Jason pulled the military vehicle into the farm. As we drove through the field, moving closer, I could see that the mass was actually thirty or forty people. They had gathered in a tight circle. Most of them were sitting or lying in the dirt, almost as if they were having a group picnic.
"Holy crap." Shawn opened the door as Jason brought the vehicle to a stop.
But it was no picnic. The people in the field—all thirty or forty of them—were doing it. All of them. Together. Many of them were completely without clothes; some of the men's pants were around their ankles; some of the women had two guys between their legs at once. Everyone was writhing around in various states of revolting, mindless ecstasy. When Jason cut the engine, I could hear a chorus of quivering moans. Everyone was filthy, covered in dust and dry alfalfa. I'd never, ever seen anything like it. I started to gag.
"Watch this," Jason said.
He gave the horn a long honk. It was deafening. He flicked the siren on and off, which was even louder.
No one in the field stopped doing it. Not one of the people even paused or looked up. If anything, the moaning grew more intense. It was like they were all lost in a trance of carnal insatiability.
"Why do they do that?" asked the younger private. "Why don't they run?"
"Because they're sickos," Jason said. "Just look at them. Shameless."
"But we only have like three test kits left."
Jason laughed. He banged on the horn again. None of the people in the field responded.
"There's your test. Every one of them is stage three. I guarantee it." Jason looked into the rear view mirror. "Anyone disagree with that assessment?"
Shawn said, "Screw protocol." He shouldered his rifle.
All the rangers got out of the vehicle and approached the massive group, guns raised, making their way around the idle swather.
"Hold up," Jason said. "Don't waste your ammo."
He climbed into the swather.
"Keys are here!" He called out, jangling a set of ignition keys out the door.
"Oh hell." The private grinned.
A swather is basically a giant lawn mower that cuts a twenty-foot-wide swath of hay and spits it out the back into a neat row. They're hard to maneuver, and Jason wasn't nearly as good a driver as my dad was. He started the engine and struggled to steer the swather toward the writhing mass of people in the field. The other Home Guard rangers chuckled and clapped, including Shawn, goading Jason on.
I couldn't believe this was happening. I couldn't let it happen. I stumbled out of the military vehicle and ran awkwardly in my handcuffs toward the swather.
"Stop!" I yelled. "Jason! Stop!"
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