Famine

by R A Doty

  Weston’s voice mumbled in the distance as Brian weighed his options. The way he saw it, what choice did he have? He had to try something, because the only other option was to become some rich lunatic’s dinner. He gripped the seat of his chair to push himself to his feet. Before he had a chance to stand, Weston retreated back to the door he emerged from, and each of the armed men pulled a mask over their face. Brian, along with every shackled man in the room, stared up at the ceiling when a white cloud of gas hissed from metal grates.

  The guards raised their weapons, but before any of the seated men had an opportunity to stand, the gas descended on them like a giant ghost with outstretched arms. Within seconds, each of the men cocked their heads to the side as their bodies went limp. Some slid off their chairs and onto the floor. Brian sat erect with his head tilted back, his eyes closed and his mouth opened wide.

  THE sound was horrid. Part hissing, part growling, blood being pumped through ventricles only to bubble and clog in the back of the throat as words attempted to be pronounced. That’s what Brian heard when he first regained consciousness, but he didn’t know it. To him it was air escaping from a flat tire in the mud as he and his comrades patrolled the streets and alleys searching for people in need. They mostly found cadavers that they would throw in the back of a designated truck to be burned later in the day, but occasionally they would come across someone who really needed help, someone who had no hope of surviving unless a miracle came along. Brian and the dedicated men and woman who walked the streets and rode in pale green trucks when everyone else had given up was that miracle. And there was no better feeling than when a fellow human in need ran up to you and embraced when you appeared from around the corner. You were their savior, and it nearly brought a tear to Brian’s eyes each time he saw the relief on their face when they released him from their arms. “Thank God,” they would always say.

  But God was nowhere in the room and there damned sure wasn’t any relief visible on the faces he opened his eyes to. What he saw were eyes bulging with fear and faces that had given up all chances of hope. Faces that finally realized what their purpose in life was. And the worst part of all was the fact that they could no longer verbally express what they feared the most. All they could do now was hiss and growl and hope by some miracle that someone could understand them. But no one could.

  With sinister devices held in their hands, the people dressed in white leaned over the men strapped to the gurneys. Their arms moved methodically, elbows going back and forth, as they jammed shiny prongs deep into the men’s mouths. A push of a button would then silence a scream as the laser not only severed the vocal cord, but immediately cauterized the wound as well with small poofs of smoke escaping from between the teeth. After the “simple procedure” was complete, the men were rolled to another room where they waited to be transported to their new home: a concrete pen encased with steel bars. A comfortable bed would be provided, a view of the great city of Ancada would be visible from a shared yard surrounded by a chain link fence capped with razor wire, and a steady supply of meals would be served to them right up until the day they would be ready for harvesting. But none of the men would know when that day would arrive.

  Brian struggled and shook and fought as hard as he could to break-free from the straps that pinned him to the gurney as the others did before him, but his efforts were futile. With heavy breaths escaping his mouth, and his chest rapidly rising and falling, he tilted his head from side to side trying to make some sense of what he was seeing. Men would hiss as he looked at them, as if he weren’t the next in line and he could help them in some way.

  The people dressed in white would hurry from one gurney to the next, each having their important task to perform. It was just another routine day to them: a nurse would roll in a gurney from the holding pen, the surgeon would sever the vocal cords of the man lying on the gurney, and another nurse would roll the man out of the room and into a hallway where an orderly would be waiting to take him away. After waking up and realizing what was about to happen, the men coming in would loudly demand to be set free and the men going out were always as silent as the tide going back to the sea.

  Brian was no exception as he stared up at the surgeon approaching him with a strange device in her hand. “Please don’t do this, I’m begging you. Look at me goddammit! I’m not an animal; I’m a human being!” His voice fell on deaf ears as the woman sat the device on Brian’s chest and grabbed a spring- loaded mouthpiece from a cart.

  Her face was that of a mannequin’s, revealing no sign of emotions and eyes that rarely blinked. She squeezed the mouthpiece closed and wedged it between Brian’s teeth. When she released her grip, Brian’s mouth popped open. She then grabbed the device from his chest and inserted it into his throat. It hummed with the touch of a button.

  Brian wailed as loud as he could, but when he felt what seemed like pliers tugging at the back of his tongue, his voice fell silent. Just hissing and growling. The odor of seared flesh. The woman dressed in white was replaced by another, and the ceiling began to pass before his eyes. It was over.

  Chapter Five

  A month after arriving to Ancada, Brian and the nine other men he coexisted with had slowly began to accept their fate. They would awake in the morning, wait for their feed-door to open, and grab a tray of rations that seemed to magically appear at the same time every day. After devouring the food, they would walk aimlessly around their private yard that was encased with a chain-link fence. They were no longer human; they were livestock.

  Occasionally they would resolve disputes among themselves by hissing or growling. The largest of the men assumed the role of dominant male, and that meant he got to sit in the sunshine on a large concrete cube that was provided for their entertainment. When he grew tired of the cube, the next largest male would usually take his place on the throne. Being the largest male didn’t always come with rewards, however. It was easy to forget why they were chosen out of all the prisoners on the mainland, but when the yard lights turned on in the middle of the night their memories were refreshed.

  The pattern of the event’s occurrence thus far was once a week. The first three men selected were obvious and predictable choices: they were noticeably larger than the others. But with only seven men left, all approximately equal in size, the next in line was a roll of the dice. And they all knew it. They would glance at each other throughout the day and convince themselves they were smaller in size, but when night fell it was impossible to sleep soundly knowing that the lights may click on for them at any moment.

  The act itself didn’t last long. The lights came on, three guards quickly unlocked and entered a pen, a spray was forced down the selected man’s throat, the man was dragged away, and the lights went out. In the morning a new leader would sit on the cube.

  Having been trained to awake in an instant, and the good fortune of having a pen directly adjacent to two of the men that were previously chosen, Brian had the advantage of witnessing each event from the moment he heard the kennel door open to the moment the lights went out when it was over. Sleeping soundly was never an option, and he trained his body to nap during the day and survive on only a few hours of sleep each night. He would be ready when his turn came. But he wouldn’t fight as the others before him did. Fighting made you panic, and when you lost control of your body you lost control of your breathing. For his plan to work he would have to control his breathing.

  With a pebble gripped tightly between his fingers, he etched a vertical straight line in the side of his bedrail. There were twenty-nine lines previously etched before it, with a diagonal line marking each group of five. Each line represented a day, and today was the last day of the week and no one was chosen yet. He studied all of the lines and noticed the three with a small dot above them, which represented the days the other men were chosen. It was always the first day of the week. Would this week be skipped? He hid the pebble in a small slit in the side of his mattress and rolled onto his back. He memorized every crack in
the pen’s concrete ceiling and when the lights went out, as they did at the exact same time every night, his eyes continued to trace their patterns. Soon the others began to snore and some would moan in fear as the horror of what awaits them filled their dreams.

  Brian fought to keep his eyes open but the pattern of the daily lines controlled his thoughts: The first day of every week. Today’s the last day of the week. There is no pattern. He slowly closed his eyes. He wasn’t the largest of the men. But he was much larger than the two men that were with the woman he had tried to save. Why did she lie? Did the three of them randomly choose him on the spur of the moment or did they see him coming? Were they after him or the small boy he was carrying? Were the police in on it and it was all part of some conspiracy to provide food for the inhabitants of this horrific city on an island? His thoughts all blurred together and he fell deeper into unconsciousness. Nothing mattered now.

  Four hours later, the lights flicked on.

  THE sound of a key being inserted into a lock was the first thing Brian heard before opening his eyes. Metal against metal. When his eyes did open it was too late; the men were already holding him down and spraying the liquid into his mouth. Don’t panic! Follow the plan! He closed his throat, and even though he was carrying the entire weight of one of the men on his chest, he refused to inhale. He had to control his breathing. In an attempt to appear as though the spray had done its job, he closed his eyes and flopped his head sideways onto the mattress. When the men dragged him off the bunk, he pushed the liquid from his mouth, hoping they wouldn’t notice it spilling onto the concrete floor. They didn’t, he thought, feeling his bare feet scraping the concrete toward the door. Through squinted eyes, he saw the lights go out. What he didn’t calculate was the potency of the bitter liquid covering his tongue. He thought if he didn’t swallow he could remain coherent enough to capitalize on an opportunity to escape. But when his arms began to numb and he could no longer feel his feet against the floor, he realized his plan had failed. All went black.

  Voices were everywhere. Brian couldn’t see where they were coming from, but he could most definitely hear them.

  “Here comes another one.”

  “He’s not as big as the others, but he looks more muscular.”

  “And more vicious. Look at that black hair. He looks military.”

  It seemed like hours since the men came for him, but if that were true why could he still feel himself being dragged. Now he felt like a child that had no concept of time. Was the drug wearing off already? Is it hours later and a second or third drug is just beginning to wear off? The feeling in his arms and legs was starting to come back and when he peeked through a slit in his eye he saw the side of the face of one of the men. Through his other eye he saw another one of the men. His arms were wrapped around their necks and they were still dragging him down a hallway. It has been only minutes! The plan had worked! That familiar feeling of pins and needles raced through his body, and he knew if he tried to break free before the drug had completely worn off it would be disastrous. Be patient, he told himself.

  A door opened and the light smacking his closed eyelids brightened. The scent in the air changed. It was medicinal. Astringent. He felt his body being lifted and then lowered onto a hard surface. It was cold on the back of his neck and the balls of his heels.

  “This is the last one tonight,” a voice said. By the closeness of its proximity Brian was certain it came from one of the men that had escorted him. The voice grew weaker as it continued, assuring Brian it was getting farther away from him. Maybe even leaving the room. “Save me a drumstick.” A laugh followed. “See you tomorrow. Same time. Same place.”

  The room was silent. Was he alone, at last? Should he open his eyes? Is it too soon? A hand touched his chest. No, two hands. They unbuttoned his shirt. A chill covered his chest and abdomen. He opened his eyes. A women’s face turned quick toward his. She opened her mouth to scream.

  Chapter Six

  BEFORE the woman could make a sound, Brian’s hand thrust toward her throat like a striking cobra. His other hand followed and gripped the back of her neck: two vipers squeezing with all their might. Red veins popping in the whites of eyes and a mouth agape, trying to pull in air that wouldn’t come.

  Brian slid off the table and onto his feet with his hands still around the woman’s throat. Small fists punched his arms and nails dug into his wrists, but he felt nothing. He never killed in cold blood and certainly not with his bare hands. This was murder in every sense of the word. The old Brian would have released his grip when he saw the fear on the woman’s face, but the new Brian was making his debut and enjoying it. Somebody had to pay for the life he lost, so why not a member of this sick society? He raised his arms and the woman’s feet left the floor. Veins bulged in his forearms and the prominent outline of each muscle appeared—a perfectly chiseled sculpture. He cocked his head, intrigued by the facial expression just inches before him, a rag doll dangling from his hands.

  Only when the woman’s body went limp did he lessen his grip. It was now her turn to lie on the cold stainless-steel table. As he stared down at her, her eyes seemingly focused on the ceiling, he wondered if she had ever imagined what it was like to be the one on the table looking up at the person about to slaughter you. When everyone left for the day and she was all alone, did she climb onto the table just one time to see what it felt like? With a trembling hand, he reached for the woman’s face and slid his fingers over her eyelids.

  His chest heaved in and out, like he hadn’t breathed the entire time. Or maybe he was imagining what it felt like to be deprived of air—what she felt like. He took a deep breath, filling every empty void in both his lungs, and held it in. When he finally exhaled, the old Brian was back. Filled with remorse. Overwhelmed by silence, in complete disbelief of what was supposed to have happened. If he never woke up, how many pieces would his body have been cut into by now? Would she have started with his arms and then the legs? Would the head come next, leaving only his torso, a limbless slab of meat?

  As he studied the young woman—mid-thirties, short blonde hair, just as much a victim as he was—he noticed a device similar to a square-shaped flashlight sitting on a cart next to the table. He grabbed it and thumbed a switch—a red light shone on his other hand. When the red beam hit his wrist, a computer sitting on the cart came to life. With the device still pointed to his wrist he studied the image of his own face on the monitor. Below the image was listed every detail concerning his body: height, weight, eye color, hair color; and then there were details Brian himself didn’t know: blood type, immunization history, sperm count, cholesterol level, the list went on and on. He was surprised to learn he was slightly colorblind in his right eye. He held his hand over his left eye and scanned the room. “Son of a bitch.”

  He placed the device on the table and studied the triangular-shaped chip embedded into the underside of his wrist. As he moved the chip with his finger, his veins moved with it. You bastards. What else was this chip used for? He scanned it again with the red beam of light and the computer came back on. His entire history appeared on the screen: where he was born, when he joined the National Guard, what his rank was, his mother’s maiden name, his father’s surname. And then as he scrolled down the screen a woman’s face appeared. He touched the monitor. “Shannon.” He almost forgot what she looked like. Was she ever real? It already seemed so long ago—a lifetime. Her voice was right there; as if she were standing beside him. There’s people out there that need you. That’s what you do. You protect people. He glanced at the dead woman lying on the table. The woman he killed. He covered his face with his hand and cried hard in his palm, the scent of the dead women’s neck still lingering on his fingers.

  After crying away some of the guilt, he removed his hand from his face and wiped his eyes. He glanced at a small square window and noticed the sky beginning to brighten over the black ocean. It would be dawn in a few hours. If he was ever to get off this God forsaken island it wou
ld be best to wait just a while longer until it was light enough to navigate the city and find his way to the ocean. Even if he made it to the ocean could he really swim all the way back to the mainland? What other choice was there? He grabbed the scanner off the table and noticed a black bag with a strap, hanging on the back of the door. The material it was made from looked waterproof, which is a must considering the swim ahead of him. After unzipping the bag, he dropped the scanner inside and walked around the room to gather whatever supplies he thought might be useful after he escaped: bandages, bottles of water, surgical tape, penicillin tablets. He wished he could bring the portable computer, if for no other reason than to see Shannon’s face, but it was too damned big for the bag. When the bag was full he zipped it, flung it over his shoulder, and sat next to the entrance door to the room. Now he just had to wait for the sun to rise just enough to show him the way.

  Chapter Seven

  EACH year, to the day, from the time they were birthed to the time they will be harvested sixteen years later, the nutrimen were guided to the examination lab where they underwent a series of physiological and biological tests. Psychological tests weren’t necessary, because their brains held little value to the Power Elite; it was their bodies they desired. Although they were genetically created to be free of all diseases, it was imperative that each nutrimen was tested on a regular basis to ensure the meat they provided to the citizens of Ancada was of the highest quality. If by chance a defective nutrimen was discovered, it was immediately terminated and its body was brought to the crematory to be incinerated.