The
Midnight
Stand
Part One of The Elysia Saga
Louis A. Affortunato
Tortora Publishing
This novel is a work of fiction. Any similarity to real persons or situations is coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 by Louis A. Affortunato
All rights reserved.
www.louisaaffortunato.com
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2 – Thirty Years Earlier
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Epilogue – Thirty Years Earlier
Author’s Note
Chapter 1
Harley Jacobs sat in his chair with a Scotch in one hand and a shotgun in the other. The glass was half filled with ice, just the way he liked it. He took careful sips from the glass, savoring every swallow he could. It was more than likely going to be the last Scotch he ever drank.
The notice sat on the table next to him, folded open to the official decree that was the cause of everything that was going to happen tonight. The notice had large black text on the front as well as the official Seal of the Council. It was ornately decorated with flourishing text and an embossed border, as if the recipient were to be invited to a gala event. Harley wondered why such pains were taken to dress up a letter that was essentially an eviction.
He looked at the clock on the handmade mantel of his fireplace, one of the few handmade pieces that still existed in these parts Harley thought. It was crafted by his grandfather. In fact, the entire house was built by his grandfather, plank by plank and shingle by shingle. His grandfather left it to him when he was nine, though at the time Harley didn’t know it. He came to find out years later when he turned eighteen. A year after that the ordinance was passed that nullified estate wills. If a homeowner died, their property would become domain of the Project, to be used how the Council saw fit. For many, that was the beginning of the Great Change, a period of war and destruction that the world had never witnessed before, where the old world began to be demolished brick by brick to make way for, what the Council called, more sophisticated and user-friendly models of living. For Harley, however, the Great Change happened in this living room thirty years ago when he was a nine year old boy who would be forced to become a man.
It was almost 8pm. The truck would be there at the stroke of midnight. It was never late and never early. People could count on that just as they could count on the sun rising and setting. That was one of the things universal automation took away from everyone; unpredictability, the element of surprise. He still had a lot of work to do before midnight and he couldn’t waste it brooding.
Harley laid the shotgun across his lap and reached for the letter on the table, spilling some of his drink in the process. He brought the letter up to his face and read it over again. Reading the letter had become an obsession with him. In the two weeks since he received it he must have read it about a hundred times, somehow hoping that it would turn out differently the more he read it. Trying to make sense of it was as futile as trying to understand what had happened to humanity in the past thirty years. How everything seemed to have changed so quickly and so fully, so much so that no one was able to do anything about it. Oh sure, there was the Resistance Core that attempted to block the changes and organize a coup, but their crusade ended in blood when one of their members turned out to be a mole of the Project. He gave up the group and their hideaway to the Council, who ordered the slaying of all Resistance members and their families; man, woman and child. The event has come to be known as The Night of Blood. Ever since then there have been no attempts to organize or go back to the way things were.
People were content to just go about their days marveling at the new innovations and gadgets running their lives as the memories of the old world faded away from history. The older generation, those who were around pre-Change, were steadily dying off and those few who still remained had neither the desire nor energy to bring up the past.
The letter read as follows:
“Dear Mr. Jacobs,
It has come to our attention that the living facility that you and your family are currently occupying falls well below the standard level for a living facility in your sector. As you may be aware, Edict 13A declares that all living facilities not up to standard be wrecked according to protocol. We have attempted previous communications with you on the matter, but have yet to receive acknowledgment from you. As you well know, failure to vacate your facility within the timeframe set forth by the Council Charter will result in harsh punishment for you and your family. Punishment for this transgression may include forced relocation, imprisonment, torture, banishment and, in some extreme cases, eradication.
Let it be known that this will be your FINAL NOTICE before we proceed with wrecking. To ensure you and your family’s safety we strongly urge you to take residence in the Council selected AutoHome that we made known to you in the previous notice. We repeat: FAILURE TO VACATE YOUR LIVING FACILITY WILL RESULT IN HARSH PUNISHMENT.
Wrecking will commence at the stroke of midnight exactly two weeks after the date posted on this notice. It will commence regardless if you are in the facility or not.
We hope this notice has served its purpose in persuading you and your family to enjoy the comforts and privileges of an AutoHome, provided to you by the Department of Human Growth and Development. The Council is dedicated to serving our people and bringing the future closer every day.
Sincerely Yours,
The Department of Human Growth and Development, Council of Elysia
Harley folded the letter and placed it back on the side table. He got up and laid the shotgun across the arms of the chair. Both barrels were loaded and an extra box of shells were on the mantel piece. He walked over to the mantel and rubbed his hand across the smooth polished oak surface. He always loved this mantel as a kid. He remembered, before it was outlawed, how he and his grandfather would decorate it for Christmas, hanging stockings and garland.
A picture of his grandfather stood on the mantel. It was the only surviving photo he had of him. His grandfather posed, axe swung over one shoulder, with one leg on the stump of a downed tree. The picture was taken when he was eighteen, just before he joined the service, over eighty years ago. Harley laughed to himself as he realized he was in possession of the oldest known object left in all of Elysia, maybe even all of this side of the country.
Next to his grandfather was a photo of Harley’s wife, Sara, and his young son, Jasper, who just celebrated his fifth birthday. They had tried numerous times to have a child, but each attempt was denied by the Council due to irregularities discovered during one of the required pre-natal check-ups. If any problems are detected within the fetus, the birth is canceled.
Harley and Sara had seven cancelled births. All but two were cancelled in the third trimester. Most births are cancelled during the third trimester. It’s a crucial period for potential parents as the child’s physical form, cellular structure and mental condition can all be thoroughly scrutinized to make sure the child will be up to standard. No exceptions are made. They were getting worried that they would never have a child as they were rapidly approaching t
he cutoff age, but fate granted them a gift when all tests turned up approved and they were finally allowed to have a child. It means, however, that Jasper will almost certainly be an only child. There were many one child families nowadays. Most parents who were lucky enough to have a child wouldn’t want to go through that trial again. Instead they counted their blessings and stopped. Some do try for a second, but most don’t make before the cut-off age. Those who are successful are usually on the receiving end of envious looks and cold greetings from the other single child parents.
Harley sent Sara to her sister’s house for the night, not wanting her around that evening. He never showed his wife the letter. When it arrived he hid it in some old files that he knew she wouldn’t look through. He felt guilty keeping it from her but he knew she wouldn’t understand the situation. To Sara the house was just a house, something to live in and keep warm in and raise their child in. Those tasks can easily be done under another roof. Sara even began to talk about upgrading to one of the new homes, a topic that Harley quickly changed the subject on.
If she saw the letter, she’d overreact and insist they move into the AutoHome assigned to them because, to her, it was just a house. To Harley, it was his legacy, something he was going to pass down to his son and his son to his. No one was going to force him and his family out of their legacy. To do that, they would have to die trying, or Harley would have to die trying to stop them.
He picked up the shotgun again, his grandfather’s old double-barrel, and brought it up to nose. It smelled like gun powder and cleaning oil, a scent that he remembered vividly from his youth. He looked through the sight, feeling the weight of it in his hands. It was years since he last fired it, ever since the private firearms ban, but he had no doubt that he could fire off a shot as good as he did when he was younger. Shooting a gun is a lot like riding a bike, you never forget how.
He had the shotgun hidden away in his basement in a wall cutout for ten years. His wife didn’t even know he still had it. She thought he gave it in during the gun recall. It felt right in his hands, like it was home where it belonged.
The clock struck 8 o’ clock. He still had much work left to do and not much time to do it in. In four hours he would be in this house alive or out of it dead. Either way, Harley knew that blood would be shed.
Chapter 2 – Thirty Years Earlier
Ancil Jacobs dropped the log he was cutting on the pile in front of him. The pile was stacked nearly waist high and shaped like a pyramid. Harley watched his grandfather chop wood out back every Sunday afternoon, learning the trade that was in their family for generations. Ancil was a carpenter, a skill that Harley was taught to value. In fact, Harley was taught to value any craft that required the use of one’s hands.
“This is honest work, Harley”, his grandfather told him over the heap of wood. “Any man who is worth his salt should be able to provide for his family with his hands. Don’t let anyone try to tell you otherwise”.
He reared back the ax and brought it down, slicing a log in half in one swift motion. He had just finished putting up the addition to the back kitchen. Harley helped with the construction, measuring out and cutting 2x4’s and hammering nails. It was strenuous work and Harley went to bed every night with a sore back and callused hands, but, despite the pain, he also found it rewarding, more so than he did the computers he was working with at school. With this he felt like he’d earned his sleep at night and accomplished something important.
Ancil took out a handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his forehead, leaving a streak of dirt across it. He was in his early sixties but didn’t look it. He could easily pass for late forties. Ancil attributed this to clean outdoor living, something that was becoming sparse in today’s world. He had a beard that covered most of his face and wore overalls in every type of weather, hot or cold. He was every bit the quintessential mountain man that Harley became fond of from the stories his grandfather told him at night.
Harley began gathering up the excess wood not in the pile and moving it over to its own little pile. This stack would serve to light the fire for the wood oven. Despite the amenities that existed in the world, Ancil insisted on using as little of it as possible, much to the annoyance of Harley’s father and mother. Harley himself often wondered why they needed to use the wood burning stove to prepare meals and the fireplace to warm the house when electric stoves and heaters were readily available. He asked his grandfather this as he moved the wood in place.
“Because it reminds us to be humble and respect what we were given and how we got to where we are”, Ancil said. He saw the confusion in his grandson’s eyes and tried to find the words to explain it better. “There are people in this world who just want to bury the past and replace it with new gadgets and machines that are supposed to make our lives easier, when in fact they take our lives away from us”.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, take for instance this pile of wood in front of us. We spent half the day cutting and sorting it, didn’t we? Not to mention sweating and straining our muscles, right?”
Harley nodded.
“Now we could have done all that in a fraction of the time with a cutting machine and we wouldn’t even have had to break a sweat, but what would we have gained from that? Sure, we would have finished sooner but would you have learned anything from that machine?”
Ancil pointed his finger at the cutting machine that Harley’s father had given him. The machine sat idle next to the shed, covered with a large tarp, its gears slowly rusting and in need of oil. Harley didn’t think his grandfather even used it once since his father gave it to him.
Ancil continued, “Man doesn’t learn from machines, he only becomes dependent on them.”
“But isn’t it good to do things quicker?”
“Sometimes, but sometimes it’s better to take your time and feel the tools in your hands. No good ever came from rushing a job and no machine ever built a house all by itself. Look at all the great works of art and monuments that exist. They were built with hands and sweat and blood and they’ll last forever because of it. But these people want to destroy all that. They want to make it seem like the past never existed.”
“Do you mean the people in the committee?” Harley asked. Harley had heard things at school, mostly from older students, about a group of people wanting to take over and start a “coo”. Harley didn’t know what a “coo” was, but thought it had something to do with the government. They were a small group, but were making a little more noise and gaining a few more ears every day.
Ancil pulled on the bottom of his beard and considered the question. “Yep, they’re a part of it,” he said, “but they’re not the only part. A lot of it is generational. The younger ones are more open to the idea of change and breaking tradition. I tell you this in the hopes you’ll learn something and maybe something I say will stay with you years down the road when I’m long gone and maybe you’ll pass that little something on to your own children, helping to keep that memory alive. But I also know that with each generation the memory will get smaller and smaller, eventually fading all together. That, I fear, will be the end of us.”
“The end of us?” Harley asked.
“The end of our way of life. Everything we worked for. That’s why it’s important for you to learn as much as you can now, so you can be prepared for it.”
“Be prepared for what?”
Ancil brought the ax down hard on a new piece of log, splitting it perfectly down the middle. The cracking sound echoed in the wilderness around them. He lifted his head and looked directly into Harley’s eyes.
“For revolution”.
Chapter 3
Maxon walked down the hallway of the Office of Standard Living, his black leather boots echoing on the newly polished tile. The tile was replaced not three months ago and it was already starting to show signs of wear in high traffic areas. Most likely it will have to be replaced again in a month’s time. Maxon never remembered the tiles having to be rep
laced so often before. It seemed there was always upgrading going on around the office. Once they finished one thing, another section would need upgrading and so on. It was a constant cycle, one that the Council deemed the cycle of living.
The hallway was metallic silver and brightly lit, though no light fixtures were mounted anywhere on the walls or ceilings. The light emanated from the walls themselves, casting a soft and evenly dispersed glow throughout the whole building. The tile also glowed with soft light. It was called Halo Lighting, one of the new innovations to come to building manufacturing. It eliminated the need for costly and heat producing incandescent bulbs, not to mention the buzzing and flickering fluorescents.
Maxon walked briskly, as if on the way to perform an important act and, in many ways, he was. He wore his department issued jumpsuit. The jumpsuit was white with not a wrinkle on it. His wife insisted on running his jumpsuits through the press before he left every day. Image was seventy percent of success she would cajole. The badge over his left breast pocket had the department seal. Below the seal was written: Maxon Wheeler, Wrecking Crew Lead Chief.
He just came back from a meeting with the Director of Wrecking, a meeting that went very well in Maxon’s view. The Director commended Maxon for successfully overseeing a potentially complicated wreck on an outdated school building. Whenever a public building is scheduled for upgrading there is always the potential for trouble by a small group of people who still struggle to accept the reality upgrading. They are dwindling in numbers, but a small faction never fails to show up and protest. Maxon had anticipated this and called for a barrier to be erected on each side of the street where the building stood. He was worried about violent breakouts among the crowd, as this had happened to him in the past, but this crowd seemed oddly subdued, almost deflated, as if they knew their efforts meant little in influencing anything. With each new upgrade there were less and less crowds showing up and less and less screams of outrage.
The Midnight Stand (The Elysia Saga Book 1) Page 1
