Chapter VI: Solemn and Lucky

The Arcade

The statistical links between tobacco use and cancers had been well established, long before the birth of Dylan Huang or the conception of the Algorithm.  As orthodoxy, it weighed heavily toward tax liability in the modern healthcare state.  Given the authority over Orange Flags granted Recovery Officers, and the history of lung cancers in his family, Atari decided to exercise a little discretion.

Dylan’s flight continued to patrol the remains of the tent city.  The hygiene patrol had mostly removed the remains of the initial assault, but the skeletal drone presence continued to watch for RFI tags.  “Just like roaches in the laundry room.  You’ll think you’ve cleaned ’em out, over and over again, but as you turn on the lights the next morning they’re scuttling back under the dryer.  You think your zone is quiet?  Check it again.”

As his birds reached the walls of Bruno Arena again, he put them back on autopilot for a slow lift and scan.  He stole a glance over at Mr Tatum and Colonel Michaels and saw that they were busy with the Super Barrio Mothers.  Juan and Jesus were squabbling over game points.  Dylan plugged in his flashdrive and typed “[ctrl][alt]CRAB.”  While his keyboard booped in complaint at the odd request, his processor nevertheless loaded and activated subroutine Crab.  The bulk of his flight continued their tiresome circuit back over smoldering Katz Square while his chosen birds peeled off from the flock and started cruising up Siegel. 

Colonel Michaels had thoroughly hectored them at the start of the afternoon.  “The Red Flags and the Green Flags are pretty clear cut and we’ll leave them to the Algorithm and the officers in the field.  Once we get into the secondary phase a lot more will rest on us.  Remember gentlemen, and Miss Diamond, no one gets Capped for recovering Red Flags, and everybody gets Capped for collecting Green.  As for Orange, what can I tell ya?  Enrichment is not wanton destruction or thoughtless disposal.  We get nothing by wasting resources.  We also get nothing for dithering indecision, so keep your flocks moving over your zone and stay alert.

“Also, we have to think past the next Census, and after that, too.  The Homeland Economic Recovery Office looks to the farther horizon.  We want what’s best from this mess.  Any Orange Flag fast, smart, or lucky enough to get past the perimeter of the Summary Zone gets transferred to Processing for a closer look.  America has spent too many generations thwarting the wisdom of natural selection.  Let’s tilt things back towards nature again, shall we?  Bounties up and watch your Caps!”

So the afternoon went. 

The Guthrie brothers squabbled over their personal rivalry but kept on producing for the Algorithm.  Forest Donovan and Drew Seeger both cackled fiendishly.  “Like the hillbillies they are,” thought Dylan.  Atari was only partly correct.  Pong was indeed from east Tennessee, a fact he celebrated.  He also claimed to be a native of the “State of Franklin” and seemed delighted that no one else but Mr Tatum and Colonel Michaels seemed to know what he was talking about.  (Yarrow recognized the reference from Sister Merle’s rants but elected not to be impressed.)  Game Boy, though he had spent his adolescence in Connecticut, and evinced as much contempt for “hillbillies” as did Dylan, had been born in and spent most of his childhood in Alabama.

“Hey Jude,” said X-box when she’d returned from the washroom.  She leaned back at her station and pushed her keyboard away.  Subroutine Jude allowed the mic on her throat to pick up subvocal commands.

“Hello, Little Girl!”  responded Jude.

“Subroutine ‘Three Scoops Rice’ please.”

“With their piggy wives?”  Jude requested full authorization.

“Let it be.”  Yarrow smiled, and her birds detached themselves from the charging station atop Bruno Arena.  They began to patrol the milling crowds in Auldtown.  Each drone broadcast a pilot signal that activated radio frequency identifiers, in civilians’ phones or bankcards, or implanted under their skin.  When Three Scoops Rice picked up a ping, Jude checked HIPPA files (originally sold to protect patient privacy) to see if their Body Mass Indices met Her Majesty’s lethal criteria.

The QuikkStopp™ by the Interstate

The tables at Pastry Pat’s and Chik’n’n’Biskits were still crowded, though less so.  Some of the remaining patrons continued to nibble at their meals, though many seemed to have lost their appetites.

Muted conversations drifted over to Chuck’s till, where he idled on his stool.  No one dared approach the cordon of blue lights outside.  The public could get their gasoline and cigarettes well outside the Zone.  Since the general impoundment, captors and hostages alike helped themselves to the goods on the shelves.  Sergeant Campigno had assigned a couple of subordinates to watch the cooler, though.  Bad enough he might have to deal with a frightened panic.  He didn’t need them liquored up and extra stupid, to boot.  The beer was mainly embargoed, but also selectively used as inducement.

 “Last of the hot chicken!”  announced the officer, his arms laden with boxes from Chik’n’n’Biskits.  “We’re shutting down the kitchen!  What do you say, gents?”

Seated behind the till with Chuck Partridge, Dominic looked up from his pad and smiled at the man.  “Sure, Mel!  Set us up!”  The man lay out a couple of paper plates, filled them, and continued spreading joy and hot chicken among the crew.

Dom reached forward and began gnawing on a chicken leg and continued to study his pad.  It presently showed a schematic of the shop’s carwash, indicating flow patterns, standing room, and drainage capacity.  “Four-inch drain is a problem,” he mumbled around his mouthful.  He noticed that Partridge wasn’t eating.  “Lose your appetite, Birdman?  I don’t blame you.  This is a pretty stressful – ”

“Christ no!  It’s nothing like that.”  He sneered at the plates.  “I just can’t handle Chik’n’n’Biskits is all.”

“What?  You mean all that ‘family values’ and ‘closed on Sundays’ stuff?  You’re no leftie!  Since when do you care about any of that?”

“Since never.  I don’t mind they’re closed on Sundays.  I don’t like working on my day off either.  No, I don’t eat their crap because I don’t respect them, and I don’t trust them.  I especially don’t trust them.”

Dominic was leaning over his plate and shoveling in coleslaw.  He stopped and stared at Chuck.  He looked at his plate.  “Trust them?  You think they — ?”

Chuck laughed.  “No!  No, it’s nothing like that, nothing intentional.  It’s systemic.  Idiots can’t spell simple seven letter words like ‘chicken’ and ‘biscuit’ — how am I supposed to trust them with eleven herbs and spices?”

Dominic guffawed, spewing half chewed chicken and coleslaw across the counter and lobby floor.  After getting his choking laughter under control, Dom resumed eating and studying his pad.  Presently, he stood and stretched, then beckoned to a couple of his men.  “Mine about half a dozen deep orange flags outa that crowd for rendition work.  Get… uh, get ten volunteers and trot ’em around the long way to the back.  Pop the slowest two.  Use them for training and inspiration.  Tell the remaining eight that the fastest seven get to go home tonight.”

“Got it, Sarge!”  The man moved toward the tables and invited those who wanted to live to join them for some messy work.  After they’d collected their conscript workers, they marched them out the front and ran them around the building.

“Dang!”  Dom sat down again next to Chuck.  “I wish I could put you on that detail, Birdman, but just barely red is still red.”

“No Caps for Red Flags.”  Chuck looked calmly into Dominic’s eyes.

“Doesn’t help, you bein’ all serene and shit, you know.” 

“Sorry.  I appreciate the hell out of it, Dom.  Really I do.”

“Sure. What else, right?  Still, it’d be nice to free up another slot on my DR list.  Just in case, you know.  You never know…”

“You never know.”

Team McClellan,  Bobb’s Woods,  by the Interstate

Kandi held her right hand out and moved her left to her belt buckle.  “Toe of the holster snaps to my leg,” she said.  “Don’t want to drop my piece in the dirt.”

“Alright.  Slowly then.  Just hold your buckle with your right hand and swing your left around, that’s it.  Now ease it all down to the ground and step back.”

As Kandi complied, she continued talking.  “You boys could get into a lot of trouble messing with the law.  I’m sure we can sort this out without me getting all Barny Fife on ya’ll.   This is all county forest, so I know I’m not trespassing.  I don’t smell moonshine.  And weed’s been legal for three years now, so if this is a grow operation, you’re a little behind the curve, bro.”

“Federal agents, ma’am.”  Two men walked out of the forest above Kandi and skid-walked down to her side.  One picked up her service revolver and began to unload it while the other stood back and watched.  He keyed a switch on his vest and spoke again.  “Team McClellan, this is Squad Busiek.  We got what looks like a local LEO in custody along the Ridge Trail east of Binder.”

“Run a metric on him; let’s see what you got.  Standing by.”

“Negative on the ‘him’ McClellan.  This LEO’s a she, black female, young, healthy, Deputy Sheriff.  Metric reads deep green.  Kick her loose or bring her in?”

“Escort her downslope to the Interstate.  Deliver her to Squad ‘Rhino’ for now.  The Algorithm has identified several oath-keepers, constitutionalists, and other potential insurgents in your area.  Be careful, no telling who might find you.”

Nicholson Center,  Auldtown,  Friday evening

It seemed like most of the trim, the hale, and tourists had been escorted out of Auldtown.  Brian James sat and waited for the Officers to let him go.  He fingered the scar on the back of his hand as he pondered his fate.  The injection site had at first stung like hell, but that soon faded.  The chip sat just under the dermis, its radio frequency response circuitry just waiting for a little flux to power it up.

When the whistle first went off that afternoon and the troops showed up and converged on the tent city sprawling out of Katz Square and seeping into the shadows of Bruno Arena, almost everybody in Auldtown cheered them on.

The cheering quickly turned to gasps of horror as incendiary drones buzzed the encampment and hazmat suited troops moved forward sweeping away campsites and campers alike with their flame throwers.  The screaming and the crackling from the fire were soon drowned out by intermittent gunfire.  The crowd stood in shocked silence when the troops finally crossed Siegel Boulevard and started separating and herding the residents of Auldtown.

As the officers checked IDs, Brian began to pick up on some of their comments about green, orange, and red flags.  The Green Flags were treated like the One Percent, thought Brian, as the officers tended to speak to them politely and assisted them into the waiting cars.  Orange flags (like Brian, apparently) were unknowns and questionable.  They were hustled and moved and herded from one holding facility to the next as the Operation wore on and the Zone Perimeter was periodically tightened.  Occasionally names were called out of the Orange herd, but for the most part they sat and waited while red flags were loaded onto buses which departed in the opposite direction of the cars carrying the Greens.

“Red Flags are Red Shirts,” Brian knew his Trek lore, “and red shirts are dead shirts.”  He sat drumming his fingers on the tabletop in the food court in Nicholson Center, fidgeting through nicotine withdrawal, when the overhead lights came back on.  As the whine of the generators abated, the incandescent floods winked out and the flickering fluorescents reasserted their authority.

“Power’s back up!”  The HERO officer watching the crowd spoke softly into his collar.  “Roger that.”  He jumped onto the countertop.  “Ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to report that the first phase of the Recovery Operation is concluded, and most folks have been processed.  Queen City – central operations – reports that we are way ahead of schedule and under budget so things should be looking up for most of us.”   As he spoke the soft background music of the mall resumed and musical tones drifted up from the crowd as cell phones came back to life.  “We still got a long way to go, so bear with us.  New perimeters have been established and shelter-in-place has been lifted so ya’ll can go about what business ya can as the Op gets a little more casual.  BUT,” he raised both his voice and his finger, “those perimeters are still fixed, and we have orders to shoot on sight anyone attempting to pass unescorted.  So continue to give Homeland Officers your full cooperation.  Bottom line, you’re all free to move about within the Zone, but passage out is still on a case by case basis.”  He paused and grinned at the crowd.  “More good news!  Now that power and coms have been restored, concessions is back in business!  Good luck, folks, and God Bless you all!”

The frustrated waiting Orange Flag crowd applauded the news vigorously.  Many rose from their places and began to meander toward the exits.  Recovery Officers checked IDs as the people left Nicholson Center into the cool evening air.

“Thank God!  I am dying here!”  Brian went directly to the concessions counter and said to the officer there, “Llama Llights™, please.”

“Lights?”  The officer looked at the cigarette displays and back to Brian. 

“I see Llama…”

Brian sighed.  “Llama Bllue™.”

“ID please?”

Brian lay the back of his hand on the countertop scanner.  As his chip entered the electromagnetic field, the flux activated the circuitry in the implanted grain and it sang out its electrical signature for the scanner, identifying both Brian and his intended buy.  The scanner’s computer checked with Brian’s bank, and also with the central credit registry.  Those computers dutifully reported Brian’s tobacco purchase to the computers at the departments of Homeland Security, Treasury, and Health and Human Services, who all eagerly shared their new datum with the Algorithm.

Subroutine Crab caught wind of it and scuttled back to share the news with Atari.  Atari’s console pinged and an orange dot appeared on his screen. 

“Gotcha, butthead!”  Dylan took manual control of a bird and left the rest of the pack on auto, to hover over Katz or to cruise up Siegel.  He turned his live bird back toward Nicholson and started hunting bounty.

The Upper Upper Valley (“Gay Springs”),  Binder Creek

The oven went dark just as Michael was checking his roast.  Chad was supposed to have been home by now.  Why hadn’t he called?  He must have gotten caught in holiday traffic.  From Binder Creek to Leighsburg Staple & Spice shouldn’t take Chad anywhere near the Interstate.  Unless he decided he wanted wine with dinner.  The he’d have to leave their dry county and cut into Kupper at Toth.  That would take him over the I but not onto it.  Still, just approaching it could get one snarled up around the entries.  

Michael picked up his phone and found it dead, too.  He went around the house and flipped switches.  As he headed downstairs to check the circuit breakers, he heard loud ringing in the wine cellar.

“Sweet D in the morning!  What does he want?”  Michael stepped into the cellar and flipped up the cover to the shouting tube that ran into the basement wall.  “What do you say, Big D?  You got the Greene House on the tube!”

“Mr Mike?”  Darryl Anne’s frightened voice quavered out of the tube.  “Big Daddy says they’re coming for us.  The Feds!”

“Say again, sweetheart?  Who’s coming?”

“The government, Mr Mike.  Daddy says Baby D saw them kill Mr Howard and Red and they’re probably gonna work their way up the valley.  You need to find out who’s home and tell ’em and then Daddy says meet him at Puck’s Notch.”

“This for realz, honeybunch?”

“Your phone dead, too, Mr Mike?  The lights go out?”

“Tell Sweet D I’ll see who’s home up here.  And then I’ll see him at Puck’s.”

The “Bat Cave” under the Langdon residence,  Trailervana,

Seven years before passage of the HERO Act

Baby D had had no intention of frightening Miss Calculation.  He and Larry G were involved in some squabble of their own.  It was an enormously urgent yet utterly forgettable sibling dispute.  While chasing his brother down the steps and under the deck and past the root cellar, Baby D stepped on the cat’s tail.  Yowling and hissing, Callie dashed into the cellar and squirmed through the gap under the bricks.  She just skirted the constant trickle and disappeared into the opening.

“D!”  Larry G screamed at his brother.  “You left the cellar door open!”

“You left it open!”  answered Darryl Junior.  “You better get the cat outa there or Big Daddy’s gonna kick your ass.”

“He’s gonna kick YOUR ass!  He left YOU in charge, di’n’t he?”

“Then I’ll just kick YOUR ass now!  How ‘bout that, huh?”

“Shut up!  We gotta get ’er outa there.”  Larry knelt over the tiny rill running from the wall and peered into the hole.  He turned his head and looked up at Baby D.  “Go get me a flashlight.”  Then he put his face into the hole and began to call.  “C’mon Callie!  Miss Calculation!  Callie Pot Pie!  Nothin’ for kitties in there, just yuck and ick and wet!  Come on, be a good kitty!  Come on outa there!”

“Nothin’ for kitties but tasty bugs and lizards.” 

Baby D handed him the flashlight.  “Any sign of her?”

“I can’t see her.  I can hear her complaining.  You kick her or what?”  Larry G squirmed on the ground and readjusted himself, placed the light just inside the hole and then pushed it a little aside.  When he looked again he could see that things opened up a bit behind the wall.  “It’s not so little in here, D, and – Oh, there ya are, puss.  Come on, kitty.  Shit!”

“What happened?”

He crawled back out and stood up.  “Hole seems pretty big back there, looks like it goes back some.  Cat run up into it and disappeared.”

“Let me see.”  Baby D dropped to his knees and looked in.  Then he reached in for the light, but fumbled it, and it rolled to the side.  “Damn!”

“Now what?”

“Shut up.  I dropped the light.  Hang on.”  He stretched into the hole.  He had real hopes that Miss Calculation would eventually get hungry enough to come back out, but he feared it might not be before Sweet D and Norma G got home.  As he strained to reach the flashlight his shoulder filled the opening.  Willing his arm to grow, Baby D clenched his teeth and muttered Big Daddy’s and Colonel Daniels’ and Chief Pelican’s ripest curses under his breath and –

The brick wall gave way.  Not much of it, but enough to release Baby D’s shoulder and to allow him to grab the flashlight before he realized that he was being rained on by bricks.  He swore as he scrambled to his feet.  “Oh, sweet shit for Christmas!  Sweet D is gonna beat us black and bloody!  We are so fucking fucked it’s not fucking funny!”

“How’s the flashlight?”

Baby D raised the light like a cudgel, then relaxed his arm and sighed.  They both knelt before the hole again and looked in.  “It’s not so bad, I guess.  We just ‘fess up right away.  That helps.  And we gotta fix this, but…”  D fingered the decaying mortar.  “Shouldn’t be more than a couple hours work, and – hey!” 

More mortar flaked down as G pulled more bricks out of the opening.  “I think I can get through here now.”  He squirmed in after his cat, turned around inside, and reached out.  “Give me the light.”

“What are you doing?  Don’t we already have a big enough problem to fix?”

“Big Daddy’s not gonna whoop us any extra for the bigger hole, and I’m going after Callie if I can.  Gimme the light.”

                       Team Sherman,  Moses Manor,  Auldtown

When Thai’Rhone woke up he knew that it would be his lucky day.  He’d been trying to get out of Moses Manor for as long as he’d lived there.  Public housing may sound like a nice idea, but the neighborhood never quite lives up to the promise.  Their little apartment was tight enough already when it was just him and his sister and her boyfriend.  When the babies started arriving it became unbearable.  He loved his sister, and he loved her babies, and he even loved her baby daddy.  But he still had to get out. 

Getting out involved money, though, and money, beyond his monthly UBI, meant a decent job.  If things worked out, maybe he could finally get out of the Manor, and out of Auldtown, and maybe even out of the Redge altogether.  If he really made it big, he thought he might like to help out Mush-El and Vickter and their kids.  So Thai’Rhone hit the want ads and the internet and the street and he hustled and hunted.  And hunted.  And hunted.

Vickter and his peeps gave him no end of shit.  “How you breave in dem pants?  The man don’ give a shit you dress white!  Why should you?  Hang wif us, blood!”

“Ek-scuse-me-sirrr!”  Antjuan would ape Thai’Rhone’s “honky” accent when he tried to reason with them, which only encouraged Thai to talk to them less.

Mush-El was great.  She’d cut his dreads for him, despite Vickter’s insistence that he was selling out.  She picked out his clothes and tried to keep the kids quiet when he studied, and even got into it with Vick a couple of times when he tried to bring his crew around the crib.  It was rocky and arduous, but Thai persisted. 

After months of work and research and preparation, this day was going to be special.  Armed with his freshly minted coding certificate, he had aced the telephone interview and they had insisted that he come in Friday afternoon for the face to face.  As he rose that morning, he only wished it could be nine-thirty instead of three thirty.  It gave him the whole day to fidget.  And prepare! 

The folks at TeleMek™ couldn’t have been more delightful.  Or more delighted with Thai’Rhone.  They offered him an eye-popping salary, told him to have a great holiday weekend, and to report Tuesday morning sharp at nine.  By the time his bus got back to Donenfeld and turned up toward the Manor he had decided to kick off the best weekend in history by taking Mush-El and Vickter (if he was around) and the kids out for dinner.  But when the bus stopped in front of the Manor and he was met coming off by a cordon of angry policemen, and he was hustled into the courtyard with scores of his neighbors, his mood darkened.

Inside the vast inner courtyard, surrounded by the gray cinderblock towers of Moses Manor, Thai finally migrated to a corner near the strange new officers.  He could hear one of them talking, though it seemed to be to no one in particular.

“That’s right, Mr Winter.  We’ll send you the bus directly after the selections.  Yes sir, already cleared it with the Colonel.  That’s right.  Yeah, the medicals have been cleared out and sent down to WheinGhust’s or KU Med already.  Ah-huh.  Yes sir, about three hundred left, all healthy tax eaters.  Ha ha!  Yes sir, we will!  Ah-huh.  Thirty-six seats on the bus.  Do you mind if I ask you, sir?  Those you can’t use…?  Ah.  I see.  Out of the zone and out of reach.  Well, sure, I guess that’s fair.  Ah-huh.  Oh yes sir, we will!  We will!  Frankly sir, this is gonna be more fun than collecting those inbred hillbillies at the TV studio.  And probably even better for the gene pool, eh?  Yes sir.  Yes sir, of course.  Thank you, sir, we will directly.”

While the man was talking to his ghost, Thai’Rhone recognized Vickter’s slouch across the courtyard.  His back was toward Thai but he could be seen talking to his friends Antjuan and TrayVaughn.  By the time Thai had reached them Vickter had turned and seen him.  “Blood!  They take ’em!”

“What!”

“Popo!  They come in the crib an’ take Mush-El an’ the babies!”

“Taken?  Where?”

“LISTEN UP!”  A group of officers, led by the one Thai had heard talking to the unseen Mr Winter, moved into the center of the crowded courtyard.  One of the officers plucked a man from the crowd, threw him to the ground and shot him in the head.  Stunned, many of the crowd surged forward but the cadre formed a ring around their commander and his victim and shot a couple more of the group and everybody else stood down and carefully watched and listened to the men with the guns.  As the shots still echoed off the concrete walls an officer spoke softly.  “That was the first favor we’re going to do all of us today.  Now I’m sure that everybody still standing believes that I mean it when I tell you that I am holding all of your lives in my hands right now.  No questions?  Excellent.  In fact, I’m not gonna ask any questions either.  I’m just gonna assume that every last one of you is determined to do just exactly what I tell ya.”  He pointed to a line of his men standing alongside one edge of the courtyard.  “I want you to line up in nine even rows in front of my guys over there, facing them.  Now.  Go!”

For the most part, the crowd hustled to follow their instructions.  A few stubbornly and defiantly moseyed, strutted even, and found themselves at the ends of the lines.  Thai ended up third from the front, with Vickter and Antjuan right behind him.

The officer in charge whispered to his aide for a moment, then muttered into his collar.  “I said even!”  Four of his men shot the last one or two in the ragged lines.

“Now that’s better!”  He continued, smiling at the crowd.  “Now we’ve just done ya’ll another favor.  Every breath you take, your odds improve.  Of course, honestly, it’s probably not much of an improvement.  Those draggy assed slackers at the ends of the lines weren’t exactly your git ‘er done types, now were they?  Whoops!  I’m sorry!  I said no more questions.  Still every little bit helps.”  He slapped his hands together and began to pace in front to the attentive crowd.  “We’ve just thinned you down to exactly two hundred and eighty-eight.  There are thirty-six seats on that bus, to take some of you out of the zone and into maybe a long and happy life.  May you live happily ever after.  Or maybe you’ll end up drunk passed out drowned in a ditch next year.  That wouldn’t surprise me either.  Anyway, it’s up to you.  At least you’re getting a chance.  Unlike…”  He gestured to the corpses on the ground.  Every dead body remained where it had dropped.  “Now then, we’re gonna have a foot race, and in order to squeeze the good and bad luck out of this exercise, we’re gonna do this in nine heats.  And we don’t want to be tripping over bodies, so we’re gonna have to clear the field.  I want a few volunteers to drag your homies over to the breezeway.”  He pointed to the arch under the tower leading out of the projects and onto Donenfeld.

Thai had put up his hand, as well as several others.  He was not chosen but ended up not regretting it as all the volunteers were returned to the ranks.  Like him, he was sure they had all hoped to curry favor with their captors.  Notably, neither Vickter nor Antjuan had volunteered.  They maintained their characteristic sullen slouches.  As usual, the two small fingers of their right hands were each curled casually into waistband security grips just below their hips.  Vickter had ridiculed Thai’Rhone’s button down collar and slacks and leather belt earlier that morning.  Thai now reflected even more favorably on the notion of dressing like a grown-up.

The first few heats were organized, and Thai watched enviously as winners were seated on the bus, and solemnly as losers were led off.  Early resisters were wounded and dragged painfully as an object lesson for others to cooperate.  “There ARE fates worse than death,” pointed out the officer in charge, “but fortunately they also end in death, so there is that peace.”  Four winners from each heat were seated, but sometimes losers were declared in advance of the finish line.  Thai watched one competitor come up from behind another and slam his fist into the back of his head, dropping him to the ground.  When it was clear to the nearest officer that he wasn’t getting up soon, he simply shot him where he lay.

Because they were near each other at the time of the announcement, and though generally sluggardly on their own, they were chastened by Thai’s energy.  Antjuan and Vick ended up near enough him that they were all chosen for the same heat.  Crouching at the starting line, and increasingly aware of both the stakes and the emerging rules of this game, Thai attempted to turn his peripheral vision up to eleven.  How he wished he had changed out of these expensive dress shoes that he had worn on his (successful!) butt-kissing expedition, but at least the ground was dry.  If he avoided the various blood spills on the ground.

The starting pistol cracked, and they commenced to run.  Off to his right he caught a shadow of Vickter smacking another runner in the side of his head.  Vick surged away as his victim staggered aside.  From Thai’Rhone’s left, another shadow loomed.  As he ducked, bouncing off his hands and back up into a sprint,  a meaty arm swung wide over his head.  He accelerated and looked around as much as he could afford.  He didn’t have to be first, but…  The field immediately around him was clear and he was making good time.  He saw the first runner from his heat cross the line.  From his right Vickter came cutting away from Antjuan, who went down in a tumble just short of Vick’s feet as he capered sideways in front of Thai.  Thai and Vickter were closing in on the line when Thai caught sight of the second and third men crossing.  Thai reached out and pulled at Vickter’s arm, breaking his grip on his waistband so that his trousers slipped and he tripped over himself just short of the line.  Thai’Rhone hopped over him and landed safely on the other side.

Seated on the bus with the others, Thai said nothing and no one else did either.  Except two at the front who seemed to be ranking and handicapping the players coming after them.  Thai simply sat and struggled to not be sick.  What would he say to Mush-El when he saw her?  Would he ever see her again?  He sighed and wept as he sat and no one else on the bus gave him any shit over it.  Plenty of them were weeping too.  He’d had no idea how lucky when it had started, but it WAS his lucky day.  He almost wished it wasn’t.

Chapter VII: Homeland Uber Alles