Backland: Unremembered (Book #1) Read online

  Cam could commiserate with these words. Someone, in some ways like him, had written them—a man who knew what it was to flee for his life, to be sought by the powers-that-be, to be a criminal in the eyes of the state. The psalmist didn’t perform the mental gymnastics of a Plato. But what he wrote expressed the depths of human yearning in a way that philosophical speculation could never match. It was in the presence of the LORD that he’d found refuge, what he referred to as “the shadow of Thy wings.” That was personal, Cam knew, even as it was transcendent.

  CENTGOV claimed the favor of God. That had been enough to turn Cam away in disgust from whatever might be out there. But this poet knew something about a Being that was more intimate than state-endorsed religion—a religion that really only used the god it created in its image to justify its self-idolization. Still, the old wounds ran deep and they had irrevocably scarred Cam’s soul. He understood the philosopher-king, understood it was a fancy name for a tyrant. He didn’t, or maybe couldn’t, seem to get a handle on the merciful God Most High.

  Cam sat the Bible down and rose again. Restlessly, he walked over and retrieved the history text from the shelf and returned to the bed. The room had grown dark. He picked up a candle off the table and contemplated it. His supply was getting low and he hadn’t seen candles since, well, since he’d come across these in the attic of a dilapidated house. They were long and green, mixed in with an assortment of rotten decorations that we’re covered in rat feces and stunk of decay. He almost fell through what was left of the floor in trying to retrieve them. But the candles did make that particular journey worth the effort.

  Many subdivisions, as they used to be called, lay near the outskirts of the old boundaries of the reserve. Most of the homes had been well picked over, especially during the Food Riots, but it was sometimes worth the effort to poke around for hidden items and secret cubbyholes.

  This was one of those moments that justified the exertion. He had no wood for a fire. It had been on his agenda for the afternoon to collect firewood, but his afternoon had not turned out as anticipated. Reluctantly, he lit a match and touched it to the wick of the candle. Positioning the holder close, he sat the textbook close to its circle of light.

  He flipped to a page with a picture of the war-time president. The text below read:

  The Twenty-first century introduced international terrorism as the principal threat to the Homeland. But few could foretell the sinister specter of its domestic counterparts. Sleeper cells festered in the darkness of extremism. Vitriolic hatred of freedom hatched destructive plots directed against the innocent masses.

  It was imperative that the nation be held together at any cost, united against all forms of pernicious dissent. The stakes were high and failure was unthinkable. The future of free humanity lay in the balance. The President, as Commander-in-Chief, had to make difficult but unquestionably necessary decisions. Like Lincoln of old, he was divinely appointed to stand at a unique point in history for such a time as this.

  Cam slammed the book shut and stared at the cover. Being a fairly current edition, it was approved for educational use. He knew with certainty that the interpretation of the events within its pages had been twisted, turned and manipulated to such an extent that there was no longer any reference point for reality. What he didn’t know was how to take the puzzle apart and put it together differently, to arrange the pieces in a way that the picture was clear instead of some abstract half-truth that amounted to a whole lie. This is what was so frustrating. This was, of course, the textbook’s purpose. Abolishment is one small step behind obscurity.

  Older history books—that is, pre-war—were extremely difficult to procure. They’d been viciously sought out and destroyed during the Purge. But Cam had Stuart’s words. Cam trusted Stuart, which was funny, seeing as he never knew the man. The problem was, Stuart didn’t write much about politics, nor was able to piece together a geo-political picture of what was really happening in his day. Heck, Stuart was just an average guy trying to survive the turmoil of his times. But aren’t we all, Cam mused.

  Cam re-shelved the textbook and took up the journal. He turned to an entry. Its date marked the beginning of the end. Here was history. Here was truth.

  3

  Stuart’s Journal

  April 13

  I’ve never kept a journal. Kim gave this to me the Christmas before last. I threw it in my sock drawer. What am I supposed to with a journal? I’m certainly not a writer. Well, there was that creative writing class I took in college. I guess my wife thinks I can fill it with tales from my boring suburban life. I’ve decided to dig it back out and give it a shot. I lost my job and hence, have a lot of time and nothing with which to fill it. Maybe writing things down will be therapeutic. It will certainly be cheaper than going to a shrink—if I could afford to, that is.

  Where to start? The economy has been the biggest national issue for years. It’s personally been my biggest issue for a few months. The whole country is in a recession, some even say an old-fashioned depression. I began noticing it at the gas pump and with our grocery bills. Several restaurants where we used to eat have closed their doors. But at least I’ve been “assured” by the media that everything is really okay.

  But until I lost my job, my family wasn’t seriously affected. Stories I’d heard about other people struggling financially and unable to find work were just abstract problems that I could sympathize with but couldn’t relate to. I now know firsthand the anxiety and emotional turmoil it brings. Before, I, like most of my friends, was going on my own merry way and living the American dream.

  April 15

  After I got laid off in October, I thought I’d be able to find another job without any problem. After all, I have a graduate degree in business—it’s not like I’m under-qualified. But so far my efforts have yielded nothing. I’m definitely beginning to feel the crunch now. Our savings account is almost gone. Though I hate to think about it, the kids’ college funds will be next. Kim hasn’t worked for years—ever since Lillie was born. Now even she’s been filling out applications. I’m beginning to think we may have to get rid of one of our cars. And I’m sure everyone’s getting tired of spaghetti all the time. At least they’re keeping up a good attitude. Every little consolation helps these days. I’ve tried not to show any concern in front of them, but honestly, I’m fearful for the future.

  All the huge national banks have received multiple government bail-outs. They are supposedly “too big to fail,” whatever that means. I wish someone would bail me out. But I guess it doesn’t work that way. Maybe I can get some of the money the Federal Reserve keeps printing in an effort to keep interest rates low. It doesn’t take a degree in economics to realize this is not economically sustainable. A little common sense tells me the bubble will burst again—it’s just a matter of when. And the larger it gets, the louder the boom will be. Rewarding the people who created the mess and then making more paper seems to me to be the worst solution they could come up with.

  I’m beginning to wonder if I wouldn’t have been better off to learn a trade at some point. If I could do something useful with my hands, like fix a car or build a cabinet, I could probably find some work to do now. After all, society always needs tradesmen. When the economy falls apart, the skilled laborer survives.

  June 20

  I started this journal with good intentions. Almost two months later, I am finally picking it back up again. I feel compelled to write because of what’s going on with Kim. Things are going downhill quickly. She’s been in pain for a while now. It started out with general achiness. At first we thought it would pass. But it kept getting worse until she was suffering almost daily. I put off taking her to get checked out. How selfish and stupid of me! Finally, I could no longer stand to see her like that, even though she insisted things were okay. When we went to see the doctor, he immediately referred us for tests. Last week, we received the diagnosis: bone cancer—a form called osteosarcoma.

  Kim’s taking it we
ll. At least, she’s doing a good job hiding her concerns. I feel like I’ve been kicked in the stomach after I was already writhing on the ground. The doctor’s name is Dr. Wilkes. He seems like a good guy. He showed us some genuine sympathy and gave us several different treatment plans. But the prognosis isn’t good. We’re still exploring our options, though there aren’t many to explore.

  I walked by our bedroom the other day and saw Kim on her knees, praying. It hit hard me that I haven’t turned to God in a long time. I guess if there ever was a time to do so, it’s now. Sure, I’ve been going through the motions, playing the part and keeping up appearances. But I realize it’s just been a cover to hide a very real emptiness that’s been inside me for too long. I feel a bit hypocritical about it, but I started reading my Bible again. I figure Psalms is as good a place as any.

  July 12

  I’ve lost faith in the system. Before we were completely under national health care all I heard is how much better it was going to be for everybody. But I guess not many of us understood what was actually in the bill. Since Kim got sick I’ve been trying to educate myself and find out as much as I can. What I’ve discovered has really discouraged me.

  The treatment Dr. Wilkes recommended for Kim, some new experimental chemo, was turned down by my carrier. In fact, I’m still under my old company’s policy—an extension they allowed to soften the kick they gave me out the door. So we were floored when we were informed that she would only be covered for pain meds and anti-depressants.

  Dr. Wilkes sounded upset when I called him up about it. All he could tell me, though, was that he’d see what he could find out. He shared with me about how concerned he is for the future of healthcare in this country. A lot of doctors retired early when they saw what was on the horizon. We’re now dealing with a real shortage of doctors and nurses. Couple this with the declining quality of care and it paints a bleak picture.

  I’m having a hard time even believing some of the horror stories I’ve read. There are people who need cataract surgery but instead are only covered for a stronger pair of glasses. Others need hip or knee replacements and are prescribed…yes…get ready…canes! Their insurance wouldn’t provide for anything else, especially if they’re over 60. The bottom line, I guess as always, is profit.

  I’m amazed some people think we’re still under private healthcare. That’s far from true. I read this one article that explained how in many places there is only one insurance carrier that acts as a government exchange. This obviously means there’s no competition and hence no check on rising rates. Can we say monopoly? I guess this is what you get when the healthcare bill was written by the major insurance companies.

  July 20

  My neighbor, Carson, used to work full-time at our local hardware store. About a year ago his hours got cut back from 40 to 20 a week. Then, to add insult to injury, his insurance premiums tripled. I was talking to him today and he started crying—right out there in my yard. Both of his grown sons are college grads and they’ve had to move back in with him and his wife. He’s been supporting them with the little money he makes and the small amount of savings he had. Here’s a man who should be looking forward to retirement but he doesn’t even know how he’s going to make ends meet. It caused him to weep like a child. How my heart went out to him. What is so frustrating is that I am in no position to do anything to help.

  Many small businesses around town have closed their doors. They couldn’t afford to purchase the required insurance for all their employees. Of course, the mega corporations get their tax exemptions. I think I learned a term for this in school; they used to call it fascism.

  July 24

  Unbelievable! We went to meet with Dr. Wilkes again. We’re blessed that he’s going out of his way to try to help Kim. From his own digging, the news he had for us was even worse than what I’d found out. Patients deemed terminally ill, like Kim, have actually been sent home to die, the medications they need withheld. He said that if the cost of a patient’s long-term care is going to exceed what the new socialized model deems acceptable, the verdict is basically to help the patient die comfortably. Death panels? Really?—in my country?

  August 4

  I decided to call up Pastor Atkins to see about getting together with him. We met in his office at the church this morning. I think I just needed someone to talk with and to give me some advice from a spiritual perspective. I’m afraid, though, after I explained our situation he thought I’d come around for a handout. I know a lot of members are going through rough times too. He did pray with me and told me he was available—to call him anytime. Look what he’s got: a job, a guaranteed paycheck, a house and car provided for him by the church. I don’t want to be cynical, but is he really in touch with his flock? Does he know the reality of what many of us are facing?

  4

  Cam made early morning preparations to leave his dwelling. Injured arm aside, he had to get drinking water. That chore done, he would return to the cave to pack up what little he would take with him. He tied his shoulder length hair back with a strip of leather. He then loaded a canvas pack with empty canteens. Just as he picked up his bow and turned toward the door, an odd crunch arrested his attention. Its artificiality pierced the forest’s natural stirrings and put him instantly on full alert. He peeked around the corner of the buckskin and waited as a rhythmic plodding became evident, indicating its source was drawing near.

  Leaping from the doorway, Cam threw himself behind a boulder positioned a few feet from the entrance. He dug around in a deep pocket of his pants and pulled out a small round mirror, an antique, hinged on a light metal stem. He flipped the mirror out and slowly lifted it above the rock until he could observe in its reflection what was on the verge of emerging from the other side of the cliff wall.

  Though not expecting it to arrive so soon, he nevertheless knew what he’d see. In spite of his anticipation, its appearance still forced a dribble of cold sweat to drip down his back. He willed his hand to remain steady. The drone stood four feet tall. Its six mechanical legs were attached to a cylindrical, dull chrome body. The legs were jointed like a spider’s and they gave the machine a hideous, hunched appearance. It was a man-hunter, part of the clean-up crew sent to follow up on the data supplied by the scouts.

  The sound Cam had heard were the feet as they skittered over the few dry leaves littering the early autumn ground. This type could move extremely quickly—faster than the fastest man could run. But this particular unit was currently ambling along slowly, analyzing its surroundings. It was much more efficient in wooded areas than hovering drones. As he continued to watch, the creeper came to a halt. It was quiet except for the low hum of its circuitry. The lenses inside of its many eye portals that encircled the perimeter of the cylinder scanned the area for movement. Some drones were completely autonomous; others were assisted remotely by human agents. They were all designed to efficiently accomplish their mission.

  This one was equipped with a weapon system of two menacingly wide barrels mounted on either side of its body. It also had tazer capabilities for prisoners who were to be captured alive. Cam managed to lower the mirror without being detected. Leaning back so that the boulder continued to shield him, he knocked an arrow and released it toward the cliff face above and to the right. It hit a spot of soil on a narrow ledge about fifty feet up, upon which rested several loose rocks. The sound of the impact instantly got the drone’s attention. It rotated its whole body toward the cliff in one swift fluid motion just as a cascade of stones tumbled down.

  The rubble hit the ground close to the creeper, securing for Cam the distraction he needed. He jumped up and sprinted away, following the opposite cliff face as it curved around out of the direct sight of the drone. He was, however, almost instantly detected. The creeper spun back around toward him and immediately broke into a run, its legs working together in flawlessly terrifying precision. Cam knew better than to look back. The spectacle of the deadly machine bearing down in determined pursuit was enoug
h to paralyze seasoned soldiers with unforgiving fear.

  Rounding the rock face behind which Cam had disappeared, the drone stopped to resume its scan. Cam listened to the processors whir and hum from behind a nearby tree. It would not take long for the machine to figure out where he was. It stepped slowly forward, demonstrating how surprisingly noiselessly it could stalk its prey. It halted abruptly again.

  Cam once more took off running, trying to keep the tree between him and the drone’s field of vision. After only a second’s delay, the creeper commenced its pursuit. Cam was fast, but no match for the drone in a long stretch. He timed his approach, planted his right foot firmly and pushed off, propelling himself into the air. Landing precisely where he’d intended, he barely lost stride as he kept running, refusing to look back just yet.

  He veered off the trail and halted, momentarily hidden and watched the creeper stop with un-human precision exactly where he had started his jump. His heart fell. The machine’s leg joints tensed as it poised for the spring. With what appeared to be astonishingly little effort, the drone leapt from a completely stationary stance, clearing a good seven feet of ground. It had detected the pit, covered lightly by limbs and camouflaged with dirt and leaves. It would’ve fooled most men—had fooled plenty in Cam’s time.

  As far as Cam could tell, he only had one option left. The drone had yet to fire upon him. If it was here to kill, it would’ve have already begun to drop rounds in his general direction. The thought that he was wanted alive was not all together comforting. But it did mean he could still lead the drone in pursuit without the danger, he hoped, of being gunned down from behind.