Strike

by D. J. MacHale

  The other three soldiers were on high alert. They kept their eyes locked on this guy as he strolled toward the pit. He may not have looked like a respected military leader, but from the body language of his own soldiers, he was somebody you didn’t dare mess with.

  He stood on the edge of the pit and leaned forward slightly to get a full view of the workers toiling below.

  “Hello!” he called down in an overly friendly tone. “Come up here for a moment, would you please? Take a break. All of you!”

  The workers in the pit looked to one another, confused. But they weren’t about to pass up a chance to take a breather, so they quickly dropped their shovels and climbed out to stand in a loose group on the edge of the hole.

  I stood apart from them, closer to the woman supervisor who still hadn’t moved since the jeep arrived.

  “Thank you,” the blond guy said with a slight bow. “Forgive me for taking you from your work.”

  Right. Like they were upset.

  “We don’t use names here,” he announced. “But I want you to know mine. It’s Bova. Simon Bova. Major Bova, if you’d prefer to be formal. I share that information only because I believe you should know who your host is.”

  He smiled at the prisoners as if he wanted them to like him. The guy came across like a gracious host, rather than the commander of a work camp. His eyes had the silver sparkle of someone who was either seriously smart, or dangerously insane.

  “Now!” he announced. “A bit of business. I trust you all know . . .” he slid over to the guy lying in the dirt and leaned over to take a look at his back “. . . Eight Six Seven Five.”

  Nobody reacted.

  “Of course you do,” Bova said with a wink. “You’ve worked next to him for days. I’m sorry to have to tell you that he has been a very naughty boy.”

  Bova motioned to the soldier in the back of the jeep. Instantly, the soldier jumped down, ran to the prisoner, and pulled him up to his knees.

  Bova took a quick step back as if he didn’t want to risk coming in contact with the filthy sand that swirled around the poor guy.

  The prisoner was a mess, but he was conscious. His hair was tangled and blood dripped from the corner of his mouth. Caked sand clung to his face, surrounding a pair of swollen eyes.

  He’d been beaten. Badly.

  Bova bent down so his face was close to the prisoner’s, but not close enough to risk contact. “You know you’ve been very bad, don’t you?”

  The prisoner didn’t react.

  “Go ahead, you can admit it,” Bova said, cajoling. “We have no secrets here.”

  Bova was talking to him in a singsong voice, as if he were a little kid.

  The prisoner looked to the ground. I couldn’t imagine what he might have done that deserved getting beaten like that.

  “Tell you what,” Bova exclaimed with excitement. “We’ll play a game.” He gave a broad smile to the group and added, “One of my favorites. I used to play it with my parents. It’s simply called Please.”

  The prisoner started to collapse back down to the ground but the soldier grabbed him and pulled him to his knees again.

  “Now, my friend,” Bova said to the prisoner, who was anything but his friend. “The rules of my game are quite simple. You must answer my questions and do as I say . . . but only if I say please. That’s all. A simple courtesy. I believe that even under the most difficult circumstances we should always do our best to maintain civility. This game helps us remember that. Agreed?”

  The prisoner wet his parched lips. He needed water, badly.

  “Agreed!” Bova announced for him.

  He strode to the jeep and grabbed a canteen from the passenger seat and walked back to the prisoner. He held the canteen out close to his face and said, “Take a drink.”

  The prisoner reached out for the canteen . . . and Bova kicked his hand away. Violently. So violently that it made most of the other prisoners jump with surprise. It threw the guy off balance and he fell down onto his elbows.

  Bova shook his head and chuckled. “You’ve forgotten already? I didn’t say please.”

  He motioned to one of his soldiers, who ran over quickly. I thought he was going to help the prisoner back up to his knees, but instead he wiped Bova’s boots with his sleeve, taking away any offending grime that may have come off of the prisoner.

  “Very good, let’s try this again,” Bova said, holding out the canteen. “Won’t you have a drink of water?”

  The prisoner pushed himself off the ground until he was back on his knees. One side of his sweat and blood-covered face was encrusted with dirt. It was gut-wrenching to see.

  He glared at Bova but didn’t move.

  “Very good!” Bova exclaimed with joy. “Now we’re on the same page. This is going to be fun.”

  There were a lot of words to describe what was going on. “Fun” wasn’t one of them.

  “Now. Please lift your right arm.”

  After a painfully long few seconds, the prisoner raised his right hand. Barely.

  “Wonderful!” Bova declared.

  He really was having fun.

  For the record, he was the only one, including the other Retro soldiers, who watched with no expression. “Now,” Bova continued. “Tell us all what you did that was so naughty.”

  I willed the guy not to answer.

  The prisoner didn’t say a word. His eyes seemed unfocused, as if he were about to pass out.

  “Very good!” Bova declared. “Tell us what you did that was so naughty . . . please.”

  All eyes were focused on the poor, tortured guy.

  His eyes flashed around, looking for some clue as to what he should do.

  “You have to tell me,” Bova said, wagging his finger. “I said please. Those are the rules of etiquette.”

  “I . . .” the man said, sounding as though his throat was on fire. “I tried to bring water to my unit.”

  “Precisely!” Bova exclaimed giddily. “You tried to bring water to your unit. Extra water. Now, please tell me, is this your unit?”

  Bova gestured to the group at the edge of the hole.

  Reluctantly, the prisoner nodded.

  “Of course it is. Please tell me, did anyone in this unit drink the water?”

  I felt the people in the group stiffen. What had been a sadistic torturing of a single prisoner now had the potential to include them.

  The prisoner shook his head.

  “No,” he whispered. “I never made it back.”

  Bova walked up to the unit supervisor, who looked ready to faint. He got right in her face and said, “Is this true? There were no extra water rations distributed to your unit?”

  The woman blinked a few times. She was terrified of this man.

  “No sir,” she said with a shaky voice. “No extra water was given to this unit today.”

  Bova stared directly into her eyes. Into her brain.

  I was standing ten feet away, but I saw a bead of sweat grow on her temple that slowly trickled down her cheek.

  He kept his eyes locked on hers for a solid ten seconds, then grinned.

  “I know it wasn’t,” he said with happy lilt. “We discovered his treachery long before he had the chance to come back here.”

  Bova stepped away from her.

  The woman visibly relaxed.

  “Eight Six Seven Five?” Bova said as he backed toward the kneeling prisoner. “Please tell me, did you know it was wrong to steal water and bring it to your unit?”

  For the first time, the prisoner showed life. He straightened up, though he was still kneeling, and said, “It was a mistake. I didn’t steal it. I thought I was bringing the normal ration.”

  “It was a mistake all right,” Bova said to the whole group with a smile, as if he expected everyone to laugh at the joke.


  For the record, nobody did.

  “Please tell me, were you wrong?”

  The prisoner hung his head. “Yes, I was wrong.”

  “Please tell me, will you ever make that same mistake again?”

  The prisoner lifted his head, showing signs of hope. “No, never.”

  “Of course you won’t,” Bova said.

  He turned away from the prisoner and faced the bulk of the group.

  “The rules of my camp are clear and simple,” he announced. “We expect you to follow them, and to work hard. Do that and you will be rewarded.”

  Bova gestured to the driver, who pulled out a large green Jerry Jug from the jeep and lugged it toward the group of prisoners.

  “You have been working hard in the sun,” Bova announced. “You deserve extra water.”

  The guard placed the jug in the sand and backed away.

  The prisoners didn’t move.

  “Well go on!” Bova said. “It’s yours.”

  Still, nobody moved.

  “Please!”

  That was the magic word. Like a group of hungry puppies, everyone went for the Jerry Jug. One guy lifted it and took a deep drink of water. The others clamored to be next as the first guy passed it on. They each took a deep, refreshing drink while careful not to spill a precious drop before passing it along. It was a surprisingly civilized process for people who were so desperately thirsty.

  Bova stood back, watching the scene with a satisfied smile like he was some generous benefactor. The whole event was meant to be a warning. He was making an example out of the prisoner to show how much power he had. He could give extra water, or command a brutal beating.

  “Please, everyone, don’t forget your friend,” Bova said.

  The last guy with the jug brought it to the kneeling prisoner and placed it gently on the ground in front of him.

  “Very good,” Bova said. “You see? When you follow the rules, you will be rewarded.”

  Allowing these poor people to get a few extra swigs of warm water didn’t exactly seem like a huge reward, but I wasn’t going to point that out. I didn’t even get a drink, which I guess was fair. I hadn’t been working.

  Bova went back to the kneeling prisoner, leaned over, and said, “There. It was all just a silly misunderstanding. I trust that there will be no more. Have a drink and rejoin your unit.”

  Bova turned and walked toward his jeep. The show was over.

  The prisoner lunged for the Jerry Jug and greedily took a deep drink.

  Bova was about to board the jeep, when he stopped suddenly. He turned and quickly strode back toward the kneeling prisoner.

  The entire group of prisoners froze in place.

  Bova walked quickly, heading directly for the prisoner. As he moved past one of the guards he grabbed the black baton-weapon from the soldier’s belt without breaking stride. He marched right up to the kneeling prisoner who still held the Jerry Jug up high, trying to get the last few drops of precious water. When he saw Bova standing over him, he froze.

  “Sorry,” Bova said with what seemed like genuine sympathy. “I didn’t say please.”

  Bova brought the weapon up and aimed it at the prisoner’s chest.

  Nobody made a move to stop him.

  Bova fired.

  The weapon made no sound.

  The prisoner did.

  With a pained yelp he was thrown backward. The Jerry Jug clattered to the sand and came to rest near the head of the poor guy.

  He didn’t move. He wouldn’t move again.

  The unit supervisor dropped her head in what seemed like genuine anguish.

  The rest of the prisoners remained frozen. I thought I heard a small whimper, but it was quickly squelched.

  Bova spun back to the others and calmly announced, “Like I said, the rules are simple. Follow them and you’ll all live a long and fulfilling life. Choose not to and, well . . .” he gestured to the dead prisoner. “Let’s get back to work now, shall we?”

  Nobody moved.

  I saw a flash of anger cross Bova’s face, but it was quickly replaced by a smile of realization.

  “Oh, forgive me,” he said playfully. “Please!”

  The prisoners instantly scrambled toward the hole. They couldn’t get away from him fast enough.

  I wasn’t sure what I should do. I stood frozen in shock.

  Bova spotted me and took a few steps in my direction.

  “Is this where you should be?” he asked.

  I looked away, not wanting to make contact with those crazed, sparkling eyes.

  “Please,” he said. “Time to get back to work.”

  I glanced to the unit supervisor. She gave me a small nod and motioned to the shovel I had dropped in the dirt. The shovel I had almost beaned her with. She might not have wanted me there before, but now I was a replacement for the murdered prisoner.

  I reached down and picked up the tool.

  “Very good,” Bova exclaimed. “Enjoy the rest of the day.”

  He turned and strode back toward his jeep. The other Retros boarded and they took off, leaving a choking cloud of dust in their wake.

  The body of the murdered prisoner remained.

  I had been awake in the Retro camp for less than half an hour, and already I had gotten my first taste of what life was going to be like if the Retros won this war.

  FOUR

  I spent the next few hours shoveling dirt and sand into wheelbarrows. It was hot. It was mind numbing. It was torture. Painful blisters formed on my hands that burst and made it a challenge to grip the wooden handle of the shovel. I was in good shape, but nothing could have prepared me for that kind of manual labor. And that kind of pain.

  None of the other prisoners said a word to me or even made eye contact. They had become drones. After a few hours, I understood why. It was easier to put your mind in neutral than to stress and constantly wonder when the day would end.

  Every so often a prisoner came through to give us each a small cup of water. It wasn’t anywhere near enough to replace the fluids lost through sweat, but it was better than nothing. Every drop was priceless.

  Throughout the torturous day I often heard the musical sound of an Air Force plane powering up and lifting into the sky before rocketing off. In just a few hours at least a dozen new planes appeared above the tops of the wooden buildings. They were obviously coming from the steel dome. I figured it must have been the final assembly point for these death machines, which definitely made it a gate to hell.

  Each time a new plane lifted off, my feelings of hopelessness and desolation grew deeper. Not only was the Air Force still in business, but there was every reason to believe that my mother and friends were dead. My one hope was that my father was still safe on Pemberwick Island.

  I was probably kidding myself. For all I knew, Pemberwick had been laid to waste like the rest of the country. Though I was among hundreds of people trapped in the same desperate situation, I felt totally alone. The harsh reality had finally set in that there was no chance of a return to my old life, only the promise of a grim future.

  “That’s it!” the unit supervisor finally shouted. “Climb out and drop your shovels.”

  It took a second for me to register what was happening. Looking around the pit I could easily believe that we had moved the ton of dirt that the supervisor said she wanted. We had dug a huge rectangular hole, six feet deep and roughly the size of one of the barracks. I wish I could say I had a feeling of accomplishment, but all I felt was tired and sore. And miserable.

  We climbed out of the pit to see two Retro guards, armed with batons, waiting for us.

  “This way,” one guard commanded. “Single file.”

  We shuffled into a ragged line and followed the guard away from the worksite. The second guard picked up the rear. We were led in
the opposite direction of the giant steel structure. Just as well—I didn’t want to be anywhere near the gate to hell. We shuffled by several more newly built but empty barracks until we finally arrived at one that showed signs of life. There were no windows, but I heard what sounded like running water inside.

  The guard stopped and turned back to us.

  “Showers,” he said. “Drop everything in the bins and pass through. Give your number on the far side for a clean set. Move it.”

  The others obeyed without question and began stripping. It didn’t matter that there were both men and women together. Nobody cared. Except for me, that is. I guess I hadn’t been there long enough to be completely numb to the degrading treatment.

  I got undressed, peeling off my sweat- and dirt-crusted overalls. There were three large plastic bins outside of the large door that led into the shower building. One was for the coveralls, the second for socks and underwear, the third for sneakers. I kept my eyes on the ground, trying not to look at any of the women. Or any of the men, for that matter. It was humiliating. I kept my head down and shuffled in line toward the shower doors. The smell of sweat was so overpowering I nearly gagged. Showers would be a good thing, no matter how degrading the experience was.

  “Keep moving!” a guard commanded.

  Overhead were six parallel bars that ran the length of the building and sprayed powerful jets of water down on us. The showering would last for as long as it took to shuffle in line from one end of the building to the other. The water was cold, but I didn’t mind. It felt good to wash away the thick grime that was caked on every inch of skin that had been exposed during the day. I furiously rubbed at my scalp to get rid of the imbedded sand but it was a losing battle.

  There was definitely some kind of soap in the water because my blistered hands stung. So did my eyes. I cupped my hands to capture as much as I could and gently rubbed them together to clean and soften the dead skin. As much as it hurt, I had to do it or risk infection. We shuffled along on the slick cement floor in two parallel lines. Halfway through the ordeal the burning sensation stopped, which meant we were being doused by pure water. When we finally reached the far side we stepped out into the harsh glare of the late-day sun to air-dry. There were no towels waiting for us. A few yards beyond the exit were tables set up with stacks of clean coveralls, underwear, and shoes.