by Marlin Grail
The boy answers yes, consciously remembering to be honest.
Our supervisor temporarily looks down at the ground, changing his stance slightly, and inputs another question. “All right, son, I'm going to ask you one more. Do you know of the attack that roadblock had a day ago?”
The boy takes a quick glance at his friend, and then back to our supervisor, whose right eyebrow is raising. “Y-yes, but the both of us had no involvement with it! We swear it!” he exclaims, growing more frantic.
Instantly, our supervisor reaches out to him, with a sympathetic look. “Whoa-whoa! Easy! I believe you.” He says, while patting the boy on his back.
While his face suggests that he means what he says, the guard still has a look of a contrary perspective.
“Listen. I'm sure you would've tried to stop the others if you were able to.” He tells both boys, looking at them more compassionately. With one of his arms clung around the 16-year-old’s back side of their neck, he guides him to walk forward, which incentivizes the 17-year-old to follow behind. “I might have an idea for where you 2 can go.”
The guard steps aside to let them pass, but I feel the shove from another on my right come across and stand on the opposite side of the grass. “Now, I know I said my last question was the last, but I just have a final. Can you both make it even for us?” he asks, purposefully confusing us all.
“H-how?” the 17-year-old inquires.
No further mouth movement is heard from our supervisor. All he does next is slide his arm back to his side, stroll calmly forward, and leave the boys behind him.
This is not good.
In that silent gap with our group and the teenagers being frozen and perplexed, those 2 guards pivot the next occurrence by rushing up to them. “Wait!” I shout, but no change of heart happens, and all I see are 2 men pulling the boys' guns right from their pants.
Simultaneous, and in sync, both men snatch the pistols, cock them with 1 hand, then pull their triggers. “Christ, no!” Janice shrieks.
They drop instantaneously, rough to the ground, and barren of life. Hard wood above and behind the wall begins to have pressure from feet clopping on them—where the turrets are positioned. “That was how you would make up for it.” Our supervisor states, mocking their inability to hear him.
He exhales with a sound of relief, and displays a need for us to listen to him. “Now, the 4 of you step forward.” He commands, uninterested in an argument I am ready to spark.
The dreadful seconds we spend next are spent mourning the loss of those 2 boys. My heart rate increases with anger, and my stomach knots up from disgust. “DON'T make me say it again!” he menaces.
I tilt my head at him with disbelief, and sweat out the ideas of what we could do to protect ourselves, but mostly, to gain vengeance, but then more guards come to surround us, reminding me that nothing other than carrying out his direct order would end with more tragedy. One big release of breath, with a tiny moan surfing along it, makes me figure it is best we be forced to fall in line by taking the necessary steps forward.
I walk, feeling as though the surrounding guards are enclosing their circular formation inward—like a room growing ever smaller. When I step right beside the 17-year-old’s body, my balance worsens, so much so I trip, landing in the grass where they have fallen. Their face is angled right at mine, with a stiff expression that joints all forms of showing fear in one. Mine is of denial, even while they stare me down with their bulged, dull, and unwavering dead eyes.
This moment makes various scenarios play out in my mind, all with a common quality that involves me ensuring their words were better handled and defended.
What could I have done differently? These kids… as I will call them, were exactly that. They were teenagers that should have had time to learn, to improve their interaction skills, and further their understanding of when someone's words are aloof. However, even myself did not count on an action like this coming about. More than anything, the least I can do, now, is place my hand on their eyelids, and close them down for good.
“Rest in peace.” I whisper, full of sorrow as I touch their skin.
I suppose I timed my apology well, for then a rough, inconsiderate, hand snakes around the arm I reached out with, and pulls me off the ground. Their forearm's bone is nudging up against the side of my neck, and it intends to wipe my mind clean of the short funeral I wish to have for the boys.
It drives the discomfort deeper, with each step this guard and I take. “Look, Gary, I didn't want you, and your group, to have met me like this. I'm really a good and at-ease kind of person. Just know I don't hold you guys accountable for what's happened this afternoon.” Our supervisor says, apathetic to my upset status.
The rest of my group is routed to stand in a row beside me, with all of us far away from one another. “I see you have a bag on you.” He says, keeping his eyes locked on me, while he reaches to pull it off of my shoulder. He opens the clips of the bag, and glee rushes in his face. “You've done well.” He says, while nodding his head with approval.
Immediately, he snaps his fingers, which elicits a couple of guards to go and check the other bags. Ashton hands his over, rebelliously, as one tried to grab it for him. Janice, still carrying our bag, has a guard come over to inspect it. “This one contains our supplies. It was grabbed before we got to the to—”
“All bags here are considered your supply drop.” He proclaims, asserting it with no remorse, and takes the bag with force.
“Yeah, don't worry, we'll give your bags back.” Our supervisor chimes in, ignoring the sight of seeing the 2 of them talking.
I intend to politely argue, “What she was meaning is that the supplies in that particular bag came from ou—”
“And what I meant is don't worry! We're gonna give you rations to take back for your work today.” His throat rushes at me with irritation.
This whole time of coercion was what I predicted, but I did not count on not having the right to diversify our supplies.
If I knew that, then I wouldn't have ordered to take the bag with us until we were on the way back. Possibly, I was just happy that there were some that remained in the RV, and I was sensitive to the thoughts other hands would have found the bag had we left and returned a few hours later to retrieve it.
After our supervisor and the guards gathered all of the bags, they dumped everything into 1 pile, and practically every piece of aegis runs over to it. Suddenly, losing their equanimity and discipline, the other guards around start appearing more like scavengers, and less like security. “You brought books with you? Seriously?” a guard says to me.
I don't feed him a response to it, and he simply throws all 3 books at the ground before me.
“Whatever we'll be getting, it better have been worth all of this.” Lissie comments out loud, purposefully sounding impolite.
Our supervisor overhears her, and it draws his attention. “Oh, it's gonna be worth it.” He says, and once again snaps his fingers.
Moments of nothing happens, until the gates ahead of us start splitting apart. Once we can see the road, beyond the wall's barricade, bright lights beam at us. “Since you proved yourself useful to me, I'll be sending you on more missions, which will get farther in distances.”
Sure enough, a vehicle comes rolling in. Out of the driver side comes another guard. “Look who's your favorite mailman!” they say.
Though they are wearing a mesh face mask, I can tell from their hand gestures, repetitively raising and lowering their thumbs at their chest, are delivering a pronounced look of being proud, but mostly supercilious.
While looking at our new car, guards from behind the wall come out, with many hand-scoops of food, water, and ammunition. “You've got SIG Sauer P320 pistols right? We're giving you .357 SIG ammo then, and as for your kind partner here, with his AR-15, we're giving .223 Remington. You lady, with your Kahr Arms MK9, shall receive some 9mm.” Our supervisor details, indicating his knowledge of guns.
The g
uards conscientiously place all of these supplies in each bag, ignoring the fact we are standing above them as they do so. With mine, he picks it up, and shoves it into my chest. “Take it.” He firmly tells me, and then walks past back beyond the roadblock.
Two more times do I see other guards have the behavioral similarities directed to the rest of my group. “Welp, that's it! You'll have another mission, not tomorrow, but the day after.” Our supervisor says with a chirpy tone.
I figure then he deserves no more interaction, and, quickly, do I strap the bag around me, and take one more look around. A guard is standing over the boys' bodies, watching our every movement, oblivious to why I am giving a long, calculated, stare at them. “Make sure someone here buries them. Their deaths are on me.” I tell him, cold in my voice.
“They aren't worth the dirt they'd be put in!” he spouts out.
No. You wouldn't know that.
All of my warmth from my body feels as though it has drained away, leaving only coldness. Calmly, I look at my bag, simply drop it, and, while wanting to pound on that man, I figure I shall prove him wrong by tirelessly digging into some of the soft dirt around the area with my bare fingers. “Gary… we can't do it here.” Ashton says, fatigue apart of his statement.
The exerted effort needs to be worth it, so I ignore him and continue onward, as my response.
“Gary... Gary!” our supervisor shouts at me. Straight off of my knees, he rips me off the ground. “You want payback? Fine! We'll bury them! That's your payback!” he yells in my face, curling the hand he has gripped on my shirt.
With my group appearing all correlated with sorrow, and uncertainty as to feel whether accomplished or defeated, I accept our supervisor's compromise. He releases his grasp, and nods his head, as though he is listening to a rhythm on a song. “Good. Now, that's out of the way, so, get a move on!”
I dust myself off, and reclaim my bag. I do not take another single look at any element in this location, besides the car. We throw our bags in its trunk, and naturally do I take role as the driver. I prepare to take a step inside the driver's seat, but then I hear our supervisor say one last thing that clinches our group's commitment we have dared to face. “Welcome to C.!” he yells with spirit.
Everyone settles in our car fluently, except for me, for I struggle to find out how to fit my sword with me.
I guess I'll have to leave it in my left—held outside of the car's side window while I drive with my right hand. It's been clear skies today, with no sign of hazes. Let that not go wrong too.
With ignition already on, I switch to drive, and press on the gas as controlled as I can—not looking in any of my rear-view mirrors. “You know, we're probably going to see that place again.” Ashton comments from the back seat.
Since that is likely true, I remain silent, but it does not change the fact I simply am growing sick of looking at these roadblocks, no matter their impressive weapons or over-confident assurance in legitimacy they provide.
Chapter XXIII
Only the engine, and the wind from my opened window is crafting sound to this travel back to our shelter. I can tell my withdrawn surface is troubling Lissie right now, as she sits in the front passenger seat, and I notice she continuously glances back to me—based off of what my peripheral vision can see. “I sure wish GPS worked still, so we could go a different way, instead of re-tracking and visiting everything again.” She comments, wanting to force out an engaging conversation, but lacking encouragement to do such.
I agree with a nod, and return to my void of thoughts.
“I've got the map. Maybe we could—” Ashton brings up, before I clear the murkiness.
“It's alright, Ashton. We'll all be alright.”
I have to say it's alright, even if it's a challenge for me to agree. Part of me feels I have no right to claim it is though. My group has to deal with these traumas because I led us to this shelter. While it fulfilled one issue of the time, it brought another—with what seems to carry more repercussions.
I now decide to bring up a luring question that comes from examining the last few days, based off of the relentless shockers that have come. “Guys, if you could go back in time, would you have gotten into that RV?” I ask out loud.
Several more seconds of silence remain, until Janice's unmistakably canny voice expatiates, “You're right to ask yourself that, Gary. But, I'm willing to say if it wasn't for accepting ourselves into Harold's web of secrecy, then Lissie here would've never entered our lives, and that alone is enough for me to say 'yes' to that question.”
Ashton agrees, and so do I.
Lissie grows noticeably appreciative of that statement, while attempting to be humble and not draw attention to herself. “I'm not that special.” She softly says, low-key with the volume of her voice.
I turn my head to her, and she immediately looks back at me. “Janice is right. Out of all that has happened, you were worth it.” I tell her, realizing it is indubitably truthful she was good that came from us accepting the events that had unfolded.
Blushing begins to fill her cheeks, leaving me abased myself, but it is the kind I am willing to take, as long as it drags my mind out of today's unexpected wrongs. “What about you, then? Would you have gotten into that RV had you known what was going to happen?” I ask, while turning my sight back onto the road.
It does not take long for her to answer, “Well, I'll say this, if it wasn't for you, Gary, influencing me, then I would've turned-tail and fled. No offense, Janice, or Ashton. I'm just putting the scenario as if only Harold was the one that went outside to greet me.”
Ashton, who is in the seat directly behind me, begins to chuckle. “You know what? It sounds to me everyone here, and I'll even include Will on this, could get closer by denouncing Harold and everything that he stood for.”
Lissie agrees, and Janice chimes in with her response, “If it was not for Harold, then no RV would have been there to rally us together.”
I agree, to the extent of keeping ourselves humane, but we are still human too, and still feel betrayal.
My reflective thought comes out, “We should not speak ill of the dead. However, I will work to have him not be in my mind any longer after today.”
We pass through the town at this point. I quickly skim at the windows of the free-clinic, not needing an in-depth look to recall where those 2 men lay on the floor, along with the others. That painted image in my mind, with death beds in certain spots here, and blood splatters there, is the kind that would be sketched by a crime-scene investigator when a mass suicide and a murdering would have been highly disputed in society.
Now and days, it is easier to comprehend. This world, different from the last one, makes it less controversial to evaluate; both acts are now better sympathized and justified than they ever were before. Perhaps, before the modern age of technology, before the freedom to live without death or its trail around every corner, people were also able to handle doing one or the other—as we are at this point in time. Perhaps, history repeats itself, but just in different painted scenarios.
I ignore every other building, not curious to see what aftermath—that we did not leave, but just shoved upfront looks like, and would look to anyone else that comes across this area. “Gotta fill up on fuel?” Ashton asks, jokingly.
Though needless information to let fill my mind, it does raise up a curious thought about the convenient store.
I wonder if that haze will find a way to escape? I would imagine a haze, when formed, could not simply squeeze through small cracks or crevices. Then again, what do I know of all of their abilities?
Lissie begins speaking those similar thoughts out loud, as if we are on the same wavelength. “I hope if anyone goes in there, the lack of consumables in the main place would discourage them from exploring the rest.”
“Sure, but it might only motivate them, as it did us. Only a note on the counter might prevent them from their final jump scare.” Ashton says, sardonic in his tone, understandab
ly so.
Why not do that?
I begin feather-braking to a stop, turning onto the concreted surface of the gas station. “What are you doing, Gary?” Lissie questions.
“I am going to do what Ashton suggested. Ashton, do you still have your journal?”
He reaches in his jacket, pulls it out, and hands it to me, with a glimpse of reservation in his face. “Shit! I think I accidentally lost the pencil. It must've dropped out of my pocket. I don't think we can.”
I hear him out, but I refuse to let that stop me, so I get out of the car, and prop my sword into my sit as best as it can.
“How do you plan to give the message?” Ashton asks.
“I will find a way to provide it. In the meantime, just stay here and relax.” I tell him, along with everyone else.
I hustle to the store, working with my flexibility to quickly get through the broken glass door and inside. First, I lean my head down the small hallway, to ensure that haze did not—or was not beginning to—exit the storage room. No sign of it is around, so either it remains in there, imprisoned, or has left the premises entirely. I make my way to the front desk, where an employee would have been posted with various work supplies, and I search behind it.
I find it more difficult than I imagined it would have been to discover a writing tool.
“Surely, 1 pen has to be around here.” I tell myself, somewhat frustrated from seeing paperclips, scraps of sticky notes, tape, but no pens or pencils.
The search commences for around a minute, or 2, and still I come up empty. Part of me wishes to complain about Ashton not being careful with the pencil, but then I reconsider clearing my thoughts.
We have all made mistakes, and this one is nowhere near as heavy-barring as the one I feel for those boys. We would have needed to find more pencils again, once that one Ashton had ran to the ground from usage. They are replaceable, but those boys cannot be, and I must live with that, so I should not carp about things like pencils to Ashton.