One
Area Thirty-Eight
Winter’s arrived, in the same bitter cold manner as it does every year. If certain precautions are taken it’s not unbearable. If your physical activity slacks though, the dry, dull air causes knuckles to crack and fingertips to bleed. Huffing and breathing warmth inside his hands, the man’s attempt is feeble in preventing this inevitable outcome, and as the warm mist seeps from the slits of his clenching fists, last month’s encounter floats up to the back of his mind. Officially, the statement was “an assault on seven of the PPA’s best and most decorated.” Unofficial gossip coined the event “The Brawl.”
Like it did then, anger gets the best of him as he clenches his fists, reopening the freshly scabbed breaks on his frozen skin. It was an ambush, not a brawl. A brawl implies that the fight was unbiased—a two-to-one ratio even. This was definitely not that. The head of the little PPA gang had held a gun to the man’s temple, slipping off and stealing his refined leather gloves, and then to show how fair and unbiased the officer was about the situation, punched him in the face. Because he attempted to fight back, the entire encounter left him with a broken nose, old, dirt-saturated snow to reduce the swelling, and a week in detention.
“Protectors of the People’s Freedom,” the man scoffs out. They are to receive no disrespectful acts, for they uphold The Government. The People-Protection Agency? Hogwash, he thinks. Memorized, recited propaganda. More like Petty. Prick… Assholes. It is what it is though. Which is worse? A broken nose, or an execution? Better to keep your head down and wait. Pain, discomfort. It can’t last forever.
Thrusting his cracked hands into the frosty pockets, the man turns his head east, catching a perfect angle of the rising sun creeping from behind the wintery horizon. Spotting the sky with hues of orange, red, and hints of purple grey, sunrays stroke the bottom of the winter clouds. For some it’s just the signal of another workday in Area Thirty-Eight. For him? For him it prods at something more.
Hope. At least he’d like to think it’s hope, but really, what does a word like that mean today? In all honesty, he’s not even familiar with the sentiment, but as the morning light glitters and bounces off the dust and snow-scattered streets, he looks from the potholes to the rusting lampposts and forgets what hope might’ve felt like. From the leaning buildings to the unfortunate citizens that call those outside walls their home, it’s a perfectly sad sight. Every twenty feet a barrel of fire warms these makeshift families, and while kids find comfort in snuggling up to the warmest grownup, the women persevere and gather whatever will help them make it one more day. And as usual, the passed-out drunks clench their version of hope nestled underneath their chins, no doubt dreaming of their utopia.
“Take it in your own way,” his Grandma Lisa’s voice sounds, echoing in the back of his mind.
He swears it was “make your own way,” but the trivial debate is next to null as it’s not like she’s around to correct him anymore.
“The task is at hand,” she then states in his mind.
Finding white-knuckled motivation, the aroma of gasoline, burning wood, and charred gruel hovers in the air as he approaches his home away from home—the Mill. Meager wages practically make it slave labor, but two meals a day? Where else can you get a deal like that? The only thing that prevents this situation from moving to the next level are the overpaid Petty Prick Asshats as the overwatch.
Fatigued and drowsy, the man steps in with the masses to be herded inside. A tap on his left shoulder greets him, but knowing exactly who, he instead looks right.
“Mornin’, Jax!”
Kip. Kip Wright. Wright on the right, exactly where Jax knew he would be. With a goofy fur hat and a peppered bearded smile to match, Kip looks up to his tall friend from underneath the bushes he calls eyebrows, which if you ask Jax, have always seemed to have been placed lower on his face than the average human being. It’s always given Kip a jolly Neanderthal visage.
“I thought I had ya that time—when I tapped yer shoulder and all,” Kip bellows, drawing dozens of lethargic gazes their way before turning back to their stale lives. The same life they all share—all except Kip.
Chuckling, Kip slams his fists into Jax’s shoulders. He may be short, but he’s a mini locomotive that could run just as fast as one if you put him up for the challenge.
“Not this time, Kip,” Jax says, tapping the side of his head. As annoying as one might find Kip’s childlike sense of humor, the guy’s company and jolly attitude are like having a tiered outdoor pool with a hot tub in the middle of a wintery, dumpy motel.
Kip tosses his arms in the air. “Man, Granny Lisa would be disappointed in me.” Kip knew her long before Jax was ever around, and they always seemed to share the same sense of humor, which Jax never has gotten. “I miss her, Jax.”
Jax has never been able to ascertain how or where Kip found Granny Lisa, though he’s asked numerous times. Her unique skin tone made it very clear that she was not biologically related to either of them, and it makes Jax wonder why there’s no one else that looks like her. After her passing though, it didn’t matter because thirteen years old is an awfully young age for anyone to learn how to take care of themselves. Between the two of them, Kip and Jax have been able to make it.
“I do too,” Jax slowly says. “You good?”
“I’m cold and a little tired and annoyed but did ya see that sunrise on the way over?! I mean, look at it!” Enthusiastically, Kip points to the same hopeful sunrise that warmed Jax’s walk over. The guy’s a simpleton, but he’s right. It’s beautiful.
“What’s holding up the line?” Jax then mumbles, tired of being in the cold. Usually, the line feels like a slow pull on the fingernails, but today the herd is at a complete stop!
Never having been one for rhetorical questions, Kip answers the loose-ended query in Kip-like fashion.
“Looks like there’s a new cutie!”
It’s shallow, but Jax can’t help but be intrigued. No one can, as each person in line strains their necks for a better look at who Kip is referring to.
“Who is she?” Jax casually asks.
“Some new PPA chick,” Kip says, shrugging with a smirk. “I saw her before I came over. She has no clue what she’s doing, but she’s a looker!”
Finally, as the line steps forward, Jax is able to snag a peek where he coolly tries to see if Kip knows what he’s talking about. There have been countless instances where Kip’s called out a “cutie” when the she looked more like a he. However, there are the rare finds where Jax has no choice but to agree with Kip. This—this is one of those extraordinary occasions, and with three other men casually glancing up ahead they, along with Jax, all raise their eyebrows.
“Wow,” Jax mumbles. Even with the boring standardized PPA brown, this woman manages to captivate every single man that lays his eyes on her.
“Told ya so!”
With the line continuing to move towards the rusted, creaking mill, the duo continue to get a better sight of the Looker. Ten people away. Nine. And now eight. By the sudden change of pace, it seems like she has gotten used to the registration process. Three people. Two, and finally, after all his giddy anticipation, it’s Kip’s turn for processing.
“Name, Area number and residency identification,” she says without looking away from the screen and with the kind of tone that states she’s not above a swift throat punch.
Despite this, she’s beautiful. The golden waves of hair radiate a glow, but at the same time consume all light into shaded curls. She no doubt is in lean, athletic, killing shape—her frame yielding a slight taper from her shoulders to hips, and the hips don’t lie. Some guys are rather “beautiful” here in Area Thirty-Eight, but you can always tell by the hips whether they’re a female or pretending to be one, and she—she is a woman. Lastly, her supple, tan skin only adds to her mystery. The singular flaw the woman seems to have comes from the uniform she wears.
“Kip Wright. Area Thirty-Eight. Residency ID two-two-one.”
“Thank you. Next.”
But of course, Kip can’t leave it there. “So,” he begins. “Did you know that you’re a looker? THE Looker from what I can tell.”
With the line at a standstill, Jax shakes his head. Did he just give her the name the Looker? He’s slightly embarrassed for Kip, but mostly, scared for the guy’s life. Apparently, he didn’t pick up on the throat-punching tone.
“Please move forward, sir. Next!”
“Sir? Nobody’s ever called me sir before, little beauty.”
Two guards step forward, but casually, she waves away her male counterparts before slowly standing. Moving from behind the computer screen and taking each step with precision, she brings herself within two inches of Kip.
“Sir,” she says, her tone more deliberate. “Move, or I will move your ass myself.”
Just like Kip, she isn’t very tall, but rather, holds her sporting build with stoicism—treating her body as the weapon she’s trained it to be, capable of removing Kip from existence. As they stand eye to eye, Kip enjoys every moment of it, and sensing the pleasure emanating from him, she steps back half an inch. If Kip dares to move forward, closing the minute chasm, she’ll be ready to hit him right where Kip’s brain seems to be at the moment. Sure enough, Kip moves forward as the “Looker” pulls her knife out, aiming it between his legs. Looking down to the blade and then back at her, Kip makes it clear that he’s not going anywhere.
“Ya think that little thing’s gonna stop me? Hate to break it to ya, but—”
He hates to love him, but Jax plows his shoulder into Kip, knocking him out of the way before she turns the guy into a eunuch. Jax, not Kip, is now the one standing within an inch of the Looker, making his groin her knife’s new target. Being a head taller, she lifts her light, gold-brown gorgeous eyes to Jax, revealing a series of tiny scars at the base of her neck. They are perfect cuts—tally marks almost.
After what seems like an eternity, the Looker lowers her weapon, where it rests at her side as she continues to bore her gaze into his.
“Jax M. Rouge. Area Thirty-Eight. Residency ID two-two-zero.”
On account of Kip shaking off the snow and mud, he doesn’t fully realize it yet, but his friend just saved his ass. The Looker, sheathing her knife, turns back to the computer, inputting the newly obtained information.
“Next!”
As Jax moves forward, he straightens up a muddy Kip before smacking the back of his thick skull.
“Ouch!”
“Just shut up,” Jax whispers, continuing their rush out of her vicinity. Glancing back though, Jax can’t help but to hope that she’s watching them leave.
“Y’er strong for being so scrawny,” Kip complains, rubbing feeling back into his ribs. “That or a sack of bones,” he then offhandedly mumbles.
“And you’re an idiot!” Jax says, ignoring the lack of gratitude.
Plopping down next to Kip at their usual table, Jax violently slides Kip’s tray across the table’s surface before slamming his own tray of slop down.
“What’d I do?” Kip demands with a mouthful of gruel, a drip making its descent down and off his bearded chin.
“Don’t be stupid, Kip. You know.”
“Know what?” Kip sputters out.
“The damn law, you fool.”
“Ah.” Kip’s eyebrows rise. “The law. That wee law. Their law.”
“There’s them and then there’s us. There’s no ‘we’ in any of this.”
“There is though.”
Jax looks perplexed as he forces a bite down. “What are you talking about?”
“There is a ‘we,’” Kip smirks. “If you go down a hill in a cart, hold your hands up in the air, and yell…” And he actually yells it, “WEEEEE!”
“You’re a child!” Jax can’t help but laugh as everyone else within the range of the echoing screech falls somewhere on the startlement and annoyance spectrum.
“In all honesty though,” Kip begins, bringing it back down to a normal level. “Did ya see her?”
More closely than you know, Jax thinks. Skin, body, eyes, and all.
“I don’t care what uniform she had on, I just had to talk to her!” Throwing his hands behind his head, Kip replays the magical moment back inside his one-track mind.
“It was still stupid.”
“Whatever. Ya should thank me. I got ya closer to her than ya ever would’ve been, ya chicken shit coward,” Kip says, playfully loading a spoon full of mush before launching it at Jax’s face where it smacks him in the cheek. Wiping away the cardboard porridge, he smirks at Kip’s reasoning.
It was nice to catch her attention…
“Ya know, that’s why I’m here.” Picking up his tray and standing, Kip slugs Jax in the arm where it instantly goes numb, and not leaving it at that, a swift right hook to Jax’s diaphragm knocks the wind out of him. “That’s for shoving me to the ground. See ya after work?”
All Jax can manage is a thumbs up as he feebly attempts to catch his breath from Kip’s sledgehammer blow. After a moment of not knowing whether he’ll die, Jax is able to stand up and dump his own tray before moving over to the gaggle in front of the assignment board. With a prayer in his heart, Jax steps up to find his chore for the day. His cracked, scabby hands can’t handle another day working outside without his gloves, and with his eyes scrolling down the list, he grins.
Processing!
There is a higher power looking out for him after all. In a skip-jog combo, Jax moves towards building four, and as he steps inside, an instant aroma of oak, pine, and redwood fills his nostrils, warming the depths of his soul. No outside today! He’ll take the ear-splitting machinery and the suffocating ventilation if that means his hands stay away from the winter bite.
“Gather around!” a rather jolly, round-faced PPA officer commands. In quick succession, assignments are divvied out and inventory quotas are assigned per Area needs. “Twenty-Five and Thirty-Three are both in need of forty tons of redwood. Areas One, Two, Five and Ten need whatever oak and cedar the Mill has to offer, in both raw and processed forms, and all of last week’s drivers will be reassigned to Area Forty-Eight tonight.” Upon hearing this, Jax can’t help but feel tinged with jealousy. One of the warmest Areas all year round…
Offhandedly, as Jax makes his way over to his station, he notices the surplus of guards both on the ground and on the overhead walkways. A number of new recruits it seems. Explains the Looker—sort of.
For starters, she didn’t have any guards around her like a new private would. They acted more like security detail, and in fact, she waved them away at one point. She must be an officer at the very least, even at the lower level. However, if Jax was to bet, she’s probably higher up on their food chain. She had three gold triangles on her shoulder, each one encompassing a silver star in the middle. Jax heard one time that one triangle is a private, a second means they’re a specialist, and a third is some rank of officer. Every solider he’s seen inside the Mill only has one of those three options. No stars. The Looker does, so, what the hell do the stars mean?
Lastly, the only reason there would be this many officers and soldiers would be due to some sort of incident earlier in the week. Safety protocols or whatever, but the last accident Jax remembers was over two months ago. Kip saw the whole thing. A man was working on one of the bigger saws and got into an argument with a single-triangle PPA private. Kip couldn’t remember what they were talking about, but the private was enjoying the confrontation like some sick game. The worker was older, and like all older guys, patience was wearing thin. After telling the private to shut up so he could get back to work, the young arrogant Petty Prick punched the worker in the stomach before swinging his fist and smacking the old guy under the jaw. The man then fell backwards where the middle of his right hand got sucked into the spinning blade. The PPA private was sent home for the day while the old man was put into detainment with a couple of bandages and some kind of disinfectant. If the roles were reversed, the private would’ve been given a fancy prosthetic hand in less than twenty-four hours, and the old worker would’ve been shot on sight for illegal provocation. Yes, illegal provocation, giving the PPA “legal provocation rights.” But again, that was two months ago, plenty of time for things to settle down and get back to normal.
Jax shrugs it off. Something is going on here, but no way is he about to start asking what. Not here anyway. Kip won’t know, and Jax has his conspiratorial ideas, but that’s nothing new. There are other ways of getting information though. Jax will just have to exercise some patience.
***
Lunch is disgusting. It’s free but barely tolerable. Breakfast doesn’t pretend to be anything but the buttery gruel it is, making this “dessert” just a backhanded compliment. Is it possible the sweet cocoa is a genuine accident? Sure, but the more conceivable explanation is the PPA is mocking everyone with the sugary soil. Donning a fun aura in practically every situation, even Kip feels as if the state sponsored meal is an insult, coining the meal as “chocolate dirt.” Even better was that Kip not only pointed this fact out to the guards on shift one day, but his critique landed him in lockup for two days. Not long after that, Kip was moved to a different shift, and without him, lunch is as unbearable as the chocolate dirt.
Alone at their adopted table, Jax sits as he shovels a spoonful in before gagging. It’s a concentrated batch today, and he should’ve just been patient. It’s better to let the warm, sandy texture cool down—
“Look what we have here. What’s for lunch today, boys? Gravel mush?”
They’re late, but inevitably the lunch guards grace the cafeteria with their domineering presence. Mealtime guards became irrelevant long ago, because seriously, what can anyone do with a plastic spoon? Prison shank someone, maybe, but why would any of the workers attack each other? They all know who to thank for their miserable lives. Now, that doesn’t stop the occasional scuffle, but that’s just venting some frustration that’s easily self-policed, which is the major reason the PPA got rid of the breakfast shift altogether. The lunch shift though… Can’t blame the Mill’s management, but rather, the only rational explanation Jax can muster a reason for is the authoritarian sadism of The Government. It’s not like anyone is starting a revolution with spoons when in every corner are armed PPA.
“Looks delicious,” one guard says before picking up a bowl and pouring it on top of the worker’s head where it drips into his lap. “Smells appetizing too.” He pretends to gag, and like an animal dying, makes an awful throaty gurgle.
Again, everyone knows who the real enemy is.
It’s clockwork as they make their way from table to table doing the hilarious routine of throw-up sounds and poking fatter people’s stomachs while slapping around the more skeletal framed individuals. Bacteria even has ingrained patterns, and like Kip with his shoulder-tapping joke, the PPA’s lunch routines are never funny, but still, they laugh as if they are state sponsored comedians. The difference is that Kip doesn’t laugh at the expense of others.
Muscling down his chocolate dirt before the lunch guards get to his table, Jax quickly cleans up before standing to leave, but of course, he’s stopped. With an extraordinary amount of weight on his shoulders, two massive hands force Jax back down to his seat. He ate fast, but not fast enough, and as he looks over to the door holding his salvation, Jax sees that it’s dammed off by another guard. He isn’t going anywhere—not until everybody has had their turn.
Like a seductive secret, the guard whispers in Jax’s ear, his breath smelling of onions and some unknown rot.
“Going somewhere?” he asks before rounding the table, standing directly in front of Jax. His shoulders are easily twice as broad, he is a head taller, and as his intimidating glare bears down on Jax, annoyance easily replaces the intended fear.
“I was hungry, what can I say?” Jax shrugs. They hate it when people play along with their maniacal games. He knows he’ll regret participating in a moment, but right now Jax could care less. Hell, what’s wrong with occasional fun?
Not used to blunt and sarcastic responses, the beastly man searches his pea-sized brain for a clever retort, but the best the guard comes up with is, “I bet.”
Rolling his eyes, Jax begins to stand, but again is forced back down by the beast’s pals.
“What now?” Jax whines, turning the fun meter up a notch. Kip’s careless demeanor is really beginning to rub off on him. “You want to pour food on my head or something?”
“No,” the guard on his left says.
“We want you to get on your knees and beg,” the guard to his right states.
Weighing his options, Jax determines that if he tries standing again, he’ll get punched in the face. He’s had worse… He could just awkwardly slide off the bench, which would be hilarious, but as an unprecedented maneuver, it stands to reason that their reaction is equally as unpredictable. Fighting is always a riot of a time, but the risk versus reward isn’t worth it today. At a loss, Jax decides to stay seated.
“Beg for what? Mercy? More food?” Jax sighs out.
“Yeah, both of those sound good. Since you love the sandy shit so much, you don’t mind eating more, do you?”
From their quick response, Jax realizes that they were going to say yes to whatever he said. Why the hell didn’t he ask to see if they’d let him kick them in the nuts? Cursing at the wasted opportunity, Jax knows exactly how this will play out. He’ll ask, then they’ll just refuse to give it. Rinse and repeat this process a couple of times, until finally they just dump it on his head.
“Can I have some more food?”
The monster man looks at him and smiles. “You can.”
This—this is unexpected. It doesn’t make much sense until Jax follows the trajectory of the beastly guard’s arm one table down where he motions for the other worker wearing the chocolate dirt to come over.
“Eat it from off his face.”
Sitting down next to Jax, the worker with the chocolate mask refuses to move or acknowledge the situation.
“This is bullshit,” Jax mumbles. Standing up for a third time, he doesn’t get hit in the face like initially predicted, but he does get punched. He receives a solid blow in the middle of his chest from across the table that instantly knocks the wind out of him. Tumbling backwards, the back of Jax’s head smacks the bench behind him before he thuds to the floor. Dazed and trying to refocus, Jax feels warm blood trickle down the back of his neck as he rolls forward. Before he gets too far though, searing, crunching pain in his wrist stops Jax from moving any further, and as he follows the crushing boot all the way up to the same intimidating glare he saw before, the beastly guard’s fist hits Jax in the side of the head.
“Did I tell you to stand up?!” The playful banter in his voice is long gone at this point, and as the guard aims four vicious kicks into Jax’s stomach, he’s lifted off the ground each time.
“No!” And with that final word, the beast tops off the beating by batting Jax’s head to the ground a third and final time. Wiping his bloody fist off on Jax’s coat, the beast and his gang tromp out of the cafeteria.
Breathing is painful but it’s doable, and as Jax slowly gets first to his knees, after a little exertion, he’s able to stand. Out of fear, everyone turns away, and not a single helping hand is offered to Jax.
Everyone knows who the enemy is, but not one of them has the sack to do anything about it.
