Daniel Powell - Survival

“I’m sorry,” Fausto interrupted, “did you say ‘holding cells’?”

Verlander turned and offered them a wide smile. “You want to see?”

“Sure.”

A moment later they were in a locked wing. An armed guard sat reading a magazine, on the far side of a pair of double doors. When he saw Verlander, he hastily stood and keyed in the code that unlocked the doors.

“Thanks Jimmy,” Verlander said. The guard nodded and then they were in a series of holding cells. There were six of them, packed to excess with naked bulls. It had to be ten degrees colder inside the jail.

Men huddled together for warmth. No one was self-conscious of his nudity—survival was the order of the day.

“Evening ladies,” Verlander said. Dozens of hate-filled eyes focused on him. Norton saw a man in the corner of one cell, prone—still. It didn’t look like he’d ever move again. “Are we enjoying Labor this evening?”

“Please,” came the gasped plea from the back of one of the cells. “Please, Alain. I’m ready to talk.”

Verlander scratched his beard in contemplation. He stared into the cell at the haggard man. “Then I might stop back by again in a few minutes then, Skinny. Maybe we’ll get you boys some blankets if you’re willing to share what you know.”

For about the tenth time since noon, Bryan felt ill. He followed Verlander out of the jail, his gaze lingering on the miserable bulls before passing through the double doors.

“What are you hoping to learn?” Fausto said.

Verlander only responded with a Cheshire grin. “In due time, Fausto. In due time. This is operations control. Fornoy laid the foundation for our little resistance here in 2167. Over the last forty-two years, we’ve been steadily adding to the infrastructure down here.”

“And your goal is to…to what? Assist men in Labor? Is that it?”

As he walked, Verlander gesticulated with his hands; he was a charismatic man, a larger-than-life figure. “We do that from time to time. Obviously, we were invested in helping you two out back there.” He led them into the cafeteria.

A gaunt man in an apron and chef’s hat smiled at them. Quick as a flash he filled three plastic bowls to the brim with white rice and a steaming stew of potatoes and chicken. Verlander thanked him and the men sat, Norton and Ruiz tearing into their dinners with zealous ferocity.

“Careful. You’ll burn your mouth. To answer your question, Fausto, we’re only partially interested in helping folks along the way. Our primary goal is to topple this here institution. And as providence would have it, the two of you certainly figure in those plans.”

Fausto finished his mouthful. “What do you mean? Tonight?”

Verlander shrugged, palms raised. “Here we are. We find ourselves at that strange intersection, boys, between coincidence and fate. The regional general for the Authority is here in Portland this evening. He’s overseeing operations. If we can squeeze Skinny in there for a little more information, we’ll drill down on his location. We’ve got a determined group of skilled men, and we’d love to have you both on board. It’s pretty clear, Fausto, that you know a thing or two about our struggle.” He spooned a bite of stew into his mouth, chewing slowly, allowing time for the words to sink in.

Norton scanned back and forth between the men. He felt a strange confusion in his belly—a mixture of fear and pride. While he remained petrified of dying, he was excited about the prospect of playing a role in what might be an historic event. The emotion surprised him; in his life prior to Labor, he’d never thought of himself as anything close to an idealist. He’d viewed Labor as a necessary evil, a horrible rite of passage that would validate his status as a man and grant him the opportunity to become a father to his child.

But things were changing. He was warming to the idea of striking a blow for men’s rights, even if it called for violence. Even if it was nothing more than a symbolic effort.

Fausto, though, appeared conflicted. “I’m not sure I want to take part in what you have planned, Alain. I don’t speak for Bryan, and I’m thankful for your help back there—but I didn’t come to fight a war. I came to secure my rights to fatherhood.”

Alain nodded, chewing his stew with gusto. When he was finished, he pushed his bowl forward on the table and crossed his arms on his chest. “Fair enough. Humor me for a minute, though. If you still want to leave, we’ll give you safe passage back into the forest. You can get some rest and see how all of this plays out. And what about you, Bryan? Where do you stand on this?”

“With Fausto,” Norton replied without hesitation, drawing a laugh from Verlander.

“Wise answer. What do you say, Fausto?”

“Ok,” he replied simply. “Present your case.”

They stacked their dirty dishes at the return and followed Alain back to his office. The big man made a call, turning his back and speaking in hushed tones. He poured himself a drink when he was finished.

“This should be interesting,” he chuckled. “C’mon. We’re headed down to the media room.”

The place was packed. The first three rows of seats were filled with heavily shackled bulls in white jumpsuits. They looked grateful for the relative warmth of their new uniforms.

Aside from a few soldiers monitoring the Labor field, the rest of the resistance crowded the seats behind them, making catcalls at the downtrodden men.

Verlander strode to the front of the auditorium. “Ok, ok,” he said, “settle down. It’s movie night in the underground, boys!”

This brought a roar from the crowd; the bulls looked around nervously.

“Skinny, you ran platoons up there on the Labor field. We know the regional general is in town. We know he’s here tonight . When you’re through watching this, I want to have us a serious talk—see if you can’t be a little more cooperative.” He motioned to the back of the room. “Roll the film, Trent.”

The room went dark and the screen filled with white light.

“Labor,” a voice intoned. It was that same animatronic voice that the Authority used in all of its promotional materials. “The experience of a lifetime for dedicated fathers!”

The first image was of an open field littered with the decomposing bodies of men. They covered a huge swath of prairie, the familiar white jackets and sky-blue jeans marking them as hopeful fathers. The ground was like rust with the stains of their blood.

There was a cut to a shot of bulls advancing on a group of fathers, muzzles flashing. The men fell in a heap. A close-up on the smiling lead bull as he lit a cigarette.

The film was about twenty minutes in length—a mixture of carefully edited Authority propaganda juxtaposed with pirated file footage of carnage and chaos on the Labor fields. There was an image of a smiling father holding his recently delivered child juxtaposed with a dead man spread-eagled on the ground, his intestines a slippery coil piled on his midsection.

There were shots of families walking in city parks on sunny days interspersed with footage of headless torsos, victims of promise sensors, likely the result of unplanned pregnancies.

“Labor is flawed public policy,” intoned a man near the end of the documentary. He was frail, bearded, propped up in a hospital bed. “It’s barbaric. It’s antiquated. It doesn’t fix our population crisis.” He launched into a prolonged coughing fit. “It needs to be stopped.”

Fornoy.

Bryan watched the bulls. They were transfixed by the images on the screen. Many of them winced at the visceral shots of the dead. When the film had run its course, the room was deathly silent.

Verlander stood, the white light from the projector casting half of his face in shadow. He looked out at the crowd, his gaze one of unfiltered sadness. There was also an element of anger there. “And who among you is a killer?” he asked softly. “No penalty. Be honest.”