Lessers by J.D. Strunk

Lessers by J.D. Strunk

Too-Tall set an unlit cigarette to his lips, lifted the binoculars to his eyes, and scanned the horizon. As he scanned, he accepted a light from So-Small.

“Tarantino is overrated,” said Too-Tall, releasing a cloud of smoke over his head, and in so doing momentarily clouding his view of the devastated city.

“How do you figure?” asked So-Small, crouching on his knees and drawing his name in the dirt with a stick—his real name.

“He just stole his ideas from old foreign movies,” said Too-Tall.

“It’s called paying homage. All art borrows from other art.”

“Hmm,” said Too-Tall.

“If anything, those old artists should be thrilled to be relevant again.”

“I mean, they’re probably long dead.”

“Right,” said So-Small. “But back then, I mean.”

“Uh oh,” said Too-Tall, focusing on a single point in the distance. “We got red hair.”

“Let me see,” said So-Small, standing up and brushing dirt off his fatigues.

Too-Tall gave the binoculars to So-Small, who put the lenses to his eyes; a magnified circle jumped around on the horizon until he found a small boy scurrying up a pile of rubble. “Is it red?” said So-Small. “Looks kind of auburn.”

“Auburn is red, dipshit,” said Too-Tall, pulling back the bolt of his rifle.

As So-Small watched through the binoculars, Too-Tall sighted the distant boy, exhaled a long, slow breath, then pulled the trigger. Instantly, the boy fell backwards, tumbling down a concrete embankment. A second later, a small yelp echoed throughout the deserted city, followed by silence.

“I guess I’d be more sympathetic to your cause if he’d made more movies,” said Too-Tall, lowering his weapon. “Tarantino’s oeuvre is too small to make blanket judgements. He made what, ten films? Scorsese made dozens.”

“It was a conscious decision,” said So-Small, lowering the binoculars. “To make only ten films, I mean. Sometimes less is more.”

Too-Tall looked toward So-Small—all five-foot-one of him. “And sometimes less is less,” he said with a grin.

“Fuck you,” said So-Small, but he said it with a smile. Too-Tall was the only person So-Small would have openly permitted to use his nickname, if he so desired, but he was also the only person who never had. Similarly, So-Small never referred to his compatriot as “Too-Tall.”

Too-Tall looked at his digital wristwatch. “Five hours and only two kills,” he said, suddenly serious. “I’m afraid of what the Commander will say.”

“Not our fault. There’s barely any Lessers left, anymore.”

“Victims of our own success.”

The pair spent another hour scanning for Lessers, but found none. When Too-Tall’s stomach rumbled so loudly that So-Small heard it, the latter shook his head.

“All right,” said So-Small. “Screw this. Let’s pack it in.”

Five minutes later, the pair had dismantled their weapons and neatly packed their camouflage blankets into their bags. Following a brief lunch of canned meat—chicken, supposedly—the pair began the hour-long hike back to camp. Not long into the hike, Too-Tall noticed So-Small smiling.

“What now?” said Too-Tall.

“Where the hell did an idiot like you learn a word like ‘oeuvre,’ anyway?”

& & &

Back at camp, Too-Tall and So-Small checked in with their Commander, a brick wall of a man with a jawline that could cut glass. Too-Tall handed the Commander the video file of their two kills.

“Two Lessers retired, sir.”

“That’s it?” said the Commander. “All morning?”

“Yessir,” said Too-Tall nervously.

The Commander nodded. “Good. Means we’re making progress. Soon we’ll move on to the next stage of the mission.”

“What’s the next stage, sir?” asked Too-Tall.

The Commander smiled. “You’ll know when you need to know, son. In the meantime, nice work, you two.”

Both boys left the Commander’s tent beaming. It had been a long time since he’d delivered them a compliment—either separately or as a pair. And they were a pair—on the way back to their own tent, the boys were completely ignored by every other solider. Like every other boy in the encampment, both Too-Tall and So-Small had blue eyes and flaxen hair. But on every other score, they differed. For one, no other soldiers talked about old movies. But far more consequentially, no other soldiers were similarly proportioned—either so tall or so short, respectively. What were the chances, then, that they’d been “randomly” paired for scouting duties? On this lone point, the odd couple generally agreed: There had been nothing random about it.

& & &

A week later, Too-Tall and So-Small were sitting by themselves at a table in the cafeteria as rain pattered against the tent’s canvas roof. Like so much of camp, it was an atmosphere equal parts cozy and depressing.

“Okay, Mulholland Drive, then,” said So-Small, working chunks out of his mashed potatoes with his fork.

“Couldn’t get through it,” said Too-Tall. “Bored the shit out of me.”

So-Small set down his fork and rubbed his temples in frustration. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’ve seen better taste in a Lesser,” he said.

“And when have you ever spent time with a—”

Too-Tall abruptly stopped talking as a Corporal approached their table.

“Too-Tall—new orders,” said the Corporal, handing Too-Tall—and only Too-Tall—a small white envelope. The Corporal just as quickly left their table, having never once looked at So-Small.

Without a word spoken, Too-Tall opened the envelope using his butter knife. As he read the letter inside, his face remained stoic.

“They splitting us up?” asked So-Small with a nervous laugh.

A pained smile breached Too-Tall’s mouth. “Let them try.”

& & &

In his dream, So-Small was teaching film history to a classroom of Lessers—which was strange, given So-Small had never been inside a school. He knew they were Lessers because they all looked different from each other, and different from So-Small—more varieties of human than So-Small had ever even known to exist. But then, even as he stood in front of the classroom, the ground began to tremble. But was it a dream? Because when So-Small opened his eyes, he was trembling still.

“So-Small,” whispered Too-Tall for the third time. Too-Tall was gripping So-Small by both shoulders, shaking him.

“Knock it off,” said So-Small, still half asleep.

“Wake up, you asshole. You gotta get out of here. They added height minimums to the Lesser List. The minimum is now five-foot-four. Anyone under is gonna be deleted tomorrow.”

“Bullshit,” mumbled So-Small, rolling over. “I got blue eyes, just like everyone else.”

“It doesn’t matter,” whispered Too-Tall. “Want me to show you the order?”

So-Small rolled back over, faced Too-Tall in the darkness. “Why would they do that?” he asked groggily.

“You really think they’re gonna let a pissant like you breed?” whispered Too-Tall. “We should’ve seen this coming. Get up, pack a bag. Get the hell out of here.”

“And go where?”

“Anywhere.”

Finally fully awake, So-Small sat up in his bed, swung his legs over the side. “If I leave, they’ll know it was you who told me,” he said.

“You let me worry about that.”

& & &

The next morning, fifty soldiers stood at attention outside the camp’s Command Center. Towering a head above every other soldier stood Too-Tall.

“The lot of you couldn’t keep your mouths shut to save your damn lives,” said the Commander, walking slowly in front of the soldiers, his arms clasped behind his back. “And now we have a runaway.” The Commander looked briefly at Too-Tall, then moved on. “No matter, the little shit couldn’t have got far.”

Within ten minutes, eight groups of soldiers had fanned out from the base in all directions, some headed toward the abandoned city, others toward the forest. Too-Tall was on one of the teams going into the trees. One-in-eight chance of being on the team that finds So-Small, he figured—that is, if they found him at all. So-Small was a resourceful little bastard, when he wanted to be.

Too-Tall’s team consisted of six other men, all but one of whom he’d never even talked to before. The last man, Maverick, was quiet and serious, and had on occasion graced Too-Tall with a passing pleasantry. Soon after arriving at the forest, this small group broke into thirds, with Too-Tall and Maverick taking the right flank. Too-Tall was no longer even thinking about So-Small, and the unlikely chance he’d ever see him again, when he noticed a glint in the distance.

“You see that?” said Maverick. “Let’s check it out.”

With Maverick beside him, Too-Tall had no choice but to head in the direction of the flickering light. On the way, Too-Tall checked his bag for his binoculars, but couldn’t find them. Could he be that stupid? he thought.

Passing between the trees, Too-Tall placed an unlit cigarette into his mouth. If it was anyone other than So-Small they were hunting, Too-Tall would have been afraid, what with the forest offering so many places for a person to hide. But Too-Tall knew So-Small wouldn’t hurt him, even given a clear shot. And he was right.

“Psst.”

Too-Tall had just passed a large sycamore when his heart sank. “You got to be kidding me,” he said, turning around. Sure enough, there was So-Small, kneeling inside a hollow of some tree roots, binoculars slung around his neck.

Without saying a word, So-Small reached into his pocket and pulled out his lighter. Leaning out from the tree’s cover, he lit Too-Tall’s cigarette. Too-Tall, in turn, scanned the forest, to make sure Maverick wasn’t in sight. To his great relief, they were alone.

“Help me,” whispered So-Small.

“How?” returned Too-Tall.

“I dunno. But I want to live.”

“So do I,” said Too-Tall.

The snapping of a tree branch somewhere in the forest caused Too-Tall to back away from the sycamore. A moment later, Maverick appeared, not fifty yards away. Too-Tall took a long pull on his cigarette, and waved at Maverick.

“Don’t throw that butt on the ground out here,” called Maverick. “It’s so dry.”

“Right,” said Too-Tall. “Good thinking.”

Maverick nodded, then disappeared amongst the trees, and Too-Tall sighed. He looked back to So-Small.

“Jeremy, listen to me,” said So-Small, panic having finally entered his voice. “You think they’re gonna allow a seven-foot freak to breed? It’s gonna to be you next, mark my words! We gotta help each other get out of this!”

“Too-Tall, what the hell you doing over there? You got something?”

The voice was Maverick’s, calling from a distance.

Jeremy looked down at the ground, dropped his cigarette onto the forest floor, then ground it into the dirt with his boot. When he looked back up, his eyes were watery. “You’re my best friend, Matt,” he said. “I’ll give you a ten-second head start.”

* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright J.D. Strunk 2025

Image Source: Specna Arms from Unsplash