by Poss, Bryant
“Don’t let her hear you call it that,” Cillian said turning. “Luck will get you to the school.”
“I believe it,” Ben replied, putting Luck in the front pocket of his pants then he turned and walked in the opposite direction.
. . .
His back hurt worse than any other time in his life, and it wasn’t even as bad as his hips. Twenty-nine years old, and this is what it must feel like to be seventy after a career in coal mining. Up and down in and out of the backs of trucks, smashing through doors, picking up goods, running them back to the trucks over and over and over. When he wasn’t on runs, he was repairing the National Guard armory, the fences, the grounds, the defenses of the windows. Ever sense he’d been captured he’d not slept more than three hours a night, but not because he couldn’t sleep. They wouldn’t let him. Nearly every run involved skirmishes with pokies, bad ones were running from a spazzo. His body had zero opportunity to recuperate from the toils of his slavery. And that’s exactly what it was. He was worked to near death and beaten if he couldn’t keep up. Every chance that came his way, he took to escape, but it never seemed possible, not until what just happened at the truck. It could only be fate that brought him back into contact with a link to Lotus. That’s what this had to be. He smiled again at his current situation, but after the boy was out of sight, he sat himself down in the leaves once again and took the opportunity to stretch and try to rest his aching body.
Lying on his back, the soreness seemed to disperse itself throughout his body equally, which made it more bearable. It was now that he could finally gather his thoughts, but not the thoughts he’d grown accustomed to over the past weeks, thoughts always flavored with a hint of anxiety over how to escape, how to get back to her. Now he could think freely, unhindered thoughts without the stifling environment of concrete, of gun oil, of shouted orders and blows to the back and legs. He risked closing his eyes and listening to the sound of the wind in the leaves, the smell of the humus, the world he’d grown up in but had all but forgotten since it had gone to hell, and even more so since his incarceration. Time like this was necessary he realized, especially now. It wasn’t just important to survive, living was pivotal. He had to remember to live, where he was in the moment. Inside the armory, he’d learned to lie back during the brief times he’d had the opportunity, to lie back and remember where he was, inside the concrete room. Then he took himself out through his mind, with meticulous focus, outside the room to the building from above to the block then the city and the county. He continued to the state and the country and the outline of the continent to the spheroid on which he floated with the rest of those who lived and those who didn’t. Once far enough away, between the sun and the blue marble, the vacuum of the void between would fill his ears, and he would sit there looking at the planet, remembering where he was on the blue dot, so insignificant yet so profound in all that it offered. It was a speck, true enough, but how much more it was than everything around it, or perhaps it was nothing at all just like the rest. It was difficult to maintain such a clear picture in the mind’s eye, to leave the body and witness it in first person, but he had gotten quite good with all his effort. Of course, as he now realized, it was tougher to maintain the image realistically with the background of the free world playing in his ears, but he still held it. Not until the rustle of leaves from something obviously bigger than a squirrel did he open his eyes and look around. As his consciousness sucked back in at lightning speed in the reverse order at which he’d taken it, his eyes focused on the feet of the poky that shuffled aimlessly around fifty feet from where he lay. He watched it for a while, not worried because of the slowness of it, and he wondered if it were capable of any thought or if it were nothing more than a blank slate with no cognition, waiting for anything to cross its line of sight or smell to hit its nose to send it into only enough consciousness to obtain what it wanted, just something to eat. Ben thought this was probably the case.
There were several more pokies in the woods, but they were easily avoidable. Clutching the handle of his kitchen knife with each spotting, he easily moved fifty feet or so away from the pokies and continued on, attracting no attention in the process. If there was one thing he’d known for sure, it was that pokies didn’t seem to instinctively flock, but when they did gather into groups because of equal interest in the same stimulus, they posed a far greater problem than when they were on their own. Given that they didn’t seem to gather as a means to survive or coordinate their efforts showed him that they were not very adaptable. Thinking more about it now, Ben realized that they only attracted each other as far as their movement attracted them, but when they saw it was one of their own kind they stopped and waited for something else, which is how they ended up together. There was no instinct involved, just bad luck for everyone else. The familiar sound of the truck grabbed his attention and batted away these thoughts.
He watched the diesel truck clunk past on the road, counting two in the cab, but it was difficult to tell which two. Following the same path as the truck, Ben stuck to the woods, listening intently to any shuffling that may be caused by something other than his own feet. At the open area of the concrete processing plant that was not half a mile from the armory, he stood at the treeline scouting the area carefully for any immunes or spazzos. To go around the area would take too much time. He could cut through the plant in ten minutes without having to navigate through undergrowth and stop for every sound in the woods. Looking up at the sun, he knew he needed to get moving, especially since he wanted to have the armory in sight to see how many left to go out looking for him.
Satisfied with the lack of movement, he reached down to retie his loose boot string and began walking through the warehouses and sheds of the concrete plant. The ground was hard, packed gravel that stretched for a couple hundred yards in every direction. The familiar sound of boots on rocks, always reminding him of walking up his driveway as a kid, filled his ears. Every few seconds the sound of a loose flap of metal roofing came on the wind. A scraper and two backhoes sat out in the elements, where they’d rust to the color of the earth—Ben couldn’t help but think of the waste—and tall structures that were used in concrete processing towered over everything, but the area was mostly open.
Singing of the bending metal echoed through the air with every slight gust, giving the place the feel of some 80s horror movie. There must be pieces rubbing together in more than one place in all this tin. Gravel crunching under every footstep, pants rubbing together, teeth tapping in his head, metal scraping, metal bending, no sound went unnoticed, he was cognizant of everything. The pop pop pop of a diesel engine somewhere ahead, barely audible but there. The soldiers were about to go look for him. Either they were going to look for him or to help the others, but many were about to go. If he was going to get into the supply room and get the medicine, there was no better time to do it.
The spazzo was at the edge of what used to serve as the offices for this concrete manufacturing plant, a double-wide mobile home with a wooden porch that faced a gravel parking lot, a driveway that led to the road, a backhoe on the other side. Ben could tell it was a spazzo and not a poky from the way it moved, it’s motions fluid and quick, like a bird, seemingly every joint moving in conjunction, its waist, shoulders, and neck each moving one way when another was moved in a different direction. Its back was turned, but its nose was up, and Ben knew he couldn’t stand here and wait for it to move along. For all he knew, it had been standing like that for five minutes or all day, waiting for stimulus, waiting for him to come across this open lot. Maintaining his cadence so as to draw as little attention as possible from the surroundings, Ben kept looking forward, making his way to the treeline, glancing at the spazzo with every other step. Once out of sight, he let out the breath he realized he’d been holding since he saw the thing a full two minutes ago. After that, the woods gave him cover.
The armory was built into a hill, a low brick building with the look of an old monastery in the feudal days o
f knights’ protection. The faded bricks and aging shingles showed it to be at the point of needing some restoration, but that wouldn’t happen now and most likely not ever. Like every one of these buildings in most towns across the country, a relic could be found out front. In this case an M101A1 howitzer. This was a small piece of artillery, no more than five thousand pounds that fired a 105-mm shell. Ben had seen it many times in the high grass of the armory’s yard. It was nothing more than a relic, a piece of history dating back to the second World War that gave passersby something to look at, tourists something to touch. So familiar had it become to those at the building, it was hardly given another thought, but Ben noticed it now. He noticed it because it no longer sat in the grass growing around it, molding itself to the earth to become part of it, nothing more than a mound, a hill consumed by the organisms around it. No, he noticed it now because it rested several feet back from its original position, one dry rotted tire replaced, the other in the midst, and the grass around it had been cleared away. One of the diesel trucks, the smaller ones that carried no more than half a dozen, was backed to the hitch of the howitzer, and it didn’t take Ben long to realize what had been done very recently, since they’d left that morning. He didn’t know where the ammunition came from, or if they had any at all, but he had obviously ordered it to be made mobile. The self-proclaimed Marshal. Marshal, that was his name as far as anyone knew Now, but Ben knew who he really was. So many times, the gun oil introduced his smell as he came into the room to kick Ben awake. So many times, he’d given him many details to complete. No time for that now. Ben just looked at the howitzer, wondering what in God’s name they would use it on then he moved around, following the houses on this side of the road to where the fence was easiest to climb over. There wasn’t a soul in sight, and whatever fear Ben thought he’d have at being at this place as a free man didn’t come. This was the only choice he had now. He had to get in there for Lo.
15
What to do about the radio. Figuring how long it had taken to get to the armory, Ben knew either Cillian was at the school or something may have happened. Pressing in the earpiece, he turned the volume up a little.
“Cillian, you there yet?” A minute ticked by. Another minute. “Cillian, I don’t read you. If you can hear me, I’m taking off the radio while I do this. Don’t want to risk anyone else getting it.” The radio and earpiece fit snug in a hole at the base of the oak where he knelt. He knew this area. Even in the dark he was sure this spot could be easily found. No need risking these guys getting their hands on the walkie and using it to trick Cillian and the others into thinking it was him and give them their location, or just giving them the knowledge that he was talking to anyone else.
Ben stayed in the trees, walking the length of the building, watching windows, watching everything, not entirely unlike a poky with stimulus. No sentry in the back. Looks like Marshal spared every man possible to go back looking for him. Nice to feel appreciated, he smiled and made his way to the fence in the back. This particular chain link fence was in need of repair much like the rest of the building. Secure only at the posts, it was easy enough to bend the bottom of the wire up to slide underneath. The metal of the fence the only thing making the slightest noise, he lay on his back a moment after clearing the obstacle, listening to his surroundings. It’s like the place was deserted. He knew better.
The grass around the compound was matted to the ground because of all the traffic, and it made him feel even more exposed. Crouching low, Ben made his way to the back of the building to the corner where the concrete steps descended into the earth and the basement level of the armory. Kind of like a stairway to hell. This was the least visible way inside, and Ben knew before opening the unlocked door (since pokies and spazzos couldn’t open doors it was pointless to lock them during the day not to mention time consuming) he was going to have to walk past the incarcerated.
The hum of fluorescent lights and the smell of dust mixed with body odor, a wave of nausea hit him after he shut the door. It wasn’t the smell, it was the knowing that he had made it out, that he didn’t have to be here, but here he was. Continuing to crouch, he poked his head around the short concrete wall that separated the door from the open area of the basement. To the right, the walls were lined with guns they had confiscated from stores, the jail, homes, everywhere they could think to get them. There were flak jackets, riot gear from the prison, batons, knives, swords, basically anything Marshal deemed useful. That was the order of every day: find and horde. Everybody else in the world, those who lived with functioning brains, could rot for all he cared. Ammunition boxes were stacked on the floor in front of all this, and Ben made his way over, grabbed one of the hanging duffel bags, and began stuffing handguns with ammo. Two .40 caliber Sig Sauers, two Glock 9mm, and two boxes of ammo for each. Moving as swiftly and silently as possible, he made his way through the doorway that led to the next section of the basement, entering the room with his finger to his lips in a shushing gesture.
There were a few scattered gasps then moans, but he tapped his finger to his lips repeatedly getting the children to keep quiet, and many nodded at him as he approached the gates. Cells had been built down here using cinder blocks mixed with readymade concrete and chain link fence separating the cells. There were five, each with gates made of crudely welded pipe and fence, locked on the outside with key padlocks, thick ones. Ben smiled and looked at the children, six altogether, separated among the cells. Two girls were in the cell closest to the outer wall. There was only one boy. About Cillian’s age, this boy had peanut butter skin and loosely curled hair. His yellow gold eyes were piercing, a bright, light green. Slayton was taken from home where he had been hiding for three days in a locked bathroom after the world went to hell. Both his parents were roaming the house looking for stimulus. He could hear them knocking over lamps, scraping at walls, sliding feet on the floor. Ben knew his whole story. He knew them all. Bailey, Jasmine, Lillian, Daja, Emily ranging from ten to fourteen years, children all forced out of the comfort of a semi-civilized world and into this shithole then dragged into this deeper shithole. There they sat existing at the whim of the psychopath running this place. Ben put his fingers through the wiring of the middle gate, and Lillian grabbed his fingers.
“Hey, darlin’,” he looked around at the others. “Hey guys.”
“Ben,” it was Jasmine, sniffing between words. “What are you doing?”
“I’m helping out a friend,” he grabbed the lock and looked at the other ones down the line, all shiny and new steel Master locks. He gritted his teeth and shut his eyes. “Listen to me, darlin’, all of you. I can’t get you out of here, not like this. I can’t pick all these locks, and I can’t cut them off without everybody hearing. But listen to me. Slayton,” the boy had his eyes down, but he met Ben’s at the call of his name. He was full of rage, that boy, rage from helplessness. Ben knew exactly how he felt. “I swear to you I’m coming back. I’ll figure something out and get you out of here. I swear on everything I hold dear.”
“Everything you hold dear is dead,” Slayton replied with ice in his voice, just over a whisper.
“No it’s not,” Ben held his gaze. “It’s not by a long shot, and I’m looking at a good portion of it now. Just hold on. Don’t let anybody know you saw me.” He looked up and down the cells. “Where’s Frank?”
“They took him,” Bailey answered. “They needed the grownups to go looking for you. We heard Marshal yelling, even from down here. He was really mad.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Ben said with a thin smile. “He’s mad at me, not at you. Just keep like nothing has happened. I’ll be back. Let that give you hope.”
Putting his finger back to his lips, he got to his feet and made his way to the metal stairs that led to the door on the ground floor. Foot on the first step, he stopped and pulled one of the pistols from the bag, the .40 caliber, and held it in the pit of his arm while he loaded the clip before sliding it into the bottom of the grip. He pu
lled the slide back slowly and chambered the first round. Ben thought about how convenient it would be for the medicine to be down here, where it would stay cool and protected like the rest of this stuff, but Marshal didn’t have enough trust for that. Fear kept everyone in check with most things, but not drugs. He knew enough to know what the most valuable thing was on the planet outside of food right now, and it was medicine. That’s the way Marshal thought. Never had he considered books. It was the meds he obsessed over, and all medicine had an expiration date, with nothing new to be made. Marshal kept everything from Tylenol to Demerol, from Penicillin to Cephalexin locked in two gun safes that were bolted to the floor in his section of the building. No one was allowed in his section except the children, and children talked. Maybe not about everything concerning Marshal, he had them terrified of his very voice, but they talked about what was in his rooms. Lillian was the one who had seen the safes open and heard him talking to Larry about him, Marshal, being the only one who knew the combination. It’s funny how unintelligent some people think children are. Lillian had seen him open the safes several times to get pills out for him to take. Sometimes he would give them to her too. She knew the combos to both push-button locks and had given them to Ben the moment she’d gotten back from one of her “visits” as she liked to call them. Nothing much else was said about these trips to Marshal’s rooms.
Like a minute hand, he eased the metal door open at the top. Ben looked around as far as the crack in the door would allow him, the battery-powered clock on the wall tick tick ticking away until it would tick its last never to tick again. What did measuring time matter now anyway? The steps gave way to the white tile flecked with black. The drum of his heart beat clearly in his ears, the silence was so thick. The floor shone with the wax spread by one of the children, probably Frank too. Ben had had his share of circling a cloth on that floor himself if there were no runs to make that day. Fuck this floor. He made his way to the right, staying slow, listening for anything, the .40 caliber in his hand ready to go.