 
Rebels

By Scott Powell & Judith Powell

Copyright © 2013 Scott Powell and Judith Powell

All rights reserved.

Smashwords edition

Dedication:

To the author of man's freedom.

Table Of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

#  Chapter 1

My name is John Hancock Bates. I am fifteen years old. I have brown hair, brown eyes, and I am the owner of an augmented heart. This could be anyone's story, but it's mine and so the burden of telling it is mine and mine alone.

I have always thought of myself as a healthy person, my father having encouraged personal health and well-being in our family. He is a mixed martial artist as was his father before him and as am I. I was trained in Tae Kwon Do, kickboxing, Krav Maga, grappling, and in advanced street fighting. One would wonder why, and more importantly, for what? But nowadays, survival is something I must always be prepared for.

I go to public school like all young people, eat and sleep and watch TV when and what the State tells us to. My dad says that we were once free to choose to be what we wanted, but this changed due to the Great World Fires and our freedoms were lost.

The Great Fires were started when nations throughout the world had too much debt. They could not pay it so instead, the government started to print money. The more money the governments printed the more expensive things became. People could not afford things like food and clothes. They could not afford the money to put gas in their car so they could go to work.

Hyperinflation is when a government prints too much money and it becomes almost worthless. It led to one financial system after another collapsing, taking their nations with them, angry mobs demanding someone do something ran rampant in the street. Fires burned uncontrollably, some set on purpose, others just burning with no one around to put it out, until every nation on earth was left destitute. By the time the people realized what was happening, it was too late.

With everything in ruin, no one knew what to do, but suddenly America stood and offered its help, under one condition: surrender and become Americans. It was that day freedom was lost. It seemed great at first; America had always been the land of freedom. Too late, the world discovered it was not freedom America was selling, but servitude.

Many fought back, including my grandfather, who was one of the leaders of the freedom fighters. My dad still speaks of his father and his council before Grandfather died, and how no matter what, to always remember as long as there is one individual willing to stand for freedom, there will always be hope.

But it was my grandmother who had been caught by the State, she was more bold than wise, my dad says. But the State didn't have my grandfather or my dad. My grandmother had gotten word to them to flee. They changed their names and moved to Alabama in order to hide from the State.

This all happened before I was born, before my dad even met my mom. Some young people don't even know about the Great Fires. Some don't even know that there was anything before the State. We are not allowed to talk about it, but my parents do anyway.

I am fortunate to be part of the Young Army, a position that gives me special rights, privileges, and popularity. It is similar to what a high school football player may have had, before the government outlawed football as a dangerous sport. It is supposedly for only the best athletes and students who show promise for the State.

In the past, I have seen others in the Young Army go places and have benefitted from doing well, receiving special treatment and eventually becoming part of the State if they do what is asked. Seeing this, I push myself each day hoping I will be picked to benefit my family.

I have seen many suffer because of the lack of basic needs being met. This included food, medicine, and even housing. The State takes no interest in individuals deemed insignificant to them. Almost everything is owned by the State. One only gets something—or gets the use of it—if they are deemed necessary or they are important enough.

But unlike the others, my parents have made me commit to memory the preamble of the Constitution of the United States of America, a document outlawed by the State, and every night my father pulls out a very old Bible hidden in a compartment in our wall, and we listen to him read aloud its words. If it is found out we have such a book, the penalty is death, but we read it anyway.

Our government is called the State of America and consists of most of the civilized world. I do not know what schools were like before the Great Fires, but ours are old and moldy, full to the breaking point with youth and children. The conditions have worsened through the years since the State has taken over and slowly broken down society much like strip mining, leaving nothing in place of what they have taken. In many ways, we are no more than cattle waiting to be taken to the slaughter, only to serve the State and its needs. It is here at school my life changed forever and I could no longer sit and do nothing while others decided my fate for me.

It is a late spring day, the kind that is already full of heat in the South, the index will probably be eighty degrees plus today here in the city of Montgomery, in the territory of Alabama, but still, the heater is on at full blast. Don't they know how hot it is down here? But as I have come to realize, the State has made everything the same for everyone except for the few they deem special. Generally, I would have thought no different of our circumstances, but my parents have raised me to think otherwise. The land once known as the United States stood for freedom and hope for all those who sought for such. But now it is gone. Buried in the ashes of history; the same ashes the State now stands on.

I sit up, kicking off the thin sheet that covers me and place both feet on the matted carpet, staring momentarily at my particleboard dresser it is more full of air than clothing. I kneel down beside my bed and start my prayer, a general prayer, something along the lines of, Hey God, it's me, John, you know I'm really grateful for what you do for me, please help me that I can do well in school today, in the name of Jesus Christ, amen. I stand up and check my watch. It registers nothing unusual—prayer is allowed and required by the State, but they are set prayers written and dictated by the rules and regulations of the State. There are one hundred thirty set prayers and I know every one, but I don't use them. I try to pray as my parents have taught me, from the heart. The watches don't seem to register the difference between a State prayer and my own personal one.

I grab my gray sweatpants that are hanging over the end of my bed and a T-shirt from my drawer. My bedroom is a little bit longer than my bed in one direction and half the size of the other, so I have to be careful not to bang my hands and arms on the walls and ceiling that make up my room. It has only one single solitary light overhead, but there is just enough natural light to see by to get dressed—no need to turn it on and waste an electric credit. I am already starting to sweat because of the immense heat in the house.

"Why won't the government let us have control over our own thermostats?" I ask to no one in particular. All winter we had barely stayed warm. Mother became very ill, and I was very worried about her. With the lines at the doctors so long and medicine in such short supply, Mother decided to wait and see if God would have mercy upon her, and he had. Hot as it is in my room at six o'clock in the morning, I am grateful it is spring and the heat is warming her. I can barely tell she has a cough anymore. I pull on my socks and go down into the kitchen where my mother is quietly stirring a pot of oatmeal. I kiss her on the cheek. She looks much better, and my fears concerning her are gone.

"Would you like some breakfast, John?" she asks, her face smiling, her cheeks rosy with heat.

"No, Mom, it's far too hot to eat." I say, walking over to the front door and putting on my shoes. I am very lucky; I have been given two pairs of shoes: one for running and exercising, and one pair to go with my school uniform. Not everyone owns a pair of tennis shoes like I do, it makes running much easier. My mother follows me and when I'm done putting on my shoes, we bow our heads and fold our arms as my mother says a prayer of praises to God for our blessings and asks for his continued blessings to be upon our family and for my personal well-being.

Normally my father would join us but he had to go to work early today, because he had too much work and too few hard working people and hours to get all the work done. Why work hard when everyone is going to get the same pay anyway? No reason I can think of except perhaps to please God, or that's what my father tells me. I believe him, hard work does please God. Does not God work hard every day for our benefit? My mother ends the prayer, and we both check our watches. It's odd to think we have to be aware of these watches, but they are far from ordinary—they are the watchdogs of the State. These devices ensure the State is aware of everyone's actions all the time.

"All right then, here's your lunch, you might as well be going to school," my mother says, handing me a brown paper bag.

I nod as I give her a kiss on the cheek. I grab my gray backpack that stands in the corner of the living room and sling it over my shoulder. It is full of little more than a few books and my Young Army uniform. In school, everyone has to wear the same thing, except those in the Young Army. On most days, those of us privileged enough to be part of the Young Army get to wear our official Army uniform in school. My father had insisted I join the Young Army, but I like it well enough. I excel at hand-to-hand combat, and I even get to work with real guns which everyday citizens can no longer own in the State. This is why my father wanted me to join the Young Army, despite all the propaganda he felt went on inside. Though I personally don't see any reason to, he wanted me to know how to use firearms.

I open the front screen door, as my mother calls out, "Remember who you serve." I nod as I jump off the little stoop, almost tripping over the morning paper. We all receive the newspaper, as it is required, but most of the time we use it to keep warm. No more use for it now, it just lays on the walk. I throw it back inside, and I do some basic stretching on the cobblestone walkway that is placed there in order to keep people from walking through the dandelions that makes up our front yard.

For a moment, I look up into the blue sky with the sun blazing down upon me and ponder how beautiful the sky is today. But then I look down at the houses that are crumbling from lack of repair—cracks in the walls and apparent leaks in roofs. The once-paved roads are now full of pot holes and bumps. But of course the State says the houses and roads are in good condition even though we submit requests that say otherwise. I shake my head, wondering why the State ignores the needs of its people but then I realize I will be late to school if I don't get going.

I stand and begin my run to school, past other houses similar to ours with yards and rotting roofs, waiting for government approval and money for their repair. Very few people own their own homes anymore, most live in government owned housing, and I am sad to say we are one of them. Homes had been bought up by the government before the Great Fires, during some type of housing crisis years ago. People gladly sold their homes to the government rather than face bankruptcy. Now we all live, eat, and sleep in small two to three bedroom homes that are so close together I could literally jump from roof to roof, if they didn't cave in first.

# Chapter 2

I pick up my pace, over the uneven asphalt, taking giant leaps over any pot holes. I run alone—one of the few, if any, who run to school. I run past Mark Jenkins's house, an extraordinary family with so many children I have lost count. All of them crammed into the typical three-bedroom house that most everyone has. Mark has been my best friend since pre-school. But because Mark is not in the Young Army, I hardly ever get to see him any more except at lunch. Stephanie, Mark's sister, sees me through the window. She must have been waiting for me, as she runs out to greet me.

"John," she calls out to me. I slow my pace and finally, begrudgingly, I halt my run.

"What is it, Stephanie?" I ask with my hands on my knees trying to catch my breath. I still have at least a mile to run, and I know it will be harder to get going again once I stop.

"Dad lost his job yesterday," she says. I stand up to look at her fully, and her green eyes fill with tears. What does she think I can do, what does she want from me? I am only fifteen, what could I do to help? It will be months before the proper paperwork can even be obtained in order to apply for the needed aid for their family, by then, some, if not all, of the young children will die of starvation.

"What happened?" I ask, knowing perfectly well it is very difficult to lose one's job.

"He smarted off to one of his bosses about how cold we had been this winter and that the State was letting us freeze to death," she says, looking down at her feet, embarrassed by her father's actions. It is common for the State to teach children they must always listen to the State and never to their parents because the State knows what's best for them.

"I'll see what I can do." I said while doing a calf stretch and flopping my arms across my chest warming them up again for the run.

"Thank you, John, thank you for anything you can do." I start my run again, running past more houses and wonder what lies behind the other doors, how many families are hurting, hungry, helpless, while my family has more than enough. Why does the government steal from its own people? So, what, they can have bigger, more lavish parties in the Capitol, once called Washington D.C. now referred to as the District, so they can have more and we less? Don't they know there is more than enough? If they just let people work for themselves. Don't they know people want to do good, it's in our nature to help one another? If they will give us back what is rightfully ours in the first place then we can, as a people, do all the things they promised they would do.

I stop in front of the monstrous building that is my school. It is square and cream with one giant red stripe all the way around the middle. It's apparent that parts of the outside walls are starting to crumble from age and other parts of the building have been patched with different types of material due to the lack of funding. What appears to be the outside playground is nothing more than metal rods sticking out of the ground since play equipment is rarely replaced or repaired. I go in through the gym entrance, in order to shower and change for the school day. Sergeant Epps, the leader of my Young Army platoon, is already in the locker room.

"Good to see you here this early, John, it shows motivation and strength of character. Do you run to school every day?" I nod yes.

"Good, no wonder you're ahead of everyone else. Keep up the good work." He turns and leaves me to my shower. I turn the water on as warm as it can go, which is barely above freezing. I will only get two pushes on the water button, so I better hurry. I wash my hair in a flurry of movement, rinse, push the button again and quickly wash the rest of my body as the last drop comes out of the showerhead. I dry myself on an old towel I keep in my gym locker and hang it up to dry momentarily before folding it and placing it back. I dress in my smart Young Army uniform, studying myself in the mirror for a moment. I have a thin, wiry but fit build, nothing particularly special about me but still overall I think I'm a good-looking guy.

Checking my watch, I see I have more than enough time to go to the hall locker and then get to class. My watch isn't like a traditional watch—the one with straps that come on and off according to one's pleasure. I received mine like everyone else on my twelfth birthday. When I went in for my yearly checkup at the doctors, they placed a circular disk on my wrist. It sat there for a moment, warming up, configuring to me, then chains, or bands as they are called, came out of either side and burrowed under my skin where they hooked up to my nervous system, holding the watch firmly in place.

I can still see the black bands underneath my skin reminding me I am not my own. Did it hurt? Yes, it sure did, as link after link of the chain burrowed into my skin. What does the government say about the pain? That it is offset by all the good the watches do. From then on, it tells me what to do, when to sleep, how often to laugh, how much exercise I need, and it allows the State to know where I am at all times. It keeps record of all governmental credits, this makes sure no one can buy anything that is not government approved and, by the way, it also tells perfectly good time.

# Chapter 3

I walk out of the gym and into the hall as other students are starting to arrive, some who have showered and others who have not, depending if they have enough water credits. I go over to my hall locker that has most of its paint peeled off and open it. I keep only a few things in here because, like most of the lockers in the school, this one no longer keeps a combination. I grab a few pencils, an eraser, look up and around at the large mold stains on the ceiling as I close the door. Sandra McCrory walks up to me.

"John, I am wondering if you have an extra pencil I can borrow?" she asks, her attractive blond hair shining in the florescent light of the school.

I know borrow really means have. I have an extra and so I give it to her. Sandra is Sean's latest thing; Sean is in the Young Army with me, and so I am sure Sandra thinks she can ask me for a pencil. Why she doesn't ask Sean? It is pretty evident to me that Sandra is little more than a candy girl to him.

Life for most young people in the State of America is very difficult. Getting enough to eat is a struggle, let alone having things like pencils, shampoo, conditioner, soap, paper to do your homework on. But life for a member of the Young Army is abundantly different. We have nice uniforms to wear to school, soda and pizza parties, and candy is plentiful. Girls will go out with boys from the Young Army and sometimes do other things—which of course is prohibited but is done anyway—for the candy. The boys joke and call them candy girls. I do no such thing.

The candy I get, I save and give to my mother, who after church on Sundays gives it away to the small wide-eyed children who gather outside the church building. These children are so hungry and famished it breaks my mother's heart to have so little to give them. Last Sunday, my mother gave three peppermints to this one little girl who already was at least half starved. The little girl gave my mother a weak smile and asked, "Are you an angel?"

I could see my mother holding back tears as she kissed the little girl on the forehead and answered, "No, princess, but I wish I were an angel, then I could give you all the things you need."

I don't have a problem with Sandra, and the pencil is really no loss. I walk to my first-hour class—algebra, which I enjoy a lot—with one less pencil in my backpack. I sit down in my desk; it is old with rust covered legs and has hundreds of names etched into its wooden top. I pull out my textbook. It is tattered and worn, held together by a rubber band with pages missing here and there. I have to make sure I get to class early to discuss with the teacher, Mr. DeFuniak, what pages we will be using in order to see if I have the appropriate pages to do the practice equations. If I don't, he will make a copy of it for me. But he can't do that for everyone, so some people get a zero because they don't have the right pages.

Mr. DeFuniak's clothing is shabby and unkempt. He has little to work with and is constantly running out of chalk. This makes teaching algebra very difficult, but I still enjoy it. After thousands of years, A2+B2 still equals C2. After class, it is on to history and the falsified glories of the State. I know the real history; my father and mother make sure I know it. Those who don't know their history are doomed to repeat it, my father would often state. If you don't know your history then you don't know who you are. How can you know where you're going if you don't know where you've been? Then I go to science, which is kind of a joke with only one microscope, a few Bunsen burners, and a Petri dish or two.

Finally, it is lunch. I am starving; not having breakfast is really getting to me. Food in the cafeteria is little more than gruel and only the most desperate eat the food there; others bring whatever they can afford from home. I know I am in for a treat; my mother had been able to get hold of a ham last week and had carefully, lovingly cured it. We feasted on that ham Sunday, and we were still enjoying the blessings of the ham on Monday as Mother added the ham bone into some dry beans, slowly cooking them over a hot stove, creating the most delicious pork and beans we had eaten last night with some homemade bread.

Normally, we eat beans with no flavoring except their own and these beans are not some soft beans from a can or fresh from a garden. No, these beans are hard, old, dried beans that have a pungent taste when eaten alone and take hours to soften and do so only after they've been soaked in water for a whole day. Forget to soak your beans and your family would go hungry for a very long time.

I realize we are very lucky to have a licensed garden with fresh fruits and vegetables my mother cans and carefully preserves. Most homes are not allowed to grow a garden based on the State's laws, which I do not understand. Especially if all families could do this, it would prevent a lot of suffering. But the State has no interest in people, only in what they can give or do for the State. Things have improved since I joined the Young Army. An example of this was the added privilege of the ham; sugar is sometimes given to us, lemons on occasion, and an orange is a rare gift.

I sit down at what most consider is the popular table, but I am here because it is expected of me as a member of the Young Army to sit with the others of my squad. And they sit at the popular table. Popular I may be, but not in your traditional way. Not in the way of putting others down to make myself look good, not in the way of dating the right girls and going to the right parties. I am popular because I try to do the right thing. I try to help people where I can, and most people either respect me or like me for it. Some, of course, do not, but those I ignore. Others like me because I am the top recruit in the Young Army, better than anyone has seen in years. I am glad of this, especially of the special privileges this has given my family. But I wonder at what cost.

# Chapter 4

I pull my brown paper bag from my backpack and reach in and pull out a fantastic ham sandwich. I am about to dive into my feast when my friend, Mark Jenkins, sits down at the table with a tray full of school lunch. The whole table stops eating their own sandwiches to look at him. The rancid smell travels across the table, making me want to gag. The girl next to him does, in fact, gag at the putrid food before our friend.

"My mother forgot to pack my lunch." Mark stammers without looking up, but of course I know better, after what Stephanie told me this morning. I know the real reason he is placing his spoon into the filth that passes for a school lunch is because of the loss of his father's job at the government-owned factory—for simply expressing his anger at the temperature of our houses to a foreman, who in turn reported him to government officials, who then had him fired. His Dad's small complaint about the State and their procedures had cost him his job. Now while he applied for a new job, it would take months to get an appointment to receive the paperwork in order to apply for such. Until then, there would be little to nothing to eat.

This is not the first time the State has handled families that have expressed their displeasure of their policies. The results have never been favorable. The State makes examples of those who do not comply. This is why my family is especially careful that no one knows we have a Bible and my parents teach me the real history of the United States. Otherwise, if they were found out, it could be punishable by death. This is what happened to many early on with the organization of the State.

"Go throw that stuff away," Lane's new candy girl says next to me. Mark looks as if he is about to cry, I know and he knows this will probably be the only thing he will get to eat today.

"Here, man, I will share half my sandwich with you," I say. Mark rises, grateful for the offer, and goes to throw away the contents of his tray. I break off half of my sandwich; others see my example and while he is gone, they fish through their lunch bags to find things to donate for his lunch. When he returns, not only is my sandwich there, but also half a peanut butter sandwich, half a baked potato, a few carrot sticks. Even the candy girl has given him some peppermints. Mark eats my sandwich in silence, but I notice he places the other items in his bag, no doubt for later when he is hungry. Or perhaps he is saving it for his little brothers, who are too young to go to school to receive the free lunch. I see him carefully place the peppermints into his pocket. Mark has a large family, and it seems to me someone is always sick; the peppermints are probably being saved for a younger brother or sister who might be ill.

After my meager lunch that leaves me physically hungry but spiritually filled, I go to the water fountain to try to satisfy my stomach with water. The water tastes of copper and rust. I wonder how long it will be before Mark is so hungry the school lunch actually looks good. That day will come; I know it. By then, some of his younger brothers and sisters will be dead, and Mark will be banned from our table to sit amongst others who have no other choice. For some reason, the words of my father echo in my head. "You can't take freedom away from a free person. Freedom is a mindset, freedom starts from here," he would say, pointing to my heart, "and from there"—pointing to my head. "It is a gift from God. One can never take freedom from a truly free person. They can never make you think or feel things you don't want to. You are the master of yourself. Be your own master, John, and turn yourself over to the greatest master, who is God." My father is famous for such sayings or, at least, he is in our own home. Every Sunday after church, we come home and before lunch, my mother pulls the curtains closed and my father teaches us out of the Bible. I am not sure how they got a copy of it, but they keep it carefully hidden in our home in our small secret compartment in the wall.

Last hour, I don't have class, and I am excused so I can participate in the Young Army training. As I walk outside, I am greeted with clear blue skies and the sun glaring down upon me and the worn track and field we train on. I look around for a moment and wonder what this all used to look like when things were well maintained. Though still young, I can only feel this burning desire to want to do more. But what can a fifteen-year-old do against the State and those who faithfully, or fearfully, follow? I wonder why others have not stood and said enough, but stay silent in darkened corners.

As I start in on the five-mile warm-up run, I remember trying out for the Young Army my freshman year. I remember my father telling me how important it is to learn the skills the Young Army would teach me, but to also remember who I am and the values he and my mother have instilled in me. I remember I was told by the sergeant I had little to no chance of making it in my freshman year, most of the Young Army recruits are juniors and seniors, and positions in the Young Army are very coveted. But without even trying hard, I blew them all away. It was like a dream. Before, our family struggled to survive day to day, but now that I am in the Young Army, I am given special privileges, like extra clothing, food, and other things my fellow students have no access to. I am saddened by how society has become segregated in this way. Was not the United States originally based on freedom and equality? My parents have taught me, knowing such knowledge will never be shared within the walls of this school. For such information has been banned by the State, and anyone found teaching or sharing such views is considered treasonous, and treason is punishable by death!

My mother is a superior cook and gardener. She can make anything grow and anything taste good; she is a genius. Because of that, I had better nutrition, and this gave me a leg up when it came to endurance. It has been many years since the State has taken over, and very few people even remember how to grow their own gardens and what nutritional value means. That's obvious based on what the school now defines as lunch. Then there is the edge my father gave me, being a mixed martial artist. His father had been a second-degree black belt in Tae Kwon Do and had created his own unique style called Reality Based Street Fighting. He had been relentless in training my father and, in turn, my father had been relentless in training me. At first, I thought this to be child abuse, but as I grew older and my skills became better, I realized this training might save my life one day.

I still remember when my father came to me and simply stated, "You have six months to prepare for full contact, or you can simply get knocked on your butt." That was terrifying, especially when I was only thirteen and weighed no more than a little over a hundred pounds. My father didn't care and always reminded me the rules of street fighting: there are none! So that being said, I tried to be prepared the best I could, but let's face it, I was on my butt a lot when I had to spar my dad! Thanks to all that training, I literally kicked everyone's butt and made it into the Young Army with aces. But today, my body feels sluggish, missing the fuel from the other half of my sandwich. Plus, the day seems uncommonly hot as we run around the dark blue track. Normally, I would finish first, but today I come in second behind David Patlow.

"Wow, I beat John, wow!" Everyone is high-fiving him. I walk off, shaking my head. I sit down to retie my shoelaces, as if this action will make me faster and stronger.

Sergeant Epps comes and sits down next to me and asks, "What's up, John?"

"I didn't get enough to eat at lunch today," I reply. It is an excuse, but a true one.

"Here," the drill sergeant says, tossing me a power bar. "We can't have that happen again; I'll make sure your rations are increased. I'll have someone bring it to your house tonight." I nod, knowing there is no use arguing. The power bar gives me the strength and energy I need to continue through Young Army training without difficulty. I do two hundred sit-ups and one hundred push-ups, cross the monkey bars with ease, and take apart and put back together a semiautomatic weapon in half the time than is required.

Then, of course, we go through our hand-to-hand combat training. Though I aced this part, which allowed me to join the Young Army, I still need to be careful since my father is not licensed with the State to give such instruction. The State continues to try to monitor all our activities to ensure it stays in control. Today, since everyone saw me lose in the track run, I know they are hoping the same will transpire in our self-defense training. At first, as usual, I am able to handle my competition with ease, but the sergeant decides to change things up a bit.

"Gentlemen, today we are going to initiate a new program the State has decided to implement in the Young Army. They believe with this new program we will better see who has the true potential in helping the State and its people."

I can only think, What could they possibly do that they are not already doing to us? But then the sergeant starts to bark out further instruction.

"Before, when doing our hand to hand combat, it was based on one-on-one. But today you will be engaging multiple opponents, and this exercise will last until either the attackers have been subdued or you have lost the fight. You will be using your training, as well as improvising with what skills you naturally have. In order to prevent any serious injuries, the State has given us special gear to be worn during this exercise, but it will not compromise your ability to engage your enemy,"

This is going to be real interesting, I think, especially when I see some of the senior members glance in my direction. I simply smile. It takes us about ten minutes to put the gear on. With it on and the hot sun streaming down on us, things are starting to really heat up.

"Okay, boys, who is going to be the first?"

All I can hear is the light breeze going by until David Patlow chimed in stating, "I think John should go first, Sarge, since he seems to be the best in this category." If thoughts could kill, David would be dead by now, but I stay silent, waiting on the sergeant to give his next orders.

"What do you say, John?" Of course, I don't want to be looked upon as a wimp, so I enter the circle designed for this activity. "Good. I like it when a soldier speaks with his actions. So who wants to be his attackers?"

Of course, David Patlow and two other very large senior members join willingly. Did I forget to mention David was the one I had whooped on, allowing me into the Young Army? He was the golden boy before I got there. I guess he hasn't forgotten the experience.

"Alright, the rules are simple: there are none! Either the attackers have been subdued or the defender has been defeated! When I say stop, you stop! Are we clear?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Good, now let's get this party started, shall we?"

Immediately, David and the other two separate to form a circle around me, and my heart starts pounding. I remember when I used to get my butt kicked by my dad, a man almost twice my size.

I will never forget the time I went with him to work. I hadn't been there very long when a very large man started to cause trouble on the work floor. My father had not hesitated confronting this man, simply stating, "That's enough, you will cease and desist and go back to work!"

The man, who was known as Bear at the workshop, told my dad to mind his own business before he got hurt. Well, needless to say, my dad didn't care for that response and told Bear he was relieved of his duties and to leave the premises until further notice. Bear flipped over a couple of desks and made it very clear he was going nowhere. In fact, he was planning on engaging my dad, meaning there was going to be a fight. I watched this massive man of six-foot-four rush my dad. My dad braced himself with his legs spread out to allow him to keep his balance without allowing this crazed lunatic to pick him up.

My dad had no chance of winning; the man was huge. Bear grabbed Dad's shoulders and pushed him backwards. In return, my dad grabbed him back. My father tied up Bear's arms and let Bear push him back while he controlled what was really transpiring. Dad kneed Bear in his gut and then into his leg, causing Bear to double over in pain. Now distracted by the pain my father had inflicted, Bear did not see Dad's right elbow coming until it connected squarely across his jaw. He stumbled backward. I could hear Bear gasping for air.

But Dad was not finished. He rushed in throwing two devastating body shots and a solid right that sent Bear toppling into a pile of boxes, where he lay and finally blurted out, "I'm done, you win!"

One thing I always admired about my dad was the fact that he was an honorable man. He went over to Bear to help him up and took him to his office to discuss what his problem really was. I never knew what was said, but after that day, Bear always was a perfect employee and a loyal friend to my father. That day, I also learned no matter what obstacle I am confronted with, the only thing stopping me from winning is me.

They circle me forever. Finally, David lunges at me, trying to grab me while another comes from behind. I tuck my chin down, so he is unable to put me in a choke hold while I raise my right leg and thrust it forward, as if to kick a door in, and plant it right into David's gut. He is blown back, right onto the ground. Knowing there is a third assailant, I quickly grab the arm around my throat and jerk down like my father had taught me and slip my head to my right, through an opening I had created, and pull him toward me. I proceed to knee him multiple times while using him as a shield between me and my other opponent.

Even with the gear stuff, I know I have caused enough damage to incapacitate this young soldier, and I prepare to engage his companion. I have angered them, which is good. My dad always said if I can get someone to become emotional I have already won because they are not thinking with a clear mind. The third opponent rushes me with no technique. I grab the back of his head, controlling his movement, and put him into a front choke hold. He immediately taps out, knowing it will only be seconds before blackness overwhelms him.

Now it's only David and me, and he is still very furious remembering how I'd humiliated him and more importantly, he believes I have taken his rightful place, being the number one cadet. But David is skilled and has not forgotten our past encounters and does not look to rush me so quickly like the others. To my surprise, David steps to the side of the ring and picks up an aged metal bar off the ground. I quickly look to our leader, and his face gives no indication what David is doing is against the rules. Obviously, this new program from the State literally means no rules and even with this gear, the metal bar could do some considerable damage.

With his new-found weapon in hand and a smirk on his face, David approaches, preparing to strike me at will. Seeing he is overconfident and knowing I have limited options and time, I use a technique my father had taught me to buy the precious time I need to win this fight. That is to simply distract your opponent by mentioning something that has nothing to do with what is happening at that very moment.

"David, where are we going to eat after we are done with this exercise?" I state, as if we are having a normal conversation.

David stops and has a perplexed look on his face, during which I use a front kick to the groin. At that, his expression changes drastically. I rush to pin his arm with the bar while he is in a state of shock or pain, doesn't matter which to me. As I pull him toward me, I knee him in his ribs and abdomen. At this point, David's mind is trying to adjust, but it's too late. I go behind him and easily place a choke hold on him, which he is too stunned to prevent. He has to tap out before he finds himself unconscious.

I hear the Serge yell out, "That's enough, let him go, John. I think you have shown to be our finest cadet and able to adapt quickly with unknown circumstance! That will be all today, boys, since this is new. But understand we will be implementing this going forward, and all of you will have this experience. Dismissed!"

I pull off the gear. My head is soaked with sweat, and my heart is racing from the amount of adrenaline pumping through my body. Sometimes, I think being in the Young Army is more dangerous than being in the real army, but it allows my family to enjoy certain privileges. Out of the corner of my eye, I can still see David and the other two recovering from their experience of defeat. I am not so sure they would have shown me the same type of mercy I have shown them, but that is why I am so well respected—because of the morals I keep.

As I arise, the sergeant approaches me and states, "John, that was very impressive. I haven't seen anything like your style my entire career. Your instincts are razor sharp, and what you did with David to buy you time was amazing and shows your gifts that will benefit the State one day. Keep up the good work. I assure that the State is watching."

I reply, "Thanks, Sarge, I appreciate your feedback and the opportunity to excel in the Young Army." Though my statement isn't entirely true, I know better than to share my true feelings.

I grab my backpack off the ground and start my run home. I can't help but wonder why the State has all of a sudden decided to add such a program to the Young Army, especially when I am the guinea pig. Either way, thanks to my father's training, I made it out in one piece. As I run past all the houses, I can feel the searing sun beating down on my face, which only makes me run even faster to get out of the rays of light.

# Chapter 5

I arrive at home to find all windows and doors open to their maximum capacity. I walk inside only to be greeted by an even larger onslaught of heat, as once again, my mother is cooking beans. Her face is red from the heat and exertion of having to constantly stir the boiling beans. I have often wondered how anyone survives today under such conditions. Once, people were able to live till their late eighties and some even to a hundred years old! On average, people today died in their sixties, if not earlier, due to the harsh conditions and expectations of the State.

People are given life credits, and if one runs out of them, then their usefulness to the State is gone. If one even so much as breaks a leg without a credit, there is nothing anyone can do about it. Children born with mental or physical handicaps are given no credits at all. The moment something happens to them, they are done. For me, this is the norm but something my parents dreaded, for they saw many suffer and receive no help because of the State's regulations.

"Where's Dad?"

"Working," my mother says, stirring the pot.

"Overtime pay?" I ask, leaning over to smell the pot of beans. Mmm, I can tell mom still had a little bit of ham left over for these beans, as well.

"No, of course not, there's never enough money for overtime pay. I'm glad we have a job." She says, looking up from her pot of beans. I nod in agreement, thinking about Mark and Stephanie's dad. "Your father said that when you got home today, if you don't have any homework, you are to go out to the backyard and meditate."

"Okay, Mom, I'll do just that," I say, kissing her cheek. I open the back screen door, dropping my backpack by the frame, hitting the floor just inside as I step out in our small, fenced backyard. Gardens are illegal, unless one has a special license. Before I joined the Young Army, we had a secret garden of this or that, hidden around the yard. That is why our front lawn is full of dandelions. People think they are weeds, but we know better. Dandelion greens are very tasty and very good for you. The State made gardens illegal, saying people might make themselves sick from the food they grow. I know people are much more likely to become ill when they don't have enough to eat.

Now I'm in the Young Army, we have a permit to have a garden and Mother has greatly expanded; every inch of the backyard is now full of green, growing food. My mother even hung containers full of berry bushes from the fence to the back porch. Barrels of tomato plants adorn the walkway. There is only enough room for one person to carefully walk to the meditation circle, which my father had insisted my mother leave fruitless.

It is one of those liquid hot days, the kind that melts you from the inside out. On days like this, my father would talk about air-conditioning, a thing that made whole houses cool so you could stay inside all day. Back then, old people lived longer because air-conditioning kept them out of the heat. I can't imagine such a thing. He tells me the President still has air-conditioning in the White House, but he's a hypocrite for telling people to do without something he is not willing to give up.

I start on the meditation exercises my father has taught me. I know it must be sweltering for my mother to be standing over the pot of beans trying to get them soft enough to eat on a day such as this. I am grateful my mother sent me outside to meditate, but my heart reaches out to her because even with the door open, it is unbearably hot. It is no wonder so many people are lost throughout the year. Either we are freezing or baking to death, and if one is thought to have no more life value, the State would simply not give them needed care or attention, feeling that would be wasted resources.

To think I live in a time where people are actually measured. They are given a life value. And each year it is revalued, based on one's standing in life. That value is what the State is willing to invest in them—food, clothing, medical care, and other things. Of course, we are told this is the most efficient way of distributing our valuable resources. I may still be young, but I have learned such propaganda is full of lies, otherwise why value one human over another? I was taught God equally values all His creations, that we will all be judged based on our works and not our earthly wealth. I focus on my meditation again. Despite all I see every day I am hopeful; I am a free man, despite appearances otherwise.

I start to run through the first ten amendments of the Constitution of the United States of America, an extraordinary country based on freedom and faith. My father explained and re-explained, drilling into me, the ideas of the forefathers and their contributions when establishing America as a republic.

What's the difference between a republic and democracy? In a democracy, everyone votes for everything; a new road is needed, the people have to vote on it. In a republic, the people elect officials who then make the decisions. One of the reasons the United States of America fell was because they moved from a democratic republic to a pure democracy.

There is one fact above all others my father has made sure I know: George Washington's birthday was February 22, 1732.

I continue to meditate on George Washington and how I wish I could be like him. In Valley Forge, when his men had no housing except tents, George Washington was offered a comfortable house to live in, but he declined, saying if his men slept in tents, so would he. Having such courage during such a time of disparity gives me hope that someday another will rise up just like George Washington. Someone who will value his people more than his very life. Someone who will again bring to light life and liberty. I cannot help but start to feel excitement and renewed hope, knowing someday such a thing could happen again. I am pondering this when the smell of the beans hit my nose and I remember the plight of my mother. I stand up, stepping back over pots full of vegetation, and open the screen door. I walk up to my mother and take the spoon from her hand.

Smiling up at me, she says, "Thank you, John." She heads towards the back of the house, I assume to lie down. If we had air-conditioning, then I wouldn't have to worry about my mother or the need to stir beans on a hot day, but complaints about things like that don't change anything. I finish the beans to a soft creamy perfection, and I awake my mother and we eat a fantastic meal made all the better by my mother's smile. My watch starts to beep at me and I look down at it.

# Chapter 6

"Oh, that's right, tonight is the meeting of The Young Statesmen," I say out loud. The meeting is mandatory for everyone between the ages of twelve to eighteen. They take place about once a month and usually include ice cream, which is more than enough reason for most people to go and allow themselves to be propagandized. It's funny to think the State has managed to make people think they are the only solution, that there is no other option.

In the beginning, according to my parents, more people spoke out because they remembered the old ways. Most of them are long gone. At first, the State ignored those who spoke out, but as the State's power grew, so did their policies and those who abused the new regulations of the State were said to be conspirators against the State. Most of the time they were executed to show the consequence of rebellion. So the rebellions faded as time passed.

I quickly shower for the second time today, grateful for the luxury to do this. I dress again in my uniform and walk the short distance to the church building in which the meeting is held. It's ironic that we meet in an edifice of God, where no words are spoken or allowed except those who have been assigned to do so. We are taught that we are watched over by the State and we are here solely to serve the needs of the State.

I enter the musty smelling building. Its brown pews with red cushions look to be hundreds of years old. I sit in the back next to my friends and a few members of my squad, and we listen to the official ramble on about how "all things you have are from the State, and it is because of the State that you have anything at all." And then they say, "Don't listen to your parents, the State knows what's best for you. Your parents don't know anything, only the State can help you. Listen to us, we are your friends. We care about you; the president cares about you. He wants only what's best for you."

I seriously doubt anyone believes what this man is saying, but if they do, I feel sorry for them. They believe in a world where everyone has to be told what to do. That no one would do anything good or anything helpful or anything charitable, if the State doesn't tell them to. That is a sad belief in humanity. I believe as my father does, that people, in general, want to do the right thing. They want to help each other and when they see a need, they will fill it, if only given the chance.

Such discussions are forbidden, because the State believes it would cause a rift amongst the people. It is why the State was created in the first place, so people would be treated equal. If that were the case, then why is it that the Young Army has special privileges? Why is it that only certain families have permits to grow a garden? Why is it that each person is given a life value each year, and it is what determines what the State will invest in them, and if it exceeds such resources, then that person is allowed to become extinct?

Such questions rush through my mind as I continue to hear the bantering of the State representative, who, might I add, is wearing very costly apparel and was driven to the church in an air-conditioned car. How do I know this? Well, simply by the fact that when he stepped out of his car his windows were still rolled up, which no one would do on such a hot, blistering day even if they did happen to have a car to drive in the first place!

When the propaganda speeches conclude, I get ice cream with the rest of them. I see Stephanie Jenkins standing near the door; she eats her ice cream slowly. I think she is trying to leave with hers in order to take it home for her little brothers and sisters.

I walk casually over to her. "How is it going, Stephanie?" I ask.

"Not good, John, not good at all. The little ones are so hungry, all they do is cry. Mark brought some things home from lunch, but it wasn't enough. I don't know how to get them to bed tonight with them being as hungry as they are. They don't understand. But how can we make them understand, how does someone so young understand hunger?"

I put my arm around her and walk her quietly and quickly to the front door. We are not supposed to leave with our ice cream. What we don't finish is supposed to stay here, but I know no one will question me. So when no one is looking, I scrape mine out of my dish and into hers and send her through the doorway and on her way home. I put my disposable bowl in the trash and start my own trek home, grateful to be away.

Away from the continuous lies we are bombarded with, I wonder how this great nation had gone backwards and why the people don't fight back! I feel anger building within my breast, and so I take a few deep breaths to relax myself before the watch, which is always monitoring, responds to my increased heart rate. Though the watch can do a lot of things, it still does not have the capacity to read our minds, though I would not be surprised if the State were working on such a device.

I am most of the way home when Sean, Lane, Frank, and Jackson catch up to me.

"Hey, man, what have you been doing with yourself?" Frank asks me.

"Not much, just staying in shape, doing homework, you know how it is," I answer.

"Really? Because I heard that you handled three of the toughest cadets in the Young Army single-handedly!"

"Well, we had a new program from the State, and we tried it out today. I guess I was kind of lucky." I can't believe it has gotten out so fast, but what do you expect when you are the best in your group and people have a tendency to over exaggerate.

"Oh, man, all work and no play makes you a very dull boy, John," Sean says. "This weekend, Sandra is having a party at her house you need to come; it's going to be the best."

"Okay, sounds like fun," I say, stopping in front of my house.

"John Hancock Bates, get in here now," my mother's voice rings through the night air. "John Hancock Bates, get in this house, your father wants to have a word with you, mister!"

"John Hancock? Ha, ha, put your John Hancock here," Lane says, pointing to his hand and pretending it is a piece of paper. The others join in on the joke, but they seem unsure as to why it is funny. At first, I think I should put my John Hancock on his face, now he has caused me to be late and in trouble. But I know if I do my parents would be even more upset with me. Either way, his remarks don't bother me; I am surprised he actually knows the saying. Only older adults know it nowadays, but even they don't really know how the saying started.

I am named John Hancock after John Hancock, the original signer of the Declaration of Independence of the United States of America; he wrote his name on the Declaration of Independence with very big letters so "the King of England would not have to put his glasses on to read it." John put his life, his fortune, and his sacred honor on the line for the cause of freedom. One could still see most of his signature, one of the few things still visible on the original document. Or at least, they could before they burned it. That's why my parents named me John Hancock, so someday I, too, will stand forth boldly for freedom like John Hancock and the others, such as George Washington and Benjamin Franklin. Men who had bravely put their names on documents they believed in. Documents like Declaration of Independence and the Constitution of the United States of America that would provide freedom for themselves and others, even though it might cost them their very lives.

I run up the sidewalk and onto the front porch, taking care not to step on any of the dandelions. My mother's diminutive but authoritative figure stands in the doorway. I hurry inside.

"Hurry, close the door, your father is watching a recording of You Know Who, and I don't want the neighbors to hear."

I close the door as quickly as possible. "Which episode is he watching?"

"One of the Founders," she whispers as I hear my father turn off the television.

I walk into the living room where my father is sitting in his favorite chair with the Bible in his lap. Next to him is a pile of seemingly unending food.

"What is the meaning of this, John?" he asks, pointing to the pile of food next to the chair. "You know I don't like to take things from the government. It's bad enough that they already send home more food than you can possibly eat."

I want to argue I can more than easily eat all that food, but I hold my tongue. "Now they tell us your rations are being doubled. You know we can't take from the government and become free. We must stand on our own two feet. If we take from them, they own us. We are bought and paid for."

I hear the anger in my father's calm voice. My father's parents had high integrity and fought valiantly to protect the freedoms of this land. In the end, it was my grandmother who was taken by the State, because she continually spoke out against it. My grandfather and their children fled to survive, in hopes someday we and others would rise to stop the State and make this country once again free.

My father rarely speaks of the night his mother was taken. My father had to grow up quickly and in some ways this had hardened him. But thanks to my mother who met him in his early adult years, he has learned to channel the energy to do good and to prepare for the time when all good people will stand united to once again make this a free country.

"Mark's father lost his job" is all I say.

"I see," my father says, sitting back into his chair, "Well then, you brought this food to our door tonight, You will be the one to take it to Mark's."

"Yes, sir," I say, saluting my father and dashing off to wait for it to be dark enough for me to take the food to Mark's house. In my room, I wonder again why so many have to suffer because of a handful of self-serving people. How did the State ever manage to usurp so much power it now oversees almost the entire world with but a few left to fight against this massive machine?

Later that night, in the cover of darkness, I steal away to Mark's home, dropping off the life-saving boxes of food that I know will keep his family going. I can't carry it all in one trip but when I turn around to get the rest, I find my father with the rest of the food. Silently, he places the food on the step and knocks so hard on the frail wooden door that it shakes from the onslaught. When a light turns on inside, we back off into the darkness so we will not be seen.

# Chapter 7

When we get back to our own home, my father grabs me in one of his famous bear hugs.

"I'm so pleased with you, John. Not only did you get the help the Jenkins's needed, but you did so without anyone knowing." He holds me for a moment longer and then releases me, sending me off to bed; it is late already. I am still not tired, having the feeling of joy running through my body, knowing I was able to help a family in need and their children would not have to go without food.

Before I turn off the light in my room, I hear sounds coming from my parent's bedroom.

"Ha ha ha," and again, "Ha ha ha," and again, "Ha ha ha ha."

Laughter is required; supposedly people who laugh three times or more a day are less likely to have cancer, so laughter is required. Obviously my father had no cause to laugh today. The watches keep track of our laughter, how much we walk, how much we eat, and everything else that keeps us in compliance with the government. I examine my own watch; I see the black bands under my skin. I must have been in complete compliance today because as I lay down on my bed, the watch does not beep at me.

What happens to you if you're not in compliance? Well, first the State send a warning but if it doesn't work, they will come and get you, take you away from your friends and family, torture and brainwash you, and finally let you go, in some place you've never been, having no idea who you are and where you came from. Before there were watches, people were made to wear little collars that gave you electric shocks when you did something wrong, but people grew resistant and some purposely shocked themselves to death in rebellion against the government. Though the State claims these are necessary tactics to help keep society clean and in order, I feel we are nothing more than animals in a zoo, locked in our cages with little to no freedoms. Simply pawns to be used according to the State's bidding.

I feel bad for keeping my father awake so long as I know how early he has to get up in order to get to the shipping yard. Everything Alabama needs ships through his yard first. My father is the foreman, a good job, but not the one my father would have chosen for himself if he were allowed. Instead, he would have chosen to be an instructor of martial arts like his father, but owning one's own business is no longer permitted.

All businesses are government owned and a self-defense class is not deemed necessary by the government. In fact, such businesses were outlawed because of the simple fact the State would not allow the people to ever become self-reliant. If they did, then the State's purpose would be lost. Now a generation has passed, not knowing what freedom is. But are trained to be completely reliant upon the State.

It's much like how young captive elephants are trained: as youths they are bound by heavy chains that are connected to a stake it is driven deep into the ground, so it is impossible for them to pull it out. As adults these same elephants are now more than able to pull out the small stakes they are tied to, but because of what they remember, they don't believe they can. Much of this is the same today: most of humanity complies with what the State wants, and the few who choose to rebel pay a price, which in many cases is the loss of their existence.

I lay in bed unable to sleep immediately, so I use the meditation techniques my father has taught me. I see myself as I wish to be, a free man living in a free world. Nothing much has changed, but I no longer wear a watch. I let my hair grow a little longer, I still run everywhere because I love it, and I wear blue jeans and a green T-shirt every day to school. Finally, I drift off to sleep, my thoughts and feelings of freedom following me into my dreams.

The next day as I run past the Jenkins's house again, Stephanie once again greets me.

"Thank you, John," she said her brown eyes shining.

How has she figured out that it was I who had left all the food at her door?

"For what?" I ask nervously.

"For the ice cream, silly," she says, as she tucks her blond hair behind her ear and kisses me on the cheek. She skips back into her home.

At lunch, Mark eats a bologna sandwich contentedly without a word. It is crazy to think a bologna sandwich is gourmet, but compared to the poison they try to feed us at the cafeteria, it is exquisite. Knowing I am able to help my friend and his family in their time of need gives me hope that change can happen if we would only unite and stand against this monstrosity known as the State.

Unfortunately, the high of helping my friend leaves me ill-prepared for what I am about to face during Young Army training.

As I dress in my workout clothes, Sergeant Epps comes up to me, places his arm on my shoulder, and says, "John, someone is here to see you today. If you do well this could be very good for you." What this means exactly and how it will be good for me, I have no idea, but I decide to pull out all the stops for the man in a green Army hat and sunglasses who sits in the bleachers with a clipboard. I run faster, beating the school's all-time record. I run what we call the gauntlet, which is nothing but a fancy name for an obstacle course. It is made up of climbing ropes, crawling through tunnels, and scaling walls, all at a record pace—for the sake of this unknown stranger. For some reason I feel compelled to do well. I push myself to do more sit-ups and work harder beyond anything I have ever done before.

Then comes the unexpected, "Okay, gentleman, today we are going to do that special program the State has just implemented, but this time you will be going against some special guests!" I suddenly feel tense deep within my breast, and my heart rate starts to go up. I know this is not some sort of game but the final exam. For what and to what end? I don't know, but I know that our lives will be changed after today.

"I would like to introduce you to a specialized group of State soldiers known as Steel." The Sarge states this with complete calmness, but with an underlying tone that lets me know this group is not ordinary. The man with the clipboard moves from the bleachers to stand on the field with Sergeant Epps. At first, as we peer around, we see no one; but then out from behind the storage house on the school grounds we see a group of ten men appear. At first, they look as normal as any men I have seen, but as they approach that changes completely. They are in perfect form, marching in unison with one another. Their builds are muscular and in their eyes is a nothingness. Not like no one is home, but like a deep pit of darkness. They care nothing for the world, only to serve the State.

"Men, these men will be your enemy today! You will be in charge of defending the State from these men! The exercise will not stop until either the enemy has been neutralized or you have been defeated!" The Sergeant's voice echoes off the empty bleachers as no one replies, fully understanding that this was not going to be fun.

"Sarge?" David Patlow mutters.

"Something wrong, David?" Sergeant Epps asks. The man with the clipboard standing a little bit away from Sergeant Epps adjusts his sunglass and cap.

"Are they not going to put on the special gear?" David asks, seeing we outnumber the Steel group 2.8 to 1. David understands we are just high schoolers but we are one of the best groups on the continent, if not the world. But I know better than to ask such an ill-advised question. Something is off about these guys. Something I don't want to find out.

"No, son, they are the State's most elite group, and they are here to see if any of you are ready for the next step! I wouldn't be so worried about them as you should be for yourself, because today we are going to find out what each of you is made of! Men, the objective is simple—neutralize the Enemy. If you are taken down, knocked out, or tap out, then you will be eliminated from this exercise. But I assure you the Team Steel has no intention of doing anything of the sort. To make things fair, we are only going to have three of Team Steel participate in this exercise. Which means you will have an advantage of eight to one, which should make the odds more than acceptable. So let's get this party started, boys!"

At first, I am relieved knowing we now only have to fight three of them against twenty four of us. But I look over to the side, where I watch one of the Steel members pick up one of the metal pipes we use as practice to defend from an attacker and bend like it was nothing! Another literally back flips standing in place but lands in a perfect handstand. I can barely swallow and almost forget to breathe because of what I am seeing.

Three of the Team Steel men go into the center of the circle, but I don't have any of the confidence I had moments ago when I think about the eight to one odds. I hear David whisper to me.

"Did you see that? Are these guys even human? We better hit them hard and fast or we won't have a chance." I nod in agreement. The horn sounds off for the exercise to begin. It's funny how fast rivals can become allies.

As we try to figure out what we are going to do, the three Steel members rush us! This is not something we are exactly trained on. I watch as one of my fellow team members takes a hit to the body and then is kicked in the torso and flies back twenty feet and lays unconscious on the ground. I don't have time to wonder if he is okay. These guys mean business and have no concern for us, except to win. Another of my team members attempts a kick to the head of our enemy—to no avail—and finds himself swept by his leg and put into a choke hold, which leaves him incapacitated within seconds. Before we know it, eleven of our twenty-eight are hurt, knocked out, or have tapped out of the exercise.

"We must regroup, come to me now!" I yell, and my army gathers to me quickly.

"We must stay in a tight formation and not allow our fears to take us out of this exercise, you five will take him, you five will take him, and you three will come with me to handle what appears to be their leader." As I finish my order, our enemy comes for a second onslaught, but this time we are better prepared.

Sarge had said there were no rules, and so I immediately take in my surroundings to see what could be used as a weapon. All I find is a broken broomstick and a water hose still attached to its spigot, but it is all I need. As my three other team members try to combat what appears to be someone more machine than man, I realize this is an impossible task. I pick up the broken broomstick as three bodies go flying in three different directions. Now it is my turn.

With stick in hand, I calmly approach my opponent. I know I have only one shot of making this work. I see my opponent has a smirk on his face. Obviously, we are good entertainment, but I have no time to play. I take the broomstick and quickly fling it like a boomerang toward my assailant, and he veers out of its reach with a backhand spring. He continues to spring toward the water hose. I sprint and pull on the hose in a swing motion toward my new "friend" as he is coming down. I catch him by his knees and slam him into the hard clay earth. He is stunned. We jump him and within moments, he is subdued. Silence is upon us. We look around and see his two comrades staring directly at us their eyes alive with a dark fire.

I assess. Only ten of our twenty team members are left, but now we know they can be beaten. It is time to use this to our advantage. For the first time, the two remaining Steel team members are allowing their emotions to override their logic. Now I know their weakness—they are arrogant.

"Hey! Is this the best you got? I thought you guys were supposed to be the best! Maybe you are back home but not in our town!" I yell. I am looking for a response and I get one. They rush toward me, not focusing on anything but me. If I was the only one fighting them, that might be okay. But when I have two super soldiers coming at me and the rest of my team is looking to me, I know I have to act quickly. The man with the clipboard gives a brief nod to the two remaining Steel members.

Luckily, I'm not the only one thinking quickly. As I see them running across the field, I notice David coming across and interlocks his legs on one of the Steel team members, slamming him to the ground. Both roll up onto their feet, but the Steel member is dazed and before he knows it, he is hit twice with two roundhouse kicks to his legs, knocking him back to the ground while two other members of my team jump on him with their knees to further immobilize and take him out. Good job, David. I have no time or convenience to praise out loud.

Now we are down to one opponent, but he is not so easily surprised. Two of my Young Army team members are eliminated with a simple backhand. They're both holding their noses, blood pouring from between their fingertips. He simply looks at me and grins. And for the first he time speaks.

"You're dead, you cocky little punk! You are going to pay!"

Yeah, this one is real mad. But I can tell that even in his incredible condition he is starting to tire. He is not as great as he thinks. Though we are not as strong or as mature, we are the best in our entire region, which is why we are giving these highly trained soldiers a run for their money. I look at my other team members and give them the sign to back away, the look on their faces is simply are you crazy? At this point, I know I am able to handle this, if I keep my head on straight or don't get it knocked off.

"Well, I look pretty lively for being a dead person." I reply to his angry taunts. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice the clipboard man speedily jotting down things. I wonder what he could possibly be writing about with so much vigor, but I don't have any time to spare for questions.

"That's it. Go ahead and make jokes, because when I am done with you and your pretend soldier friends here, you will wish you never stepped on this field!" He runs at me like an out-of-control bull seeing red.

As he rushes me, I run into him. We clench each other's arms. One might wonder why I would do such a thing, especially when we were trained to do otherwise. But my father's reality based training tells me when I go into my enemy, their options are limited. Especially when they have allowed their emotions to override common sense. Generally speaking, he has run through his adrenalin, and he is now running strictly on his conditioning. Having to do this against twenty-four of us, I would say he is down to about forty to fifty percent of his true capacity. I hope it is enough and that I am now able to compensate against him, since I am not as exhausted as he is at this point.

I control my emotions. But grabbing him was like grabbing rock and the power is still more than I had never encountered. Luck is on my side; he is fatigued and not thinking clearly. Feeling him exert his strength to push me back, I spread my legs to allow me to keep a strong balance position while he wastes his precious energy. As I feel him tire further, I quickly put my hands on the outside of his shoulders and come across with my right elbow as my father had trained me, breaking his grip on that side and giving him a stunning blow to his jaw. The Steel soldier staggers to one side while I rush in, this time kneeing him multiple times to his abdomen and pulling his head downward where he meets a powerful blow, knocking him to the ground.

I watch him fall. Normally, the fight would have been over but no, these guys are made differently and I can only watch in complete surprise when he arises with his bloody mouth and states, "What, you thought it was going to be that easy!"

My dad's cardinal rules jumps into my mind—Never underestimate your opponent!

I quickly make a statement, which had worked yesterday with David.

"Hey, where are you going to take us to eat after this is all over?" At that moment, as he looks at me in confusion, I stepped in with a front kick to the groin which stuns him enough to allow me to follow up with a low roundhouse kick to his left thigh, dropping him to one knee. I follow through with a left hook, causing him to fall to his left side. He catches himself with his hand before he hits the ground. I step around to his backside where I place a sleeper hold on him, cutting off his air. With all my remaining strength, I hold on. I am stunned as he tries to break my hold, even as exhausted and hurt as he is.

An unfamiliar voice calls out, "That's enough, John, let him go!" I look up to see it is clipboard man who has given the command. I let go of the Steel soldier as he slides to the ground. I stand, and the man with the clipboard meets my eyes. There is almost a smile there. A smile that gives me the creeps, making me feel like it would be better to be the one with my face in the dirt instead of standing here dusting off my hands on the legs of my pants.

My Young Army team members cheer in victory—or at least those of us still conscious—as the clipboard man gives me a quick, approving nod. Even after catching my breath, he shows no emotion to what has transpired. I know we didn't beat the entire Steel team, but I thought having never met them or trained like them, defeating three of them was an amazing accomplishment and surely we deserved some sort of honorable mention! Either way, he is busy scribbling on his clipboard when my team comes up and launches me into the air, excited that we had done so well with the exercise. Even Sergeant Epps is smiling, which was a rarity but again, how often do you get to see your team take on the best and actually survive? Let's just say I hope we don't have to do that again anytime soon because my heart is still beating a thousand times a minute.

I must have done pretty well, because Sergeant Epps gives me a rare compliment. "Good job out there today, John," he says. But I don't understand why it is important and what have I done that merits the compliment.

When we are done, he leaves, speaking only to Sergeant Epps saying, "You'll hear from me tomorrow."

"You did really good today, John. This will be really good for you," Sergeant Epps whispers in an excited tone after the man has left.

Good for me how? At that moment, I wonder what would happen if I had purposely flunked the test, but I'll never know the road I didn't take. Sometimes when it comes to the State, it is better not to do well. Especially when it changes one life forever. But being in the Young Army has given me special privileges my family otherwise would have not enjoyed. It's like choosing from two evils, hoping the one you get is the lesser of the two.

I run home as it starts to rain. I am grateful to find we are having leftovers, no more beans to cook tonight. It is Wednesday night, and we are off to church. Church services start promptly at six thirty on Wednesdays.

Attending church on Wednesdays and Sundays is required here in the South, unlike other parts of the State. It is a tradition in the South to attend church both days, so we are required to attend both meetings. My father hates it and constantly rants about hypocrites and all the State-run propaganda that fills the hour and a half we sit there. We go because those who have refused in the past have been punished severely, and there are even some that have never been seen again. What is the oddest part is when someone does go missing or is removed, the State acts like they never existed. It is part of their fear tactics, making it obvious that those who would even dare to stand against their policies, rules, and regulations will find the same result—extinction.

When we return home, my father and mother close all the curtains in the house and open the secret panel in the wall and pull out my parents' most prized possession: the Bible. Only ministers are allowed to have Bibles or portions of it authorized by the State, but somehow my father had gotten a copy. So here after church my father reads and expounds on the teachings of the scriptures. And truly, I had never heard any sermons that compare to the sermons my father teaches in our little house.

"Men may enslave in the name of religion," my father says as he starts his sermon tonight, "but God will set you free. No one who truly serves God enslaves. God made men free, free to choose life or death, liberty or captivity. You are free to choose what you will do, what you think, and how you act. And if it seem evil unto you to serve the Lord, choose you this day whom ye will serve; whether the gods which your fathers served that were on the other side of the flood, or the gods of the Amorites, in whose land ye dwell: but as for me and my house, we will serve the Lord."

# Chapter 8

When I arrive at school the next day, I am called into the office. As I enter, I see my father and mother are also there along with one of the school of ministers. A man in his thirties takes us to his desk, and we all sit down. "We received a call from the State officials saying that it's time for John's yearly checkup."

"But John won't be sixteen for seven more months, yet," my mother said.

"I don't know about that. All I know is that you or your husband must take John to the doctor's today. The appointment is at eleven, but I would arrive early as you know how these things are."

"I'll take him, Martha," my father offers. "I'm already missing work, I might as well."

My mother nods with a concerned look on her face. We always try to stay well within compliance, since we do not want to draw any undue attention to ourselves.

"John is, of course, excused from school for the rest of the day," the plump man said with a cat-like smile. My father nods and stands. My mother follows his example, and the three of us walk out of the school together.

"Go home, Martha, get some sleep. I'm still worried about you." My mother nods and starts the two-mile walk home. Father and I, on the other hand, walk the two blocks to the bus station. I am wondering why I am being told to have my yearly medical checkup. This has never happened before and obviously with me helping to beat an elite team of the State's, surely I am in tip-top shape. Maybe the State got word of our Steel team training yesterday. Maybe they are worried I am hurt and want me to be checked out. Maybe the whole squad has to go in for a checkup. Even though I feel fine, I don't argue because there is no point.

We stand there under a dingy and gray Plexiglas structure. It is easier to see through cement than the old Plexiglas. What makes matters worse is, whether standing out in the hot sun or under this Plexiglass, it still feels like a baking oven! At times, I wonder if I will ever understand why such things happen. What is the point of my life? How can I be who I need to be if I can't make my own way?

We stand there forty-five minutes before the bus finally comes, wheezing as it does. My father lets his watch be scanned twice, once for me and once for himself. All credits for everything are stored inside the watches. I know this will cost my father serious bus credits having to take me to the doctor's unexpectedly, but I don't have my own bus credits. The State has decided I have no real reason to travel. It intrigues me how the State decides who and what gets certain credits based on what they term a need. Everything is based on life value and what one can give to the State. The more I am valued by the State, the more special treatment I receive.

My dad tells of a time when everyone could choose where to go and where to stay without the State involving itself. But when the State came to power, that all ended. This happened because humanity had gone too long without direction or boundaries. We were labeled as a society of misfits, having gone so long without purpose, and needed to be governed or humanity would be destroyed. All this runs through my mind as we both enter the unmaintained bus. All the seats are worn and faded. Duct tape is apparently the only means used for repair but again, at least we didn't have to walk in the blistering hot sun to this unexpected doctor's appointment.

I look around at the other passengers. No one smiles and some appear scared, like this is going to be their last trip. It is unusually quiet. Even the bus driver seems unsettled as he stares at us. Why, I do not know. He writes something down on a notepad and then whispers something into what appears to be a very old walkie-talkie. I only hear, "The package is on its way." What package is he referring to? I scan the bus and see nothing but other passengers. My father directs me to one of the available seats where we settle ourselves.

We travel past factories and other houses; everything looks old and rundown. Blight is what they used to call it when part of a city grew old with decay. Now everywhere, all of the city is blighted. Anything new or well kept sticks out like a sore thumb. I see old, rusted vehicles and abandoned buildings the State has condemned. Some of the signage can still be read: Bob's Barber Shop, Beverly's Dance School, and others that that are burned so badly that I can't. It appears a battle raged here at one point, by the looks of the scorched buildings. The area appears to be no more than a ghost town. As a child, you never really pay attention to these things since everywhere looks the same. But this time feels different. I can sense the tension coming from my father. Since we sat down, he has had his eyes closed. It looks like he is meditating. My dad never does this in public. I am concerned, wondering if he knows something I don't. I want to ask but do not want to interrupt his prayer.

The doctor's office is in one of the buildings with shiny glass and metal frame. It stands on the street like a jewel. Supposedly, we have one of the best facilities in the State. In fact, the State runs special projects there for the betterment of humanity, which my father laughs at each time he hears that. In fact, he always will say something like, "Yeah, more like for the betterment of who they want to help themselves," or "To think the majority of the ill-informed believe this!" But he is very careful about what he says and to whom he says it to.

Nowadays, because of their desperation, people will tell on people like my father because the State knows there are still factions out there that are looking to revolt, and so they have started what they term Help Your Neighbor or Friend Program. This is when someone informs the State of potential individuals that are showing signs they do not believe in the State and need help or redirection. People who submit such intel are rewarded with State benefits others are not privy to. They generally are known as informants and become a valuable State asset. My dad refers to them as traitors and not to be trusted.

The bus stops just outside the shining building. We step off and the heat from the asphalt reaches up its sticky fingers to greet me. Before the door to the bus slams shut, I hear the bus driver whisper into the walkie-talkie, stating, "The package has been delivered." What is he talking about, and why is he whispering such a coded message?

I look at my father to see if he has heard what the bus driver said, but my father says nothing; he marches forward to the glass monster. I have not seen my dad this serious about a doctor's appointment before. He appears be on high alert, but why? This is supposed to be nothing more than a routine checkup. This is a waste of our time and credits, but no one dares to question the State. I don't want to be one of those who disappear, never to be seen or heard of again.

Suddenly, I am uneasy, like I am five and I know I am going to get a shot. I know at this moment when I go into the doctor's office, I will not like what I hear. Instinctively, I know my life is about to change. But how and more importantly, why?

We enter the lobby with its red carpet and approach the metal elevator. Inside it feels like a refrigerator compared to the blistering heat we felt outside. Why does this building get such nice treatment while the majority suffer so much? It feels like such a waste, especially with the large amount of open space that is not even used. My father pushes the button and the doors open. I remember being young, coming to the doctor's and loving to push the buttons. The elevator seemed like such a fantastic machine. Now I wish it would not work and it would keep us from our destination. But it does work, and the bell dings signaling our arrival. We stride forward to room 205, Dr. Wilson's office, and open the door.

# Chapter 9

As we walk in, I look around. Not one of my platoon members is here. We sign in and are sitting down when the nurse opens the door that leads to the examination rooms.

"John Bates."

"Here," my father calls in surprise, looking away from the magazine he had picked up. Normally, it takes hours to see the doctor. My father puts down the magazine, and we follow the nurse back through the door that separates the patients from the doctors. The nurse checks my weight, my height, my temperature, and my blood pressure and leads us back to exam room number three. My father has not yet even picked out another old magazine before the doctor comes in. Dr. Wilson has been my government assigned doctor since I was an infant, but it is not Dr. Wilson who comes through the cream door dressed in a white jacket with the medical folder displaying my name on it.

"Where is Dr. Wilson?" my father asks with his body tense as he thumbs through a magazine that is over three years old. By his tone, I can tell my father is concerned. He has taught me to know my surroundings and look for inconsistencies. Already, yellow flags of warning are going up in my mind. Between us getting a request for an unscheduled exam and getting into our appointment immediately, and now a new doctor we have never seen or heard of, something is not right.

"He's on vacation," the doctor answers.

I look at my father questioningly. I have never known Dr. Wilson to take a vacation. "I'm Dr. Smith and I am filling in for Dr. Wilson for a short time." My father nods, but he is examining Dr. Smith, and I can tell he is not fully accepting his explanation of Dr. Wilson's whereabouts. But he sits down and proceeds to thumb through the aged magazine.

Dr. Smith checks my reflexes, examines my eyes, looks into my throat and my ears, and does all the other things that have been done at my other checkups. But then for the first time ever, he orders a number of tests to be done: blood work, x-rays, MRIs. I have always spent as little time at the doctor's office that I possibly can get away with, but even I know getting all these tests will take all day, if not the rest of the week. But after Dr. Smith walks us to a separate waiting room, where people wait to get their blood work done, we are seen right away. Then again at the x-rays and MRIs, we are given first priority.

So after only a few hours, we are once again in exam room number three. We both sit in silence, but I can tell something is not right. I am unable to put my finger on it, but I know the State would never bother putting these types of resources into any individual unless they had a reason. A reason that would benefit them. But I am only a fifteen-year-old with little to no great accomplishments. I'm smart but not a super genius.

My father sits quietly with his eyes closed. He must be trying to understand what is on going with his only son.

Still, after all these tests, I assume they will find nothing. I've never been sick, have always exercised, and eat very well; surely nothing is wrong with me. So it comes as a surprise when the doctor comes in, carrying a stack of test results, that his face is grave and stern. I am leaning against the examining table. Father is still sitting quietly, meditating like he is in another universe.

"Mr. Bates, John, I think you better sit down for this." I hop up on the examining table. "No, John, I think it would be better, if you sat in one of the chairs," he says, pointing to the black plastic chair next to the one my father is already sitting in.

I slide off the exam table and sit, my father now has his eyes open, looking directly at Dr. Smith, waiting on news that seems to be urgent. "I'm sorry to be the one that has to tell you this but John has hypertrophic cardiomyopathy."

"What does that mean?" my father asks, putting his arm around me.

"Hypertrophic cardiomyopathy is a disease of the heart muscle in which a portion of the heart muscle is thickened."

"When did this happen? How did it happen?" my father questions, giving the doctor his full attention.

"Most likely, John was born with this condition and over time for reasons we're unsure of, his heart began to thicken," the doctor says as he rustles through his pile of papers, to find some sort of literature on the subject. He gives a pamphlet to my father, who ignores it and presses the doctor with more questions.

"What?" my father questions the doctor, almost yelling, with his stern voice. "How can that possibly be? We have no family history. John is healthy as a horse, and now you tell me he has a heart problem?"

I have never seen my father this way. He is always calm and collected and has always instructed me to control my emotions or they will control me. My mind is becoming foggy, unclear, with this horrific news. I am going to die. It is a death certificate. No more credits. I will be deemed unworthy. Dad and Mom will have to feed me on their credits until I will perish. The Johnson children will now die because no extra food will come for me from the Young Army.

"Sometimes these things just happen." I can tell the doctor is concerned with my father's reaction, but he maintains his composure. "See here," the doctor says, pulling out a picture of a heart, which really could have been anyone's heart. "This is John's heart and this is what a proper heart should look like." He pulls out another picture of the heart, and honestly I can't tell the difference between the two pictures.

I can tell my father isn't buying what the doctor is selling. "Why hasn't anyone ever noticed this before?"

"Besides his heart, John seems like a perfectly healthy young man. Sometimes people don't think to check these things." The doctor opens his clipboard. "We need to take care of this right away. Birmingham is the best place. Do you think you can have John in Birmingham at the UAB Hospital by Monday?"

They are going to treat me? Why? Why me? Are there not hundreds of others who deserve the help more than I? I have never seen the State move like this for anyone, and now they are going to go through the expense of helping me, a fifteen-year-old in a small city, heal my heart. I know I am in the Young Army, but to go through such an expense makes me question their motives. For a moment, I place my right hand over the place where my heart is and feel my heart beat, trying to see what the doctor is even talking about. I feel no abnormality or shortness of breath. Just the day before, I had taken on the State's most elite tactical group and felt no residual affects, and now this doctor is telling me I have a major heart issue!

"Monday?" My father leans forward in his chair, his whole face questioning the doctor.

"Yes, we'll make sure you have a pass for work and tickets loaded to both of your watches, so you may take him."

"Surely there are other patients in line for a surgery like this?"

"Of course," the doctor says, his hands waving off my father's question, "but the government feels they have an investment here with your son. His potential to serve the greater good is vast, and the time and money already put into him in training, food, clothes, and equipment warrants his move to the top of the list."

I guess I should feel honored that the State finds me so valuable. But how many people have suffered and suffer now because the State does not see their value, or cares what happens to them or their family, based on a system they have implemented? Where is the humanity of saying that one individual is more valuable over another, yet here we are. It just happens, for whatever the reason, my life is considered valuable enough by the State to be given this treatment.

Fear starts to fill my breast, not knowing what will be asked of me now that I am receiving such attention, something I don't want to even conceive. What will they want in return for such a gift?

Saying we have no other choice is an understatement, so of course, my father answers, "We will be there." He is shaking his head as if he doesn't quite believe the words of the doctor, but what can we do?

There's no option for a second opinion. It is surgery or nothing, not doing what the doctor deems medically necessary for you could warrant your dismissal from all medical care for your entire life. When a government doctor says it is so, it is so. If I don't get the treatment, I might be taken away from my parents, the State accusing them of child abuse and placing them in jail, with me forced to get heart surgery, anyway. Why now? How did this ever come to this point, my mind again is filled with uncertainty. I can only imagine what my mother will think when she is told concerning the heart surgery.

"John, of course, is not to attend school until he has recovered from surgery. We don't want to push that heart of his. I will call the school today and let them know that you're permanently excused."

My father nods with blank eyes, eyes that no longer seem to see the white and cream examination room but are somewhere else entirely. My father, who has always been a picture of health and vitality in my life, suddenly seems frail and old. I have to help him out of the black chair, out of the exam room, out of the doctor's office, out of the elevator, and out of the glass and metal building.

# Chapter 10

After a long, silent bus ride, we arrive home. It is already dark, but Mom still has a warm dinner for us. We say blessing on the food, and we check our watches. Dad explains to Mom what the doctor said. I think he still doesn't believe the doctor. His anger and distrust of him is evident in his words that flow freely over the dinner table.

Things don't seem right to me or to my father, but my mother thinks differently, "I'm sure the government wouldn't make you get open-heart surgery when the nation's healthcare has so little."

There is, of course, no second opinion, so it really doesn't matter what my father and I believe. My mother is an optimist, even when the situation appears gloomy and even when the State is involved. It is a quality that has helped me during my life, and has made dealing with the State almost bearable.

That night, I can hardly sleep. My mind is racing over what is happening. Just the day before, I had beaten, with my fellow Young Army members, an elite group of State soldiers. Now all that work and experience is gone due to my stupid heart. Why is this happening to me? I don't completely believe what I have been told. The State has made countless mistakes. How many have died because of their foolish lack of care? Will I be one of those?

I can feel my heart racing with adrenaline. But I don't feel any pain or anything that clues me into the problem with it. With my strength and my training, my physical body has only increased, and my mind is sharp. But here I lie waiting on my future with surgery. Something does not add up. What choice do I have but to go through with it? I close my eyes and say a silent prayer, a prayer that I hope I am able to endure what I am about to go through.

The next morning, I awake a little earlier than normal knowing I did not have to go to school. I am of course excused from school because of my poor heart condition, though I feel perfectly fine. It gives me time to be with my mom and spend the day with just the two of us. I help her make bread, weed the garden, and can some tomatoes. Even though she tries to hide it, I can tell my mother is worried—worried something might go wrong, perhaps I might not survive the surgery. Many people do not survive surgery with the poor medical care, doctor's groups making sure that a doctor never gets fired, and dirty equipment that leads to infections even if a surgery does go well. I find her sitting at the table quietly crying while she snaps the green beans. I walk up beside her and kiss her on the top of her head.

"It's going to be okay, Mom," I say, even though I am not sure myself. I sit down next to her; she dries her tears and smiles up at me, patting me on the hand. I start in on the green beans and together we finish the bowl.

After helping my mother with her daily tasks, I take the opportunity to go out into our backyard and find the one unplanted spot that has been reserved for meditation. If there was a time in my life I needed to prepare my mind and body, this is the moment. I remember my father always stating that God never gives you more than what you could ever handle. I believe I am reaching that point.

What if this procedure is not successful? What if I die or if I am disabled? My life credits will be gone, our special treatment as a Young Army member will be gone. Everything I have worked for would be gone. I am only fifteen years old!

I start to push my fears out of my mind, knowing such emotions are counterproductive. I need to have hope. I know these experiences are for my own good and for the good of my family. After spending at least an hour in the hot sun, I feel peace. I know somehow, someway, this moment in time will work to my well-being and for the good of my family.

On Saturday, I take a long walk around my neighborhood to clear my mind, and as I pass the decrepit houses the State has provided, I can only think about my surgery. Why has the Sate chosen me to receive this operation? I am the best in my Young Army group, but I was nowhere near the level of experience or the conditioning of the Steel team. This operation will not be cheap. I am concerned as to how many of my life credits and credits of my parents will be used. Will we have anything left after this? I try to shake these concerns from my mind and replace it with the assurance that this will be a life changing moment.

Sunday, the three of us look at old photographs. I listen to my parents tell me stories of the first time they met, of their wedding day, and the day I was born. My mother cries freely as she talks about the first time she held me in her arms. We are even excused from church on Sunday, so my father sits back in his chair and reads to us out of the Bible. But as much as I enjoy this weekend, it is like I am attending a funeral. My funeral, my own wake.

# Chapter 11

Monday morning comes way too soon; my father and I have to wake up before five o'clock in order to get to Birmingham in time. As I get dressed, my father comes in to see what I am wearing, which is shorts and a T-shirt. This seems good enough to me, but my father has other ideas.

"Son, I think maybe you might want to wear jeans and a light jacket." It will be almost ninety today, but I don't question. My father is usually right about these sort of things, so I put on long jean pants and tie the sweat jacket around my waist and, for luck, I grab the cap my grandfather gave me before he died. It is green with a convenient rim in the front and the word Mayflower stitched on top in yellow letters.

Mother sees us off, handing us each our own brown paper sacks while holding back her tears. My father carries with him a large, red backpack he gets out of the closet; I am amazed that I have never seen it before. We walk to the bus stop and wait for it to come and take us to the station. There we switch buses and get on one that is heading to Birmingham.

I stare out the window, watching one eroded building after another past by. I wonder if life will ever return to what it used to be. Where people were truly free, free from the State, with the ability to choose their own fate. I hope this surgery will be successful—not only for myself, but also for my family and those I have been helping. It feels like the bus is going extremely slow as every passing minute feels like an hour. I can feel anxiety building within my mind. I take in deep breaths and focus on how this is a good thing and how in the end somehow, someway, this experience will work to my good. As I focus on these new thoughts, my heart calms down, and then my father leans into me whispering.

"It will be okay, John. No matter what life throws at you, remember you are never alone."

We arrive in Birmingham at about twelve thirty. As we draw closer to our stop, my father points out building after building that belongs to the hospital. The hospital is a city unto itself. Having eaten our lunches on the bus, we stride forward to the enormous UAB Hospital. We walk under an impossibly large awning that leads to the entryway of this massive structure that is full of gigantic cement pillars as big as redwood trees must be. I look up in awe and wonder.

Again, I don't understand how the State builds such edifices while so many of its citizens live in poverty and others die because they decide who lives and who doesn't. I understand the importance of research, but to neglect those who empowered you makes no sense and reminds me how fortunate I have been to be in the Young Army, or otherwise my life would have been forfeited due to the expense of this procedure.

"It's built this way to make you feel small," my father said. "To make you feel insignificant to their greatness and authority." We go through the large doors that open by themselves. I have never seen anything like it. I want to go back and try them again, but the security guard at the front desk stops me.

"What is your name?" he asks.

"John Bates," I answer him, turning around in order to face him fully. The guard sits behind a vast mahogany desk it is shaped into a semicircle. The lobby is full of giant trees that are artificial but are surrounded by other living plants in the same container. Other plants are placed along the wall and in boxes around the glass and metal escalator. I wonder if they are real or fake. The flooring is granite tile. A giant government flag hangs from the second floor, and above it all is a fantastically large pyramid-shaped skylight. The first thing I do is walk forward calmly and take a map of the hospital from the desk, folding it and placing it into the back pocket of my jeans. The security guard rustles through some papers that are attached to a white clipboard and asks, "And why are you here?"

"Heart surgery," my father answers before I can.

The guard continues to rifle through the papers.

"Yes, I see your name here." He comes forward, placing on my left wrist next to my watch a hospital ID tag. This thing is little more than paper and some glue. "Your father will not be able to accompany you beyond this point. When the nurse comes, your father will have to leave." My father only nods and then turning to me, he thrusts the red backpack into my arms and hugs me tightly in his monstrous embrace.

He whispers in my ear, "Remember, son, remember that I love you, remember who you are, remember that you are a patriot, remember that you are a God-fearing man, and son, remember Jesus Christ."

Just as he let go, an enormous, well-built woman dressed all in white comes down the hall. "You must leave now," the nurse sternly instructs.

My father turns to depart and as he does so, I can see a glistening teardrop in the corner of his eye. Without so much as waiting for an okay, the nurse leads me up the escalators, across a suspended walkway between the buildings, with only glass and metal between me and the road below, down a generic hospital hallway before stopping in front of a small room. "I am Nurse Garrison," she says, pulling a device out of her pocket. "Give me your arm." I give her my right arm. "No, the other one, with the watch."

I place my left hand inside her free one. She takes the small device and scans it over my watch, and it releases its grasp on my wrist as link by agonizing link withdraws from my skin. The pain is exquisite, and I have to bite my tongue in order not to cry out, as the chains retract back into the disk, ripping and tearing the tissue that had grown over it. It leaves a white wrinkly circle on the back of my wrist with a gash on either side that quickly fills up with my blood; the nurse wipes it with an alcohol wipe and wraps it in gauze and tape. Obviously, she is not the caring type. I can tell she and I are going to be best friends.

My wrist feels strange to me, with the watch no longer attached—the watch that made sure I brushed my teeth, ate my vegetables, told on me when I had eaten too much candy, made sure I went to church and recycled. If I run out of here right now, the government will never find me. But by the looks of this place, escape would be challenging, especially if all the nurses were built like her. But for a few minutes I would be free. But then I remember my heart condition. How long would I truly last? I am going to wait and see how this plays out. These thoughts soon fade away as I return my attention to Ms. Sunshine.

She hands me a set of hospital clothes and escorts me into a room where she leaves me to change into the white jumpsuit made out of a cotton fabric that looks to be quilted together. Before I dress, I take out the map of the massive hospital and study it, memorizing every useful detail. Truthfully, it isn't a very detailed map. For example, this room is not on it. It only shows each building and how each walkway is connected to the different structures and where various exits exist throughout the facilities. I do this because you can never be too prepared. Who knows if there might be a fire or any other disaster that would mean immediate evacuation of the building. Understanding and knowing the map might be the difference between life and death. When I am done, I carefully fold the map and place it back inside my jeans pocket.

I dress in the white hospital attire; it is extremely comfortable, not at all what I had expected. When I finish changing, I am told by the stern nurse that I am to leave my things and follow her. We walk down the pastel hallway as one of the overhead lights flicker, threatening to go out. We turn right and then left before going through a set of double doors that leads into a brightly lit room. The room has dull carpet and various pieces of exercise equipment in it. Sitting in an orange chair is a man with a dark complexion and a white overcoat. He is deeply engrossed in his clipboard.

# Chapter 12

"Dr. Pruitt?" the nurse calls, though there is only one person in the room.

"Yes," answers the African-American man with graying hair, without looking up. He wears an orange tie that matches the dingy plastic chair, the kind they have in schools, the ones that only reveal their true surface with a good pencil eraser.

"This is John Bates, Doctor."

"Is this the last one?" the man asks the nurse, continuing to study the clipboard.

"Yes, Dr. Pruitt, he is the last," her stern voice bellows, never leaving her monotone frequency.

"Good, then we will not need you any more. You may go," he says, never looking up from his clipboard.

She finally takes her cue and departs. I stand there for a moment, in this room that is big enough to fit both my neighbor's house and my own, with only this man as my company. I wonder why the doctor asked if I was the last one? One of what? Am I not the only one to get this surgery? If not, why are we all brought here like cattle? The State is going to pay for multiple heart surgeries for multiple people? These thoughts race through my mind as he continues to scribble notes on the clipboard. Then he finally looks up at me.

"John, good, come sit down." he motions to the chair across from his own as he leans toward me. I see the orange chair has a crack that runs from the center to its outside edge. "Tell me a little bit about yourself."

I tell him only the bare minimum: Where I am from, the school I attend, and that I am grateful for the surgery.

"Okay, John, hop up on the table," he says, patting the paper covered examination table. Then he rubs the stethoscope in the palm of his callused hand, trying to warm it before placing it on my chest. "Good," he says, standing back producing a tong depressor. "Say ah."

"Ahhhh." I choke as he presses the depressor too far into the back of my throat.

"Good, hop down. Let's see how you do on the treadmill." I run a brisk clip.

"Good, you seem very fit, a good candidate for the surgery." Then he surprises me by changing the subject and asks me a more personal question. "What do you think of the Young Army?"

"It's okay," is all I say. I wonder how he knows I am in the Young Army. Had someone told him?

"Really? You don't really like it, do you?" He looks surprised and perhaps he has reason to be. Most, if not all, young men I know think being in the Young Army is the best thing that ever happened to them, especially if you are a top candidate. It allows you not only special privileges while in school but access to things others can only dream of.

After high school, a number of us will be enrolled in some of the top State schools, while the elite will be placed in more special programs—at least that is what the State has explained. Some may even be fortunate enough to join the specialized teams like the Steel team, which is considered an honor, especially when you are given the opportunity to serve the State and even meet the government officials face-to-face. Citizens are no longer allowed to have access to State representatives due to security and the sensitivity of the work they continue to do for the betterment of humanity and the State. It is what we are taught.

I sense that I need to trust this man. It is an impression that starts inside me and goes down to my toes.

"No, I don't, not really. I mean I'm good at it all, but it's more of something that is expected," I reply honestly, more honest than I have ever been to anyone, even my parents. "My father wanted me to join in order to learn things he could not teach me. I'm not sure how this knowledge will aid me or what will happen to me after high school. It's automatically assumed that I'm going to the Army and really, I have no choice. The Army is my future whether I like it or not."

"Like what kind of things did he want you to learn?" he asks, moving around to the back of me to listen to my lungs. "Take a deep breath."

"Military strategies, tactics, discipline, things like that." I say, taking in a deep breath as instructed. When I exhale, we are done.

"Well, there you go, John, you can put your shirt back on. I learned what I needed to know." He then turns and walks out of the room.

I sit there, waiting and wondering what to do next. Nurse Garrison comes in a few moments later and instructs me to follow her. As we walk down the corridor, I notice the rooms that line this hall are full of other young men, all dressed in the same jumpsuit I am wearing. These must be the others they were referencing. I wonder again, are we all here for heart surgery? I find it very odd that so many of us would have the same condition at the same time, and more particularly the fact that there are only young men. Why is there a sudden explosion of heart defects?

# Chapter 13

We walk down a separate hallway from the others. "This will be your room until after the surgery." I walk into the clean, blue room. The bed is made with white sheets, and a television set is across from the bed. Nurse Garrison leaves, shutting the door behind her. I turn on the television to see if there is anything on. A few minutes later, a little old woman comes in carrying a cream-colored tray full of food. It is not as good as my mother's cooking, but it isn't bad.

I want to call my mother and father and tell them I am okay, but there are no phones, no way to contact them. I noticed even the nurse's stations are void of phones. I wander into the bathroom and see there is no mirror above the sink—no mirrors anywhere. How will I know what my hair looks like? What if I have a big chocolate pudding stain on my face? I will not even know, unless someone tells me. I decide to become a religious face-washer. I wash my face with the clean white washcloth and the cream-colored soap. After I finish I decide to go to bed early as there is really nothing to do, and I am tired, anyway.

I am really glad I went to bed early because first thing in the morning, Nurse Garrison wakes me up. "The doctor would like to see you. You will follow me."

I think this is strange. Isn't the doctor supposed to come to me? I'm the one with the bad heart. But since I have never been in a hospital before, I am unsure of how things work, so I don't question. Nurse Garrison walks me down the same hallway toward the double doors that leads to the room where I first met Dr. Pruitt.

"Ah, good to see you, John." Dr. Pruitt shakes my hand the moment I enter the room. This time, Nurse Garrison does not leave. "Early riser, I see. Good man. Let's get started." He has me sit up on the examination table and remove my white cotton hospital shirt. He listens to my heart with the stethoscope. "I'm going to take your blood pressure and if that is fine, I'm going to give you a shot."

"What kind of shot?" I ask the doctor, who seems surprised by the question.

He thinks for a moment before answering me, "It's a vitamin shot, something that we need to give you in order for you to be ready for your heart surgery. You'll have a series of shots before and after your surgery, which will make you healthier and stronger."

After the shot, the doctor has me run through a series of tests and exercises. Then I am taken back to my room.

A daily routine begins: wake up early, test and exercise with Dr. Pruitt, who in turn gives me my morning shot, and vitamin supplements at each meal. In the afternoon, Dr. Pruitt begins meeting me for lunch, asking me about my family, my life. He has many questions and so, over the course of a few days, the doctor and I become good friends. I also notice he is always making sure no one is around when we are conversing, most particularly, Nurse Garrison. I can't blame him; she is not at all friendly and probably couldn't care less. I only feel bad for her kids, if she has any.

But I wonder how much longer it will be until the surgery. And I wonder what it will feel like to be cut open. And most importantly, I wonder if I will live through it? I know more often than not, people die going through open-heart surgery. I have one other question I am afraid to ask. With all this strenuous exercise and tests, why was I told at home to avoid activities like this? I am afraid I'll die even before I hit the table. I put on a strong face for the doctor, who I like, and for Nurse Garrison, who I do not trust. I secretly wish my father were here to reassure me, to counsel me, and to tell me it is going to be okay and for my mother to hold me like she had when I was a small boy

The day finally comes when I find out when and what is going to happen. I go in to see Dr. Pruitt but instead of exercises, he sits me down.

"All day today we will be preparing you for surgery tomorrow. There will be a series of shots, and you'll have to take some medicine, as well. Let me explain what we are going to do tomorrow. First, we are going to put you asleep so you don't feel anything. Then we are going to remove your old heart and put this in its place." He hands me a glossy photograph of something that looks like half heart, half machine. "Then we close you up, and you're good to go."

"I'm getting a new heart?" I had thought they were just going to go in and repair the heart, not that I would receive a whole new one. I know I will have to take some sort of drug to suppress my body's natural immune system in order to keep it from seeing the heart as something that does not belong in the body, seeing the heart as foreign, and rejecting it or ridding itself of the new heart. My risk of dying just went up tenfold. I will never have the drugs I need. There are just too many shortages. "What kind of drugs will I have to take after the surgery?" Even if I get the drugs, it will only be as long as I am useful to the State. As soon as my usefulness is done I won't receive any more drugs, and on that day I will die.

"Don't worry, there will be no need for drugs. The heart has little nanobots inside it. They will go in and change your immune system so it will not reject the new heart. I invented this heart myself." He seems to want to talk about it more, but he doesn't dare with Nurse Garrison standing right next to him. I don't blame him. She is obviously on the take with the government. One wrong move and Dr. Pruitt might need a new heart of his own.

We finish more tests. I do some light weightlifting and run on the treadmill some more. I still wonder if all this is safe for me to do with my enlarged heart, but I assume the doctor will do nothing that will put me in danger. When we are done, Nurse Garrison escorts me back to my room, and for the rest of the day I am given different shots. I am no longer allowed to eat in order to prepare for the surgery, but the shots keep coming. My arm is sore, and I wonder if I can receive a shot in a different arm. But Nurse Garrison doesn't care at all. Her job is to give me the shots, and she does. I am grateful when she tells me this is the last one for the day.

# Chapter 14

The next morning, I get up even before Nurse Garrison can come for me and when she finally comes, it is no surprise she has a shot in her hand.

"How do you feel?" she asks.

"I feel fine," I answer, thinking nothing of this question.

"Let me see your arm," she says, hands outstretched with the needle grasped in her left hand. I assume it is another vitamin shot, but the moment the yellow fluid enters my arm the room starts to move. I try to stand, only to lose my balance and fall to the floor as rough arms grab me. I can no longer keep my eyes open.

When I awake, I am strapped to an operation table, a bright light overhead is all I can see. I hear Dr. Pruitt's voice call out to me.

"Count backward from one hundred, John."

I don't want to, but what choice do I have? I want to shout at Dr. Pruitt and tell him about the thing nurse Garrison had done, but it is too late.

"100, 99, 98, 97..." and I know no more. I don't know what I thought would happen, whether I would dream or something, but there is nothing, only darkness.

When I awake, the bright, blinding lights of my hospital room greets me. As my eyes focus, I can see Dr. Pruitt standing over me. He looks tired, there are dark circles under his eyes and his hair looks grayer than it had before. My heart feels terrible. My lungs feel squished, and it is hard to breathe with such a heavy heart. It has to be five times the weight it was before.

"The surgery was an immense success. Your body is taking to the new heart very well." He smiles and I can suddenly see every wrinkle in his face.

"Can I go home now?" I ask, trying to sit up. The doctor places his hands on me, stopping my painful movements.

"No, John, you can't go home. You have to rehabilitate your body so it can get used to your new heart."

My chest hurts. My heart feels like a hundred pounds. The pain is so intense, it feels like my lungs have no space to breathe. "The pressure, it hurts, it hurts so much." I wrench the words out. Speaking only makes the pain worse.

"The pain tells you that your heart is growing into your new body. It is a good sign," he says with a sad, faraway smile.

I thrash back and forth, kicking my legs. I want to rip this new heart right out of my chest and throw it away. I know my behavior is atrocious, but I don't care. The pain is too much.

"Nurse Garrison," Dr. Pruitt calls, pushing the little red button beside my bed.

"Yes," the voice of Satan answers.

"Bring John a sedative and the painkiller."

"Yes, Doctor," the voice says, and Dr. Pruitt lets go of the button.

"You'll be all right, John. Just give your heart a chance to take root."

Nurse Garrison comes in with a vial full of something.

"What are you giving me?" I ask. She does not answer me, she just empties the vial into my IV bag, which injects the fluid into my body. I can no longer stay awake.

When I regain consciousness, I decide to no longer complain about the weight of my heart. It is as if my heart is twice the size it had been and is made of bricks instead of tissue. The very act of breathing is painful, as the heart seems to be taking up the space the lungs once possessed. I lay there concentrating on the meditation exercises my father taught me. It helps the pain. I breathe as deeply as I possibly can, stretching, growing my lungs and heart with each breath. And with each breath, I pray and praise God.

Inhale. "Thank you, Lord." Exhale. "For delivering me." Inhale. "Out of the hands." Exhale. "Of death and sin. For Lord, you are a powerful deliverer with the power to deliver me from any situation." I continue to breathe and pray to God. "You are my light and even in this dark place, I can see because of thee. God, you are my strength and my peace and I thank thee and praise thy name, oh, Lord."

The discomfort actually starts to go away, surprisingly, but I assume it is the medication they have administered to me. Within a few hours, I'm able to rise from my bed, and I realize I am in a different room than the one I had first been assigned. This one is pretty much the same, with green instead of blue and a sofa pushed up against the wall. I think momentarily about calling the nurse and asking for my IV to be removed, but I'm afraid I'll get Nurse Garrison. So I slowly, carefully remove the IV myself. I wrap the cord of the IV up around itself and dispose of the needle in the red container that hangs on the wall. The space where the needle was in my arm starts to bleed, so I search through the various drawers in my hospital room to find bandages. I use the bathroom and carefully remove my shirt and unwrap my bloodstained bandages and stare down at my chest; it is red and raw with black angry looking stitches sticking out. I can no longer stand to look at myself, and the wounds are beginning to bleed. So with clean gauze and bandages, I wrap my chest, making it as tight as I can stand it.

Then I walk slowly, carefully, out of the hospital room. My legs don't seem to want to obey me. I call upon God and continue to breathe as deeply as I possibly can, as I make each painful stride forward. I begin to walk down the hall; a nurse who isn't Nurse Garrison stops me.

"Good, I see you're up and about, but you're not supposed to be walking here. We have a track for rehabilitation. Stay right there, and I will get you a wheelchair and then I'll take you there," she says with a perky smile. Whether I want to stay right here is really not an option as I move more slowly than a snail. I place my hands against the wall to steady myself while I wait for her. She may have been gone only for a few moments, but those moments seem to last and last as I stand here, arms outstretched with the wall supporting me.

She returns, placing the wheelchair behind me. I sit down, breathing in and out, grateful to now be sitting when I had been so anxious to be up and moving. She wheels me down the hall and into an elevator, out of the elevator and down another hall to a door leading out to a track. The track is suspended over an indoor pool. It is very warm inside the room. The nurse puts the brakes on the wheelchair and waits for me to stand. It is even harder to stand now after sitting in the chair, but I do it. The nurse smiles at me and tells me she will be back in a little while. I shuffle to the inner lane, grabbing hold of the railing and hold onto it as I make my way very slowly around the track.

I notice other young men dressed in the same white hospital jumpsuits moving at various speeds around the track with little or no greetings to each other than "Hey."

I wonder again, do we all have new hearts? Why do so many need a new heart at the same time? My father had always told me if something doesn't make logical sense then most likely there is something else at play. I keep thinking why us? What purpose does this surgery truly serve? While I slowly walk on the track, this helps to keep my mind off the pain. At this point, I know that I do not have all the pieces to this mysterious puzzle, but I was trained by my father that in time and with patience, the true nature of why I had this surgery will come to surface. The question is: When do I find out what the State really wants from me? And when I do, what then?

After once around the track, I just stand there, holding on to the railing, wondering when and if the nurse is ever coming back. My legs feel like lead weights, and I hope someone comes soon or I may just have to collapse to the track and lay there until help arrives. Eventually, a male attendant opens the door with a wheelchair in hand. I don't ask if it is for me, I just assume and sit down gratefully. He takes me back to my room where he helps me out of my wheelchair into bed where I fall into an exhausted sleep.

# Chapter 15

I continue to receive "vitamin" shots. My heart and my chest are healing very quickly, almost miraculously, with the black stitches dissolving and my skin returning to its original color. Though I do not have a mirror, it is almost like the actual incisions are disappearing. But I figure it's simply due to the fact that I am unable to take a really good look and that whatever those vitamins I am taking are doing more than what has been explained. Rigorous activity starts the moment I can stand the pain in my chest. It's like they can't wait to try out their new toy. My favorite nurse is always waking me up at the break of dawn to let me know it is my time for therapy, but what they have us do is far from therapy. For anyone to have just gone through major surgery would make it unlikely to expect them to go through such tests unless the doctors are looking for something.

I run on treadmills, which at first are at moderate speeds but soon increases. How fast, I cannot tell since all readings are kept out of sight. At points, they even raise the treadmill at an angle to make it feel like I am walking up a steep hill. Of course, the staff explains this is simply to see how the heart will react to different situations to ensure it is functioning properly. At one point, I am able to keep a pace without showing any true exhaustion, which makes no sense to me.

But the staffer will only say, "That's good, you can stop." Nothing more, nothing less. I will then climb one rock wall after another. They even put me into a simulator that allows them to change atmospheric pressure and the amount of oxygen that would be in the air to test my endurance while climbing. Whatever they do appears to have had no affect on me, so I assume that they run basic tests and the harder ones will come in the future.

There is a moment where I hear one of them state, "I can't believe he is still going! Never did we ever expect such results." I am surprised, since I don't feel any different in this weird contraption. I am taken aback. I didn't think they wanted me to hear anything concerning the results. At this point, I see Dr. Pruitt signal to the other staff members to be quiet, as it is evident I am hearing some of their conversation. I guess they thought I wouldn't be able to hear them, since I was inside an environmentally controlled box with no intercom to communicate with me.

Maybe my mind is playing tricks on me, since I have been locked up in this lab like a rat for too long. They test my strength against measurements and machines with weights that are hidden on the other side of the curtains where only the doctor knows the real limit of such excursions. At first, it feels like I could hardly move the bar but now things are so easy I feel like they aren't testing me at all. They must be trying to trick me psychologically, making me feel better about myself. Surprisingly, Dr. Pruitt is glad when I do well and concerned when I've done too much and am in pain. Of all the staffers I come in contact with, Dr. Pruitt is the only one who truly cares about my well-being. This is different from other State figures who care only for themselves and what the State can give them.

When returning to my room, I notice I have been placed next to the other boys with white suits. I find it surprising how well-built they appear to be, but again I never really got a chance to see them that often. I guess I am the runt of the litter. They ask no questions, make no comments. It is as if they have not only taken out their hearts but their voices, too. I follow the example of my silent neighbors.

After several days have passed and as soon as Dr. Pruitt is satisfied with my rehabilitation, he has me join the others for exercise routines. We run in the same white suits. I am first every time. I notice at times the others straining to keep up with me. It reminds me of my old Young Army group where I was always the one everyone wanted to beat. I am actually surprised I am able to do so well, especially when these other guys are in tip-top shape. In many ways, they remind me of the Steel team, but I can't even imagine us being at that level, especially in such a short time period. That type of conditioning would take years of discipline as well as special training. How fast I'm going, I have no idea. Only the doctor and the nurses with their stopwatches know, and they will not tell.

"How fast was I going?" one silly young man asks. It is the first time anyone has spoken and we all stare at him. The nurses only glare at him until he falls silent. No more questions are asked.

During swimming time, they line us up along the pool's edge. We are to swim freestyle all the way to one end and back. We are all dressed in the same white swimming trunks, and everyone has the same scar on their chest. When the whistle is blown, I dive into the lukewarm water where I proceed to swim as I always have. But this time I feel like I am swimming through air. It is so effortless. Generally, when in the water, you feel like you are swimming in jell-o, but this time, I feel no resistance, no fatigue, no muscle cramping.

I am always the first in my own platoon, and now I swim as hard as I can in this pool with these new companions as my competition, pushing my heart and lungs to work together. Coming finally to the wall, I jump up and slap the edge, saying that I am finished. I look around, and I am aware that I am the only one standing, with the others coming just moments behind. I look at Dr. Pruitt and he smiles, giving me a thumbs-up. The others continue to write on their clipboards, always analyzing the results, never saying anything that either encourages or discourages our results. We push each other without a word, no greeting except an occasional smile; we are all good little soldiers.

As we show more and more progress, the State staffers decide to put something new in our rehab workouts. I can tell Dr. Pruitt is not pleased with this but as always, the State has the final word. Either you can comply or you will be replaced, something the State has no issue in doing.

We are all brought to gym and in the center stands a very large octagon that is covered by a large metal cage. I do not like what I am looking at. This could only mean one thing: physical combat, but why? A person that seems familiar comes forward, with clipboard in hand. As he approaches, I realize it is the same man that had come to my school to watch us compete against the Steel team. The man with the clipboard. He is a rugged man with a square jaw and cold looking brown eyes that showed no fear and no mercy.

# Chapter 16

"Well, boys, I am glad to see you made it through your surgery, but it's time to see how your progress has gone! Each of you will be pitted against one another and as you win, you will go to the next round! Those eliminated will stay to watch the fun unless you need to be seen for unforeseen injuries! The State has invested valuable time and resources into each of you and they expect to see the results and the results they want will be seen today! So let the fun begin!"

Nurse Garrison walks forward and calls out two names, "Brian and Tommy."

Both come forward and are led to the steel cage with no hesitation and they enter. You can hear the clanging of the door as it is closed behind them.

"The rules are simple; until one of you taps out or is incapacitated, the fight will continue and the winner will move to the next round. Is that understood!?" There is no expression on this man's face but both young men nod their heads to indicate they understand what needs to happen. "Then let the exercise begin!" shouts our new task master, clipboard still in hand.

It is apparent these guys were in the Young Army, as well, based on their stances and movements. Brian rushes in while Tommy braces himself, it is weird that we haven't known each other's names this entire time but either way, today is going to be interesting. Brian grabs Tommy by the back of his head, pulling him forward, letting him control Tommy's balance and movement. Tommy drops and thrusts forward, going for Brian's legs, hoping to take him to the ground. I am amazed by the speed these two are going at each other. It's almost inhuman, but who knows what these vitamins shots have done.

Brian is caught off guard by Tommy's move and falls off balance, causing him to go to the ground. Tommy lands on top where he starts using his hand as a hammer on Brian's head. All of a sudden, Brian is able to lean his body to the left, making Tommy place one of his hands down on the mat to try to keep his balance. Brian grabs a hold of Tommy by his shoulders and puts his right leg just underneath him, thrusting him literally off his body!

Tommy goes flying into one of the steel cage's walls, bouncing right off. I can tell it smarted by his facial expression, but Tommy quickly gets up and prepares for Brian's onslaught. Before Tommy can fully become aware of where Brian is, he is met with a flying sidekick, blowing him across the floor and bouncing him off another chain link wall.

I can see from the corner of my eye this taskmaster is no longer wearing his sunglasses and has also removed his green Army hat. He is enjoying the show of pain and suffering of these two young men. It means nothing to him as long as they are doing what they were bred to do. As Brian comes in to finish Tommy off, he is a little overly confident and tries to dive on top. Tommy rolls out of the way and grabs Brian by the back of his neck and throws him forward into the cage. Tommy proceeds to get on Brian's back and puts him into a sleeper hold. This lasts an additional ten seconds and the show is over. Nurses checkout both Brian and Tommy, but the man with the clipboard simply yells, "Who's next!"

And so this continues until it is my turn.

I see of all the young men, Dr. Pruitt is most interested in me. As to why exactly, I do not know, but I see concern on his face. I enter the ring with my now opponent; his face is without expression, but in his eyes I can see that he is determined to win. He is massive. What he doesn't understand is while we have been competing in our races, I have been studying each of these guys and have noted what they are best at and how each reacted when they finished. Brad, in this case is always angry, which means he allows his emotions to clutter his mind. Know thy enemy, my father always had taught me, no matter how well trained and conditioned a person may be. If they allow their emotions to control them, I have a distinct advantage. That is why we go through drills and meditations so much. From outside the cage, the clipboard man's voice shouts, "You may begin!"

Immediately, Brad bull rushes me, using his larger body to try to overpower me. As he makes impact, I brace by grabbing his shoulders and spreading my legs outward to allow myself to not only absorb but also to redirect his momentum. As he comes in, I allow him to push me back. Then I drop, pulling his body still forward, putting my right foot into his lower torso and pushing him up and over me into the steel cage. Whack! I don't have long before he recovers, so I spring back to my feet and turn quickly to see Brad rushing me again. This time I use a front kick to his groin area, stunning him. I go in with a flying knee, blowing Brad back against the cage wall. The expression on his face is of pain and dismay and disbelief that I am able to hit with such precision and force.

Before he can even think, I go in with my shoulder, slamming into his torso then grabbing him. I proceed to lift him like a sack of potatoes, spinning him in midair to slam him onto the mat below. I can hear the surprise reactions of all the other onlookers as to how fast this fight is going to be over.

"Wham!" Brad now lies sound asleep from the impact, knocked out, and I stand looking directly at the man with the clipboard, but he simply makes a mark on his paperwork.

"Alright! That is round one. Let's get this moving! Next!"

As I walk out of the cage, Dr. Pruitt gives me a nod. I can see he is glad I did well while the other young men just stare in disbelief that my match lasted literally only a minute while theirs had gone on for at least five to ten minutes each. Everyone, even the winners, had sustained some sort of injury or another at this point. Now I know everyone wants to beat me, but I am accustomed to such attention.

# Chapter 17

Each round becomes more challenging, but the results are the same. I win and go on to the next standoff. What becomes apparent is, that as well conditioned as these other young men are, they are not prepared mentally. It is evident when things are not going their way, they try to rely on their raw strength, which means they have already lost. One by one, I tactically beat them, having watched their previous fights, learning their basic strategies. When it comes time to fight them, I know their general weaknesses. My father always told me to never underestimate your opponent. There is a total of thirty-two of us, and by early afternoon we have been whittled down to two.

I have managed to survive all of their onslaughts simply by keeping my emotions in check. But now I am in the final round between Steven and myself. We enter the steel octagon and await for the fight to begin. Both of us are a little battered but nothing that will not heal in a few days. I know this fight will be interesting, especially after having watched him in action. Of all the guys, I am not surprised to be facing him in the finals. He is always second behind me, and I know no one likes being second! We are told to begin, and so we both start, but Steven doesn't rush me. He evidently has been watching as well. This fight should be good. As I watched him, I realize one thing: Steven tries to hurt each of his opponents. Not only does he like to win, but he likes to leave a message as well. Once we are done analyzing each other, we engage with a flurry of kicks and punches, some connecting and others missing their mark. Steven does a front thrust kick to my chest, blowing me back. I worry momentarily about the condition of my heart.

Before I can fully recover, he runs up the chain-linked wall and does a flying roundhouse kick to my head. I have never had that move used on me, and the pain is excruciating. He obviously has saved the move for me, and it has worked. I slam into the mat and am fighting to get back to my feet, but Steven lands on top of me while I am still on my back. He proceeds to punch me multiple times, trying to incapacitate me before I can recover. I manage to block most of them while my head is trying to remember what planet I am on. I know I have to react or in a matter of seconds this fight will be over. With what energy I have left, I thrust up, grabbing one of his arms and pull him forward, forcing him off balance, rolling him to my right side, off my body. I scramble to my feet and prepare for his onslaught. At this point, Steven is eager, knowing I am hurt. But remember, sometimes wounded animals are the most dangerous.

He is overzealous. I allow him to think I am still disoriented. He comes in, unprepared for the right elbow that connects to his temple. I throw a roundhouse kick to his leg, stunning him even further. I grab him and knee him three times in the abdomen to cause further damage. I pick him up and slam him to the ground. Now on top, I proceed to hit him multiple times but out of nowhere, Steven kicks me with the heel of his foot right in my face. He grabs my wrist, wrapping his legs around my left arm, holding firm. I can't move it. I'm in an arm bar!

I am exhausted. I can't believe he has the energy to do this. I see we are both in the final round for a reason. I clasp my hands together to prevent the full effect, but I can feel my fingers slipping. If this happens, my arm can be broken. This is something I do not want to experience, but I know Steven will not hesitate to do it. Steven struggles to make me lose my grip. When I do, the pain is immense, since I can feel the pressure build on my arm. I know I have only moments to either quit or reengage or have my arm broken.

I look at our small audience outside of the ring and see the other young men cheering and shouting. I see Dr. Pruitt with a concerned look on his face. Then images of my mother and father come to me. I remember the Johnson family and other people who are counting on me, and I know I need to find a way to win, a way back to my family and those I need to help. I refocus and shift my weight, enabling me to re-clasp my hands to prevent my arm from being broken. I proceed to slowly lift Steven off the mat until we are face-to-face. I will never forget the astonished look on his face as I lift him further and slam him directly into the mat with all I have left, knocking him out.

It is over and I won! Exhausted but still intact, I thank God for his help in my time of need. I see the perfect smile of my constant observer, who has not only put down his clipboard but also has joined in the applause. Dr. Pruitt comes into the cage and checks us both out and helps me to my feet.

"Well done, John," he whispers in my ear. I head to the locker room, and he seems relieved that I had not only won but I was going to be okay.

Shortly after, we all come back out where our special visitor is waiting to address us.

"Well, I can say that you boys put on quite the show! Something the State will be real proud to hear when I go back to give my report! Your progress is quite impressive, particularly yours, John!" When I hear this I am stunned. I do not know why the State has such an interest in some typical fifteen-year-old boy.

The man continues. "Your therapy will continue and your progress is expected to increase, but let me make it clear you are not here by happenstance. You are a specialized group that will help the State and its vision in the near future! That will be all! Go get some rest; you have a lot more to do!" After this speech, he turns around, dons his green Army hat, and exits through a door.

Days pass and I can do more. One day I'm doing the exercises alone with only Dr. Pruitt. I have to pull on some weights, but again they are hidden behind a curtain. I still have no idea how much I am actually pulling. Today the weights seem to be more than normal, and I actually start to break a sweat. But I am still able perform my normal reps. When I am done, I let go earlier than I normally do. The weights slam into the ground behind the curtain and literally shake the floor.

# Chapter 18

Dr. Pruitt stops me. "Good, good," he says, jotting something down on his clipboard with a smile. "Now let's see how many push-ups you can do." I begin the normal routine and before I realize it, I am at two hundred before I am even halfway tired.

"That's enough, John, more than enough." I jump up ready to do something else, but suddenly Nurse Garrison appears in the doorway and the smile on the doctor's face drops.

"Well, I think you've done quite enough today. Nurse Garrison will see you to your room." It is apparent at this point that Dr. Pruitt may be here to oversee this project, but he is not too friendly with the rest of those he works with. Nurse Garrison is always lurking and watching beyond what I have ever seen the other nurses do. It is apparent she is an extra pair of eyes and ears for the State.

"I can do more," I say, not ready to go back to my room with nothing more than a television set.

"I think you've done enough, John, it's time to go." I follow the Amazonian form of Nurse Garrison down the hall and back into my room.

"You will wait here," she orders. A few moments later, I hear voices outside my room.

"He's ready now," Nurse Garrison says in her calm, monotone voice.

"No, he needs more time!" The other voice belongs to Dr. Pruitt.

"There is no more time; they are coming today."

"That's fine, he can join them tomorrow."

"They won't like that."

"I don't care what they like."

"Fine, but you have to tell them why he's not ready."

Minutes later, Dr. Pruitt bursts into my room carrying a white laundry sack. Thrusting it into my arms he says, "I won't let them take you."

I do not know who he is referring to, but I am not the son of the man who distrusts the State for nothing.

"You are brave and strong and honest; this is why I gave you the best heart. This is also the reason they must never get you. Go! Go now!" Inside the white bag are my red backpack and some new street clothes with the tags still on. Even for Dr. Pruitt these are expensive. The shirt is green and the pants are khaki. They look too big for me. Before I can question him, Dr. Pruitt departs the room, looking both ways as he does. I remove the hospital jumpsuit, ball it up, and place it inside a cupboard against the wall. There is little to nothing inside, so I don't think anyone will find it any time soon. The clothes are a little baggy but no big deal; they are the kind that dries quickly and repels moisture. Last I rip off the paper hospital tag.

I grab a Kleenex off the counter, wrap the tag in it, and place it inside the trash can. My father always makes sure I know my surroundings. You never know what might happen. So now I know the way out of this hospital like I know the way to school or church. The map has helped but while I was here, I have purposely memorized the hospital floor.

I take the stairwell to avoid any direct contact with staff members and any other patients. As I find my way to the main floor, I look around to ensure that I am not attracting any unwanted attention. I hear the security guard at the front desk talk to someone on a radio. He says, "No, sir, there has been no unusual activity. Everything has been quiet."

I don't want to draw attention to myself, so I know the best thing to do is to walk calmly out the front door. Just as I am approaching the desk, the security guard receives a call. He gets up from his desk and walks over to the elevator. As he gets up from the desk, I hide behind one of the massive pillars. Once he is gone around the corner toward the elevators, I proceed to the front lobby doors where I see a platoon of soldiers congregating outside the glass hospital doors. I start to sweat as I pull the green cap down over my eyes, but I walk purposely through the front lobby just as many men in military uniforms are filling the foyer. As the door closes behind me, I hear the sergeant yell to his platoon, "Lock this place down. No one in or out from this moment on!"
About the Authors:

Scott Powell was born in Burlington, Vermont, to a father who was a police officer and a mother who emigrated from South Korea. He received a degree in marketing from the University of Las Vegas, Nevada, and a master's degree from the University of Alabama at Birmingham. Scott served a two-year Spanish-speaking mission for his church. He is a mixed martial artist who continues to train with his father, a second-degree black belt in Tae Kwon Do and a kickboxer.

Besides being married to Scott for over seventeen years, Judith Powell is a stay-at-home mom whose whole life has been full of stories. Being raised by an Irish storytelling father and a Native American mother, stories have filled her life and her head until they finally had no choice but to flow out through her fingertips.

You can find Scott and Judith on Facebook, their blog at scottandjudithpowell.wordpress.com

twitter (@scottandjudith) and on Pinterest at http://pinterest.com/scottandjudith/
Rebellion

John Bates Series Book 2

Find it here: <http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00HKMPCG8>

Now free of his watch John should make a run for it but instead he answers a cry for help from inside the same truck that had come to take him away. The cry comes from a thirteen-year-old girl trapped inside. She too does not have a watch. Together John and Paige make an escape to Independence where the State uses all its resources to bring them in, believing they are property of the State. John and Paige now have to fight against those who are now loyal to the State as well as the unknowns that lurk just around the corner. What appears to be the impossible, together they find out how powerful they can be when fighting for what is mankind's right, which is to be Free.

Books:

1. Rebels  
2. Rebellion  
3. Revolution - Final book coming March 2014

