The Farm

by Matt Moss

  Mr. Whyte looks at me as he takes his seat. I shift in my chair, trying my best to tell him that I have a loaded gun without giving myself away to the others. He takes my notion and nods discreetly while settling his arms on the table. “Tell you what, Gibbs. Let’s play one hand, just me and you. Winner takes all in a hand of five-card stud.”

  Gibbs pours himself a glass and takes a shot of whiskey. “Not much skill in that game, but I like your style. Sometimes it’s best to leave things to chance and let the chips fall where they may. What’s the wager?” he asks and deals each of them a card face-down.

  “If I win, you let them go.”

  Gibbs rolls his eyes. “You know I can’t do that. Rules are rules. Besides, where would they go anyway?”

  “They can take my transport and find refuge on Lunar Base Nine.”

  “The prison camp? They’ll still be slaves,” Gibbs notes. “More so than they are here.”

  “At least they’ll live.”

  Gibbs taps his fingers on the table, mulling the deal over. “If I win, you hand over the key and give me control of the farm—complete control. And the only way that can happen is if you willingly hand it over since we both know that I can’t kill you… house rules and shit.”

  Without hesitation, Mr. Whyte agrees. “Deal.”

  Gibbs begins alternating cards face-up between the two of them. “Since there’s nothing to really bet on between cards, and no real skill involved in this game, let’s just get right to it.” When he’s through, Mr. Whyte has three sevens and a king showing. Gibbs has a possible royal flush. He holds his hands up after dealing the last card to himself, and grins. “I swear I’m not cheating.”

  “Let’s see it,” Whyte tells him.

  Gibbs puts his hand on the card that’s face down and flips it over. “Damn, so close. But I still got you beat with an ace-high straight. You need a king to win with a full house.”

  Whyte flips the card over to reveal a king. “Full house.”

  “Shit,” Gibbs says and throws his hat.

  “Alright, Mr. Whyte!” Abram cheers. “Does that mean we can get the hell out of here, now?”

  Mr. Whyte nods.

  “Finally!” Donald says and throws his chair back, then waves to the farmhand. “Gibbs, it’s been real. Sort of.”

  The rest of us stand around the table and go to meet Mr. Whyte. Larry pats me on the back like we’ve just won.

  Am I the only one who thinks otherwise?

  We start to leave, but Gibbs stops us, his tone deep and menacing. “Hey, Mr. Whyte. Fuck the rules.”

  We all turn around just in time to see the gun go off. Mr. Whyte moans and wheezes as air rushes from his mouth. His legs give way and I barely catch him before he hits the ground. Blood is pouring from his chest, his eyes wide with shock as they lock on to mine.

  For a moment, I don’t think this is real. It feels like I’m in some sort of a bad movie and everything that’s happening is out of my control. I can’t pause the show or make it stop, can’t fast forward to the happy ending. Again, there’s a loud ringing in my ears. Someone’s tugging at my arm. Others are shouting. I can’t take my eyes off the hole in Mr. Whyte’s chest, and the blood that’s soaking into his white shirt.

  Gibbs sets the gun on the table and turns around to grab the bottle of whiskey that’s nearby, satisfied. “Damn that feels good! I’ve been wanting to do that for so long.”

  Seeing an opportunity, Abram dashes, grabs hold of Eve, and wrestles the gun away from her. He points it at Gibbs. “Fuck you!”

  CLICK

  He pulls the trigger three more times in search of the one bullet that’s in the gun, but nothing happens.

  Gibbs pours a glass and gazes at his would-be killer. He takes a slow drink and points to Abram’s right. Abram turns his body to find Jane standing in front of him with a smile. She grabs his head with both hands, as if to kiss him, and drives both thumbs deep into his eye sockets. He twitches as blood streams down his face, and then drops lifeless to the floor after she lets him go.

  “No!” Donald yells and makes a run towards the side of the room where Abram’s sawed-off shotgun rests. He brings it back and aims it at Gibbs.

  Gibbs seems unimpressed. “What are you doing, Don? You know that it’s not loaded, and I’ve the only gun with bullets.”

  Donald speaks through a clenched jaw. “Last time I checked, it was loaded. Abram noticed it was that day in the smoking room and he told me about it. But we didn’t say shit to anyone, thinking it best to keep it a secret.”

  Gibbs sets the glass down on the table and squares up to Donald. “You lie.” He reaches for the gun.

  BOOM!

  The blast takes Gibbs’s arm off right below the elbow. Gibbs holds it up—a mangled piece of metal and flesh dripping with blood—screams in exaggerated horror, then laughs. His face turns ashen. “You dumb son of a bitch. I’m going to kill you for that.”

  Donald takes aim at his chest. “This is for Abram.”

  Mr. Red comes barreling out of the secret doorway in the living room and knocks Donald to the ground, sending the gun flying across the floor to slide by Benji’s foot. I pull the gun from behind my back, but it’s too late—Donald’s head is nothing but mush on the floor. Mr. Red stands over him with bloody fists and fixes his gaze onto me. He takes a step towards us.

  I aim my gun at Gibbs as he reaches for the pistol. “Don’t move!” Mr. Red stops. The girls are still standing in place.

  Gibbs puts his hand up. “Easy now, Cole. Don’t do anything stupid like your other two friends did.”

  Mr. Whyte tugs at my leg from the floor. I turn to find him wordlessly pointing upstairs, his arm barely able to lift.

  “He wants you to take him to the Rejuvi bed,” Mr. Gibbs states. “Man’s solution to death; a machine that allows him to live forever.”

  “He told me the machine that kept him alive was broke,” I say.

  “Mr. Red fixed it earlier. See, he’s a simpler prototype—always goes by the rules and keeps things in order. When something’s broke, he fixes it with no questions asked. I didn’t think he knew about the bed, though. When he told me that he fixed it, needless to say, he earned a good cursing from me for spoiling my well-laid plan.”

  “New plan,” I tell him. “I’m going to take Mr. Whyte and…”

  Beside me, Benji raises the shotgun.

  BOOM!

  Mr. Red’s head disappears as it’s blown to bits. His torso collapses and falls forward, blood pouring from the space between his shoulders.

  Gibbs looks at Red with remorse in his eyes as if he just lost a brother. In anger, he looks at Benji. “Now you’ve done it,” Gibbs says and reaches for the gun. I take aim but Eve takes hold of my arm, preventing me from getting the shot. I struggle against her hold and watch helplessly as Gibbs points the gun at Benji and unloads three rounds into his chest, then one into his head between the eyes.

  Gibbs throws the empty gun away and marches towards us.

  Larry takes a standing coat hanger and knocks Eve across the head, causing her grip to fail, sending her stumbling to the side. I put five rounds in her chest and two in Jane’s head as she charges, screaming. Both hit the floor, blood pooling around their bodies as they lie face-down.

  I swing the gun to Gibbs and he stops.

  “I’m going to kill you,” he swears.

  “Go to hell.” I pull the trigger and shoot him in the chest. He flinches on impact, but doesn’t fall. I go to shoot him again but nothing happens. I’m out of ammo. “Shit.”

  Larry comes to our defense and steps in front of us with the coat hanger.

  Gibbs smiles and nods his head. “Okay.” He grabs his detached arm and points to the secret door that leads to the smoking room. “I’m going in there. I’m gonna get my gun. Then I’m gonna kill all three of you.” He turns his back and makes his way through the secret hallway.

  “We gotta go. Now,” I tell Larry. He drops his weapon and helps me w
ith Mr. Whyte. When we get to the top of the stairs, the old man points to the three doors, then to the last one on the right. My hands shake as I fumble the key into the lock of the first door, unlocking the ammunition room. I run in to grab more magazines for my gun.

  “Hurry up,” Larry says.

  “I’m hurrying!” I go to the third room and unlock the door. Inside is the Rejuvi bed. After placing Mr. Whyte inside, I turn to Larry. “Here’s the key. Lock the door and take care of Mr. Whyte.” I reload my gun.

  “How do you use this thing?” Larry asks, looking over the small HMI screen.

  “I don’t know. Try closing the lid and pressing the green button.”

  Larry grabs my arm as I turn to leave. “Where are you going? Stay here with us.”

  “I’m gonna settle this with Gibbs, once and for all. He’ll come after me. That should at least buy you some time.”

  “Cole, be careful.”

  I nod. “When I lure him away from the house, get a gun and grab some ammo next door.”

  Larry closes the lid and presses the button. Something like fog fills the chamber, cloaking Mr. Whyte inside. Larry looks to me. “Alright. I’ll grab a gun. Go.”

  Downstairs, a record begins to blast classical music throughout the house—O Fortuna.

  “Death comes your way, mother fuckers!” Gibbs yells, his voice haunting from somewhere in the mansion.

  I run down the steps and make a break for the door. I turn my head at the last moment as Gibbs enters the foyer with a Tommy gun held in his hand.

  I break out the front door and slam it shut behind me. Panicked, I nearly trip running off the porch but manage to keep my feet driving in front of me. It’s dark outside, which I’m thankful for, but as I run across the yard, I imagine machine gun fire tearing into my back. Twisting around, I find Gibbs opening the door. Still running, I point and pull, firing everything in the magazine, hoping that a bullet hits him. The barrage buys me a little more time to run as he ducks low and scurries back inside for cover.

  I tuck my head and run faster than I thought imaginable until I reach the barn. Inside, I curse myself for seeking refuge in a place that has only one way in and one way out, but it’s the only thing I’ve got. I hide behind some hay bales near the back, reload the gun, and wait to ambush him as he comes in. I wait with bated breath—finger on the trigger and aimed at the doorway for any sign of movement. My heart’s pounding inside my head and it feels as though my lungs are going to seize up. I crouch down. Stand up. Reposition as I wait in the abounding silence.

  He should have been here by now.

  “Cole,” Gibbs calls out, elongating my name in a dramatic fashion. He’s in front of the barn, about twenty yards from the entrance. “I know you’re in there. Come on out, or it’s about to get loud on your ass!”

  I frantically look around for something to get behind, but there’s nothing but hay and our cots. A thick, wooden beam is about thirty feet away.

  I hear him rack the chamber back.

  Shit.

  “It’s been nice knowing ya.” The gun commences its rain of death, hammering away at the wooden walls and beams of the barn. Bullets sound like wasps buzzing by as they tear through everything around me.

  “SHIT!” I yell while running for the back of the barn, ducked low with an arm around the back of my head as wood chips and bits of hay fill the air. Somehow, I make it to the beam post unscathed, get behind the thick oak and tuck into a ball, screaming like it’s my last breath.

  This is how I die.

  The gunfire finally stops when the drum is empty and I hear Gibbs eject the magazine, then slam another one in. Knowing it’s my only chance, I roll out into the open, aim at where I think he’s standing and fire away as fast as I can. I squeeze the trigger until the magazine’s empty.

  “My turn!” Gibbs yells.

  I roll back to my position behind the beam as another hail of gunfire commences. Behind the thunderous noise of the gun and the chaos surrounding me, I hear Gibbs laughing. If I can survive this onslaught, I may have a chance because he’ll most likely be out of ammo since one hundred-round drums are large and cumbersome to carry—especially for someone with one arm. The fact that he possesses the strength to shoot the gun with one arm is horrifying. At least I know that he can be killed. Whatever he is.

  Debris fills the air inside the barn and, for a moment, everything quiets down and moves in slow motion as the gun hammers away. A piece of beam beside my head breaks away. The ground jumps beside my foot. The thick smell of dust, hay, and gunpowder fill the air. And in the midst of it all, something stills my soul.

  I think of my time on the farm—the good and the bad. Conversations with strangers who became friends, who then became strangers once again. Of the work I did with my own two hands. The conversations with Mr. Whyte about whiskeys, and life, and fate’s role in the universe. Like watching it all unfold on a motion picture screen, I sit in the matinee eating a bucket of movie theater popcorn.

  I recall everything that I did.

  I think of everything that I could have done.

  Silence fills the air once again as the gun stops.

  I reload the last magazine and make my way towards the door. I see the Thompson discarded on the ground, but Gibbs is nowhere in sight. Probably going for another gun. Thinking I might be able to get a shot at him before he gets back to the white house, I burst outside.

  Something hits me and a blinding pain shoots up my arm, the blow nearly breaking my bones above the wrist, sending the gun flying from my hand.

  “Got you now, sucker.” Gibbs swings the tool again, laying it flat across my back, knocking me to the ground.

  He begins beating me on the ground with the shovel. Every blow is unbearable and more excruciating than the previous, racking my body with pain. Every time I try to stand or roll away, he hits me again. I don’t know how much more I can take.

  “Weak. Pathetic. Disease.” The hits grow harder with each swing. “The world belongs to us. The universe belongs to us. We are god!”

  The last blow hits me across the head and my vision suddenly fades; the light from the house a blurry yellow speck in the distance. In that instant, I realize that my mind is finally quiet and a wave of relief washes over me. Maybe this isn’t so bad. It’s peaceful, in a way.

  “Oh, no. You’re not getting off that easy,” Gibbs says, then crushes my ankle in his grip as he drags me across the yard to the back of the barn. My body’s limp as he pulls me over the uneven ground, my head bobbing over humps as I gaze up into the dark night sky. My vision returns and I see the stars above, clear as ever. We stop and he raises me to sit, his arm wrapped tight around my neck.

  I see the five graves that we dug on our first day.

  “I believe this one is yours,” Gibbs growls in my ear, presses a foot against my back, and kicks me into the hole. The wind leaves my chest as I crash into the earth and I roll over in agony to face him. Dirt splashes on my face as he begins to bury me alive. I spit it out of my mouth and wriggle upright, but he presses me back down with the shovel. “Make yourself comfortable.”

  I come to terms with it and settle into my final resting place, no longer able to fight him.

  The dirt covers my body.

  BOOM!

  The loudest explosion I’ve ever heard shakes the ground and sends Gibbs flying. I scramble to get out of the hole and Larry takes hold of my hand. He helps me stand.

  “Hand grenades are fun,” Larry says.

  “Gibbs?” I wheeze out. Larry points. I see the farmhand on the ground, struggling to stand.

  I grab the shovel.

  “Mr. Gibbs, rise and shine. It’s time to go to work!” I swing the shovel like Babe Ruth and catch Gibbs across the head as he staggers to his feet, the spade laying his forehead open from ear to the farthest eye. Half of his leg along with his side was blown off from the explosion, and his body twitches like a machine would that’s not functioning correctly. His eyes have a har
d time staying still, but they attempt to lock onto me the best they can. Blood begins to fill them as the cut pours. I swing again and knock him to the ground.

  “Meat of the Day!”

  “Suck… a… dick,” Gibbs manages to say.

  Larry helps me drag him to one of the graves and I push his body with my foot, rolling him into the hole.

  Returning with another shovel to help, Larry and I bury Gibbs in the ground. I expect him to have some last words—to curse me or reveal some truth about how mankind is never going to win the war against the machines. How we’re on the verge of extinction. But he doesn’t. He just stares at me as I cover him up, wearing that same familiar grin.

  “Wait,” I say before we completely bury him and place the shovel to his neck.

  “What are you doing?” Larry asks.

  With three hard kicks from my foot, the head severs and I lift it with the shovel. “Just to be safe.” I toss it to the side and it rolls underneath a pine.

  “Way to use your head. Or, his head, in this case,” Larry surmises.

  After we finish with the grave, we both fall to our knees in exhaustion. Sleep calls my name, but there’s no time. “We need to get back to Mr. Whyte. Let’s go.”

  Larry helps me walk. “I hope that machine of his works,” he says.

  “Me, too.”

  Inside the white house, we look at Mr. Whyte through the clear glass of the bed—the fog no longer filling the chamber. It’s hard to tell if he’s alive or not; if the machine is working or not.

  “The green light is on,” I say. “That’s a good thing, right?”

  Larry puts his hand on the glass. “I guess. Something inside flashed after you left, but that was it. When I heard the gunfire, I knew I had to help you.”

  I place my hand on his shoulder. “Thank you, Larry. You saved my life. Saved all of our lives.”

  “Just another day on the farm,” Larry says with a grin. He hands me a flat, round device. “Mr. Whyte gave me this when you went into the other room for ammo. He couldn’t speak, but I’m assuming it’s for you.”