She wondered what the affluent felt, having to work alongside her in the hot sun. She figured, unless they were billionaires, or politicians, no one escaped the Hive. They were all blind to what was going on outside the razor wire of the Hive.
She knew nothing except from what she could see with her own eyes. What she’d seen was devastation and ruin. She wondered if they’d ever be free. She knew Ian was planning something, though what, she didn’t know. He’d said he had to ponder it for a while. But, when the time was right, that she and Tilly should be ready to go on a moment’s notice.
Ӝ
Ian moved the tiller with ease. He wondered why they weren’t using large farm equipment. It could be done faster and with ease and efficiency. He snorted, probably they needed to keep the residents of the Hive working until they were too tired to question the status quo. He was not adverse to hard work, he’d done it all his life, on his family’s farm. He had a strong back and enjoyed being outside. He looked over at a couple of young men. They’d been vocal about not wanting to work out in the field. When they didn’t get their food rations for a couple days, they changed their minds.
It would seem that the Hive wasn’t opposed to starvation tactics. With no other recourse, the men had complied, though not gracefully. They’d bitched and complained the whole ride over. When they got to the field, one of them had out and out refused to work, until one of the guards had taken a riot baton and smacked him across the back a few times. Ian snorted again, so much for free will.
He watched as Megan struggled with the large tiller. She was a fighter. They all were, and he’d get them out of this hell hole. He’d have to figure out a way to get them past the guards. He was pretty sure they would be shot, if they tried to leave. If, however, there was some kind of distraction, then they could slip away. Hide and then make it back to his family’s farm. Unfortunately, it would have to be a spur of the moment incident. He’d warned both women, that on his signal, they were to bleed into the woods, or fields or whatever obstruction could conceal their escape. Hopefully they wouldn’t be missed until it was too late.
He knew it was a shitty plan but going out on the bus was not an option. Deep down, he knew they’d not survive that bus ride. Only by complying now, with no complaints, would eyes be elsewhere. The loudest bitching drew the attention. The guards were immune to bribes. He thought perhaps they lived outside the Hive. Given special treatment, so they would do their jobs well. He’d suggested that Tilly and Megan attempt friendship with one or more of the guards. All attempts were met with harsh rebuffs, as though the guards had been warned against fraternization. They were probably threatened with being put in a yellow jumpsuit.
A bitter smile creased Ian’s face. He’d been gone from his family for more than four months. He was sure they thought he was dead. He thought of his mother and her grieving. She’d take it the hardest. He’d not give up the idea of escape. He would not live in this oppressive place. He’d take his friends with him as well. He was sure once they got away, they could find an abandoned house and lay low. Gather clothing and get rid of the beacon yellow coveralls. He figured it would take them near on a week of hiding and traveling. They would hole up during the day, and travel at night. If they could move through wooded patches that would be great. Kansas was a flat state with open fields. It would be hard, but he thought they could do it.
They had to, the only alternative was to live out the rest of their lives as drones, worker bees, working to provide food for the one percenter population. To live in some kind of drab, dystopian existence. That was a post-apocalyptic life, and that was no kind of life to him.
EIGHT
Kansas City, MO
Hogan and Trish grabbed the bleeding man by both arms, he groaned in agony but held tight to the weak and fretful mewling baby, inside his coat. He could barely speak, but kept saying, help me, help me, over and over. Tears slid down his wrinkled cheeks, deeply grooved with pain. Hogan looked over at Trish, her face a mask of fear and worry. They got to the house and brought the pair inside. They sat the old man on the couch. Trish went to the woodstove and added firewood, building up the fire.
She then went to the kitchen and got a pot and poured goat’s milk into it. The goats had been milked that morning. Trish had planned to make cheese, but Hogan was sure the baby would need the milk. Trish placed the pot on the top of the woodstove. Hogan could feel the heat radiating off the stove. It wouldn’t take long to heat the milk.
“What can I
