Reaping

by Makansi, K.

  “Remy?” Eli’s voice calls. I open my eyes, the dawn blooming full and welcoming. “You okay, Little Bird?”

  Still hazy with sleep, he stares down at me through bleary eyes. Weeks ago, Eli would have had a conniption when he woke up and found me missing. But I’ve made it such a habit that it doesn’t bother him anymore.

  “Yeah.”

  “I can’t sleep these days, either,” he says, sitting down next to me and laying back, his hands behind his head. “There’s too much in my head.”

  “Strange,” I say, forcing a smile. “It feels like mine is too empty.”

  “Empty?” He turns to look at me. “After everything that’s happened?”

  I shrug.

  “I guess it’s not that my head is empty, but that I am. I can’t figure out where I’m going, what I’m doing. All I want is to make them suffer.”

  There’s a silence. I don’t have to say who them is. Eli knows. With anyone else, the silence might be awkward. But with Eli, it’s just calm. There’s never any judgment.

  “We share that goal, Little Bird. But it’s not enough to build a life.”

  “I don’t need a life,” I bite back. “I need revenge.”

  Eli is quiet. When he speaks, his voice is low and calm, but there’s an intensity to it I haven’t heard in a long time.

  “You know better than that. I know you do. You might not be able to see beyond that horizon, yet, and I don’t blame you. But you’ll walk that path and crest that mountain and you’ll find yourself wondering what’s on the other side.”

  I nod. “One day, maybe. Not today.”

  “Maybe not. Maybe today, we just find Normandy, get some real food and half-decent beds. Let’s go. We’re almost there.”

  Eli stands and offers me a hand. I let him pull me up. Together we walk a little ways back to where we’d pitched our tents for the night. Soren, his blond hair sticking up in every direction, is boiling some water for oatmeal and tea, and Bear and Miah are packing up our gear. We’re silent as we go through the now-familiar ritual, the packing, cleaning, and cooking.

  “Gotta get moving,” Soren mutters eventually, betraying our shared reluctance to begin yet another long day of walking. As much as I don’t want to walk twenty kilometers today, I’m anxious to reach Normandy. We're going a bit slower than we'd like because of Miah, but we’re still making good time. We’ve done a little over thirty kilometers a day, by my estimates, which should put us into Normandy tonight, after five days on the trail.

  “We should be there before dark,” Eli says, pausing as we crowd around the plasma examining the map of the surrounding woods that the Resistance had hacked from the Sector a few years back. Because my plasma can recharge on sunlight, we’ve been able to use the most recently downloaded terrain map of the region, and, while I’m sure it’s not as detailed as the latest Sector version, it has reasonable zoom capacity and an exceptional one meter raster size.

  “It looks like we’ve got a river to cross.”

  “I could certainly use a rinse. I’ve almost definitely never smelled worse.” Miah mutters. Soren laughs; he’s been noticeably happier since Miah arrived from Okaria. When he turns his gaze on me, the flash of heat takes me by surprise, and I remember our time together on The Zephyr, journeying downriver in our escape from the Sector. The time I almost lost myself in my hunger for him, for closeness, warmth.

  I take the plasma from Eli’s hands and examine it more closely. “We should head south for about five miles, and then cut through this old highway to the west. The dominant tree species will shift, and we’ll know to turn toward the river. Then we can bypass the rapids and cross at the narrowest point. Right here. We’ll be closer to Normandy anyway because then we can follow this old roadway here,” I use my fingers to zoom in on the map, “straight to the base.”

  “Great. Let’s go.” Eli stands abruptly. Without another word he shoulders his pack and starts down the trail.

  “Eli,” I call to him. “Not that way. This way.” I point down a different path, a sharper cut to the East.

  He stares at me for a moment, his eyes narrow in concentration. But then he relaxes, his face settling into a grin, and he laughs at himself.

  “Right. I knew that.”

  I shake my head. “It’s a good thing you made me your navigator.”

  Eli winks at me as he walks by. “Birds are the best navigators,” he says. “Especially if you navigate us to a river so we won’t have to smell those oafs anymore.”

  I lean in, wrinkling my nose and fan the air.

  “Better not exclude yourself.”

  Eli chuckles, cinches his pack tighter, and we set off.

  After several hours, Soren, Eli, Bear and I stop for a few minutes to rest and allow Miah to catch up to us. We haven’t seen him in about twenty minutes. He always falls behind—he’s had trouble keeping up with us since the beginning. Back at the safe house, it made sense. He was going through withdrawal. Anyone who’s been raised on Sector MealPaks will get sick if they’re suddenly taken away. It’s a rite of passage for Resistance members. A cleanse. As the body adjusts to the new, untreated food, it experiences sudden withdrawal from myriad medicines, targeted cellular enhancers, antioxidant supplements, phytochemicals and who-knows-what-else. Fever, vomiting, inflammation, exhaustion, muddled thinking: any and all are possible. Everyone goes through it differently. With Miah, it seemed like it was everything at once. It was brutal. The strangest thing was that Vale was fine. No withdrawal, nothing. Not even forgetfulness, mild confusion, or dizziness, the most common symptoms of all. We pestered him about it enough, no one more than Miah, but Vale insisted he had no answers.

  Even now, weeks later, Miah still struggles. As an engineer in the Sector, he never received the same type of physical training as the rest of us. As members of the Resistance, we’ve been training more or less every day for almost three years. As a soldier, Vale’s physical training, sleep, and diet regimen would have been optimized to create the perfect leader for the Okarian Sector’s Seed Bank Protection Project—intelligent, sharp, creative, not to mention in peak physical condition. A formidable foe. Even Bear is in excellent shape from all the physical labor on the Farms. But Miah didn’t go through any of that. Although Eli is adamant we stick together, he often walks too fast for Miah to keep up, so we end up stopping to wait for him. We get to rest, but not Miah. As soon as he catches up, Eli’s ready to go again.

  Minutes tick by, but Miah doesn’t show. As it becomes more and more clear that Miah’s far behind, I take off my boots. My feet feel like they’ve been pounded by hammers. But the panic buds inside me as I imagine the worst. What if he collapsed or wandered off the trail? Or worse, was captured, killed?

  “I’m going back.” I say quickly, tying up the laces on my boots and standing up.

  “No, I’ll go,” Soren says at once, looking at me, but his words are quicker than his feet. He makes no move to stand. “I’m sure he’s fine. Can’t be too far behind.”

  “Why hasn’t he shown, then? We’ve been waiting fifteen minutes.”

  “Remy’s right,” Eli says. “We can’t afford to lose someone.”

  So we stand, reluctantly, and turn back the way we came. As we walk, Eli uses our signal, the horned owl’s call, and we all strain our ears for a response.

  “Wait. I think I hear him. That way, off-trail.” Soren says, pointing through the woods at a side path. Eli makes the call again and we all stand still, waiting for the response. When it comes, I heave a sigh of relief. We were stupid, losing track of him. Any one of us could have been in his place. These woods aren’t exactly welcoming. He must have mistaken this path for the main one. We push our way through the branches, bushes, and trees, making the owl’s call again and waiting for Miah’s echo, louder now. He’s close.

  We find him lying on his back, staring up at the clouds, looking pale even as his silken black, quite hefty beard threatens to overtake his face. He pushes himself up onto his
elbows and offers us a strange smile.

  “Hello.”

  “What are you doing,” Eli says. It’s more a statement than a question.

  “I hallucinated.”

  “You what?” Soren stares down at his friend.

  “I think I’m dehydrated. I don’t think this wild food is good for me. I took a positively explosive shit earlier.” He looks up at me with an embarrassed smile. “Sorry to be so descriptive, but anyway, now I’m out of water.” He holds up his empty water bottle and shrugs, resigned to his fate. “I thought I heard a waterfall, and I saw this beautiful albino fawn who looked just like Moriana, except for it being a fawn and all, and albino, and I followed her here because she told me to. Then she disappeared and I realized I was going crazy, and that I was out of water, so I lay down. Then I realized I was lost. I mean, where the hell are we, anyway?”

  After all that, Miah’s face cracks and he starts laughing like it’s the last time he’s ever going to laugh. Desperate, awful; a pouring out of giggles, hee-haws, and uncontrolled hiccups culminating in a crying cough that leaves tears streaking down his cheeks and disappearing into his beard. Bear and I exchange worried glances.

  “Well, shit.” Soren joins him on the ground. I unscrew the cap to my mostly-full water bottle and offer it to Miah. He nods his head in thanks and tips his head back, draining half the bottle in a few gulps.

  “Ok,” I say, “We’re about two miles to the river. We were some fifteen minutes from the crossroads when we stopped, so that’s another half-hour from here, and another forty or so minutes after that if we slow our pace. I think that’s the nearest water source.”

  “Let's look at the map again.” Eli pulls may plasma from my pack, and we both peer at it. “Maybe there’s a stream or spring or something closer. Miah,” he looks down at him, “don’t drink it all at once. That can make you sick, too. The rest of us need to ration our water so it lasts until we get to the river. Let’s make sure this idiot doesn’t die out here, okay?”

  We’re lucky we’re so close to Normandy, I think, as we plow on. The sun rises to its noon height then fades, snuffed out as the air stiffens and shivery grey clouds like sinister wisps of smoke sidle in. Bad weather. My stomach growls. I’m thirsty. We tell Miah funny stories about Rhinehouse, about Eli’s antics at base, our reconnaissance missions, and anything we can think of to keep ourselves entertained. He grunts and half-laughs and keeps his head down as if watching every footfall was a requirement to propel himself forward. At half-past noon, we reach the river, though the sun has completely dissolved into the mist and the temperature has begun to drop. After the river, thankfully, the terrain won’t be too rough, the elevation change is minimal, and we’ll have the vague path of an old world highway to guide us.

  I fill all our bottles and treat them with the probiotic UV filter. Eli and Soren prepare a light lunch of leftover fruit and meat from a trap Bear set yesterday evening. It’s far less than what we should eat, but it will have to do. I attempt to scrub the dirt off my face and rinse my hands and arms with the cold water. Predictably, Miah’s mood lightens soon after he eats.

  We set out again on our slow, meandering way, but Miah disappears again into the woods not twenty minutes after our meal and when he returns, it’s clear he’s every bit as ill as he was earlier.

  “Damn,” he shakes his head and whispers when he walks back our way. I stick out my tongue in disgust.

  “Anyone else hear thunder?” Soren asks, casting his eyes skyward, a sly glint in his eyes.

  “Fuck you,” Miah returns.

  It’s well into evening by the time we make it to Normandy, and we’re all just as filthy as we were before the river, and twice as hungry. But Miah especially is a pallid, glassy-eyed mess. He strongly resembles an oversized dying woodland creature. An old grizzly, maybe, that came out of hibernation too soon.

  Normandy is built in the ruins of an old automobile factory dating to the pre-hovercar era. Most of the base is located in the old utility tunnels, similar to Thermopylae, which was dug into the hollowed shell of Chicago. There’s some storage above ground, from what I remember of the Director’s brief lectures, but most of Normandy is in the tunnels. The main entrance is a manhole that’s been well hidden in a copse of trees grown over the old industrial site. Even with four of us looking, it takes about twenty minutes before Bear finally shouts excitedly that he’s found the door.

  “Praise the harvest, and all the gods invented by man,” Miah says, collapsing onto his back as the rest of us dig around to uncover the entrance to the base. “I thought I was going to die out here.”

  A wave of relief that we made it this far safe and sound, despite our hunger, washes over me now. And hope, too. Will my father be there? Rhinehouse? Kenzie’s parents? The Director?

  Eli and Soren scrounge around for the hidden lever and then pry the cover off. Eli climbs down the ladder into the tunnel. Once we’re all at the bottom, we type the passcode into the digital scanner set into the metal door blocking the tunnel. A tiny camera in the corner of the doorframe fixes its lens on each of us and captures an image to process through the facial recognition software in the comm center. It will only allow those who have registered with the Resistance to enter, so the two foreign faces—Bear and Miah—prompt the intercom system.

  “State your names and declare your guests.”

  Eli speaks into the screen: “Elijah Tawfiq, Remy Alexander, and Soren Skaarsgard from base Thermopylae with Bear, a renegade Farm worker, and Jeremiah Sayyid, formerly of the Okarian Sector. We’re survivors of the attack. Jeremiah is sick and requires immediate medical care.”

  Three sizable, but ancient looking metal locks unlatch in sequence and the door swings open to reveal a narrow, dirty passageway to a second door. The door opens almost as soon as we close off the outside, and a tall, thin man with a thick shock of grey hair beckons us inside. A wiry grey mustache sticks out beneath a small nose and I immediately think mouse.

  “I’m Hodges, the medic here. What going on?” He looks at Miah.

  “He’s feverish. Diarrhea. Might have an infection. Exhausted. Still recovering from MealPak withdrawal,” Eli rattles off.

  “Nothing a warm bed and some good food won’t solve,” he says as we stop at the door to the infirmary. He takes Miah by the arm. I peer into a room with a row of beds lined up along the wall. They look awfully inviting, and I know I’m not the only one who would appreciate a little time in the infirmary with a kindly medic fussing over me. “I’ll take care of him. The rest of you head into the kitchen, down this hallway and take the first right. Adrienne, Normandy's captain, is heading there now.”

  My heart seems to settle into an iron cage.

  “Hodges … has anyone else come from Thermopylae yet?” The words come out in a rush of desperation, of hope ready to die.

  He shakes his head.

  “Not yet. We’ve word that there might be a group heading here soon, though. It’s your father you’re after….”

  I nod mutely.

  “Time will tell. For now, go eat. Adrienne will want to talk to you.”

  “Thank you,” I respond, biting my lip, disappointed, but what he said sounds promising. A group might be heading here soon.

  Meanwhile, I’m experiencing a more pressing physical sensation. My stomach feels like an empty, bottomless pit. The mere idea of a kitchen is overpowering. Food. Water. Chairs. Hodges waves us out of the infirmary.

  As we walk, Soren grabs my hand and squeezes. “We made it,” he whispers, his breath warm and tickling my skin. It sends shivers up and down my spine. I half think he’s going to kiss me, and I steady myself in anticipation—or is it unease?

  “‘May the flowers bloom tomorrow, too,’” I say, reciting a line from my father’s poetry. A prayer, Dad calls it. A prayer for tomorrows. I keep walking, hoping that tomorrow will bring news of my father, and maybe some clarity about how I feel about Soren.

  And Vale.

  I shove his
face out of my mind even as I breathe a silent prayer that his tomorrows bring him here, too.

  We round the corner into what must be the kitchen. Several hundred of us lived at Thermopylae, our old base, but I remember the Director saying only thirty people, give or take those coming and going, live and work at Normandy. The difference in numbers shows in the kitchen. Here wood tables are nearly on top of the oven and stove, and the whole area would have fit in one corner of our dining hall.

  But the kitchen is cozy, and a few people are busying themselves over saucepans smelling of rich garlic and onion, paprika, and chilies. I crane my neck trying to get a glimpse of what’s in the saucepan, but all I can see is a brown mess, some kind of beans. Maybe lentils. My stomach rumbles.

  A short woman sporting an unruly pile of blond hair turns when she hears us enter, and she strides forward. She shakes Eli’s hand vigorously.

  “Adrienne, base captain. Welcome to Normandy.” She clasps each of our hands in turn as we introduce ourselves. “We’re getting a late dinner ready for you, but in the meantime, I want to hear everything. The information we’ve gotten here has been sketchy at best, and we’ve been in limbo since we initiated radio silence after the attack.” She motions us to sit. One of the other cooks brings cups and a pot of hot tea. Adrienne pours as Eli begins talking.

  Eli and Soren recount everything that’s happened. I chime in here and there, but largely, the story is too personal for me, our struggles and traumas sour on my tongue. The discovery of the LOTUS database. The raid that went wrong. Our capture and escape from Okaria. How we found Bear. Vale and Miah’s flight from the Sector. The Black Ops’ attack on Thermopylae. My mother’s death. Hearing the story all over again, I blink back tears as Eli chokes out her name. Brinn. Mom.

  “I’m so sorry, Remy.” Adrienne’s eyes are glassy, her voice shaky. “I knew your mother well, back in the Sector.” She doesn’t continue, it seems she can’t. Eli reaches for my hand and squeezes.