by Hunt, James
Once his father was gone, Sydney grabbed a rag and began mopping up the water on the counter. His father’s words were a specific poison that he’d yet to find an antidote for. It had been that way ever since he was a child. Always too small and too weak for success at anything his father deemed as manly, such as sports, fighting, and hunting. The resentful eyes of his father always seemed to find him, no matter how successful he was in the lab.
Of course, his father was right: there were other qualified candidates to run the lab, and all of them would jump at the chance. But despite his father’s nepotistic appointment, Sydney had developed himself into a competent scientist. Before the crisis, he had just received a grant to work at Johns Hopkins Hospital as a researcher in their leukemia department.
When Sydney brought that news to his father, he was too distracted by a new prototype of weapon that his company was marketing to the Marines. He remembered how excited he was to finally have something to tell him that his father would be proud of, but it didn’t matter.
Upon hearing his son’s news, he looked over to Sydney, and this was the moment he thought he would finally receive approval, finally see a look of pride on his father’s face that was the direct result of his achievements. But his father only asked him one question.
“What did you do?”
“I don’t… W-what do you mean?”
“I mean what have you made and created for them to grant you such an opportunity?”
“Oh! My research. I recently wrote a paper on the theory of blood vessels and their capac—”
“Theory?” his father interjected. “What proof do you have that it’s true?”
“Well, I haven’t had the oppor—”
“So, let me make sure I’m understanding this correctly. You wrote a paper, that no one is even sure is correct, with no tangible product to show for your efforts?”
“Dad, my paper could be the first step to—”
“Ah!” his father said, holding his finger up, silencing Sydney. “‘Could,’ Sydney. Not ‘will,’ or ‘yes,’ but ‘could.’ You can’t eat ‘could.’ ‘Could’ can’t put a roof over your head. You can’t drink ‘could.’ So why would you waste my time with ‘could?’”
It was in that moment Sydney realized that no matter what he did, no matter what he accomplished, it would never be good enough for his father to recognize him as a man, as an individual. His world consisted too much of theories and what-ifs, whereas his father’s world was of metal and steel.
Sydney reached back into his pocket and pulled out his thumb drive. He closed his fist around it and gripped it tightly. If his father wanted something tangible, then that’s exactly what he was going to give him.
Chapter 8
The farm camp was surrounded by rolling hills, with nothing but open land for miles around. They were all designed that way. In the earlier days, the Soil Coalition was afraid of the workers escaping, and if someone were to escape, they wanted to make sure there wasn’t any place for them to hide. All the sentries would have to do was bring the sprinting skeletons into their crosshairs and pull the trigger.
Escapes weren’t as common anymore, at least from what Alex heard through the grapevine. Everyone was too tired and weak to fight back now. Because of that, security had grown light, with nothing but Class 1 sentries here. The Coalition didn’t expect a fight from a moaning sack of bones.
Alex had been hiding, concealed under a layer of dirt, for most of the night. Only the whites of his eyes contrasted against the black and grey dust. But since the sentries weren’t paying attention to anything beyond the ten-foot radius around their own bodies, he wasn’t concerned.
One of the sentries came full circle on his patrol, and Alex counted him at seventy-three seconds to walk all the way around. In the last few hours of night, three different sentries had come outside to relieve him, which gave him a total of four sentries that he knew about. Judging by the size of the camp, he figured that’s all there was.
Each sentry was armed with an AR-15 with three full clips of ammo and protected with Kevlar from neck to waist. Even though the riots had stopped, they were still armed to the teeth. The rifles he carried with him had a total of twelve bullets between them. Seven in the .22 and five in the .308, but he wanted to keep the element of surprise for as long as he could, so he’d be relying on the knife to take out the first sentry.
The only problem was once he stole the rifle off the sentry’s back, his buddies would eventually come and check on him, and when they found him dead, it would trigger an alarm that would sound all over the state. And if the alarm was sounded, there would be no doubt that the sentries around Meeko’s farm camp, which was quite larger and undoubtedly had triple the number of sentries this one did, would be on high alert, making it even harder to free him and Harper. Alex would have to kill the sentries quickly.
Once the sentry turned the corner to the back of the farm, Alex would have roughly thirty seconds to catch up to him, kill him, and get inside before he passed the entrance again. When the sentry finally disappeared around the back, Alex pushed himself off the ground. His elbows and shoulders popped from the sudden movements, and the grey dirt he was covered in cascaded to the ground.
Alex sprinted to the structure. Each step that dug into the ground kicked the dirt back violently into the air as he pushed his way forward, leaving a trail of grey mist in his wake. Despite the amount of effort, his body felt slow after being immobile for the past six hours. Once he made it halfway, the muscles in his legs loosened, and he picked up speed. He skidded to a stop just before he reached the back corner where the sentry had turned.
Large, quiet breaths escaped him as he tried to control his breathing. The lack of food and water was already taking effect. His body was running on empty. He peeked around the corner and saw that the sentry had just made it to the other side. Alex had to make his move now. He pushed through the exhaustion and sprinted down the back side of the farm.
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 bull
et-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 forgetti
ng 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.”
