I Am
He became aware of his surroundings in increments.
The tireless voice of a wheel humming on pavement, punctuated by the rhythmic slap of a seam in the roadway that came like the steady tick of a metronome measuring the passing moments.
The rocking motion of the vehicle in which he rode, wearing through the skin at the tips of his shoulder blades that lay against cold, unyielding, steel.
The air around him was heavy with the scent of unwashed bodies, the bitter odor of urine, and the sharp tang of shit.
Though his eyes were open he saw nothing but the bleak emptiness of despair.
What have they done to me?
A cough came from above him, a grunt from the left, and as he explored his prison with shaking hands he discovered he was sitting in a corner, his hips twisted to one side with his legs curled beneath him. Pins and needles danced across the flesh of his legs as the deep pain of having sat in one position for too long came from his hips and buttocks.
Around him the others stood, rocking with the motion of the vehicle, their bare flesh slick with sweat. His groping fingers plunged into a hairy, fleshy, mass as a grunt of surprise came from above his head. His hand was slapped away violently as the grunt of surprise became a snarl of anger.
There were others with him.
Where am I?
Warm fluid trickled onto his chest, several drops splashing into his mouth to leave a bitter taste as that overpowering odor of urine washed over him. He tried to spit, his mouth too dry to create the saliva needed to wash away that bitter taste.
Who are they?
They were trapped, all of them, living in their own waste as the night stretched into forever.
Memories washed through his mind, disjointed thoughts that held no real meaning, fragments of a past that made little sense. He saw a loading dock at a feed store co-op that looked familiar. A large truck backed up to the dock as two men threw bags of feed into the back.
Someone was waiting for him to come home, he had formed a mental image of a woman and a child, but their faces were featureless. He only knew she was scared and he was supposed to protect her.
How long has it been?
An errant memory became lodged in his mind as the assorted pieces of the puzzle dropping firmly into place.
In the loading area he had come upon two drivers throwing bags of shelled corn into the back of one of the company trucks. As he approached them, and they stood up from their task, the younger of the two glanced over his left shoulder. Someone was coming up behind him and as he turned to confront this new threat darkness descended around him with an abrupt finality.
Why?
The hum of the tires subsided, replaced by the sound of gravel stirring beneath tire treads as the container in which he rode tilted to the left.
They were turning off the main road.
How did he know that?
He tried to call out, his mouth as dry as a sheet of sandpaper, his throat sore as a sharp pain throbbed along his neck. With his hand he probed the side of his neck, finding several stitches in the puckered flesh of a healing wound.
What have they done to me?
Other memories tumbled into place. He had a wife and daughter, the woman and the child, their features still obscured as their names eluded him.
I am, The thought formed with confidence only to come against the black wall that had trapped his memories within it, hiding his own name from his consciousness.
The vehicle came to a stop and a restlessness washed through those around him. From the black depths came the sound of a latch being drawn back. Cold air washed through the container as light spilled into the emptiness. A door was pulled open and for the first time since awakening he could survey his surroundings.
To his left and right others were packed in with him. His neighbor to his right grunted and he turned his head to look into the vacant stare of a man who appeared to be in his early twenties, drool traced a wet line down his face as his gaze wandered about. It was a bland face with no distinguishing features to set it apart from its neighbor who carried that same vacant stare.
“Let’s get em out,” someone yelled . Booted feet rang on cold steel, gates were drawn back, rough hands reached in and yanked him from his place in the corner and he was propped up onto his feet, the steel floor cold against the soles of his feet. Other bodies crowded around him, naked flesh pressing against his own as they were driven from the confines of the container towards a large barn whose oversized doors stood open, the light inside harsh and white, hurt his eyes as he gazed at it.
They were driven like cattle from the long steel container, across a gravel lot with sharp edged stone cutting into tender flesh, and into the barn. Their captors wore the traditional garb of a Nebraska farmhand, bib coveralls over a flannel shirt with muck boots riding as high as mid-calf. They carried cattle prods and he noticed that those around the edges of the naked crowd of captives were falling prey to the buzzing heads that left scorched flesh in its wake.
“Don’t leave any marks boys.” Someone said, obviously a boss as the farmhands guiding the group into the shed clipped their cattle prods to their belts and began shoving the stragglers with gloved hands.
The entire group, which he estimated at between twenty-five and thirty strong, all male, and all completely naked, were lined up along the back wall of the barn.
“Let’s clean the shit off em,” someone yelled, most likely the same one who had warned against damaging them with the cattle prods. Three fire hoses turned on the group, the water came out hard, fast, and ice cold. Stinging the flesh, getting under the eyelids, invading both his nose and mouth. Still the majority of those in the group made little noise aside from a few grunts of displeasure.
As they were pummeled by the water he saw one of the men fall to the ground and cover his head with his hands. Those on the hoses immediately focused all three hoses on that unfortunate soul, driving him against the wall as he tried to protect his face with his hands. The force of the water drove his hands away from his face and all three streams of water focused on his face, forcing open his mouth as he was held in place.
“Godammit what are you trying to do.” One of the hands yelled as he waded into the three men manning the hoses, beating at them with his fists. The water was turned off but it was too late for the man who had been pinned against the wall. Without the water pressure to hold him up he fell face first to the floor where he remained unmoving.
“You’re paying for that one boy, I’m taking the cost outta your next pay.” The farmhand who was obviously in charge shouted.
He pushed his way through the crowded bodies around him, intending to go to the injured party to see if there was anything he could do to help. As he did he began to notice something he’d seen before but had so far managed to keep from consciously acknowledging to himself.
They were all the same.
Every last one of them was an identical duplicate of the next. Each one of them had short sandy hair, wide spaced eyes, and a pug nose above a thin mouth. Beyond the facial similarities they were each the exact same height and he was willing to bet if he had a scale available they would each weigh nearly the same, no more than a few ounces different.
How? He wondered before the answer filled his mind with a startling clarity, chilling him to the bone.
Clones!
That was how the corporate farms were keeping their costs down. Everyone had assumed they were shipping in illegals they’d kidnapped from the slums of Mexico. Feeding and clothing them, but not much else.
But they said cloning a human was impossible, no they’d said it was immoral and laws had been enacted to punish anyone who tried. But it hadn’t stopped the corporations that owned the farm.
Surely once he explained the mix up he’d be released, he didn’t look like them obviously, and he was certain they had noticed the difference. His finger strayed to the stitches on the side of his neck.
They’d cut his vocal cords so he couldn’t speak.
Even if he could, he realized with a cold chill, if he revealed who he really was, he’d simply vanish, dead at the bottom of an unmarked grave, if they even went to that extent. Disposing of a dead body on a working farm was a simple matter. Farms were a deadly place to the uninitiated, and even lifelong farm hands had been known to lose fingers to thrashing steel.
He was on his own. He couldn’t rely on those around him. He had to escape, but how? How did a naked man flee from a corporate farm in the middle of nowhere? With no clothes, no tools, nothing, or no one to help.
Gus, the name popped into his mind, and he turned it over in his thoughts as if he were rolling it around on his tongue to ensure it fit.
Is that my name?
As he tested the name, he noticed one of the farmhands watching him intently. Beneath the straw hat he saw the familiar outline of a large jaw outlining the bloodless line of a narrow strip of lips.
Brodie, he knew him, and a memory blossomed in his mind. Brodie used to come into the co-op all the time. He’d buy a couple of bags of shelled corn and go on his way with nary a word. But there were some subtle differences between this Brodie and the one he remembered. The most obvious being the difference between in are. This Brodie appeared much younger than the one he recalled. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe he’s a relative of the Brodie I knew.
Their eyes locked, recognition sparking between them. Brodie was the first to look away and Gus suddenly realized just how precarious his predicament had become. They knew him. They knew he was here. Which meant he’d never leave this place alive.
“Move em along boys, let’s get em fed and dressed before we bed em down for the night.”
They were moved to an adjoining room, forced into single file with short whips their handlers took joy in using. Here they were each given a burlap poncho and instructed in how to put it on. Standing a few inches taller than the rest, his hair much darker than the sandy color of those around him, it wasn’t long before he drew unwanted attention.
“What do we have here? A mutant? The man who was in charge said as he approached Gus. He was several inches shorter, his flesh the color of tanned leather, compliments of a lifetime spent farming. He looked up at Gus with hard eyes that sparkled in the shadow cast by the brim of his hat.
“You’re not going to give me a hard time? Are you boy?”
Gus shook his head trying his best to mimic the slack expression of the others around him. He must have succeeded as the boss held his gaze for a moment before nodding and stepping back.
After receiving their poncho that served to cover their naked flesh, but not much else, they were herded into the next room where tables waited. Here they were fed a watery gray gruel with a gritty texture. There was little taste and as Gus gazed down at his bowl, he saw his neighbor try to take it. He placed his hand on his neighbor’s arm, stopping him.
With a shriek his neighbor jumped to his feet, slapping him around his head and shoulders. All Gus could do was cover up as the blows fell and several of the farm hands made their way through the crowd to intercede. After his attacker had been pulled away a rough hand yanked on the collar of his poncho, pulling it tight against his throat and forcing him to lean back in his seat.
The man in charge looked down upon him, his features twisted with a sadistic cruelty.
“I thought we had agreed you weren’t going to cause any trouble, boy?”
Gus shook his head as he worked his mouth silently.
“Look at this, boys. It thinks it can speak.” The man in charge said. The other hands laughed, Gus’s subdued attacker lying at their feet. The rest of the captives kept their heads down in a submissive manner, their eyes fixed on the bowl in front of them.
“Maybe a night in the box will teach him his place.” The man in charge said before the emptiness swelled up from the black depths around him to envelope him in its smothering embrace.
He drifted across a black sea buoyed by a single thought that anchored him to the reality of his past. He was not like the others. He had a life, a family, a wife who loved him. The thought of abandoning her as he had, even though everything that had happened to him up to this point had been out of his control, sent a dagger of guilt into his heart. She would be frantic, not sure what to do, lost within the terror of being deserted.
What was her name?
He searched his memory for her name, the throbbing at the base of his skull growing as he struggled to remember even the simplest details of his past life. They had children, or did they? If only he could remember her name, it would strengthen the anchor that tied him to the reality of his past and give him hope to battle the despair his life had become.
Around him the shadows were deep, the sides of the steel box in which he lay were pressed tight against his shoulders, the crown of his head was wedged against the top while his feet were pressed flat against the bottom. It was a cramped space with a narrow slit along the top that allowed a soft breeze to dance across his naked flesh.
They had taken his poncho.
With shaking hands he reached for the top, his palms encountering cold steel as he pushed against its unyielding surface.
He was trapped within the confines of a box too small for his frame, filled with the need to get up and move around, a restlessness that became the center of his world. Beyond the box the night moved resolutely towards morning, the sky to the east growing lighter as the world continued to turn upon its axis, unaware, uncaring, following a course that had been plotted long before he’d been born and would continue long after he was gone.
His legs grew even more restless, and he struggled to keep them under control as spasms racked his muscles. He didn’t know how long he’d lain unconscious in the box, but judging by the pain in his legs it had to have been the better part of the night.
Maybe they’d let him out with the dawn, to work the fields, to move about freely with the others. The thought gave him a goal to focus on as the birds sang in greeting to the approaching dawn, somewhere a rooster crowed as he concentrated on that single thought.
They were going to let him out soon.
Somewhere a door slammed, keys jingled, and a muffled shout came from the low-roofed building where the others were being kept.
As the first light of the coming dawn crested the roof of the barn the doors of the barracks swung open, and the workers were driven towards the building where they had been fed the night before.
They’ll be coming soon, the thought whispered through his mind, followed promptly by another. They’ll let me out soon. His legs had fallen asleep, his buttocks was numb from resting on the unyielding steel, and the flesh covering the nubs of his shoulder blades felt like it was becoming raw.
To be continued!
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Richard Schiver 