Rebels (John Bates)

by Scott Powell

  I control my emotions. But grabbing him was like grabbing rock and the power is still more than I had never encountered. Luck is on my side; he is fatigued and not thinking clearly. Feeling him exert his strength to push me back, I spread my legs to allow me to keep a strong balance position while he wastes his precious energy. As I feel him tire further, I quickly put my hands on the outside of his shoulders and come across with my right elbow as my father had trained me, breaking his grip on that side and giving him a stunning blow to his jaw. The Steel soldier staggers to one side while I rush in, this time kneeing him multiple times to his abdomen and pulling his head downward where he meets a powerful blow, knocking him to the ground.

  I watch him fall. Normally, the fight would have been over but no, these guys are made differently and I can only watch in complete surprise when he arises with his bloody mouth and states, “What, you thought it was going to be that easy!”

  My dad’s cardinal rules jumps into my mind—Never underestimate your opponent!

  I quickly make a statement, which had worked yesterday with David.

  “Hey, where are you going to take us to eat after this is all over?” At that moment, as he looks at me in confusion, I stepped in with a front kick to the groin which stuns him enough to allow me to follow up with a low roundhouse kick to his left thigh, dropping him to one knee. I follow through with a left hook, causing him to fall to his left side. He catches himself with his hand before he hits the ground. I step around to his backside where I place a sleeper hold on him, cutting off his air. With all my remaining strength, I hold on. I am stunned as he tries to break my hold, even as exhausted and hurt as he is.

  An unfamiliar voice calls out, “That’s enough, John, let him go!” I look up to see it is clipboard man who has given the command. I let go of the Steel soldier as he slides to the ground. I stand, and the man with the clipboard meets my eyes. There is almost a smile there. A smile that gives me the creeps, making me feel like it would be better to be the one with my face in the dirt instead of standing here dusting off my hands on the legs of my pants.

  My Young Army team members cheer in victory—or at least those of us still conscious—as the clipboard man gives me a quick, approving nod. Even after catching my breath, he shows no emotion to what has transpired. I know we didn’t beat the entire Steel team, but I thought having never met them or trained like them, defeating three of them was an amazing accomplishment and surely we deserved some sort of honorable mention! Either way, he is busy scribbling on his clipboard when my team comes up and launches me into the air, excited that we had done so well with the exercise. Even Sergeant Epps is smiling, which was a rarity but again, how often do you get to see your team take on the best and actually survive? Let’s just say I hope we don’t have to do that again anytime soon because my heart is still beating a thousand times a minute.

  I must have done pretty well, because Sergeant Epps gives me a rare compliment. “Good job out there today, John,” he says. But I don’t understand why it is important and what have I done that merits the compliment.

  When we are done, he leaves, speaking only to Sergeant Epps saying, “You’ll hear from me tomorrow.”

  “You did really good today, John. This will be really good for you,” Sergeant Epps whispers in an excited tone after the man has left.

  Good for me how? At that moment, I wonder what would happen if I had purposely flunked the test, but I’ll never know the road I didn’t take. Sometimes when it comes to the State, it is better not to do well. Especially when it changes one life forever. But being in the Young Army has given me special privileges my family otherwise would have not enjoyed. It’s like choosing from two evils, hoping the one you get is the lesser of the two.

  I run home as it starts to rain. I am grateful to find we are having leftovers, no more beans to cook tonight. It is Wednesday night, and we are off to church. Church services start promptly at six thirty on Wednesdays.

  Attending church on Wednesdays and Sundays is required here in the South, unlike other parts of the State. It is a tradition in the South to attend church both days, so we are required to attend both meetings. My father hates it and constantly rants about hypocrites and all the State-run propaganda that fills the hour and a half we sit there. We go because those who have refused in the past have been punished severely, and there are even some that have never been seen again. What is the oddest part is when someone does go missing or is removed, the State acts like they never existed. It is part of their fear tactics, making it obvious that those who would even dare to stand against their policies, rules, and regulations will find the same result—extinction.

  When we return home, my father and mother close all the curtains in the house and open the secret panel in the wall and pull out my parents’ most prized possession: the Bible. Only ministers are allowed to have Bibles or portions of it authorized by the State, but somehow my father had gotten a copy. So here after church my father reads and expounds on the teachings of the scriptures. And truly, I had never heard any sermons that compare to the sermons my father teaches in our little house.

  “Men may enslave in the name of religion,” my father says as he starts his sermon tonight, “but God will set you free. No one who truly serves God enslaves. God made men free, free to choose life or death, liberty or captivity. You are free to choose what you will do, what you think, and how you act. And if it seem evil unto you to serve the Lord, choose you this day whom ye will serve; whether the gods which your fathers served that were on the other side of the flood, or the gods of the Amorites, in whose land ye dwell: but as for me and my house, we will serve the Lord.”

  Chapter 8

  When I arrive at school the next day, I am called into the office. As I enter, I see my father and mother are also there along with one of the school of ministers. A man in his thirties takes us to his desk, and we all sit down. “We received a call from the State officials saying that it’s time for John’s yearly checkup.”

  “But John won’t be sixteen for seven more months, yet,” my mother said.

  “I don’t know about that. All I know is that you or your husband must take John to the doctor’s today. The appointment is at eleven, but I would arrive early as you know how these things are.”

  “I’ll take him, Martha,” my father offers. “I’m already missing work, I might as well.”

  My mother nods with a concerned look on her face. We always try to stay well within compliance, since we do not want to draw any undue attention to ourselves.

  “John is, of course, excused from school for the rest of the day,” the plump man said with a cat-like smile. My father nods and stands. My mother follows his example, and the three of us walk out of the school together.

  “Go home, Martha, get some sleep. I’m still worried about you.” My mother nods and starts the two-mile walk home. Father and I, on the other hand, walk the two blocks to the bus station. I am wondering why I am being told to have my yearly medical checkup. This has never happened before and obviously with me helping to beat an elite team of the State’s, surely I am in tip-top shape. Maybe the State got word of our Steel team training yesterday. Maybe they are worried I am hurt and want me to be checked out. Maybe the whole squad has to go in for a checkup. Even though I feel fine, I don’t argue because there is no point.

  We stand there under a dingy and gray Plexiglas structure. It is easier to see through cement than the old Plexiglas. What makes matters worse is, whether standing out in the hot sun or under this Plexiglass, it still feels like a baking oven! At times, I wonder if I will ever understand why such things happen. What is the point of my life? How can I be who I need to be if I can’t make my own way?

  We stand there forty-five minutes before the bus finally comes, wheezing as it does. My father lets his watch be scanned twice, once for me and once for himself. All credits for everything are stored inside the watches. I know this will cost my father serious bus credits having to take me to the d
octor’s unexpectedly, but I don’t have my own bus credits. The State has decided I have no real reason to travel. It intrigues me how the State decides who and what gets certain credits based on what they term a need. Everything is based on life value and what one can give to the State. The more I am valued by the State, the more special treatment I receive.

  My dad tells of a time when everyone could choose where to go and where to stay without the State involving itself. But when the State came to power, that all ended. This happened because humanity had gone too long without direction or boundaries. We were labeled as a society of misfits, having gone so long without purpose, and needed to be governed or humanity would be destroyed. All this runs through my mind as we both enter the unmaintained bus. All the seats are worn and faded. Duct tape is apparently the only means used for repair but again, at least we didn’t have to walk in the blistering hot sun to this unexpected doctor’s appointment.

  I look around at the other passengers. No one smiles and some appear scared, like this is going to be their last trip. It is unusually quiet. Even the bus driver seems unsettled as he stares at us. Why, I do not know. He writes something down on a notepad and then whispers something into what appears to be a very old walkie-talkie. I only hear, “The package is on its way.” What package is he referring to? I scan the bus and see nothing but other passengers. My father directs me to one of the available seats where we settle ourselves.

  We travel past factories and other houses; everything looks old and rundown. Blight is what they used to call it when part of a city grew old with decay. Now everywhere, all of the city is blighted. Anything new or well kept sticks out like a sore thumb. I see old, rusted vehicles and abandoned buildings the State has condemned. Some of the signage can still be read: Bob’s Barber Shop, Beverly’s Dance School, and one that had been burned badly but I could still read Constitution. It appears a battle raged here at one point, by the looks of the scorched buildings. The area appears to be no more than a ghost town. As a child, you never really pay attention to these things since everywhere looks the same. But this time feels different. I can sense the tension coming from my father. Since we sat down, he has had his eyes closed. It looks like he is meditating. My dad never does this in public. I am concerned, wondering if he knows something I don’t. I want to ask but do not want to interrupt his prayer.

  The doctor’s office is in one of the buildings with shiny glass and metal frame. It stands on the street like a jewel. Supposedly, we have one of the best facilities in the State. In fact, the State runs special projects there for the betterment of humanity, which my father laughs at each time he hears that. In fact, he always will say something like, “Yeah, more like for the betterment of who they want to help themselves,” or “To think the majority of the ill-informed believe this!” But he is very careful about what he says and to whom he says it to.

  Nowadays, because of their desperation, people will tell on people like my father because the State knows there are still factions out there that are looking to revolt, and so they have started what they term Help Your Neighbor or Friend Program. This is when someone informs the State of potential individuals that are showing signs they do not believe in the State and need help or redirection. People who submit such intel are rewarded with State benefits others are not privy to. They generally are known as informants and become a valuable State asset. My dad refers to them as traitors and not to be trusted.

  The bus stops just outside the shining building. We step off and the heat from the asphalt reaches up its sticky fingers to greet me. Before the door to the bus slams shut, I hear the bus driver whisper into the walkie-talkie, stating, “The package has been delivered.” What is he talking about, and why is he whispering such a coded message?

  I look at my father to see if he has heard what the bus driver said, but my father says nothing; he marches forward to the glass monster. I have not seen my dad this serious about a doctor’s appointment before. He appears be on high alert, but why? This is supposed to be nothing more than a routine checkup. This is a waste of our time and credits, but no one dares to question the State. I don’t want to be one of those who disappear, never to be seen or heard of again.

  Suddenly, I am uneasy, like I am five and I know I am going to get a shot. I know at this moment when I go into the doctor’s office, I will not like what I hear. Instinctively, I know my life is about to change. But how and more importantly, why?

  We enter the lobby with its red carpet and approach the metal elevator. Inside it feels like a refrigerator compared to the blistering heat we felt outside. Why does this building get such nice treatment while the majority suffer so much? It feels like such a waste, especially with the large amount of open space that is not even used. My father pushes the button and the doors open. I remember being young, coming to the doctor’s and loving to push the buttons. The elevator seemed like such a fantastic machine. Now I wish it would not work and it would keep us from our destination. But it does work, and the bell dings signaling our arrival. We stride forward to room 205, Dr. Wilson’s office, and open the door.

  Chapter 9

  As we walk in, I look around. Not one of my platoon members is here. We sign in and are sitting down when the nurse opens the door that leads to the examination rooms.

  “John Bates.”

  “Here,” my father calls in surprise, looking away from the magazine he had picked up. Normally, it takes hours to see the doctor. My father puts down the magazine, and we follow the nurse back through the door that separates the patients from the doctors. The nurse checks my weight, my height, my temperature, and my blood pressure and leads us back to exam room number three. My father has not yet even picked out another old magazine before the doctor comes in. Dr. Wilson has been my government assigned doctor since I was an infant, but it is not Dr. Wilson who comes through the cream door dressed in a white jacket with the medical folder displaying my name on it.

  “Where is Dr. Wilson?” my father asks with his body tense as he thumbs through a magazine that is over three years old. By his tone, I can tell my father is concerned. He has taught me to know my surroundings and look for inconsistencies. Already, yellow flags of warning are going up in my mind. Between us getting a request for an unscheduled exam and getting into our appointment immediately, and now a new doctor we have never seen or heard of, something is not right.

  “He’s on vacation,” the doctor answers.

  I look at my father questioningly. I have never known Dr. Wilson to take a vacation. “I’m Dr. Smith and I am filling in for Dr. Wilson for a short time.” My father nods, but he is examining Dr. Smith, and I can tell he is not fully accepting his explanation of Dr. Wilson’s whereabouts. But he sits down and proceeds to thumb through the aged magazine.

  Dr. Smith checks my reflexes, examines my eyes, looks into my throat and my ears, and does all the other things that have been done at my other checkups. But then for the first time ever, he orders a number of tests to be done: blood work, x-rays, MRIs. I have always spent as little time at the doctor’s office that I possibly can get away with, but even I know getting all these tests will take all day, if not the rest of the week. But after Dr. Smith walks us to a separate waiting room, where people wait to get their blood work done, we are seen right away. Then again at the x-rays and MRIs, we are given first priority.

  So after only a few hours, we are once again in exam room number three. We both sit in silence, but I can tell something is not right. I am unable to put my finger on it, but I know the State would never bother putting these types of resources into any individual unless they had a reason. A reason that would benefit them. But I am only a fifteen-year-old with little to no great accomplishments. I’m smart but not a super genius.

  My father sits quietly with his eyes closed. He must be trying to understand what is on going with his only son.

  Still, after all these tests, I assume they will find nothing. I’ve never been sick, have always exercised, and eat very
well; surely nothing is wrong with me. So it comes as a surprise when the doctor comes in, carrying a stack of test results, that his face is grave and stern. I am leaning against the examining table. Father is still sitting quietly, meditating like he is in another universe.

  “Mr. Bates, John, I think you better sit down for this.” I hop up on the examining table. “No, John, I think it would be better, if you sat in one of the chairs,” he says, pointing to the black plastic chair next to the one my father is already sitting in.

  I slide off the exam table and sit, my father now has his eyes open, looking directly at Dr. Smith, waiting on news that seems to be urgent. “I’m sorry to be the one that has to tell you this but John has hypertrophic cardiomyopathy.”

  “What does that mean?” my father asks, putting his arm around me.

  “Hypertrophic cardiomyopathy is a disease of the heart muscle in which a portion of the heart muscle is thickened.”

  “When did this happen? How did it happen?” my father questions, giving the doctor his full attention.