Pond Hill

July 25, 2091

I.

Night approaches. 

The two men, one old, and one as young as an early April morning, establish their sentry at the perch of Pond Hill. Ironically named, as there is no pond within a radius of 50 miles of where they lay. Colonel Robert Pond, if you had any interest. They do not.  

“It’s still pretty hot,” the teenager says.  

“Set up the tripod,” the older man replies. “It’s been this hot for three days, and probably will be for three more. And keep your fucking voice down, this isn’t our side.”

There was fear in his voice, and he hated it. When was the last time he was this afraid? He tried to think. It might have been just yesterday when he felt this afraid. He was just about scared shitless as a baseline these days. 

It was so hard to think in this heat. Rationing had been an exercise of soul’s survival for days now, and the breaking point loomed. He had allowed the boy, his only son, the lions’ share of the water. There was not much left. 

The world was a furnace. Had been for a long time. 

“I’m sorry, dad, I forgot.” He crawls to the gun bag, making sure to make no noise as he takes the pieces out and assembles them into position. 

The Garrisons are next door, and technically, the man is correct. They are on their land. By a matter of about 15 yards, but that does not matter in the eyes of council. If uncovered, they will be declared Tier 2 convicts. 

Tier 2 convicts never lived more than a year on average. There was nothing left to live for once they completely muted you.

To be muted was a death sentence worse than death.  

Tier 3 meant death, but no man was allowed off that easy anymore. 

The Garrisons had found them out finally, after years of painful deception. Like a dam that finally gives over, the deception finally broke and the flooding began. 

Just a simple slip of the tongue but it had cost him his family. The council considered gunwields a massive threat to town safety, even if the towns needed protection more than ever from the neighboring cities.  

First, his wife, Charlotte, tried before council. Treason. Hung. Isabel, their only daughter, the same, simply because she was a girl. They punished men simply: forced to live in exile without women. Tier 1. 

The proceedings were surreal to the point of alien. Like blurry pictures in his memory, he recalls them hazily. How was it only ten days ago? The tribunal, consisting partially of old friends. The tobacco stained wood floors of the town church, the July heat reigning like a King above them, as they were lead to the hearing. The declaration of death. The buzz of the local news palindrones overhead capturing the proceedings. 

It’s almost 7 PM and it still has to be at least 120 out if not more. This is truly a death season. The comical gen2 skinmaps they were allowed to take aren’t doing shit. The cicadas scream. 

He wipes the sweat from his brow and sighs. He recalls, with great clarity and anguish, the pained outcry of family, the stark and maddening voices of those who screamed in anger in response to the verdict. Some voices felt mocking, others insane. None provided comfort. 

The boy has quickly assembled the tripod to lay behind the velvet mesquite tree, hidden entirely from the Garrison house. Muscle memory. His father smiles wearily with so much love in his heart that it hurts worse than the hunger. In another life, his sweet boy, his darling Aiden, would amount to more than a last stand on an impossibly hellish night. 

The guilt, like a river, persists. Flows into his heart and empties out on the other side as black as oil. 

It was once possible to be a hero in this world. That was before the cities, with their nightmarish totalitarianism, reduced those who had fled to the towns to these inhumane fates. 

Now he feels like a villain to his own family. 

Night breaks. 

II. 

“Steady,” he tells the boy. It is now pitch black. The house is illuminated below. 

He hates the Garrisons in that moment. Not because of their betrayal, no!…. because they are not baking to death in their own sweat. They are comfortable. In a world dictated by those with access to A/C or not, the two men on Pond Hill are rock peasants. 

Aiden’s hands have been shaking more with each passing night. Exhaustion, likely fever. Nonetheless, he must do this, like the others before him. Once he has his first taste of a society kill, he can join his father with the other wields who have been outcast within state bounds. They have formed an alliance and have access to food and water. It is not salvation but it is better than dying, at least for now.  

The family sits for dinner, and there is a slim view, barely perceptible if you weren’t looking, through the dining room curtain at Melinda Garrison. Very unlucky for her. Her fate is now tied simply to a sightline and a true finger.  She bows her head. This will be her last prayer. 

Beads of sweat, dreams of salvation. A moment’s hesitation followed by the biggest leap his soul has ever taken as his trigger finger curls backwards towards him. Life force. Life taker. 

As if forming a perfect echo to the gun blast, the shattering of window glass below. The recoil is true and tremendous and it knocks him back a few inches into his father’s chest. They both exist in parallel in this moment, waiting. 

As if a choir song on cue, the screams below. He shivers.

His dad eases a hand on his back. He loves him so much in this moment. He equally hates himself. 

Aiden does not fall into his father’s touch. Instead, he quickly rises and backs away so there is now a body of distance between them. 

Turning suddenly towards the old man, he reloads. He is sick of running and hiding. They will be free tonight. 

III. 

July 26, 2091

The Reed Gazette: digital transmission (local receptor, to all)

Reported victory: 40 local male wields have established full control of Chew’s Landing via deathly force in a night described as “evil resurrected” by those who could hear the shots from neighboring villages. No survivors at current. More to follow. 

Reported dead: James Bennett, 51, and Aiden Bennett, 13. Cause of death: massive trauma (gun wounds). Considered vigilante wields via council tribunal and excised from Reed’s Township on July 15, 2091. Notably, Charlotte Bennett, 49, and Isabel Bennett, 9, executed by hanging until dead as standard Tier 1 punishment.

Reported dead: Melinda Garrison, 42. Massive trauma from gun wound to head. Remaining head landed into bowl of split pea soup, a delightful irony that no family members present found amusing. Local authorities believe the Bennett and Garrison deaths are very likely correlated. More to follow.