Author’s Note – skip this if you want, but it might, ah, help

I wrote this for my creative writing final last June; it was a response to a picture – a really strange picture. Teenage boys in white shirts, all in lines, all with their hands on the shoulders of the person in front of him. (I have on the original draft: ‘Picture: yellow construction paper, men in white shirts and in long lines’ because that was the only identifying information I could use for my teacher – it came from a mass pile of picture all splayed out on a large table. There were no photographer names, otherwise I’d put them on here, I guess, for the record’s sake…) Really weird, yes, and that’s how I came up with this. It’s probably one of the stranger things I’ve written, and probably stems not only from the absurdity of the picture, but also from the embarrassing amount of times I’ve seen the Terminator series. So if you’re up for something interesting, read it through. But if you can’t really stomach science fiction and if the picture I described is somewhat disturbing (I think it is, but only because it made me produce this), then I wouldn’t suggest continuing on. But as I like to say – take the plunge. You could enjoy it…

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Four Hour March

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Three hours, thirty-nine minutes, ten seconds.

Roger had been counting.

The line hadn’t moved for the past twenty-three minutes, and Roger was beginning to worry. Then again, he’d been worried for the past three hours, thirty-nine minutes, and fifty-five seconds.

The men around him were worried, too. There were endless lines stretched as far as he could see. The boys around him fidgeted slightly in the heat. But they couldn’t move too much – the space didn’t permit it. And they had to keep their hands on the person in front of them. ‘To ensure that the lines will not separate’ – that the boys would did not mingle.

Roger didn’t mind that part – he knew conditions would be worse if they dropped their arms to their sides, if the lines collapsed and the boys were allowed just to stand. Then it would be chaos.

He wondered what had happened to the girls – where had they gone? Why were there only young men here? – teenagers, almost children, really.

One of the machines flew overhead. It looked almost like a helicopter, only it was smaller, there was no cockpit for a pilot or passenger, and there were no windows. The metal frame shone in the sun; around it the air shimmered. Two red ‘eyes’ scanned the crowd. Roger wondered, for what?

Three hours, thirty-five minutes, and two seconds ago he had stopped wondering what the helicopter was about. The men who had started the lines had seemed suspicious at first. And, as the helicopters circled overhead, he realized he was present in some horrible kind of science fiction story.

Three hours, thirty one minutes, and forty seconds ago he’d given up pretending it was a dream and subjected himself to his fate. It was too hot to fight, and he had no idea what was going on. And he was not a leader.

But the men – he remembered – their gaze had seemed harsh, terrible. His mind had tried to figure out what could make a human look so cold and apathetic. Those men didn’t even fidget in the sweltering heat; they did not slap at flies or wipe the sweat from their brow… there was no sweat.

The men were not men at all – they had to be something else. Roger was a realistic person; he didn’t want to jump to conclusions. But the suspicion had been growing on him for the past three hours, twenty-five minutes, and six seconds.

The line was moving again. Roger trudged forward, careful not to step on the heels of the person in front of him. He looked to his left, and saw a boy. He was staring into the sun. The sky had faded to a tired, gray-blue – an effect that probably had more to do with the smog than the night coming. There were no clouds in the sky – just a few crows cawing overhead.

Roger kept moving, and left the kid behind. He had the feeling they were nearing the end of the line. From geography class, he had guessed that to his left, eventually there was a yellow marsh. Two hours, fifty-three minutes, and forty-eight seconds ago he had imagined it in his head, to distract himself. But it hadn’t helped, because the only image he could think of was yellow grass, flies, a heron wading in gray water. So he’d turned to the right. In the distance there, he thought he remembered there was a beach. He could see choppy gray waves throwing themselves at white and yellow sanded shores… But that had made him thirsty. So he ended that train of thought.

At three hours, forty-three minutes, and forty-four seconds, he heard the whirr of machines. At three hours, forty-seven minutes, and nineteen seconds, he heard a hissing sound followed by a harsh cry, and at three hours, fifty-one minutes, and nine seconds, those cries multiplied. At three hours, fifty-seven minutes, and two seconds, he decided to stop counting.

The cries were about one hundred yards in front of him. Something pitted at the bottom of his stomach and flooded his entire body in a wave of dread. His toes went cold as he felt blood drain from them.

He had realized what the hissing meant.

The boys around him looked just as scared; some were still confused. Most had given up. He thought back to two hours ago, when they had been talkative. It would be a long time before they would feel that again.

The line had stopped for just a moment; Roger took the chance to lean up on his tiptoes and scout ahead. Just long lines of boy sin white shirts – the sea was endless until another seventy-three yards. He’d been avoiding looking at it, but now he took everything in. Tall gray buildings – probably factories. Outside them, more men like the ones before. Huge, muscular, dangerous looking. They held iron rods which glowed red at the end.

One of them turned in his direction – could they see him? Did they know he was looked specifically at them?

He sank down to his heels and slouched a little.

That gaze – no, those eyes were not human.

He had at least expected hate. Clearly, whoever these people were, whoever was trying to take control (and, apparently, succeeding)) should have a scowl pasted across his face. Maybe a sneer; their eyes should droop at the corners. There should be wrinkles and frowns. But there was nothing but a still, passive glance. It was almost calculating – but that was all in the eyes.

Roger looked at the boy in front of him. He thought of the kid staring at the sun. What were they going to? So blindly, they all just shuffled along to a doom of – what? Slavery? He had no idea what was in those gray buildings. But whatever it was – he didn’t want it. They didn’t want it.

“Psst,” he whispered, for it had gone silent thirty yards back. “We have to get out of here.”

“Shhh!” came the silencing reprimands.

Roger stayed silent, and realized he had no plan. He wasn’t a leader! He couldn’t free these people. He was a follower. But what could he do?

There were more boys here than those men. Surely they could overpower them. But they were surrounded on both sides – the sea, and the marsh. They couldn’t go back, the men waited there. Forward was out of the question.

He decided the marsh was the best choice. If these ‘men’ were what he suspected, then perhaps they would not take to water.

But what about the helicopters?

He hadn’t seen one in awhile. He decided to risk it.

His hands fell from the shoulders of the boy in front of him. He turned sharply to his left. The boys around him protested in surprise.

“What are you doing?” they hissed, trying to shove him back into place.

“To the marshes!” he commanded, doubting they’d follow him. He pushed through the lines to his left, shoving through people, breaking the bonds. He plunged ahead, through all the lines, and ignored the confusion behind him.

Then he stopped of a sudden. The buildings were too close – he had to angle off backwards a little. So he did. He sprang forward again. Glancing behind him, he realized a string of boys had followed him. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, and with a determined look in his eyes, he continued.

Somehow he made it through the lines before the helicopters noticed him. Or maybe he’d just been lucky. As he broke free his feet splashed into the marsh water. At least it was shallow – but it filled his shoe so that his attempt to sprint was slowed by squelching mud.

Groaning, he stopped and hopped on one foot as he yanked off his shoe and sock. Before they fell in the water beside him, he’d hopped onto the other foot and was pulling off the other shoe and sock. Free, then, he sprinted ahead, splashing through the marsh water, letting it flow through his toes. It felt so cool after three hours of waiting in the hot summer sun.

He heard the boys behind him do the same.

“We’re going to make it!” he realized. The joy inspired him with another burst of energy.

Then he heard the whirr of the helicopters.

“No!”

Someone behind him screamed. He dared himself to stop, though his body told him not to. Slowly, he turned. Three helicopters trailed them; one was shooting.

“What the…”

They were unarmed and defenseless. There was no way they could escape. He had to take out the shooter.

So he crouched down, ankle deep in the muddy water. The yellow reeds hid him a little bit. Some of the boys didn’t see him, and they flowed around him, still running. Others saw him and stopped, confused. The boy – the boy who was staring at the sun. He saw Roger and sank down beside him.

“What are you doing?”

Roger ignored the question because he saw the boy still had his sneakers.

“Give me your shoe,” he said.

The boy did so, and watched him with concerned, frightened eyes. The sounds of shooting grew louder.

Roger leaped as the helicopter flew overhead. It hadn’t noticed him, but it was scanning low enough to scare the kids, so when he leaped he was able to catch its tail. He pulled himself up so he sat on top of it, though he had to lie against the machine to avoid the spinning blades. The metal burned his arms and legs, he screamed at first, then gritted his teeth. The sneakers – he checked his hands. Yes he still had one. It would do.

Wincing, he jammed the sneaker between the blades; they caught and broke around him. A piece of shrapnel caught his arm and cut a gash. The machine fell, splashing into the mud. He jumped off and ran, afraid it would explode. The boy followed him, and they hurried off through the marsh.

After that, no more machines followed them. Roger and the boy reached the end of the marsh, which eventually gave way into a deciduous forest. It would give them enough shelter, but Roger didn’t stop until he found a cave.

There were so many boys ahead of him; they filled the forest. When they saw him, though, they stopped and stared, until they were following him.

Roger didn’t notice. At the cave, he went in, and leaned against the cool stone.

The boy sat down beside him and looked up with brown eyes.

“What?” Roger panted.

“You’re a hero,” the boy said.

Roger looked away, down at an ant following a crack in the stone. He hadn’t meant to do anything special, but, he supposed, real heroes never do.