Egregoros

THE LAST DAYS OF THE OLD WORLD

A few years ago I compiled a collection of sci-fi short stories. The idea was to publish them and donate all the proceeds to the White Art Collective, but the prospective publisher disappeared from the face of the Earth and the collective turned out to rest on a single guy's efforts and ceased to exist as well, so it was never published. I loved the stories, though, and it's a shame that very few people have read them, so I decided to post them here so at least you guys can enjoy them. I'll post all of them under this post bit by bit.

Sun Bright

By Jack Carter

The black shapes raced after him, shadows consuming everything behind them as he ran towards the door at the end. He opened it in a rush, panting, and the blinding light that poured in was so powerful that it threw him backwards.

Robert woke up shuddering. Again the same nightmare. He waited for his eyes to adjust and slid his legs over his bunk, checking the slide-bolts on the door and window. His knee ached, the old injury plaguing him, a reminder to always be wary. The small precautions were a necessity he couldn't afford to ignore. Everything since his exile became a matter of survival, even a trivial slip could cost him his life.

It amazed him how quickly he'd adapted to his new circumstances. Satisfied that everything was as it should be, he relaxed a little and switched on the table lamp. Nothing happened. Foxwood had become an increasingly dangerous place for lateblood exiles like him, especially since the Abbott Laws had been recently amended. It was time to move on.

He checked the time: five thirty in the morning, so it was probably still just the regular rolling blackouts. It reminded him to check his power pack supply, but first he decided to use a bit of his remaining battery charge to check his messages and trawl for news on the net, so he keyed in a stolen security code. Finding a bit of truth was getting harder every day as his isolation turned his knowledge of exile code phrases staler every day. Maybe that’s why his queries—posted in code on public groups—went unanswered again.

The ongoing search for his parents had so far been fruitless. He was approaching his sixth year in exile with no idea if they were still alive. All he could do was continue to search, and ask. Separation of exiles from their old life was common government practice designed to demoralize the indigenous people even further, and it worked. Attempting to openly contact loved ones came at a massive penalty.

He switched to the local news. CitiSafe, busy bees that they were when motivated, had already cleared three exile zones—one of which right on the outskirts of Foxwood. No details other than the number of arrests were given, but he wasn’t surprised, they never mentioned the dead and maimed on the news unless they were from the government or their lackeys. He was sure that those arrested were already being “interrogated”, and he shuddered at the memory of his own run in with the red-jacketed thugs.

The national news kicked in over his local feed before he could even finish reading the article, as they were wont to do, and the headline covered the entire screen:

ROGUE LATEBLOODS THE NEWEST THREAT TO BLAIR

Prime minister Blair promised rogue latebloods responsible for violent raids on government warehouses and other supply stations would meet the full force of law.

Robert scoffed. Nothing new there, they were a favourite bogeyman. He skimmed over the article anyway, skipping the supposed footage of lateblood violence. The last paragraph had “tips” for colonisers that boiled down to “conform and follow every order from your betters”. Very helpful. He closed the comm unit down and turned his attention to his supplies. He needed a desperate restock, which meant making the circuit of official kiosks, where he knew he wouldn’t find much, and then trying the clandestine markets.

He wrote down his list, knowing he’d be lucky if he managed to find at least half of what he needed. He quickly washed, dressed, fastened his concealed armour—perfectly legal back when he had purchased it, but not anymore—and belt. He risked the labor camps if he was caught wearing it, but figured that any CitiSafe thug who got close enough to notice would have taken an interest in him anyway, so it ultimately didn’t matter; better to be able to shrug off a lowlife’s shank. Putting on his coat and backpack, he grabbed his hiking stick and walked out the door.

It was seven in the morning and other exiles were already taking advantage of their day. There were only a few hours in which to conduct business: at mid-day everything shut down, including the official armoured kiosks, no exceptions. Even though this was a mostly lateblood zone it wasn’t safe, especially after the latest update to the Abbott Laws. More criminals from other areas would have poured in knowing that CitiSafe would look even harder the other way, more people would be willing to snitch hoping for a reward.

Robert couldn't blame the desperate for taking blood coin, but there were other ways to make a living. Someone had to keep the infrastructure running, after all, and it certainly wouldn’t be Blair’s thugs or their diversity activist minions.

A clear day turned to gunmetal grey as Robert approached the kiosk. The man behind the bulletproof window watched Robert with a suspicious eye—he wore the armband of Blair's party, a fist holding a silver claymore against a field of black and red. Robert couldn’t help but cringe a little at the sight. He begrudged spending his credits here, but if his money never went through the official channels the authorities would soon investigate.

Robert showed the man his identification card. The attendant took the biometric card between his thumb and forefinger as though he suspected it disease ridden. It took a second for the computer to confirm the identification card was genuine.

“Two power packs please,” Robert said as the card was scanned.

The attendant took the items from a hidden shelf and wordlessly dropped them on the counter top. He scanned the card again, this time tapping the key pad to deduct payment. Robert took the power packs and his card, slipping them into his pocket. He thanked the attendant and as he made his way to the Poseidon Line Cafe he became aware of a man, hood pulled down to obscure his face, following him, trying hard to appear as if he were casually loitering. Robert increased his pace, intending to use the back of the cafe to escape. The man, quicker than Robert anticipated, closed the gap, reached out his hand and gripped Robert's left shoulder. Robert pivoted away to the right, sideswiped his hiking stick at the man's ankle, and brought him to the ground. He pressed the hiking stick to the back of the man's neck as people pretending not to notice the altercation hurried by. The man struggled to get up, and Robert increased the pressure.

"Wrong day for your kind of business, friend, " Robert hissed.

"S-s-sun," the man stuttered then gulped air and said, "sun… bright."

Robert narrowed his eyes, "where did you hear those words?"

The man coughing and gasping finally managed, "your dad."

"My… Where is he, what have you done?"

"Nothing, he sent me to fetch you. It's me, Henry."

Robert removed the stick from the man's neck. Henry rolled onto his back and removed his hood.

"Bloody hell, you idiot, why didn't you just call out!?"

"I'm supposed to be doing this on the quiet," he said grimacing as he rubbed at his ankle.

"How did that work out for you?"

"Ha, bloody, ha!" Henry said struggling to regain his composure.

"Where's my dad, is he all right? What's going on?"

Henry's face flushed red and Robert could see a bruise forming on his chin. Robert helped his friend to his feet, and Henry winced as he put all his weight on his own legs. He wiped away a trickle of blood from his chin with his sleeve.

"I'll explain everything but we need to go now,” he said. "Damn, that hurt, Robert. Come on, follow me."

"Sorry, I thought you were trying to mug me."

Henry waved away the apology. "Never mind all that, let's keep moving."

Robert followed Henry past the café. They turned right, into an alleyway between two houses which backed onto a pair of disused derelict backyards. Henry ducked into one of the yards and into the house it belonged to. He walked through the gap where a door used to be, to a kitchen void of any fixtures or fittings, which in turn led to a spacious hallway and a staircase missing its banister. Henry opened the front door—the husk of Johnson Memorial Park was directly in front of them, across from the empty street, where a battered old van awaited. Henry opened the side door and stepped in, followed by Robert, who closed the door behind him.

"Don't worry too much if we're stopped, there's a couple of new id's in the glove box. I'll be taking mostly back routes so we shouldn't have that kind of trouble," Henry said. "Better to have it and all that."

As they drove away, Robert wondered what the decaying and pockmarked houses of the once affluent neighborhood would have looked like when they were new—when the world hadn't imploded into an upside down twisted caricature.

"You've kept watch on the message boards and news, right?" Henry asked.

"Yes, every day," Robert said.

"Well you know about the Abbott Laws update?"

"Yes, I know it's to win votes, as if Blair needs to worry about that!"

"Exactly. But this year he's taken with him a larger entourage than normal. He's trying to step up trade with the European Federation,” Henry explained. “He thinks it will be his way back into the EF. So he's taken a lot of CitiSafe security with him as well as ministers and their families, to parade the kind of support he claims he has. It's the usual circus, just bigger. In the meantime the change in the Abbott Laws means we have the best chance to move as many exiles to safety as we can.”

“CitiSafe is a massive force.”

Henry shrugged. "They’ll be spread too thin. They're going to rely on the activist nutters from Never Again and Voice One, plus some criminal gangs, to clear the exile zones. These scumbags are in for a surprise, let me tell you." Henry's smile widened, "we're finally ready! We have our guys already inside just waiting to evacuate people."

"So that's why you were in Foxwood?"

"Yep."

[continues]

"That's a big operation," Robert said. “That's why the big silence all these years too."

"Yep, well that and we had to flush out the rats. Everybody is ready. We might not get a better chance.”

"Hang on how does the law change help?"

"Blair believes the threat of his proxy army, his mobs, are enough to make people compliant. He thinks it'll be another Cold October. Not this time around! We have the numbers, more than enough to do the job," Henry said.

Robert wondered if that could be true. The surprise raids on ordinary people back in October of 22 caught the public unawares. Albion Patriots did their best to get the warning out, but most of the public refused to even acknowledge them. Facts didn’t matter, the population was too comfortable with the regime and wouldn't even entertain the notion that organisations like New Action Pride harbored such extreme hatred that so easily turned to violence.

In the end, these types remained ignorant to their last breath, killed in their homes or dragged out into the street to a waiting, baying, bloodthirsty mob. Few escaped the coordinated attacks. Running battles were fought in the street by those whose spirit wasn't yet totally broken, but these people, having denied it to the last moment, found themselves in a sudden nightmare they weren't prepared for.

In the aftermath, reports of hundreds of deaths circulated for a while, but were soon snuffed out. The true cost of orchestrated activist violence numbered in the thousands of lives and millions in old coin, but officialdom never admitted to those numbers. The establishment made a big noise about investigations, but of course, nothing came of them.

Throughout the rest of that year and beyond the Cold October massacre became another lie used as a cosh to browbeat the indigenous peoples into compliance. It was used as propaganda by the Blair regime at every opportunity, the narrative swiftly re-written to flip the sides and used as a reminder to all that “White supremacy” was the true terror and could not be tolerated.

It seemed as though the drive was endless. Robert figured they'd been on the road for a good few hours when Henry turned into the shell of an old apartment block. "Here we are," he said.

"Where’s ‘here’?" Robert said.

"Home sweet hideaway." Henry beamed. He jumped out of the van.

"Follow me," Henry said and led the way to the rear of the building.

“Bramble, grass, trees and mud,” Robert said looking around him. “What am I supposed to be looking at?"

Henry grinned. “Step back a couple of paces,” he said, then crouched and tugged at a patch of grass. He rolled the grass as though it was a rug in a living room to reveal an iron grid.

"Clever eh?" Henry said. "Indistinguishable from the real thing."

He inserted a barrel shaped key into a recessed lock and lifted the grate revealing a stairwell. “Home sweet safehouse. Go down these stairs, press the panel in front of you and I'll join you in a minute.”

Robert followed the instructions while Henry put the camouflage back in place and locked the grate behind them. The panel on the wall opened up to a well lit but plain concreted area. It looked like the sort of car park you’d find underneath a hotel.

"This place is quite brilliant,” Henry declared pressing another panel which locked the formidable looking doors behind them.

"People live in these?" The large space held solid-looking structures, arranged on either side in groups of five.

"These are a job lot of bunkers made from moulds of reinforced steel. You wouldn't know it though. They are ready and waiting for soon to be former exiles."

"A lot better than some run down, half-demolished house, that's for sure," Robert said.

"We'll be able to keep our people a lot safer than we ever could above ground," Henry said. "Here we have food, water, gardens of a fashion and supplies. Which reminds me," he said grinning, "those banquets our friend Blair puts on while most of his own people starve, well most of the produce is bought from us. He doesn't know that, obviously."

"You're joking?"

"Nope. The dopey bastards help us a lot in their own way," Henry chuckled. "Come on, through these doors is where the magic happens." He threw open another set of doors.

This area was sectioned off in prefabricated oblong units. Robert recognised the structures from building sites. There was a sort of organised rush about the place, a bit like a factory floor.

"This is the beating heart, " Henry said. "Here we collate information, distribute it and send it out into the world. We also host datacasts—which are new for us, still testing that out."

"This is amazing!"

"We also have engineers and designers, mechanics, tech heads, you name it. There's a manufacturing station for spares, tools and other parts we need as well as a trade goods department. It's how we finance ourselves."

"You get all your funding from this type of work?" Robert asked.

"Yes, mostly through our own networks. And the food, of course."

"In all the years I've known you, you didn't mention this."

"I didn't know about this until last year," Henry said. "Then a few months ago after Blair announced his plans for re-election I was put in charge of this place."

"You run all this?"

"Well, try not to look too surprised."

"So, what about everyone else, the old guard, are they in other safehouses?"

"Chapter leaders are in the exile zones."

"All of them?"

"Yes, as far as I know. Let’s get to my office."

Henry's office was another converted cabin. Boxes and stacks of various supplies—on shelves and piled where space could be found—made it look more like a stock room. Robert took off his pack and joined Henry at his desk. "There's a few things you need to know."

"Just tell me what is going on."

“After you were all exiled there was a big restructure in the A.P. chapters. They found out that reclamation of property was targeted at our members, especially those they suspected of being chapter leaders. That’s why you lost your home.”

"They're heads of chapter?"

"They have been since before we were born," Henry said.

Robert scratched his head, "all this time."

"Your parents eventually met up again. They were a big part of the reason why this new plan was put together, but they knew it would be a slow process. Remember I spoke about flushing rats out?"

"Yes."

"A few members of the patriots turned out to be pets of West Watch."

"How the hell did that happen?"

"These people weren't the usual grasses, they all had authentic documents."

"Then what?"

"A bunch of our people were arrested and you know how that goes. Codes were changed, old passphrases abandoned. Online chatter died down as it became too dangerous. That’s the reason why no one contacted you before now."

"I wondered what was going on. Where are my parents now?"

"In another exile zone, ready to evacuate people," Henry said.

"Along with all the old guard, leaving a new guard in their stead."

"Exactly," Henry said. "Your father will have to fill you in on their reasons when you speak to him."

"So, why am I here? Why not get me out the same way as the other exiles?"

"That was a request from your parents."

His parents were alive! After all these years searching, his parents were alive! He should be more joyful than he felt, but all he could do was think back to the day he and his family were exiled, when his father refused to hand over their home to the state. He knew even then that they had contacts in the Albion Patriots, and resented a little that nothing was done to help them. Now he knew that they were working to save much more than one home. Now it made sense.

"Robert, are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm fine," Robert said.

"I know this is a lot to take in," Henry said.

"It’s just that today didn’t turn out as I expected at all," Robert said after a long pause.

"I'll leave you to your thoughts and send someone to fetch you later. For now you can go for a wander or I can get you some food if you're hungry."

"Thank you, but not yet. I'd like to sit here for awhile."

"Right then, I'll see you again soon." Henry left his friend with his thoughts. The best he had hoped for this day was to get as far away from Foxwood as possible, and now he had no other thoughts but wanting to speak to his parents. He rubbed his eyes, feeling the day wash over him. He lay down on the floor, resting his head on his pack. So much he didn't know and so much more he wanted to know… eventually Robert closed his eyes and let sleep take him.

* * *

"Finally, the evacuees will be assessed tomorrow for any injuries or illnesses but for now we need to make them comfortable," Henry said. The final meeting before the evacuations was just a refresher for all concerned, little more than a formality as he knew every one was ready for their assigned tasks, but it never hurt to clarify things.

"Is there anything else?"

Head of admin raised his hand.

"Yes?"

"You've got something on your chin."

"Bloody comedian," Henry said. "Now if there's really nothing else?" There was no other business. "Right well good luck everyone."

The assembled filed out of the meeting room just as a man of a permanently hurried demeanour, which wasn't helped by a shock of unruly hair, knocked on the open door.

"Drust needs you in the comms room," the man said.

"Thanks Cosgrove, just a second," Henry said, placing his notes in the desk drawer.

"It's urgent," Cosgrove said. "CitiSafe have already made a move."

"What the hell?"

"After the Bridge North and Derby Moor evacuations began CitiSafe got wind of it."

"Right let's see what else is going on."

Henry walked through the comms room to the coordinator's station. The atmosphere was one of rushed activity as information was collated and exchanged.

[continues]