The Remaining: Trust: A Novella by D. J. Molles Page B

stumbled over himself, trying to explain. “We spoke out against President Briggs, and we don’t eat. We spoke publicly against him, and the next thing we know, our ration cards aren’t good anymore. The soldiers check our serial numbers in the system and tell us we’ve already got our rations for the week. I thought it was a glitch at first. But then I found out the same thing happened to every one of the people who spoke out against Briggs.”
    Abe was shaking his head.
    The man looked terrified. Uncertain. Bewildered. “How did you not know?”
    “That’s…” Abe kept pressing on the man with his bodyweight, like he wished the man would stifle and suffocate. “That’s not true. He wouldn’t do that.”
    He wouldn’t do that.
    He wouldn’t.
    I wouldn’t let him.
    “He’s using food as power,” the man said, his voice barely audible over the background noise. “He’s using it to control everyone. How did you not know? I don’t understand…”
    Abe stood up from the man, his lips pressed so firmly together that they disappeared under his mustache and beard. He just kept shaking his head.
    The man continued, shouting to be heard, his voice hoarse. “It’s true! I swear to God! I do. I swear on everything. I wouldn’t lie to you.”
    “But you’d try to kill me and my men?” Abe barked. Then kicked the man’s legs.
    The man yelped. Scooted away from more blows. “Ask him! You know him, don’t you? You know the president? Ask him about it! Look up my ration card number. See what the system says!”
    “I don’t fucking believe you.”
    “Look up my ration cared!” The man blinked rapidly. “Do what you’re going to do with me. But please don’t punish my family. They didn’t know. They didn’t know about any of this.” He pointed with a shaking finger to another coat pocket. “Take my ration card. See for yourself. But please, don’t let them starve.”
    Abe regarded him for a moment, lost in his own thoughts, his mind like a tiny little life raft in a storm surge. His index finger tapped rapidly on the frame of the pistol he still held in his hands, staring the man in the eyes but not truly looking at him.
    The radio in his ears crackled.
    “Major, you okay over there?” It was one of the pilots.
    Abe never took his eyes off the man. He keyed his radio. “Yeah. I’m good. Gimme a second.”
    He bent over the man, keeping his pistol tucked in cautiously, still treating him as a threat. The fingers of his weak hand quested through the man’s coat pocket and came up with the laminated white card, similar to the green day-pass placard. It had a name and a serial number on it. The number of dependents related to that serial number. The letters stacked, one on top of the other: A/F, J/M, J/M.
    One adult female, two juvenile males.
    Adult males received rations for 1,000 calories a day.
    Adult females were 800.
    Juvenile males were 700.
    Juvenile females were 500.
    “Blake Donahue,” Abe read aloud. “Three total dependents. Wife and two boys.” He put the card slowly into his own pants pocket. “What the fuck am I supposed to do right now, Mr. Donahue?”
    The man looked blank. Out of ideas.
    “What am I supposed to do with you?”
    “Just let me go.”
    “Let you go? After you killed US soldiers?” Abe gritted his teeth. “Leave your family by themselves?”
    “I’ll go back for them.”
    “You’ll never go in the Green Zone again. You’re an outsider now. You’re a fucking bandit.”
    The man was beginning to cry. “You killed everyone. All their families are going to starve.”
    Abe shook his head. “You and your friends went out to scavenge. You went a little far. Hit some bandits. Called in a distress signal. We responded and killed all the bandits, but you and all your friends were already killed. Your families will mourn. Then they will apply for new ration cards.”
    The man wept openly now. “I want to see them again! I want to see my family!”
    “No,” Abe