by R. A. Mathis
There were more prisoners than Cole expected, more than thirty altogether. He recognized some guys from other battalions on their knees further down the line. It looked like the ‘traitors’ had been gathered from the whole brigade, maybe the entire division.
A man stepped from the center of the guards. He was also young. Cole guessed him to be around twenty-five. He wore a heavy overcoat with a scarf tucked tightly into the collar to block the chill air from his neck. A black fur cap adorned his head. A large metal pin in the shape of a green star glinted from the front of his hat. The pin’s color matched the green arm band he wore on the left sleeve of his coat. His amused eyes scanned the group through round-rimmed spectacles. He was a short man, but stretched his back to its full length so that he towered above his kneeling captives. His gloves were black leather, as were his knee boots. He carried a metal baton in his left hand. He slapped the rod into his right hand with a pop, then stroked it with a gleeful smile as he inspected the new arrivals.
He released a long breath. The warmth of it swirled about his face, lingering in the freezing night air.
“Welcome to your new home,” he finally said. “Make yourselves comfortable. You won’t be leaving anytime soon.” He laughed to himself, then strolled in front of Cole’s group as he continued. “I am Citizen Foucault, the warden of this facility. Don’t worry about how to address me. You will not speak to me or anyone else.” He stopped in front of a corporal from another company and leaned closer to him. “Do you understand?”
The soldier nodded.
“I’m sorry.” Foucault put the baton to his ear and leaned closer in an exaggerated pantomime, “I didn’t hear you.”
“Yes,” the soldier said.
The baton crashed into the soldier’s face, sending him to the ground.
“I just told you not to speak!” Foucault spat, then looked to the guards. “I think he’s the one who can’t hear.”
The guards laughed.
Foucault kicked the trooper. “Get up!”
The man struggled to get back to his knees, but his hands were still bound behind him.
Foucault shook his head. “I think you’re a troublemaker.” He drew his pistol and shot the soldier in the thigh. The trooper fell to the frozen dirt, writhing in pain. Shattered bone protruded from his wound. He cried out in agony through gritted teeth.
Crack!
Another shot from Foucault’s sidearm silenced the prisoner. He lay dead, his legs twitching in the dirt.
Foucault puled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped blood spatter from his face. He yelled to the remaining men, “Is anyone else here a troublemaker?”
Silence.
“We’ll see.” He holstered the firearm and resumed his lazy gait in front of the men. “You may be wondering why you are here. You may even be wondering where ‘here’ is. Here are your answers: You are here to work. You are here to bring glory to the State. And don’t worry about where you are. It doesn’t matter. Neither do you. The sooner you accept this, the better off you will be.” He pointed his baton at the dead soldier. “As you can see, the price of disobedience is… very high.”
Foucault nodded to a guard. “Get them out of here.”
Guards clipped the men’s leg restraints and pulled them to their feet. Cole could barely stand. His legs were numb from being bound for so long, but he didn’t dare stumble.
The men were herded through a metal gate topped with razor wire. A sign over the entrance read, Work Will Make You Free.
Private Hicks was in front of Cole. The young trooper panted, “My ribs popped when they dumped me outta the truck. I think they’re broken.” He wheezed, “I can’t breath.”
“Walk, Hicks. That’s an order,” Cole shot back, “You’re dead if you don’t.”
“Yes, Sarge.”
A knight stick cracked against Cole’s back.
“Quiet!” yelled a guard.
Cole shut up and kept his head down. The men were marched to a processing center where they were ‘bathed’ by laughing guards with a fire hose. The water was freezing. Cole trembled uncontrollably as they were led to the delousing station where every man was pummeled with white powder. Heads were shaved, belts and shoelaces were stripped. Wedding rings and other valuables were confiscated. Teeth were checked. Any gold dental work found was pried from prisoners’ bloody mouths with buck knives and pocketed on the spot.
The last stop was the chipping station. Each inmate was implanted with an RFID device in the back of his left hand.
The head chip tech told the group, “You’re probably considering an escape attempt. Don’t. Your chips will tell us the instant you leave the camp perimeter. The penalty for attempted escape is execution. You’re probably thinking you can just remove your chips. You can’t. Thermal sensors in your implants will detect the temperature change once it hits the cold air. The penalty for tampering with your RFID device is also execution.”
The prisoners, still soaked from their spray-bath, were finally taken into the main camp area. Cole couldn’t believe the scale. It was once a labyrinthine industrial complex, but it looked as if it had been abandoned decades ago. Decrepit warehouses stood in colossal rows, decaying in place.
Guards ushered Cole’s group to one of them and unlatched a huge sliding door. The smell that escaped made Cole want to gag. It was the rank stench of filth, sickness, and rot. Ragged, gaunt men rushed toward the opening.
“Water! Please!” One begged.
“I need a doctor! Look!” Said another as he held up a gangrenous hand.
The guards shoved Cole’s shivering party inside and slammed the door shut. Cole heard the lock slide back into place behind him, then surveyed his new accommodations. He couldn’t believe how many people were crammed into the place. The building was at least two hundred feet long and half as wide. Pitiful humanity covered every inch of cold ground inside it. Some of the other prisoners wore military uniforms. There were even some police and state troopers, but most of the detainees were civilians. All were unshaven and unwashed.
A soldier from another unit asked Cole, “What do we do now, Sarge?”
Cole looked over his group and found that he was the highest ranking man. He thought a moment then said, “Stay together. Buddy up into two-man teams. Every man will stick with his buddy at all times, even in the latrine. Watch out for each other. Leave no man behind.” He scanned the warehouse then pointed to a corner away from the door. Like the rest of the building, it was already occupied. “We’ll set up there,” Cole said, “Those guys will have to find someplace else to sleep tonight.”
Cole led his men to the corner. The crowd part like the Red Sea in front of the band of warriors as they marched across the cold ground.
“Move it,” Cole ordered the corner’s occupants. He wasn’t in a mood for niceties.
Some of the men rose as if to protest, but thought better of it as the soldiers moved in to claim their ground.
“This is our spot now,” Cole announced to his men. “Sick and wounded in the corner, healthy men take the perimeter. Sleep back-to-back. Huddle close for warmth. These wet uniforms will kill us if we don’t. Establish a rotating watch until dawn.” He spotted a junior sergeant. “You set it up. I’ll take last watch.”
“Yes, Sergeant.” The man replied.
“That’s all for now. Get some rest. We’ll see what tomorrow brings.” He turned to Hicks, who stood cradling his injured ribs. “You’re with me.”
Hicks nodded, in too much pain to speak.
Cole picked a spot in the center of his men and helped Hicks get settled. “How bad is it?” he asked the private.
“I’ll make it.”
“Good. Get some rest.” He and Hicks sat, huddling their backs together, and drifted into a dreamless sleep.
*****
“Sarge,” Cole heard a voice whisper. A hand shook his shoulder. “Sarge. Wake up.”
He jerked wake, fist drawn, ready to fight, searching the darknes
s for a threat.
“Easy, Sarge.” It was one of his group. A private. Not a day over nineteen years old from the look of him. A kid. “You wanted last watch. It’s time.”
“Thanks. Good job…” He strained his eyes to make out the name on the youngster’s uniform. “Private Castillo.” He rubbed his face to wake himself, feeling the scruffy start of a beard on his cheeks. “Try to get some more sleep. We’re all gonna need it.”
“Thanks, Sergeant.” The private made his way over sleeping comrades and wedged back up against his battle buddy.
Cole shivered in the freezing gloom, watching the ground churn with the tosses and turns of the sleeping wretches who shared the hellish repository of humanity. Snores and sickly wet coughs echoed constantly from the squirming sea of misery that lay before him. Slim beams from guard tower lights peeked in at him through gaps in the warehouse’s walls and ceiling, revealing the pitiful state of the men inside. Their skin was covered in dirt and muck. Hair and beards were matted. Clothes were filthy and tattered. Many feet went shoeless.
There was empty ground for several feet around his groups’ perimeter. The other residents were giving his men a wide berth. That was a good thing. It would cut the risk of disease as well as thievery and violence.
His stomach growled. He hadn’t eaten since lunch the day before. From the lean appearance of the men here before him, nutrition was not a priority for their caretakers.
Cole watched the writhing mass, wondering if it was a glimpse of his own future. Dread renewed its grip on his insides.
He spotted a figure approaching in the corner of his eye. It moved slowly and deliberately on spindly arms and legs, picking its way over the slumbering bodies of the living dead. Cole froze, not sure if what he saw was real or nightmare. The thing stayed low, moving on all fours with the arachnoid nimbleness. It stopped at the edge of the clearing around Cole’s men and sat there, staring at him, its eyes twinkling in the darkness.
Cole turned his head to face the night crawler. “Go away.”
The wraith raised its hands in supplication. “Take it easy. I just want to talk. You’re the leader, right?”
“I said go away.”
The thing crept closer, squatting just out of arm’s reach. It was close enough now for Cole to make out details. It was a man—filthy and emaciated. His unkempt hair and beard gave him the wild look of a madman, as did his bulging eyes and odd grin.
“Welcome to Hell,” the man said.
Cole didn’t respond.
“I’m Alex, Alex Whittle.”
The man held out a grimy hand. Cole didn’t take it.
“Maybe you’ve heard of me. I used to have a radio show called Edge of Midnight. You’ve probably heard of it.”
Cole just stared.
“I was on the air every night for years, warning people that this was coming, but they wouldn’t listen. They called me a conspiracy theorist. They said I was paranoid—even crazy. I tried to warn ‘em. The signs were everywhere if you knew where to look. Everybody just laughed at me.” His eyes widened. “Guess who’s laughing now?”
Cole looked Alex in the eye. “You’re insane.”
“Ever listen to late-night radio? I was on from midnight to three. Maybe you know my tag-line, ‘Slashing government lies with the sword of truth.’”
Cole sat, stone-faced.
“No? How about ‘Us versus the New World Order,’ or my YouTube channel, Patriot Resistance?
“Never heard of it.”
Alex sighed. “Well, somebody heard it. That’s why I’m in here. I was one of the first, you know. They got me months ago. There were more than a hundred of us in that original group. Bloggers, activists, alternative media types like me, people they saw as trouble makers. We built this camp with our bare hands. The warehouses were already here, of course. We put up the fences and towers and the like. We even built the guards’ quarters. They’re a heck of a lot nicer than this hole—especially Foucault’s place. I’m the last of those guys. The others are buried in a mass grave across camp.” He sighed. “I’m the senior resident here. So if you want to know anything, I’m the guy to ask.”
Cole asked, “What will happen tomorrow?”
“We will work.”
“What do they have you building now?”
“We don’t build things anymore. We break them.”
“What kinds of things?”
“Electrical facilities, telephone lines, cell phone towers. Power and communication nodes. They want to make sure none of it ever works again.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.” Cole wondered if this was more deranged rambling. He looked around the massive cell. “Why aren’t there any women here?”
“They’re on the other side of the camp.”
“What do they do?”
“I don’t know. I heard rumors in the early days about them making uniforms. Others said they were used as comfort women for the Green Guards and the few DHS agents that hang around to keep an eye on things.” He motioned to Cole’s uniform. “You guys are soldiers, eh? Fort Campbell, right?”
“Mind your own business.”
Alex nodded to himself. “Yup, definitely Fort Campbell. 101st Airborne by the looks of you.” He waved a hand at the sleeping inmates. “We have a few other Army types here, but they’re all National Guard guys. We had some other guys from the 101st a while back. Officers. They didn’t last long.”
That got Cole’s attention. Homeland Security arrested most of the officers of his battalion and sent them away after the grid went down. “What happened to them?”
Alex drew a finger across his scruffy neck. “Citizen Foucault didn’t like ‘em.”
“Do you remember their names?”
The man shook his head. “I don’t learn names here anymore. It’s easier that way.”
“Then why are you talking to me?”
“Because I think you got what it takes to get outta here.” Alex smiled, revealing a mouth full of mossy teeth. “And I know how.”
“Tell me.”
“Not so fast.” Alex held up a bony finger. “I’ll tell you on one condition. You have to promise to take me with you.”
“Deal. Now tell me how to get out of here.”
Alex beckoned Cole closer.
Cole leaned in to listen, his heart pounding at the thought of escape.
“We drive out the front gate, of course.” Alex’s chest wheezed with laughter.
Cole slouched back and sighed. “You really are insane.” He couldn’t decide whether to punch the man or pity him.
Hicks groaned behind Cole. His broken ribs and constant shivering colluded to keep him on the edge of sleep without the ability to actually rest.
Alex looked at the private. “He’s not gonna make it. I’ve seen plenty of guys in his shape. It’s not pretty.”
“We’ll take care of him,” Cole snapped, “He’s going to be fine.”
The door rattled, clunked, then slid open with a grinding shrill.
Cole expected the men inside to rush the entrance as they did when he and his men arrived. But none moved. He asked, “What’s going mmff…”
Alex covered Cole’s mouth, putting a finger to his own lips.
Foucault appeared in the entry, flanked by Green Guards wielding flashlights and pistols. He covered his nose with a kerchief as he stepped into the putrid prison. The warden walked silently among his prisoners, pausing every so often to study a terrified individual before moving on.
Alex removed his ratty shirt and put it over Hick’s head. Cole reached to remove the covering. Alex grabbed his hand and shook his head. Cole withdrew.
Foucault made his way to where Cole and Alex sat. Alex feigned sleep, but Cole met the prison master’s cold gaze. They stared at each other for a long moment. A cruel smile crept across the warden’s face. He moved on, finally stopping next to a shivering, fair-headed youngster, no more then eighteen. He nodded to the guard on his left and strolled to the exit.
“No!” The young prisoner yelled.
The teenager was snatched up and dragged, flailing from the building. “No! Please! Help! Somebody! DON”T LET THEM TAKE ME!” The door slammed shut behind him.
Alex uncovered Hick’s face. The exhausted private was still asleep. “Sorry,” he said to Cole. “I didn’t want Foucault to see him. He likes the young ones.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Exactly what you think it means. Foucault comes in here before dawn every few days to pick a new ‘playmate.’ He feeds him, cleans him up, then has his fun with him. When he gets tired of that, he kills him. He does the last part slowly and at night so we can all hear the screams.”
A hazy skylight began to glow above them. It was morning.
A shrill siren sounded outside.
“It’s time.” Alex’s eyes darted to the door. “Keep your head down and your mouth shut if you want to live another day. Trust me on that.”
Moments later, the door slid open. Shouting guards with barking dogs appeared in the entry, forcing the detainees out into the cold morning air.
The shivering prisoners were lined up in a yard between the warehouses and the front gate.
Foucault’s voice sounded over the camp loudspeakers. “Stand at attention for the People’s Anthem!”
America’s new anthem blared over the sound system. Guards beat anyone not standing straight enough for their liking. “Sing!” one of them ordered as he struck a man with the butt of his rifle. The men mumbled in compliance.
A giant flag climbed a silver pole by the front gate. It was the new flag of the Second Founding. The music ended as it reached the top.
