A Better World

Cold liquid splashing across his face brought Kevin Temple back to himself.

He’d been on the road all night, a dedicated run from Indiana hauling a load of fresh vegetables. Fifteen minutes out of the depot in Cleveland, and he had that stale feel, too much coffee washing down too much beef jerky. What he’d really been craving was a double cheeseburger, but while it would surprise no one to see a trucker gone flabby around the middle, it was a point of pride that at thirty-nine he weighed only ten pounds more than he had in high school.

When sirens lit up the darkness behind him, he jumped, then cursed. Must’ve zoned out, gotten heavy on the pedal—only no, the speedometer read sixty-seven. He’d been tired, but not so whacked that he’d drifted out of his lane. A broken taillight? It was after four in the morning; maybe the cops were just bored.

Kevin eased over to the shoulder. He yawned and stretched, then turned on the interior lights and rolled down the window. A week until Thanksgiving, and the cold air felt good.

The state trooper was middle-aged, with a lean, wolfish look. His uniform was starched, and his hat hid his eyes. “You know why I stopped you?”

“No, sir.”

“Get out of the cab, please.”

It must be a broken taillight. Some cops liked to rub your face in it. Kevin slid the license from his wallet, grabbed the manifest and registration, then opened the door and climbed down. A second trooper had joined the first.

“Keep your hands where I can see them, please.”

“Sure,” Kevin said. He held up the paperwork. “What’s this about, Officer?”

The trooper held the license up, clicked on a flashlight. “Mr. . . . Temple.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Cleveland your destination tonight?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You do this route regularly?”

“Two, three times a week.”

“And are you a twist?”

“Huh?”

The trooper said, “Are you an abnorm?”

“What are you—why do you care?”

“Just answer the question. Are you an abnorm?”

It was one of those moments, the kind when he knew what he should do, in that idealized sense of the word. He should refuse to answer. He should make a speech about how that question was a violation of his civil rights. He should tell this bigoted cop to shut his idiot mouth, throwing around a word like “twist.”

But it was four in the morning, and the road was empty, and he was tired, and sometimes the shoulds get overwhelmed by the willing tos. So he settled for putting a little attitude into his voice as he said, “No, I’m not a brilliant.”

The trooper stared at him for a moment, then flicked the flashlight up. Kevin winced and squinted, said, “Hey, whoa, I can’t see.”

“I know.”

There was motion in his peripheral vision, the other cop raising a device that crackled electric blue, and then lightning struck Kevin Temple square in the chest. Every muscle locked up at once and he heard something like a scream coming out of his mouth and stars blew out his vision as claws sank into his ribs.

When the pain was finally done, he collapsed. His thoughts were slippery, and he struggled to process what had just happened. The ground was cold. And moving. No, he was moving, being dragged. His hands were behind him, and something held them together.

Then liquid splashed his face. The cold made him gasp, and he sucked some of the fluid into his mouth. It was foul. A pungent chemical presence he’d never tasted but had smelled a thousand times, and that was when panic swept out the last vestiges of pain, because he was handcuffed on the side of the road and someone was pouring gasoline on him.

“Oh God, please, please, don’t, please don’t—”

“Shh.” The wolfish trooper squatted down beside him. His partner tipped up the gas can and stepped backward, pouring a trail. “Quiet now.”

“Please, Officer, please—”

“I’m not a cop, Mr. Temple. I’m”—he hesitated—“I guess you could say I’m a soldier. In Darwin’s army.”

“I’ll do whatever you want, I have some money, you can have anything—”

“Be quiet, okay? Just listen.” The man’s voice was firm but not harsh. “Are you listening?”

Kevin nodded frantically. The gas fumes were everywhere, ringing in his nose, burning his eyes, chilling his hands and face.

“I want you to know that it’s not because you’re a normal. And I’m honestly sorry that we have to do it this way. But in a war, there’s no such thing as an innocent bystander.” For a moment it seemed like he was going to add something else, but then he just stood up.

The purest fear Kevin Temple had ever known filled him, pressed him out of himself, wore him like a suit. He wanted to cry, to beg, to scream, to run, but he couldn’t find any words, his teeth chattering, his arms bound, his legs rubber.

“If it’s any comfort, you’re part of something bigger now. An essential part of the plan.” The soldier struck a match against the side of a pack, once, twice. The flame caught and flared. The bright yellow flicker reflected in his eyes. “This is how we build a better world.”

Then he dropped the match.