Insurrection: Chapter 1

My grandfather used to tell me not to trust those with power. He told me they would abuse it; they often used it against their own people. I believed him, of course. He was born in the time of democracy. He had survived the first major war. He knew more about power than I can ever hope to know.

My grandfather didn’t survive the second major war. He died six days ago in an ambush the anarchists launched against us. On the morning of the attack, my mother had sent me to a farm on the city’s border to collect our weekly ration of eggs and milk. That was the only reason I had survived the attack.

A snort from the ground below me startles me from my thoughts. I glance below the tree branch where I perch. A buck grazes beneath me. It is large; at least 500 pounds. It would make nice meal for weeks to come, but I have no way to kill it. I am armed, of course; my mother had instilled it in me to always have a way to protect myself, but shooting the buck would make too much noise. The anarchists have set up camp less than a quarter mile away from my tree.

I glance over my shoulder. The Wilton’s farmhouse sits 30 yards away from my tree. Several miles beyond it lays the city. Or more, what remains of the city. Black smoke clouds the air above the wreckage. The anarchists believe in destroying the battlefields they have won on.

The Wilton’s farm was ransacked yesterday. I had watched helplessly as soldiers pulled Mr. and Mrs. Wilton from their home and shot them both in the head. I shudder as I remember the kind smile Mrs. Wilton gave me as she handed me a hunk of cheese before telling me to hide in the woods. Mr. Wilton had looked grave as he warned me not to return to the city. Now they were both dead, victims of the war the anarchists launched on the bureaucracy.

If I glance in between trees, I can see the campfire that marks the anarchist’s camp site. I hear the anarchist soldiers shouting to each other. I have spent years listening to my mother and grandfather complain about them. They’re foolish, loud, and careless; they’d say as we sat around our small kitchen table. Right now, though, the loudness sounds comforting. I am used to quiet, but I am not used to the silence of the woods that surround me. Noise means humans. No matter how much I may hate the anarchists, I long for human contact. I am not used to being alone, with only my thoughts and memories to comfort me.

As darkness begins to fall, I slide down my tree. I glance around, making sure nobody is near me, but I shouldn’t worry. The anarchists haven’t come near my tree since shooting the Wiltons. An image of Mrs. Wilton lying on the ground clouds my mind. Blood spills out of her head, the gunshot as evident as the sun. My hands fly up to my head as I try to block the images from my mind.

“No, no, no,” I want to scream, but instead I murmur. It is safer to murmur. Of course, it is safest to stay silent, but I cannot take keeping my mouth shut for another minute. I shudder as my stomach begins to growl. I have not eaten more than berries and roots for several days. It had been three days since the bread and cheese Mrs. Wilton had given me had run out.

The shouts of the anarchists grow louder, although the soldiers do not come closer. I can see their firelight from through the leaves on the trees. As the breeze shifts, I catch the scent of burning meat. My stomach growls again.

Get a hold of yourself, Victoria, I think as I rub my stomach. I begin to clamber down the tree in order to scrounge for more berries. The smell of meat strengthens. My stomach growls again.

I think back a few weeks to a flyer that I had found in the streets. “Excepting any and all male recruits.” It had read. “No questions asked.” Of course, Victoria hadn’t given the flyer a second thought at the time. The anarchists were no place for women. Besides, they had usurped democracy nearly a decade ago. Since then, they had fought on and off with soldiers attempting a reformation of the government.

When Victoria had decided to ignore the flyer, though, she had not been starving. She did not have a dead grandfather and a dead mother. She still had neighbors who would have taken her in had anything happened.

Now, she had almost nothing. She had a pistol, a pocket knife, and a few bullets; the clothes on her back; and a necklace that her mother had given her. She was hungry; the berries and roots that she had managed to dig up so far would only last so much longer.

Victoria blinked back tears as she reached her decision. She staggered to a puddle of water a few feet from the base of her tree. Victoria splashed water onto her face, scrunching her nose as she did it. The June heat had certainly not done her any favors- her body reeked of sweat and body odor. That wouldn’t be something that would surprise her soon-to-be-hosts, though. They would be more suspicious if she showed up clean and glowing.

Her hair, however, would raise some eyebrows. Her blonde locks fell to her mid back. She’d been growing it out for the past few years after her grandfather had complimented on it. Victoria blinked back tears at the memories of her grandfather. Get a grip on yourself, she thought. Holding her hair in a ponytail fashion, she used her knife to cut off as much as possible. The hair fell to the ground. Thinking better of the idea to leave it there, Victoria grabbed it and scattered it around the tree, using her feet to kick dirt and leaves over it.

Another shout sounded in the distance. Glancing over her shoulder toward the Wilton’s farmhouse and the life she had lived, Victoria gulped. “Goodbye,” she whispered. Turning, she began the walk towards the fire and noise.

. . .

“Now! Get off your lazy asses and get to work! We’ll feed you to the hounds if your work isn’t satisfactory.” Nathan cringed as Alex berated the new recruits. His cringe deepened as he remembered how the recruits’ first practice went this morning.

They had been practicing shooting. Nathan wasn’t expecting sharpshooters and he sure as hell wasn’t hoping to garner a sniper, but he would have thought that a couple of twenty year olds would have learned how to shoot by now. In truth, these boys couldn’t hit a beer bottle if their lives depended on it. Which, as a matter of fact, they did.

Alex continued to shout orders at the boys as they scurried around, gutting deer and throwing wood into the bonfire. Maybe a little discipline would do the boys well. He began mentally rehearsing lesson plans for the rest of the week. Tomorrow, they’d work on overall fitness in the morning and more shooting in the afternoon. On Thursday, they’d work on shooting in the morning and-

“Need another beer, Nate?” Danny called, interrupting Nathan’s thoughts.

“Nah, man, I’m good,” he shouted back.

“Suit yourself.” Danny plopped himself onto the log next to Nathan. “Thank god the breweries stayed open, eh?” Danny snorted, cracking the top on the bottle and taking a swig.

“No kidding. What the hell would the soldiers do without it?” Nathan shook his head. Shortly after the first war, grocery stores had shut down. People who didn’t live on farms had begun to go hungry. There were famines and riots. A few years ago, things began to settle. Many of those starving had died. Those who hadn’t were absorbed into the population. People were thin, but no longer going hungry.

Breweries, however, never even had to think twice about staying open. There was always enough money for beer apparently.

“You thinkin’ deep, there, young master?” Danny joked, jolting Nathan out of his stupor.

“Aye, man, you got me. Just trying to figure out how I’m supposed to whip those rookies into shape.”

Danny snorted. “Glad I’m not in your position. Don’t know where the hell those city slickers came from. I thought they all died off after the first war. All of them together can’t shoot a gun worth half a damn.”

Nathan grunted. “Did you see practice this morning? That was a total disaster. I’m thinking of drilling them every day- shooting and fitness, shooting and fitness. I suppose they’re shot to hell with their hand-to-hand, too. I’ll have to fit that in, maybe-”

He stopped midsentence as he caught site of somebody approaching the campfire. He elbowed Danny and jumped to his feet, Danny right behind him.

Alex had quit harassing the recruits to drink with his friends, but he too stopped mid gulp as he noticed the newcomer. He approached the new teenager, waving his bottle at him.

“You! What are you doing here?” He shouted like he had a history with the newcomer, although Nathan was pretty sure Alex hadn’t seen him before. He staggered, spilling some of the beer down himself. Shit, I hate my job.

Nathan surged to the Sergeant’s side before he could make any more of an ass of himself. The last thing the controversial man needed was for his men to see him drunk. “State your name and reasons for approaching.” Nathan shouted, holding the Sergeant’s arm to steady him.

“Victor. I want to join the insurgence.” A feeble voice came from the boy advancing.

“And why would you want to do that?” Nathan demanded. You can’t be more than 14, he added silently. Don’t do this, boy.

“I’m done with the reformation movement. They’re nothing but a bunch of idiots and they don’t know what they’re doing. The future lies with the anarchy and I want to help them- you- reach your goals.” The boy’s voice shook with every word.

Damn you, Nathan thought. “How old are you?”

“I’m eighteen. My mother burned my birth certificate in hopes that I would not join the cause.”

Nathan shook his head, but he had no choice but to accept the child. It was all too common for boys to join up and even more common for them to not have the proper documentation. Neither effort had cared about birth certificates since the first year of the first war, roughly a decade ago.

“The effort welcomes you and promises you our protection, so long as you fight hard and remain whole-heartedly supportive of our cause.” Nathan grit his teeth, hating what he was about to do. “We accept you as our brother. Welcome to the Insurrection.”