by James Hunt
Alex took quick, light steps over the dirt, keeping his eyes on the sentry’s back and methodical stomp through the dirt. Alex was twenty yards away, then fifteen, then ten, then five. He extended both arms in preparation to wrap them around the man’s throat. He was only fingertips away when the toe of his shoe smacked against a rock that banged into the steel siding of the farm camp, echoing a very loud whack, which alerted the sentry to his presence. But before the sentry could turn all the way around, Alex lunged toward him.
The sentry had fifty pounds on Alex. Being well fed and well rested gave the physical advantage to the sentry, but years of training evened the playing field for Alex. Even though the sentry nearly knocked him to the ground, flinging Alex off his back, he managed to hang on and keep his hand covering the sentry’s mouth, muting his cries for help. The sentry swung wildly and tried bucking Alex off his back. The rifle swung erratically from the strap on the sentry’s shoulder. Alex extended his free arm, trying to grab it, but the sentry slammed him against the farm camp’s wall.
The blow sent a hollowing crack through Alex’s back. His grip on the sentry loosened a bit, but he countered the blow by gouging his finger into the sentry’s eye. Alex could feel the soft membrane of the pupil and the warm gush of organs and blood.
The two collapsed. Blood poured from the sentry’s eyes and splashed in spurts on the ground, blanketing the dirt in a crimson slush. Alex yanked the rifle from the sentry and fired a shot that split through the back of the sentry’s skull, ending the arduous cries.
The gunshot attracted the other sentries, and two of them sprinted around the corner. Alex dropped to his right knee and rapidly squeezed the trigger. Multiple .223 rounds ejected from the AR-15’s muzzle and struck the sentries’ Kevlar, knocking them on their backs.
More shouts sounded behind Alex. He jumped for the sentry’s dead body and propped it up in front of him for cover. The thump of bullets vibrated through the Kevlar and flesh of his human shield. Alex peeked over the top of the sentry’s bullet-ridden arm and saw three sentries converging on his position. He aimed and fired the rest of the clip into the approaching death squad. They scattered left and right, but one of them kept up the charge. Alex paused, took careful aim, then fired a bullet right through the attacker’s left eye.
Alex quickly turned back around and fired more rounds at the gasping sentries behind him. Even though the Kevlar stopped the bullets, the rifle still had enough kick to knock the wind out of them and possibly break a few ribs. He watched the two of them crawl around the corner for cover. The other two that attacked him from the rear retreated back to where they came from. Now was his chance.
Alex dashed for the front. He turned the corner, and the two sentries he’d shot had their backs to him. He stopped. Planted his feet. Aimed. Fired. Three down. He turned his attention to the next sentry. Aimed. Fired. Four down. As long as the two hiding at the rear of the building were the only ones left, he was in good shape. He didn’t remember seeing any radio or communication gear on them, so that meant they’d need to get inside to call for help.
Alex’s exhaustion had dissipated and was replaced by adrenaline. The rush brought his mind and body into focus. It would wear off soon though. And when it did, his body was going to collapse like a wet noodle. Two left.
Alex kept the butt of the rifle snug against his shoulder, with his finger itching over the trigger. The entrance to the camp was only ten feet away when he saw a bony shoulder reveal itself in the early light of sunrise. Alex quickly sidestepped to his left to get a better angle. “Don’t move!”
The body froze, and Alex saw the frail, naked body of an elderly man. His knees wobbled, and he squinted, his pupils unsure of the foreign sunlight peeking over the eastern horizon. When the old man saw Alex with the rifle, he stepped back into the darkness of the building.
Before Alex could lower his weapon, the two sentries that had hid at the rear of the building stormed the front. One of the bullets grazed Alex’s left arm, putting him off kilter. With his arm bleeding, Alex lined up the first sentry in his sight and fired into the sentry’s chest. Alex winced from the pain in his arm as he quickly swiveled right and fired at the second sentry. The first sentry fell; the other only stumbled. Alex brought the adamant sentry’s face into the crosshairs. He squeezed the trigger. The sentry collapsed into a pile of lifeless meat. He rushed over to the first sentry, who was gasping for breath from the stun of the bullets and seeking cover behind the corner of the building, but Alex fired a bullet into the back of the sentry’s skull, which sent a spray of brain matter onto the dirt in front of the sentry’s face.
With his arm still bleeding, Alex quickly turned around and took aim at the door. He stood there, waiting for any other sentries to rush outside. No one came. The old man took a few small steps until he completely emerged from the building’s entrance. Then, two others revealed themselves from the shadows with the same hesitation as the old man.
Alex lowered the tip of his rifle. If there were other sentries, they would have shown themselves by now. Alex rested the rifle on his shoulder and rolled up his shirtsleeve to examine his arm. He touched it gingerly, and blood wet his fingertips. The gash had cut his flesh open at least two inches across his arm. He’d need stitches.
The old man that had first stepped outside nudged the shoulders of the dead sentries with his foot. He looked back up to Alex and pointed at him. The old man’s finger shook; he no longer had the strength to keep it steady.
Slowly, the other workers emerged from the belly of the farm camp. One by one, they took their first steps outside in God only knew how long. Just like the old man, all of them were nude. Each of them was silent at first, but soon whispers rocketed through the group. It was as if they were all finding their voices for the first time. There was no talking in the farm camps. Only work. A young woman came to the front. Her voice cracked as she spoke. “You did this?”
“Yes,” Alex answered.
The woman dropped to her knees. The first few tears shed from her eyes and streamed down the smudges of dirt on her cheeks. She clasped her hands together and squeezed them so tight that her whole body shook. Her bones were so thin Alex thought her arms might break in half from the pressure. The woman keeled over on her side, still sobbing, still shaking. An elderly woman finally came up behind her and joined her. Alex wasn’t sure if the two women knew each other or not, but they just sat there in the dirt. Crying together. Holding each other. Trying to regain and remember any semblance of humanity they had left. Most of it had been stripped from them, but maybe there was enough to rebuild. All they needed was the slightest spark that could bring them out of the haze they’d been lost in.
As more and more workers poured outside into the morning sun, the old man came up to Alex and examined his arm. The old man’s face was covered in white whiskers and wrinkles. What was remarkable were the old man’s green eyes. Alex didn’t think eyes stayed that vibrant as you got older, but this man’s eyes did.
“There’s a first-aid station inside,” the old man said.
Alex let the old man guide him. The adrenaline had run its course. He was too tired to resist. As the old man took him inside, the workers divided and opened a small path that allowed him to pass. Then, one by one, each worker reached out their hand to touch him. Fingertips brushed his arms, neck, back, hand, leg, whatever they could reach. It wasn’t forceful, but simply a light tenderness of acknowledgement of what he’d just given them: freedom.
***
The hot wax dripped from the tilted candle onto Alex’s forearm. He had to keep the light close to the wound so the old man could see. After the old man threaded the needle, he heated it to the point of almost dropping it. Alex winced at the first prick, but once the old man got into a rhythm, it didn’t hurt as much. He just lay back in the chair, his arm jerking slightly from the old man’s motions, and closed his eyes. He wanted to sleep so badly. He hadn’t realized how tired he was until he sat down. It was like every
bone in his body collapsed, and he wasn’t sure if he’d have the power to reassemble them.
Most of the farm camp’s workers had taken off, but a few lingered behind to watch the old man sew Alex up. The workers that left had grabbed whatever rags they could cover themselves with and whatever food they could stuff into a bag and carry on their backs. Alex figured most of them would try and make it to one of the big cities, which afforded many places to hide. There wasn’t a major city in the United States left that wasn’t harboring some type of refugee who escaped the relocation efforts of the Soil Coalition. But most didn’t have the knowledge or resources to attempt the journey. And those who did usually died of exhaustion before they made it.
“There we go. All patched up,” the old man said.
Alex examined the old man’s stitching. It wasn’t pretty by any means, but the wound was tightly sealed up. “Thanks.”
The old man waved him off. When he tried to stand up, he immediately fell back down into his seat, holding his head. Alex grabbed his arm.
“You need to eat,” Alex said, then rushed over to one of the hydro-tanks and started picking off some strawberries and piling them in his hand. He set the fruit on the table next to where the old man was sitting and extended one of the strawberries to him. “Take it.”
The old man pinched the fruit between his bony fingers and lifted it from Alex’s palm. He rotated it, examining all of the grooves, bumps, and the tiny sprig of leaves that nestled at the top. He brought it to his nose and inhaled its scent. Then, slowly, he formed a fist around the berry and closed his eyes. The sobs that escaped the old man were soundless. The only visible sign of his weeping were the convulsions of his shoulders and the tears running down his face.
Alex placed his hand on the old man’s shoulder, and all he could feel was bone. Maybe the old man didn’t want to go on. Perhaps he’d reached the point where all appetite had disappeared. It wouldn’t have been the first time Alex had seen it happen. The only thing worse than starving to death was forgetting how to eat.
The old man wiped his eyes then unclenched his fist and brought the piece of fruit to his lips. He bit into it softly. The juices exploded and dribbled down the old man’s chin. He chewed slowly. Then, after the first bite was swallowed, he bit furiously into the rest. He greedily reached for the pile of fruit Alex had brought him, shoving bite after bite into his mouth, stuffing his cheeks until they looked like they were going to burst.
Alex intercepted the old man’s hands from grabbing any more. The old man tried to fight him but was too weak to do anything. “Hey, you need to slow down. You don’t want to shock your system.”
The old man finished what food he had in his mouth, and Alex took a portion of the strawberries away and stowed them in his pocket. He rotated his stitched arm a little bit, testing its mobility. It was stiff, and there were a few instances where he thought the stitches would tear, but they held true to the old man’s skill with the needle.
“It’ll stick,” the old man said, pointing to Alex’s arm. “It has been a while since I’ve patched anyone up.”
“What’d you do? Before this?”
“I was a doctor. General practitioner.”
“Why aren’t you stationed in one of the communities? Doctors are hard to find these days, and the Coalition would probably let you pick wherever you wanted to go.”
The old man shook his head. “No. I didn’t want to perpetuate their false hope. And this was the price I paid for my subversive behavior.” He gestured to his surroundings.
“Did you see it coming? The soil crisis?”
“Not soon enough. I remember receiving my first case of GMO poisoning. Of course, back then we didn’t know what it was. It resembled all of the symptoms of a flu bug. Then once the cases started piling up, that’s when questions started being asked, fingers pointing blame. The GMO companies screaming that it was the pesticide companies, the pesticide companies screaming that it was the GMO companies’ fault, the politicians yelling that it was both of their faults, and no one willing to share any of the information they had on their products and how they’d been using them. Everyone was afraid to let the science reveal the truth. They were scared of what it meant.”
The pain in Alex’s arm seemed to catch fire the longer the old man spoke. His head started to ache. Flashes of those first few months of famine pierced his memory. He started to feel cold, dizzy.
“He was nine,” the old man said. “That first patient with GMO poisoning that I had. I sent him home with some antibiotics and told his mother to keep fluids in him. He died a month later. When we discovered exactly what the GMO-24 strain did to the body, I realized just how painfully that boy died.”
Alex could hear the shouts and the sharp fire of gunshots. He could smell the smoke choking him and the fire melting his skin. His muscles tensed up.
“The acids in your stomach weakening to the point that they couldn’t digest water. Then the subsequent shutdown of your kidneys, liver, intestines. All of them just dissolving into nothing. Rotting from the inside out,” the old man continued.
“The screams,” Alex said softly to himself. “You never forget the screams.” He turned to the old man. “Do you remember that? People just… bargaining with some unnamed deity for more time. Saying they’ll give you anything for just a few more days, hours, seconds.”
The old man’s green eyes softened in the candlelight. The look on his face wasn’t one of revulsion or pity but of understanding. It was a face that had heard those cries before. But unlike the old man, who didn’t have the ability to save his patients, Alex was left with the ghosts of the dead that he could have saved.
“It was a hard time,” the old man said.
“Things haven’t gotten much better.” Alex closed his eyes, shaking the memories from his mind. “Look, the headquarters in Topeka will be checking in soon, and when they don’t get a response, they’ll be sending the cavalry. You won’t want to be here when that happens. Do you have any place you can go?”
“I’ll just do what the rest of them did. Grab as much food as I can carry then get as far away from this place as I can. Then die. I don’t think it will be as bad for me as it will for some of the others. I’m ready for it to be done.”
The old man didn’t have anything left in the tank. He’d reached that place of accepted apathy. It was an incredibly dangerous state of mind. Alex extended his hand, and the old man gripped it weakly.
“There’s a river just south of here. It could be patrolled by sentries looking for me, but at least you’ll be close to a water source. You might last a little longer with it,” Alex said.
“Thank you.” The old man got up from his seat and grabbed a rag that he converted to a pouch to carry whatever supplies he’d take with him.
Alex headed to the sentry station in the back. He gained access to the Coalition’s database with one of the sentries’ key cards and searched for Meeko and Harper’s location. They were stored at two separate camps, both just outside of Topeka. Headquarters would be checking in at this location in about six hours, and it would take him around five hours to get to Topeka. Time was his enemy now, and he was already running dangerously low on it.
In addition to the .22 rifle, Alex grabbed another AR-15 and ammo for the .308. He grabbed some food for the drive and found a Kevlar chest piece that fit him. The last piece of his deception was the uniform. He traced his finger over the stitching on the front, which read “Class 2.” The fabric was just as bulky as he remembered it.
Chapter 9
The water from the hose spurted onto Gordon’s hands. A blended mixture of water and blood splashed to the ground and swirled in the dirt, turning it to mud. Gordon rubbed his hands furiously, trying to remove the dried red stains, but no matter how hard he scrubbed, he couldn’t rid himself of the pinkish tinge that lingered on his hands. Gordon summoned one of the sentries over.
“Change of plans. I’m heading back to Topeka. I want all of our men to
stay here. You do not let any of these people move, understand? If that son of a bitch comes back, I want him alive. I don’t care what condition you bring him to me in, just as long as he’s still breathing. You got that?” Gordon asked.
“Yes, sir.”
Gordon climbed into the truck, and the cul-de-sac grew smaller in the rearview mirror. He rested his head back on the seat. He could feel his body melting into the leather underneath him. “Wake me before we arrive in Topeka.” The driver nodded. It was exhausting work, torturing people.
***
The sun had reached its highest point in the sky when Todd arrived at the site. The straps from his pack sloped his tired shoulders. The thickness of tracks from large machinery intensified as Todd moved closer to where he’d placed the test soil. The closer Todd moved, the larger the hole from where they excavated grew. The crater was at least ten square feet in diameter and six feet deep. Todd chose this place due to its remote location. The Soil Coalition still sent out search parties for any usable land, but most of Wyoming had already been searched.
“They took it.”
Todd jumped, spinning around and almost falling into the pit behind him. Emma had dust caked on her face, and her lips were chapped from the sun.
“Emma, what are you doing here?” Todd asked.
“That’s how they knew. They know we did it. That’s why they’re here,” Emma said, her eyes slightly glazed over and still staring at the pit.
Todd glanced around frantically. “Did you see anyone else following me? Emma? Did you come alone?” He gave her a gentle shake of her shoulders.
“No,” Emma answered, shaking her head.
