Strike (3 page)

“My name is Tucker,” I said, belligerently.

“
IRRELEVANT
,” the machine replied. “
WHAT USEFUL SKILLS DO YOU POSSE
SS?
”

“Useful skills? What do you mean?”

“
DO YOU HAVE A PA
RTICULAR TALENT? ARE
YOU ACCOMPLISHED AT
SOMETHING PRACTICAL?
”

“Like what?” I really didn’t know where these questions were going.

“
ARE YOU A PLUMBER? AN ELECTRICIAN? A W
ELDER? DO YOU WORK WI
TH WOOD? CAN YOU COOK
? WE ARE ALWAYS LOOKI
NG FOR THOSE WITH US
EFUL SKILLS. WHAT ARE
YOURS?
”

I really had to think about that. What could I do? If I had some kind of skill it might get me out of doing hard labor. Or
dangerous
labor. The trouble was, I had nothing. I was a fourteen-year-old second-string running back on my high school football team. What was that going to get me? Suddenly all those hours studying math and writing essays in school felt pretty wasted.

“Wait,” I said. “I have a skill. I’m a landscaper. I design gardens and know how to care for pretty much anything that grows. They say I’ve got a green thumb.”

That was totally overselling my abilities. The truth was I mowed and raked grass for my dad’s gardening business. I knew a little bit about fertilizer and how to trim plants to keep them looking good, but that was about it.

“
IRRELEVANT
,” the machine said.

Gee, thanks.

“What happened to my mother and my friends?”

As soon as I said that, I regretted it. This machine didn’t know who I was. If it connected me with the others there was a better chance we’d all be found out. But I couldn’t help myself. Without my friends I wasn’t sure how I’d have enough strength to go on.

“
YOU NO LONGER HAVE
A MOTHER AND FRIENDS
,
” the machine said. “
YOU ARE ZERO THREE
ONE ONE. THAT IS YOU
R HISTORY AND YOUR F
UTURE.
”

I wanted to jump out of my chair and throttle this person, or whatever it was. But there was nothing to grab on to but glowing white letters that came and went as if blown by the wind.

“
D
O NOT SPEAK
WITH AIR FORCE PERSO
NNEL UNLESS YOU ARE
REQUESTED TO SPEAK. D
O NOT COMMUNICATE WI
TH THE OTHER WORKERS
UNLESS IT REGARDS T
HE TASK AT HAND. THER
E ARE SEVERE CONSEQU
ENCES FOR DISOBEDIEN
CE.
”

I didn’t have to question that. I believed it.

“
YOU WILL SLEEP I
N A COMMUNITY BARRAC
KS AND EAT IN A COMM
UNITY HALL. YOU WILL
NOT SLEEP IN THE SAM
E BUNK TWICE SO DO N
OT HOARD PERSONAL IT
EMS.
”

This was going to be even more horrible than prison. They were taking away everything that made a person unique, starting with their name. “
WHAT YOU WERE B
EFORE ARRIVING HERE
DOES NOT MATTER; THER
EFORE NAMES ARE IRRE
LEVANT. WORK HARD, OBE
Y THE RULES, AND THE
REST OF YOUR LIFE WI
LL BE WORRY-FREE.
”

“Yeah, except it probably won’t last very much longer.”

“
GOODBYE, ZERO THREE ONE ONE.
”

The door to the igloo slid open. I shielded my eyes from the bright light and saw the Retro guard waiting outside for me. I stood and shuffled out.

“So I guess I’m registered,” I said. “Now what?”

The guy zapped me with the baton.

I screamed, but it was more out of surprise than pain. His weapon was dialed to shoot a very light charge . . . just enough to keep the rowdy in line.

“Do not speak,” the guard warned. “I’ll bring you to your unit.”

There wasn’t anything else I could do but follow the guy. If there was any hope of finding out what happened to my mom and my friends, I was going to have to play along . . . at least until I saw a chance to escape. As I followed the Retro guard through this frightening new world, there was only one thing I knew for sure: I was not going to live out the rest of my life as a slave to these murderers. That would have to become my focus because all hope of bringing down the Retros was gone.

The guard led me through several more buildings that were connected by wooden walkways. Each time we left one building we stepped out into the blazing-hot desert. After a few steps we’d enter the next long building in line. It wasn’t much cooler inside the structures than out in the open. Each building had ceiling fans that didn’t do any more than push the hot air around, but it was still better than being under the sun.

The buildings we passed through were nearly identical. They were barracks similar to the wooden hospital ward but with one big difference: The beds here were empty. The buildings themselves looked and smelled brand-new. The wooden beams were fresh and there was none of the grime that came from use. It looked to me as if the Retros were preparing for an influx of more people. Many more people.

When we were given the briefing back in Las Vegas before setting out to sabotage the Retro fleet of planes, the leaders of the survivors said how the Retros were heavy on equipment but light on manpower. They were absolutely correct. Area 51 was home to well over a thousand attack drones, but we saw almost no people. Wherever this camp was, it looked to be just as under-manned. But from the number of empty beds I was seeing, that would change. People were coming. But who?

After passing through a dozen identical empty barracks, I began to hear the sounds of work. There was hammering and sawing and the general cacophony one would expect from a large work force. We exited the final building and arrived at a busy construction site. Three more barracks in various stages of completion were being worked on by several dozen workers. Prisoners. It looked as though I was going to be put to work along with all the other orange-wearing, number-given slaves. This was my future. At least my immediate future.

The guard led me through the work zone when a new sound entered my consciousness. It was music. Eerily familiar music. I froze. It was a sound I’d heard far too many times. Slowly, I turned around to see what I knew would be there and was greeted by an even more disturbing sight.

Looming high above the new structures, no more than a few hundred yards away, was the giant steel igloo-like dome.

The gate to hell.

I had to fight from falling to my knees.

A black Retro attack plane rose up next to it. It lifted vertically into the air until it cleared the top of the dome, then its musical engine kicked in and the killer craft shot off like a rocket. In seconds it was out of sight.

I knew exactly where I was . . . the Mojave Desert, not far from where our SYLO helicopter was attacked and downed. Captain Granger had made a foolish mistake by flying us by here to see this structure. He should have known they’d be watching. Before we were attacked, we saw a Retro fighter plane float out from inside the dome. It proved that in spite of the fact that we had obliterated their entire fleet at Area 51, the Retro Air Force had not been defeated. More of these deadly craft were arriving from whatever factory was churning them out. How long would it be before the entire fleet was replaced so they could continue their ghastly purge of the planet’s population?

From the sky we had seen the wrecks of hundreds of SYLO fighter jets strewn across the desert floor that had tried to destroy this monstrous structure . . . and that were blasted out of the sky by drones and antiaircraft guns.

The dome was untouchable, the Retros were still very much in business, and I was their prisoner. The war, or at least my part in it, was over.

I found myself wishing I hadn’t been thrown free of the crashing helicopter. I wanted to be together with my mother and my friends, however dire their fates were.

T
he guard pushed me toward a long half-completed wooden building that would eventually look like all the others. Next to it was a deep trench that looked to be the beginnings of the foundation for yet another building. This pit was being dug by hand, painstakingly. A large group of tortured-looking men and women in orange coveralls used simple shovels to move the dry desert sand. They methodically filled wheelbarrows that were carted off by other equally exhausted-looking prisoners.

The Retros were at it again, forcing the survivors of their attack into slave labor. Seeing the vacant stares of the beaten and abused prisoners as they worked under the hot desert sun made my heart race with anger. How could a group of people who said they were trying to right the course of civilization treat their fellow men so badly?

A Retro wearing camouflage, but unarmed, stood next to the growing pit, monitoring what looked like an oversized iPad in her hand. She was a severe-looking woman with short, steely hair and broad shoulders. The guard I had been following approached her and said a few words I couldn’t hear. The woman gave me a quick look and turned away, shaking her head. I guess she didn’t need any more workers, which was fine by me.

The guard came back to me and said, “This is your unit. Unit Blue. Do whatever your supervisor orders you to do. The more productive you are, the easier it will be for you. More food.
Better
food. Shorter shifts. Better bunks. If you don’t produce, then . . .” He let his voice trail off and he shrugged.

I wanted to hit him, and might have, if he hadn’t made eye contact with me.

Up until that moment he had been totally cold, as if I were an annoying dog that needed training. But in that brief moment I thought I saw something in his eyes that looked strangely like sympathy.

Or maybe I just imagined it.

He gave me a slight nod and headed off, leaving me alone with the silver-haired supervisor who didn’t look any happier about being there than I was.

The guard hadn’t told me the supervisor’s name and I didn’t dare ask. Maybe her name was as irrelevant as mine supposedly was.

“Grab a shovel,” the woman barked without looking at me. “We need to move two tons of earth before nightfall. Get to work.”

Nightfall. Was that how it was going to be? Were the prisoners forced to work until it was too dark to see? I picked up a shovel from a pile near the edge of the pit and gazed over the side to see at least twenty people laboring in the furnace that was to be the foundation of yet another bunkhouse. The hole was roughly six feet deep. Grave depth. But it was only half the size of one of the long buildings. There was a lot of work to be done.

I didn’t want to go down there. I feared that I might never come out. In that one moment, all the horror I’d been through since the night of Marty Wiggins’s death on Pemberwick Island came flooding back in a rush of violent images that sprang from my memory. I couldn’t catch my breath. My heart raced. What was going on? Was I suddenly overcome by sorrow? Or was it fear?

No, it was anger. Who were these Retros and how were they able to use the United States Air Force to take over the world and enslave the survivors? They had turned the world upside down. For what? Nothing could justify the deaths, the destruction, the loss. To make it worse, they were treating the survivors like animals in a slaughterhouse. We were given numbers. Numbers had no personality. No history. No humanity. What was next? Would they brand us with a burning hot iron?

I gripped the shovel tighter as my rage grew. I glanced at the silver-haired Retro supervisor who still didn’t think enough of me to make sure I was climbing down into that pit. She was busily scanning her tablet. In that one second I felt as though she alone represented the heartless force that had destroyed our world. I wanted her to suffer for what they had done. I raised the blade of the shovel and strode toward her. I’m not crazy, or a killer, but in that moment I didn’t feel like myself. I was a number. Zero Three One One. If they could treat me like I was nothing, then I could do the same to them. I raised the shovel, poised to bash it over her head and exorcise the demons that had taken control of my emotions.

I lifted the shovel higher, ready to strike . . .

. . . as a military jeep came screaming out from behind the last of the completed barracks. The sound jolted me back to my senses. I assumed it was carrying Retro guards who were coming to stop me from beaning the unwary supervisor.

I was a heartbeat away from dropping the shovel and running when the jeep turned hard and an orange-clad body was thrown out. He hit the ground with a sickening thud and tumbled in the sand like a broken doll before coming to rest.

Three Retro soldiers sat in the jeep. One behind the wheel, the second in the passenger seat. The third Retro was in back. That was the guy who had tossed the prisoner to the dirt. The jeep slid to a stop near the edge of the foundation pit, kicking up sand and dust that hung in the air and giving a coughing fit to a few of the workers.

The unit supervisor stood there staring. Apparently she didn’t understand what was going on any more than I did.

The guy in the passenger seat twisted and pulled himself out. He wore black-and-gray Retro fatigues but carried himself more casually than the other soldiers. He rolled more than walked, as if every joint in his body was loose—the exact opposite of the ramrod-straight Captain Granger. His shirt was unbuttoned to the middle of his chest, showing off deeply tanned skin. Though he looked to be about my dad’s age, he had longish, bleached-blond hair that had to be constantly swept out of his eyes. Other than the uniform there was nothing military-like about this guy. He looked more like somebody who played tennis at the uppity Arbortown Racquet Club with Kent Berringer than a soldier at a military prison camp.

The other three soldiers were on high alert. They kept their eyes locked on this guy as he strolled toward the pit. He may not have looked like a respected military leader, but from the body language of his own soldiers, he was somebody you didn’t dare mess with.

He stood on the edge of the pit and leaned forward slightly to get a full view of the workers toiling below.

“Hello!” he called down in an overly friendly tone. “Come up here for a moment, would you please? Take a break. All of you!”

The workers in the pit looked to one another, confused. But they weren’t about to pass up a chance to take a breather, so they quickly dropped their shovels and climbed out to stand in a loose group on the edge of the hole.

I stood apart from them, closer to the woman supervisor who still hadn’t moved since the jeep arrived.

“Thank you,” the blond guy said with a slight bow. “Forgive me for taking you from your work.”

Right. Like they were upset.

“We don’t use names here,” he announced. “But I want you to know mine. It’s Bova. Simon Bova. Major Bova, if you’d prefer to be formal. I share that information only because I believe you should know who your host is.”

He smiled at the prisoners as if he wanted them to like him. The guy came across like a gracious host, rather than the commander of a work camp. His eyes had the silver sparkle of someone who was either seriously smart, or dangerously insane.

“Now!” he announced. “A bit of business. I trust you all know . . .” he slid over to the guy lying in the dirt and leaned over to take a look at his back “. . . Eight Six Seven Five.”

Nobody reacted.

“Of course you do,” Bova said with a wink. “You’ve worked next to him for days. I’m sorry to have to tell you that he has been a very naughty boy.”

Bova motioned to the soldier in the back of the jeep. Instantly, the soldier jumped down, ran to the prisoner, and pulled him up to his knees.

Bova took a quick step back as if he didn’t want to risk coming in contact with the filthy sand that swirled around the poor guy.

The prisoner was a mess, but he was conscious. His hair was tangled and blood dripped from the corner of his mouth. Caked sand clung to his face, surrounding a pair of swollen eyes.

He’d been beaten. Badly.

Bova bent down so his face was close to the prisoner’s, but not close enough to risk contact. “You know you’ve been very bad, don’t you?”

The prisoner didn’t react.

“Go ahead, you can admit it,” Bova said, cajoling. “We have no secrets here.”

Bova was talking to him in a singsong voice, as if he were a little kid.

The prisoner looked to the ground. I couldn’t imagine what he might have done that deserved getting beaten like that.

“Tell you what,” Bova exclaimed with excitement. “We’ll play a game.” He gave a broad smile to the group and added, “One of my favorites. I used to play it with my parents. It’s simply called
Please
.”

The prisoner started to collapse back down to the ground but the soldier grabbed him and pulled him to his knees again.

“Now, my friend,” Bova said to the prisoner, who was anything but his friend. “The rules of my game are quite simple. You must answer my questions and do as I say . . . but only if I say
please
. That’s all. A simple courtesy. I believe that even under the most difficult circumstances we should always do our best to maintain civility. This game helps us remember that. Agreed?”

The prisoner wet his parched lips. He needed water, badly.

“Agreed!” Bova announced for him.

He strode to the jeep and grabbed a canteen from the passenger seat and walked back to the prisoner. He held the canteen out close to his face and said, “Take a drink.”

The prisoner reached out for the canteen . . . and Bova kicked his hand away. Violently. So violently that it made most of the other prisoners jump with surprise. It threw the guy off balance and he fell down onto his elbows.

Bova shook his head and chuckled. “You’ve forgotten already? I didn’t say
please
.”

He motioned to one of his soldiers, who ran over quickly. I thought he was going to help the prisoner back up to his knees, but instead he wiped Bova’s boots with his sleeve, taking away any offending grime that may have come off of the prisoner.

“Very good, let’s try this again,” Bova said, holding out the canteen. “Won’t you have a drink of water?”

The prisoner pushed himself off the ground until he was back on his knees. One side of his sweat and blood-covered face was encrusted with dirt. It was gut-wrenching to see.

He glared at Bova but didn’t move.

“Very good!” Bova exclaimed with joy. “Now we’re on the same page. This is going to be fun.”

There were a lot of words to describe what was going on. “Fun” wasn’t one of them.

“Now.
Please
lift your right arm.”

After a painfully long few seconds, the prisoner raised his right hand. Barely.

“Wonderful!” Bova declared.

He really was having fun.

For the record, he was the only one, including the other Retro soldiers, who watched with no expression. “Now,” Bova continued. “Tell us all what you did that was so naughty.”

I willed the guy not to answer.

The prisoner didn’t say a word. His eyes seemed unfocused, as if he were about to pass out.

“Very good!” Bova declared. “Tell us what you did that was so naughty . . .
please
.”

All eyes were focused on the poor, tortured guy.

His eyes flashed around, looking for some clue as to what he should do.

“You have to tell me,” Bova said, wagging his finger. “I said
please
. Those are the rules of etiquette.”

“I . . .” the man said, sounding as though his throat was on fire. “I tried to bring water to my unit.”

“Precisely!” Bova exclaimed giddily. “You tried to bring water to your unit.
Extra
water. Now,
please
tell me, is this your unit?”

Bova gestured to the group at the edge of the hole.

Reluctantly, the prisoner nodded.

“Of course it is.
Please
tell me, did anyone in this unit drink the water?”

I felt the people in the group stiffen. What had been a sadistic torturing of a single prisoner now had the potential to include them.

The prisoner shook his head.

“No,” he whispered. “I never made it back.”

Bova walked up to the unit supervisor, who looked ready to faint. He got right in her face and said, “Is this true? There were no extra water rations distributed to your unit?”

The woman blinked a few times. She was terrified of this man.

“No sir,” she said with a shaky voice. “No extra water was given to this unit today.”

Bova stared directly into her eyes. Into her brain.

I was standing ten feet away, but I saw a bead of sweat grow on her temple that slowly trickled down her cheek.

He kept his eyes locked on hers for a solid ten seconds, then grinned.

“I know it wasn’t,” he said with happy lilt. “We discovered his treachery long before he had the chance to come back here.”

Bova stepped away from her.

The woman visibly relaxed.

“Eight Six Seven Five?” Bova said as he backed toward the kneeling prisoner. “
Please
tell me, did you know it was wrong to steal water and bring it to your unit?”

For the first time, the prisoner showed life. He straightened up, though he was still kneeling, and said, “It was a mistake. I didn’t steal it. I thought I was bringing the normal ration.”

“It was a mistake all right,” Bova said to the whole group with a smile, as if he expected everyone to laugh at the joke.

For the record, nobody did.

“
Please
tell me, were you wrong?”

The prisoner hung his head. “Yes, I was wrong.”

“
Please
tell me, will you ever make that same mistake again?”

The prisoner lifted his head, showing signs of hope. “No, never.”

“Of course you won’t,” Bova said.

He turned away from the prisoner and faced the bulk of the group.

“The rules of my camp are clear and simple,” he announced. “We expect you to follow them, and to work hard. Do that and you will be rewarded.”