Damian is dead. At least, that’s how it feels. He’s salivating over the steak he’s sure is waiting in his rations—Menu 7, Beef Strips in Tomato Sauce, with sweet potato mash, kale and quinoa medley, dried strawberries, hardtack crackers, and a protein brownie. The accessory pack promised a moist towelette, salt, pepper, red pepper flakes, gum, a spork, and a tiny bottle of steak sauce. All of it listed on the crumpled menu they’d shoved into his hand when he stumbled out of the van and was force-marched to this campsite.
He’d been too exhausted and wired to eat yesterday. So he slept. This morning, dew soaked the pallet wrap that served as his sheets and shelter. When he sat up, it drenched his thin cotton tunic and drawstring pants. His prison sliders, left at his feet the night before, were gone.
Vomelete Theft is a Favor
Everything else is gone too. His entire pallet of survival supplies—vanished. In its place sat a single different MRE and one small bottle of water. The thief had even left behind a red clay plate and coffee mug, as if in mocking courtesy.
Damian would have killed for Menu 7. Instead he held Menu 4: Cheese and Veggie Omelet. 2008 vintage. Practically a fossil. Troops had called it the Vomelet for a reason.
He never saw a judge. Never heard an indictment. Had no idea what his crime was, or how long they planned to keep him here. Now he was somewhere wild—“That’s mine” carried no weight. Things simply moved through hands as desired.
Well… how bad could it be?
He tore it open. Inside: the sad gray omelet pouch, shredded hash browns with bacon bits, plain crackers, cheese spread, a strawberry toaster pastry, Skittles, and spiced cider drink mix. The accessory pack held freeze-dried coffee, sugar, powdered creamer, a flat-pack aluminum stove, four fuel tablets, and matches.
Hangry
Thieves! For sure he wasn’t alone in these woods. A quadcopter drone buzzed overhead—the Hive is always with you. Then came the low growl of a tracked vehicle crashing through the brush, flattening prairie grass in its wake. Something knew exactly where he was. Maybe it was bringing the ribeye after all.
He assembled the flameless ration heater with the omelet pouch, added water, and set it aside to cook. While he waited, he fired up the little stove and boiled water for coffee. The aroma hit him hard. Everything tastes like heaven when you’re outside and starving.
Damian stood, mug in hand, and watched the tracked vehicle rumble closer. It stopped eleven meters away. On its flatbed sat another supply pallet. Two robot dogs unfolded from the vehicle with mechanical grace, unstrapped the load, lifted the heavy pallet clear, and set it down gently as the carrier pulled forward and away.
We Thank You for Your Generosity
He took a slow sip of coffee. Resupply. Maybe he won’t die today. Damian began walking toward the pallet. Then started to run. Two octocopter drones zipped into view and hovered over the new pallet. The drones dropped grapplers from cables. The grapplers latched on to the pallet and the drones began lifting it into the sky. He couldn’t close the distance fast enough. By the time he reached the flattened grass where his life used to be they were out of reach, gaining altitude, and headed east.
The dogs turned their sensor heads toward him. One of the robot dogs stepped forward, its gait smooth and eerily organic. A small speaker crackled to life. “Brother,” it said in a calm, genderless voice that sounded like it had been trained on old Mennonite sermons, “the previous pallet was needed elsewhere. The community gives thanks for your generosity.”
Damian nearly choked on his coffee, “Generosity? That was my rations. My shoes. My—” He stopped. The futility of his words sank into his heart. The Hive was many good things. And a nightmare if it turned against you.
Orthodox Bitch
The dog tilted its head, sensors glowing softly. “Ce que vous appelez perte, nous, on appelle ça la circulation. All things are held in common, as the early church did. Acts 4:32, “Now the whole group of those who believed were of one heart and soul, and no one claimed private ownership of any possessions, but everything they owned was held in common.“
Damian stared at the flattened grass where his pallet used to be, “So you’re saying… someone just took everything because they felt like it?”
“Felt led,” the dog corrected gently. “Vos besoins d’abri et de subsistance sont notés. Loué soit‑Il. Jesus said, in Matthew 6, verses 28-30, ‘And why do you worry about clothing? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they neither toil nor spin, yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not clothed like one of these. But if God so clothes the grass of the field, which is alive today and tomorrow is thrown into the oven, will he not much more clothe you—you of little faith?”
The scripture landed like a slap. Damian’s hands clenched the coffee mug until his knuckles went white, “Fuck you and your fucking Bible! I don’t want your lilies of the fucking field! I want my goddamn ribeye!” The words tore out of him raw and ugly, echoing across the empty prairie. The robot dog didn’t flinch. It simply regarded him with the same mild, patient sensors, “your needs will be addressed.”
Morale Does Not Improve
Damian set the coffee mug on the red clay plate and watched the robot dogs retreat toward the tracked vehicle. The lead robot dog paused mid-step, head swiveling. Its speaker clicked on again, still gentle, “New pallet has been claimed by the south meadow crew. They give thanks for the extra fuel tablets and the coffee. The community is strengthened. Please step away from the plate and mug. Your need for it has been satisfied.”
Damian’s mouth opened, closed. The words wouldn’t come. The tracked vehicle rumbled away. A drone dropped down, grappled the coffee mug and plate, and lifted into the sky. “My need has been satisfied my ass.” He stared hard at the patch of grass where his last item of home left the chat.
He heard the propeller buzz of another drone. “What now?!” he muttered. The now what was a cardboard box dropped from another drone. It stayed high enough that he couldn’t grab it and destroy it. The box was labeled, “Ration de survie – Individu, Secteur Restreint (SR‑1)”. Damian picked it up and opened it. The contents spilled onto the grass, “a box of candy? Seriously?” He noticed the freeze dried coffee, sugar and creamer. As he was gathering up the contents of the candy box another box hit him on the head. This one contained a plastic mess kit and canteen. In the grass was another flat pack stove and a fuel tablet. Somebody had jokes, fr fr.
Rainy Night
He gathered the pathetic haul while the rain began to fall. He spent the rest of the morning walking slow circles around his patch of flattened grass, trying to stay warm. Every time he sat, the pallet wrap stuck to his damp clothes. Every time he stood, the wind found the gaps in his tunic.
Midday brought the first human he’d seen since the van. A girl walked straight through his camp without slowing. She didn’t glance at him, didn’t speak. She simply bent, sliced a straight strip off the edge of his pallet-wrap poncho, rolled it under her arm, and kept walking.
Damian stared after her. “Hey!—”
She was already thirty meters away, the plastic strip flapping like a battle flag.
He sat back down. The poncho was now noticeably smaller.
By late afternoon the hunger had teeth. His tongue felt thick. The last of the water was gone. He licked condensation off the remaining pallet wrap just to have something in his mouth. Damian popped one of the lozenges into his mouth—orange, and tried to feel relief.
No Respite
A new tracked vehicle appeared at dusk—this one towing a small trailer piled with firewood. Two robot dogs unloaded half the wood in a neat stack near a charred patch of ground ten meters from Damian, then drove off again.
He walked over, hands shaking, and tried to build a fire with the fuel tablets he no longer had. The wood was green. It smoked miserably. He gave up and lay down on the shortened pallet wrap, curling fetal against the evening chill.
Sometime after full dark, soft footsteps approached. A man this time—beard long, voice calm and low. He stopped a meter or so from where Damian lay. “You’re still here,” he observed, as if noting the weather.
Damian didn’t sit up. “Where else would I be?”
The man considered that. “Most new ones try to walk out the first day. The drones bring them back by nightfall. Saves everyone trouble.”
He dropped something at Damian’s feet. It clinked. A single fuel tablet.
“Le temps cette nuit va te tuer si t’as pas de feu pis un meilleur abri.” Then dark swallowed the stranger.
Damian lay there, staring at the single fuel tablet. His stomach cramped. His bare feet ached from the cold ground. The remaining pallet wrap didn’t keep the rain off him. His clothing clung to him and he was barefoot. He closed his eyes and whispered to no one, “This is Hades, isn’t it?”
Need Met
The prairie answered with silence and the distant buzz of quadcopters approaching his location. This time, the group of quadcopters had nine wooden pallets, a canvas tarp, and another flat pack stove.
The quadcopters lowered their cargo to a spot near the scorched ground. One of them dropped a Tyvek sheet with printed instructions on it. Attached to one of the pallets was a bag of parts. Yay! IKEA delivers to prison camps! Woo!