Hoods and Bots: Part Three by Irena Szirtes - inspired by a '555' prompt -

   “They passed Lester’s, the coffee shop on Eighty-fourth where Robert used to take Grace for breakfast sometimes before school.”

 The fifth line of the fifth page of the fifth chapter of “The Horse Whisperer” by Nicholas Evans

credit: Canva/Irena Szirtes

In honour of Wilhelm Imiołczyk, whose name I've taken for this story.

In the living hell of WW2 Poland, his forged papers saved lives.

Hoods and Bots: Part Three

It was another dawn mission, a very different one, and my mouth was dry as a desert. I packed a hood for my own use: Roland had been issued with one of his own. The hoods’ purpose was disguising identities, but it was no secret our more radical members made use of them to ambush and murder random Regime personnel, usually at dead of night.

    Roland was still being cleansed of propaganda but had completed an initial two months of intensive interviews and meetings with our leaders. It was time for him to see some active Resistance life. He was still unaware of our underground complex, nor was he allowed a weapon, but a high-tech rifle hung over my shoulder. My job was to help defend an operation of which I was a small part; Roland was simply there to observe.

    I’d hardly seen Roland over the last two months and found I still disliked him. I’d protested someone else should take the six-month shift showing him operations, and pretended I was too busy scaring the occasional rat to make conversation as we moved out together on foot. Rats had increased even here, but this was no mission for my excitable rat pack. Hercule accompanied me everywhere in his capacity as combat dog, unless missions took me into the city, where his presence might have caused suspicion.  

“There’s still a lot I... don’t understand,” Roland said at last, once we were clear of the village, out the rats’ preferred range. “How can resistance.... workers support... the return of factory... farms?”

 “How can Bots support the return of torture?” I thought, but didn’t say, because here was a chance to tell him truths he’d obviously never known. 

   “We don’t,” I snapped. “We never did and never will support factory farms. So, you were taught there are only two choices, veganism or cruelty! That stinks like the pure propaganda it is! What you weren’t taught, in your rat-infested cities where food magically appears in Regime distribution centres, is that for every factory farm, there were thousands of farmers who cared for their animals with passion, showed them off at country shows, gave them a good life, veterinary care, and a merciful death.”  Grief mingled with frustration, because I’d always known veterinary practice would have been my calling, had our world more need of it.  “And,” I went on, as anger began to spew like vomit, “Why do you suppose the quality of vegan food has deteriorated so much?” 

He shook his head. “I’ll tell you why – your supposedly animal-product-free foods used to be grown with the help of the most prolific animal product of all – manure!  And now, we might never see our precious heritage breeds again! Centuries of partnership lost, millennia even, years when farming and nature went hand in hand, all discounted, despite the fact so many were trying to reject less sympathetic methods and get that back!”

  He didn’t answer. We stayed quiet until we sat on a fallen tree trunk to take a drink from our flasks. Hercule kept watch, on edge because he sensed my persistent animosity. But this time I initiated conversation. 

“What makes someone like you defect, anyway?”

He brushed away a tear, and I felt a fleeting stab of compassion for this man who made my skin crawl. 

“My mother.” He almost whispered, and pain brimmed his eyes. “She was... truly faithful to... the Regime - raised me single-handed, taught me how to... be a good citizen - raised me to serve the cause, I mean, my career was - stellar – a boy from a deprived neighbourhood... made good! I was better at it than them... all, and you know what? It was all...  her doing. She always... believed in me, she really did.”  He paused to brush away another tear, and I fell silent. Then he looked around him, as if he was afraid of being overheard, even out here. “She criticised one...  little thing,” he mouthed, “and was careless .... careless enough to....  mention it to a lifelong friend! Next thing, they’d arrested her, and I never... saw her again. I tried to get her back, you’d think... my service record... would have meant something.”  

War raged.  Part of me asserted it served her right, served him right too: hadn’t she condoned whatever he’d done to others? Part of me felt empathy as he shook his head in disbelief. It seemed even Regime thugs were capable of human feeling. 

“I’m sorry for what happened to your mother,” I said eventually, and meaning it felt alien. It was ironic someone who believed in the Regime should become its victim, but I knew she was far from alone. Is this how it felt, not becoming the thing, you hate?  Not noble, or heroic, but conflicted?

   Hercule gazed at me expectantly, his eyes asking, “Shall we go now?  It was then I realised my dog was incapable of hate, even when ordered to attack or hold someone at bay. It was all just work, and he snapped in and out of combat mode at a single word. He held no grudges yet would have given his life to defend me. “You’re the best present I ever had,” I told him, and stroked his sleek head in appreciation as we went our way.