Impetus (3 page)

“
Well,” Sarah said, sliding up next to Kathryn at the table.

“
Well what?”

She
looked over to Mick’s right and down at the table. “Aren’t you going to blow out your candle?”

Candle?

Mick followed Sarah’s gaze to the center of the industrial metal table. And there it was, just like Sarah said. A real wax candle. He hadn’t noticed its flame hidden by the dim glow of the lamp. The flame’s flicker quickly mesmerized him. The blue candle had a white swirling curve that ran from its bottom to its top, around its circumference, to where the dancing flame turned it to liquid wax, lessening it drip by drip. But what really caught him off guard was what the candle rose from. It looked like a cake, at least from where he was standing. A rectangular and strange-looking cake at that. It had to be an illusion.

Mick
bent down to get a closer look. “Is this what I think it is?”

Laurel nodded, smiled.

He furrowed his brow, perplexed. “A real cake?”

“
Well, sort of,” Laurel said. “Remember a few months back when Greg went to gather supplies? You had that nasty flu or something?” She reached to her right and gathered a stack of time-stained plates while she spoke.

Mick
remembered it well. Greg had been gone for nearly three days. It was much longer than Greg had initially intended to be gone, and far longer than Mick was comfortable with. It had turned out to be one of the most worthwhile trips any of them had ever taken. He had returned with two blister packs of antibiotics. If that had been pre-Colossus, it would have been like Greg walking in with an armful of gold.

“
Well,” Laurel continued, “Greg found something when he was out there. And he purposely didn’t tell you about it.” She placed the stack of plates next to the cake. “You’re always the one to take care of us, Mick. So we figured we’d stash what he found and save it.” She scrunched her nose in a cute way. “Heck, it lasted through a global apocalypse. What was another few months?”

With his
face still close to the cake, Mick said, “You know, it’s funny. This thing looks a lot like—”

“
A big Twinkie?” Laurel laughed. “That’s because it is. We mushed them all together.”

“
That’s great,” Mick said, delighted.

“
Well, we’ll see about that,” Sarah said. “It was the best we could do. The bakery was out of their fresh stuff.”

Laurel
went to the far side of the room and banged on the exposed heating conduit that led to the roof. “Greg,” she shouted into the vent. “Cake.” She then turned toward the rest of the group. “Or whatever we’re calling it.”

“
I’ll get the guys,” Kathryn said, vanishing from the room to gather Sandeep and Chester from their task of inventorying.

Being the center of attention
had never been Mick’s thing. He preferred to lie low and let others rush around him. To silently observe whenever possible. However, it seemed as though this celebration was going to happen with or without his consent. Whether he liked it or not.

As the rest of
the group prepared what would prove to be an awful-tasting “cake” experience, Mick reached into the inner pocket of his tattered blue peacoat and removed a faded and slightly burned photograph. With his back to the group, he gently caressed the picture of his wife with his thumb. The room was dim, but he did not need much light to see every contour of her face. He stared at it for hours at a time, memorizing what he could to replace what he had forgotten. At times he became so caught up in the moment that he could swear the picture smiled. The world would have been infinitely better if Sue was still in it.

The group
then sang a rousing verse of “Happy Birthday,” followed immediately by “How Old Are You Now,” at which point Mick cut them off. His body reminded him each day how old he was. He certainly did not need a verbal reminder.

C
HAPTER 3
 

“
You awake, boy?”

Solomon
did not move. He continued to stare at the chipped concrete wall in front of him, a few inches from his nose. The one time it had rained over the past few years had left a dark water spot on the wall. He concentrated on that. It reminded him of a mouse; the thinner channels of water mimicked the mouse’s whiskers, and the larger, more rounded stain formed its body.

“
You hear me, boy?”

He wished he could run away from his life. Run ba
ck into the past. At least then he would be protected beneath Ms. Stella’s umbrella of love and selflessness. The present stripped away his desire to live. His twenty-three-year existence had been filled with people calling him a retard or slow or different. The words hurt. He pretended as if they didn’t, but they did. Rarely did anyone look deeper than his appearance or mannerisms to see who he truly was, to see the soul inside the skin. He wasn’t any of those nasty things people called him. He was smart in his own way—a way that had carried him through times that no human should have to endure. What most people failed to understand was that just because he spoke slowly and stuttered when he was nervous didn’t mean his mind worked that way. Very few cared to take the time to understand that.

The clinking on the metal bars
told Solomon all he needed to know. He did not look over to where the sound came from. He knew who it was and what it meant.

He
kept staring at the water-stain mouse. It had faded greatly over the years. But Solomon had memorized its shape having spent so much time looking at it. The closer to the wall he was, the less likely he would inadvertently look back at the old jail cell bars. And, more importantly, through the bars. Solomon refused to give him that satisfaction. Not today. Not ever.

More clinking. Loud, o
bnoxious clinking. A sound he reviled so intensely that it made his stomach knot and his lips purse. He wanted to explode in rage, bend the lifeless metal bars that held him captive during the nights. Reach through and crush the throats of his captors, specifically the one that was there now. It was nothing more than a perverse fantasy. He could never do that. They would kill him if he did. And his life was not his own to give. He lived it for another.

Solomon kept staring. And just like each morning before it, Solomon
’s refusal to look back brought Clyde into the cell. But Solomon knew he was coming in either way. Nothing he said or did would stop that. It never did.

Clyde fumbled with the keys with his
nine pudgy fingers—the tenth had been lost before Solomon had had the misfortune of meeting him during their early teenage years. He stared down at the ring of keys that hung from a chain on his neck through his hazy sports goggles; his glasses had broken some time ago. Solomon remembered hearing King ask Clyde once why he wore those “ridiculous things.” “You look like something out of a science fiction movie,” King had said. Clyde had told him it was part of his character and who he was in the world after Impact. He remembered King then laughing and telling Clyde that he looked like a fool and that one needed to have character before becoming a character. Or something like that.

It was one of the few things
King ever said that Solomon agreed with. He tried to ignore whatever those around him said whenever possible. They spit poison from their mouths, hateful and cruel things. Ms. Stella had impressed upon him to keep away from people like that. That he was better than them in every way imaginable. He had little choice in the matter, however. There was no way to avoid these people. Prisoners lacked the luxury of choosing their captors.

Clyde finally
unlocked the rusty cell door and swung it open. Its long moaning creak was a warning of sorts, as if the cold metal surrounding Solomon felt his despair and the pain soon to come.

Clyde waddled clumsily into the cell in his
holey black boots. Solomon felt each step vibrate the floor in a way only someone used to being there for as long as he had could. He’d become so accustomed to this ritual that he’d found out firsthand that fat, of which Clyde had copious amounts, could actually make a rubbing sound if one listened closely enough; skin moved against skin in the most grotesque of ways. Solomon used that sound to gauge how long until the next part in their sadistic play began. The part he was resolute to win every time no matter the cost.

Thump, thump, went Clyde
’s stubby feet. Solomon counted. It typically took Clyde twelve steps to reach him, except on the days when he stumbled.

Ten, eleven
…

There was a short pause.
The footsteps stopped. Solomon clenched his body tight.

Clyde reared back one of his
thick legs and kicked Solomon square in the back with the toe of his boot, causing Solomon to inadvertently contort away from the kick and toward the water-stain mouse.

“
Didn’t you hear me, boy?”

Clyde then squealed in delight like the fat little piggy he was. This was what Clyde
lived for: to torment Solomon in private, away from any form of remaining civility that might stop his barbaric actions.

He kicked again,
this time with more power, aiming for the small of Solomon’s back.

Solomon closed his eyes. He clenched his jaw.
Like every morning, he tried to think of better thoughts. Ms. Stella had taught him to meditate to calm his mind. He tried, usually in vain, to drift to a better place. His back had become calloused over the years from enduring such torment. The bruises were harder to form as if his body stopped caring some time ago. But the pain was always present; he used it to drive himself. It was a pain he would never forget. If Solomon died one morning from this, and he felt as if he may at times, then he would die knowing that Clyde did not win. While his body was captive, his mind was not. Solomon’s will was his alone to control. And this fat little man he’d once considered a friend would never take that from him.

“
Ready to get up yet, boy?”

Solomon
was a man. He detested the word
boy
. King, the man who had created this bubble of miscreants, called him that. And Clyde figured he could, too, seeing as he was King’s lapdog. But as much as he wanted to, Solomon would not put up a fight. They would hurt
her
if he did. And they had already hurt her enough. So he would endure the pain for both of them.

Solomon opened his eyes and pushed himself up with his right arm
, his back aching as he did. He got to his knees and then rose to his feet. He stood maybe an inch taller than Clyde. He knew he was stronger than him—much stronger. When they would play wrestle at the orphanage, Solomon would always come out the victor. Never once did Clyde win.

Since that time, t
heir relationship had changed about as drastically as one could. Clyde’s jealousy and weak mind had a lot to do with it; his inner turmoil took care of the rest. Now Solomon would rather spit on Clyde’s grave than remember who he used to be. The anger that brewed inside Solomon was fierce, a captive much like himself.

He feared the
day he knew was coming. When he would lose his control and do what needed to be done, what was begging so badly to come to fruition. But for such a “stupid” person, Solomon understood what the ramifications of that would be. So he continued to bite his tongue and take his unjustified daily punishment, mindful of the greater picture, hoping for change.

Clyde smiled, revealing his stained and rotting teeth
. A black gaping hole stretched across his gums where his front two teeth had been. Solomon remembered when King had knocked one of them out. Solomon went to bed with a smile on his face that night. He didn’t know or care where the other one went; hopefully into Clyde’s belly where it may do some damage, rip his intestines open and slowly poison him. He wished he could knock the rest out, one by one. Clyde deserved that and so much more. Maybe one day Solomon would be given that chance. If he lived that long.

Solomon held his arms out. The handcuffs were old, but they still did their job.

“I went and saw your little friend downstairs already,” Clyde said. He unlocked Solomon’s cuffs and put them in his back pocket. “One day I’ll have my way with her. And there is nothing you can do to stop it.” He snickered.

Without so much as a word,
Solomon turned his back to Clyde and walked from the cell. Clyde did his best to rile him up, make him do something he would instantly regret. But just like his refusal to turn around when Clyde came calling, he would not give in to his little game of words. He was better than that. He was better than Clyde.

Solomon
knew where to go. This was the routine. He headed left out of his cell and down a short dark hallway. He then veered right when the hall ended and down the longer hallway that led to the large room where King presided over his kingdom.

The dark hallway gave way to a well
-lit room, or, rather, well lit for the times and conditions. Anything more than nothing could be considered so. Two long rectangular tables flanked either side of the room, where the other hungry savages ate their filthy meals. Chomps and gargles filled the room as if the feeding trough had opened in the hogs’ pen. Not a single person looked up when Solomon entered. No one but King.

“
About time you got up, boy,” Matthew King O’Conner said as he picked something from his teeth with his long pinkie fingernail. He’d long ago pompously shortened his name to simply King, as he’d felt it was more fitting for a man in his position. He sat on a large leather recliner atop a smallish wooden platform. A faux throne for a faux king. He wore a long black trench coat that had the appearance of a cape as it melted into the black of the chair. His cleanly shaved head seemed out of place among all the filth that surrounded them. But when you were King, you had certain privileges that others did not. A razor being one of them. Hygiene being another.

Solomon said nothing. He did not look at
King out of fear that his true feelings would be conveyed in an instant. And while he could take a beating, as evidenced by Clyde’s morning wake-up call, he was not about to volunteer for one in any possible way. So he simply skulked off like he did every morning, into a dark corner of the room, and watched as the subhumans fed their faces with whatever scraps they were able to find.

Solomon ate what he could when the others were done. Scraps of scraps
were what he had. He thought about eating nothing and letting himself slide off into death from starvation, but he did not want to give them that satisfaction. And then
she
would be all alone. They all thought he was too slow to comprehend anything. And he used that to his advantage. He found ways to sneak out of the old police station when nobody was looking. That was when he found his food in whatever form it took that day. He would wait.

King
wiped his mouth with his sleeve and then waved Clyde in closer. He whispered something to him.

Clyde promptly turned around and addressed
those in attendance. “Shut up and stop feeding your traps,” he said. “King’s got something to say.”

Most of them stopped what they were doing. Solomon stared out at the group of forty or so people. Most of them men. All of them despicable.
King knew how to fill the place with weak-minded people that would gladly do his bidding rather than face his wrath.

King
rose from his recliner throne. He rubbed his bald head slowly with his right hand and then smoothed his perfectly trimmed goatee. He took a great deal of pleasure in being in charge. This was his sad kingdom. And his alone.

“
My people,” he addressed the room. “It has come to my attention that rations have been found near the harbor. I will lead our army to gather them. Do I have any volunteers?”

The room sat quiet.
Dirty faces looked from one to another. Not a sound from anyone. They were as lazy as they were predictable. Solomon knew it was not a request despite its phrasing.

Clyde stepped forward and pulled a Magnum revolver from his pants. He pointed it at the crowd
, waving it from side to side. Slowly hands began to rise. Voices that had been muted moments ago came to life. The room of dolts had figured it out.

“
I’ll go,” said one man reluctantly, looking around at his fellow heathens.

“
Me, too?” said another, phrased in as close to a question as possible.

One by one the room began to stand, until there was only one left sitting: Solomon.
Nobody noticed or cared that he did not stand. For even if he had the desire to go with them, which he never would, they would not want him there to slow them down. His job was anything deemed lower than menial. It was one of the few things that worked out in his favor.

“
All right then,” King said. “Let’s go. We have some ground to cover.”

And with that
, the group spilled from the room and up another hallway toward the building’s exit. The few in the back, those out of King’s earshot, complained to each other. Solomon knew their words were wasted just like their lives. They were expendable. They simply had not figured that out yet.