Dropping: Ch. 1 (2,500 words)

Seems easy enough, to think about. Dropping something. Granted, most people don't pick something up in order to purposefully drop it, and most certainly not bombs.

Yes, bombs. Traps, glitter, mustard gas, really anything you had on hand. Most often than not though, bombs and explosives.

Currently, I'm leaning out of a busted up Chevy Impala- good, solid steel, survived the initial attack of high grade nuclear warheads and has held up quite well in most situations like this. Dents, chips, and little holes polka-dotted the surface where shrapnel has hit the fading paint. Some plumes of glitter still stuck to the sides and brake lights. 

Before the government hit the self-destruct button and launched the first attack, my sister and myself had been a part of a family of six. She was an aspiring artist, and I was making plans for college to become a high school physics teacher. Not the most idealistic, but more tangible and much better paying than my previous ability to flick cards with incredible accuracy.

Tensions had rose in America- not that they hadn't been high before, but this kind of hatred couldn't have been better fueled and put into motion than by a suicide bombing in Washington, at the President's speech over the tragedies of 9/11. How ironic. 

After that, the next step was some serious lock down on how this once great country was run. Taxes more than doubled, the rich became middle class, middle class became poor, and the poor became murderous. Laws that we couldn't fathom were swung into place. The internet? Government regulated. Shops, stores, private businesses, it was all watched over, and Congress took more than their fair share out of each sale. Families were regulated, forcing each couple to a limit of two children, or depending on genetics, none at all. Trackers were mandated. Profiling became the social norm, as everyone was required to carry a card stating who and what they were.

Obviously, this didn't sit well with most people, aside from the richest who were able to evade this totalitarianism system that was starting to form. To make matters worse, the gun laws had been so strictly regulated once the peaceful protests from school shooting victims started to rally, that we couldn't fight back what was  to come.

So the next step was to bomb each set square area. With nukes.

It didn't take long for most areas to die off. Florida couldn't survive, neither could the southern marshes. There was talk of some massive parts of the most northern states being left unscathed because of the mountains. It would be hard to retrieve the bodies, was the concern of the heads of government. With the depletion of people, and once the radioactive poisoning of the environment settled down,there would be more resources. Better living room, only for the best of the best. According to the heads of state, the only way to get rid of the poor was to just wipe them out. So they tried.

It takes more than a few nukes to kill the people off though, and so we've resorted to our own ways of retaliating. A rebellion rose out of some halfhearted attempts and exploded across the dead, wasteland of a nation. How? All because some kid realized that the strategic timing of a pipe bomb could coincide perfectly with the average timing of a military vehicle going full force down a highway, and put that plan into attack.

He nearly filleted his face open on dead highway ground so that he could drop a bomb for the rag-tag squad put together by the remaining government forces.

Now the other half of that story is, after pulling the kid back into the car, the door unlatched and flung off. Thinking that was an invitation, the kid's dad actually made an attempt to drop another bomb, the same way his kid had. Didn't stop to think that the momentum of leaning a 150 pound grown man out the side of a Hummer would be more than enough to throw it off balance.

Up in a column of fiery flames the car went. That fire spread, as all fire does, and soon we became masters at Dropping, using different vehicles for different dropping purposes. Some could specialize in traps, some bombs, others tracking devices.

Oh, and by we, I mean anyone with the upper body strength to hold 50 pounds, who was under the age of 18.

Again, kids were the future. Young, brave (if not stupid), quick, and light enough to do the kind of movements that most would consider dangerous at 90 miles per hour down a road.

Exactly the kind of work I was doing now, my sister in he back seat of the Impala, with some kid I didn't bother introducing myself to. She must've been new to the area. The doors had been previously whacked off, stainless steel rings screwed into the roof so as to thread thick chain through. The chain that would hold us up as we leaned out of the car and placed bombs in exact places, thereby effectively detonating on impact with the military vehicles we were currently leading in a chase. They wanted us dead, we wanted them dead. Really, it was a Tom and Jerry.

Pausing to grip the roof of the car as we sped up down the long stretch of highway in the baking Texas heat, I glanced back at the road and thought about how we got here.

-

The morning had been thick with dew, the perfect kind to get my asthma up in a rage. Clearing my throat, I wheezed as I pulled my grey t-shirt over my head, sweat already making my skin sticky. Across the thick slab of concrete we were camping on, under the half-burnt roof of a collapsed gas station cover, Abigail was tugging her short waves up into a ponytail, straightening the strands with her fingers. We had shared a breakfast of pickles out of a Mason jar. Not the greatest for those road rumblies, but food was food. 

The blankets we had covered ourselves in were thin, thankfully, as the burning 90 degree weather had dropped only by ten degrees that night. Shoving the blankets into our packs, we strode out to the deserted, cracked road and waited.

Its sun-bleached surface was starting to burn through our boots by the time the thick growl of the Impala broke over the loud whine of cicadas and the scream of grackles that occasionally flew past, beady eyes searching for grub. Clear skies promised a nice, raging hot day, with a white-hot sun beating down on our necks.

"I heard the kid we were Dropping with has dreads," Abby commented, hazel eyes narrowing as she looked up at the sky. I was short for my age, topping out at just over five foot. I had never been above 90 pounds in my life, and that being said, I assumed I would be a Dropper far past the usual age of 18, when most kids filled out and grew too heavy for the high-speed monkey game.

Abigail, on the other hand, would probably be a born driver. Although 11, she was already as tall as me and weighed in at 95 pounds. Thin, but about as dense as a dying star. I recalled with some embarrassment at the time she had been knocked out, and my scrawny self had to drag her a few miles to get back to our sleeping place to patch her up. I couldn't.

The beaten up car stopped in front of us as I ran my fingers through my hair. Cut close to my head on the sides and left long on top, it could take one several different colors depending on the light. The light thin strands that were far past wind-blown and curled with the drenching heat proved weight-free and nice for the Texas sun.

"Micky Dee, what's up," I peered under the roof as the car stopped, voice cool. It was faded with the dust and sun that it had endured while out on the streets. My steel blue eyes soaked in the interior quickly. Good, sturdy rings held in place the durable chains we would use to hold our bodies literal inches from the whipping pavement. There was a massive cooler crammed into the back, where a small kid, no older than 12, sat. Her knees were drawn up to her chest in order to avoid the cooler, thick boots overlapped with dull duct tape and faded grey jeans was really all I could see of her. Besides the dreads.

"Cool!" Abby had breathed out, swinging herself into the back seat from the gaping hole in the side of the car and immediately going to town, chatting with the girl that would be joining us. Vaguely, I caught her name from her soft, quiet lips. "Grenada."

"You feeling to take Top today?' Micky squinted a bit, leaning forward to see me. I ducked down and slid into the seat beside her, using my fingers to push my hair back and take a breath, nodding. Hot leather under me burned up my thighs and made me shift regularly to readjust as I stared out the dusty windshield.

"Yeah, I'll take Top. What road?" I asked before pausing and adding, "And please, I'm so not throwing half-melted crayons off the back of the car again, I couldn't stop laughing last time and got some in my mouth. It wasn't exactly gourmet," I gave a small grin, freckles crinkling softly.

"288, and just the pipe bombs this time," Micky smirked at the memory, lips curling a bit as she did so, "We're going to light up a couple of intersections this time, we have a few jumpers set up if things go wrong, you see, we figured the lights would be a perfect place to toss some bombs from. There's a few bridges and overpasses though so we have to be really careful. If we aren't the whole thing could collapse- no bueno," the caramel-skinned beauty cocked an eyebrow, readjusting the mirror as she sat up a bit in her seat.

"That is, if we aren't shot down first," I narrowed my eyes a bit, "Jumpers aren't the smartest way to go, you know."

"Neither is using the car as a jungle gym at, what, 90? 120? Down a state highway. They're kids, Jack, they're tiny, they'll be fine," Micky glanced over at me, the morning sun catching the color of her eyes and casting a cascade of honey brown and green flecks through them, "It's not like you haven't seen a kid die before on these runs."

Before the bombs, before all of this, and the propaganda, before some idiot blew up a truck and sparked the idea of rebellion in the deep south and east, I would have balked at the idea of any dead child. Adults? They've lived some time, had their chances and done things.

A child had no place being dead or dying an unruly death, had no time living a nice life, and had no chances. It was utterly unfair to deny any child the joys, and horrors, of life.

That was before. Now, a death of any kind was often met with the rioting laughter and blazing colors of a celebration. They lived a purpose, a life of change, gave to the sentiment of standing in the midst of doubt.

It was so very odd, these days, just a year ahead of when it would have seemed absurd.

"I still don't particularly like it," I worried aloud.

"Relax, Jack," the curvy driver tipped her head a bit, grinning and dropping her sunglasses onto her nose from her wild, auburn curls, "This is gonna be fun."

-

Gripping the top of the Impala and feeling the deep growl of the engine through the rough rubber of my boots, I took a breath and slid the gas mask over my face. For multiple reasons, it was great to use out on runs like this. The dust kicking up would often make me wheezy, and I would be left out of commission for days, usually unable to breathe. The thick fabric was good at blocking out the sun as well, and the tunnel vision that it offered, though incredibly dangerous, would help keep my sights on what I needed to do.

Taking Top. 

Right now, in the midst of the whipping, hot wind and rocks, dust and bullets that occasionally shot by, I was standing haphazardly on the edge of the car. No ring was fashioned crudely into the top of the car to keep me safe. It proved too dangerous in tying up the wheels once I moved into place.

"One-ten!" Micky Dee yelled out, her voice barely snatched by the wind. I squinted, breathing hard, adrenaline igniting my veins like liquid fire as hot wind seared my side. Using the burst of natural energy, I shot up on top of the car, shakily balancing on the roof as it hit a pothole and nearly sent me sprawling. The bomb in my hand, a mess of C-4 and duct tape, was hefty.

While the Droppers were responsible for sole timing and lightweight work, taking Top positions in a run meant being a human sticky-hand toy on top of the car, often involving humming things like grenades and flash-bangs onto the other cars. One under, one over, put them out for good. One occasion, I could recall, I slung a Louisville slugger into the windshield of a basic transportation vehicle. Another involved mustard gas and Orbeez. The last one was more or less the skill of releasing ultra-fine craft glitter and fly tape. It was strategic, far more so than in placing something on the ground, even if it was just letting some craft supplies take wing. You had to feel the wind, the way the car moved, know where the others would be, take into account the heat, the speed, where the road went and how it sloped- upwards or downwards. By far, it was possibly the most intuitive of the jobs one could take in a run, and also one of the most dangerous. With the moving about, chains got tangled, cars ruined, so they were taken out. That left us on top with no support, often at the mercy of the driver.

"Get me closer!" I shouted in frustration, "And stop hitting the potholes dead-on!"

The last statement was more of a plea, as Micky grinned through her aviators and gripped the roof of the car, letting up on the gas to slip back towards the few Jeep Staff cars and two Sherpa Light Scouts. They had crept up at first, shot at us a couple of times, and were now barreling at our roaring car with no hesitation. In front were a couple of militia scouts, sent to check out the area. An automatic gun sparkled softly in the sun before I saw a face rise behind it and outwardly cursed before ducking. A quick spray of bullets just grazed the top of the car, coming dangerously close.

Inwardly, I could only hope that this would be some sort of fun run. No death, no blood, just some old-fashioned explosives and my scrawny white self throwing them.

Taking a breath, I got up again.