“Kilt?”
He shook his head, remembering he was asked a question. “Uh, no. No, I don’t really drink. Not often anyway.”
“You don’t?” Eli sounded genuinely surprised.
“No. I don’t,” he replied sharply. It was a common stereotype that all Farmers were drunks. Well, it was true, but that was only because the bosses handed the stuff out like it was holy water. Kilt always thought it was the same for everyone, the Slaggers and Corps, something to ease the pain of near human extinction. He was surprised after talking to others in the Training Center that this wasn’t the case. But then after learning from one of the guards, whose eyes were as big as olives from whatever drug he was tripping on, that the vitamin factory they had always sent their crops to just after harvest, was actually a drug factory, Kilt began to suspect that the GovCorps had some hand in all the free alcohol on the farms.
He supposed it was cheaper and easier to allow the farmers to eat the crop before it was sent off to be treated. So instead of using the drugs to control them, they used booze. The bitter pill to swallow was knowing they handed their minds over to the GovCorps voluntarily. At least the Slaggers and the Corporates could say they didn’t have a choice.
Kilt shrugged. “I used to drink just because everyone else did, but I never got into it.”
Eli stared at him intently. Then he said something Kilt didn’t expect. “Because of my allergy, I get horrible hangovers. I had always envied those who could get drunk whenever they wanted. Block out the world. Make themselves think they are having the time of their life. That’s why I was surprised.” Eli turned back to the television. “I guess you’re right. I’m not missing much.”
Again he thought of the chicken pot pie. He never considered someone like Eli as having anything in common with him.
Eli muted the television. “So what do you think of the produce? The fruit.” By the disgusted look on his face, Kilt knew he was looking to complain.
He mirrored Eli’s facial expression and shook his head.
“I agree.” Eli smiled.
“Do they,” Kilt motioned toward the door indicating the rest of the Corps, “think this stuff is normal?”
“They do.”
“Everything is mushy. Tasteless. How can they stomach it?”
“Not only do they stomach it, but they actually like it.” Eli gestured. “How can they not? They don’t know any different. Think about it. The Corps tell them that this the way a tomato tastes. They’ve never had a real tomato. So they believe it. For them, it’s literally the cream of the crop.”
Kilt shook his head. All that work they did on the farms, only to give it away and have the fruits of their labor end up as pithy packages of chemical mind munchers. Eli turned back to the television and sipped his water, and then he said something that Kilt wished he hadn’t: “But we know different. You and I.”
Kilt stared at Eli’s profile as the flashing images from the television illuminated his pale face, shadowing his protruding cheek bones and dark bags under weary eyes.
After that Kilt lay down on the couch and went to sleep.
Now it was morning.
He shuffled across the shiny tile floor, standard white. He drug his feet, moving at the pace of a man who had six hours to travel three meters.
Kilt entered Eli’s room, at first peeking inside from the cracked door timidly, the way he did as a child at his parent’s bedroom on Sunday mornings. Then he pushed it all the way open.
First he sat on the bed and looked around the room, an immaculate blank slate, page one in a new coloring book, nothing but outlines, nothing with a human touch. No pictures, no passions, no comfort.
At first he thought that maybe Eli was one of those clean freak germaphobes, but then upon closer look, he found a thin layer of dust coating every untouched surface. Stray hairs and grainy lint flecks as far as the eye could see. For the first time, he thought about what it must have been like for Eli, growing up an orphan in the Slags. Poor and lonely among the poor and lonely. Of course he set his sights on the Corps. He wanted to go home, back to where he used to be safe with a loving family. Then the day finally came for him to go home, but he had no family and no possessions to bring with him and none there waiting for him either.
This was just a luxury orphanage.
Kilt stood in front of the black bureau, which was bolted into the floor. He had a feeling there were about five thousand identical bureaus sitting in bedrooms just like this throughout CorMand. Carefully, he wrapped his hands around the two grey knobs and pulled open the top drawer.
He found nothing but socks and underwear. He closed the drawer and went on to the next. Finally, in the bottom drawer, he saw something.
Sticking out from beneath a pair of grey pants was a dog eared piece of paper. Carefully lifting the pants, he placed them aside, making sure not shift the fold. The paper was actually a photo, an old fashioned one, not holograph or digital. He held it up. The light filtered through making the yellowed edges glow.
It was an old picture of Mevia and Eli standing together in front of a dilapidated park. A rusty swing set stood behind them, its long brown legs straddling a pile of dusty red brick. They were drawing each other close, laughing. Eli had his arm wrapped around her waist holding her against him while her hand sat perched on his shoulder, those dizzy curls lifted by the wind, framing her delicate face. It was almost as though the picture was alive and the scene was unfolding before his eyes. Mevia looked youthful, carefree, nothing how she was in the Training Center. And Eli, sheesh, what a contrast. He was like a completely different person, thicker, healthier, and most certainly happier.
Kilt fixated on their clothes. Hip, city kid fashions, the kind often envied by farmers. Lazy fabrics, tee-shirts drooping over worn jeans, held together by tight, fake leather jackets.
There was a pang deep in his stomach. It was muffled at first but then it echoed and amplified into a cacophony that arose so suddenly it took his breath away. He closed his eyes, the picture still suspended delicately between his fingers. Finding it was a mistake. He should never have come in here. He didn’t know how Eli could stomach it, hacking, breaking and entering people’s lives. It was despicable, and he had made too many enemies in the process.
And now there was a noose around his neck, and Kilt was the executioner.
His eyes glossed over the cold white walls, the barren furniture and finally the empty bed. The thin cream colored blanket was made to military standards, hospital corners and all. This place was killing Eli and he couldn’t even see it. Well, he saw it but was convinced he could change it. No, not change, that was the wrong word, manipulate. That’s what Eli did. He was a poor boy that survived by manipulating the world around him to better his situation. Too bad Mevia wasn’t drone. They’d be much happier.
Kilt almost felt sorry for Eli, but then again, was he any better? All he did was accept one thing and they turned him into a killer. And who was to say that after this job was finished he wouldn’t be forced into another one and another one.
He pushed away the thought, turned and spit on the tile floor. But then he very gently turned the picture face down back on the folded pants and replaced the other pair on top. He shut the drawer, stood up and left the bedroom, shutting the door behind.
Chapter 50
Mevia
Mevia huddled under the foraged black tarp. It was cut from a larger piece into individual sections for rainy days like today, except this was more like a dumping from the heavens, as if the gods were emptying their troubles upon the heads of the poor mortals. It had been raining for two days straight, but those on patrol had managed to catch slivers of evidence pointing to the Poacher’s whereabouts. So far, they were still moving west. As long as they didn’t move south, the Tritons could breathe easy. However, they weren’t. Cree, who had left the same day it started raining in search of a new net was still out and unaccounted for. Between missing Cree, the lack of fish, and the frustration
with the rain, the tension down in the Clearing was dense and all-consuming.
Mevia had spent the morning smudging through mud, drowning in the rain as she helped construct the third boat. She slipped and fell on the ground a dozen times while sawing the trees. She didn’t fare any better when she tried to help mend the seams of the bark. In the end, she walked away with bruises and cut up knees and fingers, something she did not discover until after her bath while scrubbing away the thick layers of mud covering her body.
After her bath she climbed up the wet mountain, not an easy task while clutching a tarp overhead. She sat atop the edge peering down into the hidden horrors lying just below the tree lined surface of the woods.
Somewhere to the west, Dila was on patrol duty, but, craving some privacy, Mevia snuck up to a different part of the rock. She lay on her stomach, her tarp draped over like a fallen tent.
She studied every branch and bushel within the green mess. The trees were blowing in all directions, at all at different speeds. Some head banging like drunken rockers, other swaying in casual kum-ba-ya rhythms. It was impossible to discern between human and natural movement.
Instead she looked for other signs. Smoke, dead animal carcasses, flocks of birds bursting through the tree tops in a panic. Nothing. The rain muted the land.
After an hour, she was ready to call it a day but didn’t want to go back to the Clearing. She couldn’t bring herself to spend the remainder of the afternoon avoiding the hollow faces of the group. Nobody ever said so out loud of course, but she wondered how many of them secretly wished the hunters had never stumbled upon her those months ago. They were probably thinking she was more trouble than she was worth.
“You’re a real piece of work,” she muttered, but couldn’t hear her own voice over the pattering rain. Because if she had she would have stood up, climbed over the other side of the mountain, and roved through the jungle until she came face to face with the Poachers. Then she would release herself into their custody, freeing her tribe from their bloodthirsty revenge. If she were really sorry that’s what she would do. Instead she lay there, on the cold stone, ignoring the sharp rock as it pinched pitilessly into her hips.
Ever since James made the announcement, her feelings swayed back and forth between guilt and resenting those that made her guilty. Yes, it was her fault they were coming after them, but she hadn’t intended to put the others in harm’s way. However, the Tritons were naïve in their understanding of what it was like being held prisoner by those disgusting pigs. They had no right to make her feel bad, and yet…
What about the module? Don’t pretend that it wasn’t part of your so-called heroic mission. She rubbed her rain-slick forehead. I’m no saint. She thought. But I’ll make up for my transgressions back on the mainland. I’ll do what everyone else is too afraid to do.
Suddenly someone was beside her. She reached for her knife, but it was only Sandra, crouched under her own tarp, out of breath from her climb.
Mevia gave her a tired smile. “It’s like a war zone down there. Can’t see a thing,” she yelled over the rain.
Sandra squinted against the drops splattering over the tarp which was draped around her head, clinging under her chin in a way that made her appear almost biblical. She nodded toward the east. “Come with me,” she said and began trudging over.
Mevia pulled herself up and followed. They walked over the rocky terrain, heading down an incline that curved into a rock wall. Sandra motioned for her to keep following as she squeezed in between two boulders that lead to a cave.
They ducked down into the low ceilinged shelter, just large enough for two, maybe three people and sat on the stone ground near the entrance where there was still a little bit of light.
Removing the tarps, they shook their wet limbs, and ran fingers through dripping hair, laughing.
“Can you believe this weather?” Mevia asked. “Has it ever been this heavy before?”
Sandra wiped away the droplets from under her eyes. “No. Never this bad. Not the greatest timing for it either.”
“No,” Mevia sighed, “it’s not.”
They were both quiet for a minute until they caught their breath. The tufts of saw grass growing among the rocks danced in the wind, beating against the wet stones. Mevia pulled out her canteen, drank and passed it.
Sandra took a large gulp. “How are the boats coming along?”
“Good. I think. They’ve only been on it for three days, but James’ big boat is completely finished and Thomas told me one boat would be done by this evening.”
“Excellent.”
“This morning I was helping Dila and Telly gather and store soy beans for the trip. We’re having trouble estimating how much food and water we’ll need for eleven adults.”
“Seven adults.”
Mevia stopped. There was a finality in the way Sandra spoke the two words as if she had been waiting a long time to say them. “Excuse me?”
Sandra sighed. “I’ve been dreading this conversation, but,” a thin smile spread across her wind chapped face, “some of us are not leaving.”
Heat rose from Mevia’s neck and went up into her cold cheeks. She looked into Sandra’s sensible eyes and thought to herself, you knew this was coming. After all, she saw the look exchanged between her and Thomas. “So you and Thomas are going to stay here with….?”
“Telly and Kurt.”
Mevia picked up a pebble and threw it into a pile of rocks. From the west, thunder rumbled followed by a cold wind that lifted the hair from her neck. “You’re not a criminal you know,” her voice was icier than she intended. “And you don’t have to stay here just because the government says you do.”
Sandra tilted her head. “Mevia, we’re staying because this is our home and we are a family.”
Mevia scowled, pushing the hair from her eyes. “Yeah, and what about me? Or Cree, or James? We’re your family and we’re leaving. Why don’t you come with us?” She bounced her leg, wishing she could stand up and move around, but the ceiling was too low.
“Listen to me.” Sandra leaned forward. “I understand that you are worried about us, but you shouldn’t be angry. Think about how the four of us feel being left like this.”
“Left? No one’s forcing you to stay.”
“This island is our home. It’s our common denominator. Before we were all strangers and now we’re a family. At least I thought we were.”
Mevia took a deep breath to calm herself, but it didn’t work. “What do you mean?”
“We’ve put so much work into the Clearing: pulling branches, making beds, pottery, and water systems, clearing tree roots for the garden. It was a group effort and now, it seems that, as soon as the going gets tough, everyone is eager to just up and leave,” Sandra’s voice rose. “Things aren’t going to be the same back on the mainland.”
“It’s just a move, Sandra. Families move houses all the time.”
“No.” Sandra waved her finger. “This is not the same thing.”
“It is!”
“No Mevia!” Now Sandra looked as though she were about to cry. “Don’t you see? When you cross over to that mainland everyone is going to split up, go their own way. They will go out on their own in search of God knows what. Did you think that once we got there everyone would just set up camp and stay together forever? I wish as much as you do that that would be the case but it simply will not happen.” She looked outside. A breeze lifted strands of grey hair from behind her ears. When she spoke again her voice was softer. “Just look at you with your plans. This island is the only thing keeping this family together. Without it, we are just eleven.”
Mevia inched closer. Sandra still wasn’t looking at her but staring off into the distance, her eyes water-heavy and wrinkled with concern. “Listen to me, Sandra,” Mevia begged. “Just think of all the good you can do on the mainland. Things will be so much better.”
Sandra said nothing, and Mevia thought for a moment that maybe she was considering her words,
but then she spoke. “Not everyone views the world the same way you do.”
“What are you talking about? How can you stick up for the GovCorps after they deported you?”
Sandra held up a hand, silencing Mevia. “That’s part of the reason I want to stay. There’s a purpose for us being here. Why would the GovCorps bother to send us off? There has to be something about this land, something of value. I’d like to find out what that is. Maybe I can even find a way to protect it.”
Suddenly there was a clap of thunder and the storm picked up, the icy wind tore through the cave, lifting their discarded tarps.
Sandra pulled hers back over her head. “We’d better get down to the Clearing. They might need our help with the garden.” She looked into Mevia’s eyes pointedly. “We’ll talk about this some more, later, ok?”
Mevia went out into the bitter wind without bothering to cover herself. What was there left to discuss? She was done talking, and yet she still had much to say.
She kept her distance as she followed Sandra down to the cavern. A cluster of Guineas parted to let them through. Along the way she watched as Sandra made little stops: a brief caress on a stone or a fondle on a fern leaf. And then upon the outskirts of the Clearing she reached down to clear away some fallen brush littering the pathway.
Chapter 51
After the goat was roasted, eaten and the cooking pots were scrubbed, after the evening chores were completed, the garden was covered, the hunting spears cleaned and stowed away, after the campfire was extinguished, the sulfuric spoke slithering up into the starry sky, after their teeth were bristled, their feet were washed, and their clothes hung to dry, the exhausted tribe collapsed into bed. But for a long time after they were all peacefully snoring away, Mevia lay wide awake, twitchy as a cricket.
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