James Hunt - GMO 24 - The Coalition

The sentries finally made it through the kitchen, and shouts quickly transformed into gunfire. The bullets ripped through the air close enough to Alex’s head for him to feel the vibrations of the shots. Alex pumped his legs, pushing toward the tree line. His legs burned, and the metal from the cuffs cut against the skin on his wrists. Finally, he made it into the cover of the trees, which would grow thicker the deeper he went.

The cloud cover blocked out what moonlight was shining. The gunshots fired behind him lessened. They couldn’t see him now.

Alex pushed his body beyond the limits of what it wanted to do. It begged and cried out for him to stop, to rest, to eat, but he couldn’t. Not yet. He had to keep going. The constant placement of his feet one after the other on the uneven ground was the only thing keeping him alive. And if he was dead, then so were Meeko, Harper, and the rest of his community. So he pushed on, running to the thick tree at the other end of the forest to collect the rifles he’d stored there the day before.

Limp arms and a trail of blood were all that was left of Alice when the sentries dragged her out of the house and tossed her into the dirt. Warren, like the rest of the community that was forced to kneel on the hard asphalt in the street, looked at her body, praying they’d see some movement from her. But it never came. Her body was tossed next to the two dead sentries that Alex had killed.

When the leader of the Coalition himself, Gordon Reath, stepped outside of Harper’s house, he was wiping his hands with a rag. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing dark stains that decorated his arms. He tossed the bloody rag onto the mound of dead flesh then pointed at Warren. “Him.”

Warren’s knees were relieved from the pressure grinding them against the lumpy asphalt as two sentries picked him up by his armpits. The sentries dragged him inside after he wasn’t able to get his legs underneath him after having knelt for so long. On his way inside, he caught a glimpse of Alice’s body. Blood and large lumps disfigured her face, making it unrecognizable.

The sentries dragged Warren over the bloody boot prints that smeared the tiled floor. They dropped him into a chair in the kitchen next to a lantern that illuminated the concentrated splatters of blood around the chair’s legs.

“Your friend is a pain in my ass,” Gordon said.

“Welcome to my world,” Warren replied.

Warren’s knee popped as his foot slipped on the slick blood-soaked tile beneath him. The metallic heat and taste overwhelmed his senses. He felt like he was swimming in it.

“Where are the seeds?” Gordon asked.

“Go to hell.”

The remark earned Warren a blow to his cheek, which tumbled him out of the chair, and his shoulder smacked against the tile. He pressed his palm against the floor to push himself up and his hand glided through an already-smeared streak of Alice’s blood. Once Warren was stabilized and on his hands and knees, Gordon kicked his side, cracking his ribs. Warren collapsed back to the floor. Short, sporadic breaths that caused the slightest upheaval of his chest felt like broken glass grinding inside of him.

Gordon stepped over him and leaned down. “Six of my sentries are dead because of your friend. And on our way here, he said that there was another stash of seeds in this house. Now I ask again: where are the seeds?”

Warren lay there motionless, paralyzed by pain. Alex will come back. He’ll get us out of this. He won’t let us die.

Gordon delivered another crushing blow to Warren’s face, breaking his nose. A gush of blood spurted, momentarily distracting him from the pain of his broken ribs. His vision blurred. The people around him turned into nothing but distorted figures. He felt Gordon pick him up by the collar of his shirt, but the fabric was so weak it ripped, and Warren crashed back to the floor. The symphony of agony reached its crescendo as Warren trembled on the floor, disfigured and maimed like the bodies out front. He would be joining them soon. There wasn’t any other way.

“ Where. Are. The. Seeds? ” Gordon demanded.

When the gunshots and shouts of the sentries faded behind him, Alex’s legs finally gave out, and he collapsed to the dirt and roots of the dead forest. His thighs twitched from exhaustion, and fire burned in his lungs. Whatever water was left in his system had been sweated out and had crystallized into salt on the edges of his face. His body wouldn’t let him up. He lay there, spent and completely empty of any fuel to burn in order to continue his journey. But his community still wasn’t safe. Get up. His muscles shook in defiance as he pushed himself off the ground and grasped a tree trunk to steady himself.

The blade he’d used at Harper’s house was still in his hand. He positioned the tip of the blade into the handcuffs’ locking mechanism. After a few tries, he managed to loosen the teeth on the locking bar enough to pull his hands free. The cool night air landed on the cuts left from the cuffs along the skin of his wrists, which cracked as he rotated them in their newly appreciated freedom. He tucked the cuffs into his pocket and continued his journey north toward a creek he knew that ran through the area.

The slight babble of water against rocks grew louder. When he made it to the riverbank, he cupped his hands in the flowing water and slaked his thirst. He cleaned the wounds on his wrist as best he could and splashed his face with the frigid water in an attempt to wake himself up.

The tree where he stored the weapons from the day before was a few hundred yards north. He took a few more sips from the creek then continued his journey. The water had given him a brief burst of life that he didn’t want to waste. Every second he was idle was one more Meeko and Harper were in the farm camp. But with this recent stunt, he wouldn’t just be able to walk up to the front doors and expect to get them out.

A small farm camp was north of the forest. He’d passed it a few times while hunting. The security was lighter compared to the larger camps closer to Topeka. There he’d be able to look up which farm camp Meeko and Harper were being held at and steal a uniform and one of their trucks. After that, he’d be able to sneak into Topeka with no questions asked.

Todd was still in shock. He and a few other community members lingered behind, wondering how they were still alive. Todd peeled his shirtsleeve off the puncture left from the needle’s prodding. Claret-colored specks of dried blood rested in its place.

Eventually, the other community members that had stayed behind left and headed toward the main community building, used for assemblies or the quarterly “social” gatherings that the Soil Coalition put on, which were nothing more than an ancient speaker system blaring old music. The only reason people showed up to them was because they were mandatory, as if forcing the community to be “social” would somehow cause them to forget their troubles.

When the community building wasn’t helping “strengthen” their societal bonds, it was used as a place to vent frustration against the very organization that built it. The poorly crafted walls, leaking roof, and musty air fit well with the complaints that filled it.

Most of the sentries stationed outside rarely entered the building. They remained at their posts, offering their obligatory glares and pat-downs upon entry. Todd extended his arms to the sides as the sentry patted him down roughly and robotically. Once cleared, he grabbed one of the wax candles from the barrel and lit its wick from the massive candle which acted as a lighter for anyone entering.