“Number?” a guard asked me.
It took a second for me to understand what he meant.
“Number?” he barked, more insistent.
I hated having to give my number, but I also didn’t want to be naked for any longer than I had to.
“Zero Three One One,” I muttered, begrudgingly.
A pair of white socks were shoved into my hands along with tighty-whitey underpants. On top of that was a pair of size-ten white sneakers. Finally, I was given clean orange coveralls . . . with the number 0311 in bold letters on the back.
It was a dehumanizing experience, made all the more so by the cool efficiency of how it was run. Throughout the process, and all during the torturous day, I kept trying to understand how this could possibly be considered a positive reset of civilization. After all, that’s what Feit said the Retros were after: a reset of civilization to save us from destruction.
I wasn’t seeing that.
I wandered a few yards away from the group and started getting dressed. It felt good to be clean and wearing fresh clothes. I had to appreciate the positives when they came. Once I was dressed I took a second to size up my own condition and realized, with surprise, that I felt pretty good. I was tired, yes, but I didn’t feel all that sore. Most surprising, my destroyed hands were no longer blistered. I rubbed them together, thinking it might be an illusion because they had been softened by the water, but they truly felt and looked fine.
My brain jumped to the only explanation: The water in that shower contained the miracle medicine that healed wounds. I’d seen it work too many times to doubt it. Now I understood that the Retros could use it to keep their work force in top shape.
At least they weren’t forcing us to take the Ruby. None of the people I saw were operating with super-human capabilities. Maybe the Retros had learned their lesson. The short-term benefits of using that stuff was outweighed by the fact that it killed people. The Retros were a lot of things, but they weren’t stupid.
“Blue Unit,” a Retro guard called. “This way for chow.”
I wound my way through the crowd of people still getting dressed to find the line of workers I had been with all day. Other units were also being herded together by Retro guards.
“Red Unit!”
“All Black Unit workers over here!”
“Green unit! This way!”
Workers scrambled to find their group. With the promise of food, it wasn’t the time to slow down and take it easy. I was starving and had no doubt that everyone else was too.
There were hundreds of orange-clad workers and only a few guards. It crossed my mind that the guards could easily be overpowered by the prisoners. If we took a few hostages we might be able to bargain our way out.
It was only a fleeting hope because reality told me otherwise. The Retros had little concern for human life. After wiping out a few billion people, what would a few more deaths matter? Any uprising would be met with ruthless consequences, even if it meant wiping out some of their own soldiers. I had no doubt about that. The rest of the prisoners must have understood as well, which is why they obeyed like mindless sheep.
The Blue Unit regrouped and in no time we were trudging along in line, all cleaned up and smelling fresh, headed for dinner. We passed several more barracks. Unlike the ones we had been digging near, these looked to be occupied, for I saw movement through the narrow windows. We were led into yet another long building that was clearly the mess hall. We each grabbed partitioned plastic trays and made our way through the food lines. Prisoners in orange coveralls and aprons worked in the kitchen. I wondered how they got those jobs. It looked a heck of a lot easier than digging ditches. The meal itself wasn’t horrible. We were given slices of ham, seasoned rice, broccoli spears, loads of bread with butter, and a fruity drink that reminded me of Gatorade. I want to say that the Retros were being benevolent by giving us decent food, but the truth was they needed us to be well fed in order to keep up our strength to work. At the end of the food line were plastic utensils, but no napkins. We shuffled silently toward long rows of tables with bench seats. I kept walking until the guy in front of me sat down. When the time came, I dutifully stopped and sat beside him.
We ate in silence. The only sound was the din made from the food being eaten and trays being moved on the tables. We were given five minutes. Unlike the SYLO camp on Pemberwick Island, no second portions were offered. My cue to get up was when the guy next to me got up. It didn’t matter if you were finished or not; it was time to go. The silence was eerie. We all moved in line away from the mess hall and continued our journey past the many barracks buildings until at last we were directed to one. This would be my home. At least for that night. Inside were two rows of beds against the long wooden walls. Unlike the hospital that had rows of single beds, this barracks had bunk beds stacked three high. The place already smelled of sweat. We may have been freshly showered, but this was still the desert.
I had no choice as to where I would sleep. When the guy in front of me turned and crawled into the lower bunk to our left, I took the bunk above him. There was a three-inch thick mattress but no sheets, only a thin cotton blanket that was folded at the foot and a pillow that looked more like a ravioli than a comfortable cushion to lay my head on.
Even so, lying down was a relief. It could have been on a bed of nails—resting still would have felt great. I lay there on my back, closed my eyes, and listened as the rest of the barracks filled up.
A few minutes later, I heard a strange sound. I couldn’t make it out at first because it was so out of place. It took a few seconds to recognize it for what it was.
Whispering.
People—prisoners—were actually communicating.
I looked to my right and saw a woman in a bunk who reminded me of my homeroom teacher back at Arbortown High. She was small, probably no taller than five feet, with long red hair that I imagined would go to her waist.
“Hello,” I whispered.
She turned to me and smiled.
“Hello,” she whispered back.
It was such a simple thing, but hearing another voice made me feel like a person again. Especially since it wasn’t barking orders at me.
“Are we allowed to talk?” I asked.
She nodded. “It’s the only time they let us,” she whispered. “But only for a short while.”
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“I’m Scottie. I’ve been here about a week. They brought me here from Los Angeles.”
“I’m Tucker,” I said. “I’m from Maine.”
“You’re a long way from home, Tucker.”
“Yeah.”
I didn’t mention that I was from Pemberwick Island. I was afraid that would lead to a huge conversation that I didn’t feel like getting in to. All I wanted was to communicate with another living person for a few moments to pretend as though life was still normal.
All around us, people were doing the same thing. Voices were low, but there were many of them. It sounded as though everyone was letting out a day’s worth of pent up thoughts.
“Do you know why we’re building these barracks?” I asked.
“All I know is that more people are coming,” she answered.
“More prisoners?”
“No, more of them, I think. I overheard the guards talking about it. They’re preparing for a lot of people to show up. It’s kind of scary. If the rest of them are anything like these guards . . .”
She didn’t have to finish the sentence. I knew how she felt.
This war didn’t make sense. The Retros were set on wiping out as much of the population as possible, while SYLO was trying to stop them. It seemed pretty clear that the Retros were winning, but winning what exactly? They hadn’t taken over any territory or started a new government. There seemed to be no point to the deaths except . . . death.
Mr. Feit told Tori and me that SYLO was leading the world to calamity and the only thing that would save it was a reset of civilization. He said the Retros’ drastic tactics were necessary so that they could save the world. But what had they done other than wipe out millions of people and force the survivors to build more of those giant steel gates to hell?
The Retros controlled the United States Air Force and had used some incredibly sophisticated technology to further their plan. But what exactly was their plan, and who was calling the shots?
Knowing that the prisoners here were building what amounted to a facility to house thousands of Retros made me believe that whatever the plan was, this was going to be the staging area. Other Retros could be headed this way from all over the world.
Once again, I found myself in the middle of the action.
Only this time I was alone.
“I’ve got a dumb question,” I whispered to Scottie.
“What?”
“This is kind of embarrassing, but where do we go to the bathroom?”
Scottie smiled and I no longer felt embarrassed. But I still had to go.
“There are portable bathrooms outside each of the barracks,” she said. “You’re allowed to go any time.”
“Thanks. That time is now.”
I slid out of my bunk and walked down the center of the room to the door on the far end of the building. When I stepped outside I saw that even though night had fallen, massive floodlights perched on towers lit the camp, making it look as bright as an evening football game.
A Retro guard stood outside of the door. When he saw me he gestured to a row of Porta-potties. He knew exactly why I had come out, because many other prisoners were doing the same thing. I passed several who were either coming or going from the facilities.
I found an empty stall, went inside to do my business, and got out before the putrid smell made me gag. After walking a few steps back toward the barracks, I stopped to take in the surroundings.
It seemed like we were in a prisoner-of-war camp right out of the history books, complete with wooden huts, armed guards, and high light-towers. The one thing I didn’t see was any kind of fence surrounding the place. Perhaps the miles of dry, empty desert that surrounded us were fence enough.
Out of nowhere, the sound of a car horn tore through the quiet night. Moments later two jeeps came screaming into a large clearing between the barracks. Both drivers were laying on their horns.
Two Retro guards standing near the potties looked to each other and smiled knowingly.
This wasn’t a normal occurrence. Something was definitely up.
The prisoners who were already outside made their way toward the clearing. Others wandered out from the various barracks to see what the commotion was.
The two jeeps rattled into the clearing and started chasing each other in a circle while kicking up dust into the cool, desert night. After multiple laps they stopped and faced each other about twenty yards apart. Each had their headlights shining on the other.
By now a circle of prisoners had gathered, forming a ring around the two vehicles. The guards lay back, keeping a watchful eye on them, poised and ready for trouble.
I pushed my way forward through the crowd until I had a good view of the dueling jeeps.
A soldier got out of one, strode forward, and stood in the beams from the two sets of headlights.
It was Major Bova.
I hoped he wasn’t there to play another warped game of Please.
He stood with his hands on his hips and slowly turned to survey the crowd that circled him.
The jeeps killed their engines.
The prisoners were dead silent.
“I hate this,” a guy next to me whispered.
“What’s going on?” I whispered back.
The guy didn’t answer, he just stared at Bova.
“Good evening!” Bova exclaimed. “I trust you all had a productive day.”
Silence.
“Yes, I’m sure you did. Before you retire to a well-earned rest, I’d like to provide you with some light entertainment. You know how much emphasis I put on the importance of running a safe, orderly camp. We don’t have many rules here and you are expected to obey them without question.”
Yeah, right. The Retros didn’t have many rules, but the rules they did have meant we lived like dogs . . . while working like silent slaves.
“Unfortunately,” he continued. “There are those who choose not to accept our system. That is why we are gathered here for tonight’s entertainment.”
It looked as though another example was about to be made. Bova was like a sadistic ringmaster in a circus of horrors. He strode around the inside of the circle with his arms raised, loving the attention. Besides the hundred or so prisoners who stood circling the jeeps, there were thousands of others who watched from inside their barracks, peering out through the small windows.
“Earlier today, two young men foolishly tried to leave us. To escape. The desert is a cruel and punishing place where they would surely have died from exposure. The way I see it, by preventing their departure we actually saved their lives. They will be allowed to thank me afterward.”
He smiled, brushed his hair from his eyes, and added, “At least one of them will.”
A pair of guards emerged from each jeep. Each pair held a prisoner between them. The prisoners struggled to get away but the guards were too strong. They dragged the orange-clad victims into the beams of the headlights.
“I am a forgiving man,” Bova continued. “I will let this lapse of judgment go unpunished . . . for one of them.”
The guy next to me sighed and turned to walk away.
“Wait, what’s going to happen?” I whispered.
“I’ve seen this sick game before, I don’t need to see it again,” he said and trudged back to his barracks.
“One will be forgiven!” Bova declared. “The other will die. We’ll leave it up to them to decide who deserves to live.”
The guards shoved the two prisoners down into the dirt.
The overhead floodlights went out. The only light on the field came from the headlights of the two jeeps. I realized with horror that this had been staged for full dramatic effect. Bova stood between the two prisoners who lay in the dirt.
“One will sleep well tonight,” he declared. “One will die . . . at the hand of the other.”
“No,” I whispered to nobody in particular. “They’re going to fight to the death?”
Bova raised his arms and said, “The rules of this game are simple. Whichever of you deserves to live . . . will. Good luck!”
Bova backed out of the light.
The circle of prisoners watching this horrible spectacle was deathly silent. All I could hear was the steady, labored breathing of the two fighters.
They looked to each other and slowly, cautiously, got to their feet.
I finally got a good look at their faces.
It felt like a punch to the gut.
One of the fighters . . . was Kent Berringer.
FIVE
Kent stood a few inches taller than his opponent. His beach-blond hair had started to darken and grow longer since we’d left Pemberwick Island, a reminder of how long it had been since we left home. Seeing him was a relief, not only because he had lived through the crash, but because it meant there was a chance that my mother and Tori had survived as well.
I actually felt a surge of hope for the first time since I had woken up in this nightmare of a camp.
Kent Beringer was alive.
At least for the moment.
He was a strong athlete. I knew that from playing football with him at Arbortown High. He was a few years older than me, a senior, though thinking of life in terms of high school years felt so strange to me now. He was a rich kid—there’s no other way to put it. But as
privileged as he was, he was also tough. And fast. If he wasn’t too terrified to move, he’d have a chance.
The other guy was short but stocky, as if he’d spent a little too much time lifting weights. Or countless shovelfulls of dirt. He looked as though he had the advantage in strength, but Kent knew how to move.
The question was, did Kent also know how to kill?
The two faced each other, tentatively.
Kent looked scared and I didn’t blame him.
His foe seemed more focused as he stared back, sizing up the guy he would have to kill in order to survive.
“The short guy’s done this before,” a guy next to me whispered. “The blond kid doesn’t stand a chance.”
The two stood there for a solid thirty seconds, like two gunslingers waiting for the other to twitch.
I wanted to jump in and help Kent but that would probably mean suicide for both of us. I doubted that Bova’s rules covered fan interference.
The crowd of prisoners watched with silent anticipation.
Major Bova stepped up onto the hood of the jeep to my left.
“Was I wrong?” he bellowed. “Perhaps neither of you deserves to live.”
That was all the encouragement the dark-haired guy needed. He let out a low growl that came from somewhere deep and primal . . . and charged for Kent.
Kent put up his fists as if getting ready to box. It was probably the only way he knew how to fight.
He was in way over his head.
The guy was nearly on him when Kent took a swing. He actually caught the guy in the side of the head, but he might as well have hit him with a pillow for all the good it did. The guy blasted right into him, stuck his head into Kent’s chest and knocked him back off of his feet. Kent hit the ground hard, flat on his back, grunting from the impact.
The guy went right for his throat. He wrapped his hands around Kent’s neck and started to squeeze.
Strike Page 5