by R A Doty
“I know, but I could have been wrong. I don’t even think there’s anyone left in the city. Tom and Josh are probably just getting settled in before they come back for you.” Luke placed his hand under Monica’s chin. “Come on, keep your chin up. They’ll come back. I promise.”
Monica nodded with tear-filled eyes.
AFTER BEING CONFINED in total darkness and complete silence for what seemed like an eternity, Thomas Steinberg began to pace around the perimeter of the room with his hand against the stonewall. He memorized the feel of every crack and knew, almost to the second, when he would be touching them again. Some of the stones were smooth as glass and others as rough as tree bark. He imagined what unspeakable things Luke and Dan were doing to his wife, and wondered what his son was doing at that exact moment. Did he escape or is he, too, held captive in another room? Perhaps he’s right next door. The thought triggered an idea.
When he made his way back to the door, he knelt down and searched for the metal cup that accompanied his last meal. The cup rattled across the stone floor when he bumped it with the back of his hand. He followed the sound, grabbed the cup by the handle, and made his way back to one of the sidewalls, where he began to bang against the stones.
“Josh! Can you hear me?” He banged harder while scraping the cup against the wall. “Josh! Are you there?” He stopped and listened but no reply came.
With outstretched arms, he made his way across the room and stopped when he felt another stonewall. “Josh,” he yelled. “Can you hear me?” He banged and pounded and then stopped to listen. The only sound was his breathing, which came in the form of quick little gasps of air. Why didn’t Josh answer? Did they lock him in a room too far away to hear? Was he able to escape and maybe by luck, found his way back to the compound? Or maybe... He couldn’t even consider that option. No, Josh was still alive, because accepting anything else would put him to blame for his son’s death. On his way to the third wall the door opened. He squinted, his arm blocking the sudden burst of light.
Nicolas entered the room. “You can stop banging on the walls, Thomas. Your son is no longer with us.”
“What have you done with him? Did he escape?”
“Let’s just say he’s in a better place now.”
“You bastards.” Thomas lunged forward, his fists curled into tight balls of hate. Someone had to die. They all had to die, but he would start with this one first.
Nicolas threw him into the wall before Thomas even reached him. Little effort was needed. In fact, he was somewhat surprised how easy it was. It made him feel tougher, unlike how he felt around David. He walked over to Thomas who lay on the floor after his face smacked the wall. Blood flowed from a gash on Steinberg’s forehead. Nicolas knelt down, being careful not to get too close to the broken man before him. The stench alone was enough to make him keep his distance. “I told David about your offer, and he said he would agree to it.”
Steinberg’s first thought was to tell Nicolas to go hell, and as bad as he wanted to kill him and all of these people, there were two other men that had to come first. He wiped away the blood that was flowing toward his eye. “So when can we go?”
“When David’s ready, of course.” Nicolas walked back to the door. “Patience is a virtue, Thomas.”
The door closed and Steinberg stood, once again, in total darkness.
Chapter Fifteen
BILL WESTON WAS ONE of Ancada’s most important citizens, if not the most important. He was solely responsible for feeding everyone, and if he failed they would all die. It was a responsibility he didn’t take lightly.
When he received information four weeks earlier that a man from the mainland, named Thomas Steinberg, had discovered a way to increase Ancada’s nutritional sustenance, he was more than eager to speak with him. Now that the man had seemed to disappear, he calculated how long a fast growing city could survive with a food supply that doesn’t seem to be keeping up. He punched in the numbers and estimated that Ancada’s citizens would begin to starve within a year. Drastic measures needed to be taken. He made an appointment to speak with Donald Wilkinson, the newly elected head of Ancada, and waited patiently in Donald’s office.
Donald finally entered. “Hi, Bill. Sorry to keep you waiting.”
“That’s fine, Don,” Bill said, standing to accept Donald’s handshake. “I know you’re a busy man lately.”
“Busy isn’t the word for it. Please, have a seat.”
Bill sat back down, and Donald took a seat behind his desk.
“You said you wanted to talk to me about something?” Donald said.
“I did. But first congrats are in order for the promotion. The Power Elite couldn’t have picked a better man to govern Ancada.” It wasn’t as hard to say as Bill thought it would be, considering he didn’t believe it. It was harder to force the smile. He should have been picked and he was less than excited when he discovered they picked Donald. He still couldn’t believe it, or understand why, as he stared at the man facing him. He always thought Donald was too weak to lead and didn’t possess the backbone that was sometimes needed to make the hard decisions.
“Thank you, Bill. That means a lot to me. Now what’s on your mind?”
“I’ve been running some calculations, and it looks as though we may be in serious trouble if we don’t take action soon.”
Donald leaned forward and folded his hands on the desk; his welcoming smile now replaced with concerned curiosity. “What kind of trouble?”
“Well, to put it bluntly, Ancada’s running out of food.”
“I don’t understand. How can that be? Don’t we have the nutrimen? Calla tells me all the time how well they’re doing.”
“We do have the nutrimen, and yes, they are doing well, but we’re just not producing them fast enough to keep up with the growth of Ancada.”
“But, wasn’t this all pre-calculated decades ago by the Power Elite? It isn’t as though we’re breeding like rabbits. The birthrate is controlled precisely. It seems to be simple mathematics.”
“It seems simple to a layman, but the reality is that we’re not producing enough girls to become surrogate mothers for the nutrimen.”
“How long before we run out?”
“Five years, maybe longer depending on our rate of consumption.”
Donald stood. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing, nor fathom the fact that every citizen of Ancada may die of starvation within five years. “Why wasn’t I informed of this immediately, Bill?”
“Because I’ve been in contact with a geneticist from the mainland named Thomas Steinberg who had a solution to our crisis. He developed a way to bring back extinct species of mammals that would eventually supplement our deficiencies.”
“Why do you say, he had a solution?”
“Because we can’t locate Mr. Steinberg. We were supposed to retrieve him and his family at the coast but they never showed up.”
“Can’t we go to his residence?”
“We could. But we don’t know the location.”
Donald inhaled, long and slow, and then released it. “So what do you suggest we do? This can’t be happening, Bill. People’s lives are in our hands.” He sat back down, no longer relaxed, his hands gripping the chair’s armrests.
“I understand that, Don. There are only a few solutions, and none of them will be easy. The first is to start inseminating the surrogate mothers at seventeen instead of eighteen. It won’t help initially, but it will prevent future deficiencies.”
Donald thought of Calla. “That’s too young, Bill. They’re still children themselves at that age.”
“Another, which I think goes without saying, would be to start harvesting the nutrimen at an earlier age.”
“What age did you have in mind?”
“That would depend on how fast our supplies are replenished. We would start at fifteen and go from there. Naturally, we could limit everyone’s consumption of meat to aid in the process. We could also start harvesting the smaller,
weaker nutrimen at any age.”
“Are those the only options?”
“There is one more option, which again, I don’t think we have a choice about.”
“Go on.”
“We hunt.”
“Hunt what, Bill? Wildlife is nonexistent on the mainland, and harvesting marine life is strictly regulated by the Power Elite.”
“I’m aware of that. But if we can capture some of the younger mainlanders we can quickly replenish the kennels until our supplies are restored. The younger ones won’t pose a threat and should be easy to capture. There’s always the threat of disease, but if we inoculate them immediately the threat is limited.”
“And how would we inhibit communication? We can’t have them communicating with the nutrimen, now can we?”
“A simple medical procedure would remedy that.”
“And what if this medical procedure failed and some managed to slip through the cracks?”
Bill leaned back in the chair. “We harvest them immediately to prevent further action.”
Donald sat motionless, considering each solution. None seemed to be acceptable, but his choices were limited. “I’m not completely opposed to the other options you presented, Bill, but to hunt the mainlanders seems a bit much. After all, they weren’t born nutrimen, and to raise them as livestock after they’ve experienced life outside of a kennel would be cruel and inhumane. That’s why the nutrimen were created. They’re a unique species created for the sole purpose of feeding us. If we hunt the mainlanders we’d be no different than wild animals.”
“I mean no disrespect, Don, but to let our citizens starve would be cruel and inhumane in my opinion. What kind of a life would these children have on the mainland? The average life expectancy of a mainlander is forty, and that number will dramatically decrease for each new generation that’s born. They have no modern means of medicine, food is nearly nonexistent, and their world has turned to savagery, making it nearly impossible for the younger ones to survive. In a sense, you might say we’re doing them a great justice by making their existence serve some purpose for the good of mankind.”
Donald momentarily considered Bill’s reasoning and then shook his head. “I disagree, Bill. If we resort to hunting the mainlanders, we too would be no different than savages. They’re not nutrimen and therefore should never be considered as such. Up to this point, The Power Elite has turned to science to secure our existence, and to resort to anything other than that would be barbaric, at best.”
Weston sat silent, absorbing Don’s response. Was this man sitting before him blind? Doesn’t he remember what had to be done to make Ancada what it is today? He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You know, Don, not more than a decade ago, one of my duties was to go to the mainland to acquire food to feed our rapidly growing colony until the nutrimen were of age to be harvested. It wasn’t a task I enjoyed, but it had to be done. Men’s lives were literally in my hands as I shopped the prison’s cellblocks in search of the right specimens to fill our needs.” Bill Weston paused briefly, remembering the moments he spent walking the cellblocks. “I sometimes see their faces in my dreams to this day, their eyes wide and filled with fear when they saw me coming. The guards would escort me, and I’d point out the ones I wanted. It was just like shopping at the market. In fact, they eventually nicknamed the prison, The Supermarket.” Weston looked up, his eyes locked on Don’s. “Don’t get me wrong, each and every one of those men deserved to be there for whatever crimes they committed. But knowing that didn’t make it any easier.” Weston leaned forward, his hands now spread on the desk. “My point is, Don, what I did back then had to be done for our survival. There simply wasn’t enough food to go around. It was either that or we all perish. So I wouldn’t exactly call it barbaric for doing what had to be done.”
“And why isn’t something like that an option today? Why must we hunt for children?”
“As I mentioned earlier, the younger ones won’t pose a threat. Do you remember when one of the mainlanders escaped about ten years ago?”
Don nodded. “I do. I believe the entire city was locked-down. He was never apprehended if I remember correctly.”
“That’s partially correct. His body was never recovered, but it was located in the ocean. How he got past the wall, we’ll never know. But we do know that he drowned trying to swim back to the mainland. Unfortunately, he killed one of our finest harvesters when he escaped. It was also because of him that the annual examination of the nutrimen is now performed in the confines of their kennel and not in the examination lab as we’ve done prior to that incident.”
“Why is that?” Don asked.
“Because when he was escaping he ran into a some of the younger nutrimen when they were being transported to the lab for their annual examination. He injured one of the smaller females, but it could have been much worse. The Power Elite decided it was too risky to expose the nutrimen to such dangers and from that day forth the nutrimen were confined to their private kennel until they were ready to be harvested.”
“I never realized that, Bill. Look, I know you’re only concerned with our well-being, but my decision is final; I’m opposed to hunting the mainlanders. I’ll consider your other options, and we’ll leave it at that.”
Bill Weston had no choice but to abide. He concurred with an agreeable nod, but gritted teeth hid behind a submissive smile. What kind of leader wouldn’t do whatever was necessary to ensure the survival of his people? Only a buffoon would be more concerned with savages than his own citizens. He sat silent as Don Wilkinson continued.
“Before we resort to any of your ideas, Bill, let’s do all we can to locate this Thomas Steinberg.”
“Of course, Don. Whatever you say.”
LATER THAT EVENING, Sarah Weston sat at the dining room table with her father and mother. In the past, she never paid attention to the food on her plate, but having met April it became all too real. She picked at the small round steak with her fork and wondered which part of a nutrimen it may have come from. An arm? Perhaps the lower part of a leg? The more she thought, the less of an appetite she had. She looked at her father, who seemed to be enjoying every bite. “Can’t we find some other type of meat?”
“What’s wrong with your steak, honey?” her mother asked. “Is it cooked the way you like it?”
“It’s cooked fine. I’m just growing tired of nutrimen. I can’t believe there isn’t some other kind of meat out there in the world.”
“We’re lucky to have this,” her father said. “We get to eat meat while others are starving.” Bill Weston carved his steak; each bite seemed more precious than ever. “Why does it bother you all of the sudden?”
Sarah held up the steak with her fork. Juice dripped from its dark gray texture, landing on her plate. “I don’t know. I was just looking at the nutrimen the other day and it kind of hit me that they’re not much different than us. The only real difference is that they can’t speak. I mean, what if they started talking? What would we do then?” Sarah casually glanced at her father, waiting for his response.
“That’s silly, honey,” her mother replied. “The nutrimen will never be able to speak. It’s impossible.”
“Yes, I know, Mother, but hypothetically speaking, what if they somehow learned? Would we treat them differently?”
Bill ate his last piece of meat and placed his fork on the plate. He wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Why are you asking this? Did something happen in the kennels?”
“Of course not, Father,” Sarah said with a laugh, realizing how dangerously close she was to revealing her secret. “I was just curious. It was a stupid question. Forget I asked.”
Weston silently studied his daughter. He sensed her uneasiness and wondered what she was up to. She never asked such questions, or cared about anything other than herself before working in the kennels. “Well, to answer your question, it’s highly unlikely that they would ever figure out a way to speak, but if for some reason one of them managed to, we�
�d have no choice but to harvest them immediately.”
Sarah knew the conversation should have ended right there, but she couldn’t believe a whole culture could be so naïve, especially her father, whom she always admired for his intelligence. She couldn’t resist the urge to press on. “But why would we do that? Wouldn’t you find it interesting that they somehow learned on their own? Wouldn’t it be considered a miracle?”
“On the contrary. It would be more like a curse. No good could possibly come from something like that. They would eventually start communicating amongst themselves, and before long we’d have all we could do to control them. How could you think anything contributing to our eventual starvation could be considered a miracle?”
As Sarah studied a piece of meat on her fork, it sickened her to think where it came from. It slid off and onto her plate.
“Honey, don’t play with your food,” her mother said.
Sarah smiled, having made up her mind.
Chapter Sixteen
ON LONG DAYS WHEN THE sun beat down on the path before him, and one step had no noticeable difference from the last, Colton North would turn his thoughts to little Jessie Thorpe. No matter how hard he tried to erase her from his mind he could never forget the excitement in her eyes each time he opened the book to read to her. He smiled, remembering the way she climbed on the chair, with Walter gripped tight in her arm, and moseyed her way onto his lap. Her feet would kick excitedly, waiting for him to open the book. It was the warmest memory he could think of these past few years.
When a branch broke in the distance, he stopped walking and put his hand on the machete hanging from his belt. He ducked behind a tree when he heard the voices, and peeked out to see a man and small boy walking his way. They didn’t look like a threat, so he stepped forward when they drew close.
“How ya doing?”
The man and boy stopped.
Cole walked up to them. “I’m Colton North.”