Defending Camp

21

Art woke up. He didn’t know if it was day or night. He didn’t know where he was. He didn’t recognize the room.

His life had turned into a nightmare.

His entire body was in pain. He no longer remembered the individual blows he’d received. He no longer remembered how many times he’d been hit in the head.

His memory was fuzzy. He remembered the rebels torturing him, then Sarge marching in.

But all the details were nothing but a hazy cloud that hung over his mind, weighing him down with an impossible depression.

He was beyond wanting to die.

He was beyond everything.

His old life, before the EMP, was nothing but an image that haunted him. It felt like someone else’s life, someone else’s memories.

Art tried to move. But he was tied. His hands were bound. He didn’t even realize it at first. He felt disconnected from his body in some sense. Maybe his mind was trying to protect itself from the horrors of what had happened to the body, retreating within some kind of strange mental space.

But as he tried to move, struggling against the cords that bound him, his mind began reconnecting with his body, and the pain came flooding back like never before.

There wasn’t any point in thinking about the pain. But he couldn’t ignore it.

The light in the room was low. Just a couple flickering candles. They were probably candles that he himself had pilfered on some mission weeks ago. They were some of those large bath candles that gave off a strong scent. The room smelled like a mix of perfumes.

The smell was nauseating.

Art didn’t remember the last time he’d eaten. Or had any water.

He’d probably evacuated his bowels at some point during the beatings. He could smell it even over the scent of the candles.

The door opened softly.

Art looked up.

It was Joe, his one friend in the militia.

Joe closed the door gently.

“What the hell did you get yourself into, Art?”

Art just shook his head.

“You’d better get to talking. You don’t have much time. Sarge is coming soon. I shouldn’t even be here.”

“I don’t know,” said Art, his voice impossibly weak.

Joe took a small plastic water bottle out the cargo pocket of his pants. The bottle wasn’t meant to be reused, but it had been refilled countless time from the large tanks of water that were delivered to the men. No one in Art’s group knew where the water was coming from, only that it was coming. The water delivery functioned like a silent threat. Everyone knew that the water might stop coming, and that they’d be on their own when it came to their basic needs. They were only fed for as long as they were useful to someone.

The plastic water bottle was crumpled, a thousand lines in its thin plastic.

Joe unscrewed the small cap and put the bottle to Art’s lips.

“Drink up, buddy,” he said. “I don’t know the next time you’re going to get something to drink.”

The water flowed through Art’s parched mouth. He drank and he drank, half-choking on the water, trying to get it all down his bone-dry throat.

Art finished the bottle. Water had gotten all over his mouth, dripping down onto his torn and blood-stained shirt.

Was it his blood? He hadn’t noticed it until now.

He didn’t know. And he didn’t care.

“You think there’s going to be a next time?” said Art. Speaking was easier now, after the water.

Joe was silent for a moment. He began pacing back and forth in front of Art, deep in thought, staring at the ground, glancing up occasionally.

“If I’m going to die, I’m going to die,” said Art. “You can tell me. It’d be a relief.”

Speaking hurt. His chest, mostly. But this might be the last chance he had to say anything, and suddenly it seemed important to communicate something, anything, to the one person in the world who might remember him. Everyone else he’d known was probably dead. And people from his old life, well, they wouldn’t recognize the man he’d become anyway.

“I don’t know what Sarge is going to do,” said Joe. “That’s the truth, Art.”

“Then why’d you come to see me?”

“I don’t know, Art. I don’t know.”

“Why don’t you get me out of this rope. Help me get out of here. We both know this is the end for me. Once Sarge walks through that door, I’m done for. And I just don’t think I can take any more, Joe. You know we’ve both been through a lot. So you know when I say that I can’t take any more, that I’m dead serious.”

Joe looked at him, pausing in his pacing.

“I can’t do it, Art. We’ll never make it out of here.”

“Where the hell are we anyway?”

“Just another house. Filled with militia guys. Just like our place.”

“Ah,” said Art. “We’re nothing to them, you know? We’re nothing but foot soldiers, doing the bidding of Sarge, and whoever the hell’s in charge of him.”

Joe said nothing.

“What’d you do before all this, Joe?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, what was your job? Your line of work, whatever.”

“Insurance,” muttered Joe. “I worked in insurance.”

Art would have never suspected that. Joe seemed like anything but a white collar worker.

Not that it mattered.

Heavy footsteps outside the door.

“Shit,” said Joe. “Look, Art. I’m sorry, man.”

Joe moved rapidly to the doorway before Art could say anything. Hell of a lot of help he’d been.

The door burst open before Joe could get out. Someone had kicked it. The door smacked right into Joe’s head, causing him to reel back a little. He looked stunned.

Sarge stepped through the doorway. He looked wide. Powerful. Strong. Tall. He wore big boots. His large hands were formed into large fists.

Sarge took one look at Joe, who was holding his head, reached for his handgun, pulled it out, and shot Joe in the forehead. One shot and it was over.

A spot of blood appeared on Joe’s forehead, and he slumped to the floor, as limp as a rag doll.

Sarge took big powerful steps towards Art, who didn’t struggle against the cords that bound him. Not at all. What was the point?

Art had no more power of his own. He was just a puppet. Along for the ride. Whatever that might be.

Sarge leaned down over Art, his nose touching Art’s. Beads of sweat rolled off his ugly forehead. His face was redder than normal. Every pore was enlarged, as if under a magnifying glass.

Sarge took his handgun and put the barrel into Art’s mouth.

This was it.

Finally.

“I know you want me to kill you,” growled Sarge. “But you’re not going to be so lucky today. I know you’re a traitor, and you’re a no-good son of a bitch, but you’ve got one more job on this planet before you bite the dust.”

Sarge’s lips were twisted up in a nasty grin. He took the gun from Art’s mouth and re-holstered it.

“I’m going to untie you,” said Sarge. “And I know you’ll be smart enough not to try anything.”

Sarge dug into a pocket and took out a large folding knife. He flicked it open with one hand. The blade glinted momentarily in the dim light of the candle.

Sarge got behind Art and cut the cords with deft single slices.

Art didn’t have the strength to even hold himself in the sitting position on the chair. Without the cords, he slumped forward onto the ground, unable to even stop himself from falling. His limbs felt like they were filled with lead.

Art lay there on the floor, gazing at Sarge’s boot, unable to lift himself up.