Survival by Daniel Powell

 
    survival
     
    The man and his son braced
themselves against the cold, huddled there on the park bench, their breath
punctuated by little blasts of steam. The boy made fists tight as frozen
potatoes, clenching and unclenching his hands as his father drilled the words
into him.
    “Ok, you’ve made it this far,
Son. You remember that when things get hairy in there. I don’t have to tell you
how many folks never even make it to Labor, do I? But your old man made it, and
you will too. I’m sure of it. Ok, kid, what’s the first rule?”
    “Look for cover.”
    “Damn straight. You kill time
that way. Killing time is the name of this here game. Rule two?”
    “Cover ground by night.”
    “Good. That’s right, Son. You
wait for dusk and get a lead on those bastards. Don’t let ‘em lull you into
complacency. It’s an old trick. When the sun goes down, you get moving.
Rule three?”
    The boy looked into his father’s
eyes, a pair of ruddy brown pools, the whites streaked though with crimson
veins. Sleep had been fleeting for all of them in the weeks since the baby’s
due date fell into testing range. He swallowed hard.
    “A kill is as good as a victory,”
he replied, the words barely above a whisper.
    His father nodded. He stared at
his son, tears welling in his eyes. He reached across the bench and pulled him
into an embrace, the young man’s thin shoulder blades sharp as pottery shards
beneath his windbreaker. “I know it’s tough, Bryan. God, but I know it, Son.
But you do what you have to do, you understand? They’ll kill you in
there. You do what you have to do to ensure your survival ,” he said.
    The boy flinched. His father had
called him by his given name—a rarity indeed. The sudden intimacy kicked his
pulse up another notch. Jesus, this was happening.
    “You ready?” the old man said.
    The boy’s name was Bryan Norton.
He was tall and thin, still awkward in his youth, with cords of muscle and
quick, nervous blue eyes. If he survived the world on the other side of the
iron wall, he would emerge from the test a man.
    And he would be a father.
    “I think so, Pop. Tell Mom that I
love her. Tell her I’d like some of her lasagna tomorrow night for supper.” He
choked on a sob. “And tell Maggie that I’ll be there, Dad. Tell her...tell her
that I promise,” his voice cracked, “that I’ll be there.”
    A tear tracked down the old man’s
face as he regarded his only son. He opened his mouth but his words were
swallowed by the din of the air-raid siren. Labor had officially begun. All
around them, men in blue jeans, long-sleeved thermal tops and white wind breakers
began to walk toward the processing stations, their left hands extended for
fingerprint verification.
    Grief reigned on the periphery of
the processing area. Parents and siblings wailed as they watched their loved
ones disappear into the stalls where they would be processed before entering
the Labor field.
    In Portland, the survival rate
for men entering Labor hovered around 60%, far better than in many places. A
general belief held that America’s western cities had kinder bulls—that places
like Seattle, Portland and San Francisco were easier to survive than the Labor
fields in Pittsburgh or Detroit.
    Bryan spared a single glance over
his shoulder at his father, his old man a haggard shadow of his usual
gregarious self. He waved and stepped into line. There were maybe a few hundred
of them, awaiting entry to a world of blood and violence.
    The chutes were staffed by armed
bulls—junior cadets who would one day graduate from Processing to Equality
Enhancement and Population Control. Bryan shuffled forward, watching the bulls
fingerprint the nervous men. Hand-picked by the Authority, most weren’t much
older than him. He wondered what would have happened if he’d been tagged for
service, all those years before.
    Would he have had the stomach to
work for the Authority?
    “Better not to think of it,” a
man said in the next