2042:
An American 1984
by
Leigh Holland
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or not, places, or events is coincidental.
Cover art by SelfPubBookCovers/Fantasia
Copyright 2009 by Leigh Holland.
All rights reserved.
I.
It was a wet, warm morning, the day they exampled the Glassmans. The air was stale with a stillness that would have driven one mad had they been forced to endure it without distraction. Scrub, scrub, scrub, scrub! Furiously, Mrs. John Wright rubbed the cleaning brush over the linoleum floor of her small apartment. The more she performed her woman’s work, the more she could smell what she had been told was the scent of a pine forest. It occurred to her that she had never seen or smelled a pine tree, much less a forest, and briefly wondered if the scent was an accurate depiction. ‘No matter,’ she mused inwardly, ‘If it gives the air in here some sort of flavor.’ Pausing in her chore, she realized the floor was quite clean enough already.
She glanced at the Spider-screen on the wall above her. They were in every room of the home, every shop, every public square, and every hallway of every building she, or any other member of the Elect, could have ventured into. The flow of free information never ceased emanating from them. The Spider-screens could not be switched off; inside them was an audio-visual monitoring device that could be switched on or off by the Kingdom Guardians at will. Each was connected to the Web. The Web was closely monitored by Fatherland Security to ensure the safety and protection of the Children of the King- that is, the citizens of the Kingdom. After the tragedies of 9-11 and the Bowling Green Massacre, and with the ongoing war known as the Terror Tribulation, such security measures were crucial. Particularly since in 2016, the Press had been taken over by far-left insurgents, known as the “Alt-left”, intent on destroying true Kingdom values. The press had become the enemy of the people of the United States of the Kingdom, as the state was then called. But the Press had been defeated and freedom of information taken back for the people. Now the people had access to true reporting every minute of every day, guaranteed by the state. And the Fatherland ensured the Web was safe from those who would use it to deceive the people, or encourage them to radicalize themselves against the Kingdom. Everyone agreed on that. Everyone agreed. Nowhere would you find anyone who said that they didn’t.
The Spider-screen’s pictures flashed quickly and captivated the eye. It was difficult not to get drawn into the visuals. The scene showed two people- Mr. And Mrs. Joshua Glassman- dressed in the costumes of the Elect, standing on a wooden stage in bright spotlights. They were accused of hiding their Jewish status, which was a crime. The proper place for the Jewish people was in their homeland, the land apportioned them by the King. After the Glorious Revolution, the Jews had been separated from the Faithful and returned to their natural homeland. Only when all Jews had returned to Israel would the King return to the Kingdom. Only then could the Terror Tribulation finally end. These charges were explained to them fully by an Inquisitor. The Elect mob that had gathered at Trinity Square became furious, yelling for the death of the frightened couple, for betraying the Kingdom. The Inquisitors, pious men with wise, saintly faces who dressed in long, stately black robes wearing red box-shaped hats, calmed the crowd. Mr. Glassman publicly spoke his confession, handed to him by an Inquisitor, saying in a shaky but entirely sincere tone, “Please forgive us. We realize it is us, and the other Jews like us, who have been preventing the end of this cosmic battle between good and evil. We should not have hidden among you to remain in a place so wonderful as the Kingdom. We beg your forgiveness.”
The crowd fell into a chant that began in the back as a whisper, but grew stronger and louder with each mention, until it was clear that they were calling out, “Maranatha! Maranatha! Maranatha!” This was the meaning of the pleading of the Servants of the King: that the King should return to his Kingdom, to smite their enemies and rule over them for a thousand years. Women in the crowd began crying and begging for the great and wondrous day to arrive. A circle of them joined together to pray on their knees.
The Inquisitor asked Mr. Glassman, “Do you and your wife understand the implications of what you have done, do you realize how you were willfully preventing the happiness and salvation of all mankind by your selfish act?”
Mrs. Wright could not bear to watch anymore, so she picked up her scrub brush and plopped it into her sudsy water pail. Lifting the pail with her as she rose from the ground, she turned to dispose of the water in the sink of the tiny galley kitchen and put away the brush and pail. She took her time doing so. Although she might not be able to escape the Spider-screens free flow of information, she could distract herself from it at times. It occurred to her that she normally wouldn’t have reacted with such distaste to an exampling. To be sure, most examples were made of enemies the Kingdom Soldiers had captured in the War Against Terror. Mrs. Wright felt her just rage ameliorated by the spectacle of their gruesome deaths, as would any true patriot. But examplings of the Glassman sort happened rarely. Both types of examplings served to remind the people of why the war was not at an end, and of the need to continue to stay the charted course.
She reflected on how easily the Glassmans had blended in with the Elect. They did not look Jewish. Then again, Mrs. Wright realized she had no idea what Jews should properly be expected to look like. She didn’t know any, since they were very humanely rounded up and sent to their Allotted Land some twenty or so years before. ‘Perhaps,’ she thought, ‘they look no different than we do.’ Even if they had looked different, would anyone have truly paid attention? Uniform dress codes certainly could blind people to distinctions among individuals, and they had moved among them dressed as the Elect. The dress code was necessary, they were told, to differentiate the citizens from the “Illegals”, those who were sneaking into the Kingdom to take their jobs.
In the Kingdom of the Divine Word, formerly known as the United States of the Kingdom, or as the nation was simply called today, “the Kingdom”, there were three distinct groups. At the bottom were the Convicted. They preferred to be called “the King’s Children”. They were called the “Convicted” because their hearts knew they were sinful people, and they had been convicted of their sins through this knowledge of having sinned. They worked twelve hour days, six days per week, as a sort of penance. On Sundays, they worked only five hours, and the remainder of their day was spent in structured Lessons in the Word, Group Prayer, and “Motivational Sessions”. However hard they toiled in freedom, they remained unable to better their situation. God Almighty struck, with the dreadful state of impoverishment, those who did not have absolute, unwavering, perfect faith in the Creed of the Kingdom. If a person was poor, they were deserving of it for having sinful thoughts, and were counseled to reflect on their inner evil and work harder to overcome. If they began to truly believe, and perform further acts of faith, God Almighty would certainly shower them with material blessings.
The simplest avenue for the Convicted to escape their poverty was to join the Kingdom Soldiers. Those who were deemed able and “pure enough” of spirit were admitted to their ranks. Their families had a steady stream of income so long as they were living and serving their nation. Sadly, few Kingdom Soldiers survived more than a year or two of the war, and the decent steady pay could not be relied on to last long. However, all Kingdom Soldiers were immediately promoted to the top tier, the Saints, post-death, and enjoyed enormous benefits in Heaven. This alone would have been
motive enough for them.
The middle tier, of which Mrs. Wright was a member, was the Elect. The Elect were chosen from before the foundations of the world to be saved. They were granted God’s mercy and grace in abundance. If one of the Elect, as sometimes happened, appeared to fall away from the National Truths, or the Word of God, it meant that either they were being tempted by the Adversary and would soon return to the fold, thereby proving the saving power of the King; or it meant they were always among the Convicted and had been allowed to appear as though they were of the Elect as a test to the faith of the truly Elect. The Elect worked six days per week, eight hours per day, with Sundays off. Additional time off was granted so the Elect might engage in leisure activities that benefited the Kingdom, such as preparing for Kingdom Rallies, hanging banners, posting signs, attending prayer and worship, and so on.
They, unlike the Convicted, possessed substantial computer skills, and tested better in math and reading comprehension. However, the Shepherds of the Flock regularly drove home that those with sharper mental skills should never become proud, for the Almighty makes no difference between the bright and the dull. In 2015, the Alt-Left intellectuals had taken over the schools, manipulating the children into ungodliness in the name of political correctness. Political correctness was a movement founded by the enemies of the Kingdom to force people to be blind to the enemies among them, a treachery perpetrated, per Kingdom historians, by the intellectuals. “Being smart is nothing to be proud of,” her Shepherd once said, “the Almighty makes us all the same, a fact lost on the rebels of the left.” While the Convicted typically went to work by age seven in either the service industries or low paying toil line jobs, the Elect could expect to work in a Calling, i.e. a well-paying job in technology, robotics, information, and communications systems. The Elect and the Saints were required to wear black, demure dresses, and a white apron and head covering for women, while the men wore simple black suits.
The top tier were the Saints. The Saints were the most mysterious tier; the smallest in number, but the largest in influence. One might never know who among the Elect were, in reality, Saints. Only the Saints were aware of each other’s identities. Saints received their orders directly from the King’s Vicar, “the Profit”. The Saints made up less than 1% of the Kingdom, the Elect made up 29%, while the Convicted comprised about 70% of the Kingdom. Saints typically were among the wealthiest members of society, having been granted such blessings by the will of God. To speak against the Saints was an offense to the King.
Her attention was drawn back to the Spider-screen as the verdict was read by an Inquisitor. “We find you guilty. However, we have decided that since your presence is required in the Promised Land for the redemption of all mankind, we will be sending you and your family there immediately.”
Both Glassmans knelt and kissed his boots, thanking him with tears streaming down their faces. Mrs. Wright sighed in relief.
He continued, “And when you arrive you shall tell them of the greatness and kindness of our King and his Profit. And that if they wish to survive this Terror Tribulation, they had best get right with the King.” Mr. And Mrs. Glassman promised to do all he asked, and more. There was singing and praying in the crowd, and the Glassmans were removed from the stage, presumably to their transport to the Promised Land. She tuned out the rest of the program as the Shepherd of the Flock, what was once termed a “pastor”, came onto the stage in his white flowing robes to give thanks to the King for the conversion of the two souls and the mercy of the anointed Profit.
‘Now, Rachel, it makes no sense for you to get all worked up over the spectacle,’ Mrs. Wright told herself. She called herself Rachel, for she thought of herself by the name her mother had given her. This was technically forbidden to married women, who adopted their husband’s name upon marriage as a symbol that the wife’s identity would be strictly an extension of the husband’s identity; that women were, first and foremost, vessels for the new life their husbands bestowed upon them to bring into the world. Before the rise of the Profit, women had no choice about whether to raise kids or work at a job, and the women had been brainwashed to believe they were equal to men and therefore should have the same grueling responsibilities. With the coming of the Profit, Voice of the People, women were freed from such bondage and allowed to take their rightful place as wives, mothers, and contributors to the good of society. When Rachel was a young maiden, all her friends spoke of how romantic the idea of being consumed by another, of sacrificing oneself on the altar of love, seemed to be. Rachel discovered the idea of self-sacrifice was far more romantic than the reality of marriage. Indeed, it wasn’t so much like being consumed as it was like coming down with an incurable case of consumption; it wasn’t so much like self-sacrifice as it was like being led to slaughter.
Orphaned in the aftermath of The Mass Destruction of 2017, the second greatest terrorist attack to ever occur within the Kingdom’s borders, Rachel had been sent to a finishing school for girls. When Rachel was sixteen years old, an older gentleman named Mr. John Wright was visiting the school. All the girls whispered about him, about his daddy’s money, his career, his striking good looks. Mr. Wright wanted to arrange for an ‘inspection’, which meant he wanted to marry one of the orphans. As Rachel stood in line, waiting her turn, she stared down at her shoes, trying to remain unnoticed. She had grown comfortable at the school and entertained notions that she could stay on and teach new girls as they came in.
The other girls giggled, flirted, and made small talk with Mr. Wright. He wasn’t impressed with any of them, even though many of the girls were prettier than Rachel. They stood tall and proud, shoulders back, head held high; unlike Rachel, who stood perhaps five feet and two inches tall, with slouched shoulders and a mane of wild curls that continually threatened to devour her face from view. No, John Wright was interested in Rachel.
“Hello, young lady.” he said to her.
“Mm-hello.” she mumbled, still staring at the floor, her sweaty hands clasped behind her back.
He placed a finger under her chin and raised her face to his. He smiled. “You’re a beautiful girl. What’s your name?”
Rachel peered into his deep brown eyes. Slowly, Rachel smiled back. “I’m Rachel. Rachel Love.”
He spoke with a slight southern drawl. “That’s a beautiful name, too, Miss Love.”
She blushed. “Please. Call me Rachel.”
“Rachel.” He said, as if savoring every letter of her name. “I’m Jonathan Wright. Do you know who I am?” He raised her left hand to his lips and gently kissed her inner wrist. She felt a tiny shiver go down her spine.
“Ahem!” our Overseer had complained, “that’s inappropriate carnal behavior, Sir, which good servants of the King ought not to engage in, especially in front of these other girls...”
At her words, Mr. Wright turned to face the Overseer. Rachel never knew what expression passed between them, but the Overseer became very pale, silent, and subservient. Rachel should have known then that Mr. Wright was trouble. But when he once more gazed upon her, his eyes were filled with romance, as were his words and mannerisms. Rachel couldn’t have known. She didn’t know him. Nobody warned her who did know him. And the matter of her marriage to John Wright had been arranged immediately between he and the Overseer without her knowledge or consent. It was later she learned that Mr. Wright’s late father had been a most generous donor over the years, and by giving Rachel to him, they hoped for his continued support.
Rachel stood now in their bedroom, in what had been their home together. She felt guilty immediately for having such negative thoughts about Mr. Wright. Whatever else he had been, he had been her husband and support for many years prior to his death. Casting aside her soiled apron, Rachel smoothed out her dress and retrieved a fresh, clean apron. Putting it on, she regarded her reflection in the mirror. Her figure was still excellent underneath the bulky garment. It almost seemed a shame that no one could see it. Placing her hand over her mouth she st
ifled a chuckle. Moving closer to the mirror, she took in her reflection. Her heart-shaped face was alabaster, her grey almond-shaped eyes framed by thick dark lashes. She was thankful for the bonnet, the option of a widow (though required for married women); for it served to help keep her long, thick chestnut colored hair out of her face. Rachel decided that even though she was about thirty-two years old, she didn’t look a day over twenty-eight. Men in the Kingdom preferred their brides as young as possible so they would produce many children to fight in the War Against Terror.
‘If my age keeps me from having to be beneath another man again, bring on the years,’ Rachel thought to herself, grinning, as she exited the apartment. Shutting the door, she held her left wrist up to the Securipad. She felt a tiny tingle on her wrist as it read her Safechip; an unpleasant chill moving down her back. A moment later, the door to her apartment locked and the words “Lock Engaged” appeared on the Securipad screen.
Walking down the hallway towards the elevator, Rachel rubbed her wrist, then shoved her hands into the pockets in the folds of her dress. She had a vague recollection of being implanted with her Safechip as a child, kicking and screaming at the nurses and doctor, and demanding to see her father. The memory was painful and she pushed it into the back of her mind.
Glancing up, she saw the Spider-screen in the hallway. Had it been registering her dislike of her Safechip? She hoped not. Heresy was to disagree; to choose. She would be found guilty of Heresy if she could be shown to disagree with any of the Profit’s policies, for these were derived directly from the Divine Word. To disagree with the Profit was to be against the Profit. To be against the Profit was to be against the King. To be against the King was to be against the Kingdom. And to be against the Kingdom was to be against God Himself. The enemies of God were an evil that had to be eradicated from the Kingdom, and the world.
2042: An American 1984-Dystopian Thriller Page 1
