The Crest

The man named Reno scrambled a mass of Tastes Like Eggs, fake eggs in the middle of a hot griddle. The eggs had an unusual bright yellow tint, but, he mixed them like clockwork with his long spatula. Reno worked as a cook in the Crefor kitchen; in his mid-40s, he had a short dark beard, introverted, he kept to himself. His large muscular arms had a design of a vibrantly colored bald eagle with a snake in its talons and the words ‘freedom’ emblazoned beneath it. On another arm was an image of a skull created from a juxtaposition of roses and butterfly wings. Underneath it said. ‘Si vis pacem, para bellum.’ If you want peace, prepare for war.

The head cook yelled at Reno. “Get the pancakes going Reno.”

“Yes, boss.”

He poured the pancake batter onto the griddle. Twenty perfectly round cakes sizzled and bubbled. He flipped the pancakes with precision and piled them into a stainless-steel serving container.

“Don’t forget to heat up the syrup,” his supervisor shouted.

“Yes, boss,” he mumbled, seething under his breath.

The man got up at 4:00 am every morning and worked a twelve-hour shift. Every day, he cooked food for the defenders. Every day he served the enclave bratty eighteen-year-olds. He resented it.

Reno mumbled to himself, “Gonna get payback on these punk-ass kids.” He carried the container of pancakes out to the cafeteria line. The man had muscles, he obviously worked out. He did 200 pushups a day, religiously, and took long walks with a heavy pack.

He nodded to another food service worker Vera; she served hot drinks on the rampart. They smiled at each other.

On his off hours, Reno took long walks around the enclave. People got used to seeing him around. They knew him as Reno, one of the cooks, a regular guy.

At night he’d sneak away to God knows where. He seemed to subsist on a few hours of sleep. On those long nights out, he often stayed beyond curfew and never seemed to get caught by the military police patrolling. He walked the rows of seedlings moving from quadrant to quadrant along the perimeter road. He looked for solo defenders hanging out. The defenders left the barracks often to find solace in the nursery. The cook knew their habits, he tracked them, on some nights he got lucky.

On this night, he spotted a defender sitting alone in the nursery.

“Nice night out,” he said.

“You the cook?” the young man said.

“Yep, I can’t sleep most nights so I come out here.”

“Me too.”

The two chatted for a while.

“Whiskey?” Reno asked the defender.

“Sure.”

The cook handed the bottle to the 18-year-old and the man took a drink.

“Thanks.”

“Go ahead, have another one.”

The defender took another drink and handed the bottle back.

They cooked and the defender talked. The night grew dark and the seedlings began to click...sensing. The wire noose was around the defender’s neck before he knew it. The cook held the noose tight with his muscular arms. The defender gasped and kicked; his eyes bulged out of their sockets. After a few minutes, the defender’s body became limp and the cook removed the wire noose. Then he dragged the body to a secret tunnel that went under the Crest. He hung the carcass on the branch of a tree for all to see. With the body he placed a painted sign.

Satisfied with his work, he went back through the tunnel and back to his bed. Now he could sleep.