The Seed

Chunk was popping off in my ear about the rain, his voice heavy like he just ran a block. I paid him no mind. My shades were on, and I was working.

I glanced around. Nobody in aisle forty-two of the local Food-Mart. Time to act. I slid my backpack off my shoulder, ripped it open, and reached for a Lunch-Pak on the shelf.

Chicken or pork?

“Oink, oink, B.” Chunk’s voice rang through my earbud—other problems.

The security guard was standing to my right, apparently shocked to have caught a sixteen-year-old girl in the act of stealing.

“Chicken or pork?” I asked him, unable to hold back a smile.

I bolted, shoving whatever Pak I was holding into my backpack and swinging it on my shoulders. The grunt was hoofin’ it behind me, his cheap Shoe-Mart boots slapping the ground, giving himself away. He was young, but slow and out of shape. I was younger, and this wasn’t my first rodeo.

“Sorry, B.”

“Not now,” I spat, jumping between carts and ducking around shoppers packed in the aisles as I wound my way to the front of the store. I could hear the shouts behind me as the security guard bumped into them. Crashes echoed as carts slammed into shelves, knocking foodstuffs onto the ground.

I had to give it to him; he was persistent.

I leaped over some fallen baskets and flew out the front door like a runner at the finish line, breaking the tape. Winner, winner, chicken dinner.

The rain pelted me in the face, a nice wakeup call. “Unplug. Let’s go,” I screamed as I sliced my way through the traffic in front of the Food-Mart and into the parking lot.

I could hear Chunk whooping with victory and taking labored breaths in the lane next to me, his cyberdeck in his meaty hands, interface cable flailing behind.

I joined him, and we howled like dogs in the rain as we swam through the lanes to victory.

“What’s a pork, anyway?” Chunk asked.

I shoved a stack in my mouth, shaking my head, “Doofus.”

“Oh, like you know,” he said, inspecting the pork round.

Chunk and I sat below a mangled tarp on the sidewalk across from the Food-Mart, people buzzing back and forth around us through the rain, paying no heed. We were enjoying the fruits of our labor. Divided in half, we had five stacks of a single cracker, pork round, and cheese square each. Fine dining.

“It’s a meat,” I said, picking the crumbs from the concrete and licking them from my fingers.

“Right,” he said, inhaling a stack, “but what is meat? Where does it come from?”

“The factory,” I said matter-of-factly. “They made it.’

“But how did they come up with it?”

I shook my head and jumped to my feet. Chunk knew how to rile me up. “How did they create concrete, or metal, or plastic?”

Chunk thought about it as he made another two stacks disappear, “Science is weird.”

I finished off my stacks and licked my fingers clean as I thought back to my Food-Mart dilemma: chicken or pork? I had both before. They honestly didn’t taste much different. They didn’t taste like much at all. It was just processed and synthesized, mixed into a paste, formed into discs, and preserved with chemicals. But I’d be damned if they didn’t hit the spot.

When hungry enough, anything hits the spot.

“Be happy it ain’t bug-meat,” I stuck my tongue out. Chunk gave the thumbs down.

He finished his stacks. A sickly rainbow formed across the sky as the rain died down. I liked the rain. It was the only thing that forced the smog away. You could breathe easier, see further, and the smells… everything smelled cleaner. Fresher. It only rained in spurts, but I think if it ever rained for a whole day, all the smog might clear away, and we’d see the stars again, just like they wrote in the online docs.

“Whatcha starin’ at?” Chunk was standing over my shoulder.

“Nothing,” I said, lying. I was staring at the Food-Mart. “I was just thinking ‘bout how flippin’ expensive it is to buy anything,” I grab the Lunch-Pak wrappers, “even this crud.”

“Yeah,” Chunk shrugged. “What can you do?”

I shrugged. What could you do? “Politicians, bought and paid for. Corporations controlling everything.” My mind was wandering. A holo-vert started playing on the windows of the building next to us. It was an ad about the corporation that owned the building—they overheard me talking.

They controlled the media.

They controlled the brick-and-mortar.

They controlled the dollar.

They controlled us.

“I’m still hungry,” Chunk coughed, taking another hit from his vape.

I poked him in the belly, “Uh-huh.”

We both giggled. He lay down under the tarp and stared through a hole at the smog. He was only a bit overweight, but that was enough for the boys in our grade to dig in. They didn’t care to see that under that mop of brown hair and pudge, he was a freaking genius. A hacker-elite. I saw it.

“We can’t get by on cheese and crackers,” I said, staring at the Food-Mart through the city lights. The natural light was fading, giving way to the harsh LED lights. “We need a bigger score.”

“Like what, B?” Chunk looked confused, “Kleppin’ more from the store?”

“Nah,” I said. “Something bigger.”

Chunk was really thinking, “The warehouses where they store the food?”

I shook my head.

“Uhhh… the factories?”

I knelt next to Chunk and cleared his hair from his red eyes. “Keep following the trail.”

It was clear that Chunk couldn’t follow much at this point.

I clarified, “The stores get their packaged food from the warehouses, the warehouses get those packages from the factories after they’re all made, but where do the factories get what they need actually to make the food?”

Chunk stared off like I said something truly profound. Chunk knew how to lift my spirits. “I don’t know. Tell me, B.”

“You ever hear of a farm?” I asked. He didn’t reply.

I stared at him lying on the ground, a puddle within a puddle. “You trust me?”

He was doing some hard math. “Trust,” he said, putting up his pinkie.

“Trust.” I locked my pinkie in his.

When morning came, we hopped on the first bus in a slew of transfers that would eventually get us to the end of the line. We were about two transfers in when we realized this bus line was property of the Purple Rain, a gang who took their name from the old Prince album, and dressed accordingly.

They proclaimed, in their purple formal attire, that everyone riding had to pay up or get off. They didn’t give names, but I supplied nicknames for fun. The lanky dark-skinned girl with long braid was Whip; the short Puerto Rican with the thick, spiked bracelets was Cuff; and their leader with the purple saw-blade mohawk was Cupcake. A high-pitched voice slipped from his lips—the name fit.

Cupcake was mainly doing the talking for the group, using his size to put fear into people and letting Whip and Cuff back him up, collect the fare. It didn’t take him long to push through the throng of people in front of the bus. Most sit near the doors so they can make a quick getaway in instances like this, but we were stupid and sat in the back. He took notice and snapped his friends on us like dogs, their look ravenous.

“What we have here?” Cupcake forced his bad English on us as he strutted down the aisle, his cronies climbing the seats on either side.

I locked eyes with Chunk as I rose from my seat, my UniBoard underfoot. With my back to the gangers, I winked at Chunk, showing him the controller in my hand. He understood and grasped the seat as the bus came to a stop at a red light. I clamped down on the controller, and my Board whirred to life. Its single wheel squealed on the rubber floor before shooting down the lane and finding itself underneath Cupcake’s foot at precisely the right moment. His feet went in the air as his face found the floor.

His cronies howled—Whip in shock while Cuff laughed—while Chunk and I ran by. I snatched my Board as we forced the door and jumped outside.

“Hey, this isn’t a stop,” the driver yelled at us as we hoofed it in the street towards the next stop in the line.

The P. Rain spat in our dust.

We made it through the remaining transfers, and by evening, were staring down the ‘burbs stretching off into the distance. The light was hanging low through the thin smog. It was easier to breathe here, we noticed.

I hopped on my Board as Chunk finished strapping on his Hyper Skates. We were both at about a ninety-percent charge. Good, because we didn’t have any cash to re-up our power limits this month.

Chunk was eager to move. He heard about the “Karens”. Like vultures on carrion, they would circle and attack any outsiders with horrific death cries and threats. His fears weren’t unfounded.

Within the first five minutes, we encountered our first opposition as She came out.

She was dressed in her full mother getup, complete with a small dog in one hand and a phone in the other. Her curled bob bounced as she stomped down the street. Her mutt was yapping almost as much as she was.

“No, no, no, no, no.” She was fearless as she approached us.

Chunk and I just looked at each other, me with excitement, Chunk with fear.

“If you think you can just come into our neighborhood on those things,” she pointed at my Board and Chunk’s Skates, “you have another thing coming.”

“What?” I laughed.

“This isn’t a laughing matter, young lady.” She looked furious, “Who’s your mother?”

“None of your—”

“I am either calling her to come pick you up, or I am calling the police.” She was puffing herself up, like she was gaining power.

“Good luck,” I said, “my mom doesn’t even own a car.”

“What a sad world we live in.” She was shaking her head, “It’s people like her that are causing our youth to fail in life.”

I took a step back off my Board. I couldn’t believe this woman, who had never met me until today, was criticizing not only me, but my mother as well. “Excuse me?”

“Let’s go, B,” Chunk said, already many feet ahead of me. He had slowed down, but never stopped.

“It’s people like my mother who give me the strength to tell people like you to pound sand, you snaggle-toothed, dog-faced, bit—”

The blaring siren of a Police Drone echoed through the ‘burbs as a smile spread across her face.

“B,” Chunk yelled.

I stared her down as I hopped on my Board and took off down the well-paved streets.

“Keep going. We’ll lose it,” I yelled as the wind whipped past us, not certain that it was going to be possible given the terrain. We zigged and zagged through the streets, but there was no relief. They were open streets with cookie-cutter houses, row after row. They went on forever. There was no place to hide, but we were making progress towards the outer limits.

“STOP,” the drone chimed in its artificial voice. “IDENTIFY YOURSELF.”

“How long can those things stay in the air?” I asked.

“A simple Police Drone like that? About an hour, full charge.” Chunk was so good at the tech stuff.

It had about another thirty minutes of charge, if it was fully charged to begin with. “At that point, we’d need to worry about a cruiser, though.” As Chunk belted the last word, a police cruiser sped around the corner, its lights flipped on. He called it.

The drone sailed down and locked into a recessed port on the cruiser’s roof so it could recharge. “Stop and identify yourself,” the voice of the pig inside squealed. I gave him the bird, but he didn’t seem to appreciate it. He flicked his siren on and sped up.

I pointed up ahead—a park. “We can lose him in there,” I yelled, our wheels whining underneath us.

We jumped the curb into the grass and kept riding. “B. Grass,” Chunk screamed. I felt his excitement as its scent filled my nostrils. Real grass.

The cruiser cut left following the street. I watched it as it sped ahead, trying to trap us. As soon as it was behind a row of houses, I veered us left. We slipped onto the street behind the cruiser and moved a block over so he wouldn’t be able to spot us.

“Good thinking, B,” Chunk said, still staring at the grass. A wad of it was in his hands.

We rode the street at full speed to the outer limits.

We rode for a couple more hours. Our rides warned us that our batteries were low, but our eyes were on the sky ahead as the sun’s orange haze, more visible than ever, set on the horizon. The gorgeous oranges and reds gave us a final send-off as it dipped below. Our mouths were agape, full of bugs.

Then the houses ended.

We rode out of an arch over the road, and there were no more buildings—only the country. We screeched to a halt, taking it all in. Grasses and flowers and trees, glorious trees we’ve only read about in books or seen in holos, thrived here. Everything was so green and so much fresher. I took a deep breath of clean air and glanced at Chunk. He was looking up, and a tear was rolling down his cheek.

I looked up to see stars.

We stood there in the failing light, staring up as the stars became more visible. They radiated in the darkness, pulsating to the rhythm of the universe. We had to make ourselves move, and even then, we couldn’t keep our eyes down as we rolled towards the farm.

“So, they just have food sitting out here?” he asked, after a while.

“I guess,” I said. “We’re about to find out.”

We came upon a gravel road leading off through a cluster of trees.

“This is it.”

We veered off, hearing the crunch of rocks under our wheels echoing in the dark. We were getting lost in the peace when the bulky forms of buildings started to appear through the trees.

“Hold on,” Chunk whispered, taking a knee. He dug in his bag, pulling out a small drone fixed with a camera.

“Where did you get that?”

“You do your work, and I do mine.” The smugness on his face was cute, but frustrating. “I figure we can recon the site before we just go in.

I gave my approval.

With a quiet whir, the drone took off high in the sky. Chunk flipped a switch on the remote, and the small screen blipped as the dark picture shifted to night-vision green. I leaned in close as we stared at our surroundings.

Multiple buildings came into view: a house, a large building with an angled roof, and some cylindrical buildings with conical tops. “Those’re it,” I said, pointing.

“The food’s in there?”

“Has to be,” I replied. It matched descriptions on the ArchiveWeb, where the old internet went to die. Besides, it looked the most like a fridge.

After Chunk swapped into his shoes, we snuck on. There wasn’t anybody around, but that didn’t mean they weren’t here. Sleeping, maybe. Watching, possibly.

We made our way to the large bins. They were made of rusty metal. I touched the outside, but they weren’t cold. I guess my fridge wasn’t cold on the outside either, I thought. There was a rusty door on the side that wouldn’t budge.

“You see if you can get this open, I’m going to check up top.” Chunk nodded as I climbed the rickety ladder on the side of the cylinder.

At the top, I felt around for any opening, and to my surprise, I found one. A latch. I pulled it, and a lid popped off, revealing more darkness and a dusty, dry stench. Pulling out my phone, I turned on the flashlight and leaned in, losing my grip and falling into the darkness.

“B,” I heard Chunk’s muffled voice, then the creak of the ladder. “B,” he said, peeking his head over the edge, “Are you okay?”

I was on my knees. My light shone at the surface of what I had landed on—small, light brown pebbles. “I was wrong,” I whispered.

Chunk helped me back to the roof. “What is it, B?”

“I don’t know. Not food.”

“It is food.” A warm voice spoke from the ground. We wheeled around. An older man stood with a shotgun slung over his shoulder and a dog at his side.

“We’re sorry, mister. We meant nothing by coming out here—” Chunk groveled.

He was laughing, “It’s alright. I get so few visitors out here these days,” he paused, “come down here.”

We did. “What did you mean when you said this is food?” I asked.

“It’s wheat,” he said.

We stared blankly.

“I grow this in the ground, harvest it, then mill it into flour. It makes bread, pasta, and other food.”

We continued to stare back.

“They probably don’t teach you about this stuff anymore. Damned corporations give you everything. Why would you…,” he paused, staring, “how about, instead of telling you, I show you?”

“You know how?” Of course, he knew how. Look at this place.

“I’m probably one of the last, but that could change with you,” he said.

The sun rose over the horizon, casting its warmth over everything. I pulled out my shades. Time for work.