by Tim Marquitz
Desperate as the people were to believe in something—anything—they fell in line. They’d trusted this young, brash governor who dedicated his life to a world where their children could grow up safe, free from the corruption of a sordid existence that no longer cared. Utopia had come to the masses.
They’d been fools, Morgan most of all.
He shook his head in disgust as he inched up from the ledge and slipped back onto the certainty of the roof. The stinging breeze pecked at his unkempt hair as he made his way to the stairwell. Bitter wisps of unwashed flesh wafted about his nose. His clothes were stiff with grime, each step eliciting a soft creak of protest at the movement. He looked to his hands, seeing the dark lines that stained the creases, too long embedded to be scrubbed away. This was a far cry from the world he’d once known.
Less than five years after the National Registration Act was enacted, Morgan’s dreams crumbled. Desperate to cement their place in a changing nation, Congress overwhelmingly voted to alter the agreement they’d made. It evolved. No longer would the implant be used solely to restrain the dissident factions of society. It was modified from a passive restraint to an active control in quiet, stealthy steps, sinister intent buried in reams of camouflaging propaganda and legal jargon. Laws fell into place to classify the people, to categorize them. Money flowed into the development of software that expanded the scope of the implants, their influence. Corporations bought their way in, assuring their place in the growing empire. Lines were drawn in the sand to separate the wealthy from the increasingly medicated middle class and poor.
The last act of a desperate populace, soon to drown in a sea of induced apathy, was to vote Morgan out of office. So visible in the charge to implement the system that enslaved the people, he became the focal point of society’s rage. Congress willingly sacrificed him to appease their constituents and buy time. Not long after, the masses were anesthetized.
Morgan’s footfalls echoed in the confined space of the stairwell. His friends had abandoned him, fearful his status was toxic to their own. Opportunity, and the money that came with it, dried up, and Morgan swirled down the drain of society. He’d come home to find Karen dead. She stared at the ceiling with empty, gray eyes, foamy bile encrusting her lips and chin. An empty pill bottle lay on the bed beside her stiffened fingers.
Morgan lost the house the following week, his last car shortly after. By then, the laws he’d helped draft were in full effect. He was unemployable, a burden on the new society he’d helped shape. Like the rest of the indigents, he was given three years to turn his fortunes around or face reclamation. His welfare check was a death sentence.
At least it had been until he met the coyote.
Hunched shivering in a makeshift shelter, little more than a cardboard box insulated with plastic shopping bags, Morgan stared bleary-eyed at the man who strode into the alley he called home. There was no fear. The whispers in his skull assured him of that, but he was curious. The man came to stand a few feet from the box. A green light flickered in his gloved palm as his dark eyes settled on Morgan.
“Morgan Speers?”
“Yes?”
The man dropped to a squat, his snakeskin cowboy boots squeaking against the wet asphalt. “You’re due for reclamation in two weeks.”
The words were like a bullet. Morgan gasped and popped upright. He didn’t need the reminder. His pulse raced as he stared at the man’s weathered face, unable to speak.
“Relax,” the man said with the slightest hint of a Mexican accent, his gaze flitting to the street for a brief glance. “My name is Raul, and I can help you escape your death.”
Morgan could still see Raul’s face in his mind’s eye as he slipped out onto the street. Once more he had to think of Karen to calm his nerves. He was too close to get caught now. He only needed to lay low a little longer. Anxiety and uncertainty were expected of him by the EMPs who monitored the system. After all, he was just one day away from the end of his life, but Morgan worried he would become too nervous and be dosed, killing off any desire to be free of the country. That induced apathy would serve only to land him in one of the reclamation farms where he would be kept in a coma for the rest of his life, parceled out: blood, limbs, and organs, as needed.
Thanks to the coyote, Morgan had other plans. Raul promised to smuggle him out of the country. Mexican businessmen had plenty of room for American workers on the run. Morgan would be little more than a slave for the ten years he would be indebted to the coyote’s bosses, but he would be alive. It was a trade he was willing to make.
Morgan did his best to look inconspicuous as he weaved down the sidewalk through the morning foot traffic. His meeting with Raul had been set. He had only to get there. Passersby didn’t spare him a glance, functional society inured to the condemned who wandered the streets. No threat to anyone, the homeless were nothing more than organic replacement parts. They didn’t warrant a thought. Morgan sneered at the passing faces, scrubbing his expression blank when he spied an EMP officer walking his direction. Morgan looked away fast, but he’d caught a glimpse of the officer’s expression. The man was smirking.
Guilt assailed him. Did they know what he planned?
The muscles in Morgan’s jaw clenched as the EMP officer drew closer. A subtle throb drummed at his temple. He could feel the man’s eyes on him and saw his polished shoes as the officer came to a stop, blocking his path. Morgan glanced up out of instinct and met the man’s cold stare.
“Tomorrow’s the big day, citizen,” the EMP said, tapping the empathic receiver that wound its way out of his uniform collar and slipped serpentine into his ear. A dim, green glow flickered there. “Do your duty and don’t make us come for you.”
“Y-y-yes, sir.” Morgan nearly choked on the words, spitting them out in a jumbled rush. He nodded with frantic insistence and maneuvered past the officer with a quick wave, striding away with purpose. His footsteps sounded overloud as his boots slapped the sidewalk, and he forced himself to slow his pace. The whispers in his head chittered. Morgan wondered what they were telling the officer as he darted between clustered pedestrians and slipped down a narrow side street. He counted his steps and braved a look back only after he’d hit a hundred. Morgan breathed a wispy sigh when he saw he hadn’t been followed. It was a few after that before his pulse settled.
Morgan continued on, using the downtown shadows to obscure his route as best he could. He clung close to the walls and made his way to the abandoned parking garage Raul’s messenger had directed him to the night before. Morgan cast a furtive glance about before slipping into the open maw of the garage. Daylight faded at his back as he walked slow, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom. The oil-stained concrete was slick beneath his feet. A bird’s chirp echoed somewhere in the darkness, but he could hear nothing else, the world gone quiet as he ventured deeper inside. There was accusation in the silence.
A sudden flash of headlights snapped his attention to the back of the garage. He’d been caught!
Morgan’s heart thrummed in his chest as reason returned. The EMPs had no need for subterfuge. The system would have simply drowned him in apathy if they knew what he was about. He shook his surprise off and headed toward the lights, the vague shape of a van appearing ahead. A figure moved around the back of the vehicle.
“Speers?”
Morgan recognized Raul, the coyote’s voice impressed upon his memory since the moment they first met. “Yes…it’s me.”
A quiet chuckled sounded as Raul waved him forward. “Come, we need to prep you.” The click of a lock sounded, the van doors swinging open. Dim light spilled from inside, illuminating a second man. Short, with a barrel for a chest, his fat cheeks were pulled down in a scowl. His eyes were like pits of wet charcoal.
Morgan walked around back with uneasy steps, his gaze falling on the handful of people huddled inside the van. They looked at him with wide eyes. Thick metal collars encircled their necks as flickering wires sprouted like antennae from their temples. There was no disguising the
pain that lurked within their fearful stares.
“Is that—?”
“It’s the only way,” Raul answered, holding up a small, gray box. “Take off your shirt and turn around.”
Morgan made his decision. He spun about and fumbled at the crusted buttons of his shirt, finally managing to peel them loose. A chill crept along his spine as he bared his back, goosebumps prickling the flesh as Raul slipped a collar about his throat. The cold touch of steel was like a burning match, and Morgan stiffened at the snap of the clasp.
“Be still,” Raul warned. “This is going to hurt a little.”
A quiet hum sounded at Morgan’s neck, his eyes desperately seeking what they could not see. And then there was agony.
His vision was washed away in a burst of whiteness. He crumpled to his knees as unseen tendrils thrust their way through his skin and drove deep into his spine. Morgan barely felt the pinpricks at his temples as his cheek met the cold, cement floor. In a haze, he sensed the spasms that wracked his body. His teeth clacked together in a panicked cacophony, and he could taste the gritty shards as their edges chipped. Then the world went mercifully black.
The light returned a moment later.
“You’re okay now. Get up.”
The voice echoed in the caverns of his ears. He opened his eyes to see a grinning face staring at him. It took a moment before he recognized it.
“Come, we must go,” Raul helped him to his feet.
Sickness churned in his gut at the movement, but Morgan couldn’t resist. He stood, his legs like rubber beneath him. Raul gave him no time to adjust. The coyote ushered him into the van. Morgan complied, grateful for the numbness that had replaced his senses. He felt the vague collision of the bumper against his shin as he crawled into the vehicle. The others made way for him, but there was little space in the packed cabin. He hunkered down beside a young, blond boy and an older woman who Morgan assumed was his mother. The boy inched into the woman’s side as Morgan settled, doing his best to give them room. They both looked away the moment he met their eyes.
For an instant, he wondered if they recognized him, then cast the question aside. Did it matter anymore? In just a short while they’d all be free of the country and the past that clung to it. Morgan let a weary sigh slip loose as he sat back. Silence fell over him, and he realized he was alone in his head. The whispers were gone. A relieved smile crept to his lips.
“Stop where you are. Down on the ground!” a harsh voice rang out inside the confines of the garage. Heavy-booted footsteps thudded after, wiping the smile away.
“Chinga tu madre!” Raul snarled and slammed the van doors shut. The vehicle trembled as he and his partner bounded around it and into the front seats. With a roar, the van came to life, drowning out the muffled shouts that seemed to surround them.
Morgan was slammed into the doors as the van darted forward, the screech of tires adding to the noise. The boy and his mother slid into him, the sharp point of an elbow thudding into his ribs. The air whistled from Morgan’s lungs as the acrid smell of burnt rubber assailed him, the pungent scent of excrement joining it a moment later. He struggled to breathe and barely managed to adjust his position before the van changed direction and sent the passengers tumbling across to the other side. Morgan grasped at the exposed frame of the door and wormed his arm through the struts. Needles of pain ignited in his shoulder as it fought his weight, but he remained in place. His groan joined those of the others, scrambling over one another as they tried to right themselves.
“What’s going on?” Morgan asked.
His answer was the metallic clang of something striking the van. Raul cursed and swerved, tossing his human cargo about like trash in a windstorm. Morgan bit back against the pain as his arm was wrenched once more, the joint grinding in its socket. It slipped from his thoughts as the sound of hail peppered the walls of the van. The window above him shattered. Shards of glass showered him, nicking his flesh like angry wasps. He hissed and recoiled as he realized what happened. They were being shot at.
Before the thought could sink in, there was another crash that jarred Morgan to the bones. The van skid sideways to the soundtrack of crumpling metal, followed by a muddied thump. A wet shriek pierced the chaos and then went silent. The vehicle hopped and landed with a squeal, punctuated by another round of gunfire.
“Stay down,” Raul screamed as he twisted the wheel, making the van swerve. His passengers had no choice but to comply. They were tossed about with every turn.
Morgan clutched to the door as the van bounced again and swung left. Daylight flooded through the broken window. Morgan blinked and looked away, the hollow rumble of the parking garage gone, his ears left ringing in its wake. Sirens took its place.
Out on the straight roadway, the moans of the passengers turned to wails and frantic whispers. They clutched to one another as the engine howled, Raul pushing the vehicle to its limits.
“Cállate!” Raul’s partner screeched without looking back. His meaty fingers clung to the dashboard, white knuckles standing out against the tanned skin. His shout did nothing to quiet the furor.
Morgan stared out the window, but all he could see was the flash of streetlights and the gray blur of downtown as it whipped past. Sirens still rang at their heels. The air was like mud in his lungs and he gasped to draw each breath. This wasn’t at all what he imagined.
Raul had sounded so certain when he explained the plan. Mexican nationals, unplugged from the system, Raul and his partner were invisible to the EMPs and their scans, just as Morgan was supposed to be with the blocker implanted. ‘An easy, Sunday cruise,’ Raul had told him with a laugh. He wasn’t laughing now.
Raul was hunched over the steering wheel, sweat glistening across his shaved scalp. While Reynosa, Mexico was little more than a twenty-five minute drive from the parking garage it seemed as far as the moon. The van twisted and jerked as Raul fought his way through traffic and out onto the open road. Though Morgan no longer heard the ping of gunfire, the sirens trailed them without cease. The reverberating whup of a helicopter droned in the distance. It only added fuel to the terrified mutters of his fellow passengers.
“We’re not gonna make it,” the coyote’s partner muttered, the contagion of fear spreading to the front.
Raul hissed but said nothing. He yanked the wheel and sent his cargo tumbling once more. A crystalline pop and a sharp squeal of something dragged along the side of the vehicle warned of just how close they’d come to the end of their flight. Morgan wondered if it was better to crash and die than be taken alive. A sickening coldness washed over him. He was dead either way.
He thought of Karen sprawled on the bed, the life in her eyes having turned to a rheumy blankness. Her fingers clutched to the pill bottle as if it held the answers, but Morgan knew better. It was just a different kind of death than what awaited should the EMPs stop them from getting across the border. They were both empty and Morgan wanted none of either. More than anything, he wanted to live.
An ember ignited inside. “Hurry!” he shouted to Raul, surprised by the vehemence in his voice.
If Raul heard him, he didn’t show it. The coyote stared straight ahead as the engine whined. Morgan could feel it failing, vibrating thumps growing louder behind the dashboard as the pistons railed against Raul’s demands.
“There,” his partner shouted after what seemed forever, braving to tear a hand loose of the dash to point at something through the windshield Morgan couldn’t see. He could feel the man’s excitement, though.
Raul turned the wheel and the van dropped. Morgan’s stomach bounced with it. He tasted vomit in the back of his throat as a serenade of pings rattled the van. He ducked as they hurtled on, fearing being shot despite realizing the sounds were nothing more than rocks bouncing off the chassis. They had left the road. Dirt crunched beneath the wheels, filling the cabin with a crackling thunder. Morgan could taste the dust in the air, a brown cloud obscuring the sun through the shattered back window. Though he cou
ldn’t see, he knew they were close. They had to be.
“Shit!” Raul ducked in his seat as a shadow darkened the windshield. A whirring roar whipped past above, the distinct sound of helicopter rotors resounding a moment later. The coyote gripped the wheel tighter and drove on.
“It’s coming back!” His partner yelled as the shadow eclipsed the van once more.
Morgan watched as the coyote held his ground until the black skids of the helicopter appeared through the windshield. He closed his eyes and felt the van turn sharply…too sharply, he realized.
Morgan was suddenly weightless. His shoulder screamed as he was yanked loose of the frame. A searing agony traveled up his arm but he had no time to look as he was buried beneath the mass of screaming passengers. Bodies fell across him and pressed him into the wall, but only for a moment.
As soon as he felt their weight against him, they were whipped away with him following after. He crashed into them, recognizing the young boy’s face as they all collided with the roof. He saw the back doors flung open. We’re rolling, was the last thought Morgan had before the van flipped once more, dashing his skull against the frame.
#
Pain was his first thought as he awoke. A groan slipped from his lips as sense slowly coalesced. He could taste dirt and blood in equal measure, his tongue scraping against the jagged shards of broken teeth. Morgan forced his eyes open. He winced at the brilliant light that seared his retinas and went to block them with his hand. A piercing agony stole his breath away. Morgan shrieked as he rolled to his side, his right arm flopping to the dirt of its own accord. Sickness welled inside him as Morgan looked at his ruined appendage.
The skin had been stripped from the elbow down, ragged strips of meat hanging loose, soaked with blood. Several of his fingers jutted the wrong direction and he couldn’t identify his thumb amidst the red ruin of his palm. Against his wishes, his gaze drifted upward. White bone jutted from the flesh at his elbow, his biceps nearly severed loose. It hung by a single strand of tendon, a pendulum stilled in the sand.