By Tom Borthwick
The Food Distribution Center Bulletin, posted on a dull wall to my left, read:
DINNER: 5 PM – 9 PM
BE ORDERLY. BE TIMELY. BE WELL.
Most people couldn’t be herded through in any less time and Refugees regularly found themselves without a morsel if the queue didn’t reach the cookpots by the cutoff. This made it prime for riots, which accounted for the twenty military policemen standing along the line, face shields and assault rifles deterring the hungry and desperate.
The armed and armored stood before the unwashed throng, all wearing the same frowns, the same looks of disgust. The shuffling line returned the sentiment with resentful glances inspired by two years of repression. Me? I didn’t care one way or the other. But for the Refugees, Department of Domestic Intelligence Military Police, or IMPs as they were known, embodied everything wrong with their world. The Camp Administrators, illusory handers-down of judgment and overseers of this forsaken place, called the residents “Refugees”, but unwilling containment and, at least in the early days, interrogation made those living in the Camps more like detainees.
Under the dinner notice another, older bulletin read:
CAMP ONE ADMINISTRATORS ARE CONCERNED, ABOVE ALL, FOR THE SAFETY AND WELFARE OF ALL REFUGEES. PLEASE ADDRESS ALL ISSUES WITH DDI MPs AT THE ADMIN DOOR, LOCATED PAST THE FOOD DISTRIBUTION CENTER.
BE WELL.
Nobody I knew of had ever addressed any “issues” with the Administrators, though reasons to were plenty. Aside from the gangs, lack of food and clothing, and empty, repetitive days filled with pointless, unproductive milling about, the most pressing concern most Refugees had was the same: when can we get out?
Those in the Camps – there were five as far as I knew – were all made homeless by the Bioattack that hit Scranton and spread quickly throughout an isolated area in Northeastern Pennsylvania.
The past two years here had been rife with degradation and depravity and uncertainty – all reinforced by the Administrators, government agents, communications blackouts, and the roving gangs of brutes and thieves vying for control of this or that part of the Camp, or scraps of food, or tribute from the Refugees who wouldn’t be a part of their thuggery.
At first, the Camps had been for survivors and those displaced by the attack, but then officials got word that the group had operatives in Scranton – a small city written-off by most after a one hundred year decline. After that came questions. Who do you know? Why were you returning from New York? When the Administrators asked for information, they asked hard.
The last two years had been hell.
I remembered that last call to my wife. “Chris, my dear,” Stacy had begun. “Don’t worry about me,” she’d said. “I’m locked out of harm’s way in the house. I’ll leave to check on my parents once they say things are safe.” She’d ended the conversation as she always had, by saying, “I love you, my dearest” – a simple thing, but a tradition I’d found comfort in, one I sorely missed.
And that was the last time we’d spoken.
I had gone to New York City to try to find work, but when radio reports had rolled in that the Scranton area was being quarantined and checkpoints set up, we both agreed to turn around and get back as quickly as we could. But by the time we’d reached Interstate 380, traffic had been deadlocked and we’d had no choice but to sit for hours and hope. It had taken little time for Department of Homeland Security HAZMAT Units to get to the city; Tobyhanna Army Depot was only twenty minutes southeast of Scranton, and they’d immediately started taking samples from the dead and dying. Once somebody showed signs of the disease, they were dead in an hour. The plague caused black lesions to appear on the skin, almost like leprosy, which would soon begin oozing, then pouring blood. The radio had kept warning people to get away from anybody they saw with the lesions. Riots had erupted in Scranton as people attempted to escape. The last reports I’d heard indicated the military ensured the effectiveness of the quarantine with the use of deadly force, in order to prevent the plague from seeping out of the area. Others said the military had murdered people who would have otherwise been saved.
I didn’t care. Stacy was gone.
Cell phone communication had been sporadic at best, and shortly before the soldiers came down I-380 offering temporary lodging at the nearby Tobyhanna Army Depot, I had felt the familiar buzz of my cell phone. A message from Stacy. I’d called and called. No answer.
The soldiers had stopped to tell us safety would be found on the base, already quarantined. Only people coming from Scranton needed to be screened, not those stopped on the highway. The way to Scranton was blocked, they’d said, and nobody would be getting in soon. I had nowhere else to go.
With a solid line of trees standing on either side of the highway, soldiers ushered people out of their cars, urging everybody toward the Army Depot. We all hurriedly filled each other in on events and radio reports and cell phone updates. Walking amid panic and worry, I’d listened to the message from his wife.
“My dearest…” the voicemail began. And after a long pause punctuated by a sigh, she continued, “I’ve got the signs and I’m going to try to head to my parents. I’m sorry I didn’t get to hear your voice one last time. I—I have to go. Chris, I love you, and you’ll always be mine, just as I’m always yours. I love you, my dearest.”
Nothing could stop the disease. Stacy had had no chance. And her stumble at the end, a muffled cough, told me what had been happening to her on the other end of that phone. In my first few days in Camp One, I’d listened to the message so many times I still had it memorized. But with no chance to charge my phone, it died. And then, before my first interrogation, the Administrators confiscated it, along with my wallet and even my keys. All I got from them was an ID collar.
For two years, I’d been alone in this place.
The memories were bitter and though part of me wanted to resent the IMPs and the Administrators, it hadn’t been them who’d attacked American soil. Instead, they’d given me a place to stay, despite the less-than-ideal conditions. Here, in this place, they were just doing their jobs, what they had to do. Nobody knew how to live in this kind of world.
A man to my back jostled me and growled about moving. I’d been lucky enough to avoid fights in these two years, but people died for less than losing themselves in a daydream in a food line.
“You hear me? I said move!” the man went on, his thick voice full of phlegmatic authority. His bald head and compressed face coupled with clothes that looked more like rags gave him an imposing look. A stained blank t-shirt exposed dirty bare arms. But those arms had muscles. The man looked like a bruiser, an enforcer for one of the gangs, Vae Victus, I thought. Their emblem, the dyed-crimson rag tied around his left bicep told me as much. The rumor went that the dye was blood and I didn’t want to find out whether or not the rumor was true. Besides, Vae currently ran my part of the Camp, and messing with one of their members would not bode well for my survival.
The gangs, an assortment of bullies who’d banded together to take advantage of the situation in Camp One, were to be avoided. They’d caused trouble for dozens of Refugees. Early on, after a few examples, people just accepted their power. The IMPs were overwhelmed and undermanned, creating a void the gangs easily filled. The two groups supposedly traded in commodities like clothes and booze and sometimes medical supplies.
“Yeah, go ahead of me, sorry for the trouble,” I said. The man body checked me as he passed, then looked over his shoulder with squinted eyes.
I learned to keep my head down, eyes open, and mouth shut in the time I’d been in Camp One. I’d never been like that before, never afraid to stand up for what I felt was right, but doing that here meant the surety of death, or if not that, then grave injury. The Administrators didn’t bother much with the injured. If a fight broke out, the IMPs came, beat and dragged off all parties involved, hurt or not, and none tended to be seen again. That’s why if the gangs made a move, they did it quick and got out. That’s why the man ahead of me had to be placated. No justice would’ve been done.
“Don’t let him bother ya, bud,” announced another man to my rear, startling me.
I turned to see a familiar face, a rarity in the Camp. From what I gathered, most people in this Camp were from the Poconos, but not this man. Of an average height, but scrawny like the rest of the Refugees, Richard Barrett, or Ricky Seven-Fingers as he’d been known for the past year, lived in a tent not too far from me. Despite the sound of his name, he wasn’t a gangster. He’d been a nurse before the attack, from the Hill section of Scranton not far from Mercy Hospital, where he’d worked, so when he’d had three of his fingers cut off by one of the gang leaders as punishment for “resisting authority,” he’d at least known how to stave off bleeding and infection. I knew if ever I got injured, I would run straight to Ricky.
“Didn’t see you, Ricky, sorry,” I said.
“Keepin your head down, I gotcha,” Ricky replied, his high cheekbones pushed up by an ever-ready smirk. The stubble on his face somehow didn’t make him look as downtrodden as it did everybody else in the line. “Couple of people were willin to let me ahead, after that little incident. Didn’t wanna be close if something went down, ya know?”
I looked at the bruiser ahead of me to make sure he hadn’t heard Ricky’s comments. Ricky noticed my angst and shook his head.
“Aww, you’re worryin too much. He’s got as much to lose as you. Who cares if he heard? Now ya got a buddy. And I know the guy, likes to call himself Scab,” Ricky said, laughing. “Real tough guy name. Inspires fear, ya know?”
I nodded. A couple of the gangbangers had names like that. Scab. Rock. I even heard a guy call himself Forty-Five. I knew they took themselves seriously, and people had to take them seriously, as well, but nonetheless, I wondered what these gangsters had done before getting into the Camp. They probably weren’t doctors or lawyers, but then again, who knew? At least Ricky’s nickname was given to him by somebody else. And he didn’t wear it like a badge of honor.
Ricky bumped my shoulder. “Besides, just another day at the Mess,” he said with a nod. The Mess, an apt name for the Camp One Food Distribution Center. Ricky winked for good measure and I shot back with a half-smile. A half was rare, but part of me felt it, at least. Ricky, for having lost some fingers, always kept in good spirits. And since then, he’d garnered a lot of respect in the Camp. When people needed injuries treated, he could come through. Nobody wanted to be dragged off and “treated” by the Administrators. Ricky knew some of the IMPs and he’d treated gangbangers’ injuries before and so was probably part of the reason I had avoided trouble, as if being a friend of his offered me some protection. Once, a couple of months back, one of the gangs in my Bloc had come collecting valuables. I’d had nothing to give; all my valuables had been taken before my first interrogation, so they’d been ready to punish me. The Seven-Fingers kind of punishment. But Ricky had showed up and shoved them off. And for a stranger, no less. I owed Ricky big. Nothing about debts or anything like that had ever been said about the event, either. The friendship we struck up afterwards was one of the few things I had left to appreciate. Everybody in this place had been and still were strangers. But after the incident, Ricky had gone out of his way to see me and spend time with me.
“Line’s moving slow, huh?” I said. I didn’t have the energy for much of a conversation, so I let it turn to what most people talked about when in the queue for food.
“When don’t it?” Ricky asked, disinterested.
The line continued forward in silence, Ricky and I included. Another bulletin board on the wall declared:
SAFETY LIES IN COMPLIANCE.
BE WELL.
The dull, constant ache in my stomach registered only occasionally now and the intermittent scent of food wafting in the air sustained my shuffle forward. It was nice to have a friend close, to have company, but I couldn’t muster up the drive to take advantage of it. My mind and heart weren’t in it. Two years of squalid living made dimmer by reminiscences of my loss drained my spirit, reinforcing the harshness and weight of survival. A survival that would net me what, more suffering? I tried to clear my mind of such thoughts. It couldn’t be like this always. The government would inevitably sort out the chaos happening throughout the county and when they did, they’d start letting people out. Then the Camps would be closed and people would be given a chance to find loved ones and reestablish lives that had been derailed by the unexpected, and the horrifying.
I knew about the attack from those early radio reports and Camp rumors, which blamed the domestic terrorist group, Deus Ex. I’d funneled my rage at this group, but with the passage of time, I had little energy left. Deus Ex, a clever name. I didn’t know much more than that and guessed they wanted to sow discord or some such revolutionary garbage. I used to swear up and down that I’d join the Department of Homeland Security, and then the DDI when I’d heard they were created. I’d wanted to do something, to help mete out justice somehow. But that had been in the beginning. A few of the refugees signed up shortly after we got in. They were the worst when it came to the beatings and the threats. Yes, I still wanted my revenge, but the urgency had been drained from me with the measured, grinding passage of time in Camp One.
Now, if I got out, I would be happy to sleep in a normal bed without fear, maybe take a walk in my old neighborhood, West Side. Then, maybe then I would do something to make this Deus Ex pay. But most likely the government would have done it for me by then. And that would be fine with me.
“God dammit, there’s gonna be trouble,” Ricky announced, anxiously standing on his toes and looking forward. “Line’s not moved in bout ten, fifteen. Gotta be getting close to closing time.”
The resignation I felt nearly dragged me to the ground. This happened every so often; I didn’t make it to the lines on time and went to bed hungry. I’d only been caught in one riot, though there had been more. I’d been lucky enough to get away before the IMPs opened fire. They’d only been pressing forward with their shields and clubbing people when I’d slipped away, hungry but unharmed. I didn’t want to risk going through that again.
“Maybe I’ll just head back to the tent and wake up early for breakfast,” I said.
“Naw,” Ricky replied. “Naw, you’re stayin with me. We’ll get food. Looks like somethin’s movin up there.”
I mustered up the vigor to look ahead, and it did indeed look like there was movement. Maybe I would stay after all.
“Sides,” Ricky went on. “You gotta stick with me tonight, I gotta show you somethin later. A real treat.”
Usually “a real treat” meant a porno mag, or a nude photo – hot commodities in the Camp, right behind homemade booze. People would horde vegetables and, in less than sanitary buckets and jars, make liquor to trade for clothes, cigarettes, or blankets.
Men and women were segregated. Women were in the West Bloc, nearer the highway. Men were in other two, South and East Blocs. I had heard of visits to the Women’s Bloc, as it was called, but not firsthand. The word was that it cost a fortune to bribe the guards, and not many people had valuables except for the gang leaders and their top guys.
Even though it didn’t excite me the way it might’ve excited some of the others in Camp One, Ricky’s “treat” would give me something to do, something to look forward to. I might not speak as much as I once had, but company was better than being alone in my tent.
“Oh, shit!” Ricky yelled, putting his hands on my shoulders to gain enough leverage to see down the line. I stumbled forward a bit before I caught myself, briefly noting the odd feeling of only two fingers on a full hand pressed to my right shoulder. “I think that’s a fight, down around that corner where the cookpots are! God dammit, we’re not gonna make it to the dinner line.” He let himself down. “Gah, what do we do?” Ricky put his good hand on his face and massaged his stubbled cheeks. Finally he dropped his arm to his side. “Nothin we can do but wait and hope we get there in time. It’ll probably be cleared up quick.”
I wasn’t so sure. It had been a long time since the line moved and a fight at the cookpots probably meant somebody got upset with their portions. If the IMPs hadn’t cleared it up yet, there’d be trouble. But I needed food, so I mentally echoed Ricky’s rationality for staying: a small chance at food was better than no chance. Sure, leaving ensured some kind of possible safety, but what was safety if coupled with hunger and eventual starvation? So I waited.
The IMPs hadn’t moved from the line during the supposed commotion up further – a good sign. Strangely, or maybe not so strangely, the people around me and Ricky weren’t reacting to the halt. And if any overheard Ricky’s remark about trouble up ahead, none displayed any outward signs of unhappiness or stress. I’d seen this before, the blank eyes that never met others, the slumped shoulders that sagged nearly to the earth; the labored breaths that said even inhaling took an effort that might just not be worth it. Two years in the Camps did that to a lot of people. There was only so much one could take. I feared getting to that point, knew that part of me was slipping there.
Guys like Ricky provided the only solace to an otherwise bland and fearful existence.
The Vae man who’d bumped me earlier, Scab, made some noise, his grumbles and complaints about not moving breaking the relative quiet of the line. It occurred to me that the quiet was unusual. Normally, even if nobody in the line opened their mouths, noise drifted from the Cage nearby – the only recreational area available, dingy as it was. The Cage stood visible above the tents off to my right. Originally a sporting area, basketball used to be the sport of choice, but the hoops and nets had long since been destroyed and the Administrators never bothered to replace them. It evolved into a place for gangbangers and wannabe thugs to duke it out in fights while onlookers bet their measly possessions. I’d never played, nor fought, nor bet at the fights – too much violence erupted if people didn’t like the outcome of a match. People loved to bet, though. The most prize items were liquor and clothing. There wasn’t much liquor that went around, but I saw some people trade winter jackets for a bottle of the stuff. With the cold coming, I couldn’t understand it.
Occasionally the Administrators would have supplies for the Refugees, but not often. Clothing would be distributed usually once every three to four months. That’s when the Cage would be at its busiest. Every so often, a rarity, like candy, would come through. Just last month, everybody had gotten a Hershey Bar.
My tent sat beyond the Cage, lost in the sea of brown residences that filled the Camp. Ricky’s tent was close to mine, but I had never actually been inside. He’d never invited me in, and I had never asked. We would always meet when I would be one of my walks—a daily routine I took up to get exercise after the Administrators stopped giving the Refugees work.
The high, gray concrete walls of South Bloc were visible in every direction, and the lights and IMPs and barbed wire atop them always reminded me that this place felt more prison than refuge from whatever harshness lay outside. When I had first been put in Camp One, the walls hadn’t been there. The Administrators had said the Refugees needed work and exercise, and so had put everybody to helping construct them, along with plumbing for some of the latrines – small cinderblock structures spread intermittently about the major concentrations of tents. The work had taken a few months. Since then, I’d gone for morning walks around the Camp to get exercise. No other work had been available to pass the time.
The IMPs stood in the dirt expanse between me the first line of tents, the best vantage point from which to see the line of hungry.
Noise continued emanating from the bruiser ahead of me— a string of curses directed at the slow line, nothing more. Ricky just gave me a quick glance with a smirk attached. At least the bruiser was suffering as much as we were, it said.
The Refugees in line looked as beaten down as I felt. Most faces were gaunt, reflecting the bare minimum of food intake they’d gotten in the past two years. Dirty and tattered Camp-issued clothes, worn from continual use adorned those in line. People usually had only one set of garments, and maybe something spare for the winter. Sanitation at the Camp was minimal. There were no showers. Spigots lined the far wall of the Mess, near the Barracks to which it stood adjacent, but the water was only turned on at mealtimes. If people wanted to wash, they would fill a small container and take it back to their tents. It didn’t happen often – supply and demand didn’t allow water to be used for much more than drinking.
One IMP yelled, “Let’s move!” startling me. Some of the IMPs along the line had their hands to the sides of their helmets, listening. In an instant, they put both hands on their guns and started moving fast toward the cookpots. Their policy hadn’t yet become to shoot first and ask questions later, but it wasn’t far from that. Getting beaten with the butts of rifles often did the job of dispersing a crowd. I didn’t want to wait around for the change. I should’ve left when my instincts alerted me earlier.
“No, no, no,” Ricky said, pinching my coat sleeve with the two remaining fingers on his right hand. “Shit’s gonna go down soon, explode. We’re takin advantage.”
“That’s not a good idea, we should get out before there’s a problem,” I replied. Now wasn’t the time for Ricky’s cleverness.
People were milling about now, and that familiar noise and clamor I was used to crept up louder and louder at a steady pace. I heard bits of comments here and there. “No food?” a despondent voice began, echoed by a mix of voices full of dejection, or anger. Long, matted locks shook and heads swiveled about wildly, as if looking for guidance, or answers. There would be none.
Low utterances of “They can’t do this to us” and “Not again” made my nerves kick in. Angry people, at least people angry with the way the Camp was run, didn’t make it very far.
People began pressing forward. Ricky and I were being jostled. He grabbed me and, as he pulled me near the barricade to the left, said into my ear, “Here, off to the side, we’ll get some food.”
The stale mass passed us by, some shoving and pushing, the threat of denied sustenance slowly arousing them from their waking sleep. Torn and tattered coats and jeans, fingers poking out of gloves, one by one by one, the people pushed forward and together. Though they weren’t moving quickly because of the volume, it was evidently enough to look like trouble to the Administrators. The siren went up.
“Dammit, Ricky! Let’s get the hell out of here!” I yelled, but my voice was drowned out by the crowd’s reaction. Fists went into the air and the milling, shuffling group began what I recognized as a transformation into a mob. Ricky just stood at my side, clutching my arm, looking intently in the direction the Refugees moved. He appeared as though he was counting to himself, lips moving wordlessly as he watched.
I wanted to give Ricky the benefit of the doubt. Food was so sparse. Portions were not healthy or appetizing. Another night without a meal. I shook Ricky, trying to get his attention, but he kept those lips moving without sound. I had to trust my friend; it had helped me in the past.
Shouting began, further echoes of the angry sentiment earlier.
Ricky put his good hand on my head and said, “Down” barely loud enough to hear, but with enough insistence that I dropped without hesitation.
“THEY’RE SHUTTIN DOWN THE MESS, THEY’RE HOARDING FOOD! RUSH EM!” Ricky yelled at the tops of his lungs, holding out the “EM” for an eternity. My heart skipped a beat.
“What the hell are you doing?” I asked, dumbfounded. Ricky either didn’t hear, or ignored me. The sirens continued roaring, and the sounds of fighting drifted in and out, blocked by the Refugees. The line shouldn’t have been that long. That meant people were coming from their tents, or the Cage, or elsewhere in the Camp to be a part of this. More than a few had red armbands. Why would the Vae guys be here? This would not end well, but part of me, a small part, quietly thought, well, maybe this time we’ll get out.
“We’re gonna slip the barricade and get food. Nuff for a few days, I think,” Ricky said. “Come on.”
“We can’t do that!” I replied, but Ricky grabbed me and pulled me forward into the rushing indigents.
The Mess, shaped like a rectangle with cement walls at the short ends, abutted the Barracks. The far end, out of view, had roll up security doors that remained closed unless food was being served. Right before the wall began, though, stood a high metal barricade set up to prevent Refugees from getting into the cooking area from behind. It was there that Ricky stopped.
“We’re gonna hop this. They’ll have shut the gate on the Mess and there ain’t no way in hell the cooks stuck around to be part of a brawl. The back’ll be open though. We’ll get in, get bread or whatever, and get out. You’re gonna have to hop me, then I’ll grab you.”
“This isn’t going to work, Ricky,” I said, looking around. There were too many people, yelling and screaming and waving fists. But maybe they wouldn’t notice.
“Just do it, and trust me,” Ricky said.
I’d never been a rulebreaker. I hesitated and stared at my friend.
And I decided to trust him.
I cupped my hands for Ricky’s foot. He stepped in, putting his good hand on my shoulder to steady himself. Then, in an act of agility that amazed me, he kicked off hard and landed both arms over the top of the barricade. In no time, he scurried over.
“All clear, gimme your hand.”
How was this going to work? At six foot, I’d been 200 pounds before coming here, a little heavier than I’d wanted to be, but now I’d be surprised if I was more than 150. Maybe that would be enough.
Ricky leaned forward, one leg draped over the edge, and one arm down.
“I got ya, come on!”
I grabbed hold of his good hand, but Ricky didn’t pull.
“Both hands, ya moron. Climb up me, I’m braced. I ain’t going nowhere.”
So I used both hands and pulled up. Trust. I tried not hurt Ricky, but I must have, with the way he tensed. When I reached my arms around Ricky’s waist, Ricky rolled back and pulled me with him. We didn’t fall far, but I landed atop him.
“Get off me or I’m gonna think you like it!” Ricky said, pushing me up. “Barricades are almost like those parapets on the Camp walls, somewhere for the IMPs to stand and shoot down. Not many of our guys bother rioting where the food ain’t. And look, all clear!”
The area behind the Mess was new to me. It had an ordered, almost clean look to it that the Camp lacked. Immediately behind the Mess, the area stood empty except for a few rather large pots, which were next to hoses coiled in the first grass I had seen since getting here.
A door to the Barracks stood ajar. I held my breath. Ricky must’ve noticed, because he was shaking his head.
“Back door. For the cooks,” he said. “Now, we lay low, we go in, and we eat while we grab food for the long term. You ready?”
I scanned the area one more time. Not a soul. A yellowish light emanated from the open door at the rear of the Barracks, but nobody stirred. The sirens still blared. The sounds of rioters still came over the roof of the Mess to their right. But no IMPs were in sight.
Ricky motioned to a ladder and they crawled down. He opened the back door of the Mess cautiously and peered in. Then he perked up. “All clear here, too! Let’s do it.”
Excitement hadn’t been something I felt once in Camp One through the past two years, but I felt it now. Yes, I was doing something wrong, but I would eat. I would eat and I might just get away with it.
Inside, the gas was off, but steam still rose from the pots. Something hit me in the head and I got ready to flee. But only Ricky was in the room.
“Look down, buddy,” Ricky said in a muffled voice, turning back to the ovens. “And shut the door, don’t want anything lookin out of the ordinary.”
I looked down. Bread. Some already hung out of Ricky’s mouth. I picked it up and jammed it in my mouth. Warm. Still warm. Even soft. None of the stale trash that I would’ve gotten in line. Part of me wanted to cry.
Rather than risk savoring the moment, I carefully shut the door, peeking outside to make sure nothing was out of the ordinary. Nothing was.
“Fill up this with meat if you can. Think I smell ham,” Ricky said, throwing a large black trashbag at me.
“How’re we going to get back to the tents with these? We’ll get torn up by any crowd who even smells what we’ve got!”
“You don’t think. Most people are at the riot,” Ricky said. And I noticed for the first time the rattling sounds of the closed roll up security door on the far side of the building. “Sure, one or two people will notice us, but people don’t exactly go sniffing other people’s shit.”
It took me little time to find the ham, which sat in a slicer, half finished. Ignoring the dirt on my hands and the wet, greasy film on the ham, I scooped up as much as I could and swiped it into the bag Ricky had given me. I put two unsliced hams in the bag as well.
Glancing over my shoulder, I saw Ricky in front of the oven, obviously still hot from the way he carefully moved his hands in and out, loading fresh bread into his bag. His mouth remained stuffed with yet another small loaf.
A loud crash startled us both, the security door clattered, as if a body had slammed against it.
And then the rattle of gunfire began.
Ricky paused to listen, then asked, “You got a good bit?” Barely audible through the mass of food hanging of out his mouth, he stood from the ovens and walked toward me, tossing me two loaves of bread. “Put these in your pockets, just in case. Time to bail.”
“Yeah, a lot of ham here,” I said, hefting the bag over his shoulder.
“Gonna check the back door, make sure all’s clear,” Ricky said. He set his bag down next to me and stood near the door, closing his eyes and nodding to himself. He cracked the exit slightly, and motioned me to follow with both bags.
“We’re good. Barracks door is still open, but nobody there. Gimme my bag, we’ll go out the way we came in.”
Laden as we were, we crept out the back door toward the ladder that led to the barricade’s parapet.
The click from a rifle cocking froze me in my tracks.
“STOP!” yelled a figure that appeared in the door way. “Stop, or you’re fucking dead!”
“Back to the Mess,” Ricky whispered. “Go!”
I dropped the bag and bolted. I’d left the door open, a mistake Ricky would’ve berated me for at any other time, but I made it inside. Three shots were fired. Ricky stumbled in.
“Shut the door, lock it, Chris, lock it,” he said. I didn’t need to be told. I was on it the second Ricky got in. I locked the door and slid a sealed drum in front of it. The drum made sloshing noises and then a loud bang as I slid it into place.
Ricky dropped the bag of bread, as well as my bag of ham. Then he let himself fall to the floor, hand pressed to his leg.
“Buddy, shouldn’t have gone for your bag. Just thought of eatin. Don’t eat enough,” Ricky said. “I’ll be fine, just got hit in the thigh.”
I moved quickly to my friend. “Jesus, what do we do? We’re stuck in here!”
As if in response, banging erupted from the door. “Open up!” and “You have sixty seconds!” came from two different voices. Backup had arrived. “We’re breaking it down!” said a third voice.
“Gimme a sec,” said Ricky. “Get me a cloth, I need to tie a tourniquet.” He sat up, pressing both hands to an increasingly bloodied thigh. He groaned in pain, and I stopped to attend to him.
“Keep looking,” Ricky said. “Gotta apply pressure to the wound, so the bullet don’t move around and damage anything else. Pack it in, bud.” He shook his head and issued a brief, strained laugh.
I didn’t have to look too long before finding a usable cloth. It was dirty, but better than nothing. I tossed it at Ricky, who proceeded to tie it around his upper thigh.
“Help me up, then we get out,” Ricky said, bracing himself on the ground with two hands. “Gonna have to get to my tent quick. Movin’s gonna make this bleed more. I can go awhile before the blood loss gets me, but don’t wanna wait longer than I have to.”
“We can’t go out that way. How the hell are we going to get out?” I asked as I helped him up. A bang on the door and the rattle of the drum in front of it startled me.
Ricky tested out his ability to stand on his own before he answered. He winced as he put weight on his wounded leg. “I can do it on my own, but I’ll be limping. Need to get to my tent, got some stuff there I can use to dig this bullet out. Ain’t gonna be pretty, but it’s gotta be done.”
“Ricky, I’m here to help you, but it’s not going to mean much if we don’t figure out how to get out,” I said.
“I got a plan, don’t worry,” Ricky replied, limping over to the metal security door. The rattle continued coming from the outside, as did the banging on the door, which didn’t look as though the IMPs would be breaking through. I supposed that they’d never needed to consider the possibility of being locked out.
“Here,” Ricky said, pointing to the roll up door. “Shit’s going crazy outside here by the sound of it. Only shot we got for gettin out. We roll it up, people rush it for food or safety or whatever, and we get by in the confusion. Be tough with the leg, but we should be able to swing it. You get the bags, I’ll probably be leanin on ya.”
I stood amazed for a brief moment. Ricky’s plan sounded foolish. Rioters turned on each other as often as IMPs. Fellow Refugees were easier targets. But I could see that there wasn’t an option, and the banging and sporadic cursing coming from behind the Mess’s backdoor convinced me.
“All right,” I said. “You sure I should bring the food? It isn’t worth our life.”
“Not gonna make much of a difference, I think,” Ricky replied. “If you got to, drop it. But we ain’t gettin fed tomorrow, way this riot’s going. And even if there wasn’t a riot, we’d barely have enough to survive. Those bags mean stayin alive as much as gettin outta here does.
“Speakin of, we got a little while before those boys burst through the door, or before they get smart enough to use explosives. Take a quick minute for a last bit of bread.”
So I dug out two pieces of bread and handed one to Ricky. We stood and ate, listening to the banging and rattling and shouting and sounds of gunfire and riot. And probably death. But it didn’t matter right then – we were eating fresh bread.
A strange serenity descended on the scene.
The steam rose from the pots, a ghostly, ethereal mist decorating the room. Time seemed to slow and I thought to myself, Stacy, I’m going to get out of here and figure this new world out.
Only a minute or two went by as we took down the small loaves, but with adrenaline high, the time stretched. I breathed deeply, catching the scent of food, allowing myself to savor both the smell and taste of the bread. It would harden up, go stale when we got it back to the tent, but I wanted to enjoy the freshness while I could. This loaf wasn’t as hot as the first one I’d had, but it was still warm. Still wonderful.
We came out of our reverie when the piercing sound of an explosion cut through the room and filled our ears to the point of pain. Time stayed slow, but there was nothing to savor now: the door flying off its hinges met with ringing in our ears and deafness. I saw Ricky flying up against the wall while I, too, was blown back by the intensity. My head erupted in pain as a cracked it against a counter and I dully registered the feeling of the floor against my face.
Stacy’s image floated in front of me and I tried to speak but all that came out was a leaden sound, all bass, pop-pop-popping at the edge of hearing.
And then everything went dark.
About the Author
Tom Borthwick is a life-long Scranton resident, traveller, English teacher, adjunct professor, blogger, some-time political candidate, and a whole bunch of other fun stuff that leaves little time to breathe. He is a graduate of Marywood University with a BA in English and received both an MA and MFA in Creative Writing from Wilkes University.
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