The distant hum of the security patrols reached Carson Boone’s ears as he stepped closer to his campfire. He glanced up: morning already. Today was the day.
Six months ago, Carson had invited a visitor on to the shady porch, where little Joshua was playing, offered him a glass of homemade lemonade, patiently listened, and then politely but decisively, had declined the offer to buy him out.
The Corporation’s greedy expansion across the land hadn’t seemed to be a problem until they had wanted his farm. It was vital, the man had explained, for access to a new deposit of some mineral that they’d discovered. The mineral would make air and space craft able to fly for longer, more efficiently. Or some damn thing like that. Carson said no.
The man had returned several more times. He’d gotten more desperate; Carson had gotten less patient. No more lemonade. The visits had stopped and the letters had started. Then the phone calls. Then Maria had begun to think she was being followed whenever she left home. Carson accompanied her for a solid week. Nothing. She’d relaxed, feeling that she was just being silly, urged him to go about his business.
And then, just a month ago, Carson had got home from a three-day agricultural show, where he’d been showing off his prize dairy cows, to find his house in ruins. The neat woodwork was splintered, every window broken, doors hanging off their hinges. It looked like a wrecking ball had swung through it.
Unable to catch his breath, Carson had run into the remains of his home, digging through the splinters of wood and shards of glass, bleeding from dozens of cuts but unaware of any physical pain. He’d found them eventually, Maria and Joshua, huddled together in a kitchen cupboard that had been hopelessly inadequate as protection.
He’d made a vow, there and then, standing in the shattered remnants of his life. He’d buried his wife and child, digging the graves himself, and set to work. The explosives were no problem – any farmer knows how to mock up a crude but powerful bomb – and he had crafted a detonator using his son’s night-light and Maria’s alarm clock.
Then, he’d found this place. High on the canyon wall, it overlooked the Corporation’s shadowy head-quarters – the citadel. It was close enough for him to see everything, but offered him shelter from their cameras. He’d come to realise that he was so small, so insignificant to the Corporation, that they hadn’t even noticed his campsite: tent, fire, small ablution pit… They were wary of large threats, of army-sized rebellions. They were not looking small and close; they couldn’t conceive that one man could menace their might.
Well, that arrogance was going to be their downfall.
Carson Boone crouched down by his small smokeless fire and poured himself another cup of coffee. He sipped it slowly as he watched the sunlight play on the canyon walls and the spires and windows of the citadel. He knew there was a strong chance that this would be his last sunrise. He thought of the small graves next to his broken house, and was not sorry.
Then he drained his coffee and stood up. It was time.
Pigment inks on 271gsm satin paper, professionally hand-bonded onto a 5mm cast acrylic panel.
Limited Edition of 30 prints:
- 10 at 48″ (w) × 20.4″ (h)
- 10 at 36″ (w) × 15.3″ (h)
- 10 at 24″ (w) × 10.2″ (h)
Each limited edition acrylic print comes with a signed Certificate of Authenticity, and is ready to hang.
