Red Zone Son

Chapter 44

Solomon didn’t feel bad about it, at first. God wants your honesty, Umma had taught them growing up. He can handle it. He prefers it to you not caring, to you being lukewarm toward Him. But maybe a part of him had shied away from laying into God, even after everything started unraveling with Umma and Dad disappearing. Maybe he’d needed too much to feel as if God was there for him, maybe he hadn’t trusted Him enough to feel as if he could be explicit about how angry he was with Him.

Because now that he was letting himself recognize it, he was realizing that he had been angry at God for a long time. And it was only now, while Wilson lay dying next to him, that he was finally able to find the words that had been inside him all this time.

How dare you, Solomon prayed to God. How dare you allow so much shit to happen.

He wasn’t even thinking just about himself, although he was definitely thinking about himself. He was thinking about how much he had prayed for that damn robotic maid’s charging panel to die, and he wanted to know why he’d had to be put into a position where his life depended on how much acid he leaked onto a robot programmed to watch him slave away such that all he could do was pray for it to die. He was thinking about how much he had prayed during boot camp for Wilson to leave him alone only for it to never happen, and he wanted to know why. He was thinking about how one day he’d had parents and a life and a future and then all of a sudden everything he had had gotten swallowed up by America’s ridiculous inter-zone conflict, and he wanted to know why.

Solomon felt like a traitor, seditious even, having these thoughts. He tried to remind himself that he’d been going crazy in the re-education camp and only sensing God’s presence had brought him back. He tried to remember that God was in charge, not him, and that His job description was not his happiness but his holiness. But even that sent him further into helpless rage.

The point of suffering was sanctification – the bettering of his character – that was what Umma had taught him, but how was that any different from the blue zone re-education camp’s proclamation that the torture they put them through was for their sakes, so that they could be freed from their implicit biases? What was it that Wilson had called it? Re-education through productive labor?

And now that he was thinking about it, wasn’t that exactly what he’d been told at basic training too? This training is for you, it’s for your benefit?

Was that all life was, someone stamping a boot in your face and then demanding a thank you?

Solomon was starting to feel that God was the dictator of the universe and that all He did was put them in a giant prison camp called Earth that they couldn’t escape except through death. He didn’t know how else to put it but to tell Him that he felt betrayed by Him. That the same bewilderment Solomon had seen on every civilian face inside the blue zone camp, he felt toward God, and he felt it all the time.

At the very least, he demanded silently, can’t you come back and burn it all down already? Two thousand plus years we’ve been waiting! When is the Kingdom coming in its fullness? When will the agony be over? When will death finally die forever?

He knew all the right answers. He knew what he’d been taught. He could spit out 2 Peter 3:9: “The Lord is not slow in keeping his promise, as some understand slowness. Instead he is patient with you, not wanting anyone to perish, but everyone to come to repentance.”

But he didn’t care. Maybe God was patient, but he wasn’t. He didn’t care just right then for every evil bullying counselor to get a chance, or for every pathetic leader who started this conflict to be given one either. He wanted death to end, and he wanted it to end right now.

Trembling, he got onto his knees next to Wilson’s prone body. Whether or not it was Wilson’s fault that he’d ended up where he was in the first place, Wilson had never once abandoned him through this whole awful year when he so easily could have. Wilson had put his life on the line for him so many times. Solomon cared about him. He cared for him. He didn’t want him to die.

All around him, the homeless camp suddenly seemed to hold its breath. The distant murmurs and shuffles faded away. Even the wind stilled, leaving only the echo of Solomon’s ragged breathing. In that heavy silence, he was reminded of what he’d wanted to tell Wilson: There have been many kings who have required their people to die for them, but rare is the king who dies for his people.

Solomon was a soldier. He knew what it meant to be required to die. Two and a half years in, and he had yet to find the militia or the red zone to be worth dying for. Was God? Was God worth suffering this life for, worth suffering in obedience for?

He closed his eyes. He held out his uninjured right hand and placed it on Wilson’s face. Who else can I go to, Lord? You have the words of eternal life. So look at me. I’m still here. Despite everything, I still believe.

Look at me!

“Why is your hand on my face?”

Solomon immediately removed it. “You’re alive,” he breathed. “I thought – I was sure –”

He gave him the same hand to help Wilson sit up. Wilson’s hand, however, was noticeably swollen. He still wasn’t breathing well. Even when he was sitting upright, he closed his eyes and clutched his middle as if fighting nausea.

“Where are we?” he managed.

Solomon explained. “Good,” Wilson replied. “Tent city is good. But we need to cross.”

“How did you do it last time?”

Wilson blinked. “I… I got under a truck. One of the AI-driven delivery trucks. After it was searched. Hung on until it was over. But it’s not the best way. Best way is to bribe a border guard.” Then he laughed a little, and Solomon found himself encouraged. If Wilson was laughing, surely that meant he was okay, that he’d be okay. “I owe so much money. In the camp.”

“Why?” Solomon asked, and then he pieced it together. “That’s how… that’s how you got me the hotel job…”

“Yes,” Wilson replied. “That’s how I got anything. At all for us. Made a whole lot of promises.” He chuckled again. “If they ever catch me… find out I’m not good for it, oh, boy. I’m going to wish I’m doing hard labor instead. But I figured, hey, pretty soon I’m either dead. Or in the red zone. Can’t reach me either way.”

“So that’s why you never took me with you,” Solomon said slowly.

“Yeah. Don’t want them to know. I’m with someone. Just transfer my debt. Over to you. If I can’t pay it or if I die. Better if they don’t know. That you exist.”

Wilson looked as if he were about to fall over. “Lie down,” Solomon told him.

Wilson curled up on his side, nestling into the flattened grass of the park. His eyes were closed. Then they opened. “Rob a store,” he said. “Jewelry, whatever. For the bribe.” His eyes closed again.

Quietly, Solomon reached for Wilson’s wrist to check his pulse. Da-dum. Da-da-dum. Solomon wasn’t a doctor, but he thought it was off, irregular. Touching Wilson’s hand, he could tell it was even more swollen than he thought.

His heart sank. Wilson might be alive, but he wasn’t better. Even if Solomon were inclined to rob a jewelry store – which he wasn’t; stealing food was one thing, but robbing a jewelry store was dumb; the blue zoners were Americans too, they couldn’t love money so little they covered their eyes no matter what the crime – he didn’t think Wilson had the ability anymore to find the right person to bribe. It was starting to feel as if Wilson had used every bit of himself to get them out of the re-education camp, and now there was nothing left.

When it came down to it, Wilson needed medical attention, and he needed it fast. Solomon couldn’t do it Wilson’s way, he wasn’t going to be able to figure out in time before Wilson died who and how to bribe. Solomon was going to have to do it his own way. So he started thinking. They weren’t in prison anymore, which meant he should be able to get a message to someone in the red zone that they were trapped here. Who should he contact?

The answer was obvious: Manal. Solomon should contact Manal. How, though? He was trying to think through how he might access a computer or a phone when he remembered seeing a public kiosk on their walk here from the subway, about nine feet tall, with a built-in display. Someone had been tapping on it when they passed by. That was exactly what he needed.

He got to his feet, then hesitated. He didn’t want to leave Wilson here alone, especially in this half-aware state he was in. Half their neighbors in this tent city seemed strung out, what if they attacked him? He glanced around and saw someone in tattered clothes peering at him intently from inside a dirty tent. He crouched back down. “Sam,” he said. Wilson didn’t respond. “Sam.” He reached out to shake his shoulder. “Wake up.”

Wilson didn’t even move. Solomon took a deep breath. If Wilson was unable to at least stumble along with him, he didn’t think he could carry him there and back. Time for another risk.

With Solomon’s left hand out of commission, it was difficult, but he managed to move a few rocks to prop Wilson up so that if he started to throw up, he’d stay on his side. Then Solomon took the nearly empty laundry bag with their food and headed back into the city.

At least it was warm. His clothes were almost dry. He moved as quickly as he could, wanting both to get a message to Manal and return to Wilson before anything happened to him. The first public kiosk he came across was broken and covered in feces, and the second one’s display was cracked, but he was able to tap on the touch-keyboard with his right hand. His left hand at this point was a constant dull ache that he did his best to keep still.

He didn’t know Manal’s real name, so he opened up the web browser version of FaceSeek. This was one of the things he’d done to look for Umma and Dad when they’d disappeared. Hopefully, he would have more success this time around. He didn’t have any photographs of Manal, so he typed in a description: easynegative:0.2, ng_deepnegative_v1_75t:0.2, (best quality, high quality:1.3), (sharp focus, clear:1.2), (full color, vibrant:1.1), uncropped, highres, no text, no jpeg artifacts, no signature, no watermark, single view, adult Arabic woman, age 24, short dark hair.

FaceSeek popped up ten images. He tapped on the ones that were close and added long eyelashes. He repeated the process with the next ten images, and then the next ten, until he was looking at almost-Manal’s face.

FaceSeek did the rest from there. The facial recognition algorithm scanned the blue zone nets, sifting through countless images to find matches with the face Solomon had crafted. It took a while, so he finished the rest of their raw spinach while he waited.

Eventually, FaceSeek found her social media page. Her hair was different, it was longer, but it was her. Her name wasn’t Manal, though; it was Mary. He clicked on her profile and was surprised to see not a series of posts from the perspective of a blue zone civilian, but rather a series of re-pins from another profile. When he tapped on the other profile, he was confronted with a header picture of four people: an older Black man, a young brown-skinned man, an Asian woman, and Manal. Hyperlinked underneath were the words: FIRST DIPLOMATIC ENVOY TO A BLUE ZONE.

He tapped on the link and scanned the article as quickly as he could. It was about a new diplomatic initiative set up by the Westsylvania Militia Council, to send an envoy on a tour through the blue zones to the east of them. The article talked about how this was just the start of new relations, that a permanent embassy might even be built. There was no phone number, though, no email. Not that he’d use anything printed officially, he was sure it’d be highly monitored by the blue zone. He didn’t even want to post anything on her profile page as the blue zone was almost certainly watching it for any activity.

But he bet they weren’t watching the owner of cabin D4.

Solomon found another kiosk and looked up the campground he and Manal had stayed at. He found the phone number and set up a voice packet to repeatedly robocall the number, asking whoever picked up to send the key to cabin D4 to an email address Solomon created at yet another kiosk. He was glad there were so many of them around, although it was taking him more time than he liked to do all this. He didn’t want someone to put all the pieces of what he was doing together, though, so he thought it was worth leaving Wilson alone for a little longer.

A steakhouse near the last kiosk Solomon was using had a sign that said “Open at 5pm.” It was just beginning to welcome diners for the evening. Mouth watering, he had to force himself not to stare.

After he finished setting everything up, he went back to Wilson. Good. He was still alive. Solomon didn’t know whether he should try to get Wilson to eat or not, so he gave him more juice instead, which Wilson barely swallowed, his eyes closed the entire time. Solomon couldn’t get him to chew any shrimp, so he put a few pieces in his own mouth, then went back to the kiosk.

The sun was starting to dip down below the tops of the skyscrapers to the west. He started thinking of what else he could try to get a message to Manal. It was kind of fun to puzzle it out. It made him realize that one thing he really regretted about getting drafted was that he hadn’t been able to go into a field he was actually gifted in.

He liked learning in general, and he’d done plenty of that in basic training, but it wasn’t what he’d hoped to learn, and he was beginning to think his chance to study at a higher level what he’d always been interested in was gone. He still had a year and a half left of his sentence, and after that, four years of reserves which were always active and always getting called upon, so a total of five and a half years before he was freed.

Maybe there’d be a chance after that to do something he actually cared about.

It turned out he didn’t need to use any of his other ideas. When he checked again the account he’d created, there was an email waiting for him. “Who are you?”

Solomon replied in code, in case it was a blue zone spy. “I had fun with you at Hershey Park, I’m sorry I was shy then, want to meet up at Central Park and take a look at the tent city?” He didn’t like giving away his location, but it was the best he could do. If it was Manal, she would know it was him, and now she knew where to come find him. If it wasn’t her, well, the tent city was big, and whoever it was might still come but wouldn’t know it was him out of the thousands of other homeless people encamped there.

Before going back to Wilson, Solomon opened up a bot search agent and typed: What happens to people who eat after being on starvation rations?

Bot search agents tended to go on and on, and this time was no exception.

Refeeding syndrome is a potentially life-threatening condition that occurs when food is reintroduced after prolonged starvation. It causes dangerous shifts in fluids and electrolytes, leading to symptoms such as fatigue, muscle weakness, nausea, swollen hands and feet, irregular heartbeat, heart failure, seizures, and in severe cases, coma or death. Immediate medical intervention is required to manage the condition and prevent further complications.

Solomon’s heart sank as he read through the symptoms. Then the agent continued, mentioning a historical study showing the average death occurred within 1.9 days of refeeding, and panic gripped him.

Taking a deep breath, he typed, How do you treat refeeding syndrome? The bot search agent spilled out a long list of steps: manage electrolytes, administer vitamin supplements, monitor vital signs and fluid balance, address underlying concerns, and provide specialized nutritional support.

Solomon felt his shoulders tightening. He couldn’t do any of that for Wilson. He checked his email again, tapping on the screen harder than he technically needed to. His breath caught when he saw he had a response. But as he began to read it, it was as if someone laid an ice-cold hand on his shoulder.

They’re looking for you. You’re on all the watchlists I have access to. They’re hunting you everywhere! Hide until midnight tomorrow then come to the Chief of the Lenape Circle. I will come get you then.

His mouth suddenly dry, Solomon pulled up a map of Central Park to check where the Chief of the Lenape Circle was. Once he had it in his head, he hurried back to Wilson, who was still alive, and still unresponsive.

He dragged him a little deeper into the tent city, over the uneven ground smashed flat by a million footsteps. The night air grew thick with the mingling scents of smoldering campfires and overripe food, and flickering shadows danced across the ripped plastic walls, cast by dimly glowing lanterns. All around them, the low murmur of hushed conversations filled the air, punctuated by the occasional clatter of pots or a sharp, wild cry. He wanted to cover his ears; it sounded like the re-education camp.

He pushed Wilson to his side so they could sleep back-to-back. He found himself waking up throughout the night to check on him.

Every time, it was the same. Still alive. Still unresponsive.