by Joe Peacock
me. But basically, we’re a group of patriots who believe that the United American State has lost its path. We are individuals who believe in sovereign citizenship. Hence the name, Sovereign."
"Sovereign citizenship?" Marlowe asked. "What the fuck does that mean?"
"We don't answer to Imagen, or their puppet-president Cook," Poet said. "We want to grow our own food...make our own products. Run our own lives. We want to return America to its core principles, the way the Founding Fathers intended."
"Huh..." Marlowe said. "What's it got to do with me? I'm a soldier, not a farmer. How the hell am I supposed to help you grow your own food?"
"You're a celebrity. You're highly respected by tens of millions of people. With you, they will listen to us. They will hear our message."
"So you want to use me as some figurehead for your idealistic bullshit movement? No fucking thanks. I'd rather be in prison."
"No, that's not..." Poet said. He sighed. "Look, I'm not any good at this. The Judge will explain it better when we rendezvous with him. I think it might resonate with you."
Before Marlowe could retort, Jacobs approached from behind them. He crouched down and gave a hearty thumbs up. "All clear," he said.
"Fine, let's move. Poet, you get us in that shed. Follow the tree line and loop back; approach from the South. Jacobs, cover him."
Poet adopted a low stance and sprinted to the utility shed with Jacobs watching from the tree line and Angel keeping an eye out from on high. While the evaporation plant itself was modern in every sense, the stand-alone utility building was decidedly low-tech.
There had been a tremendous investment by Imagen Corporation to modernize utilities in the United American State to accommodate for the conditions of the time. Potable water, atmosphere generation, and power required significant technological investment and security. However, the buildings that held wrenches, hammers, spanners, and screwdrivers required only concrete walls and steel doors, safeguarded by old manual deadbolts and padlocks. After all, terrorists rarely attacked tool sheds, and there wasn't much of a market for hand-held tools in a society that didn't need them.
It took Poet longer to run to the door than to pick the two padlocks and deadbolt that secured it. The smell of ozone and old wood and shaved metal seeped from the cracked-open door as he slowly pulled it open. He slipped inside and performed a quick but thorough scouting of the small building's interior. Satisfied that it was secured, he hung his head out of the door and gave the signal to move in.
Jacobs helped Marlowe to her feet. He placed his hand on her shoulder and crouched down.
"What are you doing?!?" Marlowe asked as he leaned into her.
"It's going to be way faster if I carry you," he replied. "Hold still."
"You won't make it twenty yards," she protested, trying her best to resist being carried. It was no use. He laid her across his shoulders and strained as he attempted to stand.
"Wow, how much do you weigh?!?" He gasped as he finally struggled out of his squat.
"Don't you know it's impolite to ask a lady that question?"
"Is it impolite to ask what this lady has been eating? Because it feels like you've got two hundred pounds of lead in your belly."
"Metal muscles aren't light," said Marlowe. "And these shackles don't help much, either. Put me down. We're walking."
"Not a chance," He replied. "We've got a hundred yards of open terrain to cover, and you're slow. Trust me, I got this."
Jacobs began jogging as quickly as he could, which wasn't very fast at all. But his ego drove him step by step across the open field to the utility house. Marlowe would have been impressed if she wasn't so exasperated by the situation. She didn't like feeling helpless, and she liked actually being helpless even less. Still, with her head and feet bobbing across his shoulders with each stride they took, she couldn't help but laugh to herself. Thinking back to her professional football days, this was without question the slowest she'd ever covered the length of a football field.
Nearly a minute later, they reached the building. "Okay, what have we got?" Marlowe asked as soon as she and Jacobs entered the doorway.
"Three rooms, all clear," Poet responded. "No windows, no cameras, so we're blind. There are tools and equipment, and a cot in one of the back rooms. Someone sleeps here."
"Great," Marlowe said. "Not optimal...but it's what we got. We'll need to keep our eyes open. I'd prefer some camera coverage, but we can manage for now. Jacobs..."
"Huh?" He said through his gasps and wheezes.
"...Put me down?"
"Oh...yeah, sorry..." He responded, lowering her gently and placing her on her feet.
"What's our tool situation?" She asked. "Anything we can use to get these damn shackles off?"
Poet scanned the room. "There's a lot here, but I'm not sure how much of it is useful...hammers, vice grips, a shovel. Maybe we can whack them off with this?" He said, holding up a huge pipe wrench.
"Pretty sure none of that is useful," Marlowe said.
"Look there," Jacobs said through his panting. "In the corner. Looks like a torch...maybe we can cut through the cuffs?"
Jacobs shuffled over to the torch and lifted the nozzle, examining it. He twisted the regulator knob and looked puzzled as nothing happened. Poet came over and tapped on the tanks holding the oxygen and acetylene.
"Ah, yeah that's right," Jacobs said. As he reached out to open the valve on one of the tanks, he was interrupted by a noise outside.
He lifted his fist, signaling to the other soldiers to hold their positions and remain silent. The sound of tires on gravel grew louder.
Poet ducked behind the edge of the workbench. Jacobs grabbed Marlowe and shuffled her to the left side of the door to obscure her. He then took cover on the opposite side. The engine stopped running. A small clicking sound could be heard, followed by the creak of a rusty door. It slammed shut with a thud.
Boots crunched on gravel, getting louder as someone approached. Jacobs caught sight of a hammer on the workbench just beside him. He grabbed it and wielded it just above his head.
"What the..." A man's voice grunted from the other side of the door.
Silence. Then the sound of whispering.
The doorknob twisted. The door swung open. A silhouette spilled across the floor from the lights outside. No one entered.
"He's secured," Angel called in from the doorway. "We're coming in."
Jacobs lowered his hammer halfway and Poet rose from behind the workbench as an elderly man walked through the door with his hands up; the muzzle of a long-barrel rifle was being pushed into the back of his head. Angel followed behind.
"He's alone," she said. "No one else in the vicinity."
"Who are you?" Marlowe demanded as she shuffled forward from behind the door.
"I would ask you the same thing," the man replied. "Except, I know who you are. Been watching you for years. Question is, what the hell are you doing in my tool shed?"
"If you know who I am, then you know why we're here," she replied. "Now, who are you?"
"William Rudd," he said, extending his hand. "Pleasure."
Angel pushed the barrel of her rifle against the back of William's head as Jacobs and Poet both tensed.
"Stand down!" Marlowe ordered. The squad reluctantly complied.
"Nice to meet you, William," Marlowe said, attempting to keep the situation calm. She extended her shackled hands as far as they would go, which wasn’t far at all. "We're fugitives from the law, and we're going to have to commandeer your tool house here."
William lowered his hand to hers and shook it. "Well, if you're gonna shoot me, I'd ask that you do it outside. I like to keep a tidy workshop."
"Let's not let it come to that. But we are going to have to secure you."
Marlowe nodded to Jacobs, who grabbed William and pushed him toward a chair. "Sit," he demanded.
"You don't gotta push, son," he
answered as he took a seat. ”I know how to sit in a chair, and I don’t like being shot all that much.”
Poet threw a roll of duct tape to Jacobs, who used it to bind William's wrists and ankles. He looped a few bands of tape around his torso to the back of the chair, and grabbed a small rag on a desk beside them to gag the old man.
"Aww man, not my snot rag," William said just before Jacobs stuffed it in his mouth.
Angel held her rifle on the old man as Jacobs went back to work trying to get the torch lit. Marlowe sighed, lamenting the fact that all of her training and life experience had come down to a moment where her freedom and survival depended on stuffing a poor old man's snot back into his mouth.
Jacobs opened the valve on one tank as far as it would go. A pungent aroma filled the air as acetylene gas hissed from the nozzle of the torch. Poet grabbed the flint striker from the side of the tanks and sparked it a few times, secretly delighting in the shimmering sparkles that poured from the sides. He handed it to Jacobs, who began trying to light the potent gas hissing from the nozzle.
Nothing.
"Come on, Jacobs," Poet said. "Can't you figure out a simple torch?"
"I'm not a damn engineer!"