Today is the first day of my life. At least, I think it is.   

I can’t remember anything from before. 

In my short time here, there’s two things that are certain. 

I’m on a farm.

And I don’t know if I’ll make it through the week.

Standing beside me in a line are four other men, all similar in height, weight and features; white skin, brown hair, brown eyes, brown clothes that are more like cotton rags than anything else. I’m on the end of the line, wondering what is going on and why we’re all gathered here. No doubt they’re all thinking the same thing judging by the looks on their faces. Surely, they’re asking themselves the same questions:

Who am I?

Where am I?

How did I get here?

Behind us lies the farm—flat and seemingly endless. There’s a big red barn off to the side a couple hundred yards from the house and a large oak tree stands tall beside it. Weeds and grass have grown up throughout the fields, choking out the last vestige of a crop that used to grow there. 

In front of us looms the farm house. Actually, it’s more like a mansion; massive, and with more rooms than anyone could ever use or need. It looks like it was built in the nineteenth century and, judging by the white paint that is peeling around the windows and balcony, in need of some repairs. A wrap-around porch that’s supported by ivory pillars with two porch swings on opposite sides looks inviting enough. It’s hard to tell how big the house actually is since a twenty foot fence blocks both sides and wraps around the property, disappearing somewhere into the woods. Pine trees, thick, straight and tall jet out from the side of the mansion as far as the eye can see; the fence in front of them acting the part of sentinel. 

Standing in front of us are two men. One looks like the rest of us but is much larger and has red hair, green eyes. The other man is black and wears a Chicago Bulls ball cap. He looks up and down our line with a bemused grin, while the red-haired man eyes us like dogs that just shit in his yard. His hand is resting on a bull whip that’s strapped to his side, his stance loose and weight slightly shifted to his left foot. He glares at me and spits a mouthful of tobacco in my direction. I break my stare and look away. 

It looks like they’re both waiting on someone, and I’m wondering when one of them will say something. I glance to my right and wonder when one of us is going to say something. A bead of sweat trickles down my back and I look up to the sky, finding the sun set high. Must be midday. I look at the black man and now notice that he has a whip as well. Must have blended in with his dark clothing before. 

The mansion door opens and a white man dressed in a tuxedo suit steps onto the porch. His steps are quick, the sound of his solid heel shoes clicking on the wood steps as he approaches. He glides through the freshly trimmed lawn like a man on a mission and with no time to waste. When he stops, he looks up from the ground for the first time, his eyes locking on me first before darting to the men next to me. One by one, he sizes us up.

Red crosses his arm and sticks his chest out. I dare not speak, but the silence is killing me. I pick my bare foot up and rub an itch at my ankle.

“Good day gentlemen,” the man in the tuxedo finally speaks. “I am Mr. Whyte. I am the owner of this farm and take great pride in it. I expect you to do the same.” He pauses and curls his lips, the thick, dark mustache rising up into his nose. “The man to my right is Mr. Red.”

I knew it. And let me guess… the man to your left is Mr. Bla–

“And the man to my left is Mr. Gibbs.”

Mr. Gibbs tips his hat to us in a slight nod before pulling a hand rolled cigarette out of his shirt pocket. He lights it and takes a long slow draw before releasing the smoke to roll up around his head.

Mr. Tuxedo continues. “These two are my farmhands. They run this place under my supervision and I expect you to give them your utmost respect. There’s a lot of work to be done and not much time.”

“What the hell is this place?” a strong voice calls from the other end of the line. I lean forward to steal a glance.

Mr. Red storms up to him, fists clenched. “You will speak when spoken to. Do I make myself clear?” The man who spoke stares wordless at Mr. Red in reply, an arrogant look on his face, daring the farmhand to do something.

“That’s enough Mr. Red, thank you,” Mr. Whyte calls out. “No doubt you all have many questions, and they will be answered in time. Mr. Red, must I repeat myself?”

“No, sir.” Red narrows his gaze at the man on the end of the line, sucks air through his teeth, and walks back to his spot.

Mr. Gibbs chuckles and shakes his head, then takes another slow toke before putting the cherry out on the grass.

Mr. Whyte gives a cautious look to Mr. Red as he returns. It was an odd look. Cautious. Fearful, maybe? I wonder if anyone else noticed it. Probably not. It was probably nothing. Mr. Whyte speaks. “There are only three rules on this farm, so listen carefully. “One,” he holds a finger up. “You obey at all times.”

Not gonna happen. Especially with the hot head on the end.

“Two. No talking while at work.”

“This is bull shit. I’m not going to stand here—” A crack from Red’s whip snapped just shy of the hot head’s nose, the sound of it startling me and no doubt giving him cause to piss himself. Red draws it back, quick, and holds it ready in case the guy wants to say something else.

These people obviously aren’t playing around man, so shut the hell up until we sort all this out. Everyone waits for the man at the end of the line to speak as his face is beet red, looking like he’s about to explode. He doesn’t say another word.

Mr. Whyte shoots a glare at the hot head and holds three fingers up. “Three. You take what we give you. There is no currency here, so your payment is food. If you work well and follow the rules, you will be rewarded. If you don’t, you will be punished.” He folds his hands and inclines a nod. “Have a good day, gentlemen.”

We watch in silence as he turns and walks through the yard and up the steps, shoes clicking on the porch before returning back inside the white house.

Mr. Gibbs walks to the front of the line. “You heard the man, let’s get to work.” He cuts between us and begins walking towards the field. A couple follow after him. Red motions the rest of us along. “Let’s go little doggies. Move,” he says. 

As we approach the barn, I notice all the usual things that a barn might have lying around. Shovels, mattocks, hoes, a post hole digger—all showing signs of rust from years of use on the farm, the wood handles aged and splintered. Off to the side there’s a well, not like the kind that you pump water out with a handle, but the old style well with a hole in the ground, bucket and rope. Closer now to the large oak tree near the barn, it’s bigger than what I thought. The trunk is scarred with what looks like many hits from an axe or large knife. 

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“Home sweet home,” Mr Gibbs says as he stops in front of the large open doors. “There’s bunks inside for the four of you, so that means some poor sumbitch is gonna have to manage for himself.” He peeks inside and looks all around. I step closer to do the same but keep my distance. “If y'all want, you can take turns on who gets the beds,” he says.

“Why are we here?” a man asks in a shaky voice. He forgot rule two.

Mr. Gibbs gives him a stern look of warning. “Rule two, no talking.” He takes a step and picks a couple of shovels lying on the ground against the wall before handing one to me and one to the man who just spoke. “Take these. I got a job for each of you today.” He passes three more shovels to the rest of the guys. “Let’s go.”

It’s so much easier when you keep your mouth shut and do what they say. There’s no trouble that way. No risk. Just go with the flow and everything will be alright. Maybe after we figure out what the hell is going on, we can be so bold to ask questions. Mr. Whyte said they’ll answer our questions in time. Just give it time. 

Mr. Gibbs walks us to the back of the barn and Red makes sure that we follow. He’s extra cautious now that we’re holding shovels and hangs back a few paces, but his body language doesn’t convey fear. More like anticipation. Eagerness, even. He’s the kind of guy that’s looking for a reason to snap.

“You, here,” Mr. Gibbs commands a man and points to a spot on the ground. He takes a couple steps to the side and commands me to do the same. I obey. He then tells the other three to take their spots alongside us, all spaced apart to form another line. Two of the men don’t want to, but reluctantly give in after a moment’s pause and a prodding from Red. After everyone is in place, Mr. Gibbs meets Red at the front. They both stare at us, briefly, before Mr. Gibbs speaks. “Your job for today is to dig a hole. Each of you will dig your own hole—no helping one another. You will make it eight feet long by four feet wide by six feet deep.”

“A grave? You’ve got to be shitting me,” the hot head says. “I’m not digging a damn grave… unless it’s for you.”

Mr. Gibbs crosses his arms and narrows his gaze. “Seems like Donald here doesn’t want to eat tonight. He also just volunteered to sleep on the floor, or wherever the hell he likes, so long as it’s in the barn.” He walks in front of the hot head named Donald. “You just broke rule two for the last time today, son. You wanna press your luck further?” Mr. Gibbs’s hand moves to his hip. Opposite side the whip, a bowie knife hangs, sheathed from his leather belt, his hand poised to pull the blade. 

Donald sees the blade. We all do given the angle that Gibbs is standing. He wants us to see it. Part of me wants to see him pull it. What would happen if he did? Would we all commit to the fight? No. Everyone would stand and watch. 

A sly grin creeps across Donald’s face and he nods, slowly. “Alright, farmhand. I see how it is.” He drives his foot on the shovel and buries the spade into the ground, his body tense. After he tosses the dirt to the side, he looks at Gibbs. “You better watch your back,” he threatens. Gibbs cocks his head and squints in amusement. “Dig, boy,” he replies, then steps back to take his place beside Mr. Red. 

“Anyone else have anything to say?”

Nope.

I start digging and place the dirt neatly beside where I already imagine the hollow ground being. 

In rarity, Mr. Red speaks and causes me to give pause, his sinister baritone sending chills down my spine. “Most men don’t last a week on the farm. The graves you dig are for you — it saves Mr. Gibbs and I the trouble of burying you when you’re gone.” He spits in our general direction. “But that’s only if you give up, or break the rules. Now, if you play it right, everything will be peaches and tea. Understand?”

“Yessir,” I say, and hear a couple others acknowledge along with me. 

Mr. Red nods. “Good. Well what are you all waiting for? Start digging.”

I start digging again. 

This grave’s not for me, though.

An hour goes by in the blink of an eye. It’s funny how time passes when you’re busy with a task. Especially one that makes you question your own mortality. And damn… I just got here. 

As we dig, Mr. Gibbs fetches a bucket of water from the well. “Take a break. We don’t want you keelin’ over before the hole’s dug,” he says. We take turns dipping into the bucket, the taste of iron and minerals sitting heavy on my tongue. After a quick drink, we return to the task.

The day passes away and the sun begins to set. We’re all drenched from sweat and on the verge of collapse. I look to the other graves and see that we’ve all dug the holes to completion and within specifications. I feel the fatigue and see the same in the rest of the men, even Donald. 

Through the direness of it all, I feel good with completing the task. It’s not an easy feat to dig a grave by hand. 

Mr. Gibbs and Mr. Red are pleased and dismiss themselves for the night. Before they go, Mr. Gibbs speaks. “Remember this day. Let it sink in real good.” He nods towards the barn. “Now, get some sleep. We start work at five in the morning. Goodnight, gentlemen.” And with that, they walk to the mansion. 

Each of us watch them disappear into the distance. We look to one another in disbelief. Each of us saves our conversations for the confines of the barn—our only known sanctuary on the farm.

* * *

It’s dark inside.

“What in the hell is going on?” the man with the shaky voice says as we gather around the center of the barn. He’s the weakest of the bunch and wears his emotions on his sleeve. He’ll probably be the first to go. 

“How about we get to know each other first since we’re all in this together,” another guy suggests. Exactly what I was thinking. 

I speak up first. “Cole.”

“Nice to meet you, Cole. Abram,” the guy says. I can already see that we’re similar in temperament and I feel more comfortable around him compared to the others. 

“Benji,” the weak, timid one says.

“Donald.”

“Yeah, we know,” Abram says. “And you?” he asks the last man.

“Larry,” he says and begins to chew on a fingernail. His eyes are shifty, his body skittish. 

Benji shuffles his feet. “Now that we’re all best friends, I’ll ask again. What the hell’s going on?”

It’s a good question, and one that I’ve been asking myself all day. I shake my head and look for anyone else to answer. 

“We’re fucked, that’s what’s going on,” Donald says. 

Everyone seems to agree—me, to some extent. 

“How old are you?” I ask him.

“Thirty three.”

“Me, too.”

Abram looks like he’s just seen a ghost. “What?” I ask.

“I’m thirty three,” he says. 

We look to Benji. He gives a shaky nod and looks at the ground. Every eye turns to Larry. He spits a thumbnail out and looks around the barn, eyes wide with amazement at the wooden beams and straw-covered ground. 

“No way,” Abram says. “Okay, so it’s a coincidence we’re all thirty three.”

“And that none of us knows how the hell we got here,” Donald added. “For fuck’s sake, I can’t remember anything before today.”

“Me neither,” I say. “It feels like a dream.”

“More like a nightmare,” Abram says and walks to one of the barn stalls. I join him, finding a scarce amount of stray and petrified manure inside. “Where’s the animals?” I ask. He shrugs and turns back to the group. Larry squats to examine a bug crawling on the dirt floor. 

I look to Benji. “Can you remember where you’re from?”

His eyes shift up towards mine, but he quickly avoids contact. “California.”

“Okay. That’s good. How about you, Donald?”

“Kentucky. Why?”

“Anything else? What did you do for work? Construction? Military?”

He furrowed his brow searching for an answer. “I… don’t know.”

I look to Abram.

“Tennessee,” he says.

“No shit? What part?”

“Memphis.”

“Nashville here.”

“Oregon,” Larry chimes in. “Thirty three.” He lays his finger on the ground and allows the strange bug to crawl on his hand. “Aquarius.”

Donald crosses his arms. “So for some damn reason, we’re all thirty three. We’re from America, and apparently, we don’t know anything aside from that except for our birthday.”

“I was born today,” Larry stated, bringing the bug up to his eye for examination. 

“Whatever,” Donald says.

“So what’s the plan?” Benji asks in earnest, his eyes begging for an answer. He’s scared. Perhaps we all are; he’s just showing it a bit more than the rest. No. I’m not scared. Intrigued, maybe.

“It’s two against five,” Donald notes. “I say we wait until one of them is alone and then take him out.”

“I don’t know,” Abram says.

Donald steps to him. “What’s not to know man? The way I see it, our past be damned. We’re here, right now. They’re running the show and we’re being treated like dogs. We don’t know a damn thing, and they have the upper hand. I’ll be damned if I sit and take it.”

Larry begins whistling Stairway to Heaven by Led Zeppelin and interrupts Donald’s plans. He dances with the bug as it crawls up his arm. Donald turns to him. “The fuck’s wrong with you?” Larry ignores him and continues to sway with arms wide, eyes locked on his tiny, new friend. 

I walk outside to clear my head and look up to find the full moon lighting the farm. The land looks so peaceful. So innocent. I feel Abram walk beside me.

“Donald makes a point. We need a plan.”

“I know.”

He looks to the sky and inhales deep. “You know we're gonna have to break the rules.”

I nod, knowing all too well the truth in the words. I know the truth in the consequences of breaking the rules as well, and the repercussions that follow in doing so. Cause and effect. 

The universe always gets its due. 

“Rules are meant to be broken, Abram.”