The Carbon Farm Chronicles

The Officer (Part 1 of 9)

(Feel free to skip this) Introduction: below is the first chapter of the nine part series, "The Carbon Farm Chronicles," (nearly) as published in my school newspaper. Every month I write a new chapter. September, October and November's issues are completed. December is pending. Thank you and may you take from this what you should.

***

I leaned against the open squad car door while I checked the envelope's address. Apartment complex 217. All right. The place looked like a dump. And I knew a few years ago it hadn't been, but, since half the population now could barely scrape by, it wasn't exactly a priority.

The letter would read, like all the other letters I'd given out:

This time it was the Desmonds:

'Dear (whatever) family,'

'By process of random selection, you have been chosen to ameliorate our country on your very own carbon farm. Your accommodations are waiting at a location to be announced. For more information, the "How Do I Run a Carbon Farm?" pamphlet is enclosed. You will travel by train in two days time from the local train station. There you will join others in the same journey to create a better America. We congratulate you for this honorable undertaking and wish you the best of luck.

Signed: Sylvester Thorn,

CEO of Thorn Incorporated'

I closed the car door. Rust was gnawing its way up the fenders, but hadn't completely consumed my car like most of the others in the lot.

The stairs leading to the complex leaned to one side and paint sagged from the awning. Inside, the smell of dust, dirty carpet and dirty people burned my nose. A face with its eyes crossed out and a mouth stitched over with the word "Thorn" was spray-painted on the wall opposite the door. The buzzer system had since been broken so I looked up the number and went on my way.

Number 303. Please don't be home.

I turned up the staircase. A man with a sunken face, like someone sucked the life out of it with a vacuum, slept on the landing. There was garbage at his sides and he was probably too weak to pick it up. He had maybe a week before starving--maybe less.

When I got to the third floor there weren't many welcoming faces waiting in doorways. The people there pushed their children back behind their legs, closed their doors, or cursed at me openly or under their breath.

And at the end of the hall was 303. The numbers were screwed underneath the peep-hole and the "three" hung upside down. A faded mat that said 'welcome' in vibrant colors greeted me at the door.

I put my hand up to knock-

"...Hello?..."

I pressed my ear against the door.

"...What'd the Doctor say?" It was a woman. "...Is it benign? Malig-"

Knock, knock.

"Charlie, there's someone at the door, just-"

Knock, knock.

"God. I'll call you back."

Click.

I cleared my throat.

She opened the door.

"Hi. Mrs. Desmond, is it?" She saw the colored envelope and braced herself on the door frame. "I..."

I swallowed.

"I have this notice from my superiors..." She just stared at the 'welcome' mat.

Behind her, in the dark apartment playing with broken toys on the floor, were two kids, a boy and a girl.