The Burning Fields

They don’t tell us who it is we’re burning. They just bring the bodies by the truckload and dump them here for us. My fieldmate — Pox, he likes to be called — thinks of them like photographs; snapshots of who they were before they expired. We make up stories for them sometimes, dreaming up what kinds of people they were and what they had accomplished.

The black hoods, fastened tightly around their necks, keep us from seeing their faces. The field chiefs don’t even know why the cleanup crews back in the city started doing it, but Pox says he heard it was to stop field crews from being able to identify anyone. It’s one thing to stack random bodies high and light ‘em up like a bonfire. It’s another when it’s your neighbor — someone you know.

Pox says, back when he first started, field crews were assigned to specific neighborhoods — usually districts on the other side of the city from where the crews lived, hoping to keep them from burning people they knew. But that was before things started getting really bad. Now they just round ‘em up, toss a hood on them, and ship them out to wherever we’ve got space. And they moved all the field workers and their families into company housing facilities.

It’s not all bad, and I really shouldn’t complain. I’m happy to have a job, especially one that keeps my little girl home safe and well-fed. Plus, the biohazard suits serve to keep us safe from contamination and they also keep the smell out. So if you don’t think about it too much, you can almost forget what it is we’re doing out here.

There are other perks, too. Sometimes, when the field chiefs aren’t looking, we’ll check the bodies’ pockets and tuck away anything small enough to hide. Mostly, it’s just loose change and a few bucks here and there. But sometimes we score something better: a nice watch or a piece of jewelry. Pox says, back in his early days, he once found a little felt baggie full of diamonds. But then what’s he still doing out here in the fields? I think he’s full of shit.

Today, I came up pretty big. A woman came through decked-out to the nines in fine silks, colors I’d never seen before. Must have been from one of the high-rises, where the wealth-hoarders still think they’re safe. Shows what they know. Anyway, I was getting ready to toss her body onto the fire when I felt something under her robe, wrapped around her neck. It was a small, silver, heart-shaped locket.

I was so busy trying to make sure the field chief wasn’t watching, I didn’t even notice Pox lumbering up behind me. I nearly jumped out of my suit when he landed his heavy palm upon my shoulder.

“What you got there?” Pox mumbled through his respirator.

“I thought I told you not to sneak up on me like that,” I replied, trying to hide the locket from his prying eyes. With his other hand, he snatched the chain from my fingers and raised the necklace up in front of his visor.

“Shit, that’s quite the find,” Pox confirmed. He let the little metal heart dangle, slowly rotating back and forth in front of his face. “You should give it to your little girl.”

“Yeah, that’s the plan,” I sighed. “Couple more hours and I’m on leave. Gonna clean it up and give it to her tonight.”

“Congrats, buddy. That’ll make her day for sure. Guess I’ll see you when you get back, then.” Pox handed the locket back to me, patting me on the shoulder a second time before trotting back to his pile. I glanced around to make sure the field chiefs were still out of sight before tucking the locket away.

Δ

The ride home was a long one — always is. I have to take the field transport back to the depot, hop on a bus headed toward the city, then board whichever train is going through the city center before walking the last dozen-or-so blocks back to the company housing complex. Don’t get me wrong: I’m thankful they’re taking care of us and our families. Working in the burning fields is a shit job, but it helps that I don’t have to worry about where my daughter sleeps at night. Not to mention, the security is tight. Everyone going in or out gets scanned for signs of contamination. The company says it’s one of the safest places left in the city. I just hope it stays that way.

At first, I was worried she was going to be lonely. But Pox made sure she was taken care of: his mom lives just a couple units down from us and she pops in pretty regularly. I don’t really know how Pox got her in, since it’s supposed to be for workers and dependents only. And she’s not sick or an invalid or anything. He probably had someone spoof her paperwork. Doesn’t matter. We’ve got a good thing going.

The whole way home, I kept my hand in my pocket, making sure the locket was still safe and sound, rubbing my fingers over its gentle curves. But I wasn’t even inside the door before my little girl started tugging at my shirtsleeve, trying to figure out what it was I was hiding.

“Daddy, daddy, let me see,” she urged.

“Hold on, little one,” I replied. “I just have to make sure I clean it first.”

“I can help!”

“Did you finish your assignments?”

“I did, I did! You can check on the terminal yourself!”

“I trust you, little one. Come on, you can help daddy.”

We went into the bathroom, plugged the small basin sink, filled it with just a couple inches of water from the tap, and I pulled the locket from my pocket. I lifted it up and, like Pox, let it dangle in front of my face, the necklace slowly spinning back and forth.

“Drop it in,” my daughter urged.

“Not yet,” I replied. “I think there might be something inside”

I rested the locket in my palm, lowering it so that my daughter could see, and eased it open. The little silver heart finally gave and popped open, revealing the tiny black and white photograph inside. It was a little girl, her wide smile revealing several missing teeth.

“Who is she?” My daughter finally asked.

“I don’t know,” I replied. “Who do you think she is?”

“I think she’s just like me! Maybe we could even be friends.”

“I bet you’re right about that, little one. Here, let’s take this out, I’ll show you how to clean the necklace, and we can put the picture back in when it’s dry.”

Δ

Leave always goes by too fast. Before I knew it, I was back working in the burning fields again, Pox by my side. He asked after my daughter and how she liked the necklace. I told him that his mother was doing well and that she and my little girl had struck up quite the friendship. It was good, knowing that they had one another back home and that me and Pox were out here together. And that’s when the sirens started to blare.

The field chiefs rounded us all up at the staging center and the big boss himself got up in front of everyone, bullhorn in hand. There had been some incident in the city. Something nobody saw coming. And a huge number of people got contaminated. Now, they were trying to work out the logistics of what to do with the expired. We had never dealt with this many bodies before. So, while they all figured it out, we were going to have to work double-time, processing twice as many bodies as before.

“This is bullshit,” Pox grumbled at my side. “Like things aren’t bad enough.”

“Come on,” I replied, clapping my gloved hand on his shoulder. “We got work to do. The expired ain’t gonna burn themselves.”

“Too true,” he retorted.

The next few days were hellish, worse than I had even imagined. Every time we thought we were making headway, another truck would roll on through and add to the pile. But it did get better. The influx wasn’t permanent. Things started to go back to normal — or back to whatever qualifies as normal these days. The counts dropped and we field workers all got back into our grooves, our regular routines. That’s when some folks started to take note of the bodies that were coming through.

We heard rumblings that, back in the city, this unthinkable disaster they had been so cagey about was an outbreak in one of the company housing facilities. That these people could have been our neighbors, our friends, our families. Pox was quick to buy into it, but I wasn’t convinced.

“You don’t think maybe that’s just a rumor, a conspiracy theory or something,” I said to him.

“Sure, maybe,” he replied. “But I also think, if something like this did happen, they wouldn’t tell us, right? They don’t want us knowing we’re burning people we know. That’s why they use the hoods, right?”

“They wouldn’t do that,” I scoffed. “If one of the housing facilities got hit, they’d let us know. They’d let us go home and check up on things.”

“Man, their financial interests are their only interests,” Pox snapped. “If you hopped on that fire right now, the only thing they’d care about is how much it costs to hire and train a replacement.”

“I just don’t buy it.”

“You don’t have—” Pox stopped dead in his tracks.

“Don’t have what?” I asked him. He didn’t respond. He just urged me over to his station. Even through his hazmat suit, I could see that his face had gone pale.

The world slowed down around me as I moved toward him, meandering around bodies waiting to be burned. As I came around to his pile, I saw what had shaken him so badly. Wedged beneath an obese man in a suit and an elderly woman in a mumu, there was the body of a small child. A little girl.

“No,” I blurted instinctively, but I could not stop myself from continuing to move forward. I dropped to my knees, grabbing the body by the torso and yanking it free. Her little frame felt so small and fragile compared to the adults we had grown so accustomed to hauling, so I laid her down as gently as I could, straightening her arms and legs and resting her hooded head on my knee.

There, around her neck, was a small, silver, heart-shaped locket. I picked it up in my gloved hand and gave it a squeeze. It popped open. And inside, I gazed upon a black and white photo of a little girl, her wide smile revealing several missing teeth.