James Hunt - GMO 24 - The Coalition

“I don’t know how it happened, Alex. Since we can’t live together, I can’t watch his rations. You know how he gets!” Alice said.

The others started crowding around Alex, spilling their concerns and worries, only adding to the thumping in his head. Their voices blended together in one piercing cry. He felt himself grow hot. His right shoulder burned with heat. The voices reached a crescendo until he finally stood up and screamed.

“ENOUGH!”

The room silenced. Alex gripped his should er, trying to extinguish the imaginary flames licking his skin. He was sweating uncontrollably, and his breathing became sporadic. The faces looking at him had changed from fear of the sentries to a fear of him.

“All right, everybody,” Warren said. “Alex needs to rest.”

Warren ushered everyone out of the room. The only noticeable difference in their absence that Alex could tell was the quiet void that replaced them. Once everyone was out, Warren returned to the edge of Alex’s bed.

“Why don’t you ever let me take a look at your shoulder?” Warren asked.

“There’s nothing wrong with it.”

“You say that, but I see you picking at it non-stop when you don’t think anyone’s looking.”

“It’s fine.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Yeah, you said that already.”

“Oh, so it seems like your memory isn’t damaged, which is good to know, because that way you’ll remember that it’s illegal to attack a sentry!” Warren punched Alex’s leg to accentuate the point. “You’re lucky a blow to the head was all they gave you.”

Alex reached for his boots and began to clumsily put them on. “I need to get Meeko. Which farm camp did they take him to?” Alex asked.

“Don’t do this to yourself,” Warren answered.

The blinding, sharp pain in Alex’s head was replaced by his rage. He wrenched Warren’s collar in his fist and gritted his teeth. “Which farm camp?”

“I don’t know specifically which one, but they headed toward Topeka.”

The smell of the musty carpet of the Topeka, Kansas city hall was overwhelming. The A/C vents had leaked all summer, and they couldn’t get the parts to fix them. It wasn’t classified as a priority item in the budget, which was already strapped.

It was here in this small town hall where the founding members of the Soil Coalition gathered to discuss the pressing matters involving the nation and its citizens. The location was chosen as headquarters as a publicity stunt. They wanted the initiative to be in the heart of the country, just as it would be embedded in the hearts of its people.

The council went round and round, and Gordon Reath sat hunched in his seat at the center of the table. He twirled the gavel used to start and end their weekly meetings between his fingers. He was one of the only youthful faces in the group. His jet-black hair stood out among the tufts of white and grey, but unlike the citizens of the communities they represented, there was no lack of round cheeks and overindulgent waistlines. As each councilman spoke, Gordon imagined going down the row, gavel in hand, smacking the heads of each member and sending them back into their holes, like a game of whack-a-mole.

Jared Farnes cleared his throat. “Are we boring you, Mr. Reath?”

The gavel twirled out of Gordon’s hands and thudded against the desk. His head tilted to the side, as his neck seemed to have given up on supporting it. Gordon exuded the morality of a playboy and the patience of a two-year-old.

“We talk about the same problems every week, Mr. Farnes. I doubt this session will offer any new insights.”

Jared Farnes was a rigid piece of steel, and it wasn’t just in his posture. His past work in the industry of weapons development had turned him into one of the wealthiest men in the country, and that wealth wasn’t obtained by being a pushover. His mind created the weapons that had put the United States into a new era of warfare. That same tenacity led him into the President’s circle as his personal liaison to the Soil Coalition. In short, Jared Farnes was the continual pain in Gordon Reath’s ass.

“Mr. Gordon, we’re receiving increased pressure from Canada and Mexico about their grievances of GMO-24 being carried by winds into their farmlands. Not to mention the Chinese demanding that we start a payment plan for the debt we’ve accumulated over the past year from the increased food imports. If we don’t take action, the Canadians and Mexicans could increase their sanctions against us in the UN, and the Chinese could stop their shipments altogether.”

“The Chinese, Canadians, and Mexicans can make all the idle threats they want, but as long as our missiles are aimed in their direction, that’s all they’ll remain: idle.”

“And what about the critical need for seeds? Most of the silos were burned down during the first few months of the crisis. The same silos, mind you, which this Coalition was in charge of protecting. It is my opinion, as well as the opinion of the President, that this Coalition has failed to deliver its intended solution,” Jared said.

“Our intended solution is to keep this country fed. And that’s exactly what we’re doing. Where are we with the production at the camps?”

Dean Grout, a gorilla of a man who was in charge of the sentry program, thumped his heavy forearms on the desk. “Production is down three percent from last quarter, but I’ve ordered all inspectors to shorten the blood test margin from twelve percent to eight, which should increase our recruitment.”

“Recruitment?” Jared asked. “You mean the slave labor you use to keep your plantations running?”

Dean leaned back into his chair and didn’t say another word. He wasn’t in his position for his people skills; he was in it for the lack thereof.

“Any other pressing news before we adjourn?” Gordon asked. “Good. I’ll see everyone in a week.” Gordon was out the door before the rest of the room was out of their seats.

Sydney peered through the microscope and magnified the sample by twenty. The small specks of dirt underneath the glass grew to massive proportions under the view of the lens. Then he rolled over to his computer where he entered an algorithm, which was cut short as he jolted from the lab door swinging open and slamming against the wall.

“Sydney!” Gordon said, arms extended as if he were seeing an old friend. “I hear you have some good news for me?”

“Um, y-yes,” Sydney said, scurrying to fetch a pile of papers on his desk that were jumbled together in a heaping, disorganized mess. “I-I received a new soil sample today, and you can see here that the nitrate levels are actually normal, leading to a healthy pH—”

Gordon slapped Sydney on the back, silencing him. “Sydney. I don’t need the science mumbo jumbo. I just need to know if you can grow anything in the soil.”

“Well, um, yes, but—”

“Where was the sample pulled from?”

“Wyoming, but—”

“Perfect. Send a team out there with a prepared list of what’s growable in the climate. I want this done immediately, understood? Good.”

Sydney stood there, still clutching the mess of papers against his chest. His lips quivered, searching for both the words and courage to speak up. He found both right before Gordon reached the door. “The soil area is only a one-square-foot patch.”

Gordon froze with his hand on the doorframe. Sydney noticed the whiteness of Gordon’s knuckles. Gordon took a few steps backwards, not turning around, then closed the door.

“One square foot?” Gordon asked.

“Yes.” Sydney backed up until he bumped into a desk. “The scout team actually stumbled across it by accident. There was a single plant growing in the area, and the soil didn’t permeate deeper than six inches. Everything else below it, or around it, was still infertile. It was like someone put it there.”