“She’s getting away!”
Some dickhead asshole motherfucker tells on me before I even have a chance to try to escape. The sheriff’s soldiers come for me. Bigger, faster, fucking terrifying.
They swing me off my feet and carry me back to the sheriff, my slim body dangling between them. My toes don’t even touch the ground. In their grasp, I am weak and vulnerable. The remnants of my clothing don’t give me much in the way of modesty. My underwear is still on, and the wrap I put around my breasts to complete the male illusion is still there—until it isn’t.
The sheriff reaches out, grabs the wrap, and yanks it. It unwinds like a mummy’s cloth, revealing my breasts to the world. Blood rushes back into the compressed tissue, making me ache and swear.
There is a rumble of male desire all around me. The sheriff is doing the equivalent of dangling a fresh lamb over a pack of starving wolves. This is going to end badly for me. I can feel it.
The fear and adrenaline that kept me clear headed and enabled me to get the hell out of the way when I was under mass attack, now leaves me trembling and weak in the arms of these men who own women.
The sheriff looks me over. He is not a good man. He is not a kind man. In this post-Event United States, you don’t become a law man by playing by the rules. You get there by being brutal and vicious and rich enough to enforce your will and call it law.
When he looks at me, he doesn’t see me. He sees pieces and parts. He sees potential profit. “Good flesh,” he says. “Put her up for sale.”
“No! I just came into the market to sell some oranges! Let me go!”
My words mean nothing, and my struggles mean even less. The sheriff’s face quirks behind the shield of his mask. I can’t really see it, he is like a shadow behind the thick radiation-resistant protection, but I can hear his voice rattling through the microphone.
“I know what you came here to do. I saw you taking them from my private orchard, you little orange-stealing whore. I came here to catch you and hang you for the theft. But you’re female, and young. That would be a waste. You’ll be sold to the highest bidder, girl. And you’ll be grateful you’re not swinging from a rope.”
“I’d rather swing!”
“Take her to the cut men,” he says, talking to his soldiers, ignoring me. “Have them prepare her for sale. And get a collar on her.”
As I writhe, the soldiers do his bidding. They press a thin, light piece of metallic substance around my neck. I immediately try to pull it off, but I can’t. Whatever it is, it’s strong. And while I’m distracted with trying to remove it, they’re bundling me into a cage that obviously has one purpose: human transport.
I am caught. And this is all my fault.