2042: An American 1984-Dystopian Thriller

by Leigh Holland

  “So, they figured out the liberals need more power to be able to help them?” Rachel asked.

  “No.” he replied. “They voted in the men who would form the Kingdom, across the nation, in most cities, states, the legislature, and the Presidency.” He paused, cleaned his glasses, then continued, “However, once they began enacting their monstrous, anti-democratic, anti-humanitarian agenda, the people began protesting and pushing back. It was then that the party composed of religious leaders, corporate interests, the affluent, and politically powerful rigged elections through voter suppression, intimidation, and removal of names from voting rolls.”

  “People voted?!” Temperance asked incredulously. “That concept goes against the Profit’s teachings of predestination. The Kingdom is a lie?”

  “Of course.” he replied, shocked she would think otherwise. “What, did you think you were rebelling against truth?”

  “Yes, I always just presumed I was wrong inside.” she answered in a timid voice.

  Rachel squeezed Temperance’s hand. “There’s nothing wrong with you, love.”

  Paul wondered, “If the party of the religious and wealthy engineered the economic depression, and voting suppression, why were they able to take control? Why didn’t the people rise against them?”

  “We did.” Anaxagoras replied. “First there were protests. Laws were then passed that allowed people to kill protestors with impunity if the protestors were in any way, shape, or form, causing any type of ‘disturbance’ to their killer. When that didn’t work, the Press was attacked relentlessly. But the Press continued with their mission, despite half the nation no longer trusting them due to propaganda being spoon fed to them by the unchecked one-party administration. The non-partisan government agency that kept elections from being rigged was dismantled, along with nearly every other governmental agency. Fear and loathing were stoked by the pre-Kingdom government among the people, causing them to not trust one another. Then came the Mass Destruction of 2017, which the leader blamed on “activist liberal judges”. Afraid, over half the nation capitulated, and elections were suspended. The Press was shut down and state sponsored media was all that was allowed. Patriots fought back. In fact, it was Joshua Rosencrantz who became the pivotal leader in the rebellion.”

  They showed no signs of recognition. Rachel questioned, “Who was Joshua Rosencrantz?”

  Anaxagoras’ face drooped into a sad expression. “Oh, child. You don’t know? You are Rachel Rosencrantz, his daughter.”

  “But...my father is Lucius Benedict Judas.” she insisted.

  “That’s what they renamed the new image they gave him within the so-called Kingdom.” he admitted. “But that’s not what his actual name was. They renamed him to play upon the people’s subconscious connection of those names with traitors and devils.”

  “My whole life is a lie?” she asked. “Even my identity?”

  Zeal showed in Anaxagoras’ eyes. “It’s okay, now, child. I can teach you what your identity is. I know more about your true past than you do. I can give it back to you.”

  Rachel felt distinctly uncomfortable. “What happened to my father?”

  “He was killed. It was a blunder that nearly cost them the war, giving widespread sympathy to our cause. Sadly, they recovered from it with a better strategy than I predicted.” he responded. “But now that we have you, we can inspire an entire generation of rebels to fight to the death for our cause!”

  “I thought you planned to overthrow the regime from within?” she asked, suspicious. “To give people the tools to set themselves free?”

  “The revolution is all about freedom, Rachel, especially the freedom of the Elect and the Convicted.” he agreed. “But if we wait for the indoctrinated to come around in large enough numbers, we’ll never see the people set free. We will free them ourselves, by force. They’ve proven time and again that they aren’t able to discern truth from lies or act in their own best interest.”

  “I still don’t understand why I seem to be so important to your rebels.”

  He placed his hands on her shoulders as they stood to face each other. “Sometimes, a leader must make tactical decisions to match his opponent’s strategies. The young have been taught the truth about your father and you, except we are teaching them that your father was divine. He sits in heaven on the right hand of God, and any rebel who dies for the cause immediately attains a place there.”

  Rachel’s face curled up into an expression of horrified disbelief. “No! No! This is what they did to everyone in the Kingdom! You are supposed to be fighting that, not becoming that!”

  “Rachel, think!” he insisted, tightening his hold on her shoulders. “Unless we take drastic measures we will never overcome them. Why should they be the sole spokesmen for God?”

  Paul removed Anaxagoras’ hand from her right shoulder. “I suggest you move the other hand.”

  He did so, but continued speaking. “You’re a symbol to them, Rachel. We have a destiny together. We can do this, but I need your help. We have smaller outposts, with rebels preparing for the war. But you could be the catalyst! And when we have control, we will change everything for the better. And if they won’t see we will make them see.”

  Rachel moved away from Anaxagoras and stood with Temperance and Paul. She told him, “I don’t want to be a catalyst for warfare. Nor do I want to be an image, an idol, to kill or die for. I merely want what all human beings want: to be accepted by my loved ones for who I truly am, and lead my life in peace, love and freedom; unafraid.”

  “Ha!” Anaxagoras exclaimed. “Your people have been fought over, fought with, claimed, superseded, idolized, demonized, loved, hated, feared, envied, and made a central image in Western history for thousands of years. You’re more an idea to control or claim than a real group of human beings… to most people’s way of thinking.”

  Rachel was once more confused. “I don’t understand. My people?”

  Shouting and gunfire erupted in the main room some distance away. Shocked, Anaxagoras ran off to see what was happening, leaving the trio alone in the room. Rachel put her arms around Temperance.

  “I’m sorry, Temperance.” Paul said. “The cabin, that experience of being together in freedom, as a family, that was our true destination. That was the Promised Land. You were right. I was wrong. We should have stayed there, no matter the consequences.”

  In the distance, there was rampant gunfire, screams of agony and death, and the smell of blood. Temperance was trembling. “We’re going to die.”

  “Oh, no,” Paul insisted. “We’ll live. We’ll survive.” He faced Rachel and gazed meaningfully into her eyes. “As long as we’re alive, there’s hope.”

  The gunfire slowed down and the screams were reduced to moans of the dying and injured. Rachel realized the occasional gunshot was fired to end those moans where they were found. Footsteps approached. The lovers held each other tightly, as if to shield each other from harm, and Paul stood firmly between them and the door. A moment later, the door burst open. Four armed Fishers of Men entered the room and surrounded them. Beyond the door stood a tall, thin, pale man in a black suit and hat, with long white hair and wire rimmed glasses. Rachel realized this was the Preacher. He forced a bloody, wounded Anaxagoras to his knees. Anaxagoras looked at Rachel, weary, and smiled as though he knew a secret. Then the Preacher shot him in the back of the head twice and his body jerked once, then fell to the ground lifeless. Temperance screamed and cried.

  “This isn’t happening!” she cried out, as she was removed from Rachel’s arms by one of the Fishers and cuffed. Paul was taken to one side of the room by the other two Fishers, putting up token resistance. The fourth one approached Rachel, who glared at him with utter hatred.

  The Preacher entered the room and smiled malevolently at Rachel. “Well, Paul, you sad cuck. Didn’t you tell her about our deal?”

  “Paul?” Rachel asked quietly. “What’s this ugly bastard talking about?”

  “He betrayed
you. Betrayed you all.” The Preacher said, laughing.

  “Rachel, they came in the night, that first night we slept at the cabin. They were going to kill us all and burn the cabin. I made a deal for our lives. They spare our lives, and I was implanted with a Safechip to lead them...here.” Paul admitted, hanging his head in shame. “As long as we’re alive...”

  “There’s hope.” she finished in a whisper.

  Chuckling, the Preacher departed the room with one of his Fishers of Men, heading to the main area to check on the “work” being completed there. The Fisher grabbed at Rachel’s arms, and she elbowed him in the nose, knocking him off balance. Picking up a paperweight off Anaxagoras’ desk, Rachel raced at the guard holding Paul. Paul was stronger physically and if she could free him, they could get Temperance out of this. Raising the weight high and snarling she remained focused on the target. As she was about to bear down on the Fisher, Paul called her name, then everything went dark.

  XII.

  She awoke to the sensation of cold water being thrown on her face. Abruptly alert, Rachel examined her surroundings. Bright lights glared down from above her. There were no windows, just grey concrete block walls, and a dark blue painted concrete floor. Its paint was peeling in various areas. A drain sat in the middle of the room, on the floor a few feet from where she lay. She was strapped to a board on the floor, her hands and feet tightly bound. She gasped for air and looked at the guards. There were two of them, casually discussing their wives and children.

  “She’s awake.” One noted.

  The other took a cloth from the table behind him and knelt by her. She demanded to know what he was doing, but he merely smiled and wrapped her head in the fabric. Rachel begged them to not do whatever they thought they were obligated to do to her. They laughed.

  Water flowed over her, slowly at first, then with increasing pressure. The cloth was quickly soaked to maximum capacity. Water flowed everywhere; in Rachel’s mouth, her nose, all over her face. At first, she could still breathe in small gulps of air. She contracted her throat to try to avoid taking in water with these small gulps of air, which she held in her lungs as long as she could. After several moments, Rachel’s attempts proved futile, and she began to struggle painfully against her bonds, her entire body jerking in desperation. The terrible agony of death itself overtook her as she began to suffocate; her wild thrashing useless. She felt the fingers of both her hands shake violently, uncontrollably. She thought of Paul and Temperance, wishing she could see them again, certain as she was that death was imminent. Suddenly, there was a brief respite. However, no sooner than she had regained her composure and ability to breathe, it began again.

  Eighteen seconds later, she told them everything; every heresy within her heart, every nasty or unacceptable thought she had ever had, every detail of her escape, journey, and capture. She tried to downplay Paul and Temperance’s roles in the events she described, and took as much of the blame as she could for all that had happened. Rachel had no idea how long she rambled on with her confession, but once she stopped talking, they commended her on giving such a great confession.

  Three minutes later, they began the process again, this time letting it nearly run to her actual death. She had swallowed a large amount of water. The tall guard hit her in the stomach, and she threw up all the water she had taken in. It came down on her face and chest in a disgusting torrent.

  “Why are you doing this to me?” she asked in between weeping. She heard the other guard reciting hymns of praise to God in a hushed voice in the background.

  When it seemed they were going to repeat the “treatment” as they called it, Rachel began talking again. This time she told them all she knew about Paul and Temperance, giving the truth about their level of involvement and heresy. She no longer shouldered the blame for their choices and actions. If they didn’t stop, she would soon die. Already, her lungs ached painfully, and her wrists and ankles were raw and bleeding from her struggling.

  But her confession, now complete and factual, didn’t satisfy them. Despite her pleading and insistence that she had told them all she knew, they put her through the water treatment again. Afterwards, she began inventing things she thought they wanted to hear. Once she quit rambling, the tall guard sat next to her on a stool and removed her face wrappings. He shined a very bright light in her face.

  “How many fingers am I holding up?” he asked, showing her three fingers.

  “Th-three.” she replied, shivering.

  He slapped her across the face. Hard. “One. I am holding up one finger.” He told her.

  She looked again. There were three fingers. “But, I see three.”

  He smacked her again, this time harder still. “I say there is one. Look again, and tell me how many.”

  Rachel saw three, but said, “One.”

  He hit her again, then shook his head sadly. “You see three.”

  “I don’t understand.” Rachel said wearily, on the verge of collapse. “I can tell you there is only one if you want me to, but how can I see anything other than what’s there? What’s there are three fingers. When I lie to you, you’re not happy. When I tell the truth, you’re not happy. What do you want from me?!”

  He reared back as if to hit her again, and this time Rachel merely lay there, unaffected. Instead of hitting her, he pulled her hair. Hard. She yelled, surprised. Then he blindfolded her. She was placed onto a gurney and tied in around the waist. She could feel the presence of people surrounding her as they wheeled her to an unknown destination. Finally, the journey ended, and they silently treated her wrist and ankle wounds. She asked them questions, but no one answered or acknowledged her. She yelped at the pain that began coursing through her body. She was moved to a bed and strapped down at the chest under her arms, the waist, the mid calves, and around each elbow and thumb. They left her alone there, never responding to her queries.

  Exhausted, Rachel drifted into sleep. She was unaware of how long she slept, but towards the end, she awoke suffocating. Certain she was dying, she struggled for air, imagining she was in the water treatment room again. After a few moments, she realized she was still strapped to the bed where the attendants had left her earlier. Rachel wanted to hate the guards who had done this to her, but she couldn’t. They believed they were doing a holy, righteous thing, the work of God. They were ignorant. They knew not what they were doing. Although she didn’t hate them, she feared them. She never wanted to see them again as long as she lived, however long, or short, that may be.

  The door creaked open. A nurse entered, speaking to her in a chipper tone, but never answering her questions. Orderlies came in and adjusted the bed so that she was sitting up, but still strapped in. The nurse gave her a sponge bath, and checked the wounds. Satisfied they were healing nicely, she approved the next round of “treatment”.

  A Spider-screen emerged from behind wall panels. The orderlies attached a device to her head that held it in place and forced her eyes to remain open at all times, while drops of saline were automatically administered to keep her eyes moist and clear of irritants. Ear buds were placed in her ears, which were actually tiny speakers that fed the sound directly into her ears. They placed a gag in her mouth so she could not attempt to speak to drown out the sound in her ears. Then they left her alone.

  Rachel wasn’t sure how long she watched the programming, which was a repetitive series of lessons on the approved ideology of the Kingdom. She grew tired but couldn’t sleep for the eye apparatus. Finally, after what she was sure were many long hours, the nurse returned and removed the eye apparatus and ear buds. Smiling sweetly, the nurse washed her, checked her wounds, fed her a couple of pills with water, then fed her a bowl of flavorless sludge.

  “Sleep now.” The nurse told her. “Tomorrow begins the long road to recovery.”

  Rachel slept, and the pills the nurse had given her kept her from having nightmares. It was a blessed condition to sleep without dreams.

  When she awoke, she was still a bit gr
oggy from the medication. The nurse and three female assistants helped her take a shower she barely remembered. But it felt good to be clean all over. It felt human. They even helped her brush her teeth, and dress in a red one piece cotton uniform. Just as she was becoming lucid and strong enough to possibly make a break for it, they were strapping her down to a fresh bed.

  “Leave us.” Came a voice from the doorway. The women departed, and the owner of the voice stepped into the room, shutting the door behind her.

  As she came into the light, Rachel realized who had been speaking. She wore heavy, garish make up, and held a golden chalice filled with wine, but there was no mistaking her.

  “Mrs. Hale?” Rachel asked, incredulous. “We thought you’d been killed. I don’t understand.”