As Far as the East is From the West (Servant of Light Book 2)

by Jeremy Finn

  “That’s right. Welcome to Putnam National Disciplinary Center, or as we like to call it, PUNDIC,” the officer in a nearly identical dress uniform explained as he walked up beside him. The uniform was timeless, and anyone who did not know the era would have a hard time guessing. Only the electro-magnetic rail pistol the officer carried in a glossy leather holster gave an indication of the era. “Of course there’s the name preferred by the public too…”

  “Right, the screaming fields,” Mark finished for him. The uneasiness surfaced again and he fought it down.

  “Well, we are going to put you to work right away,” the officer explained as he led the way back up a stone staircase to the top of the bluff. “I hope your orders specified you may be working some odd hours for the first week on the job.”

  “They did,” Mark confirmed. “May I ask why? Is there some kind of special training I have to go through?”

  “Yeah, basically, “Major Clemente shrugged. “Maybe more like a rite of passage. But more on that later. First I want to give you a tour around.”

  The facility was not very large. It was essentially a park that covered an area about five city blocks long and three wide. Most of it looked like any other park you would expect to find in a city. It was covered with grassy lawns, old trees and well-worn pathways. Several buildings ran along the eastern edge of the grounds and served as barracks, dining facility and work areas for the elite unit that manned the site. In the center of the bucolic scene, though, stretched several long, unappealing slabs of gray concrete. Two men in uniforms like Mark's paced up and down the narrow pathways between the slabs, and huddled groups of visitors passed by snapping pictures.

  “Hey! Looks like you are in luck,” Clemente said pointing in the direction of the cluster of buildings. “They are about to put one in the ground. You don’t get to see that every day, you know.”

  Several more men in uniform were walking somberly from the buildings to the concrete slabs. In the middle of their group walked a middle-aged man dressed simply in white shorts and a white t-shirt. His hands were tied behind his back. His head hung dejectedly and it seemed as if every step was an extreme effort for him.

  “Are we actually going to watch?” Mark asked.

  “Of course,” Clemente replied. “You will certainly see your share in the future, but there’s a big crowd today and I want you to see their reactions.”

  As the two men approached the scene of the gathering crowd around one of the slabs, Mark noticed half the slab was complete except for several small holes in the surface while the other half had about eight rectangular shafts the size of a large desk cut into the ground. Seeing the well-recognized uniforms, the group of onlookers parted. Mark could sense their fear as he passed by them and politely apologized for the intrusion. Near the edge of one of the shafts, two large blocks of concrete lay side by side. Both had a mold cast in them shaped like a man. Mark knew what was going to happen. He never saw one personally, but since he was young they taught him about it in school. It was televised every time, too. In fact, there were the cameras approaching just now. The uniformed men brought the condemned man near Mark and one of them read a statement in a booming voice.

  “For aggressions against the state and the people in the most heinous degree, you are hereby sentenced to confinement in the National Disciplinary Center and will remain as such until your death. Do you have any last words?”

  For a moment the man just stood with his head hung. His shoulder-length hair was unkempt and frazzled. A light breeze passed by and his hair brushed his face. Then he suddenly lifted his head. His eyes made contact with Mark’s and he could see the animal fear in them. The man screamed wildly and tried to bite one of the men next to him. Those escorting him acted as if this were routine and quickly subdued him. One man produced a small canister attached by a hose to a mask and held it over the prisoner’s face until he stopped resisting and eventually passed out.

  “How long does the gas last?” Mark asked.

  “You’ll see,” Clemente answered.

  The guards quickly untied the limp prisoner’s hands and laid him in one half of the cast concrete mold. They spread a paste around the edges and then lifted the thinner concrete cover and placed it over the top of the unconscious man lying face up. The paste squeezed out of the edges and quickly dried, sealing the concrete capsule. The only opening in the stone tomb was a small circular hole in the top just over the spot where the man’s mouth would be under the concrete cover. Mark knew the mold allowed for about an inch of wiggle room all around the man’s body.

  A stout work vehicle had approached up one of the side paths and the guards attached chains and straps so the truck could lower the heavy box into the deep shaft in the concrete floor. As it began to sink into the hole, the men paused to fit a long metal pipe into the opening in the top of the box then let it drop slowly to the bottom about fifteen feet down. Once they loosed the straps and recovered the lowering equipment, another little truck pulled up and began dumping wet concrete into the shaft. Once the gray paste reached level with the surrounding field of hardened concrete, the truck pulled away and the guards smoothed the surface over with hand tools. When they were finished, only a few inches of metal pipe remained sticking out of the flat concrete surface. Now it was just one of many little stumps dotting the field of impregnable material like a stone and metal forest recently cleared for timber.

  One of the guards stooped over the pipe and spit into the hole. He waited, and a few seconds later a terrible sound echoed out of the little metal shaft. The prisoner had awoken from his gas-induced sleep and found himself buried permanently under fifteen feet of hardening concrete. He could only move an inch in any direction. Mark cringed, but tried not to show his discomfort on the outside.

  “How long do they usually last?” a woman asked from the group of onlookers that was slowly starting to disperse now that the show was over.

  “Some can go on for weeks,” Clemente answered nonchalantly. “In fact, a few of those over there are probably still alive. You can’t hear the screams because they either have completely lost their minds and retreated into a world of illusion, or they may have screamed so hard and long that their voices no longer work. It’s usually one or the other. It is rare that one of them remains able to communicate coherently with us for more than a day or so.”

  “How can they live for weeks without food and water?” another tourist asked.

  “Well, we usually drop them a bit here and there through the tubes. They kind of have to eat and drink because it falls on top of their faces. If they let the water build up, they would eventually drown and a bunch of food piling up would make it hard to breath. It’s hard enough already for them to transfer the air up and down that long corridor. You would think they would just give up, but the instinctual desire to survive is strong in humans,” Clemente explained.

  “So, how do they finally die?” a teenage boy asked cautiously. He was subconsciously holding his mother’s arm.

  “It’s different for everyone,” Clemente explained. “Sometimes we might get a big rain storm and the water builds up so fast they just drown slowly in there as they try to drink the rising water to keep some room to breathe and eventually vomit since their stomach can’t hold any more. Drowning in your own vomit is not the best way to go,” he chuckled. “Some just die from the stress, others intentionally kill themselves by forcing themselves to choke on some piece of food we toss down. That’s why we often only throw tidbits and never anything too solid. Most, however, die the usual slow death. Of course if you eat and drink, even only small amounts, you will eventually have to urinate and produce excrement. So, I think you can see what eventually happens. It’s a slow death of choking and drowning on your own waste.”

  The boy turned his head in disgust and the mother looked at Clemente like he had just slapped her son across the face. Clemente just smiled and turned to face the guards. “Good work gentlemen. How about dinner together with the
new recruit?”

  The men agreed and they all walked together back to the cluster of buildings on the edge of the park. Mark tried not to look back, but could not help casting furtive glances as the mad howling and pleading for mercy grew harder to hear the farther they walked away. One guard remained at the concrete field pacing back and forth formally as the last of the crowd filtered away.

  Mark was quiet over dinner, though the others joked and conversed as if nothing had happened. Mark knew they must be desensitized to this sort of thing and wondered if he would ever be able to be so light-hearted about it all.

  “So, what did you think about it all?” One man eventually addressed Mark directly. “It was your first time seeing it in person, right?”

  Mark was surprised at first to be addressed. He finished chewing his mouthful of potatoes and replied. “Well, I’ll admit it is a bit more disturbing in person than over television. Do you guys know how long this has been going on, by the way? Since I was young I remember it being part of our system.”

  “Disturbing it is,” an older, wrinkled guard commented. “But it has been the glue that has held our society together for decades. You’ll get a book to study tonight that will walk you through the history and traditions of the fields. They began about forty years ago when our country was rife with crime and lawlessness. For decades, there had been no death penalty and prison sentences were essentially extended hotel stays that usually ended in half the time they were supposed to last. The very fabric of our society was about to rend at the seams. That’s when the lawmakers realized something needed to be done. The ultra-conservative Lapsang Party gained influence and seats in the government. Eventually, they were even able to win the presidency. Their most lasting and effective contribution to reforming the country came with the creation of PUNDIC and this very same method of capital punishment which we practice today.”

  “I had heard about that,” Mark replied, “but do you think such drastic measures are really necessary?”

  The old man dropped his fork and the others at the table wore disapproving expressions.

  “Mark,” Major Clemente answered in a slightly condescending tone, “even a brief review of history proves the necessity of this method. It may seem cruel and sadistic, but imagine the loss of life and pain to our citizenry due to crime if there was not a strong deterrent against such actions. The fact that you could walk down the city street to PUNDIC by yourself today unafraid of robbery or assault is the very result of the laws that are in effect.”

  “I guess so,” Mark conceded half out of consideration for the responses from the table. “I’m sure I’ll get used to it. Didn’t it bother you a bit at first too, though?”

  “Sure,” Clemente confessed with a soft smile and a more caring tone. “If you are human, it strikes a chord within you. But once you truly understand the necessity and effectiveness of the fields, you will grow to accept it as normal and even preferable. Well,” he said rising from the table, “shall we convene? Tom, you have duty tonight, right? And Mark, you better get a good sleep. Your first shift starts in the morning.”

  Mark acknowledged the officer and returned his tray to the kitchen. On the walk home that night, he couldn’t help thinking about the whole issue. True, as he passed through dark streets laced with ominous alleys, he had little to fear. Women passed him walking alone and every now and then he even saw groups of small children playing in the dark streets without concern for their own safety. But were the fields really necessary? Was that what was responsible for keeping society under control? If it was, Mark felt his race, which he often held in high esteem, must be far more animalistic and barbaric than he had come to think of it. Despite Major Clemente’s advice to get a good sleep, he had difficulty finding rest that night. He woke in the morning before his wife and children, kissed them all on the forehead and reminded himself he was doing this for them – to live in a safer world, then strode out the door and down the street to PUNDIC.

  When he arrived, Major Clemente was waiting for him. “Good morning. The colonel would like to see you for a minute.”

  Mark was surprised, but followed the major into the senior officer’s reception room. The secretary was expecting them and buzzed the colonel. Mark and Clemente entered the spacious office, offered a crisp salute and remained at the position of attention.

  “At ease,” the colonel ordered. “Good to see you both this morning.”

  “Yes sir,” both men replied.

  “Mark, I want to welcome you to PUNDIC. It is a great honor to be selected for duty here. I assure you your file was meticulously analyzed. Only the best receive duty here. Now, you may have heard your induction is not yet complete. I am tasking you to pass one last wicket before you can officially serve as an officer at PUNDIC. For the next seventy-two hours, you will stand guard at the fields. During the day, another officer will accompany you at the fields, as is customary. At night, however, we reduce the guard to just one. You will pull the night shifts alone. Remain vigilant, aware and above all indifferent to those criminals beneath your feet. Do you have any questions?”

  “No sir,” Mark replied, though he wished he could ask why, how and what exactly he was supposed to gain from such a torturously long tour of duty. He figured it must be just another rite of passage. The military was full of them. He thought at his rank he had risen above such things, but apparently not. Clemente saluted and conducted an about face. Mark imitated him and followed him out of the senior’s office.

  “Seventy-two hours?” he remarked to the major once they were outside the reception room.

  “That’s right,” he replied. “I would have told you earlier, but the colonel likes to reserve that for himself. Don’t worry, we all go through it. During the day shift one of us will be out there to help you.”

  Mark nodded solemnly and asked if he could call his wife to explain why he would not be home for the next three nights. After the uncomfortable phone call, he returned to the Major.

  “So, when do I start?”

  “Right now,” the major replied. “Come on, I’ll walk you there. Jim is on duty with you this morning.”

  The two men walked out to the field where the burial had taken place the day before. A thick fog still clung to the wet grass and it was not until they were close to the field that Mark noticed another man about his age pacing up and down the concrete planes. Mark introduced him as Jim, who had been here almost a year now. He received instructions for use of the latrine, water, meals, etc. and Clemente left him to begin his monotonous duty.

  Jim and Mark exchanged brief courtesies and then began pacing rhythmically around the tombs. Mark had received some basic instruction in his duties before and the rest was on the job learning. The morning wore on without much said between the two. A few groups of tourists passed by and took pictures, but none seemed willing to pause long before the ghastly symbol of the state’s authority and discipline.

  “Ready for lunch?” Jim asked as they passed for what seemed like the thousandth time around noon.

  “Sure,” Mark agreed. “Does someone come relieve us?”

  “No, you stay here and I’ll go grab the food.”

  After about fifteen minutes of pacing alone across the hot cement, Mark saw Jim returning with two small brown bags and a large one wedged under his arm.

  “Here you go,” he said tossing one of the small bags to him. Mark opened it and found a sandwich, apple and bottle of water.

  “What’s the big bag for?” he asked as he sat on a bench under the trees beside the concrete field.

  “They’re food, of course,” Jim said nodding toward the flat cement littered with short vertical pipes.

  “They eat?’ Mark asked as he paused chewing with a chunk of sandwich in his mouth.

  “Well yeah,” Jim said. “We gotta keep ‘em alive as long as possible. Without food or water, they wouldn’t last more than a few days.”

  “How long do they really last?” Mark asked trying to force h
is food down.

  “Depends,” Jim answered. He was already on his apple. “Usually around a week, I guess. Some go faster if it’s real hot or cold or if something odd happens.”

  “What do mean by odd?” Mark asked.

  “Well like there was this one time a snake managed to go down one of the pipes at night. Don’t ask me why the thing did it, but of course he couldn’t get back out. And the pipes go right to their mouths, you know. So, you can guess what happened. Poor thing.”

  “I’ll say so,” Mark said setting his half-eaten sandwich down. “I can’t imagine what it would be like to choke on a snake.”

  “Oh no, I meant poor snake,” Jim corrected. He must have been confused as all get out. The guy in there deserved death anyway, the snake didn’t.”

  Mark cracked his water bottle open and chugged down half of it. “If it was me, I wouldn’t eat or drink. I think I would rather precipitate my death.”

  “That’s what you would think,” Jim nodded, but experience has shown us the survival instinct kicks in nearly every time. No matter how inevitable death is, most just refuse to accept it. So, they eat and drink.”

  “Yeah, I guess if they didn’t, their air would get cut off and the little space they have would fill with water to the point they would drown in it,” Mark said.

  “True, and that’s why most of them eat and drink, but it just postpones the death.”

  “So, how do most of them eventually pass?” Mark asked, though he expected the answer since he had asked Major Clemente the day before.

  “Drowning,” Jim answered and wrapped up his trash. Eventually you have to do your business, right? Well, that little bit of space you talked about starts to fill up with excrement. It’s a slow death by drowning on your own excrement.”

  Mark sat horrified. Major Clemente had said the same, but it was still shocking to hear it confirmed. His lunch remained half-eaten and that’s how he would leave it.

  “Come on, I’ll let you feed ‘em this time. A group of tourists is coming up,” Jim observed.