Red Zone Son

Chapter 3

The yellow route back home took Solomon north across Lawrenceville and into a side street. Dusk had settled by the time the car turned off the main road, so he didn’t see the portable barricade fence until he was practically on top of it. The auto-pilot abruptly applied the brakes, bringing the vehicle to a jarring stop.

Frozen in place, Solomon watched a militiaman begin adding reflective strips along the crossbars of the barricade. After making sure the militiaman’s back was to him, he grabbed his phone and pressed Mappify’s REPORT CHECKPOINT button. Then he swiped out of the app. The militias didn’t like Mappify, and Solomon didn’t want it up on his screen in case the militiaman demanded he hand over his phone.

After doing that, Solomon put his hands at ten and two like Dad had taught him, and waited. And waited. And waited, tapping his hands on the wheel. It was as if the militiaman wanted Solomon to sit there and sweat. Finally, the man walked back and tapped on his window. He was a White guy who looked only a little older than Solomon at best. Keeping his right hand fixed to the steering wheel, Solomon used his left to press the button to roll the window all the way down. “Can I help you?” he asked, placing his left hand back on the wheel.

“License,” the militiaman said.

He nodded. Just as his father had taught him, he asked for permission before he moved.

“Can I reach for my license? It’s in my back pocket.”

“Yes.”

This time, Solomon kept his left hand on the steering wheel, and reached for his wallet with his right. The only time he let go of the steering wheel was to open his wallet after bringing it up to eye level. Once he took his license out, he put his wallet, slowly, on the dashboard in front of him, and then handed his license to the militiaman. He put his hands back onto the steering wheel and left them there, every sense at full alert. Things were going fine, so far, but you never knew when the punch you didn’t see coming was going to hit.

Hopefully, the militiaman wouldn’t ask to look at the car’s registration or insurance card. He didn’t know if they were up to date. Of course, he wasn’t even sure if the militias cared about that kind of thing or not. Since the Great Splintering, a lot of regulations had only been sporadically enforced.

The militiaman studied the driver’s license as if deciphering a hidden message. He held up a flashlight to it, running his thumb over Solomon’s picture. Solomon kept his hands at ten and two, reminding himself to breathe.

Suddenly, the militiaman’s eyes narrowed, and he leaned forward.

“This is fake,” he growled. “I bet you’re eighteen already, and trying to pretend you’re not. I bet you’re a draft-dodger.”

Solomon felt his stomach twist with fear. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t even know what the man was talking about. Maybe the factional militias had drafted boys like him before the Great Splintering? “It’s not fake,” he managed. “My birthday’s in October.”

“Get out of the car.”

Slowly, with his right hand on the steering wheel, Solomon opened the door. Once outside the car, he kept his hands out in front of him. The militiaman pointed his flashlight forward, revealing a big commercial moving truck on the other side of the barricade with its ramp fully extended. Next to it was a low-roofed warehouse. He shined his light at the open door on the side of the warehouse. “Go there.”

Now Solomon was really trying not to panic. It was even colder outside now that the sun had set, but he was sweating. He shuffled over to the side of the warehouse, past a broken-down robot forklift, and looked through the door. Inside, there was nothing except what looked like bags of sand all piled up on top of each other, maybe a thousand of them. He jumped a little when the militiaman suddenly swung his flashlight to the bags. “Get going. Move them into the truck.”

That was what he wanted? Solomon’s stomach unclenched a little. It was better than being shoved into the truck and taken somewhere else for something worse. He moved to pick up the first bag. It was sand, maybe fifty pounds of it. He picked it up and climbed up the ramp, putting it down gently. A hole in the bag meant some sand spilled anyway, but it wasn’t much and the militiaman seemed to be prioritizing speed over perfection. Solomon moved faster. Especially as he was shivering a little. He’d left his coat in the car, but if he finished quickly, Solomon told himself, the militiaman would let him go home.

But forty-seven bags later, he was beginning to falter. Sweat stung his eyes. He wasn’t used to lifting heavy loads like this, especially not on an empty stomach. At least the militiaman wasn’t looking at him anymore; he was sitting against the warehouse wall, his eyes closed. Just one more, Solomon told himself. Just one more bag.

He was at ninety-eight bags now, and he had barely made a dent. At this rate, Solomon was going to be there all night. He wasn’t even sure he would last the night. He was staggering and his legs were trembling as he carried the next bag of sand up into the truck. He looked longingly at the robot forklift, but the wheels were splayed out in a way that implied mechanical failure. Solomon wasn’t very handy, but even so he had to wonder if he had a better chance of fixing the machine than moving all one thousand sandbags before his body gave out. If only he could have some water!

His thoughts were cut short by a new voice, an older one that boomed out from behind him. “Who the hell is this?”

Solomon looked up. He had been hoisting the last few bags onto his shoulder to try and distribute the weight a little, so he had to turn to see who asked the question. It was another militiaman, an older one, also White. He was staring at Solomon, and then at the first militiaman who had stopped him, who was now getting to his feet. “He’s, uh…” Solomon watched mental gears scrabble for traction in the militiaman’s head, and almost heard the metal-on-metal screech as they failed to provide what he was looking for. “He’s helping.”

“Give me your license.” The second militiaman held his hand out toward Solomon.

“He has it.” Solomon gestured at the first militiaman.

Solomon watched as the younger man handed over his license. He closed his eyes, breathing heavily, but didn’t stay still for long. It was cold, and at least moving did something about that. He stopped in his tracks when the second militiaman started shouting.

“You’re out of basic training for six seconds and you think you’re some sort of hotshot? That you can draft underage civilians to do your work?”

The second militiaman stomped over to Solomon and thrust his license at him. “Go home.”

Solomon didn’t hesitate. He slid the sandbag from his shoulder right down onto the ramp where he was standing, took his license, and raced back to his car. He fumbled with the door handle, his hand shaking as his arms continued to burn. Getting the car started, he didn’t even look at the militiamen as he manually reversed back onto the main road. All he wanted was to get back home, eat, and take a shower. He was freezing and covered in sand and sweat, the salt still burning his eyes. Thankfully, Mappify didn’t lead him astray this time, and he was able to pull into their garage right at ten after ten.

***

Solomon entered the kitchen to find Adah had steamed some jjinppang. Hopefully, that meant she was feeling better. The buns weren’t as puffy anymore, and the red bean paste inside the premade biscuit dough was cold, but he inhaled them anyway. He made the next three since that was all their pot could hold at a time. Standing by the stove, he swallowed them as soon as they were done, even though they were almost too hot to eat. He was so glad she had prepared something. Umma had taught them both how to cook when Adah was around seven and he was eleven, so they had been managing okay at home with meals, but it was hard to know in advance what they were going to eat.

“You’re the best,” he told her, his mouth full.

“I know,” she replied. She was sitting down on a chair she had pulled into the kitchen, and her face was still drawn, but she was grinning, and Solomon knew it was from sheer relief that he was back. He was relieved too. She hadn’t asked yet why he was covered in sand, although she probably would; she was an observant kid.

Solomon didn’t want to tell her about the militiaman and the bags he’d been forced to carry. It would only upset her. He also didn’t want to tell her that his trip had been a waste, that all he’d found out was what he had been suspecting for months now, that even if Umma and Dad were still alive, he was never going to find them. She was looking at him waiting for him to say more, and Adah wasn’t the kind of person to be put off. She turned stubborn at two and hasn’t lost it since, Umma had once said, and it was true. Adah was always the one who got in trouble for not giving up on what she wanted. She’s like you, Dad would tell Umma, and then Umma would laugh and say, no, she’s like you!

Thinking about their parents made Solomon’s throat tight. Adah reached up to take his hand; Solomon supposed she could tell from his body language that he didn’t have good news. Next to them, the steamer started to rattle from the boiling water beneath it. “It’s okay,” he said, his voice catching. “We’ll be okay. I’ll apply to be your legal guardian so nobody can separate us. Only six more months and I’ll be eighteen, I can do it then. And we have the money Umma stashed… we’ll make it. God will be with us. We’ll be okay.”

Adah’s face crumpled. Maybe she was thinking the same thing he was thinking, which was that God had been with all the people he had read about in history books, too, and that hadn’t stopped them from being arrested and sent to a camp and worked to death. Was that what had happened to Umma and Dad? Was that what was going to happen to them?

Solomon’s jaw tightened as he thought about the militiaman who had pulled him out of his car, who had been sitting down resting while he carried one bag of sand after another up the ramp. He’d been powerless to stop him. He hadn’t even been able to say no to him.

This late at night, the kitchen window looked like a black framed photograph. Reflected in it was the side of Adah’s head, her curls loose against her cheek. Solomon’s grip tightened on her hand, and he found himself praying as he looked at her profile. What else could he do? Please help me take care of her, he begged. Please help me keep her safe. I don’t want her to have to figure things out by herself. Don’t let her lose me too!