The people are still told that these homes are temporary. That one day they will return to the memories of their old lives, and that things will be bright and beautiful again. But this is all a lie.
The Reestablishment has no plans to move them.
Civilians are caged on these regulated grounds; these containers have become their prisons. Everything has been numbered. The people, their homes, their level of importance to The Reestablishment.
Here, they’ve become a part of a huge experiment. A world wherein they work to support the needs of a regime that makes them promises it will never fulfill.
This is my life.
This sorry world.
Most days I feel just as caged as these civilians; and that’s likely why I always come here. It’s like running from one prison to another; an existence wherein there is no relief, no refuge. Where even my own mind is a traitor.
I should be stronger than this.
I’ve been training for just over a decade. Every day I’ve worked to hone my physical and mental strengths. I’m five feet, nine inches and 170 pounds of muscle. I’ve been built to survive, to maximize endurance and stamina, and I’m most comfortable when I’m holding a gun in my hand. I can fieldstrip, clean, reload, disassemble, and reassemble more than 150 different types of firearms. I can shoot a target through the center from almost any distance. I can break a person’s windpipe with only the edge of my hand. I can temporarily paralyze a man with nothing but my knuckles.
On the battlefield, I’m able to disconnect myself from the motions I’ve been taught to memorize. I’ve developed a reputation as a cold, unfeeling monster who fears nothing and cares for less.
But this is all very deceiving.
Because the truth is, I am nothing but a coward.
Fourteen
The sun is setting.
Soon I’ll have no choice but to return to base, where I’ll have to sit still and listen to my father speak instead of shooting a bullet through his open mouth.
So I stall for time.
I watch from afar as the children run around while their parents herd them home. I wonder about how one day they’ll get old enough to realize that the Reestablishment Registration cards they carry are actually tracking their every movement. That the money their parents make from working in whichever factories they were sorted into is closely monitored. These children will grow up and finally understand that everything they do is recorded, every conversation dissected for whispers of rebellion. They don’t know that profiles are created for every citizen, and that every profile is thick with documentation on their friendships, relationships, and work habits; even the ways in which they choose to spend their free time.
We know everything about everyone.
Too much.
So much, in fact, that I seldom remember we’re dealing with real, live people until I see them on the compounds. I’ve memorized the names of nearly every person in Sector 45. I like to know who lives within my jurisdiction, soldiers and civilians alike.
That’s how I knew, for example, that Private Seamus Fletcher, 45B-76423, was beating his wife and children every night.
I knew he was spending all his money on alcohol; I knew he’d been starving his family. I monitored the REST dollars he spent at our supply centers and carefully observed his family on the compounds. I knew his three children were all under the age of ten and hadn’t eaten in weeks; I knew that they’d repeatedly been to the compounds’ medic for broken bones and stitches. I knew he’d punched his nine-year-old daughter in the mouth and split her lip, fractured her jaw, and broken her two front teeth; and I knew his wife was pregnant. I also knew that he hit her so hard one night she lost the child the following morning.
I knew, because I was there.
I’d been stopping by each residence, visiting with the civilians, asking questions about their health and overall living situations. I’d wanted to know about their work conditions and whether any members of their family were ill and needed to be quarantined.
She was there that day. Fletcher’s wife. Her nose was broken so badly that both her eyes had swollen shut. Her frame was so thin and frail, her color so sallow that I thought she might snap in half just by sitting down. But when I asked about her injuries, she wouldn’t look me in the eye. She said she’d fallen down; that because of her fall, she’d lost the pregnancy and managed to break her nose in the process.
I nodded. Thanked her for her cooperation in answering my questions.
And then I called for an assembly.
I’m well aware that the majority of my soldiers steal from our storage compounds. I oversee our inventory closely, and I know that supplies go missing all the time. But I allow these infractions because they do not upset the system. A few extra loaves of bread or bars of soap keep my soldiers in better spirits; they work harder if they are healthy, and most are supporting spouses, children, and relatives. So it is a concession I allow.
But there are some things I do not forgive.
I don’t consider myself a moral man. I do not philosophize about life or bother with the laws and principles that govern most people. I do not pretend to know the difference between right and wrong. But I do live by a certain kind of code. And sometimes, I think, you have to learn how to shoot first.
Seamus Fletcher was murdering his family. And I shot him in the forehead because I thought it’d be kinder than ripping him to pieces by hand.
But my father picked up where Fletcher left off. My father had three children and their mother shot dead, all because of the drunken bastard they’d depended on to provide for them. He was their father, her husband, and the reason they all died a brutal, untimely death.
And some days I wonder why I insist on keeping myself alive.
Fifteen
Once I’m back on base, I head straight down.
I ignore the soldiers and their salutes as I pass by, paying little attention to the blend of curiosity and suspicion in their eyes. I didn’t even realize I was headed this way until I arrived at headquarters; but my body seems to know more about what I need right now than my mind does. My footfalls are heavy; the steady, clipping sound of my boots echoes along the stone path as I reach the lower levels.
I haven’t been here in nearly two weeks.