I mumble between bites.
“What happened to the oatmeal? Is it all gone?” She makes a moue of disappointment. “Breakfast should be sweet…unless it’s sausage.”
Manda groans. “Sausage. God, I miss sausage.”
“Just eat,” I tell them. “Or I’ll eat yours.”
“We’re eating,” Jenny says quickly.
I just take another bite. You can always tell which girls have had to struggle for food and which ones haven’t. Jenny and her dad recently came to Fort Dallas a few months ago, she’d told me, after roughing it at a neighboring fort that ended up getting cleaned out by plague. Her father had died last month, and she’d found herself alone and facing prostitution, so she’d signed up for what we jokingly call “the panty program.”
Manda has a similar story. She has two older sisters, both prostituting, who kept her safe for years. One’s got two kids and the other is pregnant, so there are more mouths to feed. The moment the panty program came up, she joined because it was either that or start prostituting, herself.