Strike (4 page)

Bova gestured to the driver, who pulled out a large green Jerry Jug from the jeep and lugged it toward the group of prisoners.

“You have been working hard in the sun,” Bova announced. “You deserve extra water.”

The guard placed the jug in the sand and backed away.

The prisoners didn’t move.

“Well go on!” Bova said. “It’s yours.”

Still, nobody moved.

“
Please!
”

That was the magic word. Like a group of hungry puppies, everyone went for the Jerry Jug. One guy lifted it and took a deep drink of water. The others clamored to be next as the first guy passed it on. They each took a deep, refreshing drink while careful not to spill a precious drop before passing it along. It was a surprisingly civilized process for people who were so desperately thirsty.

Bova stood back, watching the scene with a satisfied smile like he was some generous benefactor. The whole event was meant to be a warning. He was making an example out of the prisoner to show how much power he had. He could give extra water, or command a brutal beating.

“
Please
, everyone, don’t forget your friend,” Bova said.

The last guy with the jug brought it to the kneeling prisoner and placed it gently on the ground in front of him.

“Very good,” Bova said. “You see? When you follow the rules, you will be rewarded.”

Allowing these poor people to get a few extra swigs of warm water didn’t exactly seem like a huge reward, but I wasn’t going to point that out. I didn’t even get a drink, which I guess was fair. I hadn’t been working.

Bova went back to the kneeling prisoner, leaned over, and said, “There. It was all just a silly misunderstanding. I trust that there will be no more. Have a drink and rejoin your unit.”

Bova turned and walked toward his jeep. The show was over.

The prisoner lunged for the Jerry Jug and greedily took a deep drink.

Bova was about to board the jeep, when he stopped suddenly. He turned and quickly strode back toward the kneeling prisoner.

The entire group of prisoners froze in place.

Bova walked quickly, heading directly for the prisoner. As he moved past one of the guards he grabbed the black baton-weapon from the soldier’s belt without breaking stride. He marched right up to the kneeling prisoner who still held the Jerry Jug up high, trying to get the last few drops of precious water. When he saw Bova standing over him, he froze.

“Sorry,” Bova said with what seemed like genuine sympathy. “I didn’t say
please
.”

Bova brought the weapon up and aimed it at the prisoner’s chest.

Nobody made a move to stop him.

Bova fired.

The weapon made no sound.

The prisoner did.

With a pained yelp he was thrown backward. The Jerry Jug clattered to the sand and came to rest near the head of the poor guy.

He didn’t move. He wouldn’t move again.

The unit supervisor dropped her head in what seemed like genuine anguish.

The rest of the prisoners remained frozen. I thought I heard a small whimper, but it was quickly squelched.

Bova spun back to the others and calmly announced, “Like I said, the rules are simple. Follow them and you’ll all live a long and fulfilling life. Choose not to and, well . . .” he gestured to the dead prisoner. “Let’s get back to work now, shall we?”

Nobody moved.

I saw a flash of anger cross Bova’s face, but it was quickly replaced by a smile of realization.

“Oh, forgive me,” he said playfully. “
Please!
”

The prisoners instantly scrambled toward the hole. They couldn’t get away from him fast enough.

I wasn’t sure what I should do. I stood frozen in shock.

Bova spotted me and took a few steps in my direction.

“Is this where you should be?” he asked.

I looked away, not wanting to make contact with those crazed, sparkling eyes.

“
Please
,” he said. “Time to get back to work.”

I glanced to the unit supervisor. She gave me a small nod and motioned to the shovel I had dropped in the dirt. The shovel I had almost beaned her with. She might not have wanted me there before, but now I was a replacement for the murdered prisoner.

I reached down and picked up the tool.

“Very good,” Bova exclaimed. “Enjoy the rest of the day.”

He turned and strode back toward his jeep. The other Retros boarded and they took off, leaving a choking cloud of dust in their wake.

The body of the murdered prisoner remained.

I had been awake in the Retro camp for less than half an hour, and already I had gotten my first taste of what life was going to be like if the Retros won this war.

I
spent the next few hours shoveling dirt and sand into wheelbarrows. It was hot. It was mind numbing. It was torture. Painful blisters formed on my hands that burst and made it a challenge to grip the wooden handle of the shovel. I was in good shape, but nothing could have prepared me for that kind of manual labor. And that kind of pain.

None of the other prisoners said a word to me or even made eye contact. They had become drones. After a few hours, I understood why. It was easier to put your mind in neutral than to stress and constantly wonder when the day would end.

Every so often a prisoner came through to give us each a small cup of water. It wasn’t anywhere near enough to replace the fluids lost through sweat, but it was better than nothing. Every drop was priceless.

Throughout the torturous day I often heard the musical sound of an Air Force plane powering up and lifting into the sky before rocketing off. In just a few hours at least a dozen new planes appeared above the tops of the wooden buildings. They were obviously coming from the steel dome. I figured it must have been the final assembly point for these death machines, which definitely made it a gate to hell.

Each time a new plane lifted off, my feelings of hopelessness and desolation grew deeper. Not only was the Air Force still in business, but there was every reason to believe that my mother and friends were dead. My one hope was that my father was still safe on Pemberwick Island.

I was probably kidding myself. For all I knew, Pemberwick had been laid to waste like the rest of the country. Though I was among hundreds of people trapped in the same desperate situation, I felt totally alone. The harsh reality had finally set in that there was no chance of a return to my old life, only the promise of a grim future.

“That’s it!” the unit supervisor finally shouted. “Climb out and drop your shovels.”

It took a second for me to register what was happening. Looking around the pit I could easily believe that we had moved the ton of dirt that the supervisor said she wanted. We had dug a huge rectangular hole, six feet deep and roughly the size of one of the barracks. I wish I could say I had a feeling of accomplishment, but all I felt was tired and sore. And miserable.

We climbed out of the pit to see two Retro guards, armed with batons, waiting for us.

“This way,” one guard commanded. “Single file.”

We shuffled into a ragged line and followed the guard away from the worksite. The second guard picked up the rear. We were led in the opposite direction of the giant steel structure. Just as well—I didn’t want to be anywhere near the gate to hell. We shuffled by several more newly built but empty barracks until we finally arrived at one that showed signs of life. There were no windows, but I heard what sounded like running water inside.

The guard stopped and turned back to us.

“Showers,” he said. “Drop everything in the bins and pass through. Give your number on the far side for a clean set. Move it.”

The others obeyed without question and began stripping. It didn’t matter that there were both men and women together. Nobody cared. Except for me, that is. I guess I hadn’t been there long enough to be completely numb to the degrading treatment.

I got undressed, peeling off my sweat- and dirt-crusted overalls. There were three large plastic bins outside of the large door that led into the shower building. One was for the coveralls, the second for socks and underwear, the third for sneakers. I kept my eyes on the ground, trying not to look at any of the women. Or any of the men, for that matter. It was humiliating. I kept my head down and shuffled in line toward the shower doors. The smell of sweat was so overpowering I nearly gagged. Showers would be a good thing, no matter how degrading the experience was.

“Keep moving!” a guard commanded.

Overhead were six parallel bars that ran the length of the building and sprayed powerful jets of water down on us. The showering would last for as long as it took to shuffle in line from one end of the building to the other. The water was cold, but I didn’t mind. It felt good to wash away the thick grime that was caked on every inch of skin that had been exposed during the day. I furiously rubbed at my scalp to get rid of the imbedded sand but it was a losing battle.

There was definitely some kind of soap in the water because my blistered hands stung. So did my eyes. I cupped my hands to capture as much as I could and gently rubbed them together to clean and soften the dead skin. As much as it hurt, I had to do it or risk infection. We shuffled along on the slick cement floor in two parallel lines. Halfway through the ordeal the burning sensation stopped, which meant we were being doused by pure water. When we finally reached the far side we stepped out into the harsh glare of the late-day sun to air-dry. There were no towels waiting for us. A few yards beyond the exit were tables set up with stacks of clean coveralls, underwear, and shoes.

“Number?” a guard asked me.

It took a second for me to understand what he meant.

“Number?” he barked, more insistent.

I hated having to give my number, but I also didn’t want to be naked for any longer than I had to.

“Zero Three One One,” I muttered, begrudgingly.

A pair of white socks were shoved into my hands along with tighty-whitey underpants. On top of that was a pair of size-ten white sneakers. Finally, I was given clean orange coveralls . . . with the number 0311 in bold letters on the back.

It was a dehumanizing experience, made all the more so by the cool efficiency of how it was run. Throughout the process, and all during the torturous day, I kept trying to understand how this could possibly be considered a positive reset of civilization. After all, that’s what Feit said the Retros were after: a reset of civilization to save us from destruction.

I wasn’t seeing that.

I wandered a few yards away from the group and started getting dressed. It felt good to be clean and wearing fresh clothes. I had to appreciate the positives when they came. Once I was dressed I took a second to size up my own condition and realized, with surprise, that I felt pretty good. I was tired, yes, but I didn’t feel all that sore. Most surprising, my destroyed hands were no longer blistered. I rubbed them together, thinking it might be an illusion because they had been softened by the water, but they truly felt and looked fine.

My brain jumped to the only explanation: The water in that shower contained the miracle medicine that healed wounds. I’d seen it work too many times to doubt it. Now I understood that the Retros could use it to keep their work force in top shape.

At least they weren’t forcing us to take the Ruby. None of the people I saw were operating with super-human capabilities. Maybe the Retros had learned their lesson. The short-term benefits of using that stuff was outweighed by the fact that it killed people. The Retros were a lot of things, but they weren’t stupid.

“Blue Unit,” a Retro guard called. “This way for chow.”

I wound my way through the crowd of people still getting dressed to find the line of workers I had been with all day. Other units were also being herded together by Retro guards.

“Red Unit!”

“All Black Unit workers over here!”

“Green unit! This way!”

Workers scrambled to find their group. With the promise of food, it wasn’t the time to slow down and take it easy. I was starving and had no doubt that everyone else was too.

There were hundreds of orange-clad workers and only a few guards. It crossed my mind that the guards could easily be overpowered by the prisoners. If we took a few hostages we might be able to bargain our way out.

It was only a fleeting hope because reality told me otherwise. The Retros had little concern for human life. After wiping out a few billion people, what would a few more deaths matter? Any uprising would be met with ruthless consequences, even if it meant wiping out some of their own soldiers. I had no doubt about that. The rest of the prisoners must have understood as well, which is why they obeyed like mindless sheep.

The Blue Unit regrouped and in no time we were trudging along in line, all cleaned up and smelling fresh, headed for dinner. We passed several more barracks. Unlike the ones we had been digging near, these looked to be occupied, for I saw movement through the narrow windows. We were led into yet another long building that was clearly the mess hall. We each grabbed partitioned plastic trays and made our way through the food lines. Prisoners in orange coveralls and aprons worked in the kitchen. I wondered how they got those jobs. It looked a heck of a lot easier than digging ditches. The meal itself wasn’t horrible. We were given slices of ham, seasoned rice, broccoli spears, loads of bread with butter, and a fruity drink that reminded me of Gatorade. I want to say that the Retros were being benevolent by giving us decent food, but the truth was they needed us to be well fed in order to keep up our strength to work. At the end of the food line were plastic utensils, but no napkins. We shuffled silently toward long rows of tables with bench seats. I kept walking until the guy in front of me sat down. When the time came, I dutifully stopped and sat beside him.

We ate in silence. The only sound was the din made from the food being eaten and trays being moved on the tables. We were given five minutes. Unlike the SYLO camp on Pemberwick Island, no second portions were offered. My cue to get up was when the guy next to me got up. It didn’t matter if you were finished or not; it was time to go. The silence was eerie. We all moved in line away from the mess hall and continued our journey past the many barracks buildings until at last we were directed to one. This would be my home. At least for that night. Inside were two rows of beds against the long wooden walls. Unlike the hospital that had rows of single beds, this barracks had bunk beds stacked three high. The place already smelled of sweat. We may have been freshly showered, but this was still the desert.

I had no choice as to where I would sleep. When the guy in front of me turned and crawled into the lower bunk to our left, I took the bunk above him. There was a three-inch thick mattress but no sheets, only a thin cotton blanket that was folded at the foot and a pillow that looked more like a ravioli than a comfortable cushion to lay my head on.

Even so, lying down was a relief. It could have been on a bed of nails—resting still would have felt great. I lay there on my back, closed my eyes, and listened as the rest of the barracks filled up.

A few minutes later, I heard a strange sound. I couldn’t make it out at first because it was so out of place. It took a few seconds to recognize it for what it was.

Whispering.

People—prisoners—were actually communicating.

I looked to my right and saw a woman in a bunk who reminded me of my homeroom teacher back at Arbortown High. She was small, probably no taller than five feet, with long red hair that I imagined would go to her waist.

“Hello,” I whispered.

She turned to me and smiled.

“Hello,” she whispered back.

It was such a simple thing, but hearing another voice made me feel like a person again. Especially since it wasn’t barking orders at me.

“Are we allowed to talk?” I asked.

She nodded. “It’s the only time they let us,” she whispered. “But only for a short while.”

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“I’m Scottie. I’ve been here about a week. They brought me here from Los Angeles.”

“I’m Tucker,” I said. “I’m from Maine.”

“You’re a long way from home, Tucker.”

“Yeah.”

I didn’t mention that I was from Pemberwick Island. I was afraid that would lead to a huge conversation that I didn’t feel like getting in to. All I wanted was to communicate with another living person for a few moments to pretend as though life was still normal.

All around us, people were doing the same thing. Voices were low, but there were many of them. It sounded as though everyone was letting out a day’s worth of pent up thoughts.

“Do you know why we’re building these barracks?” I asked.

“All I know is that more people are coming,” she answered.

“More prisoners?”

“No, more of
them
, I think. I overheard the guards talking about it. They’re preparing for a lot of people to show up. It’s kind of scary. If the rest of them are anything like these guards . . .”

She didn’t have to finish the sentence. I knew how she felt.

This war didn’t make sense. The Retros were set on wiping out as much of the population as possible, while SYLO was trying to stop them. It seemed pretty clear that the Retros were winning, but winning what exactly? They hadn’t taken over any territory or started a new government. There seemed to be no point to the deaths except . . . death.

Mr. Feit told Tori and me that SYLO was leading the world to calamity and the only thing that would save it was a reset of civilization. He said the Retros’ drastic tactics were necessary so that they could save the world. But what had they done other than wipe out millions of people and force the survivors to build more of those giant steel gates to hell?

The Retros controlled the United States Air Force and had used some incredibly sophisticated technology to further their plan. But what exactly was their plan, and who was calling the shots?

Knowing that the prisoners here were building what amounted to a facility to house thousands of Retros made me believe that whatever the plan was, this was going to be the staging area. Other Retros could be headed this way from all over the world.

Once again, I found myself in the middle of the action.

Only this time I was alone.

“I’ve got a dumb question,” I whispered to Scottie.

“What?”

“This is kind of embarrassing, but where do we go to the bathroom?”

Scottie smiled and I no longer felt embarrassed. But I still had to go.

“There are portable bathrooms outside each of the barracks,” she said. “You’re allowed to go any time.”

“Thanks. That time is now.”

I slid out of my bunk and walked down the center of the room to the door on the far end of the building. When I stepped outside I saw that even though night had fallen, massive floodlights perched on towers lit the camp, making it look as bright as an evening football game.