Daniel Powell - Survival

The bulls looked at each other nervously. After a tense moment, a single hand went into the air. Soon, every one of them had raised a hand—more than thirty of them.

Verlander shook his head. “God, but it’s just such a waste. It’s a horrific fucking waste! They train you to kill without conscience. They take away your ability to become a father . They use you. And, in the process, they demean us all.”

Some of the bulls nodded their heads slowly.

“We’re going to make a statement tonight. If you’re willing to stand with us, we’ll have you. If not, you’re free to leave when this is over, one way or the other.

“Skinny?” He locked eyes with the platoon leader. “Can we have that talk now?”

The bulls turned in their chairs, studying their leader. The man, indeed a rail of a human being, nodded slowly.

“Very good,” Verlander said. He freed the man’s wrists and they disappeared down the hallway. Soldiers stood and busied themselves with herding the bulls back to their cells.

When it was just the two of them alone in the media room, Ruiz trained his eyes on Norton’s.

“Do you want to join them?”

Norton directed his gaze to the ceiling. It took him a long time to reply and, when he did, it was with a simple nod of the head.

Fausto chuckled. “You surprise me, Bryan. And I agree. It’ll be dangerous, but we’ve made it this far. I guess this is our chance.”

Bryan nodded. “I think I’ve sensed that something like this was coming for some time. I’m…I’m only now opening up to it.”

They found their way back to the operations center. Around them, men were laying out kits—weapons, backpacks, helmets. A one-armed soldier chattered into a headset, cataloging the inventory as the room hummed with anticipation.

Forty minutes later, Verlander and Skinny stepped out of the bearded man’s office. The room fell silent; Verlander looked at his men, making eye contact with each of them. “We have what we need. Skinny’s offered his assistance on this morning’s mission. Make your farewells as best as you can; put your affairs in order. We depart at 0100 hours.”

There was a moment of perfect silence and then the room swelled with a fresh sense of urgency. Soldiers scrambled back to their barracks, presumably to follow Verlander’s advice to make their farewells. The enormity of it all weighed heavily on Norton. He envied them, and he searched for a pen and paper.

Before he could procure them, Verlander was at their side. “I need your decision.”

“We’ll fight with you,” Fausto replied. “This is bigger than any of us.”

Verlander clapped their shoulders, his eyes smiling in the fluorescent light. “Thank you,” he replied sincerely. “I was hoping we’d have you along. I have a feeling you two play a larger role in this than anyone here can imagine. Is there anything I can do for you in the meantime?”

“I’d like to write a letter,” Bryan replied.

“Me too,” Fausto said.

Verlander nodded. He left them momentarily and returned with pens, paper and blank envelopes. He pressed them into their hands and left them without another word.

Ruiz and Norton found separate corners of the room, away from the bustle of preparation, and bunkered down to write the story of the war they’d stumbled into.

Bryan felt the writing difficult at first, but soon the words were flooding out of him and he had dappled the pages with a few of his tears as well. When Verlander’s booming voice broke the trance of his composition, he’d penned six pages, front and back. “Time to get you outfitted, Bryan.”

The thin boy looked up. He cleared his throat. “Ok. I’m just going to finish this…this last thought. I’ll be there in a second.”

Verlander smiled and Bryan turned back to the page.

And so we’re leaving soon. I just wanted to say that I love you and little Eli so, Maggie. More than anything in this world. If I don’t find my way back to you, please let our boy know that his father died in an effort to make the world a better place for him.

He folded the note into thirds, sealed it in an envelope and wrote his wife’s name on the front. He placed it into the bin with all of the others—the last wishes of a small band of idealists—and went to get fitted for doomsday.

When they were equipped, Verlander stood before them. There were maybe fifty of them in total, including about a dozen of the bulls who had made the choice to fight with them.

“Fatherhood isn’t a game. It’s not a prize,” Verlander began. “It’s not a political platform or a social policy. It’s not a…not a carrot to be dangled over the heads of the people to keep them obedient. It’s not a privilege; it’s a right. It’s your right, granted by your biology, not by your republic.”

Heads began to bob in agreement.

“In these first moments of a brand new day, we will marshal our resources and challenge the Authority. It’s been done before. Fornoy stood against them, on this very battlefield, all those decades ago. There are cells of resistance just like ours, all throughout the country. Throughout the world, for that matter!

“And I’m proud of each of you. So damned proud. Our resolve is absolute. Our will is outstanding. Our mission is righteous. Many of us will die today, but the nobility of our actions will not perish from this Earth.”

This brought a roar from the crowd and Norton felt himself swell with pride. He could see the words finding their mark with Fausto as well.

“Skinny believes the bulls are operating out of the old Willamette brewery. It’s fortified with four times our number of guards. The general himself will be heavily protected by the Authority’s finest. If you get a shot—any shot at all—you take it. If we can topple the regional general, we wound the Authority. This mission is about creating momentum—momentum for others to push for the things that should be ours by right.”

Revolution, Bryan thought. They stood on the cusp of a revolution.

Verlander bowed his head and those assembled followed his lead. “God, give us the strength to fight like demons from hell, but with the grace of heaven’s angels.”

He crossed himself, turned abruptly and strode down the long hallway on the far side of the operations center, flanked by a pair of square-jawed soldiers with red bandannas tied around their biceps. The remainder of the soldiers fell into line behind them and, just like that, they were on the move.

They were quickly topside, trotting through the forest, night-vision goggles locked in place. Norton was amazed at their ability to move so quietly, given the size of their company. They stole across the forest floor like wraiths, the world in front of them lit in shades of eerie green. Bryan occasionally saw the phantom outline of bulls in the distance, but Verlander cut quietly through the trees, deftly avoiding the small platoons of trained killers.

They pounded over pine straw and pushed through blackberry brambles. They moved quickly, efficiently, covering territory at a steady clip. After an hour, Verlander stopped the company at the base of a granite bluff. A shallow creek passed by at their feet; they waded it and massed on the far side.

Bryan and Fausto were winded. Men passed canteens back and forth. They tore into energy bars, clustered around their leader, who spoke in hushed tones. “The brewery sits atop the bluff above us. There are digital moats on three sides of the facility; there’s a razor fence on the fourth. Our intelligence shows about one hundred soldiers stationed around the perimeter of the place. The authority has stationed hover lights above us. There are stun canopies in the entryways. Our fight happens here. This is where we make our stand.