On the Run

When they came for her, she ran. It surprised Indie as much as it did the agents of the Federal Collection Unit crowded at her dormitory door. She spied the three men through her peephole after the first set of forceful knocks, but it was the follow-up demand to “open up” that stunned her. Every cell in her body froze for a beat, a pause just long enough for instinct to hijack her muscles and start them churning. It was an unexpected reaction, one that hit so fast Indie didn’t have a chance to curb it. She was out her window and down the creaky fire escape before she could even grasp what her limbs were doing.

Once on the ground, she shot a glance back up to the platform outside her third story window to find a large male looming there. He bellowed down at her, but her mind was still lagging behind her body and she took off running before his command to stop even processed. She was quick, her lithe frame strong from lifting and caring for patients at the medical clinic. Apparently, the agents hadn’t expected her to run. She was able to disappear between the buildings of the women’s living complex before they could give chase.

Now she sat hunched on a plastic chair in a public laundromat recovering from her sprint into the thick of downtown. She took a deep breath then released it back out in a controlled flow. Her chest rose and fell, but its slight lift and dip was hidden beneath the dark, shapeless hoodie she had covertly pulled from a random dryer. With the hood up to cover her sunny curls and tugged low over her forehead to shade her pale blue eyes, few noticed her or took a close enough look to realize she was female.

The crisp, clean scent of dryer sheets and soapy liquid detergent surrounded her. Oddly comforting, it eased the tension vibrating beneath her skin and Indie was able to relax deeper into the chair. She absently rubbed her clammy palms on her pant legs and listened to the clank of clothing tumbling and the hum of washers moving through their spin cycles.

What had she done?

Every female was collected then redistributed. It was the law. An inevitable and unquestioned right of passage; had been for a couple generations now. Collection wasn’t something Indie worried over or really gave much thought to, yet when the moment came, she ran. She wondered how many other young women had done the same. How many had harbored an unconscious impulse to resist beneath a smooth blanket of acceptance?

The agents on her doorstep weren’t a surprise. Indie’s extension was up and with it her free-to-work status. She was expected to enter one of the women’s wellness and education centers, snidely referred to as breeder camps. Girls were typically pulled from their families at the age of 16. Younger was better though, say around 14. It gave the girls a chance to polish their homemaker and hostess skills before being put up for selection. Most were on the list for marriage by 18 and selected by 20.

Indie’s parents hadn’t wanted her rushed into a center, likely because her grandmother had been born in the days before women were rounded up. Grandma often talked about a time when women took action rather than be coddled, built their own worth rather than relying on their husband’s value, and expressed themselves rather than letting a man speak for them.

“We might be bound and collared at this moment,” she’d whisper to Indie, “but the threads that bind will fray.”

Grandma could have easily been reported as an agitator, but she was sly. She acted oblivious to the subversive nature of her words, and when confronted, she’d just blankly smile. Most folks wrote her off as a silly old lady.

Indie’s parents had filed for the collection extension early on. They doggedly pushed the proper paperwork through the layers of bureaucracy to prove both sides of the family scored low in fertility and that Indie showed undesirable tendencies for a traditional wife. Once deemed less than ideal, she was allowed to train for a gender-approved job.

Indie hadn’t originally wanted the extension. None of her friends or classmates had one and it made things awkward. Worse, it marked her as inferior. It made her an outsider, a publicly known status since she was required to wear a visible pink collar at all times. Most people paid it little mind, though once in a while a passing man would tisk and utter “such a shame.” Girls her age would see the collar and purposely ignore her, acting as if she hadn’t spoken or moving if she sat near them. Indie didn’t really blame them.

Glamorous weddings, doting husbands, and darling children were the only real ambitions for proper girls. It’s what was on television and social media. It’s what dominated their conversations and interests. Being too friendly with a female identified for work might distract the girls, lessen their commitment, and hurt their chances in selection. It didn’t matter Indie herself would be up for selection once her extension ended. She was tainted, and if chosen, it would be by a low ranking husband desperate for a spouse. Not someone the other girls’ successful husbands would want to golf with or invite to dinner.

The duration of the extension depended on career field, and since Indie was labeled a needed caregiver as a nursing assistant, she was given a longer reprieve. That meant she was allowed to leave her parents’ house for her own space in the dormitory and she earned an hourly wage. Her paycheck went directly to her father to pay her bills, but still, it was nice knowing her time had value.

Indie could even be out in public without a chaperone and walking to work on her own turned out to be the best part of the extension. The medical center wasn’t far from her dorm, but the distance was enough to put her at ease. She would even often go on walks simply for the sake of walking. Her father urged caution, warned her to limit her wandering, but being out by herself for no reason at all was a rush. It felt like a win against an unbeatable opponent, if only for a few blocks at a time.

She was, however, mandated to carry a certified copy of her extension at all times. Just in case she was stopped and ordered to prove her status, her father said. But to her, it was a leash that pulled taunt and kept her in line. A copy was in fact stuffed in her back pocket even as she sat there staring at the gouges in the linoleum on the laundromat floor.

A thump at the entrance drew Indie’s attention. She tipped her head down to sink deeper into the hood and opened her eyes, glancing to the side. Two older women shuffled over to a bank of washing machines, lugging overly stuffed laundry bags with them. Their faces were plain with furrows at the corners of their eyes and deep lines etched across their foreheads. Both had bland brown hair shot through with gray strands, and instead of the long locks young women wore, theirs were cut into short bobs that hung loose at their jawlines.

The women cackled to one another and lightheartedly swatted at each other with chapped hands. As they chatted, they sorted the laundry into washing machines in quick, mindless movements. Even if they hadn’t sported easily recognizable steel gray collars, it was clear they were from the class of women who were cast aside. They were either not selected, their marriages were dissolved by their husbands, or they were widows left without means. As such, society had no use for them other than filling menial cleaning and service jobs.

Women of the gray were cautionary tales, tragedies used to scare young females. Parents and instructors would wag their fingers and hiss “Smile. If you’re not pretty enough, you won’t be selected and you'll fall to the gray.” Or “Be nice else your husband will be rid of you and you’ll fall to the gray.” Wearing the gray collar was a curse, a horror only surpassed by being deemed barren or jailed for being difficult.

“Whew wee,” teased the stouter of the two washer women. “You see those agents out there? That big one is fine. I’d let him collect me.”

The other woman shook her head and gave a cluck of her tongue. “Someone probably tried to sneak their girl out to Mexico or Canada. Such a waste of money. Those guys that smuggle ‘em are expensive, and half the time they turn the girls in for the reward. Poor young things never see the border.”

The stout woman let the lid of one of the washers bang shut then smiled big. “I’d be glad if I was in one of those breeder camps,” she said. “Those girls are fed, pampered, and protected. Life out here is hard. Easier to just pop a kid out for a man and have him pay for everything. It’s only rich, old men who get to select a wife anyway. The young ones are too broke and too irresponsible to keep a woman.”

“They say they’re gonna lower the standards to be a husband,” groused the other woman with an eye roll. “A lot of fellas who have been denied are angry. Causing problems. You know, a group of them were protesting at the oversight office the other day. They got real rowdy. It was a mess and almost made me late to work. I don’t have the time for that shit. I need my job. Ain’t nobody gonna keep me but me. Not like those damn camps.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” huffed the stout one.

With laundry loads started, the duo sidled over to a set of empty chairs across from Indie and dropped into them. Their nearness made her twitch in discomfort. Though they seemed oblivious to her, she was sure they were the sort to turn her in. Quietly unfolding from her chair, Indie rose and walked down the aisle between the machines to the exit. She quickly slipped outside, forcing herself to casually move on rather than look to see if she had caught anyone’s attention.

After a couple of blocks, Indie fell in behind an escorted trio of young women clucking over shiny items they spotted in shop windows. She set her pace so she stayed close enough to the group to appear as if she may belong, yet far enough back her presence didn’t concern the chaperone. Indie kept her hood up and head down, watching the toes of her sneakers bend and flex with each step. They hadn’t gone far before an appreciative hum from one of the young women prompted her to look up.

An agent stood a short distance ahead, his head on a swivel as he scanned his surroundings. His legs were braced apart, his shoulders back. His hand rested on the stun gun on the gear belt around his waist. He seemed alert, yet at ease. He was striking, especially with the black tactical uniform he wore and the golden badge on his broad chest that marked him as a collection agent.

Two other agents approached him. Though they were nearly the same height, he somehow seemed to overshadow the other two. He nodded as they spoke to him then he lifted a muscled arm and pointed the agents in different directions. Tasks assigned, he returned to scouring the street around him.

The young women Indie was using as a shield were headed straight toward the big agent. She considered turning away but that would have been suspicious. Unease rolled through Indie and she faltered. Maybe it was the stumble or simply his keen eye, but either way, the agent zeroed in on her. He paused for an instant then a smug smile spread across his full lips. He had spotted her, confirming it with a hitch of his chin toward her.

Everything stopped. Her heart, her breathing, the twinge of her nerves. Everything around her fell away. The rumble of traffic, the chatter and brush of people passing by. Indie was caught in a paralyzing stillness. It gripped her tight until the agent moved. His first cautious step toward her shattered the feeling, freeing her so a cold flush of panic lifted the hairs on her neck.

“Stop,” he barked in a deep, velvety voice. “Federal agents.”

Startled peeps came from the young women standing between Indie and the agent. Their hands fluttered near their chests, fanning themselves as they looked around, bewildered. Awareness unfurled across their features as their gazes landed on Indie. Their mouths dropped open in perfect unison, but what they might have said went unknown since their chaperone took that moment to push them into the nearest shop for cover.

“There’s nowhere you can go,” the agent called. “Just come with us.” As he drew nearer, he extended a hand with his palm up in invitation.

She knew she should let the agent take her in. He was right. She had no idea where she was going or what she was doing. If she went along with him now it wasn’t too late for her. The first time she ran was a thoughtless reaction. It could be overlooked. But this encounter, it was a choice. A decision.

Her grandma’s face, sourly pinched from restraint, flashed in Indie’s mind. She wasn’t fiery or salty like Grandma. She wasn’t a dissident or rabble rouser. But she was mad. Mad that she would forever have to hold herself back; that she would forever have to yield no matter the strength of her merit. It was just too much. Too much to ask and too much to tolerate.

Indie spun and bolted. The agent launched after her, his boots pounding the sidewalk as he shouted to the other agents. The neck of her sweatshirt suddenly tightened with a jerk, digging into her windpipe. She turned to find he had grabbed her hood. Twisting and whirling, she frantically slipped through the folds of the loose material before dipping out of it and breaking away.

Another agent came at her from the intersection ahead, trying to cut her off. She hesitated for a beat and the agent behind made another grab for her. She flung herself away from him, darting into an alleyway between buildings. Charging through the narrow space, Indie broke out full speed into a parking lot. The agents were not far behind. Scrambling, she weaved through rows of vehicles then ducked between two cars, crouching low to hide.

She was peeking over the hood of one of the vehicles, tracking the agents, when a maintenance man from the medical clinic walked up on her. She recognized the stained overalls he wore, but she couldn’t recall his name. As he looked down on her, his usually placid face wrinkled in concern.

“Indie. Are you ok?” He reached toward her, but she flinched and scuttled back.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

Indie had no words so she just stayed still, panting. Her heart pounded so hard in her ears she thought maybe he could hear it. He glanced up at shouts from the agents then looked back down at her. Indie counted to three before her situation dawned on him.

“Wait, are you…are you running?” His tone pitched up in surprise before lowering in anger. “It’s illegal to avoid collection,” he snapped. “Who do you think you are?”

He glared, posting his hands on hips. His tightly clenched lips thinned a moment then stretched into an overly wide grin. It was unsettling.

“Hey,” he suddenly yelled, waving a hand in the air. “Hey, she’s over here!”

The man bent forward, putting his face close to hers. “You’re going to detention anyway. This way maybe they’ll give me the reward for reporting a runaway.”

Without a thought, Indie punched him. Hard. It caught him beneath his eye, knocking him so he fell against one of the cars. His off-kilter stumble gave her room to get to her feet and take off once more. She cleared the parking lot and crossed the street before the lead agent bore down on her. He didn’t try to reach for her this time. Instead he lunged, tackling her to the ground with a grunt.

Indie hit the pavement with a stifled scream. The agent’s weight pressed down on her, minimizing her thrashing. He shifted and rolled them until he had her on her stomach stretched out beneath him. The agent snatched each arm, pulling them behind her back and zip tying her wrists. She rocked back and forth, but instantly stilled when he kneeled hard on her shoulders and pressed his other knee onto her neck, cutting into the air she was trying to gulp.

“Be nice now,” he purred. “Cooperate and we’ll take you to the center instead of detention. There’s no need for you to be deemed difficult.”

He eased the pressure on her neck, letting her draw a real breath to respond.

“What’s the difference?” she croaked. “Both are prisons and either way I’m trapped.”

“Now, don’t be like that,” he whispered as he leaned close. He nuzzled where her collar cinched low on her throat then ran his nose up her neck to the shell of her ear. “A good man can make you happy. He’ll take care of your needs and keep you safe, even from yourself.”

Indie snorted then rested her cheek on the gritty cement and let her eyes drift closed. A calmness spread through her. “I’ll take detention, thank you.”

Her choice made, she smiled.

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