Rebels (John Bates) Read Online Free

glaring down upon me and the worn track and field we train on. I look around for a moment and wonder what this all used to look like when things were well maintained. Though still young, I can only feel this burning desire to want to do more. But what can a fifteen-year-old do against the State and those who faithfully, or fearfully, follow? I wonder why others have not stood and said enough, but stay silent in darkened corners.
     
    As I start in on the five-mile warm-up run, I remember trying out for the Young Army my freshman year. I remember my father telling me how important it is to learn the skills the Young Army would teach me, but to also remember who I am and the values he and my mother have instilled in me. I remember I was told by the sergeant I had little to no chance of making it in my freshman year, most of the Young Army recruits are juniors and seniors, and positions in the Young Army are very coveted. But without even trying hard, I blew them all away. It was like a dream. Before, our family struggled to survive day to day, but now that I am in the Young Army, I am given special privileges, like extra clothing, food, and other things my fellow students have no access to. I am saddened by how society has become segregated in this way. Was not the United States originally based on freedom and equality? My parents have taught me, knowing such knowledge will never be shared within the walls of this school. For such information has been banned by the State, and anyone found teaching or sharing such views is considered treasonous, and treason is punishable by death!
     
    My mother is a superior cook and gardener. She can make anything grow and anything taste good; she is a genius. Because of that, I had better nutrition, and this gave me a leg up when it came to endurance. It has been many years since the State has taken over, and very few people even remember how to grow their own gardens and what nutritional value means. That’s obvious based on what the school now defines as lunch. Then there is the edge my father gave me, being a mixed martial artist. His father had been a second-degree black belt in Tae Kwon Do and had created his own unique style called Reality Based Street Fighting. He had been relentless in training my father and, in turn, my father had been relentless in training me. At first, I thought this to be child abuse, but as I grew older and my skills became better, I realized this training might save my life one day.
     
    I still remember when my father came to me and simply stated, “You have six months to prepare for full contact, or you can simply get knocked on your butt.” That was terrifying, especially when I was only thirteen and weighed no more than a little over a hundred pounds. My father didn’t care and always reminded me the rules of street fighting: there are none! So that being said, I tried to be prepared the best I could, but let’s face it, I was on my butt a lot when I had to spar my dad! Thanks to all that training, I literally kicked everyone’s butt and made it into the Young Army with aces. But today, my body feels sluggish, missing the fuel from the other half of my sandwich. Plus, the day seems uncommonly hot as we run around the dark blue track. Normally, I would finish first, but today I come in second behind David Patlow.
     
    “Wow, I beat John, wow!” Everyone is high-fiving him. I walk off, shaking my head. I sit down to retie my shoelaces, as if this action will make me faster and stronger.
     
    Sergeant Epps comes and sits down next to me and asks, “What’s up, John?”
     
    “I didn’t get enough to eat at lunch today,” I reply. It is an excuse, but a true one.
     
    “Here,” the drill sergeant says, tossing me a power bar. “We can’t have that happen again; I’ll make sure your rations are increased. I’ll have someone bring it to your house tonight.” I nod, knowing there is no use arguing. The power bar gives me the strength and energy