Progtopia: Book 1 of The Progtopia Trilogy (4 page)

Six

The Year: 2172

345 entered the lobby of his apartment building. Barred from going home after work until he met his daily fitness parameters, he headed to the gym. It helped him unwind and socialize, and it was the only place he had human interaction, if he chose it. At work, any deviation from his job could result in reeducation camp or death. Some in his apartment complex gym worked on the assembly line of a factory, inspecting packages all day. As if the job was not tedious enough, their separation from coworkers by hologram cubicle dividers increased the weariness of isolation. Workers were not released from the cubicle until they reached their quota. Work prison, some called it.

The factory group typically used old-school equipment at the gym—the treadmills, bikes, and weights—interacting with the other men, talking, chatting, and commiserating among colleagues. Others, seeking isolation, headed to the Virtual Reality workouts where any sporting event was available. 345 liked to run the New York City Marathon. In a small room, running on a treadmill, the technology peppered his senses with the sights, smells, and sounds of the race. Feeling the concrete beneath his feet, sun beating on his already sweaty body, the fans cheering him on, the scent of food filling his nostrils, it all combined to match the real thing. VR had evolved to the point that it was indistinguishable from reality.

Obsessed with thoughts of 888, he ran harder and stronger, trying to push the thought of her to the outer recesses of his mind. Unsuccessful, he thought he saw her in the crowd at every corner of his virtual route. Meeting his daily exercise goal set by the State, his treadmill stopped, scrolling the message:
Caloric goal and cardiovascular parameters met for the day. Your session is complete.

Breathing heavily, dripping sweat, he walked past all the other guys in the gym to the locker room. He thought to himself,
Why do I care about her?
He was in the Recipient Class. It was not his place or right to be with, let alone think about, another real woman. The State forbade the Recipient Class from fraternizing with the opposite gender. He was taught his class was too important for the good of humanity to be distracted by relationships. For his dedication to the community of man, he was given everything a human needed to survive. He knew this, yet he could not help but wonder who she was.

Pained by his obsession with her, he struggled with the emotions inside him. He caught a glimpse of the VR screen showing a commercial promoting
The Trials
—the State’s attempt at displaying justice. But for him, and the majority of the world, it was just entertainment. Even this didn’t push her from his mind.

He showered, changed, and headed to his apartment to eat his prepackaged food tailored specifically to his caloric and nutritional needs. Once he consumed the stale, tasteless nutrition bar, he sat, but it was not time to reflect. Instead, the VR screen came on with the familiar evening news and commentary. The VR screen was flashing instructions that he had to wear his biometric suit for the evening television shows. He got up and put his on.

Seven

The Year: 2032

Camille rolled over in bed. Opening her eyes, she was confused by her unfamiliar surroundings as she realized she was no longer in her run-down apartment. She tried to re-trace her last memories, but couldn’t recall how she got here. Where was she? Getting out of bed, she walked to the window. The floorboards creaked beneath her, the old floor giving way with every move she made. The window overlooked fields used for farming and raising livestock with a dense forest extending for miles to hide the small farm. It was secluded, private.

Scanning her room, she thought it could be featured in a home-and-garden magazine highlighting guest bedrooms of old farmhouses. It was a simple shabby chic style—a queen-sized bed, multi-patterned quilt, old, white distressed dresser, rocking chair in the corner, and antique furniture.
Yes, definitely shabby chic
, she thought to herself.

Trying to recapture her last memory in New York City, she heard a woman’s voice coming closer to her room. If the stranger wanted an element of surprise, the old farmhouse wouldn’t allow it with each step betraying the woman’s position. It was clear, however, the woman was not trying to disguise her arrival. Openly telling someone to be nice and gentle with the new visitor, a wave of panic consumed Camille. What were they going to do to her?

“Knock, knock,” the woman said as she rapped on the door. “Is it okay if I come in?”

Frightened, Camille searched the room for an escape route, a weapon—something, anything. Disheartened, she realized there was no exit.

“Don’t worry, I’m not here to hurt you.” With that, the door slowly opened, then was abruptly swung wide by a golden retriever. He ran to Camille, wagging his tail, sitting in front of her, almost demanding Camille to pet him.

“Bailey, be nice to our guest.” Turning to Camille, “Honey, you must be exhausted and famished.”

Camille took in the older, gray-haired, plump woman. Comforted by her kind face, warm eyes and smile, Camille’s apprehension waned.

Placing a pile of clothes and towels onto the bed, she introduced herself. “Camille, I’m Barbara, and you are safe here for now. There is much we need to talk about, and I’m sure you have a ton of questions.”

As Barbara was trying to introduce herself, Bailey was vying for Camille’s attention, not letting up until Camille started petting him.

“Looks like you have a true fan there. He’s taken a liking to you,” she said with a grandmotherly smile, “and that is saying something because Bailey doesn’t like too many strangers.”

Camille, overwhelmed by everything, was glad the dog was helping her relax. “How did I get here?”

“Plenty of time for questions. The bathroom’s at the end of the hall where you can take a shower and change into a fresh pair of clothes. Once you’re finished, come downstairs, and we can try to answer some things for you.”

Barbara turned around to leave the room calling Bailey on her way, but Bailey remained close to Camille.

Picking up the clothes and towels, she made her way to the bathroom. The all-white room with an old, claw foot tub fit into Camille’s fictitious home-and-garden farmhouse edition. Small and unadorned, the bathroom had a working shower, and Camille really needed one of those.

Letting the water run until it was hot, she got into the strong stream, letting it pour over her sore muscles. Bailey laid on the floor right outside the tub while Camille suspended all thought. She washed what little hair she had left, never thinking she would miss such a pleasure.

Once finished, she stepped over to the mirror, wiping the steam away. The face staring back at her was almost unrecognizable. She had scars on her cheeks. Her hair was short and dark. As tears formed in her eyes, Bailey came over and pushed his nose into her side as he gave a little bark. Looking down at his face, she couldn’t help but laugh. This dog wanted her full attention. She got on her knees and started rubbing his neck. Bailey returned the favor by licking her face.

“At least there’s someone who doesn’t want to see me dead. Are you going to be my protector?” Bailey responded with a bark. “I sure hope that was a yes.”

Once Camille was all cleaned up and dressed, she headed downstairs. The scent of bacon and eggs filled her nostrils, making her stomach growl. She was starving, and realized just how little she ate over the last few weeks. Coming around the corner into the kitchen, she caught sight of Barbara standing at the stove and a man sitting at the table. He was looking down at his coffee. She stopped dead in her tracks. It was all coming back to her. He was the one in her apartment, but when she last saw him, he looked different—with a beard, disheveled, homeless. Today, he was normal, even attractive for a man of his age.

The man looked up and smiled. “Hey there!” he said.

“Hi,” she said timidly. Unsure of who these people were.

“Camille, I just thank God you are about as good of a shot as your father used to be, or I wouldn’t be here right now,” he said, laughing, trying to make her feel at ease.

“You know my dad?” At that moment, Camille’s heart started to ache. She just wanted to be home with her parents and brother.

The man stood, revealing his muscular physique. He walked over to the chair nearest Camille, pulling it away from the table. “Why don’t you take a seat?” he said, pointing to the chair. “And we can try to explain what’s going on here.”

Barbara chimed in as she was fixing the plate of bacon and eggs, “Honey, we won’t bite.”

Camille had a million thoughts running through her head. How did this old lady and black dude end up in the middle of nowhere?

Her curiosity for answers, however, was overpowered by hunger. The smells of the kitchen distracted her. Taking the man’s suggestion, she took a seat with Bailey not far behind settling next to her feet. Barbara placed a plate full of scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, and toast in front of Camille.

“Would you like some coffee or orange juice?”

“Juice, please.”

Barbara grabbed a glass for her then settled next to Camille.

The stranger introduced himself. “Camille, my name is Mr. Franklin. I feel like I already know you. Your father talked about you all of the time. We served together in the same unit. The Middle Eastern War,” he said, shaking his head, eyes sad. “Yep, those were good men I served with. Your dad and I were close.”

“I never knew,” Camille said almost in a whisper. “My dad never talked about the War. It was almost like it never happened—except the whole world knew what happened.”

“Yes, it did,” said Franklin. “Poor Israel,” he said shaking his head. “When they needed us most, we abandoned them.”

“Listen, mister, I don’t mean to be rude, but I really don’t care. I just want to get home to see my parents.”

“I know you do.” He looked to Barbara for help.

“Camille,” said Barbara, “I’m sure all of this is hard for you. Give us a chance to explain.”

Camille, aware that she was a captive audience, withdrew and folded her arms. “Fine, finish your story.”

“Like I was saying, I served with your dad. Seems so long ago.” Mr. Franklin stood up and walked over to get more coffee. “I should’ve known the day your dad and I were standing on the ship and saw that mushroom cloud over Israel that all was lost, but we were naïve at the time. I finished up my tour and was recruited by the CIA to work in the field. Your dad went home to be with your mom and you. Being a Seal, I was well trained. The CIA was a perfect transition for me. Because I was undercover in dark places in this world, I lost touch with your dad. I was a good agent, one of the best, but it all changed the day I got the
assignment
. It changed me forever.”

Barbara broke the silence. “You met me because of it, and really, how can you complain about that?”

She turned to Camille. “Honey, I wanted this breakfast to be a little relaxing for you, and not too heavy,” she said while glaring at Franklin.

“That’s okay,” said Camille. “What happened with the assignment? What was it?”

“For a different conversation, but what I can say now is that I was a secretary in the Bureau, and Mr. Franklin had the distinct pleasure of meeting me because of it.”

Camille was finishing up her breakfast, but still had a lot of questions. “So, Mr. Franklin, why did you come and get me?”

“Because I couldn’t let them get you. I owe that to your father. When you disappeared, he called the CIA looking for me. He wanted my help to find you. He was worried sick. Of course, I wasn’t there, but my contacts told me about the call. Right now, you are safe, but I don’t know how long that will last.”

“Have you talked to my dad?”

“No,” Franklin responded. “I’m just glad we found you. We can keep you safe and prepare you.”

“Prepare me for what?”

“Life in this ever-changing country of ours. The future is unclear, and you need to be ready for anything.”

“Listen,” she said as she rolled her eyes, “there’s a reason why I left home. I really don’t care about your cause. All I want is a computer to check my E-chat account, call my friends, and contact my parents. I’ve been without anything for weeks.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. You and I both know the authorities will be tracking it closely.”

Barbara chimed in, “Camille, things are ugly out there now. The government blames you. We need to keep you hidden.”

“All I did was make a video and run away because I didn’t want to live in a foster home. I don’t care about all the stuff you guys are talking about. I just want to go home, go to school with my friends, and end this.”

“Honey,” said Barbara, “I wish it were that simple. A lot has happened in the last few weeks. Your running away sparked a powder keg. It’s crazy out there with protests erupting throughout the country.”

“So what you’re saying is, I’m screwed. I can’t go home, can’t contact my friends, and I’m stuck here with you guys?”

“I’m afraid so, dear.”

Camille stared down at her food. She looked up at Barbara. “I guess I just don’t get it. It’s no big deal, so I made a video and ran away. Why do people even care about me?”

“Camille, that’s a great question. Right now, our country is at a crossroads. I know at thirteen years old, you don’t care, but what’s happening now will affect the course of your life. Mr. Franklin believes our country got to this point because people don’t care, are disengaged. I disagree. I think we got this way because we are so tired and feel so helpless.”

Barbara noticed Camille’s eyes slowly glazing over. She tried to reach her another way. “I heard a story once that may explain things a little better. Back before both of our times, the main form of entertainment was the circus. For small rural areas, it was the highlight of the year. There was always an elephant as part of the show. How many elephant attacks have you heard or read about in the circus?”

Both Franklin and Camille looked at her as though she was crazy.

“Like I thought. You’ve never heard of an attack because there weren’t any. Do you know what elephants are capable of in the wild? They are strong, vicious, and sometimes violent. So how does this strong, independent animal, capable of ripping trees from the ground, never hurt a human being?”

“How?” both Franklin and Camille asked in unison.

“I will tell you how. The animal trainer would chain the elephant down and beat it day in and day out. At first, the elephant would struggle, fight back, but because it was chained, it couldn’t do much. Oh yes, it continued to resist, but the punishments persisted day after day, slowly sapping the spirit from the animal. During these attacks, the elephant’s chains would clink and clank, and over time, the elephant associated that metallic sound with the punishment. At some point, the animal gave up, and all the trainer had to do was shake any chain and the elephant would cower in fright. That is America today. We are the elephant, and the government is the trainer. Many of us have lost our spirit, our fight. We’re beaten down daily by taxes, rules, and regulations by a government beholden to no one. They tell us how much soda we can drink; how much electricity we can use; and what kind of car we can drive. They listen to you talking to your friends. They store all your emails and E-chats. Nothing is private anymore. It’s all kept in a data bank, ready to be used against you in the future.”

Barbara continued, “That is why no one stepped in to help the families whose children were taken from them. It seemed hopeless. So when the government wouldn’t let you get homeschooled, it was more of the same like the trainer shaking the chain. But then something happened. Your video. You ran away. Your flight ignited a fire in the hearts of Americans—of all political persuasions. The elephant is not bowing in fear to the chains anymore.”

“I ran away ‘cuz I didn’t want a foster family to raise me!” Camille exclaimed. “I’m not a freedom fighter or whatever you call it. I’d just like to tell my parents to let me go to public school, and let me go home. I can’t run my entire life.”

Franklin and Barbara looked at each other, a serious look. Camille knew something wasn’t right.

“What’s going on? What are you hiding?”

Franklin stood up. “Barbara, I think this is your department.” His eyes filled with tears as he left the room.

“Camille, why don’t we go outside?”

Camille and Barbara walked through the quaint little family room, through the screen door which creaked as it opened and slammed shut, and out onto the farm porch. Camille hadn’t seen this view from her window. Rocking chairs on the porch, they both took a seat. They were overlooking a field in front of them, and toward the left she saw a large barn with a pig pen outside. She focused on the pigs rolling in the mud, thinking how lucky they were — not a care in the world, despite the fate destined for them. Sometimes being a human sucked. There was too much thought and emotion involved. Camille tried to brace herself because she knew some bad news was coming her way, kind of like when her parents sat her down the day her grandpa died.

“Camille, the people are not letting things go this time. The authorities can’t seem to quell the protests. It’s a mess. They blame you and your parents for this. Neither of you are responsible, but the government doesn’t care about the truth, they just need to regain control. The Feds wasted no time in charging your parents with treason.”