Killswitch Chronicles- The Complete Anthology

by G. R. Carter

  The answer to any of Phil’s ideas usually began as, “No. Impossible.” To anyone, that was their first response. Then, as they sipped their coffee and chomped on glazed donuts, solutions formulated. Each pushed their cups toward Phil when they needed their beloved refill – the price paid for free advice.

  Over his decades-long career Delbert invested nearly every spare dime into purchasing farm ground. Delbert held interest in farming, but really the process of planting and tilling gave him the opportunity to work on the machinery used for the tasks. The concrete and metal machine shed he used to modify his mechanical creations rivaled most technical institutes for equipment and space. Bright lighting, heated floors, machining tools and lifts from the world’s best manufacturers outfitted this farmer’s mechanical Taj Mahal. Visitors to “the Shed” stepped over parts from disassembled cars, trucks, tractors – whatever he and his hired men decided to improve when they considered a piece inferior in design or construction.

  His friend and fellow donut shop savant was as common in appearance as he was in name. Bob Ford was certainly well off and comfortable, too. Sticking with the traditional 401k and pension route, the retiree’s wealth resided on paper, or in this day and age, on computer. In fact, to compare bank accounts he was far wealthier than Delbert. He only cashed out what he needed to live on, and left the rest invested in what Delbert called “the Wall Street casino.” Bob feared he would outlive his money, or have to pay for a big medical expense for him or his wife since health insurance no longer existed for men his age. Quietly, he also admitted he didn’t want to miss out on the stock market rally still raging thanks to government stimulus.

  Arguments about investing money seemed to be the only subject Delbert and Bob truly disagreed on. Both certainly seemed to have valid points to Phil. Unfortunately, how to invest disposable income typically wasn’t his problem from year to year. Getting income was the problem.

  Phil referred to these men as the Wizards. And the Wizards referred to Phil as the Founding Farmer. In their words, he just wouldn’t shut up about the way the country should be run. And no conversation would go by without a reference to how Jefferson would have solved the problem.

  “Real-world solutions, my boy,” Delbert would say to him. “Not philosophy but real-world solutions to real-world problems. That’s what we need.”

  Today, Phil just stared out the big window, his mind a million miles away.

  “Bob, our Founding Farmer seems to be lost in his thoughts this morning,” Delbert said.

  “I’m glad he found some thoughts, let’s see if we can shake out something useful. Phil, are you about to have a stroke because of this Reboot Bill?” Bob asked, only half mocking.

  Phil sighed, still looking away: “We’re running out of time.” He watched the talking head on the TV hanging from the corner of the donut shop. “I’m just tired of us waiting to find out what DC will do to us next.”

  “That’s the way it’s been for a long time, boy. You got nearly 400 million people controlled by a city thousands of miles away, what do you propose to do about it?” Phil wasn’t sure which Wizard asked; they were beginning to sound alike as they aged. “And don’t go telling me this Julia Ruff and her merry band of rebels are going to fix things. There’s too few of ‘em, and they’re probably getting bought off anyway.”

  “She already announced she was resigning,” Phil said. “Guess she gave up, too. She’s coming back to run Old Main College.”

  “Well, I reckon she actually does have some sense after all,” Delbert said with a snort. “That’s got to be good news for Old Main, having a powerful ex-Senator on the helm.”

  Phil turned his attention to them, glancing back and forth at the two men. They glared back over glasses sitting at the end of their noses.

  “We are to agriculture what Saudi Arabia is to oil, correct?” Phil asked.

  “So what?” asked Delbert.

  “We produce enough food to feed everyone within a hundred-mile radius, plus enough surplus to export around the world. So why don’t we produce our own fuel instead of importing it from the other side of the world?” Phil asked them both.

  “Great idea, let’s drill a hole out back of the shop here, shouldn’t be too tough.” It was Bob, never missing the opportunity to get a dig in.

  Phil continued, unfazed. “I’m not talking about drilling for crude oil. I’m talking about creating our own oil. Soy diesel, like the folks from Old Main College were talking about. I bet Senator Ruff will be on board helping us.”

  “Lord knows we’ve got enough soybeans to supply it.”

  Phil nodded. “Why don’t we produce everything we need right here? You mentioned before that diesel engines could be converted to run biodiesel.”

  “I did, but it would be near impossible to make it cost-effective for just one community,” Delbert said.

  Phil paused to form his argument. “Okay, here’s the part you’re going to make fun of me for, again… I don’t really care about cost-effective. We need to create our own economy, a real local economy. If we had the ability to make our own fuel, for use right here, I think we should do it. We can hardly get a regular supply of fuel around here these days. And if we have food and we make our own fuel, what do we really need from outside anyway?”

  The question hung in the air for a moment, and Phil noticed that the other tables had gone quiet.

  Finally, Dalton Cornin spoke up, the president of the last bank branch in town. “If we tried to cut ourselves off from the outside world, our town would just dry up! No one would want to live here!”

  Delbert beat everyone else to a reply: “Cornin, you idiot, look outside. The entire downtown is about gone, no businesses left to speak of. Our school goes down in enrollment just a little each year. Even with the brand new high school building your Chamber of Commerce buddies pushed through on us taxpayers, people look at our school system and balk at moving here. Tell us exactly what we have to offer to young families right now?”

  Delbert’s question went unanswered and he continued. “Believe me, this Reboot Bill is going to suck all remaining life out of small towns. It’s been happening for a generation, now it’ll be permanent damage.”

  The old sage shook his head and for once Phil recognized the look of sincere sadness on the man’s face.

  “No sir, no way,” he said into his coffee cup. “No matter how many hot shot Senators move home to help, with what they’re fixing to do to us, there’s no coming back.”

  Western Illinois Correctional Center

  Two Years Before the Great Reset

  “Keep walking, ladies. Don't want your steak to get cold.”

  Catcalls and swears met the guard's orders. Steak was the exact opposite of the flavored ration bars on today’s menu. One by one, prisoners moved from their cells towards the cafeteria. Each was spaced a few feet apart, carefully watched over by guards in full body armor.

  “Man, you Eels tell that same joke every day, but all we ever get is a rat bar. When we gonna get some real food?” one of the prisoners shouted.

  “That’s above my pay grade genius,” Morton answered. “All I know is you gotta keep moving.”

  “Or what, man? You gonna hit me with your little stick?”

  Red Morton, Sergeant of the Guards at the Western Illinois Correctional Center, gave a toothy grin. “One discharge from this baby,” he held up the two-foot-long baton in his hand, “and you'll be on the floor sucking your thumb, Tito.” Most in line nodded nervous agreement. They'd witnessed what the sudden surge of power could do to the bodies of otherwise daring and powerful men.

  More catcalls and innuendo flooded the hallway, many of it from the female inmates intermixed with the males. Morton cringed a little as the women whooped it up. He was old-school enough to still get uncomfortable hearing women out-swear the men. It was a terrible experiment of social engineering to mix the sexes in a lockup. It took him months to resist the urge to protect the females…and it also made
it harder to find creative insults to get the inmates’ attention.

  “Come on, come on,” Morton shouted with a laugh. “Pregnant women and Tito to the head of the line.”

  The inmate named Tito sneered and stuck out his tongue. Morton pointed the baton like he was going to put it on the man's tongue and smiled again.

  “Some day we gonna catch ya without that suit on, Sarge,” Tito taunted. “Just me and you, we gonna go mano a mano, you get me?”

  The interaction was the same every day, the dialogue little changed. Two decades of guarding prisoners from themselves and from each other made the days blur one into another. Activity was everywhere, though no one was in a hurry. Nearly two thousand inmates moved leisurely from their two person cells, then to the cafeteria, then to the yard. A few made their way to the library for classes, but always they made a circle of motion—every day the same routine and then back to their cells. Most strutted in their light gray jumpsuits, carefully watched every step of the way.

  Morton had worked in this facility since it was owned by the state of Illinois, working his way up through the ranks until he became second-in-command of the guard force. It wasn't quite the same honor it had once been; the number of guards had been greatly reduced since the state sold all the prisons to a private firm when they'd run out of cash and concern.

  The thought of Jordan Inc., the company that signed his figurative paycheck, made him glance at the circle emblem on the wall. Those symbols were all over the prison, differing in appearance only by the words inside the circle. The one nearest him said “Peace.” Others “Harmony,” “Unity”—the most prevalent was “Continuity.”

  Continuity churned his stomach. The entire facility was immersed in the philosophy. New Age mumbo-jumbo in his mind, more like a religion than a management style. But to his employers it was the key to keeping the prison running smoothly—and profitably.

  As long as they kept pouring money into the place, he'd hold his nose and do what they asked. The smooth, prefabricated concrete walls of the newly remodeled Western Illinois Correctional Center still smelled like fresh paint. And so far, they'd taken care of his union members with pay and benefits.

  Guards at Jordan Incorporated’s newest showcase prison—the company called it “guest rehabilitation”—were outnumbered twenty to one, since payroll was the primary enemy of the bottom line. The firm made up for the lack of manpower with technology. A guard’s primary weapon—the company called that a “control device”—was an electrified baton like the one Morton held in his hand. It was matched to the guard's individual bio-signal and strapped tightly to their wrist.

  If a new fish decided to ignore the warnings of more experienced inmates and challenge a guard, they’d learn quickly why Jordan Inc.’s staff were nicknamed Eels. If the baton didn’t stop them, electrical current three times stronger flowed through the outside skin of the body armor, enough to stop a full-grown man’s heart if he held on long enough. Soiling yourself and a trip to the infirmary left an impression on any inmate who tried to take on an Eel. The company called them tactical suits, and Eels never interacted with prisoners without being suited up and fully charged.

  Morton acknowledged a few of the prisoners as they came by. He didn't like them, certainly didn't respect them, but there were a few he could tolerate more than others: the ones who wanted to do their time and never see the inside again. Others weren't just dumb criminals, they'd committed heinous crimes so they could get back into prison, a place some had grown up and felt most comfortable in.

  A pale-skinned man with a shaved head glared at Morton as he walked past. Morton met the hateful gaze and didn't let go. Finally, the tattooed face wrinkled in an evil smile and he continued on.

  “That one loves you, Sarge,” one of the newer guards named Herscher said.

  Morton nodded to the man standing beside him. “Bobby Kaplan. One of the few locals who wound up in this joint.”

  “You mean the Kaplans who make deliveries here every day? I just helped them unload yesterday morning.”

  “The same ones. I never expected they’d let one of theirs rot in a place like this.” Morton watched carefully as two inmates got a little too close to each other. He stepped forward and shook his head. The two acknowledged his unspoken command, hands up and backing away.

  “Then why's he here?” Herscher asked him.

  “Because even they don't want that one back. Too damaged, too twisted.”

  “That the reason for the tattooed face?”

  Morton kept his attention on the inmate who'd come too close to the next. His eyes told him nothing was wrong, but sometimes experience argued with appearance.

  Finally satisfied it was a false alarm, he answered his subordinate. “It’s a sign of acceptance for who you really are inside. Once you’ve tattooed spider webs on your face, you've kind of announced to society that you're as done with it, as it is with you.”

  *****

  The chaos of the prison’s general population was a world away from the room that once held an interfaith chapel. Warden Issa Marduk sat silently in the pitch-black chamber, completely soundproofed save the sound of a pleasant breeze blowing in from the vents. Surrounding her were the worst scum modern society produced: killers, rapists, abusers, Syn cookers—no one in their right mind would be alone with one of them.

  But here the warden herself sat, with not just one, but many. In her mind she looked at a calm, sunny day, grass and trees waving in the breeze all around. A bright circle of white light appeared like a beacon, calling to her and her mind moved toward it. Her heart rate evened, beat by beat, while her mind leapt in a joy. “Can you see the light?” she asked calmly. “Can you see the perfect circle, illuminating your soul?”

  “I can see it…”

  “Yes, I can see it.”

  “There it is, Issa, just like you said,” came the answers.

  Marduk hummed in a low tone. The occupants of the room joined. “Step into the light. Feel the peace wash over you.” She hummed again. “This is the gift Continuity gives to you. The Mahdi shows you the way. Prepare your mind as you prepare your bodies.” More humming. “Continuity is peace.”

  The trance lasted for several minutes. Finally, she rose to her feet and clicked on a small battery-operated light she held in her hand. The illumination was slight, but still caused those closest to squint after total darkness.

  She smiled to them all. “Now, warriors of the Circle, soldiers of the Mahdi, go in peace. The time grows near for you to take the next step in your Progressions. You are the future. Take your rewards and do your duty.”

  Everyone in the room rose to their feet. Men and women stood next to each other, some holding hands.

  Issa held up her hand. “Go in the blessed peace of Continuity. May your union be fruitful, and as unending as the Circle.”

  Without a word, each couple left the room together to return to their prison cells. Marduk patiently watched the last of them walk through the door.

  “I never believed in all that higher power BS, but you sure as shootin’ a real-life miracle worker,” said a tall man in a corrections officer uniform standing next to her.

  “Continuity is not BS, Peter. You’ll figure that out some day. You really should participate in the Progressions, improve your profile while you can.”

  Captain Peter Lewis, commander of the guard force, the Big Eel himself, chuckled at the notion. “I thought when we ran all the other religions out of here we’d be done with the faith peddlers. Then we get a warden who’s also a priestess…go figure.”

  Marduk turned and looked at him, nearly eye-to-eye to the guard’s face. “Peter, Peter, Peter…” she tsked at him like a cranky aunt. “For two years we’ve built this place into a model facility. Violence against your Eels is nearly zero. Inmate on inmate violence is down fifty percent. What more proof do you need that Continuity is the true path to peace?”

  “I’ve got nothing but praise for you on that, Issa—er, War
den Marduk. I don’t care what you’re selling these sharks, long as they’re staying in line.”

  She turned her eyes and lifted her nose with a sniff. “You act like it’s just some sort of con. Take your Progressions seriously, Peter. For your own sake, not just for your career.” The tone delivered her message with crystal clarity.

  Lewis nodded and grinned back nervously. He wasn’t sure if Marduk could see his discomfort, but he was pretty sure she could sense it, anyway. “I’ve been doing everything you asked, Issa. And I’ve made all my Eels do the same.”

  Marduk smiled sweetly to relax her right-hand person. “Most of them have, yes, that’s true. I just want to make sure you’re feeling the improvement. Each Progression is important to build on the next.” Her voice grew excited. “They’re building blocks.” She waved her hand toward the prisoner housing area. “You see it in guests who have taken it to heart. Their lives are improving. They’re ready to serve a greater cause.”

  “Come on, Issa. You know calling them ‘guests’ drives me crazy. They’re inmates. Most are soulless animals looking to play a scheme any way they can. They’ll lie even when the truth makes more sense.”

  “Perhaps that’s true, my dear. But Jordan Inc. has sent us rewards every quarter for how well our guests behave. Those bonuses are how you pay for inconvenient expenses…like your child support, right?”

  He nodded. “Whatever makes the bosses happy. Especially you.” Lewis smiled at her. “Of course, making the place coed sure does help settle some of those men down. I still can’t believe that worked.”