WT 4: Cattle Prod
Will of the People - dystopian future - directly inspired from Muse's 2022 Album 'Will of the People'. The title is a WIP, but I’m just having fun with a concept for the album.
Summary: On his way into Arena City, Oliver begins to worry about the guards.
Wordcount: 922
Of all things, Oliver was dreading the cattle prods the most. He could handle the heat; the dehydration, and the paranoia that enveloped him the second he stepped across the cemented orange bricks that signified the threshold of the city limits. He could handle the fact that as he traversed the destroyed inner suburbs, he was being watched. Arena City had a circumference that stretched miles - rivalling the long lost London when it was at its greatest - and a perimeter that stretched even further. This was to put eyes on those even daring to near the city walls, forcing them through an intense process via the one road that allowed for direct movement to one of the few liveable places of the country. It functioned as a nuisance for travellers, and an early warning system for potential invasions.
Oliver's feet barely carried him across the ancient cobbled roads since ruined by oil and debris. His mouth was parched beyond the cracking, sunbleached brick around him, and sweat had since ceased dripping from his forehead. He was running out of time, as was his commune. The People’s District, as they were calling it, relied on him to infiltrate the Arena, and in turn, give them the queue to revolt. If all had gone to plan, their months of preparation getting the word in in the first place would be in place. All he had to do was be the face of a revolution. He only hoped it wasn’t in vain, and the People were having a far better time on their packed trains and intense security than he was traversing miles upon miles of a decemated landscape.
Fifty degree heat was no joke; not even a giggle as his legs stiffened and his jaw clenched his mouth shut against the dry, stagnant air, as though keeping any remaining moisture in.
He could be going faster, he knew this, but urgency was overwritten by is hesitance at the fucking cattle prods. Back when he worked for The Man, the prods were a sure-fire way of keeping their cattle in line, and Oliver had been subjected to many unlawful - and frankly unnecessary - uses of it. As a result, the scars on his back itched, and his hands trembled as his jaw tensed beyond the tautness he’d unconsciously kept it at.
As time passed, and the sun began to set beyond a hazy horizon, the city limits drew into focus. Sandstone walls as thick as ten men with steel doors and a watch consisting of cameras and men slowly morphed into recognition with every painful step. Oliver's only question was why hadn’t they stopped him yet? Was he that unthreatening with the way he swayed and his vision blurred that they’d assumed he’d keel over long before they reached them? Maybe they pictured him collapsing alongside the picked-at bodies he’d seen miles up the road and even further back… he wasn’t sure. The encroaching darkness on his eyes limited all rational thought as his head spun and his knees trembled.
He blinked once, his eyes dry and stinging with dust as the bandana he'd used on his face had to be used as an impromptu bandage. During yesterday's travel: when scouring old buildings for a stable place to sleep, Oliver was halfway through a broken window when a ceiling tile fell, and startled him through. From the jagged glass, his leg was sliced from knee to ankle, so sacrificing the bandanna as a tourniquet was his best bet at minimizing blood loss, even if it did maximize the chance of an infection.
Despite his constant movement, the blood had dried as the dust packed the wound where it could. It plastered the fabric of his clothes to his skin, and created an uncomfortable tackiness to his worn boots.
He blinked once more, willing the black spots to stop swimming across his vision and for his hands to stop shaking. He was successful until the bricks beneath his feet shifted. In the same moment, his knees buckled and he was sure he was dead.
In hindsight, he wasn’t sure what brought on the early-onset pessimism, but when his head cracked against a rock, he couldn’t help but believe so.
He awoke to a boot connecting with his injured leg, and a fucking cattle prod to his empty stomach. It was enough to kickstart his heart and resume the tremors in is hands. Ice water followed quickly after - it was a blessing and a curse packaged into a soothing wave hat tore at his blistered skin and open wounds. Still, nothing provoked him to alertness more than he heavily accented:
“Shock it again.”
“No!” He jostled, decidedly more alive as his hands tried to find purchase on the jagged rubble. He was rewarded with cut palms and the low, raging late-afternoon sun that took too long to adjust to - all the guards were to him, were blurred shadows.
“We have a live one.” Said the guard.
“It’ll make good fodder.” Another agreed.
“What do you think, boys?” The first said, circling him like a vulture.
“If he doesn’t want to die, he’ll put up one hell of an entertaining fight for us.”
“All limbs.” Commented a third, caressing Oliver's leg with the barrel of the cattle prod. “It’ll make a great spectacle.”
The first spoke again: “Get the stretcher, A few synthetics and it’ll be good as new. I might even place a few bets.”
“For him?” The second sneered.
“Hah. Against. Underdogs are always killed by the Demon.”
