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Sweetwater Creek State Park
Lithia Springs, GA
Day 39 of The Rise
Captain Blake and Lara had arrived (separately, of course) to Sweetwater Creek basecamp three days before Enrique. They hadn’t said a word to one another. As far as Captain Blake recalled, Lara hadn’t said a thing to anybody. If you asked Lara, all she remembered of Captain Blake was “an old, wrinkly guy who kept muttering about his missing wife Hilary or Heidi or some shit like that.”
You didn’t have friends in the barracks. You had comrades. People would share a knowing nod or a tip of the cap, but that was the extent of it. There were no stories. No jokes. No “sit-around-the-fire” chit-chat. It was a murky reality and those who survived acted as if they were better off dead.
When the alarm sounded signaling the breach on the north end of base, Enrique was lying in his cot reading the only book he managed to grab when he fled, Travels with Charley. He hadn’t gotten far in the story, and found himself reading the same page over and over. His mind was elsewhere. Whether his thoughts were on the whereabouts of his mother, the current state of the nation, or the way the Variant looked when Enrique pushed him out of a twelve-story window, he didn’t really know. All he knew was that his journey led him to the barracks with a book he didn’t particularly care for, and an alarm so shrill it rattled his eardrums.
Enrique popped up along with the 83 other souls in the surrounding cots. Next-door, the family barracks erupted in mass conversations of panic; 150 men, women, and children shouting over one another in incomprehensible tones. Enrique could see their shadows moving back and forth like spastic ragtime dancers.
“Any idea what that alarm is?” Enrique asked the burly man next to him. The man had a thick with veins popping out like water-swollen roots. Enrique never did end up getting the man’s name. But, in the end, it was probably better that way.
“Never heard it before,” the burly man said.
The loudspeaker crackled a momentary hiss and then an authoritative voice sounded over the camp, “This is Colonel Jackson. We have had a breach. I repeat: We have had a breach. All persons need to report to the military barracks immediately.” And then Colonel Jackson was gone.
Screams and shrieks ripped through the camp. Cots were tipped over, people were trampled as they made their way to the exit, one man even punched another in the jaw when they simultaneously reached the door. Enrique stupidly watched this unfold, unmoving, until a hand wrapped around his forearm. The grip was tight, but cold. His muscles twinged against the grasp.
“Don’t just stand there ya dumb fuck!” And there was Lara Holliday, her dirty bleached hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. A dingy white tank clung to her body like wet paper and her already short shorts were rolled an inch higher than necessary. She pulled him toward the exit as the herd of frantic pedestrians pushed their way through the door.
Outside, they saw no Variants. Though the acreage of the state park was sprawling and massive, Enrique figured they’d see something…anything. But all appeared quiet in the night.
They hustled to the military barracks and piled inside. Within minutes there were over 300 people jammed in a room that was only meant to hold a hundred.
“Listen up!” Colonel Jackson yelled as he stepped up on a chair. “There’s been a breach on the north wall. Now, while there were only six Variants reported inside before we lost contact, it is our belief more will come. We need to evacuate immediately. Only problem is…” His words hung in the air. “Only problem is…” he said again, “…is that the plane only holds 230. What we got amongst us is over 300.”
The murmurs of realization tore through the room and soon the murmurs morphed into shouts of protest. “Who would go?” “How will you choose?” and, “You have to take the children,” were just some of the things Enrique heard.
“We don’t have time to debate who goes and who stays,” said Colonel Jackson. “My men are passing out cards as we speak and that will determine who goes.”
More protest.
“The louder you yell, the sooner the Variants find us!” Colonel Jackson yelled.
The shouting softened to a low rumble.
“Now, if anybody else wants to yell they can consider themselves excluded from the flight out of here.”
There wasn’t a sound.
“We’re passing out two cards at random: a green card and a red card. You get a green card, you’re on the plane, you get a red card…” his voice trailed off again, “…well then I’m sorry.”
Enrique’s eyes flitted around the room until he saw one of the officers holding a small burlap sack. The soldier approached Enrique, sack open. He stared at Enrique with his marble black eyes and motioned for him to reach inside. “Take one.” The soldier’s voice echoed no notes of sympathy or remorse. Enrique clammed up.
“You hear me boy?” the solider asked.
Boy? Boy? The soldier couldn’t have been a year or two older than Enrique. He was just a boy himself. He was a boy who was passing out the fate of several hundred people.
Red light. Green light.
“Hey! You hear me? I don’t got all day, boy!”
Enrique lifted a trembling hand and placed it in the burlap sack. Rigid construction paper slipped through his fingers and he thought he could detect the color of the paper by touch. This thought was quickly crushed when he grabbed at a piece of paper and pulled it out. He kept his eyes on the solider, studying his licorice skin with plain curiosity, anything to distract him from the destiny in his hands.
The soldier’s eyes fell on the paper first and then came back to Enrique’s. His facial expression was constant, but he held out his arm and put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he said and then stepped away.
Enrique looked down at the paper and saw the red. It flashed before him like the devil, hopeless and vivid. He looked around and saw the soldiers had finished passing out the cards. A vague sense of mourning crippled the barracks. Enrique saw Lara had a green card tucked away in her hand. She seemed almost embarrassed that she had been chosen, but also relieved. She offered him a sad smile and lowered her head.
“For those of you with red cards, I’m terribly sorry. We’ll leave all the weapons we can spare so you can defend yourselves.” Colonel Jackson’s voice cracked. “I wish we could have done more. May God be with you. May God be with all of us.” He stepped down from the chair and whispered something to the officer next to him. His name was Lieutenant Cole and he had a brooding, arrogant way about him. There was a small scar under his right eye and his skin was so rough you could rub his hands across a couple of 2x4s and have a table by dinner time.
Lieutenant Cole stepped up on the chair Colonel Jackson had just descended from and held his hands behind his back as he spoke, very military-like. “Those of you with green cards, you’ll have three minutes to collect your belongings before we make our way to the runway. If you aren’t outside the barracks in three minutes we will leave you behind. Is that understood?”
There were whispers of understanding, and then everyone filed out. The C-17 Globemaster was waiting. But so were the Variants.
* * *
When they got back to the barracks it was bedlam at its best. Those who had picked the green cards were hustling about, stuffing anything they could into bags whether it belonged to them or not. Those with the red cards sat on their cots, staring at their hands in mock reflection. Enrique neither sat nor hustled. He stood in the middle of the room as people passed by him without so much as a look.
“Sorry ‘bout that, brother,” he heard a voice say.
Enrique turned and saw the burly man he had spoken to earlier. He was stuffing an oversized shirt into his pack. The green piece of construction paper was still firmly gripped in his hand.
“Huh?” Enrique grunted.
“I’m sorry,” he said again.
Enrique waved him off and stuffed his hands in his pockets.
“You’re goin’ be all right now,” the burly man said. “Ya hear?”
Enrique nodded, but lowered his head. He had never been so sure in his life that he would not be all right. The Variants were coming. Lots of them. Did he really expect to fight them off with a military rifle and a few smoke bombs? He wouldn’t even have the luxury of retreating, the Variants would get him before that, and the burly man knew it.
“Hey,” the burly man said lifting his head, “kill some of those sons a bitches for me, will ya?”
“Sure,” Enrique sighed.
“Attaboy!” The burly man slapped him on the back. “Hey, watch my stuff for me while I hit the head, yeah? Don’t wanna be ten-thousand feet up, stuffed ‘gether like cattle and I gotta drain my lizard on some broad’s anklet, know whatta mean?”
Enrique nodded and the burly man headed toward the back.
“Two minutes!” Lieutenant Cole yelled. He was standing near the entrance, his arms tucked behind his back, looking as constipated as ever. “Hurry the fuck up!”
Enrique looked at the burly man’s pack. It was neatly propped on the cot. In spite of how the burly man looked, he was very meticulous and well organized. Enrique glanced back at the bathroom. He chewed on his lip, contemplation getting the best of him. Finally, he grabbed a long, cotton towel from under his bed. It was what they had provided him when he arrived. The towel was a brilliant shade of white, but the material was flimsy and cheap. God bless the United States Government. He balled up the towel and headed for the bathroom.
“Hey, where ya headed?” came Lara’s voice.
“What?”
Lara was standing behind him. “I asked where you were headed.”
“Bathroom.” He continued on.
“I’m sorry you gotta stay behind,” she called after him.
Enrique stopped and turned, his eyes offering a small pocket of tears. He nodded.
“Well…good luck,” she said clumsily.
“You too,” he said and then he made his way to the bathroom.
Military personnel kept the bathroom spotless. The walls were lined with immaculate blue tile and the floors were so pristine it was impossible to believe a hundred people used it on a regular basis. There were two stalls and three urinals made of polished white porcelain, and four sinks adjacent to the urinals that were polished to a glaring shine.
When Enrique entered he noticed one of the fluorescent lights was out. A rare oddity in the world of the bathroom, he thought. He could hear the burly man still taking a leak. He was humming some tune Enrique didn’t recognize.
The door hadn’t made a sound when it opened or closed, and Enrique was thankful for that. He took off one of his shoes and wedged it under the door. He tested to make sure it wouldn’t open. It didn’t. So far, so good.
Enrique rounded the set of stalls and saw the burly man at the middle urinal, a steady stream still running between his legs. He took a step toward him and the burly man flinched. Enrique stopped, his feet locked to the ground as if stuck in mud. But when the burly man didn’t turn, he took another step closer. Then another. And another. Soon he was so close he was sure the burly man could feel his breath on the back of his neck.
The stream ceased and the burly man zipped up. Enrique wrapped the towel around his fingers and pulled it taut. He raised the towel and, just as he did, the fluorescent light near the entrance flickered back on. There was a momentary buzz and it illuminated.
The burly man looked up and, in his peripheral vision, saw Enrique standing behind him. “The hell you doing, Rico?” the burly man asked, more than a little peeved.
Enrique didn’t answer. He brought the towel up and over the burly man’s head and wrapped it around his thick neck. The burly man grabbed at the towel, trying to get his fingers between his neck and the fabric, but Enrique was too fast. Enrique tightened the noose and the burly man’s eyes bulged. He spun around and Enrique went with him.
There was a brief moment when they caught each other’s eyes in the mirror. The reality right there before them. The burly man’s eyes turned red and glossy and a vein popped out on his forehead. His cheeks turned a violent shade of crimson then transformed into a dense purple.
He reached back, trying to swat Enrique off. Enrique was momentarily lifted off the ground, but he held the ends of the towel as if riding a bull.
The burly man ran backwards and slammed Enrique into one of the urinals. He could feel the stainless steel handle click down as it jammed into his lower back. A rush of water cascaded down the porcelain as the burly man slammed him back again. Enrique pulled hard on the noose and he felt the fabric start to tear. Flimsy fucking fabric. Fuck you, United States Government!
He nearly lost his grip on the towel, but managed to hold on by pushing his feet off the urinal and throwing them both forward. Enrique spilled over the burly man’s body and the towel twisted in such a way he could hear his neck crack. And then the fabric tore in half.
Enrique sat up and rolled the burly man over. His eyes were still bulging and the dead pupils stared up at him with haunting clarity. His short, thick tongue was hanging to one side and had swelled to nearly double its original size.
Enrique was surprised at how quickly he managed to drag the burly man to the second stall, prop him up on the toilet, and remove the green piece of construction paper from his back pocket. He stared at the emerald-colored paper with a genuine mixture of fascination, regret, and relief.
Death and life. Red light and green light.
Enrique nearly dropped the green ticket into the toilet when the pounding on the bathroom door started. He folded the burly man’s legs back, making it look like no one was inside, and left the stall.
Knock! Knock! Knock! Knock!
He turned on the faucet, splashed water on his face, and put a cool hand on the back of his neck.
Knock! Knock! Knock! Knock!
“Open up!” came the thundering voice of Lieutenant Cole.
On the floor lay the torn cotton towel. Enrique gathered it up and threw it in the trash.
“Open up, I said!”
He gave one last look around the bathroom, removed his shoe from its perfectly wedged placement, and opened the door.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Enrique said.
“What in the hell you doing in here, boy?” Lieutenant Cole asked, his brow furrowed into a look of suspicion.
“Just going to the bathroom, sir.”
The fluorescent light flickered.
“Takes you a helluva long time to go to the bathroom, don’t it?”
“It was an emergency, sir.”
Lieutenant Cole glared at him. “You think I’m stupid, boy?”
“No, sir, of course not.”
Lieutenant Cole cocked his head to the left, inspecting Enrique’s eyes. Enrique looked anywhere but at the Lieutenant, trying not to quiver.
“Listen,” Lieutenant Cole whispered, “you gettin’ sick before a flight, especially one as rocky as this one’s gonna be, is understandable, but we gotta move, boy. Variants are right on our ass.”
The muscles along Enrique’s jawline relaxed and he couldn’t believe he found himself half smiling. “You’re right, sir, you’re absolutely right, I’m sorry.”
“You ready to go?”
Enrique held up his green piece of gold and said, “You bet, sir!”
“Good man!”
Lieutenant Cole stepped aside and let Enrique pass. “Let’s move out!” he shouted and headed for the entrance.
The only eyes that met Enrique’s as everyone was headed toward the exit were Lara’s. Her eyes saw that green piece of paper stuck between his fingers.
Enrique grabbed the burly man’s bag without breaking stride and continued toward the exit. Lara gathered up her own pack and sidled up alongside him.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
“What do you mean?”
“You had a red card…” she whispered. “…You had a red card…and now you have a green card…What the fuck?”
“I didn’t have a red card,” was all he could muster.
“Where is he?” she asked, and Enrique knew he was caught. But he didn’t matter anymore. He was part of the past. He didn’t make it. A lot of people didn’t make it. So it goes…
“There is no he,” Enrique responded.
The burly man was dead. There were no two ways about it. His body was abandoned in the cleanest stall this side of the Mississippi. His tongue was curled up against the outside of his cheek and his lips were two purple crescents that were forever unmoving. People died every day. That’s just how it was. And the burly man was one of those unlucky to join their company. Being a religious man, Enrique hoped the burly man was a good man, the kind who donated to churches, who volunteered at schools, who gave twenty-five fucking cents a day to some scrawny refugee so she could eat a fucking bowl of fucking rice. Anything! Everything! Enrique’s thoughts pounded against his skull with such guilt he thought his legs might give out. He felt Lara’s arm tuck under his bicep and when he looked at her he knew he was safe. She knew he had done wrong. She knew he had killed a man, but that didn’t matter, at least not to her. The world was over, so they’d best get a move on.
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