Or will he die trying and rest in peace on the farm?

Will Cole find the answers to all of his questions and obtain the freedom that he so desperately wants?

But for the sweet taste of freedom, questions will be asked and rules will have to be broken to find the truth, leaving Cole in the fight for his life as he seeks to fulfill the dying wish of an old man who longs to see mankind back on top of the food chain once again.

Waking up on a farm that appears to be out of the early 1800’s, Cole has no recollection of the past. He stands in line as the landowner and his two farmhands explain the rules of the farm along with the consequences of breaking those rules.

One mysterious farm. Five slaves with no memories from their past.

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CHAPTER ONE

Today is the first day of my life. At least, I think it is.

I can’t remember anything from before.

In my short time here, there’s two things that are certain.

I’m on a farm.

And I don’t know if I’ll make it through the week.

Standing beside me in a line are four other men, all similar in height, weight and features; white skin, brown hair, brown eyes, brown clothes that are more like cotton rags than anything else. I’m on the end of the line, wondering what is going on and why we’re all gathered here. No doubt they’re all thinking the same thing judging by the looks on their faces. Surely, they’re asking themselves the same questions:

Who am I?

Where am I?

How did I get here?

Behind us lies the farm—flat and seemingly endless. There’s a big red barn off to the side a couple hundred yards from the house and a large oak tree stands tall beside it. Weeds and grass have grown up throughout the fields, choking out the last vestige of a crop that used to grow there.

In front of us looms the farm house. Actually, it’s more like a mansion; massive, and with more rooms than anyone could ever use or need. It looks like it was built in the nineteenth century and, judging by the white paint that is peeling around the windows and balcony, in need of some repairs. A wrap-around porch that’s supported by ivory pillars with two porch swings on opposite sides looks inviting enough. It’s hard to tell how big the house actually is since a twenty foot fence blocks both sides and wraps around the property, disappearing somewhere into the woods. Pine trees, thick, straight and tall jet out from the side of the mansion as far as the eye can see; the fence in front of them acting the part of sentinel.

Standing in front of us are two men. One looks like the rest of us but is much larger and has red hair, green eyes. The other man is black and wears a Chicago Bulls ball cap. He looks up and down our line with a bemused grin, while the red-haired man eyes us like dogs that just shit in his yard. His hand is resting on a bull whip that’s strapped to his side, his stance loose and weight slightly shifted to his left foot. He glares at me and spits a mouthful of tobacco in my direction. I break my stare and look away.

It looks like they’re both waiting on someone, and I’m wondering when one of them will say something. I glance to my right and wonder when one of us is going to say something. A bead of sweat trickles down my back and I look up to the sky, finding the sun set high. Must be midday. I look at the black man and now notice that he has a whip as well. Must have blended in with his dark clothing before.

The mansion door opens and a white man dressed in a tuxedo suit steps onto the porch. His steps are quick, the sound of his solid heel shoes clicking on the wood steps as he approaches. He glides through the freshly trimmed lawn like a man on a mission and with no time to waste. When he stops, he looks up from the ground for the first time, his eyes locking on me first before darting to the men next to me. One by one, he sizes us up.

Red crosses his arm and sticks his chest out. I dare not speak, but the silence is killing me. I pick my bare foot up and rub an itch at my ankle.

“Good day gentlemen,” the man in the tuxedo finally speaks. “I am Mr. Whyte. I am the owner of this farm and take great pride in it. I expect you to do the same.” He pauses and curls his lips, the thick, dark mustache rising up into his nose. “The man to my right is Mr. Red.”

I knew it. And let me guess… the man to your left is Mr. Bla–

“And the man to my left is Mr. Gibbs.”

Mr. Gibbs tips his hat to us in a slight nod before pulling a hand rolled cigarette out of his shirt pocket. He lights it and takes a long slow draw before releasing the smoke to roll up around his head.

Mr. Tuxedo continues. “These two are my farmhands. They run this place under my supervision and I expect you to give them your utmost respect. There’s a lot of work to be done and not much time.”

“What the hell is this place?” a strong voice calls from the other end of the line. I lean forward to steal a glance.

Mr. Red storms up to him, fists clenched. “You will speak when spoken to. Do I make myself clear?” The man who spoke stares wordless at Mr. Red in reply, an arrogant look on his face, daring the farmhand to do something.

“That’s enough Mr. Red, thank you,” Mr. Whyte calls out. “No doubt you all have many questions, and they will be answered in time. Mr. Red, must I repeat myself?”

“No, sir.” Red narrows his gaze at the man on the end of the line, sucks air through his teeth, and walks back to his spot.

Mr. Gibbs chuckles and shakes his head, then takes another slow toke before putting the cherry out on the grass.

Mr. Whyte gives a cautious look to Mr. Red as he returns. It was an odd look. Cautious. Fearful, maybe? I wonder if anyone else noticed it. Probably not. It was probably nothing. Mr. Whyte speaks. “There are only three rules on this farm, so listen carefully. “One,” he holds a finger up. “You obey at all times.”

Not gonna happen. Especially with the hot head on the end.

“Two. No talking while at work.”

“This is bull shit. I’m not going to stand here—” A crack from Red’s whip snapped just shy of the hot head’s nose, the sound of it startling me and no doubt giving him cause to piss himself. Red draws it back, quick, and holds it ready in case the guy wants to say something else.

These people obviously aren’t playing around man, so shut the hell up until we sort all this out. Everyone waits for the man at the end of the line to speak as his face is beet red, looking like he’s about to explode. He doesn’t say another word.

Mr. Whyte shoots a glare at the hot head and holds three fingers up. “Three. You take what we give you. There is no currency here, so your payment is food. If you work well and follow the rules, you will be rewarded. If you don’t, you will be punished.” He folds his hands and inclines a nod. “Have a good day, gentlemen.”

We watch in silence as he turns and walks through the yard and up the steps, shoes clicking on the porch before returning back inside the white house.

Mr. Gibbs walks to the front of the line. “You heard the man, let’s get to work.” He cuts between us and begins walking towards the field. A couple follow after him. Red motions the rest of us along. “Let’s go little doggies. Move,” he says.

As we approach the barn, I notice all the usual things that a barn might have lying around. Shovels, mattocks, hoes, a post hole digger—all showing signs of rust from years of use on the farm, the wood handles aged and splintered. Off to the side there’s a well, not like the kind that you pump water out with a handle, but the old style well with a hole in the ground, bucket and rope. Closer now to the large oak tree near the barn, it’s bigger than what I thought. The trunk is scarred with what looks like many hits from an axe or large knife.

“Home sweet home,” Mr Gibbs says as he stops in front of the large open doors. “There’s bunks inside for the four of you, so that means some poor sumbitch is gonna have to manage for himself.” He peeks inside and looks all around. I step closer to do the same but keep my distance. “If y’all want, you can take turns on who gets the beds,” he says.

“Why are we here?” a man asks in a shaky voice. He forgot rule two.

Mr. Gibbs gives him a stern look of warning. “Rule two, no talking.” He takes a step and picks a couple of shovels lying on the ground against the wall before handing one to me and one to the man who just spoke. “Take these. I got a job for each of you today.” He passes three more shovels to the rest of the guys. “Let’s go.”

It’s so much easier when you keep your mouth shut and do what they say. There’s no trouble that way. No risk. Just go with the flow and everything will be alright. Maybe after we figure out what the hell is going on, we can be so bold to ask questions. Mr. Whyte said they’ll answer our questions in time. Just give it time.

Mr. Gibbs walks us to the back of the barn and Red makes sure that we follow. He’s extra cautious now that we’re holding shovels and hangs back a few paces, but his body language doesn’t convey fear. More like anticipation. Eagerness, even. He’s the kind of guy that’s looking for a reason to snap.

“You, here,” Mr. Gibbs commands a man and points to a spot on the ground. He takes a couple steps to the side and commands me to do the same. I obey. He then tells the other three to take their spots alongside us, all spaced apart to form another line. Two of the men don’t want to, but reluctantly give in after a moment’s pause and a prodding from Red. After everyone is in place, Mr. Gibbs meets Red at the front. They both stare at us, briefly, before Mr. Gibbs speaks. “Your job for today is to dig a hole. Each of you will dig your own hole—no helping one another. You will make it eight feet long by four feet wide by six feet deep.”

“A grave? You’ve got to be shitting me,” the hot head says. “I’m not digging a damn grave… unless it’s for you.”

Mr. Gibbs crosses his arms and narrows his gaze. “Seems like Donald here doesn’t want to eat tonight. He also just volunteered to sleep on the floor, or wherever the hell he likes, so long as it’s in the barn.” He walks in front of the hot head named Donald. “You just broke rule two for the last time today, son. You wanna press your luck further?” Mr. Gibbs’s hand moves to his hip. Opposite side the whip, a bowie knife hangs, sheathed from his leather belt, his hand poised to pull the blade.

Donald sees the blade. We all do given the angle that Gibbs is standing. He wants us to see it. Part of me wants to see him pull it. What would happen if he did? Would we all commit to the fight? No. Everyone would stand and watch.

A sly grin creeps across Donald’s face and he nods, slowly. “Alright, farmhand. I see how it is.” He drives his foot on the shovel and buries the spade into the ground, his body tense. After he tosses the dirt to the side, he looks at Gibbs. “You better watch your back,” he threatens. Gibbs cocks his head and squints in amusement. “Dig, boy,” he replies, then steps back to take his place beside Mr. Red.

“Anyone else have anything to say?”

Nope.

I start digging and place the dirt neatly beside where I already imagine the hollow ground being.

In rarity, Mr. Red speaks and causes me to give pause, his sinister baritone sending chills down my spine. “Most men don’t last a week on the farm. The graves you dig are for you — it saves Mr. Gibbs and I the trouble of burying you when you’re gone.” He spits in our general direction. “But that’s only if you give up, or break the rules. Now, if you play it right, everything will be peaches and tea. Understand?”

“Yessir,” I say, and hear a couple others acknowledge along with me.

Mr. Red nods. “Good. Well what are you all waiting for? Start digging.”

I start digging again.

This grave’s not for me, though.

An hour goes by in the blink of an eye. It’s funny how time passes when you’re busy with a task. Especially one that makes you question your own mortality. And damn… I just got here.

As we dig, Mr. Gibbs fetches a bucket of water from the well. “Take a break. We don’t want you keelin’ over before the hole’s dug,” he says. We take turns dipping into the bucket, the taste of iron and minerals sitting heavy on my tongue. After a quick drink, we return to the task.

The day passes away and the sun begins to set. We’re all drenched from sweat and on the verge of collapse. I look to the other graves and see that we’ve all dug the holes to completion and within specifications. I feel the fatigue and see the same in the rest of the men, even Donald.

Through the direness of it all, I feel good with completing the task. It’s not an easy feat to dig a grave by hand.

Mr. Gibbs and Mr. Red are pleased and dismiss themselves for the night. Before they go, Mr. Gibbs speaks. “Remember this day. Let it sink in real good.” He nods towards the barn. “Now, get some sleep. We start work at five in the morning. Goodnight, gentlemen.” And with that, they walk to the mansion.

Each of us watch them disappear into the distance. We look to one another in disbelief. Each of us saves our conversations for the confines of the barn—our only known sanctuary on the farm.

* * *

It’s dark inside.

“What in the hell is going on?” the man with the shaky voice says as we gather around the center of the barn. He’s the weakest of the bunch and wears his emotions on his sleeve. He’ll probably be the first to go.

“How about we get to know each other first since we’re all in this together,” another guy suggests. Exactly what I was thinking.

I speak up first. “Cole.”

“Nice to meet you, Cole. Abram,” the guy says. I can already see that we’re similar in temperament and I feel more comfortable around him compared to the others.

“Benji,” the weak, timid one says.

“Donald.”

“Yeah, we know,” Abram says. “And you?” he asks the last man.

“Larry,” he says and begins to chew on a fingernail. His eyes are shifty, his body skittish.

Benji shuffles his feet. “Now that we’re all best friends, I’ll ask again. What the hell’s going on?”

It’s a good question, and one that I’ve been asking myself all day. I shake my head and look for anyone else to answer.

“We’re fucked, that’s what’s going on,” Donald says.

Everyone seems to agree—me, to some extent.

“How old are you?” I ask him.

“Thirty three.”

“Me, too.”

Abram looks like he’s just seen a ghost. “What?” I ask.

“I’m thirty three,” he says.

We look to Benji. He gives a shaky nod and looks at the ground. Every eye turns to Larry. He spits a thumbnail out and looks around the barn, eyes wide with amazement at the wooden beams and straw-covered ground.

“No way,” Abram says. “Okay, so it’s a coincidence we’re all thirty three.”

“And that none of us knows how the hell we got here,” Donald added. “For fuck’s sake, I can’t remember anything before today.”

“Me neither,” I say. “It feels like a dream.”

“More like a nightmare,” Abram says and walks to one of the barn stalls. I join him, finding a scarce amount of stray and petrified manure inside. “Where’s the animals?” I ask. He shrugs and turns back to the group. Larry squats to examine a bug crawling on the dirt floor.

I look to Benji. “Can you remember where you’re from?”

His eyes shift up towards mine, but he quickly avoids contact. “California.”

“Okay. That’s good. How about you, Donald?”

“Kentucky. Why?”

“Anything else? What did you do for work? Construction? Military?”

He furrowed his brow searching for an answer. “I… don’t know.”

I look to Abram.

“Tennessee,” he says.

“No shit? What part?”

“Memphis.”

“Nashville here.”

“Oregon,” Larry chimes in. “Thirty three.” He lays his finger on the ground and allows the strange bug to crawl on his hand. “Aquarius.”

Donald crosses his arms. “So for some damn reason, we’re all thirty three. We’re from America, and apparently, we don’t know anything aside from that except for our birthday.”

“I was born today,” Larry stated, bringing the bug up to his eye for examination.

“Whatever,” Donald says.

“So what’s the plan?” Benji asks in earnest, his eyes begging for an answer. He’s scared. Perhaps we all are; he’s just showing it a bit more than the rest. No. I’m not scared. Intrigued, maybe.

“It’s two against five,” Donald notes. “I say we wait until one of them is alone and then take him out.”

“I don’t know,” Abram says.

Donald steps to him. “What’s not to know man? The way I see it, our past be damned. We’re here, right now. They’re running the show and we’re being treated like dogs. We don’t know a damn thing, and they have the upper hand. I’ll be damned if I sit and take it.”

Larry begins whistling Stairway to Heaven by Led Zeppelin and interrupts Donald’s plans. He dances with the bug as it crawls up his arm. Donald turns to him. “The fuck’s wrong with you?” Larry ignores him and continues to sway with arms wide, eyes locked on his tiny, new friend.

I walk outside to clear my head and look up to find the full moon lighting the farm. The land looks so peaceful. So innocent. I feel Abram walk beside me.

“Donald makes a point. We need a plan.”

“I know.”

He looks to the sky and inhales deep. “You know we’re gonna have to break the rules.”

I nod, knowing all too well the truth in the words. I know the truth in the consequences of breaking the rules as well, and the repercussions that follow in doing so. Cause and effect.

The universe always gets its due.

“Rules are meant to be broken, Abram.”

CHAPTER TWO

“Rise and shine!” Mr. Gibbs shouts outside the barn, rapping a stick on the door.

My eyes instantly open, mind reeling with the gravity of my current state.

Why couldn’t it have been a dream? What did I do to deserve this?

“Let’s go. On your feet!” Mr. Red bellows.

It’s still dark inside the barn. I raise my head to see the two shadows moving by the light of the moon, barking orders from behind the closed door. The rest of the men beside me stir in their small beds, no doubt dreading their own reality in the waking moment. Donald’s already up and walks to meet them. He slides one of the large doors open. “You’re late,” he mocks.

Mr. Red laughs. “Alright then, spring chicken, let’s get at it then. I’m gonna call you Cock from now on. Is that okay with you, Cock?”

It’s too early for this shit.

“Suits me just fine, Mr. Red, sir.”

Mr. Red sucks air through his teeth. “Good. Go on and grab one of those hoes out front and wait for the rest of us.”

I roll out of bed wearing the same clothes from the day before and slog my way towards the door to join Donald. The two farmhands glance at me as I walk by to fetch a hoe for myself, but pay me no more attention than what I deserve. I know my place.

I hear them bark at the rest, and the other four soon fall in line beside Donald and myself, each rubbing their eyes and muttering what I would imagine to be curses at whoever damned us to this existence.

I feel the rough wood handle of the tool in my hand before throwing it over my shoulder. Sun’s not even up yet. It’s gonna be a long day.

Mr. Gibbs leads the way, flashlight in hand illuminating the ground ahead. We walk in silence, away from the barn—our only safe haven—and into an unknown land. “Careful now,” Gibbs says. “Don’t wanna break an ankle first day on the job.” He’s right. I feel the uneven ground below my feet that I imagine cattle or groundhogs making. But I’ve seen no cattle or groundhogs since I’ve been here. That’s not saying much, though. A farm like this; it’s probably overrun with deer, turkey, and all kinds of wild game. The cows are likely to be elsewhere, grazing.

Most farms have cows. I assume this one does, too.

We walk for what seems like a mile when Mr. Gibbs finally stops. The sun begins to rise and casts its light upon the land. We’re standing on an old corn field, the stocks broken and jetting from the earth like thick, broken weeds. I figure it to be about five acres.

How the hell do I know what an acre is? I’ve never lived in the country before, let alone owned a piece of land. Downtown Nashville is city streets and high-rises. An apartment on the ninth floor.

“Hope you boys got a good night of sleep,” Mr. Gibbs says. “Because you’re gonna need it.”

I see the barren rows and know what needs to be tilled. It’s going to be a really long day.

Mr. Red points to the far end of the field. “Start down there and work your way back here. Till it good or you’ll be doing it over again.”

Donald marches to the far end of the field like a man on a mission. I grudgingly follow as Abram steps in beside me. “Don’t overwork yourself. Keep busy but conserve your energy,” he advises.

“Don’t worry about me, Abram. I can play the game.”

Larry skips ahead of us, holding the hoe out in front like he’s dancing with it. He does a twirl and nearly trips. “There’s something wrong with him,” Abram says.

I glance behind me and see Benji still standing where we left him, his head cast down, shoulders slouched. Mr. Red steps in front of him and points, his words muffled from where I stand. I stop and turn, waiting to see what happens, hoping Benji doesn’t do anything stupid.

Benji shakes his head.

Rule one.

Mr. Red clenches his fist and draws his arm up like he’s gonna hit the poor bastard. He takes a deep breath and restrains himself. He leans close and whispers into Benji’s ear. Whatever it was that Red said made Benji grip the tool with both hands and turn to join the rest of us.

“C’mon, man. Don’t linger,” Abram says and puts a hand on my shoulder.

Instantly, my blood rises. I shoot a glare at him, something inside me tensing at the touch. I swallow my words, saving him from the sharp edge of my tongue. Don’t ever touch me again.

We take our place on the rows next to Donald. He’s already working the ground like a pro, making it look easy. I square up, set my feet, and strike the earth. I make my row neat, straight—ten inches deep and no more than the five inch width of the metal blade. I till about ten feet thinking that it’s not so bad. Then the blade hits something hard and I feel a numbing tingle run through my hands. I dig around the rock and try to pry it loose but the damn thing won’t budge, so I drop the tool and begin to work at it with my hands. A drop of sweat drips from my nose and falls. I wipe my face with a sleeve, furrow my brow, and attack the stone with full intentions of not letting it get the best of me.

A shadow fills my work space and I pause what I’m doing to crane my neck up.

“What are you doing?” Mr. Red asks, a flash of light reflecting off his dark, Texas cop glasses as he regards me like a child playing in a sandbox.

What does it look like I’m doing? “I’m following last year’s row and ran into this.” I straighten my back up and point at the rock like he’s ignorant to it being there.

“Quit dicking around, Cole, and skip over it,” he instructed as though it were a simple solution to a trivial problem that anyone should have been able to see. It was simple and a good idea. I didn’t even think of it. But it’s in the way.

My hands grip the tool and I rise from my knees, wipe more sweat from my brow with my arm. I ignore Mr. Red and continue digging the ditch, skipping over the rock.

I glance towards Abram who’s nearby and witnessed the whole embarrassing ordeal. He’s trying his best to stifle a sheepish grin and keeps his head down.

A thought crosses my mind and I wonder why the rock was there if the same row was worked last year. Did someone skip over it last time, as well? I turn to bring it to Mr. Red’s attention, but he’s already gone to rejoin Mr. Gibbs in the middle of the field, fifty yards away.

There’s a certain melodic sound from a group working the ground; the sound of the tools hitting the earth in succession giving a nice tempo to keep pace with. Like a metronome, I time my strikes with the others and imagine them listening to the same music because we’re all playing to the same tune.

Time passes fast on the farm. Suppose it’s just that we’re staying busy, but it’s still surprising how quickly the day fades away. The farmhands haven’t said much today; the only words coming from Mr. Red earlier when he instructed me like a child. They haven’t even talked among themselves… at least I haven’t noticed them doing so. They take turns fetching us buckets of water from the well, and I welcome the sound of the four-wheeler firing up every time they push the ignition.

It’s a large ATV, camouflage. The kind with racks on the front and back—one for guns and one for a deer. Or bear, hog, coyote, whatever. Farmhand.

I’m going to steal it.

They drop the water off at the edge of the field, then park it to the side before rejoining the parched men at the bucket. We’re all soaking wet—sweat making our brown, ragged clothes stick to our chests and backs.

I glance at the four-wheeler and figure it’s a good time to break away from the group. I don’t get five steps away before Mr. Gibbs asks me what I’m doing. “I gotta piss. Can’t a guy get a little privacy?”

“What do you got to be ashamed of?” Gibbs replies, amused. “We’re all grown men.”

“I’ll just go right over here,” I say and keep moving in the direction of the ATV. They ignore me and I hear them talk to the group. I keep walking.

Almost there.

“Hey, that’s far enough,” Mr. Gibbs calls out to me.

I pretend I don’t hear him.

“I said that’s far enough!”

“Alright,” I say and take a couple more steps before untying my pants to relieve myself. I’m close enough to make a break for it—close enough to see that they leave the key in the ignition at all times.

“Let’s go. Now,” Gibbs yells out and takes a couple steps towards me.

“Alright,” I call back over my shoulder and finish my business. All eyes are on me as I rejoin the group, and a sinking feeling rises up in my gut. Do they know what I’m planning? Is it that obvious? I whistle as I walk towards them, pretending that everything is normal.

“What was that?” Mr. Gibbs steps up to me and puts a hand to his whip. Mr. Red joins him and squares his broad shoulders. Both of them are bearing down on me with a serious gaze, one that bears consequences for doing something out of line.

Everyone’s waiting on me to say something and wondering what the farmhands are going to do. I go to speak but feel a lump creep up into my throat. “I… just had to pee.”

Mr. Gibbs busts out laughing and Mr. Red wears a bemused grin on his freckled face. “Damn, man, I’m just jerking your chain,” Gibbs says and holds his stomach as his laughter fades to a chuckle. I look to the other men. They’re all froze in place, surprised by show, and relieved that the farmhands didn’t throttle one of us for something as trivial as taking a piss.

I’ll admit that the farmhands are hard to figure out. Most of the time, they’re serious business. But every once in a while, they cut up and make jokes. Except nobody finds them funny. They’re showing too much, though. I’m beginning to figure out what buttons I can push and how they’ll react. Sure, they’ve got the upper hand, and everything’s still all mysterious and shit, but they’re giving away too much.

“Okay, break’s over. Back to work now.” Mr. Red takes the water bucket back to the ATV and Gibbs steps in beside him.

The five of us look at one another.

“What the hell were you doing?” Donald asks, keeping his voice down. “Tell me you weren’t thinking of doing something stupid like stealing that four wheeler.”

“Rule two—no talking,” Benji reminds us with a strained whisper and looks at the farmhands nervously.

I meet Donald’s eye. “I thought about it.” I glance over my shoulder to see them leaning on the machine, talking in earnest about something. Or someone.

“They leave the key in the ignition.”

“I’m going back to work before you guys get all of us in trouble,” Benji says and walks away. Larry joins him and pats him on the back, reassuring him that everything will be alright.

Abram closes the distance between the three of us and speaks. “Say that you do steal it. What then? Where will you go?”

“That’s simple. To the nearest town to ask for help.”

“You don’t even know where we are! What if there’s no town within a hundred miles?”

“C’mon guys, let’s get back to work. They’re coming back,” Donald cautions.

“We’ll talk about it tonight,” I say. “Let’s just get this day over with.”

* * *

The inside of the barn is lit by a couple lightbulbs that’s strung along the hay lofts. Everyone’s scattered around the floor eating like a pack of starving, ravenous dogs that just found a rotting deer carcass on the side of the road. It’s not roadkill that we’re eating, though. Our meal’s a spread of corn, bread, fruits and vegetables fit for a king. I’m surprised that we’re being fed this well, suspecting our meals to consist of some gray mush that they slop into a bowl. Donald’s tearing through a cooked chicken—a whole cooked chicken—his reward for working so hard and obeying the rules. Meat of the Day went to him. Maybe I’ll get it tomorrow. That’s if I’m still here.

I’ve already imagined stealing the ATV and riding away multiple times, leaving everyone and everything behind. I wonder what everyone else would think as they watched me tear away, leaving nothing but a cloud of dust and the sound of a red-lining engine fading off into the distance.

Donald picks through the remnants of a chicken leg and looks at me with bits of meat and grease smeared around his mouth. “Tell us about this master plan you have with stealing the ATV from Mr. Gibbs and Mr. Red.”

It’s not much of a plan. Pretty simple, really. Just take it and ride like hell.

“I figure we wait until they’re separated, then I’ll make a run for it.”

Benji shakes his head. “They’re never separated. Always together.”

“He’s right,” Abram says and reclines on the dirt floor of the barn, hands cradling the back of his head. “It’ll never work.”

“It will,” I assure him.

Donald pushes his plate aside and wipes his mouth with a sleeve. “One of them will have to use the bathroom or something at some point, and that’s when we’ll distract the other one while Cole here makes a break for it. If they do leave the keys in the ignition all the time, it’ll work. I’m in.”

“But what if they don’t? What if it was just a one-time thing, and when they find out you’ve been plotting this, they kill us all?” Benji states. He reminds me of a mouse. Not one of the cool ones like in Tom and Jerry, but a scared, shifty-eyed mouse. Scared, anxious people are the ones you gotta look out for. I’ve seen the movies. They’re always the ones who talk too loud or spook too easy when the killer or monster is near. They usually end up dying and nobody has any sympathy for them; especially when they’re the reason that the other people around them get killed.

Benji’s the type that could get us all killed.

“It’s a risk worth taking,” Donald replies. “Don’t worry Benji, you don’t have to do shit. Same goes for the rest of you. I’ll make the distraction while Cole makes a run for it, that way nobody else gets involved.”

I nod my head in agreement. “There’s no reason for everyone to get punished if this thing goes south. Thanks, Donald.”

“Don’t mention it. So you’ll be coming back that night to pick me up first, then make rounds for the rest of the guys here.” It wasn’t a question. It was a statement.

I’m not coming back.

“Sure.”

Donald narrows his gaze at me, searching for a lie. He won’t find one. I’m a good liar.

Larry stands up and stretches. He bends over and touches his toes, then stretches towards the sky again. After he’s done, he looks back and forth to me and Donald. “Why do you want to leave in the first place?” he asks.

At first I’m shocked that he said something that wasn’t complete rubbish. Then I begin to weigh the question over in my mind. I want to laugh at the audacity of such a stupid question, but I don’t. It’s actually a good question. One that I haven’t really thought about before.

“Ha! That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” Donald says. “You really are bat shit crazy, aren’t you Larry.”

Larry smiles in reply, but doesn’t take offense, which surprises me.

“We’re slaves here,” Abram states. “Who wouldn’t want to leave?”

Larry replies. “Are we slaves? I don’t know.” He shakes his head and bends to touch his toes again. “And who’s to say that leaving would be any better?”

Donald shakes his head, apparently through with Larry. He leans back on a bail of hay and picks at his teeth.

“Can’t be any worse,” Abram replies.

Larry stands up straight again and speaks. “I’m confused. Confused as much as any of you are.” I stifle a snort. He continues. “But these people have the answers that we seek. They know who we are and how we got here. You won’t find the truth out there,” he says and points outside.

He walks to me and kneels beside where I’m sitting. I adjust myself and don’t like how close he is. His eyes are kind, true. Not so crazy.

“You won’t find anything out there. Don’t do it,” he says to me.

“Don’t worry Larry. I’ll come back for you.”

He looks down with a look of shame and disappointment before walking away.

You’re not my damn dad, Larry.

Donald chuckles like a drunk uncle at a party. “Cheer up ladies. Tomorrow’s gonna be a brand new day and full of promise.”

Benji scurries to one of the cots and throws a blanket over himself. Larry walks outside and gazes up at the moon. Abram doesn’t really care one way or the other. Donald closes his eyes, a wry smile upon his face.

And me?

I’m tired.