by Scott McCord
Group 14 is cradled in moonlight, its quiet tents filled with sleep. Slumber is peace, brushing away the weight of life to take you flying, exploring Outside, or playing a magical game of dangerball. It carries you over time and space to be with the ones you love. For Gas, sleep takes him to Ellie. I may see Mim, but she comes and goes with such stealth, I’m left with only an impression instead of a memory. Tomorrow these lodges will be brown and dusty, ripe with the smell of re-warmed mush, but for now they are silver and at rest, with every individual free to explore the deepest longings of the unconscious mind—without pain, without fear, without reserve.
This is where I’m from, where my friends are from, where my parents still are, and seeing it in this light, I wonder why I ever left…and then I remember. But even with the pain and disappointment the morning will bring, the people of Group 14 will bear it together, persevering to lead Community into the wilderness when it’s time to go. I’m proud to call this place home. I’m proud to call these people mine. I doubt there are better folks in the whole world. My heart aches, and welling sentiment makes it difficult not to visit my parents. Their tent is right there, second tier from the perimeter. I want to, but the hour is late.
A pair of militia guards immersed in a half-whispered conversation about a girl, stroll around the outer edge of the tents. I step back in the deep shadow of a large oak so they won’t see me. Even if they do, it doesn’t matter, I’m a Scorpion officer with the authority to prowl about wherever I please. If I knew the guards, if they were some of my old tent-mates, I’d jump out and yell boo, just to watch them crap their britches, but I don’t recognize them so I stay hidden. The men pass within a knife’s throw before disappearing around another tent on their circular patrol.
I step into Group 14 undetected, stop at the nearest barrel, fill my waterskin, drink it down and fill it again. I’m not really thirsty, but I need to rest, and a full bladder is the best alarm for an exhausted man who only wants to sleep an hour or two. I take another sip and stroll by my parent’s tent. I do a slow walk around before heading past Tommy’s mother’s place, taking care to give the dorm tent where Tommy resides a wide berth.
The circuitous route brings me by another tent I would have been quick to avoid a few months ago. It doesn’t matter now, there’s no one inside sleeping with a nocked bow and one eye open. As I move past, the back of my wrist brushes against the place where Mim and Ellie used to lay their heads. Static crackles, warning me not to touch.
The two-man patrol returns, but the guards are so engaged talking about the same girl—one giving advice and the other shooting holes in it—they don’t notice me move out across the perimeter right behind them. I find a place in the underbrush to get comfortable, finish off the second waterskin, and settle down for a nap.
I barely close my eyes, but the next hour or two sneak by just the same. I wake to a nagging bladder, christen the bushes, and head for Starter’s tent. Surely he’s back by now.
The night is deep and the stars are crisp in the sky. Yawning patrols are sporadic, and the cool air seduces most of them to doze. One man standing guard while his partner gets some shut-eye is an arrangement that invariably ends in two men sleeping. Slumber-guards is what Mim called them—calls them—called them.
I step over a pair at Group 12 and another at Group 10, but the slumber-guards at Group 9 are lying so close to one another I can’t resist tying their hair together. Tommy despises long hair, so I’m making good on a private threat I’ve heard him joke about before. We’ll laugh about this in the morning.
Through one more group, around the edge of Community Center, and I’m behind the barracks where my squad resides. The tent overflows with the noise of sleeping men. Raspy snores, dry putts, and wet blurts—sounds like everyone is doing their share. With no complaints or laughter from inside, I’m fairly certain everyone is asleep.
The Scorpion night guards are vigilant here—so close to the officers and members of The Body. If I’m caught, I won’t be punished, but I will be escorted to my tent, unable to speak with Starter before he devises his duty roster for the morning. Gas will quit if he’s not assigned bridges, and if that happens, well…I can’t let it.
I’m beat and a little blurry-eyed, but I count the guards carefully, time their rounds, and stay away from the lodges of The Body. I move cautiously, taking advantage of every shadow I can. Intermittent clouds drifting across the moon assist, and I’m finally in front of Starter’s tent. I glance around to ensure I’m safe, lean close, and whisper for permission to enter.
No answer.
An unexpected Scorpion patrol steps out of the night, heading my way. They haven’t noticed me yet. Instinct takes over, and without thinking, I slip into Starter’s tent. The flap closes silently behind me.
A bright moon emerges from the clouds, lighting everything in gray. The features of the room are blackened out, but sharp outlines of their shadows give them form just the same. Everything is discernable in the dark—the cot, the table, the chair, the sacks of berries in the corner, and Starter half-in and half-out of a slit cut in the back wall.
“Will?” Starter whispers, pulling his outside leg into the tent. He’s shouldering two bags of the berries we brought home.
“Yeah,” I answer.
“What the hell do you want?” he hisses.
“I need to talk to you.”
“Not now, get your ass out of here.”
After all of this, I can’t let him brush me off. I need to ask about Gas and I won’t leave before I do. But I’m not stupid. I know going at Starter head-on is a good way to land in a world of hurt, so I pause to consider what I’ve seen, and take another tack.
“I thought those berries were supposed to go to The Body’s pantry.”
“They are,” he says, “in the morning.”
“It looks like you’re delivering them now.”
“I said in the morning,” he snarls.
“I can’t wait until morning. There’s something I need…a favor.”
He steps closer and puts his face into mine. “Who do you think you’re talking to?” he growls.
“Someone I need a favor from,” I answer, trying to sound unintimidated, but not like a smart-ass.
He lets his face hang in mine for a few uncomfortable moments. “I’ll think about it,” he says. “Grab a couple bags and follow me.” Starter turns and disappears through the back of his tent. “Hurry up,” he whispers from the other side.
I lay my bow against the table, slide my quiver off, pick up two sacks, and follow him out. We turn for the rear of Community.
Starter is the epitome of Scorpion—a dangerous zealot as predictable as nightfall, yet he’s always seemed like more. It’s disappointing to discover he’s a common thief—a black-marketeer. I’ve been wrong, assuming his honor extends beyond the dangerball arena, when all the while, his self-serving code is no different than other men of authority. I follow him down the perimeter, past the slumber-guards of Group 7 and Group 6.
“Where are we going?”
Starter doesn’t answer. His pace stays even, ignoring me with every step.
“I need to ask a favor.”
No response.
I look for something to get his attention.
“Four sacks of berries are pretty expensive, are you trading them for something, or do you keep a stash?”
He stops so abruptly I have to side-step to avoid walking up his back. Starter pauses without turning around as he considers my accusation, but finding it beneath him, resumes walking without a word. He’s aggravating…and scary. Whatever this is, me knowing about it puts him over a barrel, but he isn’t concerned, which makes him seem more dangerous than ever. An uneasiness comes over me, so I keep my mouth shut as we move along the backside of Group 5 and Group 4. Starter gives no hint of where we’re going before turning in among the sleeping tents of Group 3. Here we go.
With low quick steps, Starter moves up behind an ox wagon. He crouches
there a moment before skittering away to the cover of a handcart. The hide-and-seek moon reveals his quiet shadow in snatches, and I’m amazed at the silent progress he makes with every frame.
I move quickly to keep up, trying not to lose him. He’s there and he’s not, he’s there and he’s not. I round the supply tent near the middle of Group 3, so preoccupied with guessing Starter’s next move, I nearly run right over him. He throws up an arm, preventing a noisy collision. With a quick hand signal, he tells me to keep silent, there is someone sleeping inside. He points to his bags on the ground near the entrance of the tent and nods for me to stack mine on top. I slide the berries from my shoulders, turning just in time to see Starter disappear back the way we came.
As soon as we’re on the perimeter again, heading toward Community Center, Starter’s gait becomes casual, less concerned with going undetected. He’s mildly irritated with my company, but his annoyance seems to pass with every step. I need to talk about Gas, but I’m not stupid enough to use Starter’s secret doings as leverage…unless I have to. I’ve never been more afraid of him than I am right now…when I know something I shouldn’t. Starter will probably kill me at the smallest whiff of blackmail.
“Thanks for saving me a trip tonight,” he says, as we come to the outskirts of Group 5.
“Okay,” I answer, but curiosity keeps me from stopping there. “Group 3 is a bunch of brush-cutters and seed-pickers, bottom of the barrel poor.” Starter sniffs at my observation, but doesn’t object, so I continue. “Stealing from The Body is a huge risk, and four sacks of fruit are worth a fortune.”
“Spit it out, Will.”
“How much can they possibly give for them? There has to be better places to fence goods…groups capable and willing to pay a lot more.”
A dozen silent steps go by.
“So you think I’m a scumbag marketeer, smuggling goods away from The Body to line my pockets off the backs of a bunch of unskilled shit-stickers.” There’s no hint of anger or offense in his voice. He doesn’t care what I think. “Well, that hurts, Will, it really wounds me deep,” he says with a sarcastic sneer.
“What am I supposed to think? We’re sneaking around in the middle of the night with government berries that aren’t going to the government.”
“You’re an idiot. I am from Group 3. Bottom of the barrel, as you say, nothing but brush-cutting seed-pickers…unskilled, quick to the culling post, and poor right down to their toes. I’m one of the few that’s ever left.”
Stunned, I shuffle to a stop, trying to wrap my mind around what he’s saying. I have to jog a few paces to catch up. He waits for me and continues.
“Have you ever been hungry way down deep, stomach to spine?” I don’t answer. “A few years ago, my patrol found some sort of fruit on our way back from nesting out Loppers. It was weird, kind of spicy, almost bitter, but sweet at the same time. It would have made a good pie. It grew on these tall skinny trees, and all you had to do was shake the trunks, and fruit rained all over the ground. We collected six bags and put them in the priest’s store room.” He takes a breath.
“A few days later I ran into some Interiors—the personal guard of The Body. They were washing out their uniforms. When I asked what happened, they said a food fight…but not really…only the priests were throwing stuff. Our eminent leaders barely consumed a single bag of the fruit we found, using the rest for weak-armed target practice, laughing, as they pelted their own servants and guards. One of the Interiors said they were ordered to step closer three times to be within range.”
“That’s terrible,” I say.
“No it’s not, Will, it’s not, I don’t always like it, but it’s not terrible. Our leaders are given by God, and loyalty to their governance is our heritage. It’s not terrible…it just is.”
“But you steal from them.”
“I withhold from them. What does it matter if they get twenty bags of berries or only sixteen, or twelve, or eight? It doesn’t, and I gain nothing. Everything goes. It’s exactly what The Body would want me to do if they knew any better…and now I’m done talking about this…and so are you.”
His threat isn’t lost on me.
We’ve passed the backside of Group 6, we’re halfway across Group 7, and I haven’t asked about Gas. “Captain?”
“Ah, your favor. What is it?”
“Gas wants to be a builder, work on the bridges. He doesn’t want to go out with us anymore.”
“There’s a lot of crap I don’t want to do either,” Starter says.
“But The Body wants to take over construction the same way they want scouting, and Gas is—”
“Supervise building, not take it over,” he interrupts.
“Okay, let him supervise.”
“He’s a Scorpion, he’ll follow orders.”
We’re at Community Center now, and time is running out on our conversation.
“Gas isn’t very good out there, he’s the slowest student I’ve got. He’s going to get someone killed if he keeps coming with us. Please let him stay with the builders.”
Starter stops walking and catches me by the arm. Shadows cover his face, so I don’t know if he’s thinking or glaring at me. “Or what?”
I was hoping not to say. “He’ll quit.”
“He can’t,” Starter huffs. “The only way anybody ever leaves is Battle-Out, and even if he does walk out of the Fangs in one piece, he’ll be banished.”
I don’t know what Battle-Out is exactly, but I can guess. “Gas would be in there with Thatcher, wouldn’t he?”
“And a few others.”
“He’ll hate it, but he’ll crush them all if he has to.”
Starter shakes his head. “I’ll have the big oaf thrown in a hole before I recommend him for the Fangs, so don’t try to worry me for Thatcher, he’s dead anyway.” Starter shakes his head again and pushes past me, heading for his tent. “Thanks for the help tonight. Get some sleep,” he calls without turning around.
“Captain?”
“Conversation over. Get some sleep.”
Starter fades toward the stand of tents, but he doesn’t quite disappear before…
“Attack! Attack! Slitters in the Forward Groups!” someone yells.
“Move, move, move,” someone else barks, and shadows of armed Scorpions swarm from their tents, surrounding the sleeping quarters of The Body.
“Get the Supreme and the Second, now!”
The priests and their families are being pulled from their quarters and taken to the Tabernacle. Starter is gone.
Another screaming voice runs into Community Center. “We need help! We need help! People are hurt in Group 14!”
My head spins into a momentary fog before a rush of adrenaline sets my blood on fire. I break for home, sprinting hard, dodging panicking people running the other way, while deep sleepers emerge from their tents, wondering what’s going on. I’m the lone Scorpion charging the enemy while the rest of the black and crimson work to secure our rulers. Armed with only my knife, anger burns at the audacity of the Slitters, but by the time I arrive, there is no enemy, only frightened people just beginning to measure their losses.
I stop to catch my breath and survey the scene. Women, collapsed to the ground, are weeping and holding their children close. Their husbands stand over them, frightened and unsure, while the volunteer militia trips over itself, running back and forth, trying to make up for ineptness with profane language. Fear and sorrow swirl around Group 14. A man I used to know touches me on the arm. “I’m so sorry, Will, I am so, so sorry,” he says.
18
Will
The world breaks to pieces, falling in around me until I lose my balance and have to sit down. Officers arrive and order the militia to the perimeter. Teams of Scorpions move from tent to tent, searching for hidden enemies. Reports are coming in—five are dead, two guards, Tommy’s mom, and my parents.
I can’t move, paralyzed with disbelief. Mom and Dad are okay—they have to be—and they’ll stay
that way until my eyes say different.
Starter sends Ven to question witnesses, but no one saw a thing. Murdering Slitters came and went emptyhanded, leaving with nothing but the blood of five victims. The back of my eyeballs throb, I drop my head, and tears flood my face. I need to gather myself, but when I try, a hot knife twists in my brain and a concoction of bitter emotion bubbles like acid in my guts. The world disappears behind snot and puddled eyes as Group 14 pulls itself together around me.
“Will.” I ignore my name. “Will, it’s time to get up.” I raise my head and the morning sun stabs my eyes. Gas offers a big hand, I take it, and he pulls me to my feet. I reach around to dust off my britches when the moment overcomes Gas. He throws his arms around my shoulders, and buries me in a deep embrace. “They were good people—the best people—and it hurts my soul that they’re gone. It’s like losing my folks all over again.” He releases me. Wet stripes paint his cheeks. “I hate it for you. I hate it for you and Tommy both.”
Gas’s words make everything real, and I don’t have to see them to know Mom and Dad are truly gone. I feel helpless and weak, and by the look of him, Gas does too.
“Hello hero,” Ven says, walking up with an entourage of three Scorpions. He’s bloated with self-importance, having been recently promoted. An air of disdain hangs on Ven as he looks me over, starting at my feet and ending with my eyes. “Of course, you’re not much of a hero today, are you? Flopped on the ground all night like a chicken turd, boo-hooing your eyes out while the rest of us do our jobs.”
“His parents were killed,” Gas intercedes.
“Was I talking to you, dipshit?” Ven snaps.
Gas doesn’t answer.
“You have a problem with your ears? I asked if I was talking to you.”
Gas shakes his head. His reply is slow and begrudging, but it comes anyway. “No, you weren’t talking to me,” he says.
