by Stacey Mac
By the time I guzzle at least half a gallon of water, vomit, drink more water, and return to the fields, the day is starting to close. I decide that my priority should be feeding myself, so I head towards the larger bunker, intending to find at least some grain. I have to resist the urge to flip off the fronter, still lounging on that inconveniently placed fallen tree. He doesn’t look comfortable, despite his efforts to make a pillow out of his backpack.
I’m in luck. There are sacks upon sacks of grain. The chickens have been pecking away at the hessian, but that’s good, too, because they’re alive and fat. I manage to corner one around the back of bunker, and clasp its legs together, hauling the frantic bird upside down. One quick snap, and its’ neck and wings go limp. I hear a pathetic gurgle in the bird’s throat, and for a wayward second, I ponder if a human would make a similar sound if you did the same to him.
The livestock have disappeared, not so mysteriously. It would have taken our fellow grazers two seconds to realise that this farm was empty; its’ animals free for the taking. As much as I’d love to be resentful, I don’t blame them. I would do the same thing. Contributions to be fulfilled, mouths to feed etc. It does present a problem, though. Fronters will be knocking down my door in a week’s time if I don’t make my own contribution, and I doubt some sacks of grain and a few chickens are going to cut it.
Tonight, though, a chicken and some grain will do just fine for me. Like a feast. Hooray for me.
*
Before night has even settled, I have a fire burning more animatedly than the previous night. The chicken is in pieces, roasting on a spoke above the flames. I’ve ground the grain to crumb and added water. I found some yeast stashed away by my mother and I’ll have bread for tomorrow. It isn’t much, but it’s a start. I slump into a chair and stare into the flames, growing tired again. The fire licks the skin of the crudely plucked chicken. I wonder vaguely what the others are doing tonight: Vincent, Mia, Delilah. Are they eating with their remaining family members? Reuniting? Unwillingly, I think of the more painful one: Dean. Did he make it back to Resolute? Is he with his family, too? Funny, I never asked Dean much about his home. I don’t even know who he lives with.
I look around the tiny room nostalgically. There is something about your home being empty that can make you feel more isolated than if you were placed on an island. Oh, I’ve been alone a lot in my life. I’ve even come to enjoy solitude. But being in the place where my family exists, and seeing it emptied – that is where you find true loneliness.
I eat my meal quietly, slowly, worrying that I’ll throw it up. The silence in this place is astounding, and I find myself afraid. Afraid that this might be it – just me, grounding grain and killing chickens and eating early – for the rest of my life.
Luckily, life in Galore is statistically short-lived.
Chapter Twenty-three
There was a time when I was younger (pre-initiation), that Galore was emptier than it is currently. My father was gone, he’d left a month earlier with a campaign of troops. Scarce had recently deployed their people to form a guard across the hills, and Galore was responding as a precaution, so Mum and I were left alone on the farm.
It was an unremarkable time, except for the utter quietness of the place. No fronters belted the door to demand contribution updates, no one was called to the square on Wednesdays. There were so little people to feed in the sector that the contributions we did scrape together were meagre. In short, it was a breeze. It sucked, of course: my dad was gone and we worried, but it was easy; easier than the other times he’d been deployed. My mother and I had a plethora of time to spend together, and actually spent it together. Not planting, not tending, not harvesting, but actually just spending. We did something we had never done, and never did again – we built a small fire in the fields and sat together beside it, staring at the spot in the sky where there were probably stars.
Mum looked over at me at one point, and said: “This is life before the end, Tess. This is what it was like. We could pretend we’re on a vacation - camping together.”
And then I asked her what ‘vacation’ meant, and the spell was broken. My mother’s smile melted away.
This is the same as that time in no way at all. In fact, it is that time’s shitty, overworked opposite. This time, both Mum and Dad are gone, the contribution is expected to be of the same size, despite the decreased population in Galore, and I have no livestock.
Even if I did, there is only so much I can do alone.
I have grain and chickens. That’s it; and not enough of it. Not enough to make up for the lack of meat. My family have come up short on contributions before, but never by this amount, and never without harsh punishment. So, by my calculations, I should be dead by the end of the week, unless I can help it.
This is why I’m walking, again, along the dirt road, daydreaming uselessly about my mother and of considerably better times. When one needs livestock, one must beg their neighbours.
Our closest neighbours were Tilly, Julie and their aunt. Obviously they have not stolen our animals. In the opposite direction, though, lives my new closest neighbours, and also my biggest suspects. Dakota and Vesser are older than my parents. Dakota has one leg and one good eye but is otherwise a nice guy if you remember not to call him a pirate. Vesser is barely getting around. My father built her a frame structure a while back which she uses to support herself as she hobbles about. They might show me some pity, let me have enough of what’s mine, so that I can at least fulfil my quota for the contribution. Two days. I only have two days to work it out.
I arrive at Dakota and Vesser’s home a half hour later. Their concrete house is nestled at the bottom of a small slope that declines from the road. From my vantage point, I can see beyond the house to their paddocks, which seem to be holding a healthy amount of sheep.
Dakota and Vesser do not graze sheep.
Like I said before, the fact that they have stolen my animals doesn’t anger me. The animals wouldn’t be in great condition if they’d been left alone on the farm. Sheep are stupid animals.
If the sheep are here, the goats and cows are, too.
I stride confidently to the door. I’m sure Vesser will show me some mercy. What I’m asking for isn’t too much. They can keep the rest if they want. I can figure out something else for the next contribution, and the next, and the next.
My head aches in time with the pounding of my fist on the door. In the time I have before Vesser swings the door open, I try to rearrange my face into something that reflects diplomacy and helplessness, not necessarily in that order.
Vesser stands before me. ‘Stands’ is perhaps a little generous. The old lady stoops over her frame, her nose parallel with her shoulders. Already, she appears annoyed to have been disturbed. Her crinkly eyes alight with recognition when she realises that I am not a fronter, and her mouth begins to smile, but it quickly falls. I watch carefully, quietly as she struggles with indecision.
“Tessa,’ she says finally, her tone guarded. “It’s nice to see you looking…well.”
“Hello, Vesser,” I say, smiling in what I hope is a pitiful way. “I hope you and Dakota have been…good.” Nice job, wordsmith.
“Yes, well, we’ve been getting on with it.” She pauses uncertainly then, and I wonder if she is about to invite me in. But she looks over her shoulder, and then sighs resignedly, “I suppose you’re here for the sheep?”
“And the rest,” I nod, “and thank you so much for looking after them for us. My father would be appreciative.”
The subtle reminder of my father does not escape Vesser. She doesn’t reply. Her eyes narrow.
“The contribution is due in two days, I was starting to worry that I would fall short. And I would have, had Dakota and you not kept our animals alive.”
Her eyes slip furtively. She looks increasingly uncomfortable.
“I’m sure you have things to get back to, I’ll just go and round up-”
“I can’t give them bac
k to you, Tessa.” Vesser blurts out. Her tone leaks frustration and shame. She won’t look at me, her weary eyes look beyond me instead, perhaps wishing I would just go.
So this is how it is, then. I had worried as much. “Vesser I can’t leave without some of them. You can spare a few, I know you can. I’ll let you keep the rest.”
“I am sorry about this, but we-”
“I need to take five of them, I don’t have nearly enough grain.”
“They were left for the taking-”
“Not by choice.”
“If your father had made arrangements-”
“My father would never leave someone short on their contribution,” I say, slicing her with guilt. “He showed you and Dakota a lot of kindness over the years, Vesser, and-”
“And, we are under no obligation to return it, s’far as I know.” Dakota stands behind me, a rifle slung over his shoulder. His dark eyes piercing.
Anger floods me. It becomes quite transparent that these two are not returning what they’ve stolen, regardless of my desperation, my pleading, my negotiating. I know now that nothing will work. “Dakota, what do expect me to do?” I ask acidly. Who is he to steal from us?
“Not much about me, is it?” He says harshly. He turns his head and spits.
“I’m not leaving here without them.”
“Then we have a problem,” Dakota says, lifting his rifle so that it is pointed at my chest. I hear Vesser close the door behind me.
“If you let me leave here with nothing, you are as good as killing me yourself, so go ahead,” I tell him, lifting my arms. “Shoot.”
He doesn’t shoot. What he does, is lunge towards me, grabbing my arm and the hair on the back of my head. He hauls me up the narrow path, back to the road. I try to fight him off, but each time I buck or try to strike, he twists my arm further behind my back. “Move! Move, girl!”
When we reach the road, a puffing, tangled mess, he extracts himself from me and throws me unceremoniously to the dirt. I taste bitter iron collecting in my mouth, and spit out blood.
Dakota is panting violently. “If I see you try and return, I’ll shoot. No warnings.” He holds up his rifle again, as if I need further reminding.
I stand shakily and wipe the dirt from my eyes. Back at the thief’s house, I see Vesser peering through the curtained windows. She disappears quickly when I spy her. I turn one last time to Dakota. “Fuck you.”
I walk dejectedly back to my empty home with its empty fields and the whole way I wonder what will happen to me now. Tears stream resolutely down to my chin and drip off in rhythm with my steps and I count them as a means of distraction. It doesn’t work, and by the time I’ve arrived home, I’m picturing myself standing before a crowd of my comrades, as I’m blindfolded and wiped from the population.
*
The following morning, I sit at the little kitchen table, eating dry bread. It isn’t my finest work. My mother has this way of making bread perfectly every time. I swear I’ve used the exact same quantities of ingredients, I’ve kneaded the dough and cooked it for the same amount of time, and the loaf has failed to rise properly. The consistency is okay, but it leaves my mouth dessicated and hollow. Still I’m hardly in a position to waste food. In twenty-four hours time, I’ll be expected in the square, and I won’t have enough.
After a sorry night of weeping and despairing I have awoken with a new plan. My last plan, if I’m being realistic. Having said that, it isn’t like grazers have not fallen on hard times before. I’m not going to be the first to beg for an extension, and I won’t be the first to be granted one either.
Extensions, though, are costly. Rumours tell of grazers who handed over their wives for ‘services’ to fronters in exchange for ‘overlooking’ their contribution shortages. I have no clue if these stories are just stories, but it doesn’t make me feel any better about what I am doing today.
I go over the plan again in my head. In my pocket is a hand gun – a 1911 clone my father calls it. It has been hidden in our personal bunker forever. Ritualistically, Dad would retrieve it before each of his deployments. He’d hand it to me, let me turn it over, and tell me what I was to do with it if ever I needed to. “There isn’t a gun in this sector better than this one, Tessa. It doesn’t need any servicing. It’s completely functional. You make sure you tell them that if… if ever you need to.”
In front of me sits the letter I found from my mother, a prompt:
And if not – you know what to do. Be safe.
I choke water down my parched throat and collect my parker.
The square is almost empty when I arrive a couple of hours later. My toes have lost feeling in my boots, and my tongue seems to follow suit the closer I get to headquarters. There are no fronters or any other kind of administrators haunting the steps today. Tomorrow will be a different story. The steps will be heavily guarded, and grazers will queue haphazardly, waiting, sometimes for hours, for the contribution to be checked and collected. The livestock are loaded onto trucks and taken to Merv’s slaughter house. The bags of grain, wool, wheat, vegetables, etc, are later divided and distributed the following Wednesday. Today, ominously, it is only me. The very first Thursday of my life that has not seen me either training or manically preparing our goods to be received. I take a deep breath, digging my toes into my boots to try and quell their aching. My hand slides into my pocket, and I clasp the handgun firmly, finding strength in its cool exterior.
I climb the steps purposefully, telling myself that this will work, that all will be fine. But as it did the whole way to the town square, there is a nagging thought that tells me these people will only trade mercy for one thing. I shiver.
The real doors to this building were probably once glass or something more grandiose. Obviously, those were blasted away years ago. I push open, instead, a heavy wooden door, crudely cut. I feel a splinter pinch the skin between my thumb and forefinger as I do so.
The interior is surprisingly peaceful. I’ve never actually been inside headquarters, I realise with a jolt, and my eyes widen at the marble floor that reflects my surprised expression. Already my boots have muddied it. The room is big, echoing, and full. Fronters and council members walk purposefully to and fro, holding files and boxes and serious expressions. I wonder suddenly, if I shouldn’t just back away now, before someone sees me.
Before I can decide, a voice commands my attention, and I react out of muscle memory.
“Attention!”
I straighten automatically. My hand leaves the gun’s reassuring purchase and slips quickly to my side.
The fronter before me sits at a comically small desk. It must have been a child’s once. He grins pleasingly at me, as though he still gets a thrill out of bossing inferiors around, and then gestures for me to relax.
I approach this man cautiously. I know him. He is perhaps a year or two older than me. I recognise his severely sloped nose as that of an initiate a few years ago. His name, I now recall, is Fredrich.
“UIC?” Fredrich asks, the sinister smile lingering. I pass over my identification, waiting silently, determined now. “Well, grazer, you’re a day early. What can I help you with?”
I stand taller. You have to, I tell myself. I take a breath in, “My parents have both been deployed on Mission Retrieve-”
“Them and everyone else, yes,” he says dismissively.
I raise my eyebrows at him. “Not everyone, it would seem.”
Fredrich frowns then, “Don’t be smart, grazer. What do you want?”
“My livestock have been stolen,” I tell him. “I’m alone, I don’t have enough left to harvest even for one week’s contribution, let alone next week’s. I need more time.” I finish lamely. I suddenly feel like one of the orphan children that beg in the town square. I am ashamed of myself. My face heats.
That creepy smile returns again to Fredrich’s face, “You need an extension?” He asks, expectant.
“Yes,” I reach into my pocket and take out the gun.
> And if not – you know what to do. Be safe.
Carefully, I lift my hand, and place it on the desk in front of him. “In exchange for this,” I say, quietly this time. “It’s a 1911 clone. My father found it and kept it shortly after Galore was founded.”
“Did he?” Fredrich says, eyebrows raised.
A small flicker of hope catches in my chest at his interest. I hurry on. “Yes. It is fully serviceable, it requires no maintenance-”
“Grazer, let me stop you there. I can promise you, that Galore does not need your gun-”
“It’s the best handgun available. Bull’s eye accuracy to fifty yards, four-point-five pound trigger pull-”
“I said stop.” Fredrich barks. “We don’t want your gun. We want your harvest. I don’t care if your Daddy’s gun can grow arms and choke the life out of those Scarce bastards.”
“Please,” I say, begging now. “It’s the only thing I have to trade. I can pay interest in the next contribution, whatever it takes.”
“Whatever it takes, huh?”
“Yes,” I hiss.
“Well, now that you mention it, there is something else you can trade.” As he says it, his eyes travel from my mouth to my chest, and all the way down to my hips. “It depends on how you show your gratitude.”
My stomach sickens, immediately. I’d feared this. I fear it because I now have to consider it, detestable as it may be. That’s the thing about impending doom, it can change the moralistic foundation of who you are. It contorts your basic principles until there is not something you wouldn’t do for survival. I make myself imagine it, Fredrich or some other unwanted skin against my skin, their breath on my neck, their hands on me. Every part of me cringes. Even if I see my parents again, will I ever be able to look them in the eye? Having sold a part of myself?
Probably a hundred women have stood here before me. A hundred women who would offer themselves up to this breed of scum. Before today, I might have called them weak, disgraced even. Now, however, in their place, I understand the choice they made of such putrid options.