The Shanty Man

By Ariel Faith

There’s always my reflection in the red puddle.

But tonight, there’s more. Tonight, there’s a man standing over my best friend’s dead body, and the barrel of his gun swallows me up.

He pulls the trigger, and I scream.

My eyes fly open, and the first thing I register is the rain plopping softly into the pot by my bed. There’s a bitter taste in the back of my mouth. I kick off my damp sheets and sit up, shivering when a cool draft from the window blows in.

My gaze drifts to the window where the tarp that’s supposed to be covering it flaps in the breeze, and I can see Brooklyn’s smoggy sky.

The mattress creaks, and I turn to see my wife, Alissa, rolling over to squint at me. She asks, “The same?”

I massage my aching temples. “His brother was there this time.”

Alissa grasps my hand. “You did what you had to do. For me. For him.” She glances over to the cradle in the corner. “We’ve kept our heads down for eight months now. Don’t let fear of Matthew’s revenge invade your dreams.”

I kiss her hand, and she settles back under the covers.

I plant my feet on the cold floor and focus on my objective for today.

Get my SC and go to the Warehouse.

About five years ago, directly following WWIII, the government issued regulations for obtaining food. The head of every well-off household got a Sustenance Card in order to claim food from the Warehouse. Everyone else had to either steal food… or kill the wealthy for it.

I walk to my closet across the room and pull out the only article of clothing hanging there. His suit.

I’m rinsing his suit off at the pump at the back of the house.

I taste salt and smell blood.

My tears will wash it all away.

My tears cannot bring him back.

There’s a throbbing pain in my chest as I dress. As soon as I finish, I pull a metal box out from under my bed and take out my SC—his SC.

I’m drawing the card out of his pocket.

My fingers slip on his blood.

So much blood.

So—

Much—

I grit my teeth and slip the SC into my pocket. Before exiting the bedroom, I stop and look into the cradle.

My son, Fallon, is sleeping there. I rest my hand on his head, whisper, “Love you, kid,” and stride through the bedroom door with more purpose in my step.

I enter the kitchen and grab a couple pieces of stale bread. It normally tastes like nutritious grains with a little honey, but now, sawdust sucks the moisture from my mouth.

After eating, I head outside. In a couple of hours, most of Brooklyn’s residents will be shambling between their daily tasks, but right now, the quiet is just how I like it. I don’t need anyone seeing a tall, well-dressed man leaving the Shanties.

The Warehouse is located in the upper-class section of town, and it takes about an hour to walk there. Here, shiny black cars slide silently by, and those who don’t care to drive are silently walking, and those who ride bikes to be eco-friendly are silently biking. The uptown rule is that you mustn’t inquire about a fellow’s business, and he returns the favor by not inquiring about yours.

I arrive at the Warehouse and join the orderly line of men in fine suits, shuffling quietly forward as the line moves up. When it’s my turn, I show my SC to the woman at the counter. She hands me a plastic crate and motions me inside. Long shelves fill the cavernous room, and the smell of fresh-baked goods drifts out from one of the back rooms. The smell is so potent that I can almost taste it. I approach the man sitting at the booth and request the month’s allotment. He calls a worker, and the worker goes back to retrieve the food and place it in my crate.

I exit the Warehouse with long and purposeful strides, eyes straight ahead. I have discovered that this way of carrying myself wards off questioners. I’m mentally sorting through the food in my crate when I hear a voice.

“Tyler.”

My name is not shouted; it’s merely said. My blood freezes, but I continue walking. I hear steps joining mine behind me.

“Tyler.”

I know that voice, and at that moment I decide I am not a coward.

I turn.

I stare into the eyes of the man who haunted last night’s nightmare. The brother of the man I murdered. The brother of my best friend. But he holds no gun.

Eight months of fear and anxiety flood my mind. A horrible taste fills my mouth. The crate of food weighs heavily in my arms, the SC heavier in my suit coat.

“Matthew.” I swallow.

He steps forward. “Almost two hundred fifty days ago, you killed my brother for his SC. I could have found you then, but I did something else instead.” His eyes are hard. “I joined the underground Corps. Did you know they exist, Tyler? Bet you don’t care, so long as your pantry has food that my brother’s blood paid for.”

I remain silent, holding back my anger—and my intrigue.

Matthew tilts his chin. “The government forced the hand that pulled the trigger on my brother. I don’t like that, but I know it. We’re planning a rebellion, Tyler. Join us, and I won’t kill you.”

He extends his hand, palm up, and holds my gaze. “Consider this a truce, not a pardon. Help us make a better world. It’s what Benjamin would have wanted.”

I hesitate. But… yes. This is what he would have wanted. This is what I should have done.

I would wake up tomorrow morning, and instead of a nightmare-induced headache, there would be clarity and purpose.

I grasp Matthew’s hand and nod. “Where do we start?”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Ariel Faith is a creative soul living in the heartland of America, and she enjoys music, writing, and photography. When she is not expressing herself through any of those mediums, Ariel can be found spending time with large groups of family and friends or reading dystopian thriller books. She has a heart for Indonesia and hopes to teach there in the near future.