GMO 24- The Coalition- A Tale Of Prepper Survival (GMO 24- A Tale Of Prepper Survival Book 1) (3 page)

***

Sydney peered through the microscope and magnified the sample by twenty. The small specks of dirt underneath the glass grew to massive proportions under the view of the lens. Then he rolled over to his computer where he entered an algorithm, which was cut short as he jolted from the lab door swinging open and slamming against the wall.

“Sydney!” Gordon said, arms extended as if he were seeing an old friend. “I hear you have some good news for me?”

“Um, y-yes,” Sydney said, scurrying to fetch a pile of papers on his desk that were jumbled together in a heaping, disorganized mess. “I-I received a new soil sample today, and you can see here that the nitrate levels are actually normal, leading to a healthy pH—”

Gordon slapped Sydney on the back, silencing him. “Sydney. I don’t need the science mumbo jumbo. I just need to know if you can grow anything in the soil.”

“Well, um, yes, but—”

“Where was the sample pulled from?”

“Wyoming, but—”

“Perfect. Send a team out there with a prepared list of what’s growable in the climate. I want this done immediately, understood? Good.”

Sydney stood there, still clutching the mess of papers against his chest. His lips quivered, searching for both the words and courage to speak up. He found both right before Gordon reached the door. “The soil area is only a one-square-foot patch.”

Gordon froze with his hand on the doorframe. Sydney noticed the whiteness of Gordon’s knuckles. Gordon took a few steps backwards, not turning around, then closed the door.

“One square foot?” Gordon asked.

“Yes.” Sydney backed up until he bumped into a desk. “The scout team actually stumbled across it by accident. There was a single plant growing in the area, and the soil didn’t permeate deeper than six inches. Everything else below it, or around it, was still infertile. It was like someone put it there.”

“Who?” Gordon asked, closing in on Sydney, who continued to lean back, even though the desk didn’t budge.

“Who?” Sydney echoed.

“Who put the soil there?”

“I-I, um, I don’t know.”

Gordon jammed his finger into Sydney’s chest, puncturing a few layers of the paper with the edge of his nail. “So you’re telling me somebody just dropped off a small, one-square-foot, six-inch-deep patch of fertile soil, and nobody knows who, or how it got there?”

The muscles in Sydney’s back tightened from the harsh angle at which he was bent over. “Yes.”

Gordon seized Sydney by the collar, and the crumpled papers cascaded to the ground. Sydney wrapped his hands around Gordon’s forearms but was rendered helpless by his own fear and Gordon’s strength. Sydney shut his eyes and turned away. He could feel Gordon’s breath on his cheek. He wanted to join the papers on the floor and just hide. Finally, Gordon relinquished his grip, and Sydney slowly opened his eyes.

“I want to show you something,” Gordon said.

***

The closest farm camp was only a few miles away, and Gordon was scheduled to check the facilities later in the afternoon, but he always enjoyed the element of surprise. Sydney remained quiet in the seat next to him.

Gordon looked out the window. What used to be fertile farmland was now hundreds of square miles of dead soil. The official report from the government declared the event a “singular anomaly,” but Gordon knew that was a load of shit. He, and every other former GMO lobbyist, knew exactly what caused the soil to dry up but had kept silent in exchange for big bank accounts and full stomachs, which was how Gordon landed a position as the head of the Soil Coalition. His talented tongue, which he used as a lobbyist to sway congressmen, was used to paint the Soil Coalition to the American people as its saving grace. He was shoveling the same shit, but now he was just using a different shovel. It was a mutually beneficial arrangement.

Although not every American was naïve enough to believe the report. The small rebellions that popped up ended quickly once the government started funneling what food rations they had to the authorities. A few weeks of starving to death made empty stomachs override ideals. 

When it was determined that the farmland tainted by GMO-24 would never grow any crops again, the government ordered the construction of massive hydroponic structures to provide food for the Americans still alive three months into the crisis. 

Hydroponics started in the cities, where there was still infrastructure to build them, but as the cost of operations increased, the government had to find cheaper ways to run them. The farm camps solved that.

“Have you ever been to one, Sydney?” Gordon asked.

“No.”

“It’s quite a sight. Although some first-timers find it a bit intense.”

Sydney seemed to curl into a smaller ball as the first greenhouse came into view on their left. The structure comprised large sheets of steel bolted together. Patches of rust formed on the side, giving the walls a reddish tinge in the sunlight.

“The first few greenhouses were built properly, out of glass and plastic, but the materials were too fragile to hold up in the storms. The steel boxes you see there acted as replacements,” Gordon said. The SUV came to a stop. “Shall we?”

Gordon’s slick black loafers cut through the dust that flew up with each step to the farm camp’s entrance. A blast of wet heat greeted them inside, along with the hum of the fluorescent lighting hanging from the ceiling. Sydney wiped the fog from his glasses and was met with the sight of naked, frail bodies walking between rows of massive water tanks growing an assortment of crops. Each of their eyes seemed glazed over. Their skin was pulled too tight across their skulls, revealing the exact structure of their bones. The view was also accompanied by a stench akin to rotten meat. It was like the bodies in front of him were still alive, but decomposing slowly. Sydney covered his nose with his shirt to try and mask the scent.

“Don’t worry, Sydney. They’re not sick with anything you can catch,” Gordon said. “We’ll cut through here and head out to meet the new recruits.”

The rear steel door scraped against its own hinges from Gordon’s shove, sending a blast of fresh air inside. A cluster of skeletal farm workers near the exit rushed to feel the cool air but immediately drew back after the first loud crack from a sentry’s whip.

Outside, a bus pulled up where men, women, and children exited and formed a line. A group of sentries examined them then stripped them of their clothes and any personal items in their possession. Any resistance was met with a harsh lashing of the tongue and whip.

“I like to come here and meet with new workers from time to time. It helps remind me of why my job is so important, you know?” Gordon said, leaning into Sydney.

Sydney turned his head away at the sight of a young woman being stripped down, but Gordon grabbed his head and turned it to make him watch. “No. I want you to enjoy the show,” he said.

Gordon kept a strong grip on Sydney’s jaw. He could feel the strain of Sydney’s muscles struggling to avert his gaze. The two sentries manhandled her, running their hands up along the bones at her hips, groping her breasts, and laughing at the condition of her body before moving on to the next helpless victim.

“You’re disgusting,” Sydney said.

Gordon shoved Sydney into the dirt. He took a few steps forward, casting a shadow over Sydney’s recoiling body.

“This is what the world is like, Sydney! It’s not as neat or clean as your lab. This is what it takes to live! This is what you have to do to survive, and sniveling little maggots like you who don’t have the stomach to go through with it would die without people like me! Or would you like to stand with your ideals and join your fellow man?” Gordon asked, gesturing to the naked line of workers trying to cover themselves.

Sydney’s answer was the simple lowering of his gaze.

“That’s what I thought,” Gordon said, sending a spray of dirt from the toe of his shoe over Sydney then turning his attention to the workers. All of them afraid, hungry, and slowly dying.

“Each of you was brought here because you’re thieves!” Gordon said, his voice booming. “You stole from the very people that feed you, protect you, and keep you alive!”

Gordon paced up and down the line of naked bodies with their heads cast down. Few things were more embarrassing or degrading than being stripped down to nothing and paraded around like a farm animal.

“Do not bite the hand that feeds you,” Gordon said. “Now, you will work off your debt to the millions of families you stole from, and make no mistake that if you exhibit the same disregard for our rules here as you did in your community, then you will die here.”

“I didn’t steal anything.”

The voice came from down the line. Gordon traced the origin to a small boy, skinny and thin, but the only one not looking at the ground. He brushed the thick black curls from his eyes as he looked up at Gordon.

“You didn’t?” Gordon asked.

“No. The food was given to me.”

“What’s your name, son?”

“Meeko.”

“Well, Meeko, whoever gave you that food did so without paying for it. So you just give me the name of your friend, and I’ll make sure they’re here instead of you.”

Meeko fidgeted with his hands but remained silent.

“Speak up! This is your get-out-of-jail-free card. Tell me who gave you the food.”

“Tell him!” Sydney said, lifting himself up from the dirt.

“You should listen to him,” Gordon said, whispering into the boy’s ear.

“Fuck you.”

A ripple of cracked smiles radiated from the boy’s epicenter of rebellion. Even Gordon gave a half smile. “Cute,” he said, then brought the back of his hand across the boy’s face, sending him to the dirt. The smiles disappeared, and Gordon picked the boy back up and smacked him harder, leaving a gash across his cheek. When Gordon pulled his hand back again, the boy started crying. He lowered his hand slowly then turned to the rest of the group.

“Welcome to Farm Camp 0249,” Gordon said.

Alex was shoving the last of his supplies into his pack when he heard the moans and shuffling of Warren, squeezing his way through the tight hallway.

“I swear I’m going to get stuck down here one of these days. Can you imagine? Dying right next to a big pile of food. I’d be the laughingstock of the community, not that anyone would know about it, of course,” Warren finished under his breath.

“You’re not talking me out of it.” Alex pulled a large box from the top shelf and rested it next to his pack. He opened the top and pulled out sealed bags of seeds. Warren snatched the bag off the table and clutched it to his chest.

“No, I’m not letting you take these,” Warren said.

“They’re not yours to keep,” Alex replied, yanking the bag out of his grip.

“Alex, you’re not thinking straight. These are non-GMO seeds. Once they figure out how to fix the soil, these are going to be a gold mine. Or if one of us gets in trouble, these are our get-out-of-jail-free cards!”

“I’m not taking all of the seeds. Just some of them.”

“Oh, well, in that case, please! Go right ahead! You don’t think they’re going to question you about where you got them? Hmm? Or why you didn’t turn them in once the regulations started? ‘Oh, gee whiz, Mr. Gordon, I totally forgot I had these and wanted to turn them over to you out of the kindness of my heart. I had them stored in my secret basement with the rest of my illegal food.’”

“Warren, enough,” Alex said, cutting into his rant.

Alex stuffed a bag of seeds into his pack then returned the rest to the top shelf. His pack smacked against Warren as he passed him. Warren climbed up out of the hole after Alex, who didn’t bother putting the seal back down to cover his tracks.

“So you’re going to demand to get both of them back?” Warren asked.

“That’s the plan.”

Clouds shielded the moonlight, so he would have good cover through the night. He’d be able to make it to Topeka by morning, and after just going through an inspection, the sentries wouldn’t be on high alert for a few days. Once he was in Topeka, his seeds would be all he needed to get Gordon Reath’s attention.