The Designate

by J B Cantwell

  “Yes. Of course that’s what you think now.”

  “It’s true,” he said, frowning. “And it’s where you belong, too. You’ve learned about the enemy we all face just as much as I have. Hasn’t that been enough to convince you? Hasn’t them killing off your crew convinced you?”

  I didn’t answer, just stared into his bloodshot eyes.

  It was war, and there wasn’t much to do about that. I didn’t feel one way or another about what the Fighters did. It was the people close to me that I cared about, it was the way they had changed that had driven me farther from our cause. Even driven me toward not caring about anything but getting out. Not even the money mattered anymore.

  But I had learned about myself in the past few days that I could lead; I could lead a team of men and women. They listened to me. They followed my orders. And as scared as I had been to do it, I had made vital decisions that got my team out of the city, away from the threat of the Fighters and their bullets and their bombs.

  “I don’t want anything to happen to you,” I said.

  “Have you seen me lately? I think I’ll be alright.”

  “Not if the next person in charge decides to leave you behind. You were ready to die, to leave—”

  “I was doing my duty,” he said. “And you should, too.”

  “Yeah,” I lied. “You’re right.”

  There was going to be no talking to him, no way to convince him. Not now. Maybe not ever.

  “Riley,” he said.

  I turned away and he caught my arm in his hand.

  “We’ll both get out,” he said. “You’ll see. And then it’ll be like we always thought. We’ll have the money. We’ll have the freedom. Isn’t that what you wanted all along?”

  It had been what I had wanted. But that seemed like a long time ago now.

  “Yeah,” I lied again.

  In the distance, the sound of helicopter blades whirred.

  “Listen,” he said. “I don’t know when I’ll see you again. If they send me somewhere else, then it might be a while.”

  I stared back down at his face, made monstrous by the very Service he seemed so devoted to.

  “But we’ll make it,” he said. “We both will. You have to believe me.”

  I wanted to. I really did.

  The helicopter was landing now. I only had moments.

  “We’ll make it,” I said.

  I bent over, staring into his eyes the whole time, and kissed him, his face surprised. Then, when I started to pull away, he held my head and kissed me back. It was different than in the tunnel. It made my heart flip over, and when he let me go, I felt dizzy.

  In moments they were upon us. I stood up to get out of the way while six soldiers picked up the bed he was on and moved toward the landing area.

  He stared back at me the whole time, his eyes glued to mine, and in that moment I knew I might never see him again. His stare made me blush almost as much as the kiss had. When they loaded him up, he turned back again, taking one last look. I raised one hand, one last gesture of goodbye, before they slid the door closed.

  That night, after I’d eaten and showered, I went to bed early, not caring about talking anymore, or ever again, to Hannah. Now the only people who knew me at all were Mark and Rachel, and even them just barely.

  Alex was gone. Hannah was gone. Lydia soon would be. The pride I had felt earlier was gone, too. I had proven to myself that I could lead. But now that seemed like nothing to be proud of. Tomorrow would be the end of Lydia, and there was nothing my leadership could do to stop it.

  But I should have known, did know, that her secrets would catch up with her. And now, with just me left, maybe they would catch up with me, too.

  One by one, soldiers filtered into the bunk area. I feigned sleep, not wanting to talk anymore.

  But they persisted.

  “Riley,” someone whispered from nearby.

  I ignored them.

  “Riley,” she said again.

  I opened my eyes and found Rachel staring at me. She sat down on the cold cement floor on the side of my bed.

  “Leave me alone,” I groaned. “I was asleep.” I closed my eyes again.

  “Oh,” she said. “Sorry.”

  She went quiet for a moment.

  Then, “Are they really going to kill her?”

  I sighed and opened my eyes again. Her face was shrouded with worry.

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  She sat back against the bunk behind her, hugging her legs so tight to her chest it looked like she was trying to shield herself from attack.

  Neither of us spoke for a while. I contemplated pretending to sleep again, but I knew it was no use to actually try.

  She got up and crawled into the cot next to mine, drawing the covers all the way up to her chin.

  “I wonder how they’ll do it,” she finally said. “Have you ever seen anyone, you know, executed?”

  Shots rang out in my memory. Trees and ropes and the barrel of a gun pointed at my head.

  “No,” I said. “I’ve heard it happen, though. Only from a distance.

  “I hope they don’t make us watch,” she said.

  I rolled over, done talking, but my eyes stayed open. Across the room, Hannah was undressing for bed, as unabashed as ever.

  I was willing to bet she was hoping she could watch.

  All night long it was the same. I might’ve slept, but I couldn’t remember it. If I’d had dreams, they had mirrored my reality, a living nightmare of terrible things to come.

  But time didn’t stop. The clock kept ticking. Ticking down the moments that Lydia had left in this life.

  Dawn broke. I got up. Dressed. Took a few tentative sips of water. That was all my boiling stomach could handle. Others went to chow, but I stayed behind. They eventually started to filter back in, packing their bags, checking their weapons.

  I was ready before all of them, sitting on my perfectly made bed, waiting.

  Eventually, Carter lumbered in.

  “Attention!” he called.

  They all leapt up and moved to the front of their beds, ready. I slowly followed suit.

  “Five prisoners,” he said. “And I need three for each of them. If you’re on this list, stay behind. The rest of you can go relieve the night soldiers.

  He began.

  “Jensen. Olsen. Jacobs. Brown. Taylor …”

  Taylor. Taylor. Taylor. My own name rang through my head, blocking out every other sound.

  “Taylor,” he said again. His voice sounded so far away. Was it my imagination? “Taylor!”

  I startled, feeling like someone had just splashed my face with cold water.

  “Yes … Sir,” I said, hesitant.

  “Your’e on the team, Taylor. Get over here.”

  My feet moved automatically in his direction.

  “We will be executing the prisoners this morning, as you know. The decided method will be death by firing squad. Three of you to each one of them.”

  He walked down the line, handing us guns that were designated for each prisoner.

  “Two of each team will shoot blanks. One will have live fire.”

  I took the gun as he handed it to me. Was all this meant to make us feel better? To give us the hope that we hadn’t been the one to kill our targets? That only one of us needed to feel the guilt?

  “Now fall out!”

  He led the group to the hangar doorway. I hung back, unable to move.

  “Move it, Pink,” Hannah said, giving me a shove in Carter’s direction.

  She had been on the list, too. She looked excited.

  I stopped and turned, shoving her back. “My name is Riley.”

  I somehow woke up, then. I turned and followed the others, ignoring Hannah’s laughter behind me. I passed Mark, then Rachel, neither of them picked for this particularly grim task. The look Rachel wore mirrored the feeling I had in my gut.

  But I went on. It was my duty now. My dirty, disgusting duty.

&nb
sp; The morning air was crisp, and the fighting had not yet begun between sides. We lined up while Carter split us into groups of three. I found myself with two male soldiers I didn’t know. I got my weapon ready with shaking hands. I meant to nod at them, to somehow let them know that I was okay. That I would follow through.

  Then, the prisoners were brought out. Four male, one female. They lined up, backs to us, their heads covered with burlap bags.

  The one, the woman, Lydia, was our assignment.

  Lydia. The Orange. The informant. The ally.

  We were directed to get down and aim over several hay bales set up for target practice. I was glad for the stability the hay bales gave. My whole body shook now. I felt like throwing up.

  It was too soon. Everything was happening too fast. One minute she was there, and any moment now she would be gone, just another casualty, part of the eighty percent that didn’t make it out.

  “Prisoners!” Carter shouted. “The crimes you have been found guilty of have resulted in a sentence of death.”

  That was it. That was all he said. I looked at Lydia’s back. She stood tall and proud while the others shook with fear. She knew what the stakes had been. And she had known all along that, to her, the risk was worth it. She had never been in the Service for money or for a change of designation. She was here to spy, to take back her information to the others in the resistance. I wondered if she had even committed the crime that had originally brought her into the Service as a Red on purpose. Maybe this had been her plan all along. Their plan.

  “Ready!” shouted Carter.

  No, I’m not ready.

  My hands shook with fear.

  “Aim!”

  Not ready to be a murderer.

  “Fire!”

  The sound of fourteen guns unleashing their terror against the world, against these people. People who deserved better.

  The sound echoed off the wall of the building behind us, pushed its way out into the forest that surrounded the pipeline.

  Fourteen shots. Four bodies hit the ground, killed instantly with shots to the head. Only one person still stood.

  Lydia.

  She had heard those on either side of her fall to the ground. She was clenching her fists now, waiting. What a terrible wait.

  Carter strode quickly to my group.

  “Who here didn’t fire?” he asked.

  Both men let him feel the heat of their guns, spoke in words I couldn’t hear above the ringing in my ears.

  “Taylor!” Carter yelled. “Taylor, fire!”

  I can’t.

  “I can’t,” I whispered.

  She knew that it was me. She knew I was the only one left. The only one with a live round in my gun.

  “You can and you will,” he said.

  “No,” I said, barely able to speak now.

  “Yes,” he hissed.

  Carter pulled out a pistol and pointed it to my head, the edge of it poking at my skull.

  “You will,” he said.

  It would only be another moment now. I could die with my conscience clear.

  The only other option was unfathomable.

  Murderer.

  “Ready,” he said.

  I would join her resistance. Somehow I would find them.

  “Aim.”

  I aimed, tears I hadn’t even realized I’d had, running down my face.

  “Fire.”

  I took one last look at the woman, the girl, I had known. I would avenge her.

  He cocked the gun, a loud click I felt more than heard.

  And I fired.

  <<<<< >>>>>

  Visit www.jbcantwell.com to join the J. B. Cantwell mailing list and receive the collection of Aster Wood: The Lost Tales short stories for free! Sign up today!

  Turn the page to read an excerpt from The Volunteer (Lens Book 2).

  The Volunteer Excerpt

  I was done.

  I had survived. My first year in the Service was officially over.

  I pulled at my t-shirt as I walked, not used to the feeling of fine cotton against my skin. The fabric of the shirt was baby soft, the jeans stretchy and hugging my form. I had left my fatigues back at the barracks, and while it was frowned upon for soldiers to walk the streets in civilian clothing, I couldn’t resist spending the bulk of my first year’s vacation stipend on something new, something secret. Like a camouflaged hunter on the chase after her prey. Only I didn’t know what the prey was or where it was hiding.

  They’d given me two thousand credits, just enough for me to catch a train to just about anywhere. But I didn’t dare. I knew now that I would be tracked, that my freedoms on these little visits home would be limited. And I didn’t know where I would be shipped off to next. I had a week to get my bearings, to see my friends and family, to get ready for the next assignment.

  But I had no friends or family left. Lydia was gone, dead at my hands. Hannah had proven herself a traitor.

  And Alex. Lost. Sucked into the machine that was our military. Barely able to recognize me, much less remember the friendship we’d shared for years.

  The thought of where I would end up next, alone, twisted my stomach into knots.

  I walked on.

  The only things I had brought with me from the temporary base in the city were my combat boots. They wouldn’t be noticed, and I hadn’t had enough to buy new shoes, anyway.

  I tried not to look around too much as I walked up Broadway, the Manhattan Wall slowly closing in on either side on my way uptown, making the broad street feel impossibly narrow. The sidewalk was lined with police, just like the first time I’d come into the city on my own. But back then, I was just a kid with a birthday escape plan, a birthday wish from a broken life.

  Now, the parts of my body that had been broken were healed. But that didn’t account for my mind, my memories. The feeling of the gun in my hands, finger on the trigger. The sound of a revolver being cocked against my skull.

  Boom.

  I walked briskly up and through Times Square, a great shopping mecca for those few who could still afford the luxuries it had to offer. From every side came voices of AI software, reading chips and greeting potential customers as they walked by.

  “Riley Taylor!” shouted one system of a high end clothing store as I rushed past. “So happy to see you’ve survived your first year!”

  Immediately several images of high fashion pants and blouses scrolled across the huge viewscreen at the entrance to the store.

  “Come on in and see what we can offer you within your vacation budget!”

  Similar advertisements echoed through the square as casual shoppers and busy workers on their way to their jobs mingled on the sidewalks.

  I ducked my head and passed the store by.

  I understood now how the resistance had chosen their place to meet. In such a busy part of the city, one girl might not be noticed if she were to slip away.

  On the part of Broadway where the Manhattan Wall began to close in, there was an opening on the west side. With a quick glance around, I slipped down a skinny, dark alleyway between two buildings at 47th Street, the great wall looming up above my head just a block away.

  There was barely enough room for me to get through the crevice that separated the buildings on either side, and it was dark, the bricks just barely visible on the walls that surrounded me. I twisted my body so that I was walking sideways, my frame just thin enough to make it through the opening. My breathing came quick and fast as the passageway narrowed.

  Don’t freak out. Just breathe.

  The tall buildings loomed above, so high I could barely see the sky. I turned and looked back in the direction I had come. Back on Broadway it was late morning, the sun shining high up over the city. Those who served the Manhattan elites were bustling toward work, and I remained unnoticed.

  As I finally emerged onto 8th Avenue, I saw it. A small diner stood on the corner opposite the alley. It had to be the place. There was nowhere else back here that showed any
signs of life. In fact, there was nothing else back here at all. I wondered how they were able to legally operate. While the police force was low on this hidden city block, there was still no reason for patrons to enter the tiny restaurant, not with the entirety of Manhattan just a block over. At least, I could think of no one else who had a reason to go.

  Except me.

  I crossed the empty street and looked up at the sign.

  Diner

  “We-e-lco-me, Ril-ey Tler.”

  The lens recognition software in front of the restaurant was on the fritz. Aside from that single, stilted voice, there was no other noise. No other businesses were back behind the dark alley, just like there were no other people.

  I pushed open the door, and tiny chimes rang against the top edge. I froze, not wanting to make a sound, not wanting to give away any secrets that might be hiding within this place. But all eyes turned, and as the tinkling chimes quieted, I was greeted with a tense silence.

  My chip had been opened up, back to normal for this week only. When I was actively serving, I couldn’t see color designations. But now the world was in full color again.

  Ashley Myers

  Designation: Orange

  Jim Hartland

  Designation: Orange

  And behind the counter,

  Peter Jameson

  Designation: Prime

  My gaze fell upon one man, though, who didn’t have a designation at all, or even a name displaying in my lens.

  I paused, staring around, feeling jittery. The smell of stale coffee accosted my senses. I wondered how long it had been left on the burner. Overnight, maybe.

  Where did these people get the money to eat out?

  Was I in the right place?

  What was this guy without the designation doing here?

  Forget that; what was I doing here?

  The man behind the counter was huge, much larger than any normal man. I shuddered as I recognized the large stature, the bulging skin of someone chemically altered by the military.

  He took up his rag, cleaning a place for me on the counter at the bar.