Page 33 of Savagely Yours
I waved away the offer. “Thank you, Ana, but I’ve got this one.”
I walkedalongside Tamra as we entered the Woodhaven building. The first time I met her, she’d had long, dark hair that fell to the middle of her back. In less than a month, she was already sporting the evidence of gross undernourishment and unethical workloads.
She’d moved to the DMV area for a position in policy legislation to improve conditions on the reservations in New Mexico, Utah, and Arizona. After only a few weeks at her new job, the world went to hell.
“Ana assigned lighter duty,” I said as we climbed the stairs. Non-Essentials were only allowed to use the freight elevators, and only when hauling and transporting. “You’re cleaning the A through G suites. I’ve got H through N. Then, we have four Class One units. You’ve got Architects in 601 and 605. I have Protector-Elites in 716 and 722.”
“Ever cleaned a Class One Elite unit?” she asked.
An image of Dez came to mind, but I shoved it away. “No, this is my first time.”
“They’re pristine. Always.”
Not thinking of Dez was the only reason I’d made it through the last few weeks. I didn’t know if I was afraid for him or upset with him, as sorting through my emotions these days was like untangling a drunk spider’s web. Yet, I’d heard stories about the Class Ones. I’d heard about the luxuries they were afforded, but I didn’t want to think about whether Dez had sold out for cushiness, as he would have definitely fit the bill for a Class One designation.
However, it wasn’t that I believed he wouldn’t sell out.
I simply didn’t want to think about it.
Avoiding all thoughts of him stopped me from overanalyzing. If I overanalyzed, I might dance too close to the truth. The man cared more about his gun than he did me. If he’d thought about me more than once since we were split up, all his worry left the moment they presented him with his penthouse-style apartment and, more than likely, a wall of naked women.
And a bowl of green apples.
The weirdo loved green apples.
Tamra and I started at the maintenance closet—there was one on each floor to prevent us from bringing items into the building—and gathered supplies and materials.
First, we worked together to clean the common areas.
Next, we went to our individual assignments.
Most mid-levels, who were usually Class Fours, shared a unit, although there was only one person per bedroom rather than four like us in Sanitation. Then, the water Sanitation used was rationed, so we kept rain barrels for backup reserves. We were all women, and it didn’t matter if we liked men, women, everyone, or no one. Race or ethnicity didn’t seem to matter either.Sanitationwas merely a synonym forinferior.
I entered the first unit.
There was clothing all over the front room, messy desks, and unfinished bottles of precious water scattered about. Someone had left the sink packed with coarse facial hair in one of the bathrooms. There were also four used condoms in the largest bedroom, makeup on two pillows in another, and a crusty spot on the sheets in the third. Number three hadn’t gotten lucky, it seemed, but had perhaps taken advantage of what he heard through the walls.
I cleaned and straightened until the room sparkled, and it was a similar situation in every other unit—scattered clothing, half-empty water bottles, messy desks, used condoms, and the dried sex fluids of both the lucky and the unlucky.
When I came to LaSalle’s unit, I held my breath as I entered his bedroom. Then, on the nightstand, I spotted a burnt match in an ashtray.
Our sign.
He hadn’t been caught, nor had he backed out.
With some weight relieved from my shoulders, I finished the Class Fours and returned to the main corridor, where Tamra was finishing up herself.
“About to head up to the Class Ones,” I announced.
She nodded. “Me too.”
As we had soiled linens to launder and a tub full of trash, we used the freight elevator.
Tamra stepped onto an empty sixth-floor landing.
The seventh was equally as desolate.
To avoid unnecessary comingling, there were strict protocols about who could be inside the building while we were cleaning. Once we left, someone came in to do a final sweep with an aerosol disinfectant. I chose to believe that the spray disinfectant had more to do with the infection than it had to do with Sanitation’s presence.
