If Global Food knew what Jim Bradford was doing, they’d kill him. Not in the euphemistic way either – in the dead and buried, turned into fertiliser way.
He stood before the door sensor and breathed out. He pushed the thought away. Everything dead became fertiliser. Every. Thing. It was OK. He’d been so careful. He faced straight ahead, his gaze resting on the smooth metal door, and squared his shoulders. He waved his access card across the sensor pad and the door unlocked with a familiar, depressing click.
The Compound wasn’t this Food Distribution Centre’s real name, but the nickname was apt. It comprised a massive, rough circle of massive of concrete- and metal-insulated buildings. They were identical, dull grey, featureless, windowless, soul-less. No signs were visible to indicate what The Compound was, who ran it, or what it was for. There were no billboards shouting “Global Food” to non-existent passers-by. They would have been redundant anyway, because everybody knew.
Everyone knew Global Food was the saviour of Humankind. Global Food ran The Compound – and hundreds of other sites like it all over the world – day and night, protected by concrete and metal from the solar flares and their coronal mass ejections. They could grow anything; from the simplest plant or microbial organism, to the biggest animal. And they grew everything – although as far as the public was concerned, they just grew food.
Dim solar lights valiantly tried to counter the underground dark as Jim walked down the gloomy concrete corridor. He hated being underground. He wondered whether his parents had felt the same way. Or his grandparents. In their time people could live above ground, day and night, without insulating their houses. And people came from different countries. He tried to remember what his mother had told him about his grandparents. Where were they from? Ireland? England? India? Australia? He couldn’t remember and it didn’t matter. Every country looked the same after a couple of generations of scorching. Now you come from the Region you live in. Race and nationality become irrelevant, once you’re starving, his father used to say. Jim worked and lived in Food Region 8, so was an Eighter. Eighters who worked for Global Foods did OK. Jim had a large food allocation for a single person. He tried not to think about people living in Regions 2 and 3, where the food allocations were much, much smaller. Nobody from those Regions worked for Global Foods, and they had no FDCs there.
A lift door loomed out of the near-dark at the end of the corridor. He’d left his bicycle far behind him in the bicycle park, amongst hundreds of others. Thousands of people worked for Global Food in Region 8 alone. They were the world’s largest employer. His grandmother used to say that, before the sun went mad, there were millions of employers and you could choose which one you wanted to work for. There were farms and people could grow food themselves. It all sounded like a fanciful dream. Growing your own food got you made into fertiliser. Global Food issued food allocations and you collected them from authorised Food Distribution Centres like The Compound. There was no choice, no competition. Everyone was used to it – they’d known nothing else. Well, almost everyone. Jim tried not to think about the stolen fertiliser.
Jim pressed the call button and the lift doors opened, blinding him for a moment as bright light spilled out into the corridor. He stepped in and pushed the button for Level 4. The laboratories. Each building of The Compound had several floors, with a basement level for staff parking. Cars were a luxury reserved only for the wealthiest and valued Global Food employees. The cars were on Basement Level 1. Jim never got on or off at Level 1. Like most people, he walked or cycled, if on night shift, or caught one of the dedicated underground train shuttles during the day. The Compound’s buildings were linked by long, wide corridors, each bustling with solar-powered, driverless shuttles than ran on tracks.
The lift, like everything solar-powered, moved slowly. At Basement Level 1 the lift glided to a stop and the doors opened. Jim caught a glimpse through the open doors and quickly looked down. He shuffled to one side, not taking his eyes off the floor.
A tall, muscular woman in a dark uniform sauntered into the lift and pressed the button for Level 5. The Executive Floor. From beneath lowered eyelids Jim saw her take him in with one swift, dismissive glance. She leaned back against the mirrored wall, crossed her arms and closed her eyes.
Jim returned his gaze to the floor. He knew the Chief Security Officer and her staff well. It didn’t pay to be noticed by any them. He pushed his glasses back up his nose. “Please don’t notice me, please don’t notice me, please don’t notice me”, he silently chanted. He felt every moment of his 42 years as a line of sweat began to make its way down his spine in a slow, constant trickle.
The lift climbed so slowly. The lights crawled up the wall at a snail’s pace. Jim willed them not to stop. Don’t stop. Don’t stop. He closed his eyes and imagined them. One. Two. His mind began to spin. Three. Don’t think about fertiliser… don’t think about fertiliser… don’t stop… don’t think about fertiliser…
Jim felt an iron grip on his arm and his eyes flew open as he tried to flinch away. The Chief’s face was inches from his own, his arm caught in her grip. Jim stared straight into Diana’s blue eyes, a rabbit in headlights.
“What the fuck is your problem, friend?” she barked, “Why were you moaning?”
Had he moaned? Jim caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror on the wall. Sweat slid down his pale, gaunt face and settled in his beard.
“I… ugh…” he stammered. Oh god, she’d caught him. Somehow she’d heard his thoughts about the fertiliser and they were going to kill him. Chop him up and feed him to the – to the – what was that noise?
An urgent, petulant beeping broke Jim’s panic. The Chief Security Officer released his arm and reached inside her combat jacket.
The Chief pulled out her phone and read the text.
“Ah, well, looks like today is looking up after all, friend. I have one of your glowing pals to go catch!” Diana punched him in the upper arm and he cringed back.
The lift doors opened and Jim launched himself through them in a rushing, stumbling, shaking mess. He turned to see Diana pressing a lift button. As the lift doors closed, her eyes were bright, and her face held a small eager smile. It seemed she had already forgotten him.
Jim stood in front of the closed lift doors for a long time. He couldn’t breathe. What an idiot. A panic attack in front of the Chief of Security. This was the last straw. He couldn’t help the food resistance anymore.
The crazy security woman was off to catch a Glower. Good. The more they caught, the better. Glowers. He felt his calm return. This was his job, after all. Studying them. Researching them. Experimenting on them. And, when necessary, harvesting them.
© Michaela Croe 2015
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