The leaves fell like soft rain. A trickle of oranges and browns and reds. An autumn sunrise set the skies ablaze. Clouds stuffed with light and colour, erupting in a show of cotton candy pink. Streaking through the sky. And tears pricked the back of my eyes.
“Beautiful,” I whispered to the wind, as I doused the trees with gasoline. The smell was heady. Intoxicating. And I took one last look at the scene, as though it was hand painted by God, struck the match, and tossed it onto the fallen leaves, watching as they writhed in agony, twisting and crumpling and convulsing in fury and pain. The flames licked at the base of the trees, sliced through the bark, and climbed. Oh they climbed. Higher and higher until the branches cracked and fizzed and glowed and glowered in anger. Monstrous anger. Red and smoking. Wafts drifting up to the skies. Dark and thick. Mixing with the clouds. Suffusing the cotton candy sky with a smokey grey. Burning the cloud’s lungs. They practically coughed and spluttered.
The smoke wound its way towards me. I savoured the first breath of it. It tickled my throat and caressed my cheek, embracing me like an old friend.
“Simply magnificent!” I roared to the skies, as I placed the mask over my mouth and nose and breathed that OxyCorp air. Crisp and neutral. Amongst the crackling fire, a woman’s cries pierced the air. Or the smoke, rather.
“How dare you!” She screamed. “Don’t you know what you’re doing? Don’t you understand?”
“I’m freeing you, Ma’am.”
“Freeing us?” She coughed and spluttered. Her words were choked. “You’re killing us. You’re burning us up and drowning us out. We want air, not smoke.”
“Ma’am, follow me to my truck.”
She went to speak, but I had already left. I slid open the dazzling green truck door. Her choking whimpers grew behind me, more words of accusation that bounced off my tank and fell heavy to the floor. The tanks were light. Almost as light as air. And I turned to her, tank and mask stretched out as a peace offering.
“Courtesy of OxyCorp, ma’am.”
She tried to argue, but breathlessness swamped her words. Smoke all but poured from her mouth. And with a gasping, feeble snatch, she placed the mask around her nose and mouth, and took a long, deep breath.
“You - I -” she babbled, breathing ever deeper. The mask fogging and defogging with every breath. “How - what - oh. Oh, that is just marvellous. Thank you. Thank you, young man.”
“Just doing my job, ma’am. Don’t thank me, thank OxyCorp.” I said, pride dripping on my words as I thumped the logo on the side of the truck.
A loud and monstrous groan erupted through the air. It shook the ground. The trees all fell in synchronicity, fighting an unwinnable battle with the flames. Convulsing in their final struggle. The crash echoed and plucked at the strings of my heart. And with that, I shot off in my truck, in search of the next home to be freed.
The streets were quiet for midday. OxyCorp tanks lined the streets, and I couldn’t help feeling that overwhelming sense of pride and joy that swelled in my heart when I saw the company logo. The people shuffled along, huffing on their masks. Signs that I was doing well.
OxyCorp headquarters was a magnificent building. A large, vibrant green building, filled with windows. It was beautiful in the simplicity of the standard, rectangular structure. Strong and unbeatable.
The warm air slapped me in the face as soon as the sliding doors parted. My cheeks tingled and flushed with the influx of heat. White walls. White tiles. White furniture. Light bounced in these building. Not absorbed by the colours but simply thrown about by the stark, monocolour. Or monoshade. Whatever you prefer.
My mask whistled as I pried it from my face, and I sucked in the air of the building. The sterile air. Stained with antiseptic and bleach. It was bliss.
“Ah!” a voice behind me called. “There he is. Our big hero.” A thick hand grasped my shoulder and squeezed hard. “Another successful airspace liberation, champ?” I turned and met the bronzed face of my boss, Mr Clarke.
“Yes sir!” I said, sucking in the air and snapping my hand up, two fingers placed on my throat.
“Any issues? Though, I doubt any issues would stop our best air-feller.”
“Yes sir, certainly sir. One lady, sir. She argued. But as soon as she had the mask on, she was compliant. She saw reason and thanked me, sir.”
“Of course she did! You are simply the best. Another satisfied customer, eh?” He gave me a wink and his words oozed through his wide smile. “Now, we’ve no more liberation zones for today. Please, take the rest of the day to rest. You. Have. Earned it.”
I couldn’t help myself as I sauntered out of the building, mask secured tight to my face. Chest puffed out, hands relaxed, nose up and eyes to the sky. I felt good.
“He’s finally noticing,” I hummed to myself, trying to contain the giddy giggle in my chest. “He’s noticing!”
Images of Mr Clarke flashed rapidly through my mind.
A handshake! Can you imagine?
A promotion? Wow.
A raise? That might be a bit far-fetched, but still!
The truck chugged to a start, gasping for air and fuel. It sputtered along the main road. It was quiet. A gentle breeze pushed a few loose pieces of paper around, as though it were a janitor making it look as though he was busy working.
Odd, I thought, it is just past midday on a Wednesday. Where is everyone?
My truck churned around the corner. A river of people flowed onto the road. Rippling and shifting. Dammed up. Blocking the road. The brakes squealed and cried, and my truck came to a jolting halt in front of the horde. They turned, almost as one. Their eyes widened and a furious spark ignited in their pupils when they saw me. When they saw the truck and their gaze drifted to the logo. And they rushed. Fingers scraping, fists thumping, legs booting the truck. The truck screamed as it rocked back and forth. Thuds and hammering and scratching and scraping echoed through the cabin. They swarmed around the truck. My mind spun, and a dizzy nausea erupted through my body. And a quaking rolled through the cabin. Glass shattered, poked and sliced at my skin. Trickles of blood drifted down my face and arms. I unclipped my seatbelt and landed on my side with an aching crash. More glass made its way into my skin. The nausea had abated, but the dizziness amped up. The world swirled and spun and spiralled, like water whirlpooling down a drain. And then, I was moving. Sliding along the ground as though I was on a decline. Dragged through glass and gravel. More cuts and slices. More blood. And before I could call out and protest and scream, the mask was ripped from my face and the sole of a boot filled my vision.
My nose hurt. Bad. Dried blood stained my nostrils and my upper lip. Arms and legs ached. Knots of cramps and tender bruises lined the right side of my body. I tried to stretch, desperate to ease the bulging balls of spasming muscles in my legs, but they caught. I was stuck. Rope was coiled around my ankles and wrists. I strained and pulled and tried to stand, but I was stuck. Frozen in place. Restricted.
A singular bulb burst into light. It hung from the roof and meandered back and forth on its string, a listless, gentle swing. The shadows danced and played with one another on the walls. Like the shadows of flame. But without the joyous flickering and liveliness that fire brings. This was artificial. Fake. My breath was limited to my mouth. The middle of my face ached and was as stiff as my limbs.
“Help!” I tried to shout, but all that came out was a crackling whisper.
“Ah, you’re awake,” a man said, walking out of the shadows and into the light. His glasses held a dim lustre of the light, masking one of his hazel eyes. A windswept tussle of blonde hair was matted with sweat. Thin wrinkles lined his face. Crow’s feet and smile lines. Deeper now, as he grinned at me. “I’m sorry about the nose. One of my colleagues took things a bit too far with that. How do you feel? You don’t look too bad.”
“I can’t breathe through my nose. I assume it's broken?”
“Aye, it is at a funny angle.”
I looked at his nose. Long and straight and rigid. Only then, did it dawn on me.
“You’re not wearing a mask? How are you -” I went to breathe, and couldn’t feel the familiar pressure around my nose and mouth. “Where’s my -” I coughed and spluttered. “How could you - how can you - this air, it’s FOUL.” I shouted, finding my voice.
“Now now. Hush. Take a deep breath and you’ll see-”
“Breathe? This air is horrid, dangerous. Where’s my mask?” I shifted in the seat, rocking the legs of the wooden chair. “Bring me my - I can’t breathe - this air it's - you’re killing - stale, unclean -” He lunged at me and grabbed my shoulders, settling my chair legs down.
“Stop.” He commanded. And I settled. “Breathe.” And I took a shallow breath. This foul air couldn't’ possibly be better. My thoughts bubbled, like a swamp of tar. Slow and foggy and dark. I took another. Deeper. Longer. It tasted… different. Not dirty, just not pure. The thumping in my chest settled to a gentle drumbeat. And the man with the glasses released the pressure on my shoulders.
“Better,” he said. “The air is not as bad as you think. Certainly not as bad as OxyCorp would have you believe. What they’ve told you. Forced you to think. In fact, those trees you so excitedly burn produce better air than your beloved Corp.”
“Rubbish.”
“Oh no, not rubbish. Come, lets’ go. It is time for you to see what the hands of OxyCorp have really reaped in the world.”
With a slash of his knife, the ropes on my legs fell away. And I stood, and bolted for the door. But he was there, in a flash, beside me. And, tripping over his foot, I landed face first into the concrete floor. Sliding along. Blood pooling from my nose again. He grabbed at the rope that bound my hands, and forced me to my feet, near popping my shoulders from their sockets.
“Don’t know why you tried that. Come, it is time you see the smoke ward.”
I normally relish in the coughing. That initial choking sound of those I free from the bonds of disgusting, impure, natural air. And the trees. That choke before the gasp of OxyCorp’s air. Because I know what lies ahead of those who are coughing. They exhale in smoky wheezes before inhaling our air. Crafted and created. Pure. But this coughing was different. It was softer. Still wheezy and raspy and begging for clean air. But different. And I couldn’t tell why.
The walls held murals of grand landscapes. Waterfalls and rainforests and rainbows. Disgusting. Obscene. And our shoes - mine and the man with the glasses - clicked and clacked on the polished linoleum floor. Heading towards the sound of the coughing. Still quiet and soft, but growing in scope.
“Where are we?”
“We’re in a smoke ward.”
“No, I know that. You said that already. But where are we?”
“Well, without being too specific, we are in a facility. Just outside the city limits. A facility your beloved OxyCorp doesn’t know about.”
We rounded the corner, into the ward itself. Small beds in rows on either side. Machines purring. Beeping. And, on the beds, in the rows, were children. Boys. Girls. All on their backs, eyes in a listless gaze to the roof. They coughed. Out of sync. Out of unison. Pain soaked coughs. Choking and wheezing and spluttering and - well, just all that. Not the rhythmic coughing of adults I was used to.
“These are the left behind,” the man with the glasses said. “The children of the families you have ‘freed’ from their trees.”
“This isn’t done by us, no way, not OxyCorp. We look after all, we-”
“Stop. It is here, right in front of you. You mask the adults, and leave the children to choke and splutter and wheeze themselves to death. Sucking in the smoke of the trees you so happily burn to crisps and cinders.”
I could feel it bubbling inside me. And it came out, thick and heavy and fell to the ground. A laugh, a cackle.
“How can you laugh at them?”
“I’m not laughing at them. I’m laughing at you,” my cheeks pinched and hurt with the wide smile painted on my face. “What a show you are trying to put on. Truly laughable. You think this proves your point? I bet these children are simply those you and your lot have stolen away. Choking on this miserable air. Is this what your air does to you after too long away from our tanks?”
The man with the glasses let his mouth hang open, words stifled in his throat. And he simply shook his head, and pushed me on, past the rows upon rows of children. Their bloodshot eyes screaming for air.
We came to a frosted glass door. A vibrance of green and brown blurred through the glass.
“If this doesn’t prove it to you, I don’t know what will,” he said, turning to face me. “In there, deep inside you, there must be some form of humanity left. Some form of human instinct and lust for natural, unproduced air.”
“More doctored lies?” I scoffed. “Let’s see it then.”
He sighed, and pressed the button to open the doors.
Trees with thick trunks, long branches and a canopy of green leaves above greeted me. The wind was soft and cool. It washed over me and left my head reeling and spinning.
“Breathe,” he commanded again. “Breathe this air, and tell me your tanks are better than this.” He held out his arms and sucked the air deep into his nose and out through his mouth with an exasperated sound. “Beautiful,” he whispered to the wind.
I took a sharp breath in. The trees had a pleasant smell to them. Of greenery. Fresh and natural. Not at all stale. I breathed in again. My thoughts simmered and the tar swamp drained. I closed my eyes. The leaves rustled in the gentle breeze. Brushing and sliding against one another. The branches creaked and groaned, as though in conversation with each other. I opened my eyes, and the man with the glasses was looking at me. Eyes transfixed and boring into my own.
“Well?” he said.
“Well what?” I spat back. He scoffed.
“You cannot honestly tell me that OxyCorp’s tanks are better than this?”
“Well - I don’t know,” I started. My thoughts were rushing through my head once more. “It is different. Not bad, not better, just… different.” I don’t even know if I believed the lie.
“You’re lying. You have to be,” he said. “Either that, or you are so entrenched that you can’t see what is in front of you.”
I shrugged and took another deep breath with my eyes closed. Leaves rustling. Wind cooing. Branches talking. A woman screaming and glass shattering and the crackling, crinkling sound I was so used to. A warmth washed over me and I opened my eyes.
A woman in a white coat rushed past us, aflame. Screeching and screaming. The man with the glasses went to turn around and was knocked off his feet. Several men and women, masked up, helmets on, tanks strapped securely to their backs, wielding the flame dispensers rushed him. He too blazed bright. His screams pierced the air. He looked to me for help, his burning hand held out to me. And I was stunned, staring at the flames I’d looked into for so many years. A familiar hand squeezed my shoulder, and I turned to see the eyes of Mr Clarke looking me over. Behind, the trees were engulfed in flames. Flames like avalanching snow. Flames like mountains. Clouds of smoke climbing to the heavens. I suppressed the choking cough that tangled its way from my lungs and into my throat.
“Are you okay?” Mr Clarke said, his eyes still on me. “Here, take a breath.” He placed the mask over my mouth and that antiseptic, freshly produced air hit my lungs and my mind’s thoughts and questions were quenched. All but one.
Why does it sting?