THIS STORY IS PART THREE OF A TRILOGY, THE FIRST INSTALLMENT IS CALLED PULSE AND THE SECOND IS HAVEN. THEY ARE MEANT TO BE READ IN THAT ORDER.
"Let them think what they liked, but I didn't mean to drown myself. I meant to swim till I sank - but that's not the same thing."
― Joseph Conrad, The Secret Sharer and other stories
Ivan –
I wish someone would have told me that plants still fucking grow in the Winter. When I had first reached the Northwestern Province in early January, I had assumed that farming would be a safe enough profession, and by "safe," I mean it would afford me the most opportunities to sit around, get drunk, and ask questions.
The fields are buried beneath layers of snow and ice, I had thought, I won't be expected to perform any manual labor until Spring and by then I'll be gone, right?
Wrong.
Moments after introducing myself to the compound's foreman, the squat little man had taken it upon himself to spend the next 45 minutes of my life explaining to me that winter-harvest carrots are the sweetest. As if my existence wasn't already sad enough – having been reduced to a pathetic stream of days held together by self-loathing and liquor - now I could add the growth cycle of fucking carrots to the list of things I wish I could forget.
There is so much I wish I could forget.
But even as I wrap numb fingers, the tips of which are warped with frostbite and soil, around the stem of one of those wretched orange vegetables, I know if given the chance to go back – there isn't much I could have done differently. No matter how many times I replay the events that led to this moment over in my head, I ultimately end up here: in a backwater compound harvesting carrots alongside the Pulse's ravaged survivors, wondering where my next meal, and more importantly – my next drink, is going to come from.
"Ivan," one of the men in the fields calls to me. He trudges through piles of dirt and snow, wiping mud on his already filthy clothing.
It takes me a few moments to realize that he's talking to me. I rise slowly to my feet, careful to keep my eyes averted. My entire body aches with the effort. One hand rakes through my cropped hair, and the feeling of the dirty matted strands between my fingers sends a pang of regret surging through me.
It's just hair, I think, chastising myself for caring about something as inconsequential as my hair. Especially when I consider what the rest of me probably looks like.
I can't remember the man's name, and so I settle for grunting in his general direction.
"Me and some of the boys are heading back to Rolan's to play cards," he says, kicking absentmindedly at one of the baskets I had filled only half-way with vegetation. "You in?"
I squint at the man out of the corner of my right eye, trying to remember if he had been the one to punch out my left – it's been swollen shut for three days now but the exact details of how that happened are a little fuzzy.
The words come slow to my lips. "What kind of buy-in are we talkin?" I ask, keeping my voice low, trying to force as much gravel into it as I can manage.
The man shrugs. "Just bring whatever you got."
Not what I had wanted to hear, whatever you got translates easily into this is a low-stakes pot. The lower the stakes, the lower the players are situated and the less likely it is that I will get my hands on the information I came here to find.
I turn from the man, lowering my aching body into a crouch. "Maybe some other time," I tell him, reaching to pluck another demon vegetable from a row of dirty slush.
The man, unable to take a hint, remains where he is. His beefy bald head blocks what little warmth and light the winter sun has to offer and I grit my teeth, fighting the urge to yell at him to move his fat ass before I move it for him.
Hands to yourself, I remind myself. I'd done enough fighting to last a lifetime – probably three lifetimes. This man isn't worth my time.
"You sure?" he asks. The step he takes toward me dredges up some of the surrounding snow, and the flecks of ice kick up into my face, "I think Rolan kinda likes havin' you around. I think," he says, lowering himself onto his haunches beside me. "He would be pretty disappointed if you didn't show."
This close, the man smells like a mixture of rotting eggs and stale whiskey, but his meaning is clear.
Rolan fancies himself a kind of provincial kingpin. He's somehow managed to get in good with the warehouse workers and the Resource Distribution supervisors, now he hoards the resources – distributing them to the provincial citizens as he sees fit.
But I'm not interested in extra rations or first aid-kits, I'm interested in the kinds of connections a man in Rolan's position must have had to make in order to survive this long.
I toss the carrot into the basket, still careful to avoid direct eye contact with the man. "What's Rolan want with me?" I ask, trying to feign ignorance, but I can actually think of a number of reasons he might be interested in me. At best, he finds my drunken antics entertaining, or appreciates that my gambling methods usually lead me to losing hard and losing big. At worst, I unknowingly insulted him or someone close to him during one of my spirit-fueled fits of rage.
The man's face splits into a yellow-toothed grin and it sets the meager contents of my stomach churning. "Don't you remember?" he asks, a sort of edged playfulness cutting through his words. "You and Rolan cut a deal the last time you were at his unit. You were talkin' an awfully big game about your past dealings with those belted NAAMA sons of bitches."
Bile rises in my throat. I don't recall cutting any kind of deal that involved my past with the NAAMA military, but even though the thought of dredging up those memories sends a mixture of disgust and regret snaking along my bones, I'm unsurprised that the intoxicated version of myself would use it as a bartering chip.
"I believe Rolan would like to pick up that particular discussion where the two of you left off, and it would be unwise to refuse such an invitation" the man continues. "On account of how mutually beneficial the arrangement could be."
"Mutually beneficial," I repeat skeptically, rising to my feet. I fleetingly wonder if the benefit Rolan has in mind involves me winding up in a ditch. I'm almost partial to the idea.
The man straightens, rising to his full height beside me. He probably means to intimidate me, he is about 7 inches taller than me after all, but he doesn't know that I've spent most of my life training to take down men larger than myself.
His posture is sloppy and he seems to favor his right side. All it would take is a hit to the left kneecap, a combination hit to the lower back, and a knee to the nose, I think to myself.
But I don't follow through; he's not worth the pain it would cause me to move the way I once had.
I heave a defeated sigh. "I don't suppose you recall what kind of favor Rolan meant to do me in return." Because I most certainly did not. Maybe I had asked the right questions, but more likely I had told him that his housing unit smelled like a goat's ass.
The sound of the man's laughter is grating, the kind of deep cackle that would probably make plants curl in on themselves if they weren't already half-frozen. "You're a funny man, Ivan. Stupid as they come and a shit gambler, but still funny." He pauses to wipe a tear from his eye, but his expression shifts from amusement to confusion upon realizing I genuinely don't remember what he's talking about. "Your friend," he says, "The one you're looking for. Rolan thinks he may know where to find him."
I shrug and offer the man a rueful smirk. "Doesn't ring a bell," I tell him, even though my heart is actually exploding in my chest. "Guess I should lay off the booze."
The man's dark eyes narrow in suspicion. "On the contrary, I think a hot drink is just the thing to help you remember."
A sound splits the air, and I nearly leap out my skin at the disturbance. It's just the bell calling back the field hands, I remind myself. But the sound feels more like a machine gun than the toll of a bell. Memories float on the surface of my mind, sending ripples through my consciousness.
It feels like drowning.
Despite being well aware that a drink is the last thing I need, my hands still twitch at my sides at the thought. "Lead the way then," I say, gesturing toward the stone walls of the compound.
This is my fifth compound in two months. Five compounds, five false identities, zero answers. I wish I could say the drinking helps me cope – with the failure, with the loss, with the past, but it doesn't. The only thing its good for is forgetting.
My escort leads me past rows of vegetables and toward the compound. We're soon joined by the other field-hands and we all walk as one giant dirty blob of irritable men. I hear the murmuring of plans – plans to see their family, plans to get some sleep, plans to thaw out frozen limbs and hearts. None of the men talk about anything of consequence though. They are all slaves to a country that would sooner slaughter them all than risk them coming together, and yet the only plans they make are to go home and get warm.
I am constantly reminding myself that they don't know any better. They don't know that there is more to life than this. After all, we live in a world where knowledge is not power – it's a death sentence.
When we pass through the open gates of the compound, I'm careful to keep my head down. Out of the corner of my good eye I spot two armed men, but they don't wear the khaki-colored jumpsuits of the provincial guard.
They're both NAAMA military – one green, one silver.
Both of them seem uninterested in the group of dirty, tired men, but I know better than to assume they aren't paying attention.
It feels like every branch of the NAAMA military has permeated the walls of even the most remote compounds. But their belts don't scare me, not any more. It makes me think that the Executor is scared; it makes me think that maybe the combatives are stretched too thinly to be effective; it almost makes me hopeful.
But I didn't come here to help start a revolution. I came here to find answers, and Rolan's veiled assurances that he may have found my friend is the only thing I have to go on.
From the outside, Rolan's housing unit looks like every other unit in NAAMA – square, gray, slightly dilapidated, but the inside is probably violating a few industry standards. The scuffed wooden floors and only slightly peeling wallpaper are probably considered by most NAAMA citizens to be luxurious details, but the real luxury is the lighting. Rolan has access to electricity almost 24/7, something that shouldn't be possible.
Rolan Kislyak is probably considered attractive by most, but only because they don't know him. His green eyes twinkle with mischief and cruelty, but I'm still convinced he's not half so cunning as he would like those beneath him to believe. Still, whatever the reason, the people of NAAMA are drawn to him, from citizens, to washed up provincial guards, to the newest military recruits.
I sit across a heavy wooden table from Rolan, with one hand clutched around playing cards and the other around a mug of what I think could be mulled wine. He has yet to mention anything about the supposed deal we had struck the last time I'd been sitting at this table. Probably because he's too busy sucking up to the retired provincial guard captain to his left.
The captain is far too young to be retired, but he's also probably too drunk to care that he'd been pushed out of his cushiony position by some trigger-happy, recently graduated, NAAMA military officer.
The captain laughs at something one of the other men seated at the table says, I glance at my companions, trying to place their names and their faces but my vision is blurred by the alcohol or my injuries or by both. I try to focus on the cards in my hands and the world around me tilts slightly.
My good eye fixes on the tiny red heart on the card, but holding the image in my mind is like trying to hold water in the palm of my hand. The longer I stare, the less real everything feels. The colors on the card look like their bleeding together and I giggle to myself – a bleeding heart.
Someone had once told me that my own heart beat outside my chest, only it went by another name. I close my good eye and the giggle turns into a hiccup that turns into a low sob. No one seems to notice.
I silently curse myself for agreeing to the first drink.
And then a second.
And a third.
It's possible that a fourth one was involved.
"How much longer do you think you'll be able to hold onto this place, Rolan?" one of the men seated at the table asks. He glances at his cards, folds, and then takes a long sip from his mug.
Rolan doesn't answer right away, his eyes sweep across his cards and then he drops a handful of chips onto the center of the table. "Why should I be concerned?" He says, finally looking up to offer us all a challenging grin.
"The Executor is shifting the population around," the man says, eyeing the pot longingly. "It won't be long before our compound is just as overcrowded as the ones in the southern provinces."
Rolan shrugs. "I don't think it will be a problem, she only means to convert some of the less productive compounds to facilities that are more…accommodating of the rehabilitation initiative. That will take care of the overcrowding problems, as well as help put some of our more troubled citizens back on their feet."
The men murmur their agreement, but I have to fight the urge to be sick. If the Executor really is shifting the population around, my job is about to get much harder. I do my best to file this piece of information away, hoping it might make tonight's visit to Rolan's worth the hangover.
"That's not what I've heard," the captain counters, adding some of his chips to the pot. "Some of the compounds are revolting, why bother rehabilitating them when she can drop a couple explosives and be done with it?"
I fold, then drain my mug. Maybe the person that I used to be would have faced these horror head on, would have fought back, would have told this man that he was wrong. But the person I am now can hardly face a mirror, let alone the terrible truths that lurk behind every corner of my existence.
"Is that her plan?" Rolan asks, doing a half-assed job of concealing his eagerness.
The captain seems pleased to have Rolan so interested in what he has to say. "Oh, she's got a plan alright. She's got to stamp out that little rebellion in the south pretty quickly if she wants to hold this country together."
"Naturally," Rolan agrees. "What are your thoughts, Ivan?"
It takes far too long for me to register that Rolan is talking to me. "The captain is right," I say, my words slurred. "The threat in the south is growing fast."
"Have you spent much time there?" he asks.
I shake my head, and the room spins. "Never been past the Mason-Dixon."
Rolan laughs. "You must get out more my friend."
I nod, worried that trying to form words might be beyond my ability at this point.
"Ivan," someone else calls, but the sound is muffled, as if we were both under water. "Ivan."
"That's not my name," I murmur, but I'm not sure if anyone understands me.
I can feel myself slipping away, and I welcome it. It's the only way I can find peace, the only way I can keep the pain at bay. I know he would hate what I've done to myself, but it's too hard to do anything else, to be anyone else. It helps, in a twisted way, that he probably wouldn't recognize me now. The girl he used to love is gone, though sometimes I feel like she haunts me.
I supposed it doesn't really matter anymore.
I stopped being Rose Hathaway the moment they took him away.
Hey everyone! I'm super excited to get started on Awake. It's the last installment of the series, and probably the darkest? (There's possibly a happy ending if you stick around though).
I would LOVE to hear your predictions and thoughts, or maybe even something you'd like to read in a later update. Believe it or not, some of your reviews have strongly influenced this story, you guys are far more brilliant than I could ever be.
I hope you all have enjoyed reading this series as much as I've enjoyed sharing it with you!