Survival

Daniel Powell SURVIVAL A Dystopic Thriller

The man and his son braced themselves against the cold, huddled there on the park bench, their breath punctuated by little blasts of steam. The boy made fists tight as frozen potatoes, clenching and unclenching his hands as his father drilled the words into him.

“Ok, you’ve made it this far, Son. You remember that when things get hairy in there. I don’t have to tell you how many folks never even make it to Labor, do I? But your old man made it, and you will too. I’m sure of it. Ok, kid, what’s the first rule?”

“Look for cover.”

“Damn straight. You kill time that way. Killing time is the name of this here game. Rule two?”

“Cover ground by night.”

“Good. That’s right, Son. You wait for dusk and get a lead on those bastards. Don’t let ‘em lull you into complacency. It’s an old trick. When the sun goes down, you get moving. Rule three?”

The boy looked into his father’s eyes, a pair of ruddy brown pools, the whites streaked though with crimson veins. Sleep had been fleeting for all of them in the weeks since the baby’s due date fell into testing range. He swallowed hard.

“A kill is as good as a victory,” he replied, the words barely above a whisper.

His father nodded. He stared at his son, tears welling in his eyes. He reached across the bench and pulled him into an embrace, the young man’s thin shoulder blades sharp as pottery shards beneath his windbreaker. “I know it’s tough, Bryan. God, but I know it, Son. But you do what you have to do, you understand? They’ll kill you in there. You do what you have to do to ensure your survival,” he said.

The boy flinched. His father had called him by his given name—a rarity indeed. The sudden intimacy kicked his pulse up another notch. Jesus, this was happening.

“You ready?” the old man said.

The boy’s name was Bryan Norton. He was tall and thin, still awkward in his youth, with cords of muscle and quick, nervous blue eyes. If he survived the world on the other side of the iron wall, he would emerge from the test a man.

And he would be a father.

“I think so, Pop. Tell Mom that I love her. Tell her I’d like some of her lasagna tomorrow night for supper.” He choked on a sob. “And tell Maggie that I’ll be there, Dad. Tell her… tell her that I promise,” his voice cracked, “that I’ll be there.”

A tear tracked down the old man’s face as he regarded his only son. He opened his mouth but his words were swallowed by the din of the air-raid siren. Labor had officially begun. All around them, men in blue jeans, long-sleeved thermal tops and white wind breakers began to walk toward the processing stations, their left hands extended for fingerprint verification.

Grief reigned on the periphery of the processing area. Parents and siblings wailed as they watched their loved ones disappear into the stalls where they would be processed before entering the Labor field.

In Portland, the survival rate for men entering Labor hovered around 60%, far better than in many places. A general belief held that America’s western cities had kinder bulls—that places like Seattle, Portland and San Francisco were easier to survive than the Labor fields in Pittsburgh or Detroit.

Bryan spared a single glance over his shoulder at his father, his old man a haggard shadow of his usual gregarious self. He waved and stepped into line. There were maybe a few hundred of them, awaiting entry to a world of blood and violence.

The chutes were staffed by armed bulls—junior cadets who would one day graduate from Processing to Equality Enhancement and Population Control. Bryan shuffled forward, watching the bulls fingerprint the nervous men. Hand-picked by the Authority, most weren’t much older than him. He wondered what would have happened if he’d been tagged for service, all those years before.

Would he have had the stomach to work for the Authority?

“Better not to think of it,” a man said in the next line over. He was mousy and slight, with a long, thin nose, wavy black hair and sleepy eyes.

Bryan stared at him. “What do you mean?”

“When that siren went off, a couple of hundred deserters bit the dust. There will be a lot of clean-up in the city today. I saw it in your eyes. You were lost there for a minute.”

Bryan nodded. He’d forgotten about the microchips. The bulls were de-activating the Promise Sensors. At least there was that.

He pictured the aftermath—the crumpled bodies in city parks, littered along the Oregon Coast, in mountain retreats. Many men simply walked away—content to let the Promise Sensors finish the task without ever testing themselves against the gauntlet of Labor.

“You doing ok?” the mousy fellow asked.

“I guess,” Bryan replied. He extended his hand. “I’m Bryan Norton. I live…I live out in Sellwood.”

“Fausto,” the man replied. “Fausto Ruiz. Goose Hollow. I’ve got a beautiful little girl waiting on me.” The man with the sleepy eyes grinned and it was a relief, like the blink of a lighthouse on the open ocean, to see a positive emotion in the midst of all that naked fear.

Bryan smiled, the thought suddenly occurring to him that there was a reward on the other side. Maggie and his little boy. If he could make it through Labor, he’d have a life with his family.

“Nice to meet you, Fausto. You, uh…” He fumbled for the words, and Fausto’s grin widened an inch.

“No. I haven’t made any connections yet. But I got a good feeling about you, kid. We can work together,” he replied.

Bryan felt a surge of relief. There were other rules—principles beyond the three he’d discussed with his old man. Partner up—safety in numbers—was one of them. Look for help on the inside was another one. Something told him the slight man was solid—a real ally.

They shuffled forward, maybe a dozen turns until their own. “A little girl, huh? We’re having a boy. We’ll call him Eli. He’ll be here in just a few weeks.”

“That’s a good name—a strong name. We’re calling our girl Carmen. She’s amazing! Shoot, all those somersaults in her mother’s belly?” he said, grinning at the thought of it. “We’re going to have a ballet dancer. She’ll be here before we know it.”

As they advanced, they swapped details of their lives before pregnancy. When it was their turn, they stepped into the booths.

“Left hand,” the bull grunted, seizing Bryan’s fingers and running them over the scanner. He wore a hard glare, his chiseled features all business. Bryan didn’t see so much as a glimmer of compassion in his eyes. The scanner verified his identity. The guard deactivated the Promise Sensor and told him to move into holding.

Fausto waited on the other side and they migrated toward an open space at the edge of the pen. Bryan craned up on his toes in an attempt to find his father, but his old man had disappeared in the sea of distraught supporters.

“Soooo…right, left or down the gut?” Fausto said when they’d found a quiet place to chat. All around them, men were gathering in loose groups—some big, some small.

“I don’t know. You think there have been many changes?”

Fausto shook his head. “I bought a satellite map three days ago. The Authority hasn’t raised any forest—at least not that I could see in the map. Of course, you know there’ll be new digital obstacles. Those we’ll have to deal with when we get to ‘em. But when they open those gates,” his eyes widened, “this thing is for real. We need to commit to a plan from the start.”

Bryan inhaled. “Did the satellite map show anything?” He envied the man’s wealth and connections. Intelligence on the layout of the Labor field was fiercely prohibited. His father had offered to buy a map, but Bryan