James Hunt - GMO 24 - The Coalition

“You only have a portion of what I can trade.”

“Bullshit.”

“Are you willing to have me rot in a farm camp to find out?”

“How about I just beat it out of you.”

“We both know that isn’t going to work.”

Gordon laughed. “I guess you’re right about that.” He got up from his chair, and two muscle-necked sentries squeezed their frames through the door one at a time. “But it never hurts to try.”

Alex clenched his jaw. It was going to be a long afternoon.

Blood splattered across the one-way glass, and Gordon had to move to the side to make sure he could still see. It’d been a while since he’d seen a good fight, not that this was exactly pay-per-view, but at this point he’d take what he could get. The two sentries had pummeled Alex for the past twenty minutes. Gordon wasn’t even sure if the man was still conscious.

“He’s not talking,” Gordon said and turned to Dean, who was by his side. “Search the house. See if we can find it on our own. If not, then we’ll cut him the deal.”

“Yes, sir,” Dean replied.

A faint buzz sounded, and Gordon reached into his pocket. He frowned at the screen, then double-timed it to his office. Once inside, he locked the door and immediately dialed Jake.

“Nothing,” Jake said.

“You mean to tell me that there isn’t a single person there over the limit?”

“Not according to these results that lab tech you sent with me got.”

“And he showed you the results?”

“Yeah. I had him email them to you so you could see for yourself.”

Gordon tapped the spacebar on his computer, disrupting its slumber. His eyes scanned the document from left to right rapidly. He repeated the process twice before his elbows thumped on his desk, and he rubbed his eyes in disbelief.

“Then where the hell did the soil come from?” Gordon asked.

“I know the lab results say different, but I’ve got a profile on this guy here that doesn’t add up.”

“What do you mean?”

“This tall, smirky-looking fucker. According to his file, his name is Todd Penn. Before the famine, he was some nobody. A janitor that couldn’t stay in one place long enough to lay down any roots, but he stood out like a sore thumb when your tech was taking those blood samples.”

“You think he put the soil there?”

“I don’t know what it means, but I want to stay here until I figure it out.”

“Fine. But I need you back here soon. We’ve run into a situation with some non-registered seeds.”

“GMOs?”

“No. Organic. And the seeds are only half the problem.”

“I’ll call when I have an update.”

Gordon ended the call and tossed his phone onto the desk. All of it was piling up. The food camps, the debt to China, and the sanctions from Mexico and Canada along with the combination of no headway in sustainable food production after three years’ worth of efforts were beginning to sway the White House’s confidence in him. He needed leverage, and a solution to the soil crisis along with non-GMO seeds would be a good start.

Gordon had sullied his hands in the sewer of lobbying long enough to know when the tide was turning. However, he knew what would happen if Washington turned on him, and what was better, Washington knew it as well. They kept him fed and in a position of power, and he did his best to solve the mess they made while keeping his mouth shut about it. But it wouldn’t be long before he controlled who was in power and who wasn’t.

Sydney’s knee bounced nervously inside the mobile lab. The only light in the truck was the glow from the computer screen next to him. He swallowed hard. His throat felt dry. He reached for a bottle of water under the desk. The plastic bottle crinkled from the tremors in his hand. He took a sip then set the bottle down and wrapped his arms tight around the briefcase he carried with him, the case with the real lab results. If they were going to take him, it would happen soon. All that was left to do was wait.

The thought of wasting away in a farm camp for the rest of his life over the past few hours had dulled his senses to the point of apathy. The fear and apprehension that overwhelmed him during the forgery had run its course. But when Jake opened the door forcefully, a resurgence of angst gripped him.

“You’re heading back to Topeka,” Jake said then slammed the door shut before he had a chance to ask any questions.

Am I going back to be sent to a farm camp? Are they going to just kill me? Did Gordon want to speak with me personally before I was condemned? Did he want the pleasure of doing it himself?

The frigid, icy grip of panic took hold of the pit of his stomach and spread to his chest. The truck rumbled along the road, hitting potholes and divots along the way. Each jolt sent a shot of adrenaline through his body.

But the closer they drove to the airport, the less Sydney believed he’d been discovered. Gordon and the bloodhound he’d sent with him didn’t have the slightest inkling of the science behind what went into analyzing the results. All they cared about was the end product, and that’s what he gave them. He was worrying about nothing.

Sentries were stationed in every room in the house. Warren watched them set up the cameras in the kitchen, the living room, all of the bedrooms, and the garage, and he tried not to be obvious while watching them.

When they showed up, Warren thought they were there to collect him or search the house. Whatever Alex had gotten himself into was now affecting him. He shook his head and walked back into the living room, where one of the sentries leaned back in his chair.

“Hey, get off of that!” Warren yelled.

“Or what, old man?” the sentry replied, aiming his rifle between Warren’s shoulders.

Warren waved him off and walked out the front door, where more sentries were stationed outside. He didn’t know where the hell all of them were coming from.

The muscles in Warren’s back popped as he bent over to stretch. He plopped down on the edge of the curb and rubbed his hands together. He had never wanted a smoke so badly in his life. He would have mowed down anyone in the community for the chance at another drag, but the fatigue in his muscles beckoned him to stay put.

A few of the neighbors poked their heads out of their homes to get a look at the spectacle that was his house.

“Why don’t you come over?” Warren yelled across the street. “We’re having some MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS FOR DINNER!”

The doors quickly shut, causing a few of the sentries to turn their heads, but Warren knew most of them didn’t care about the crotchety ramblings of an angry old man. He traced the liver spots that covered the tops of his hands. Every movement of his fingers highlighted the bones underneath his skin. He felt a quick tap on his shoulder and jumped. “Jesus Christ!”

“I’m sorry.”

“God dammit, Alice! Are you trying to give me a stroke?”

Alice Harper was a mouse of a woman, and not just because of her size, which was tiny. Her ears were far too large and round for her head, and she had buckteeth and an overbite. This, accompanied by a way of always keeping her hands at her chest, curled like the top of a candy cane, only exemplified the comparison. Warren couldn’t imagine the woman ate much even before the crisis. He didn’t think her world changed at all compared to the rest of them.

“What do you want?” Warren asked.

Alice took a seat right next to him and scooted close. She cupped her hand to her mouth and pressed it to his ear. “I didn’t tell them anything.”

Warren pushed her off him. “Well, don’t bring attention to yourself by acting all clandestine now!”