Survival Read Free Page B

their first goal.
    Ruiz nodded. “He’s a legend. The
Authority has been tracking him for almost twenty years. They’d just as soon
have him out of the Portland Labor field and be done with him, but he won’t
go—won’t accept amnesty. He’s like a shadow—a subterranean ghost. He believes in our cause.”
    “Our cause?”
    Ruiz glanced over his shoulder,
surprised. “Yeah, our cause. He believes in fatherhood.”
    Time compressed and the light
dimmed. A dull excitement kindled in Bryan’s belly. He knew that many had
already died—victims of gunfire and, like Derek Gorman, digital obstacles. He
estimated they’d covered two or three miles in their methodical fashion. After
a time they found themselves on the outskirts of a lush meadow. In the center
of the field five bulls, weapons at the ready, surrounded a trio of potential
fathers. The prisoners knelt on the ground, hands locked behind their heads.
    “Shit,” Fausto whispered. He
swiped at his brow. “Ok, this is it, Bryan. This is our line in the sand.”
    “What are talking about?”
    “It’s just another test,” he
replied, his sleepy eyes now wide open. “Do we help these men? With our
assistance, the numbers are even—five of them and five of us.”
    “Fausto,” Bryan said,
incredulous, “those bulls have guns . Are you serious?”
    “Of course I am,” Ruiz replied.
“Put yourself in their shoes.”
    Bryan did. He thought of himself
in the center of that meadow and then pictured Maggie; he conjured the images
of his father and his mother. He sighed. “Ok, Fausto. I trust you.”
    While Norton had been lost in
thought, Ruiz had scoured their environment. There were things they could use.
    Ruiz scampered over to a sizable
log. “Here then, Bryan. Lend me your shoulder.”
    The men hunched at the base of
the log. Grunting, they rolled it across the ground, over to a copse of
juvenile pine trees. “Ok, we’ll need to lever it.” He disappeared into the
forest, returning a few moments later with a thick bough. “Push. Give it a good
shove, now.”
    Bryan understood what he meant to
do and, with the help of the lever and ten minutes of sweaty finagling, they
were able to balance the log across the low branches of the pines, just above
their heads. The green branches bent beneath the weight of the log, but they
held.
    Ruiz disappeared again into the
forest, returning with a length of blackberry vine. Carefully, he tied the end
to one of the branches, drew the line taut and fastened it to an exposed root
beneath the trap. He shrugged out of his windbreaker and delicately draped it
over the root.
    Norton smiled, shaking his head
at the man. “And now?”
    “Now we draw their attention.” He
stooped and began to gather stones. Bryan followed suit. When they each had an
armful, they pushed out into the meadow, creeping behind brush as they advanced
on the men.
    “Where did you get the knife?”
one of the bulls asked. Bryan heard the anger in his voice. “Was it Fornoy?”
    One of the detainees sniffled,
but none of them answered.
    “Ok. Have it your way,” the bull
said. He pulled his sidearm, put it to the head of the sniffler and pulled the
trigger, the man’s head vanishing in a crimson mist. Bryan saw the men stare at
each other in horror. One wet himself.
    At that moment, Fausto stood and
threw his first stone. It found its mark, cracking a bull on the bridge of his
nose with a solid thunk, the soldier’s eye socket instantly welling with blood.
The bull hunched, holding his shattered nose, and Fausto hurled stones like a
pitching machine, rearing back and peppering the bulls.
    The captured men hit the deck as
one of the bulls sprayed bullets at Norton and Ruiz, the ammunition springing
wildly through the air over their heads.
    But Fausto was gone, already on
the ground, crawling as fast as he could for the tree line. Bryan fanned out
wide; he stood and threw his own stones, managing to just take cover as another
blast of gunfire