Karima was short of breath, her hands trembling, and large drops of sweat ran down her face. One of them fell into her right eye and immediately a burning sensation seized her, forcing her to keep that eye closed.
Damn, it stings! she thought, annoyed.
The young woman hurriedly wiped her face with an almost clean towel she had prepared before coming. She had left it with the rest of her things on the edge of the training field so it wouldn't touch the ground.
Lately, the exercises had become more intense, especially since a small group of people practicing "béhourd" had joined the barracks. Most were unaware of what it was, and those who knew mostly thought it was a sport for madmen. It went far beyond boxing, karate, judo, or any combat sport. Here, they hit each other with swords and axes (and more) while wearing solid armor like in the Middle Ages.
They took it very seriously and went as far as assembling their armor with pieces dating from the same period as the rest within a few decades. Thus, a practitioner should not wear a helmet from the 1200s, a breastplate from the 1450s, a sword from the 1100s, and greaves from the 1370s. It might seem a bit extreme, but it wasn't so much if one imagined someone trying to recreate a World War II military camp with a Napoleonic era rifle. It made no sense.
They were not many in France before the blackout, but enough to form clubs and competitive teams.
Those who had joined the barracks as instructors had been found by the general and were handsomely paid. Almost every day, Karima and her colleagues trained until they were completely exhausted. Since then, there hadn't been a single evening without her going to bed with sore muscles.
Ah... Everything hurts... I'm going to look like a larva by the end of the day.
The first thing they were taught was the importance of stability and endurance. In the first case, they were taught that a warrior in armor was like a tank or a fortress, and once overturned, they became easy targets. This was the main reason why, in confrontations, a participant was considered eliminated as soon as they were on the ground. In the second case, endurance was rightly considered essential for fighting, and it was vital to conserve one's strength as much as possible. Attacking and defending consumed a lot of energy, especially when wearing ten kilos of equipment. Every move had to be carefully thought out and calculated so that the energy spent was well-invested.
The worst thing to do was to lose control of one's emotions and swing one's weapon wildly.
I can't take it anymore! I feel like I have cramps everywhere!
The muscles from her shoulders to her fingertips were trembling like leaves, so much had they been strained. Her opponent, Anthony Romero, had shown no mercy towards her. That was what he had been asked to do. He was one of their instructors and the former captain of the French béhourd team. He was a man with the build of a bear, hidden under solid dark iron armor and wearing a menacing helmet that revealed only his small eyes.
Quickly, Karima's towel became damp as if she had just stepped out of the shower. She then hurriedly drank a large glass of water, some of which fell on her chest protected by her bulletproof vest. Curiously, its robustness was nothing compared to the armor these people wore. The only problem was that it was past its expiration date. The plates under the fabric were starting to take a bad shape, which would eventually reduce their performance.
Feeling her legs give way, she sat down for a moment on the sun-heated asphalt of March, where some wild grass was flourishing in the cracks.
Karima watched her comrades sweating while others went about their business. Some had to deal with paperwork, but most went on patrol to maintain order in the city.
Since the country's collapse, the drafting of documents had significantly reduced. In fact, there was almost no paper left. The high-ranking officers had mobilized civilians to recycle and produce new sheets, but while notable progress had been made, there was still much to do to obtain good paper on which orders could be written or simply keep a record of everything that had been done recently.
It was then that she saw a patrol returning, escorting a young man with dark hair, his hands handcuffed behind his back.
"Huh? Adam?"
Karima had only whispered his name, and at that distance, it was impossible for him to have heard it, yet their eyes met, revealing a shared surprise.
As if her fatigue had evaporated, Karima jumped to her feet and headed towards the patrol. The closer she got, the more certain she became: despite the years that had passed, there was no doubt it was her childhood friend, Adam Bouzidi.
Her heart tightened at the sight of him like that. His face had certainly changed, and his hair had become much longer than she remembered, but his eyes were the same.
"Adam? Is that really you?"
"Karima..." he replied in a barely audible whisper.
"Do you know him, my sous-lieutenant?" asked a gendarme with a major's rank, respectfully.
"Ah, yes. We grew up in the same neighborhood. And we were good friends."
Hearing this last phrase in the past tense made the young man's heart bleed. It was true they hadn't seen each other in a long time and hadn't parted on the best of terms, but wasn't it too harsh to act as if what they had experienced was just a distant memory?
"I see," said the gendarme, displaying a complicated expression. "I'm sorry. Unfortunately, this gentleman has committed a very serious offense. He will have to answer for his actions."
"What-what did you do?" asked Karima directly to the detainee in a cold tone.
"I... I just wanted to help people... but maybe not in the best way."
Karima turned to the gendarme, who explained the situation to her.
"He was growing cannabis, my sous-lieutenant. Unfortunately, we didn't manage to catch his accomplices. Excuse me."
The gendarme moved Adam forward, leaving Karima stunned at the entrance of the barracks. An immense sense of disappointment gripped her heart. How could this man be the same person from her memories? The little boy with a big smile who loved playing football between the blocks of flats seemed to have disappeared.
Karima was sitting behind her desk, lost in her thoughts. Work was piling up, yet she couldn't stop thinking about her childhood friend. She remembered their afternoons playing and talking. He was so kind back then! It was after middle school that he started to change.
KNOCK KNOCK
"Come in."
"Excuse me, my sous-lieutenant. The prisoner Adam Bouzidi has asked to see you. If you don't want to, it's not a problem."
"Um, it's okay. I'm coming down."
There were a few makeshift cells at Rathelot barracks, but if they were all occupied, it was never for very long as they had prioritized swift punishments fitting the crime or offense from day one. In the worst case, it was death by hanging, but more often, it was beatings or community service.
The few prisoners there were waiting for their judgment, just like Adam, who had been placed in a narrow room at the end of a corridor, near the toilets. The smell was unbearable. Karima felt a brief moment of sympathy for these people who had to endure it for a few hours.
The gendarme accompanying her opened the door and stepped aside.
"Karima," he said softly, standing up as soon as he saw her enter the room, "thank you for coming."
The young gendarme nodded weakly and sat in a small gray armchair opposite him.
"It's been a long time. How are you?"
"Could be better," he said, showing a sad smile while shaking his handcuffs, which still bound his hands behind his back.
A heavy silence settled between the two former friends. Their faces had somewhat changed over the years, but more than that, it was the energy they exuded. When they were children, Adam was full of energy and ambitions. Karima, on the other hand, was sad and lonely, mainly because of her parents' divorce. It was very strange, and despite the years that had passed, she still didn't understand why her father's departure, who wasn't a good person, had affected her so much.
The situation seemed to have reversed without her being able to say precisely when this change had occurred.
"Why did you do it? You should have known you would get into big trouble."
"I know, Karima. I... I just wanted to help."
"Help? By growing cannabis?!"
She felt anger rising within her, knowing well the effects of this drug on people. She lumped all drugs together, as for her the outcome was the same: the destruction of bodies and minds, and suffering for loved ones.
"My mother is sick, Karima. You know? She is always in pain. So much pain. She couldn't get her medications anymore. Even before the blackout, it was very complicated. It wasn't strong enough, so I would get her things to relieve her. But after the power outage... You can't understand. You didn't hear her scream. Day, night."
"I... I'm sorry to hear that. If we can do something to help your mother..."
"I was managing just fine! I don't need your help and even less your compassion!"
Adam felt regret flooding him as he uttered these words.
"With a few friends," he continued, "we started growing some plants. For my mother and all those who needed it. There are so many, Karima. You have no idea. But you don't take care of them. You ignore them. As long as they don't disturb your lives. Do you think all those who used drugs before the blackout disappeared? Or that they became sober overnight when they lost access to their stash?"
I know that, but we can't take care of everyone! Blaming us for that... It's not fair!
"They were in pain too, so we helped them as best we could. It wasn't much, but it relieved them. My mother could sleep without pain. That was the most important thing for me."
Adam paused, lowering his eyes, thinking of his mother who would certainly be in pain again.
"Tell me, what's going to happen now?"
"What's going to happen? The military tribunal will review your case and decide your sentence."
"Are they going to hang me?"
"I... I don't know."
Karima wasn't lying. The military tribunal was known for being particularly harsh. Drug trafficking before the blackout had been a real scourge, and the depletion of these substances had been one of the rare positive points of that catastrophe. They certainly wouldn't want to see it reappear while they were still struggling to reorganize society.
What the authorities needed was for everyone to put their energy into rebuilding and the common good. If drug trafficking resurfaced now, it wasn't impossible that a large number of people would get lost in consuming these substances to escape a barely bearable reality.
"Then help me."
"Excuse me?"
"Help me escape. For my mother. For me."
"I... I can't do that, Adam."
"Karima, they're going to hang me! Do it for me, for the sake of our friendship!"
The gendarme stared at her old friend, and for a moment, she saw the little boy from long ago.
"Do you remember the time you came to our house because your father had flipped out? Your father came looking for you, and I hid you under my bed."
Of course, I remember. It was the last time I saw him, just before the divorce and he was forced to stay away from us.
"Of course."
"I didn't say anything, even when he came into my room and started looking. I hid you and protected you, Karima, because that's what friends do. Karima, even though time has passed, nothing has changed. We're still friends."
Karima lowered her eyes. Adam's whisper seemed to pierce her soul.
"Aren't we?"
The young woman felt her heart tighten. She thought back to all they had experienced, their laughs and their tears, their games and their arguments. The last one had been particularly violent and had reminded her of her father. It was the day she decided to join the gendarmerie. For Adam, it had been like a betrayal. In the neighborhood, many, especially the young boys, had seen it the same way. This had led to her mother's move, not to say escape, out of the neighborhood.
I can't do this. No, I can't. I am above all a gendarme. I can't let my emotions take over. Justice must run its course. I signed up for this. Even if it's Adam, justice must be served.
"I'm sorry, Adam, but I can't do anything. Trust the justice system. All I can do is explain the circumstances. I'm sure they'll understand. They're not heartless machines."
"Karima..."
"I have to go."
"Karima!"
"I will defend you as best as I can, trust me, but you have to stay here until the judgment is made."
"KARIMA!"
Tears in her eyes, Karima Ali closed the door behind her, ignoring Adam's desperate cries. The gendarme locked the door behind her before escorting her back.
A few hours later, the sentence was handed down. Adam was sentenced to fifty lashes. Although he wasn't sentenced to death, the punishment was severe enough to break his body. He couldn't move for three weeks.