Defending Camp

4

Art had been awake for an hour, lying in the darkness until dawn when the other men started stirring.

He lay there on the filthy wall-to-wall carpeting, listening to the sounds of swearing, snores, and grunts as the men tried to shake themselves awake.

They were packed in, about ten of them in a single room. The once-immaculate carpet had become filthy. No one took their boots off. No one changed their clothes. The smell was overpowering, almost gut-wrenching. No one showered. There wouldn’t have been any point, even if the water had worked.

For a while, Art had thought he was getting used to the smell. But after a few weeks, something had changed. He didn’t know if he was just suddenly noticing it all more, or if everyone was smelling worse than before. He still didn’t know the answer, and it didn’t matter. Everyone stunk. Art included.

They were packed in like sardines. They lived like rats. But Art tried to look at the positive side of things. He always had.

He was one of the lucky ones. He was still alive. Unlike many, many others.

Art’s positive outlook may have worked for him when he was living his pre-EMP life. Back then he was a graduate student, studying urban planning. He’d been popular with women, gone on plenty of dates, studied hard, and made sure to keep himself in good shape. He’d biked to work every day, braving the rush hour traffic on his road bike, telling himself that the physical benefits were worth it.

Now, his positive outlook was falling apart. How could it not be? But he still clung to it. He still tried to tell himself he was lucky. He still tried to tell himself he was doing everything he could, that he wasn’t a bad person, that anyone in his position would do the same.

It was hard to face reality. Impossible, sometimes.

Back then, he’d lived his life conscientiously. Or at least he’d liked to tell himself that. He recycled. He donated a small percentage of his graduate student stipend every year to help out kids in need. He even volunteered in the local big brother program, which saw him tutoring a middle school student twice each week in reading and math, not to mention general life skills. How to cope with problems. How to deal with adversity. That sort of thing.

Back then, his life had been well ordered. Now, it was chaos. Repeated chaos. And violence.

He’d never get used to the violence.

But he’d always been the sort of person who’d followed the rules, who did what he had to do to advance within the system. And now, those same instincts served him once again, albeit in a very different way.

Before the EMP, the rules had been to get good grades, to make friends with the right professors, to keep his wardrobe up to date. Now, the rules were to do whatever the sergeant said. Sometimes that meant just getting gasoline. Sometimes it meant finding food.

But the biggest rule of all was to complete the tasks at any cost. Usually the cost was someone else’s death. And at Art’s own hands.

The images wouldn’t leave his mind. The people he’d killed, their faces were all still as fresh as ever in his memory. Every little mark, every little pore of their faces was burned into his mind.

No matter what he did, he couldn’t shake the memories. No matter how much he drank the night before, he’d wake up early with his heart pounding and the faces as vivid as if they were right before them.

The last night, he’d gone out with the group. They’d shot two men. Art had killed one of them himself. And the most disturbing part of it was that it hadn’t even been difficult for him this time. He’d gotten used to the actual act. He’d just pulled the trigger and that was that.

It was only afterward that he regretted it.

He’d told himself it wasn’t his fault.

But it was. He knew that now.

Sure, he’d had no choice then. But he had a choice now.

When the EMP had hit, Art had stayed holed up in his small and tidy suburban apartment.

Then they’d come. They hadn’t identified themselves. Two men with big guns had showed up at his door. They hadn’t even said anything. Just dragged him out of his apartment, taken him to the street, and shoved him down onto the pavement. Art’s face had hit so hard that his nose broke. They’d told him to get on his knees.

Slowly, more people joined Art. They too were instructed to get on their knees. When Art glanced at them, he recognized the neighbors he’d seen here and there over the years. They were people he’d never talked to, and sometimes not even exchanged a glance with. No one had said much to each other in that neighborhood.

The men with the guns had gone house to house. There’d been a whole team of them, and they’d dragged everyone outside onto the street. Finally, when they had everyone left in the neighborhood rounded up, they’d given their instructions. They were crystal clear, and couldn’t be misinterpreted.

“You’re fighting to the death,” one of them had barked out, loudly. “We’re pairing you off. If you win, you’re one of us. If you lose, you die.”

To show that they were serious, the men had then, completely at random, shot four or five men dead. Right in the head. Dead in the street. They were the first dead bodies, not to mention deaths, that Art had ever witnessed.

Two of the men with guns had taken Art roughly and basically dragged him off to the side. They’d handed him a hammer. He stood there quivering, facing down his next door neighbor, a man in his early fifties. Art didn’t know first name, but he knew that he was a math professor at some college, and that his last name was McGovern.

McGovern had a crowbar in hand.

They stood there, both of them quivering.

Art had never been in a fight in his life. He couldn’t even look McGovern in the eye.

“What the hell are you waiting for?” The armed man had screamed in his ear.

“Do you want to die? ‘Cause both of you are about to if you don’t get to it!”

Art had simply not known what to do. His body felt as if it was frozen.

Then it happened. The pair of neighbors next to them weren’t fighting either. Each of them was armed with a baseball bat. The guy who’d been screaming in Art’s ear had simply walked up to them, raised his gun, and calmly shot both of them in the head.

That was what had spurred them on.

Instinct kicked in.

McGovern made the first move. He’d come at Art hard, swinging the crowbar high.

But he was too old. He might have been big, with a well-developed upper body, but he’d let it go slightly to seed over the years.

Art was young, and in good shape. Maybe he wasn’t big, but he was fast. On his commutes to work, he’d always included sprints, allowing those fast-twitch muscle fibers to develop.

It all happened so fast that it became a complete blur. Or maybe he’d blacked out in some sense, just from the sheer intensity of the situation.

The next thing he remembered, Art was standing over McGovern. The hammer in Art’s hand was bloody. McGovern’s skull was smashed in.

That was the moment his life had changed. A far bigger change than the EMP himself. For him, at least.

What he’d discovered was that he’d always had this part of him, this intense violence, but he’d never been aware of it before.

“Nice one,” the man with the gun had said, and pulled him away from the rest of them.

That was how Art had become one of them. No one knew exactly who they were, even the members. They were just a group. Some called them the militia. Some called them the devils. Some cursed at them, but most knew better than to do that.

Someone was shaking Art, pulling him out of the torments of his memory.

“Art, buddy, wake up.”

“I’m already awake, asshole.”

It was Joe, Art’s buddy in the militia. You couldn’t really call him a friend. But they looked out for each other. If they hadn’t, they’d probably both be dead by now.

“Sarge is about to get here. You better get your ass out of bed.”

Art opened his eyes finally, and as a reward got to see Joe’s face staring down at him. He was unshaven, a scraggly beard taking over his face. There were cuts along his cheek, mixed with mud that Joe hadn’t even bothered to wash off.

The room was awash with activity. Everyone was scrambling to get their act together before the sergeant showed up.

He wasn’t, of course, an actual sergeant. Not that it mattered now. There didn’t seem to be any army.

And for all anyone knew, maybe the sergeant had been in the military. He sure acted like it sometimes, like a boot camp instructor. Word was he reported directly to the militia’s leader, Kor, but who knew. After all, rumors always ran rampant, and more often than not they turned out to be nothing more than fabrications.

“Art! Get up, man. You don’t have much time.”

Art slowly rose to his feet. His body ached. They were fairly well fed. Especially compared to those who weren’t in the militia. Those that the militia terrorized, stole from, and murdered.

His body ached from the fights. Fistfights broke out often among the men. Sometimes gunfights too. What could you expect? Many of the men had come directly from the prisons, where the conditions were harsh and gang life was the norm.

Only a sliver of sun came in through the window, from underneath the trash bags and cardboard that served to keep the light out.

It was a nice house. One of those suburban houses that Art had hoped he could eventually afford once he got out of school and got a steady salary.

Now it was nothing like it had been before. The walls were stained with blood and mud. The doors had been torn off. There were holes in the drywall, where men and fists had crashed through during fights.

The front door slammed closed.

Heavy boots on the floor.

It was Sarge.

He stood there in the doorway. A scowl on his face. Hands on his hips. His right hand was close to his Colt .45. If you looked closely enough, you could see his fingers twitching, as if he was just itching for an excuse to use the gun.

His gaze fixed immediately on Art, who still hadn’t gotten off the floor.

“Art!” he barked.

Art knew it was already too late. But he might as well make it as good as he could. He shot up from the floor, standing at attention.

The other men, Joe included, backed away from Art. They acted as if Art had the plague, getting as far away from him as they possibly could.

Sarge walked slowly, with heavy steps, over to Art.

Art didn’t dare break from his salute. His back was straight. His elbow was cocked just right.

Sarge got within an inch of Arc’s face. Their noses were almost touching.

Sarge’s face was always a sight to behold. It was heavily scarred. His nose was a bulbous mess. The circle under his eyes seemed to be growing darker by the day.

Art was expecting the punch. But it didn’t help.

Sarge was strong. His punch caught Art in the stomach.

Art went down. He lay on the stained carpeting, clutching his stomach.

Sarge kicked. His steel-toed boot made a sickening sound against Art’s skull. But it wasn’t that hard of a kick. If it had been, that might have been the end of Art. Who knew. Who knew how much a man could take.

Art was still useful to Sarge. He was among one of the few men who had a good head on his shoulders. If he hadn’t been useful, he’d be dead.

Art’s vision was blurred. His guts hurt. His head was nothing but searing pain.

“Get him, Sarge!” shouted one of the men. They weren’t exactly loyal to one another.

“Shut the hell up, or you’re next,” shouted Sarge.

Sarge leaned down and got right in Art’s face again.

“I’ve got a special assignment for you,” said Sarge. “But you’re going to have to get up off the floor to do it.”

Special assignments weren’t usually good news. Sometimes they had their advantages. Special privileges, better food. Things like that.

But usually they were suicide missions.