This Short Story got an honorable mention in the 2nd round of the NYC Midnight Short Story Challenge.
“Y’all remember what to do?”
Four of us nod our reply to Magda’s whisper in the darkness. We are four black oblong shapes bobbing against the anthracite of the night. The others have all been on trips like this before, and I keep assuring my beating heart that means I’m going to be okay, too. I’m sweating profusely. The hot air I’m breathing in through the bandana covering my mouth and nose is sticking to my throat. I could use a sip of water but I’m sure I’d vomit as soon as it touched my stomach.
The van hits another pothole and my head bangs the side. The roads have been worse since last winter, when the snow and the frost bit giant chunks out of the asphalt. They say it didn’t used to be like that. There used to be a budget for these kinds of repairs. But that was before everything changed. Before the rise of A.R.M
#
It had been a hopeful time, back in 2018. I remember marching with my mother that year, three times. We’d made signs, she and I, and then had taken a train, filled with people like us, into New York City. First, we marched for women, then we marched for our lives and finally, we marched for the victory, when the House and Senate were taken back from the Republicans. But I guess you need to be careful what you wish for.
Things started to change for the better, at first. Stricter gun laws. Better healthcare. Restrictions on GMOs. A signature on the Paris Agreement.
And later, a new – female – president.
I can’t pinpoint the pivotal moment exactly, but things took a turn. Organic food not only became a standard, it was enforced. There were tax deductions for people who grew vegetable gardens of at least 100 square feet. Then, the Animal Rights Movement started advocating for less meat consumption and less meat production.
Any type of livestock was prohibited to own, and hunting now a crime. Farmers and their supporters protested for a while. But, soon, there were only State-owned farms left, their livestock excellently cared for. Their meat is now available only to those who can afford it. Meat has become so expensive it’s a delicacy.
The government started showing films on TV, to justify their cause. Animals in horrific conditions, beaten and struck with bolt guns. The meat we ate was sick, they said, because of the stress inflicted by the cruelty. And we didn’t need it to survive.
I wasn’t hungry for anything after seeing those videos. But whenever I do remember the taste of a burger or the smell of crisp bacon, my stomach growls. I’m not asking for filet mignon, but I’d kill for a chicken nugget. I haven’t tasted chicken in at least two years.
#
Nobody talks for the rest of the ride. We just sway left and right, wobbling to the rhythm the road dictates. I slip my hands in my pockets and feel the syringes, one on each side. I turn my head to the front of the van, staring at the back of Joran’s head and praying that I made the right decision trusting him.
I met Joran about a year ago, when I took a job with Arcade Delivery Drivers. Not that I do the driving – Joran does – but I get out of the van, run up people’s porches and front lawns, drop off their packages. I have to do this job for a year. Then I can take the driver’s test, and make what Joran makes. It’s not the job I dreamed of, but I can get promoted, maybe make it into the office one day. That’s what the HR lady said who interviewed me: Start at the bottom, just like anyone else. Make your way up. The same opportunities are available to everyone. Equal rights and all.
And rights for all – man, woman and animal.
#
“I wouldn’t mind a bite of chicken,” I told Joran, about six months ago, on a drive to Auburn. We didn’t talk much the first weeks, but when you spend eight hours a day together, it’s hard to keep quiet. I thought I knew him pretty well by then.
Joran was silent for a bit, after I’d said that. We had been listing things we missed and didn’t miss, from before. I thought he was just trying to come up with something else, so I waited.
“How badly do you want to taste it?” He asked instead, and it had startled me. For a second, I thought he was going to propose something inappropriate. I had heard the stories about what used to happen to women.
He must have felt my unease, because he turned and said, “I mean, there’s a way. To taste it. Eat it. Chicken.” And that had confused me even more. There were no chickens for us. It wasn’t allowed.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I replied, “so maybe we should not continue this conversation.”
“There’s this movement, there are people out there…,” he started.
I had heard the rumors about meat transports going into the cities being attacked. About people getting killed.
“I know what people are out there! It’s against the law. Animal Rights…”
“Oh, fuck animal rights, Dee! Our bodies need meat! Mankind has always eaten meat…”
“I don’t want to hear about it!” I snapped. And he had shut up. For a little while, at least. When he started talking again his voice was soothing and his words convincing.
“Look. All I’m saying is that none of us chose this – not “this”,” the half-circle his hand made emphasized the word, and I understood what he meant. Yes, a majority had continuously voted for a healthier lifestyle and a better world, but only a minority had anything to say about how that would look.
“Just come to a meeting with me. Just listen to another side, okay? Isn’t that what democracy has always been about?”
“Sure,” I caved, rolling my eyes. “I’ll come to listen. One time.”
#
The van slows down and stops. I see Joran’s head turn our way and nod once. We’re here. He gets out of the van and walks around to the back, then carefully opens the doors. We slide out of the back. I’m last, and when my feet – no shoes, three pairs of socks – touch the grass, he puts his hand on my shoulder and squeezes lightly. I look into his eyes and nod. I’m okay.
The five of us start walking, Joran stays behind. He’ll turn the van and wait for us. We have ninety minutes
We start to cross the forest. We have to avoid the fences of the farm until we get to the meeting point. Someone on the inside will open one of the gates, a night guard they recruited somehow. I have no idea how they managed that – the farmworkers live secluded lives – but the less I know, the better. The plan is clear. Joran drives and stays behind. Magda will lead us to the gate and wait for us to return. Felix, Lisa, Tom and I will enter the facility. We each have two syringes, which will make for eight chickens total. We go in, inject, collect and get out. That’s the plan. We studied the blueprint. We practiced simultaneously injecting with both hands. We should be in and out in under fifteen minutes.
#
After that first meeting, I kept going back.
They call themselves “Balance,” and that is what they strive for. Sure, let the animals have rights, but don’t forget about humans. The government has too much power, they say. Enough of this communist bullshit, they argue. And I can’t say I disagree.
The organization is larger than this small-scale mission I’m on. There is talk of bombings. Overthrowing the government. Joran thinks they’ve already started an illegal farm in Iowa, with stolen livestock. But I can’t think about any of that right now.
This is my test. I’ll get eight ounces of meat for this. I promise myself it will be worth it.
#
When we get to the gate, it opens. Magda steps out of the forest line, and we follow in one straight line behind her. We’ve practiced this. When she walks through the gate, she takes a step sideways, and we keep walking. I don’t even turn my head – just as instructed. Do not look at the guard. Keep your eyes on the heels of the person walking in front of you.
There are four of us left now. Felix leads us towards a building, exactly one hundred yards in front of us. We walk fast. In and out, I remind myself. I put my hands in my pockets and slide the caps off the syringes. Quick and Easy.
When Felix gets to the door, he opens it, lets the three of us in, and closes it behind him. I count the steps, stop at ten, and turn a quarter, facing the cages. My hands pull the syringes out of my pockets, I count to five and stab them into two chickens. I pull the needles out, put them back in my pockets and open the cage. I grab the chickens by the neck with one hand and close the cage with the other. I count to five again, turn a quarter the other way, and walk towards Felix, who opens the door exactly when I expect him to. I’m the first in line now. I force my eyes to focus on the gate, and the gate only. It’s almost over, I tell myself. And I smile.
#
“Hey!”
It’s so unexpected my body reacts before my brain does, and I stop dead in my tracks, Lisa walking straight into me.
“Run!” she hisses, and that I do understand, because as the lights come to life, I see a guy with a gun, pointed up, and I know he’ll soon be yelling – or worse: shooting.
I run.
#
I run straight for the gate, as fast as I can. I don’t look back. I don’t wait.
I hear the muffled pops and with every single one, I tell myself it’s not my time. Run-run-run. I hear screams. I hear more shots. I see more lights. But I keep running. I dive into the forest and, still, I don’t stop.
When I get to the van, Joran is smoking a cigarette in the back. I’m out of breath and I puff, “go!”
He looks down the road, but no one is coming, and I’m so glad he shuts the back doors and points for me to get to the front. That’s when I realize I still hold two chickens.
#
We’re back on the main road when my breathing finally evens out. Joran hasn’t said anything, but now, I feel him turn his head towards me.
“I’m sorry,” he says. And I nod. Neither of us says anything for a couple of miles. And it feels like just any other day. Joran driving a van, and me sitting next to him, on our way to our next delivery. Except now, it’s night.
I think about the people we left behind. I think about the ruthlessness with which they were killed. I realize they lost their lives over a couple of chickens.
For fucks sake! Chickens!
“My grandmother had a hen house, when I was little.” My voice is hoarse when I finally speak. Joran reaches out a hand, and I grab it.
“I’d like to have a hen house.” I say, tears running down my face.
And I promise myself I will.