Copperheads - 12 (28 page)

Bishop stood and stepped to the wall map, pointing with a pencil. “The hostages are in at least two different places. We know they have armor here … and here. It would take a huge invasion force to control both locations, and even then, there’s no guarantee that we would find our people. No, General, my read is that an invasion of any sort is out of the question. Those people down there are absolutely ruthless. They will kill our citizens the moment they sense anything is wrong.”

“Would they accept any other form of ransom?” Diana asked. “Can we offer something other than the Quakers?”

Nick didn’t like the idea. “Negotiating with radicals is never a good move,” he stated firmly. “Even if there were something we could provide that would get our people out of there, in six months they could just snatch a few more citizens and make further demands. We would find ourselves facing the same problem.”

“Lady Bella Dona wanted in my pants pretty badly,” Terri chuckled, trying to lighten the mood. “Maybe I should offer to have sex with her in exchange for releasing the hostages.”

“Hell, if it would avoid a war and a bunch of people getting killed, I’d go hop in her bed with ya,” Diana added.

A virtual menu of snarky comments immediately formed in Bishop’s mind, including an offer to be the event’s photographer. Then an image of a badly beaten, suffering Butter formed in his brain, evaporating all wit and humor.
For once, I’m not the person throwing out the bad joke at the wrong time
, he thought.
I want that boy home.

Glancing across the table at his friend, Bishop found Nick waiting for it. Only mild disappointment flashed across the big man’s face when the Texan shook his head, “No, sir. I’m not saying a word.”

“Negotiate, free our people, and then go wipe them out?” the general suggested. “We could station troops along the border to block the flow of refugees and wouldn’t have an ongoing blackmail problem.”

No one liked the military option, yet there didn’t seem to be any better solution. “First of all,” Diana began, as the meeting was losing steam, “the Alliance cannot afford a protracted engagement. Secondly, the general’s idea assumes we can negotiate some other solution.”

“It’s not our fight,” Bishop added. “I’m as morally outraged as anyone over what we saw down there, but is it really any of our business? Before the collapse, I’d wager that everyone at this table had a pair of shoes in their closet that had been made by forced labor somewhere in Asia. I hated it then, and I hate it now, but like the old American politicians used to say, we can’t be the world’s policeman.”

Nick nodded his agreement, “When the Alliance first began the recovery, we bussed thousands and thousands of people out of the inner cities and put them to work in the fields. We set up entire communities made of tents and dug trenches for latrines. The conditions were deplorable. If someone had wandered into our territory and witnessed those events, they might have easily concluded that we were using slave labor to grow our own food.”

“But that was different,” Diana countered, now on the defensive. “We didn’t force those people to work. Any of them could have declined, moved on, or found a different way. We didn’t deny individual free will.”

Shaking his head, Nick said, “Back then, if you wanted to eat Alliance food, you had to go work in Alliance fields. It was the only option our government had to provide food for a famished populace. Is what this Bella Dona lady is doing in Mexico really all that different?”

“I think that was April’s point … why she didn’t want to leave,” Terri added. “Bishop’s right, it’s none of our affair. Hard times call for hard measures. We shouldn’t be so quick to judge.”

Bishop spoke again, “Does anyone remember Fort Stockdale and D.A. Gibson? We kept hearing they were using slave labor, kept hearing that same story from refugees wandering into Alpha. And what did we find when we finally ‘invaded?’ It just goes to show that there are two sides to every story, and I think it’s a very bad idea for the Alliance to get involved with either side of this coin.”

Terri nodded, the slight redness of embarrassment n her cheeks. “Yes, I remember. I was bound and determined to kill anyone who abused the downtrodden. I’ve learned a lot since then … some very difficult lessons.”

A prolonged, silent pause prompted considerable contemplation, all of the gathered debating both the tactical and moral paradox they faced. No one liked the apparent evil that lurked just south of the Rio Grande, yet there were no workable alternatives.

Bishop was the first to speak again, “Maybe this isn’t any of our business, but that doesn’t mean we have to support slavery. No matter how this problem is resolved, I hope the clever people at this table find a way to deny Bella Dona a market for her ill-gotten gains.”

“That’s going to be a hard sale to the president, Bishop,” Diana said. “He’s as desperate for groceries as we were just a short time ago. If this decision comes down to mass starvation versus procuring food grown by slaves, a full belly is going to win over individual rights every single time.”

“They will eventually fail, no matter what we do,” Bishop shrugged. “They are experiencing the same problem that all utopian societies eventually encounter. I don’t care if you call them socialist, communist, hippie communes, or Plato’s Republic, they all suffer from the same basic flaw. When the people are handed everything by the government, they become dependent on that government. Freedom evaporates; individuality disappears. Before the collapse, the United States and its welfare safety net created generational poverty and dependence. Those folks became slaves in their own right, unable to break the cycle and trapped in virtual poverty. Their master was the government, pretending to be the generous benefactor, just like Bella Dona. And yet, politicians with socialist leanings generated popular support right up to the collapse. It’s been tried over and over again, and the results are always the same. You would think our species would learn,” Bishop grumbled.

Nick nodded his agreement, “Most people don’t know that Carolina, Georgia, and Pennsylvania were all founded on some English philosopher’s cockamamie vision of a Utopian paradise. Even Thomas Jefferson had his visions of the Yeoman Republic. This isn’t anything new, yet it has never worked.”

It was Terri who brought the meeting back to its original purpose. “This conversation is interesting and informative, but we are out of time, folks. If no one has a better solution, I propose Bishop and I go back down there and see if we can talk some sense into Bella Dona. It doesn’t matter if we’re dealing with a Utopian paradise or inhuman slave pit, we still have to get our people out of there. That has to be the top priority. I just don’t see any other way.”

“Just remember,” Bishop muttered with an icy voice. “Evil feeds on benevolence.”

April shooed the last of the children from the shed and then glanced at the sun to judge the time. She was getting them out late, again, and wondered if Castro would punish her for being too soft on the little ones.

She didn’t blame the kids for wanting to stay, couldn’t bring herself to snap and shout at them like the other teachers.
They crave learning
, she thought, trying to justify the daily lingering that occurred after class was over.
They’re just little sponges, wanting so badly to soak up knowledge
.

At least, that’s what she wanted to believe.

Deep down inside, April knew that her justification wasn’t entirely truthful. Demanding chores, wretched quarters, and hard labor waited at the end of every school day. The older the child, the more that was expected of him. Some of the larger boys were already reporting to the fields.

Turning to find the one student left, she sighed deeply and approached Julio.

“We need to have a word about your grammar, young man,” April began, trying to find the middle ground between serious and supportive. “You’re struggling with punctuation, and I do not see enough effort on your part.”

Looking up shyly, the preteen boy merely shrugged and mumbled, “I’ll try to do better, ma’am.”

April sat down on the bench next to her prize student and took his hand gently in hers. “Of all the children I have taught, you are the most gifted, Julio. Your writing is beautiful, and it touches me more than anything else I’ve ever read. I want to squeeze every sentence to get every last drop of joy out of each word. Please, don’t throw this away. You could be the next Shakespeare or Twain or Tolstoy.”

Large, sad, chocolate-brown eyes peered up at April. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I … I just.… There’s no use.”

The teacher disappeared from April’s posture, replaced by the nurturing friend. “What’s the matter, Julio? Is something wrong?”

“I will be 12 next month. You know the rules. I am to report to the fields on my birthday,” sounded his weak, faltering voice. “What good does it do to learn about writing when in less than three years, I won’t be able to stand without pain? I see how my mother and father suffer. I know my future.”

Reaching down to brush back a lock of his dark hair, April tried to keep a positive face. “You don’t know that things will be the same in three years, or next year, or even next month for that matter. Besides, you can still write after coming home from the harvest. You can still express that wonderful way your mind looks at the world.”

The adolescent’s trepidation turned to anger. With eyes flaring and breaths short and hard, he snapped, “You don’t see my parents. You don’t see the blisters on their hands and feet, see them wince with every step. How many people in your family have been scarred by the whip?”

On the outside, April weathered his verbal outrage without any reaction. On the inside, his words aggrieved her deeply. “I know our lives are a struggle right now. I’m sorry you have to grow up in such a difficult time. Still, we have food, shelter, and protection from evil men. We’re making progress. Things will get better, I promise.”

“Food,” he spat. “The harvest. The crops. Plow, plant, weed, pick, stack, and store. That’s all I ever hear, see, or will ever know. My stomach may be full, buy my mind is starving.”

There it was again, a brilliance way beyond the adolescent’s years.

“We have to eat, Julio,” the teacher reasoned. “I am sure you’ve heard the stories about life after the collapse. I was there. They are true. We have no choice but to work together and sacrifice to survive. We all must do our part if things are going to get better.”

“My dad doesn’t think things will get better. Neither does my mother. I hear them whispering at night. They say that there is plenty of food for everyone here at the Castle. They say that Lady Bella Dona is working everyone into their graves so that she can build an army and rule all of Mexico. I believe them.”

April was shocked at the ordinarily docile, young man’s inflammatory statements. “Don’t say those things, Julio,” she mumbled, looking all around to make sure no one was within earshot. “Words like those can get you and your parents into a lot of trouble.”

“What about words that I write? Will those get me into trouble as well? Will my words ever set me free?”

His questions left April feeling unsettled, and yet she immediately realized that she shouldn’t be surprised. Julio didn’t think like the other children – his mind worked in its own beautiful, unique way. She was positive his intellect placed the child in a class far and above common measurements such as genius or prodigy. He had exceeded her knowledge of mathematics over a year ago. He could read and retain any material. It was his writing, however, that was indescribably exquisite, his insight inspired.

“Julio, please, don’t give up. I know it’s difficult to understand right now, but.…”

“My father says that writing isn’t going to put food on our table,” he interrupted. “My mother loves to read my words, but then she starts crying and sobbing. She says that I should be going to a university … not out to pick limes and melons in the mud.”

April squeezed his hand with affection, “The universities will reopen one of these days, Julio. I promise. Now, you must go before we both get in trouble. I will see you tomorrow, okay?”

He stared at her with wide, wet eyes, finally muttering, “Yes, ma’am.” He scampered away, each landing of his bare feet raising a small puff of dust from the dirt path.

The entire episode served to deepen April’s already heightened sense of despair. The past few days had been the most difficult she had ever experienced, including those unforgettable weeks of starvation back at the marina. As if May’s pending death sentence were not bad enough, a man had tried to abduct her, she had been interrogated at the Castle, and Castro was in a dangerous mood. It was as if her warm, safe world was crumbling into tiny pieces.

Inhaling deeply to clear her mind, April began tidying up the schoolroom, stacking the books onto an old barrel, making sure none of the children had left anything behind. She had been promised this shed for the next three weeks, after which, it would be filled to the rafters with bales of straw.

Finally feeling like her duties were complete, she followed in Julio’s footsteps, ambling back toward the main cluster of buildings that surrounded the Castle. Castro, despite his frayed nerves and short temper, was allowing her to visit May each evening. She would drop off her satchel, brush her hair, and then go and see her sister.

It was over three miles back to building #11, the old path leading April through the seemingly endless fields, most being attended by hundreds of workers. “My stomach is full, but my mind is starving,” she repeated the student’s words. “I wonder how many more of them feel the same way.”

It was a shame, really, a tragedy that the world was so cruel as to deny children like Julio the opportunity to realize their full potential. Her student belonged in the classroom where he could refine and develop his gift, not carrying baskets of vegetables on his shoulders.

More and more buildings now dotted her route as she drew closer to #11 and the heart of the plantation. Some of the metal structures were enormous, and for a second, she wondered about their purpose.

The rare sound of an engine drew her attention to another of the monstrous facilities, the deep rumble soon followed by the appearance of a huge, tracked vehicle with a cannon on top. April had no military experience, but even she recognized the tank.

“What are you doing here?” a harsh voice barked behind her on the path.

April turned to see one of Castro’s grey shirts approaching with a scowl on his face, his club slapping the palm of his hand.

Looking down as she’d learned long ago to do, April answered, “I am a teacher, jefe, on my way back from class.”

She could feel the man’s intense scrutiny as he judged her response. “Teacher? Class? School was scheduled to have been dismissed over 30 minutes ago. I see no reason why a teacher should be standing around, watching a restricted building. So I will ask again, what are you doing here?”

“I am on my way back to my barracks,” she said with the humblest of tones. “I had to hold a student over.”

“You didn’t appear to be hurrying anywhere just a moment ago. You were standing, gawking like a spy. Are you a spy, schoolteacher? Are you a Quaker?”

“No, I’m nothing of the sort. Please, allow me to be on my.…”

Without warning, the security man slapped her hard across the face. “Now answer my question, missy. What were you doing looking at that restricted building?”

The blow was harsh, April stinging from both the impact and the humiliation. She didn’t know how to answer his question, afraid that any response would draw another painful strike – or worse. “I was … I said.…”

Like a striking cobra, his fist slammed into her stomach. April doubled over in pain, collapsing to her knees as she gasped to replace the air that had been knocked from her lungs.

“Who is your unit master?” he shouted, raising the club.

“Castro,” she managed. “I report to Castro.”

The name of the plantation’s head of security took her antagonist aback, but only for a second. Yanking her up by the hair, he bellowed, “If you are lying to me, I will have you whipped. Now walk, schoolteacher. We will find Castro and verify your story.”

Being pulled by the arm, April noticed Julio standing in the shadows, watching the entire affair. His lips moved without sound, mouthing the words, “Things will get better.”

By the time they arrived at Castro’s office, April was sure her arm had been jerked from its socket, the brutal security man never loosening his grip or allowing the circulation to return to her limb.

Castro appeared mildly amused until the guard mentioned the restricted building. April shivered when she noticed the security chief’s eyes go cold. “I will handle this. Thank you for bringing it to my attention.”

After the subordinate had left, Castro turned to her and said, “With your sister being a self-confessed terrorist, you really shouldn’t be around restricted spaces. It just doesn’t look good.”

“I – I didn’t know,” she said honestly.

“Do you think that matters? Our entire operation is on edge right now. We have armed, hostile men less than 5 kilometers away, the Quakers are increasing the rhythm and ferocity of their attacks, and we expect the Alliance to invade at any moment. Don’t make me regret trusting you.”

April nodded her agreement, “Yes, sir.”

“Go on about your business. By the way, after your stellar performance with the outsiders, I ordered one of the carpenters to install a door on your quarters,” he stated with pride. “It should provide additional privacy. We do reward loyalty. I may even visit this evening to celebrate.”

Looking quiet and demure, April left, making her way toward #11 and her closet-quarters. With each step along the beaten trail, her anger boiled, threatening to develop into a full-blown, seething rage.

The fact that she now had to keep her head down and eyes forward was infuriating. Her arm ached, her core still throbbing from the impact of the guard’s fist. She was even too intimidated to acknowledge the people passing by, paranoia causing more achiness in her gut than the brutal punch. “What is happening to our community?” she questioned silently. “Why am I being treated in this way? I did nothing wrong, yet I’m being made to feel like a criminal.”

For a moment, the distraught woman considered fleeing. Castro was out of control, he and his men growing more and more tyrannical with each passing month. She had no belongings to pack. She could simply walk away, cross the fields and hills, and go home to Texas.

She began creating a mental framework of her escape and journey, using the same outlining methods she taught Julio to use when writing a long paper. She would need water, some food, a spare set of clothing, and a map. She then added a rucksack, or basket to carry her traveling supplies.

It then dawned on April that her plan was deeply flawed. She had no vessel to carry water, as the plantation always provided hydration to its workers via pump wells and young men carrying large buckets on their shoulders. There was no way to cache or carry food, the kitchens serving as much as a person could eat, but no more. A map was impossible.

May.

Even if she could manage an escape, she couldn’t leave her sister behind. “You ran away once,” she whispered. “Look at all of the trouble that has caused. No, you can’t just up and leave.”

Remorse welled up inside April. She was completely dependent on Castro and Bella Dona for even the most basic of human needs. Her mere survival was in the hands of others. She had become completely dependent on the ‘utopian’ machine that was the plantation. She was no longer a functioning individual capable of free will and independent action.

Anger soon began to morph into frustration. There was no place to go, no appeal or higher authority. “You want to come by and celebrate?” she hissed, remembering Castro’s words. “You consider that a reward?”

As she made her way up the main aisle of #11, she noticed a man with a tool belt standing outside of her quarters. He seemed perplexed. “I was instructed to install this door, but there’s no wall to hang it from. I will have to build a wall or forget about the door.”