The Culling Read online

  Just before departure, Moses pulled Hiroshi aside. “I want you to stay close to Leland,” he said. “And, I want the both of you to stay where I can see you.”

  “I can understand that you don’t trust Leland yet,” Hiroshi said indignantly. “But, don’t you trust me?”

  “Of course I trust you, son, but I almost lost you the last time, and I don’t want that happening again. Until we have enough people who’ve learned enough from the books we brought back, you’re Freeland’s library. We can’t afford to lose that brain of yours.”

  Hiroshi laughed as the older man patted him affectionately on the shoulder.

  The two groups set out, and after passing through the northern checkpoint, Hiroshi’s group turned southeast and followed a narrow, winding trail down the slope until they reached flat land.

  Their path was generally southeast by east, across the flat plain that stretched from the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains to the coast, which now, with the rise in sea levels, was twenty miles west of its original position. The Atlantic Ocean and the Chesapeake Bay had merged, wiping out the small fishing towns along the coast and mostly submerging cities like Norfolk, Virginia and Ocean City, Maryland, making them uninhabitable. With major metropolitan areas like New York City, Philadelphia, and most of the cities of New Jersey emptied of population, the smaller satellite towns and communities also ceased to be viable habitats since they depended on the large cities for power and other utilities. The rivers running through Baltimore and Washington, DC had risen, but not enough to cause flight. Cut off from the rest of the east coast, the two areas merged into New Liberty.

  The plains, once home to wealthy suburbs, vineyards, and horse farms, was now a steamy jungle of derelict communities reclaimed by nature, vast forests of oak, maple, chestnut, beech, and black gum trees, competing with invading species of semi-tropical plants whose spores had been blown north by the wind, and hundreds of streams and creeks that crisscrossed the terrain.

  The distance from Freeland to New Liberty by this route was about three-quarters less than the hillier northern route, but the boggy earth, oppressive heat and humidity, and biting bugs that tormented a traveler’s every step, made it seem an eternity. By the time they reached an open area where Hiroshi knew they needed to turn north to get to the river, his face was a mass of bumps and pricks from the bites of mosquitos the size of dragon flies and dragon flies the size of fruit bats.

  It was still an hour before sunset when they reached the river. Moses called a halt in a stand of trees a hundred yards south of the river. Hiroshi, Leland and the others flopped down wherever they stood, mentally and physically exhausted from the day’s journey.

  Moses walked over and knelt next to where Hiroshi lay on his back, his eyes half closed.

  “We’ll wait until dark and then cross into New Liberty,” he said. “Looks to be at least two hours until it’s dark enough, so everyone should be rested.”

  “I hope we’re not going back the same way,” Hiroshi said. “I’d really hate to cross terrain like that in the dark. I thought the mosquitos would eat me alive.”

  Moses chuckled. “Yeah, if you think the insects are bad in the daytime, you should see the size of the bats that come out at night.”

  28.

  The Culling Ground

  The culling was scheduled for the hour before sundown. Factory and farm shifts that usually ended well after sundown were ended early so that the proles working them could be herded to the culling ground around the tall monument well before those selected for culling were brought out.

  Proles dressed in their shabby brown singlesuits, many stained dark from their labor, stood around in sullen groups, their gazes steadfastly on the ground in front of their feet. Behind them, black-clad monitors, hands on their flechette pistols, stood in a single file. With their visors down, the setting sun reflecting off the surfaces made them look like ornately carved black lamp posts.

  Washington Benedict stood in a knot of Columbus Height Crèche residents in the middle of the crowd on the north side of the ground. Through gaps in the crowd, he could just glimpse the hard packed earth that circled the stone monolith. Some of the smaller children pushed in close trying to get a look. Washington wanted to look away, but didn’t for fear he would draw attention to himself. He was just tall enough and old enough to be eligible for the cleanup crew that the monitors always selected after a culling – those tasked with removing the ashes of the unfortunates chosen for culling.

  He looked up at the top of the monument. The red lights, which normally were unblinking, were wavering, beginning to bathe the ground below in their crimson glow. What few on the ground knew was that the red lights were part of an air and missile defense system that had been installed in the monument in 2020 to protect the capital from attack. When things went south, the militia group that had taken control of the city had repositioned the laser-based system to protect against ground attacks. The weapon was capable of emitting an intense wave of heat to destroy attacking planes or missiles, and when employed against ground targets, was able to incinerate anything up to and including a main battle tank in a matter of seconds. It had been turned to use in executions during the tenure of Robert Cruz, at the advice of his religious advisors. Their reasoning was that it was an efficient, quick, and humane method, and the resultant ashes of the condemned could be used as fertilizer in the community’s crop production. Forcing the prole community to witness the executions was Cruz’s idea – he viewed it as an effective way to keep people under control.

  The device in the monument was operated from a terminal in the basement of The Committee’s headquarters, the former Pentagon, through what remained of the former capital city’s wireless communications system. Wires connected the terminal to a parabolic dish on the building’s roof which sent a signal to another dish located in the top chamber of the monument. The same dish system also carried the propaganda messages from the Ministry of Population Control to relays in the prole community, which forwarded them to the system of loudspeakers located throughout.

  A murmuring sound, all the quiet conversations taking place, echoed throughout the area. As if a switch had been thrown, there was absolute quiet. The crowd on the west side of the monument parted. Two hundred proles, dressed in gray singlesuits, the attire of the condemned, walked through the space, flanked by ten monitors on each side.

  Those in the crowd averted their gaze to avoid looking at the condemned ones as they shuffled slowly toward the base of the monument. When they were lined up in eight rows of twenty-five, facing the stone walls of the monument, the monitors withdrew and stationed themselves behind the crowd.

  There was a crackle of static, and then a nasal voice came from the speakers placed around the area. “Residents of New Liberty,” the voice echoed off the stone wall. “It is the duty of each to contribute to the welfare of the community. Those who violate the laws of the community, or who contribute nothing to the community through their labor, must be removed from that community. In this way, they will, as a final act, contribute to the future wellbeing of all.”

  The voice went silent to be replaced by a humming sound from high above. The red lights at the top of the monument began to pulse.

  Washington Benedict lifted his head, looking first at the pulsing red circle high above, and then at the rows of people waiting numbly like so many cattle in the red aura of its glow. “Hiroshi,” he said, quietly at first, but as those nearest him picked it up, louder. “Hiroshi, Hiroshi, always remember, always remember, Hiroshi, Hiroshi.”

  The chanting spread, slowly at first, but soon picked up speed like flames on dray grass, until every prole around the monument, including the condemned, was repeating it.

  “Hiroshi, Hiroshi, always remember, always remember, Hiroshi, Hiroshi.”

  At the rear of the crowd, the monitors shifted nervously, looking at each other. They had never experienced this before. There was no precedent for it. In the past, the crowd had m
erely stood and watched dumbly as the event proceeded to its conclusion, and then shuffled back to their hovels.

  In the basement room across the river, Hector Cruz stood behind the terminal operator. From the speaker on the wall above the terminal, the chanting came, faintly at first, then louder. “Hiroshi, Hiroshi, always remember, always remember, Hiroshi, Hiroshi.”

  He stared up at the speaker. His flesh felt cold, and his hands trembled.

  “Do it, now,” he snarled at the operator. “Get it over with.”

  “The machine has to get to maximum power,” the young woman at the controls said. “It will be at least a minute more.”

  Cruz was shaking all over now. The operator thought it was from anger, but it was from an emotion that was new to the Chairman – fear.

  “I. Want. It. Done. Now!” Cruz said. “That is an order.”

  “B-but, citizen,” she said. “If I activate it before it reaches maximum power, disintegration will not be instantaneous.” Her protocols were exacting. The culling procedure was not to be torture. To activate early would result in death for the condemned, but rather than instant oblivion, they would be burned to death more slowly.

  “I don’t give a damn,” Cruz said adamantly. “If you do not activate immediately, I promise you that you’ll be in the next group of culls.”

  “Protocol be damned,” the young woman thought. “He’s insane, but he’s in charge.” She reached over to a red button in the center of the panel and stabbed it.

  The chanting was disrupted by the sound of screams, first of surprise, and then of agony. Fortunately, the device was almost at maximum, and was able to achieve total disintegration of the unfortunate victims within thirty seconds, but the young operator knew that they had suffered half a minute of absolute agony before being turned to small piles of gray ash, and even from several miles away across the river, thought she could smell the odor of seared flesh, clothing, and hair.

  29.

  When darkness fell, Moses ordered the group forward to the point where the fence descended the banks into the river. He accompanied Hiroshi down the muddy slope. As Hiroshi had anticipated, where the wires were submerged, they were rusty and weak. It was a matter of minutes to break enough to make an opening large enough for two men abreast to pass through.

  Hiroshi went through first, followed by Leland. “You two wait for me,” Moses said, as he did a head count of the other men as they went through the opening.

  Once Leland got his bearings, he took the lead, working his way along the river until the blocky concrete building the housed the armory was in sight. He stopped on a small rise, behind a clump of bushes, looking down at the front of the structure. There was one thoroughly bored-looking black-uniformed guard standing in front of the massive metal door.

  “How do we get into that thing?” Moses asked.

  Leland shook his head. “I’m not sure,” he said. “I’ve never seen a guard outside before. Usually there’s only two inside, and it’s never locked. I mean, after all, there’s no real threat over here. No citizen ever comes to this area, and the proles can’t cross the bridge unless they’re escorted by monitors.”

  “Damn,” Moses said. “We can’t have come all this way for nothing.”

  “Maybe he’s just outside getting fresh air,” one of the men said.

  “Have you taken a deep breath lately?” Leland asked. “No one here in New Liberty goes outside unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

  Moses laughed. “You got a point there, son,” he said. “Okay, first thing is we have to take out the guard. Then, we’ll just see where we go from there.”

  Leland shrugged. Moses rose slowly and began working his way toward the building. Leland and the others followed single file. About ten meters from the structure, Moses dropped to one knee behind a small bush and took his bow from his shoulder. He fitted an arrow and took careful aim.

  There was a ‘twang’ and the feathered shaft zipped from the bow, flying in a shallow arc toward the unsuspecting guard. Before Hiroshi could even register the flight of the arrow, the monitor slapped at his neck from which the missile protruded. The man sagged against the wall and slid slowly down it to come to rest in a sitting position, his legs splayed out in front of him.

  Leland looked appreciatively at Moses. “That was good shooting,” he said. “You must teach me to use a bow like that.”

  They waited a few minutes, but there was no movement below them.

  “Okay,” Moses said. “Let’s move up, but keep quiet.”

  With Moses in the lead, the group filed slowly down the slope to the corner of the concrete building. The dead monitor, sitting in a dark pool of congealed blood, sat silently as if asleep. Moses stepped over the body to the door. He laid a hand on the cold metal and gave it a slight push. It moved quietly inward. He put a finger to his lips.

  Putting a hand on the edge of the door, he eased it open far enough to enable him to slip through. He found himself in a narrow hallway that went forward to a lighted rectangle. He opened the door the rest of the way and motioned the others into the hallway, again putting a finger to his lips.

  As Moses and Hiroshi came to the end of the hall, they saw the two monitors. The men were sitting at a small table in the center of a large room, the walls of which were lined with shelves on two sides and crates stacked to the ceiling at the far side. The shelves contained boxes, crates, and folded black fabric. The two monitors were absorbed in a card game and didn’t notice that they had company, until the one facing the door happened to look up. His hand darted downward toward the flechette pistol at his waist, but Moses brought the bow up, an arrow at the ready and let fly. The shaft buried itself in the monitor’s shoulder. He screamed in pain. The other monitor, seeing the arrow protruding from his partner’s shoulder, started turning, going for his own weapon. But, when he finished turning, he found himself facing the ten men who had crowded into the room, five of whom had wicked looking arrows aimed at him. The sound of his partner’s moaning, and the sight of so many sharp points aimed at his midsection caused him to reevaluate his intentions. He let the weapon drop to the floor.

  “Now, that was a really wise idea, son,” Moses said, moving forward to retrieve the two weapons. He motioned two of the men over. “Tie this young fellow up and stash him over there and after you get the arrow out of the other one and bind his wound, tie him up as well. The rest of you start grabbing as many of these weapons and ammunition as you can carry.”

  Hiroshi walked to one of the shelves and picked up one of the folded cloths. “I’d take a few of these as well,” he said, opening a monitor’s uniform. “And some helmets.”

  Moses stopped and stared at Hiroshi – then, he laughed.

  “By dang, you’re right. That will come in handy. You’re getting pretty smart at this tactics stuff, youngster.”

  30.

  A group of sleepy looking men gathered around a round conference table in The Committee’s headquarters just as dawn was breaking.

  Sitting in his customary place, Hector Cruz looked haggard, with dark circles under his eyes and the shadow of fuzz on his haggard cheeks indicating that he had neither slept nor shaved. Sitting across from him, Gravius-One looked little better. His eyes were bloodshot, and the muscles in his broad, dark cheeks twitched continuously.

  All of The Committee’s main members, except for Nigel Halifax, were present, looking curious and concerned at being summoned at such an early hour.

  Drake Edison looked from Cruz to Gravius. The worried looks on their faces caused the level of acid in his stomach to rise to the level of pain. He clenched his jaws to keep from belching, causing tears to spring up in his eyes. He didn’t know what was going on, but he knew it was bad.

  Hector Cruz looked around the table. All but Gravius avoided his gaze. That, he thought, was as usual. The monitor commander was the only one who would challenge him directly in this manner. He was also the only one who probably understood the significance of
the previous day’s events.

  Cruz’s gaze came back to Gravius, who still stared doggedly back. Finally, Cruz blinked and looked down at his hands which rested on the table. He felt a slight tremor from his wrist down. When he felt as if he might yawn, he breathed deeply and clasped his hands. “That will keep them from shaking,” he thought. “I can’t have Gravius think I’m afraid or worried.”

  “I am concerned at the events of the past days,” Cruz began slowly. “First, we have these two proles making a fool of two monitors and escaping.” He fixed his gaze on Gravius, noticing the quiver in the man’s cheeks. “Then, to add insult to injury, the prole, Hiroshi Jackson, comes back to New Liberty and escapes yet again, and we have indications that a group of Wild Ones came with him and actually entered the community. How is that possible, Citizen Gravius?”

  “The boy seems to know the layout of the area well,” Gravius said. “And, we only have a few monitors on patrol in the area at that time of night.”

  “As I understand it, had it not been for a prole reporting his presence to a monitor we might not have known he was even here.

  Gravius nodded. Cruz turned his steely gaze upon Edison.

  “That brings us to the unfortunate incident yesterday at the culling,” Cruz said icily. “How do you explain that, Citizen Edison?”

  “I d-don’t understand, citizen,” Edison said, not daring to look up from the table. “The culling went off without a problem. There was no incident.”

  Cruz’s lips curled down in a sneer.

  “What do you call the chanting?” His tone was scathing. “The crowd - even those selected for culling - was chanting that prole’s name. That is an act of rebellion, and it cannot be tolerated.”

  Edison shrank lower in his chair. The chanting incident had worried him, but the crowd had dispersed peacefully, and he’d tried to put it out of his mind. He’d made a note to speak with his staff about maybe tuning up the orientation messages – he refused to use the term propaganda – to reinforce docility in the proles. He should have known, though, that Cruz wouldn’t miss it.