15 for 15 Contest --- Closed

It’s axiomatic that any lock can be picked or circumvented

The only question is whether it takes so much time or makes so much noise that you get caught.

“You sure you got all the cameras?” I asked Ben.

He held up an empty can of spray paint and smiled, teeth crooked in his otherwise handsome face.

It started innocently enough. Time was, most of the country was farmers. Then we all started moving to cities, to the suburbs, and the epic task of feeding us all fell to corporations, and then conglomerates.

“Okay,” I said, straightening up and pushing damp hair back from my sweaty face. “Let’s do this.”

Ben went first, Glock 9 out and ready. “Clear,” he said.

Brother and sister together, we stepped into a darkness that became absolute once the metal door clicked shut behind us.

Still, many people had their own vegetable gardens. Victory gardens, they called them during the last great war. Grow your own food so resources could be spent on the war effort. We won that war, but the true battle was just beginning.

I flipped on the light, a dim red thing that provided just enough illumination for us to make our way down the deserted hall. Closed doors filed by on either side, but we weren’t interested in the contents.

“You sure it’s here, Sal?” Ben asked me as we made our way along, footsteps echoing in the dark corridor.

“This is where the trail leads, Ben,” I said. “If it’s not here, it’s not anywhere.”

Gardens fell out of favor. To feed a burgeoning population, the conglomerates switched to massive application of herbicides, pesticides, and other –cides. Hybrids replaced monoculture crops. The problem with hybrids was that they never bred true. Hybrid corn made unblemished, uniform ears, tasty and cheap, but you couldn’t take a portion of the seeds and plant more. We relied more and more on Monsanto and their ilk.

Another door at the end of the hall, another lock. This one was easy. We squinted into the brightness within. A hallway made of glass: glass walls, glass ceiling, everything but a glass floor. Everything was green; plants pressed up against the walls, covered parts of the ceiling.

“Looks like they were trying to keep it out, too.”

“Let’s move,” I replied. The Glock led us into the light.

Then came GMOs, and people who still planted gardens were shunned. Homeowners’ associations forbade them. City and suburban ordinances were written against them, all in the holy name of Property Values. It wasn’t long before the big guys controlled the food supply. All the food supply. Several unpopular wars later, and gradually, no one cared anymore. Ben and I were the only ones who made the connection, because we lived out in the country and they hadn’t gotten to us yet.

“How far?” Ben asked.

“How should I know?”

“We need proof.”

“I know. Proof’s beyond this glass.”

Ben fired a round into the wall, the report loud in the brightness, and it bounced. Not even cracked.

It’s easy to control a population. Keep them fed, obviously. Keep them entertained. Bread and circuses. But for that extra insurance? Tamper with the food supply. Make ‘em docile. We were here to bust their scheme wide open.

It’s axiomatic that any wall can be breached, given enough time.

I set up the charges and we backed down the hall. Something would give. The wall, we hoped.

Or maybe us.