Story #24 - Pharm Team

Pharm Team

He was supposed to feel cowed, pacified like the others in his camp, but somehow that was never the case.

It was a struggle to keep his eyes down as the Commander walked their ranks, shoving those with clean shirts and washed hands for no good reason and striking those who showed the barest hint of a stain on their pure white clothing.

The rules were simple in the camp – eat your food and go about your business, quietly. Report for inspection and take what you were given, quietly. Retire to your bunk and sleep. Quietly.

They all knew full well what was being done to them; many friends and colleagues here had worked in the Transformation Plant before its closure – they knew what PharmaCom smelled like when it was being mixed into their gruel each morning, knew what it tasted like when it slid down their throats.

For some, it had become a matter of no choice. They could eat what they were given or starve, and that it made them docile was simple a fact of life. For others, the Phrama seemed to be a welcome relief, a barrier against the forced labor drudgery of the day and the knowledge that no escape lay within reach. Resistance was pointless, and for them the Pharma simply made things bearable.

For him, it appeared to have no effect.

"Scratch that," he thought as the Commander approached, "it's had the opposite effect."

It was true; he was having a hard time keeping his body still, keeping his eyes down as Commander Jennth Vorhees approached. The man was a snake and a liar who had once posed as one of them, as a member of their village, a friend to many.

Now Vorhees was the ruthless overlord of yet another camp in the Regime's spreading dominance of the country and he had no remorse, no pity for the ones he once called friends. Instead, he regarded them with barely concealed suspicion, afraid that they might stumble out of their Pharma induced slumber and rise up to meet him.

In terms of numbers, the Commander had a right to be worried. Pharma had proven far more effective than the Regime had imagined and camps like this one were staffed with a bare minimum of guards. Aside from Vorhees only three other uniformed members patrolled the camps and at inspection all but one of those were out stalking the perimeter.

With the people eating as directed, the Regime had nothing to worry about and could keep their overhead costs to almost nothing – it was a sure and simple solution to a vexing problem.

Commander Vorhees was not so convinced of its effectiveness, however, as could be seen from the way he poked an prodded at each of the people under his command, shoving them just where it hurt the most and when they least expected it, trying to garner and then gauge a reaction. Should he ever find something out of line, a behavior he didn't expect, he would likely exterminate the entire camp and deal with the questions from the High Seat at another time.

Jennth Vorhees was afraid.

Cal Remen was not; he was boiling over with anger as the other man approached.

At first, Cal had assumed that his reaction to the Pharma was simply being influenced by his hatred of the man who had betrayed them, stoked hotter than the anger of his neighbors thanks to his losing a wife and child during the initial fighting. Over time, however, it became apparent that such a simple explanation was not enough. Other men he knew – good men, strong men, men who had lost everything – began to strain and finally wilt under the pressure of the drug. But not Cal.

Day by day, meal by meal, his anger grew, his need to see and feel some sort of vengeance for what had been done to them, to fight back against the arrogant fools that had taken their lands. He was the one in one thousand, in ten thousand or one hundred thousand that the Pharma simply did not work on as intended.

He was a side effect, an consequence of a drug made for the masses that could not cope with each biological makeup. Cal's own physiology acted as a defense, as a way around what others fell easily to, and it filled him with a righteous need for vengeance.

The tip of a long barrel pistol was shoved violently into his nostril and he sucked in a hard breath, trying not to cry out. Vorhees would go to any lengths to force a reaction he knew was hidden, to provoke them into some form of limited resistance he could crush.

Cal straightened but did not touch his nose – blood flowed freely down his chin but touching it would indicate concern. His left hand felt the pressure of something odd; a weight, metallic and substantial. He glanced down.

The pistol!

There was an intake of breath behind him as he brought his eyes back up to meet those of the Commander.

“Do it,” Vorhees whispered, “scum.”

Cal smiled – a simple thing that set the Commander back a single step but still close enough for what Cal had in mind. The gun was unloaded; he had enough training with weapons to know the difference between a full magazine and an empty one, but the Commander had given him what he needed.

Dropping the pistol to the dusty earth he lurched forward, hands going around the Commander's neck. With a quick motion he reached around and behind Jennth's back to where he knew the loaded pistol would be stored. With the Commander in his grip the guard was hesitant to shoot and that gave him the opportunity he needed.

A quick shot and the man crumpled, but Cal fired off two more just to make sure the job was done.

Leaning down to the Commander's face Cal kept his hands in a tight vise around the man's exposed windpipe. It wouldn't be long now.

“You were right to be afraid,” Cal grated as he ground out the last of the man's air, “death comes for you, now.”

A moment more of pressure and he stood, scanning the dead-eyed faces around him. Hopefully the Pharma would wear off soon. He had a rebellion to plan.

-D