Richard House - The Kills

‘You see these. This is on top of what we owe. You understand? You need a job, Rem. Something that has healthcare. Insurance. A job. A stable job. Here. ’ She shook the papers at him before dropping them on the table. Bills for scans, blood tests, X-rays. ‘That’s what we owe, and they haven’t even got started. We don’t qualify for anything, Rem, we don’t get assistance. No one else is going to look after these. Do you understand the problem? How is this going to work if you go to Iraq?’

Rem separated his papers from the pile on the table. ‘It isn’t what you think. I’m not going to work in Iraq. It isn’t what you think.’

‘When is it ever about what I think, Rem? It has to be something more complicated, doesn’t it? It’s always something else with you. That is an application for a job. It’s in your name.’

Rem straightened the papers on his knee. Let her do this, leave her alone. Explain some other time.

* * *

When Cathy returned from work that evening she took a cup of hot water with her to bed, and complained of a migraine, her mood too dangerous to confront.

Rem called Geezler and explained about Cathy. He wanted to tell her, he said. This past month hasn’t been easy. She needs to know. She hasn’t been well. This isn’t helping.

‘You’re not going anywhere except O’Hare,’ Geezler soothed. ‘You go to the induction. You call me. We speak, and then you explain everything to her.’

‘She made a point about the application being real, being in my name.’

Geezler appeared to give this some thought. ‘You’re right. We should have used another name. You’re still going?’

‘I’m still going.’

‘I’d like to send you to the training camp in Austin. I could use you out in the field.’

The idea had its own logic.

‘You know I can’t do that.’

‘I know. I’d pay a bonus. A straight fifty, no questions. However you wanted it. Fifty thousand on top of anything you earn. No tax. No questions.’

‘You’re talking Austin?’

‘Two for Austin but fifty for both Austin and Iraq.’

‘Nice numbers, but not possible.’

‘I wish it was. She already thinks you’re going.’

‘I can’t.’

‘Think about Austin then. Will you do that?’

‘I know I can’t do it.’

‘One week at the training camp.’ Geezler backed off. ‘It’s just a thought,’ he said, ‘it would be useful.’

* * *

They agreed to speak after the induction.

* * *

On the last day in May, Unit 409 were sent to Jalla Road to lay the final section of blacktop. On this night, the people who had lived in the neighbourhood gathered at a squatter camp in an archaeological park bordering the highway. It wasn’t that their tents and campfires hadn’t been noticed, but everyone assumed that these people were part of the influx of refugees from Basrah, Nasiriyah, even Baghdad. A mistake with serious consequences. The highway, nearly complete, with its steep walls, was little more than a deep concrete trench. As the long convoy of vehicles approached, none of the crew of Unit 409 noticed the refugees beginning to congregate on the walls above them. By the time they did notice, and stop, the angry former residents, raised above the convoy, were able to pelt them with stones and bottles loaded with gasoline.

The crews, expecting back-up, withstood the first barrage. A second wave brought a hail of bottles which burst into fire on impact. They watched the front vehicles burn, their companions scuttle from one vehicle to the next seeking refuge. When security did not show the convoy steadily reversed down the unpaved highway and abandoned the stricken vehicles. As they retreated, the bolder citizens came down the concrete banks as a wave. Rem watched the mob fill the roadway. As the contractors made their way back to ACSB they passed the security forces, a pack of armoured trucks with helicopters riding overhead. The zone behind them strafed with streams of tear gas.

The next morning the highway was blasted to pieces. IEDs planted every twenty metres uprooted hanks of concrete, pitched holes, spoiled a road which had never been used.

* * *

Rem arrived an hour early for the sessions at the Premier Suite, and sat in the parking lot facing the white front of the motel. A few cars on either side. Cathy’s ‘don’t commit’ hung with him, and he regretted not explaining the situation to her. ‘Why are you even going? What are you trying to prove?’

In a beige VW parked beside him sat a man who appeared to be speaking to his fist, a white wire ran from his ear.

Rem gathered his papers, locked his car and paused for a final smoke. The man in the VW wound down his window and asked Rem if he was here for the Headspring event. The induction.

‘Which company are you with? Manpower?’

Rem nodded.

‘Manpower. Roads, right? Highways and byways.’ The man gave a thoughtful nod. ‘That makes sense. Civil work? You’re not security, then?’

Rem shook his head. The man stepped out of his car and still appeared small.

‘Pendleton, Manpower, RamCo, ReServe, Outcome. Headspring recruits for them all. They’re all the same, in any case. You’ve heard of HOSCO?’ This wasn’t a question so much as an assumption, the opening of a conversation.

The man looked up as Rem shook his head.

‘HOSCO. Look them up. They run everything. Most of these companies are subsidiaries, but HOSCO run the show. They’re the people you’ll work for. You’re serious?’

‘Serious?’

‘About going?’ The man answered his own question as he locked his car. ‘Serious enough to come, I guess. Serious enough to find out.’

* * *

In the first session they were given nametags, offered coffee and an over-large platter of mini-Danish. Rem counted thirty people, exclusively men, the majority Black and Hispanic, and they sat facing a roll-down screen, silent while an introductory video titled ‘Amrah City — New City’ played and replayed. Rem watched as a decrepit city of low-rise buildings of dead whites and tawny browns, with blank dusty skies, was digitally transformed with new roads and highways, a river, then, rising from the ground, office buildings, libraries, schools, a museum, an entirely new administrative centre surrounded by flags and trees under a slick blue sky. No people, he noticed, not one placed in there. This, he guessed, was the project the man in the VW had described. Regeneration For The Next Generation. The title faded out. Re-build. Re-generate.

After the video a man of about Rem’s age delivered a short introduction. He clasped his hands as he spoke, thanked everyone for coming and said that this was the final round of the post-application, pre-selection process, then introduced himself as Steve.

‘Today, we go through our final screening procedures — nothing to worry about.’ He pointed at the screen. ‘We want you to have an idea of the scale of the project. Forget what you’ve heard, or read, or anything you’ve been told. This is a whole new situation. You’ll be involved in rebuilding. Helping to finish what we’ve started out there. Amrah City is the hub. Government. Business. Communications. Industry.’ While he spoke he looked slowly through the seated rows, man to man, and when he stopped he gave a little hesitation as if expecting applause.

Steve asked if there were questions, and one man struck up his hand and said he didn’t get it. ‘Are we working for the military or the government?’

Steve nodded through the question, then said he understood and that this raised a good point. ‘When you are out in the field you are a contractor. A private individual. You’re working for yourself. Except, we provide the opportunity for you to work. We’ll go more into this later.’