Free Executive Orders: Part 2 of the Homeland Series by R.A. Mathis Page A

the warden’s face. He moved on, finally stopping next to a shivering, fair-headed youngster, no more then eighteen. He nodded to the guard on his left and strolled to the exit.
    “No!” The young prisoner yelled.
    The teenager was snatched up and dragged, flailing from the building. “No! Please! Help! Somebody! DON”T LET THEM TAKE ME!” The door slammed shut behind him.
    Alex uncovered Hick’s face. The exhausted private was still asleep. “Sorry,” he said to Cole. “I didn’t want Foucault to see him. He likes the young ones.”
    “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    “Exactly what you think it means. Foucault comes in here before dawn every few days to pick a new ‘playmate.’ He feeds him, cleans him up, then has his fun with him. When he gets tired of that, he kills him. He does the last part slowly and at night so we can all hear the screams.”
    A hazy skylight began to glow above them. It was morning.
    A shrill siren sounded outside.
    “It’s time.” Alex’s eyes darted to the door. “Keep your head down and your mouth shut if you want to live another day. Trust me on that.”
    Moments later, the door slid open. Shouting guards with barking dogs appeared in the entry, forcing the detainees out into the cold morning air.
    The shivering prisoners were lined up in a yard between the warehouses and the front gate.
    Foucault’s voice sounded over the camp loudspeakers. “Stand at attention for the People’s Anthem!”
    America’s new anthem blared over the sound system. Guards beat anyone not standing straight enough for their liking. “Sing!” one of them ordered as he struck a man with the butt of his rifle. The men mumbled in compliance.
    A giant flag climbed a silver pole by the front gate. It was the new flag of the Second Founding. The music ended as it reached the top.
    Citizen Foucault sounded over the speakers again. “Get to work!”
    Once again, cargo trucks waited to take them to some unknown destination. Cole helped Hicks into one of them, then made sure the rest of his men boarded without incident.
    The ride lasted hours. The trucks finally stopped and their passengers disgorged onto the empty parking lot of an electrical facility next to a mid-sized town. He recognized the place. It was Cookeville, a college town halfway between Nashville and Knoxville. Guards handed out axes, hammers, shovels, and other tools to the prisoners.
    The head guard raised a bullhorn to his mouth. “This site will be cleansed. If I find so much as a flashlight battery in working condition, somebody dies. You will eat and sleep when you are finished, not one second sooner.”
    The laborers hoisted hammers and shouldered shovels, then set to destroying the place. Cole and Hicks spent the morning chopping down electric poles and bashing transformers. The private hadn’t the strength to lift his axe, so Cole did the work of two men to avoid the guards’ wrath.
    Cole counted his captors, estimated distances, and factored rates of fire in the calculation of his possibility of escape. The numbers weren’t good. When he accounted for Hicks’ condition, the figure fell to zero.
    Midday stretched into afternoon. No water. They kept working. No food. They kept working. The sun sank low. No rest. They kept working. Cole’s hands bled. His limbs ached. His stomach roared with hunger. He felt himself growing weaker with each passing hour.
    Hicks fell, coughing, to the ground. Cole helped him to his feet. He put the soldier’s arm around his neck and took a step. Both men fell.
    Cole tried to pull his friend to his feet. “C’mon, Hicks. You gotta get up or we’re both dead.” But it was no use. The young man’s strength was spent.
    Alex grabbed Hick’s other arm and helped get him up.
    “Back to the trucks!” the bullhorn called as the last light of day retreated over the horizon.
    Cole and Alex got on each side of Hicks, putting his arms over their shoulders, and walked him to the waiting