“I don’t know how much longer he’s going to make it. Looks like I’ll have to try and patch it up again.”
“But I like that one.” The boy finished his tracing with one final swoop of his index finger. “He’s big.”
“I know he is, buddy, but that’s the problem. We don’t want water getting in here, do we?”
“No.” He fell silent for a moment. “Could you make some more dinosaurs for us?”
Thomas smiled. “I’ll see what I can do, but no promises.”
“I know.” The boy rolled onto his side. “Am I still seven today?”
“Yeah, buddy. You’re still seven today.”
“When am I eight?” His voice a mixture of curiosity and concern. He began nervously fiddling his fingers together and chewing his lip.
“You still have some time before you’re eight.”
“And then I have to start doing the army stuff?”
“Something like that.” Thomas took the boy’s hands into his own to interrupt his anxiety. “But you don’t have to worry about that stuff yet. You still get to help in the fields for now.”
“But when? What if I have to move to the Capital?”
“Lower Price Hill Fortress is our home. We aren’t going anywhere. And don’t worry about the army stuff right now. I’ll let you know when it gets close.”
The boy nodded. “But—” Thomas lightly pinched his cheeks together, interrupting his words.
“Let’s get ready, Joseph. That first bell’s going to be chiming soon.”
“They already did two sets.”
“Shit!” Thomas popped the covers off them and took Joseph from the bed.
Joseph looked at him with wide, brown eyes. “You said a bad word.”
“Sorry.”
The apology must have sounded insincere in the haste of gathering his things. He snatched his black uniform from the closet and forced it on, followed by his boots. A silver semi-automatic pistol dropped into his leg holster. Thomas looked over his shoulder—Joseph simply stared at this rushed spectacle. “You’ll have to go to Kate’s this morning.” He took his watch, dog tags, and U.S. Army Zippo lighter from a bowl sitting on a small dresser. Joseph was almost knocked over as Thomas went to leave. “You hear me!?”
“Yes.” Joseph slumped to the floor, his arms gathering both knees into his chest.
“I know I say this a lot, but”—he struggled to work the watch onto his wrist—“you have to stop calling me Mr. Tom.”
“Why?”
Thomas knelt down in front of him and tried to clear his frustration before lecturing the boy. “You know why…”
Joseph buried his chin into an armpit to avoid eye contact with Thomas.
“I don’t want them to take you from me. Hey…” He gently took the boy’s chin and aligned their eyes before continuing, “I promised your parents I’d care for you. You have to remember, buddy, I’m Tommy… Only to you, I’m Tommy or Big Brother.”
Joseph smiled, and Thomas, running increasingly late with each word, kissed his forehead, bolted for the apartment door, and grabbed his rucksack on the way out. “Be good for Kate!”
Rushing through the cool shadows of the street, Thomas maintained the thumping of his boots against the damp pavement. The brick row houses lined the sidewalk—the sidewalk lined the street, not an inch of grass between any of it. Red and brown bricks as far as the eye could see.
A group of young elementary-aged boys dressed in old, school uniforms stood in military formation within a small pocket park boxed in by the concrete and brick. An older boy stood at the front, barking orders, running them through various facing movements. One of the kids called out to Thomas, but was swiftly rebuked by the young man in charge of morning drills.
“On your faces!” The children dropped into the push-up position. “Down! … Up! One! Down! … Up! Two! Down!” The counting faded as Thomas rushed away.
Although he had wanted to stop and offer some words of encouragement, time’s hurried march toward the hour wouldn’t allow it. They’ll learn soon enough. Shit, maybe I’ll learn. He knew this couldn’t be the best impression. His black uniform exhibited too little wear for mistakes like these. If he were to earn the promotion he’d worked so hard to obtain, then today became the tipping point. Push yourself. Only one more block. You can’t be late again.
He broke the corner, his momentum tailing him off the sidewalk and into the street, giving him an unhindered line to the command post. So close. Half a block. His eyes steadied on the flagpole atop the repurposed Oyler School that bore the Second Alliance’s banner. The sun and moon split by a broadsword flapped triumphantly in the wind, towering above the yellowed, cream-colored limestone—above the red bricks occupying spaces where the limestone ceased.
As he neared, Thomas remembered the dream his neighbor had told him about several weeks ago. A dream where the stone angels that gripped the corners of the school would animate their wings and lift it from this plagued world, placing it upon a more proper timeline. The timeline where man powered machine and in return was empowered by machine. A time when the world held enough men to power such a concept. We’ve come a long way, but still… No matter how far we come. What I wouldn’t give to go back to how it used to be.
His fist banged against the thick metal door. He paced the top of the stairs while waiting, running his thumbs along the inside of the rucksack’s straps. “Come on! Come on!” His fist banged against the door once again. More pacing then finally he heard a creak. A helping hand rotated the lock and pushed the entrance clear. “Thank you!” Exasperated, Thomas tore through the second set of doors. His outburst met with a dirty look from the receptionist that had been shaken from her work.
“Sir!” Her plea echoed through the grand vestibule, but went unheeded.
Two steps by two steps, Thomas bounded up a large staircase that curled around on itself, climbing the four stories toward the vaulted ceiling. He checked his watch the moment he hit the landing. Two minutes. So close! His stride grew into a full sprint through the hall. “Make a hole!” He shouted. The few people ambling toward him scattered to make way. One woman dropped a short stack of papers to the floor—a few pens clacked against the linoleum. The lockers on either side became a blur. Two more classrooms and his sprint started to unwind, his boots pounding to a stop in front of room 410. He paused briefly to compose himself, straightening his uniform before entering. He took a deep breath.
All eyes locked onto Thomas as he entered. It felt stuffy—the room swollen with the egos of ambitious men. He could feel the judgment of previous tardiness, but today it was misplaced. Thank, God. I made it. He exhaled his pent-up anxiety—all the worry of not making it—and couldn’t help but let a childish grin creep onto his face. A bullet had certainly been dodged. And although he had been seen running like a lunatic down the hall, at least they knew he wasn’t late. Always live another day.
He set his ruck on the floor, lining it up with the others against the wall and took a small notepad and pencil from a side pocket. A single seat sat open in the back. He maneuvered past the other Guards in the room, sidestepping boots and knees obstructing his way. He went to sit, but before he could…
“Atten-tion!”
Thomas spun around and snapped into position. The rest of the men followed suit, becoming stiff and upright. Their faces forward. Their hands cupped along the outer seam of their pants. Their heels clicked together. An automatic response to the word. It was as if they would all begin breathing in unison, eerily robotic, waiting for their next command.