Beaver2416 (Reviler's Affray)

by Thayer, Jeremy M.

  Beaver2416

  By

  Jeremy M. Thayer

  Copyright 2014-2015 Jeremy M. Thayer

  S2 E10

  Copyright © 2015 by Jeremy M. Thayer

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

  without the express written permission of the publisher

  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review, article, or fan fiction.

  “Beaver2416” and “Timmy2845” are trademarks of Crusadir Press

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Edition, 2015

  Crusadir Press

  Martin, TN 38237

  To my loving wife and two daughters—love you more now than ever.

  Prelude:

  The great conflict was over. All that was—had been seemingly laid waste. What existed was the slave brands of wretchedness and downtrodden servitude. Man had forgotten his freedom, in so much that bondage became safety and subjection had become serenity.

  The creation of God had lost his way.

  The Bible is treacherous--read the faded holographic poster outside of the Perpetua motors building. The weather-warn notice depicted a man holding a book, and his hand rotting away from its hidden, acidic contents. It listed at the bottom: A reward of 50,000 electronic goldpence for information leading to the apprehension and indisolve of the parties engaged. There were at least a thousand of these old bits of propaganda still spread throughout New Judah. They were now dated--like the laughable fallout shelter signs at the Archive of Fact from the Twentieth century. Yet, unlike the threat of a mid-ancient nuclear attack; these glowing warnings still held a touch of modern urgency.

  Could the Revilers still exist? Beaver2416 casually thought, as he jockeyed for a position on the transport going towards his domicile. The Revilers, as they were derogatorily labeled; were seemingly all gone. If a remnant of their kind existed, they were drove far underground long ago. The Academy long forbade their presence. With sadistic perpetuation, they instructed everyone from their youth up that these Revilers were evil terrorists, who hated all goodness and became traitors to the Edict.

  The Edict is our life, our cause for living--All I am, for the Great Master.

  Beaver2416 (or just Beaver for short) was one of the lucky ones. His state-issued workjob was greatly desired, among the diverse populous. Many in his prefecture had Acad-issued workjobs in the cavernous void of Tom Bossley. Which was a Cuprous Oxide mining outfit that was more like a slave graveyard. He became selected for his coveted position at Perpetua, because he was the only one in his prefecture that could pass the cognitive dissonance test. Beaver seemingly had no conscience at all--no empathy. He was the quintessential sociopath, perfect for the task at hand--a Hachiman.

  A modern Hachiman, unlike the heroic fables of old; was nothing more than a thug--a hit man of the ancient world. Beaver’s workjob was to enforce the rules of the Perpetua corporation, which was just another arm of the totalitarian ruling Academy. Beaver tortured and sent people to the torturers for not meeting work demands. He decapitated thieves, wanting nothing but food, and crippled able-bodied souls, for speaking out of line. He was a great man spoken of throughout the halls of the Catholic Parliament.

  The Catholic Parliament was an Academy-wide judgecourt designed to hold mock trials and condemn the guiltless. Rumored among the populous, in the former time the Catholics were known as something called religious. Yet, no sign of religion or piety could be found today, other than their worship of the Great Master. And with that worship--came the constant shedding of innocent blood. Beaver outwardly radiated with pride every time he caused someone to die in the courts. He called it his sacred duty to the Great Master. Subordinates--he labeled them.

  In Beaver’s mind, all were traitors who defied the Edict, while he was working and in public. But, behind closed doors--he honestly couldn’t care less. He learned long ago an inner constitutional amendment--To survive … adapt. In his extreme youth, he witnessed the murder of his parents by the Academy. The official court charge was treason and sedition, but Beaver knew deep in his hardened heart, it was because they believed in someone called Jesus. Who this Jesus was and what he did, he had never figured out.

  The Academy gave him a new name of Beaver2416, and told him it was his divine name endowed by the Great Master. He was later, put in a reformer’s camp where he was daily fed a helping of propaganda and lies. It consisted of an every light drudgery of repeating phrases and demonstrative actions honoring the Academy. The technique is Love / Master--which was known to the former time as cultic brainwashing. However, no matter how much they drove into his head, he could always separate. His own sociopathy had protected Beaver from the onslaught of untruth. He was a chimera of mental duality--where in one mind was the hatred for the Revilers, and in the other was his personal hatred for the Great Master. This inner confidentiality delighted him greatly. It was to him like a diamond or a pot of gold hidden from view. This was his secret and no one, not even the Academy or the Catholic Parliament could ever take it away.

  In truth, Beaver hated the Academy. His violent sociopathic ways were in direct proportion of his seething rage towards the Great Master. He radiated with pride at the deaths of the innocent, only to seem like he was loyal. With his cunning he had adapted, he had blended in for his own sake and not anyone else. He did his workjob well for his own survival, and he didn’t care who hurt in the process. In the ancient world, Beaver would have been a closet hypocrite.

  “Beaver!” someone shouted from the trackstreet. It was Timmy2845.

  He carefully leaped unto the slow moving transport.

  “Almost missed it!” he said in a huff.

  Timmy (or Tim for short) worked at the Archive of Fact as a propagator. The propagators--known far and wide for their loyalty to the Academy; are in place to hide information from the populous. It is said of them, that they would eat their own children if the Great Master willed it to be so. Their brand of truth was whatever made the Academy look righteous, and anyone that opposes them look evil.

  On a daily basis, the propagators would comb through mountains of ancient artifacts, hole-ridden paper books, and electronic media. This was to filter out what stood in accordance with the Edict and destroy anything that seemed critical against it. In the ancient world, it seemed that they destroyed billions of defunct American dollars in valuables every day. To the Academy though, the suppression of questioning and creative thought were more valuable than gold. As long as the population knew no better, they would continue following the Great Master like blind sheep. Timmy however, just like Beaver; had fooled them all.

  “I watched them destroy a Gaming Console today! Did you hear me?! A GAME CONSOLE!” Timmy spoke to Beaver with his usual candor.

  “It even had a cartridge still attached! I wanted to just murder someone!”

  Beaver just nodded, because he hadn’t a singular clue as to what a Game console even was.

  “I just hate it when they don’t even consult me! They always think, if it has a circuit board and you have to plug it in, then it must be against the Edict! Worthless heathens!”

  Timmy made it a habit to speak loud in public. Many times his conversations would be worthy of the torturers, or even an infusion which lead to emanate death. Of course, if they could only understand what it even was, that he was talking about.

  “Last week, they destroyed a museum quality Coffee Maker! Now … we both know that coffee beans have been extinct since the chemocides of the Great Conflict, but it was still museum worthy …”

  “Coffee …” Beaver spoke to himself.

&
nbsp; His mind suddenly flooded with images of his parents laughing while surrounding a yellowed machine that spurted its brown liquid. The adults were talking and drinking from strange glasses. They were happy, like from another time and place.

  “They had coffee. I remember them drinking it …” Beaver said, in revelation.

  “What was that?” Timmy interrupted.

  “I just remember my parents drinking coffee … that’s all.”

  “I know—remember, I was there.”

  To explain, Timmy2845 was known as James Matthews before the Academy came. They did the same to his parents in the same place, on the same day that they had done to Beaver’s. In fact, their parents knew each other and would meet frequently in a place they called The Church. It was a hidden, underground munitions bunker abandoned far before the Great Conflict. It was used in the mid-ancient war of the Axis and the Allies, as it is now known.

  For Beaver, this church held a very horrible memory of his parent’s murder, one of his only really vivid memories of the place. Yet for Tim, it held vivid memories of something he called preaching and praise. Who or what they were, only Tim knew. According to the measure of the ancient time Tim, then known as James, was about ten earth years old when the Academy took him and Beaver away. Beaver, however was only about five. While Tim knew more about the past, Beaver could only see glimpses and images. Tim fully experienced what happened there, while Beaver only consciously knew what had happened to it.

  “It was at the Church…” Tim whispered gently, as if his words were secret plans hidden from the enemy.

  Beaver lightly nodded in acknowledgement trying not to draw attention to himself.

  Many ancient terms had faded from the psyche of the population over the ages. You could openly say Hymn, communion, repentance, baptism, or even Halleluiah if you knew what it meant, and no one would have a clue as to what you were saying. However, if you said church or bible out loud in public, a ninety-one percent chance assured that you were going to die.

  The transport warbled to a halt. Many people got off at the trackstop and only a handful entered the Kino-magnetic driven, covered platform.

  “Nobles make me vomit!” Tim sharply interjected.

  The small group that entered was a mutated caravan of altered beings known as Nobles for short. Their slang title, named after the archaic nuclear disaster of Chernobyl; paled in comparison to the plagues of the twenty-second century. The Nobles were just like everyone else before the Great Conflict, but they fell victim to the chemocides and the nuclear fallout assaults … and survived.

  It’s said among the populous, “they suffered a fate worse than death … by living.”

  The bombardment of evil chemistry had left them chemically burned and discolored. Their facial features were greatly altered as well. Their eyes and mouths drooped to one side, caused by frequent strokes and seizures. The Academy herded them all like cattle, and like the lepers of history; they were forbidden to intermingle with those deemed clean. Their progeny suffered the same conditions as well, although from generation to generation their horrible symptoms decreased in severity. It was only about two par-spans ago that the Academy let certain ones of their kind begin to intermingle with the clean. Most commonly, they were used for less desirable civil duties like sanitation and pest extermination.

  “Calm down Timmy and watch your mouth! You could have been one of them too.” Beaver said with authority.

  He always had somewhat of a respect for the Nobles. Why … he didn’t really know. He didn’t really care for anyone. Timmy2845 was his only friend, and his workjob certainly left him as a feared person rather than liked. But, somewhere in his sociopathic heart, he actually pitied and had empathy towards the Nobles. One of them looked in their direction and nodded with salutation. Beaver smiled and nodded as well.

  “Your teeth are as yellow as their skin …” Tim snickered to himself.

  Beaver’s smile quickly left him.

  “Owww! What was that for?” Timmy said, grabbing his forearm in pain.

  “I heard you …” Beaver said in a huff, with his eyes still affixed upon the Nobles.

  Soon, the transport started up again and began moving slowly down the trackstreet. As they travelled, the duo sat in silence with looks of great concentration. They were still contemplating the presence of the Noble workers.

  “Do you think they will ever flush it all out? I mean--all of the sickness and bad chemicals?” Timmy said inquisitively in a rare serious tone, “How many generations can they go through before things get better?”

  “I don’t know … I just don’t know.” Beaver interjected with a solemn frown.

  As they sat pondering, the transport continued its forward motion towards New Judah’s central hub. The leading members of the Academy named it The Arcade because of its surviving Twentieth century Art Deco style architecture with covered walkways and black lacquered tiling. Today, it is a crowded area of Elite business and commerce abuzz with people and activity; much like the Wall Street of the former time. However, among the commoners; it is known as Dead End. This is because of the unholy arena that still looms over everything, like an unwanted thief wanting only to kill and destroy.

  This is the home of the Abstersion.

  This was the place where only a par-deca ago, the mass executions were carried out, and hundreds of thousands of innocents were herded like cattle and murdered. In each case, it was for what the ruling Academy cited as crimes against man. But Beaver and Timmy always knew it was the same cause their parents died for--a perpetual martyrdom for someone named Jesus. It is said that the field is still stained red, from the blood of the multitude and on a dark night if you listen hard enough, you can still hear the cries.

  In the former time, the crumbing arena was a place of sport--football they called it. However, today it is off-limits to everyone except Elites, or in other words--upper Academy members. It is said that the only reason they do not tear it down, with its unkempt and crumbling façade; is because it is a constant reminder of death to all who defy the Great Master. As well as a trophy of arrogance and pride for the Academy.

  “Heathen!” Tim said with a scowl, as he looked at the arena.

  “Yes … Heathen.” Beaver said, with an equal derogatory tone.

  This was their secret word for everything wrong in the world. They used it frequently, much like the reprobates of old used F-words and S-words. To the rest of the population, it was nothing more than a nonsensical grouping of an antiquated stupidity, a nothingword. But to Tim and Beaver, it was a word they both knew from their past. It was a word that they had heard frequently, in the midst of the atmosphere of the smell of coffee and the preaching of sermons. They knew it was a disgusting word--an evil word, once written towards evil people and their evil deeds. It was what they both thought of the Academy and their Great Master. It was all of their hidden feelings, their inner desire, and their hatred towards their unrepentant captors.

  “HEATHEN!” they shouted in unison.

  The patrons on the transport didn’t even flinch or look in their direction. No one, not even the Academy Elites knew what their hidden word actually meant. If they ever did, most undoubtedly; they would be destroyed like those poor souls, found languishing during the Abstersion. After their outburst of hatred, the two sat in quiet solitude as they left the area. It was a kind of moment of silence for the fallen that they ceremonially performed each day.

  Soon, the transport locomoted over the hill leading away from the stadium, crossed several bridges, and slowly descended into Stowelowly. This was a wretched section of New Judah known far and wide for its disease and its ghettos. Seemingly destitute mothers and their children could be seen, malnourished and dressed in rags, lining each and every decaying corridor. The equally vagrant men spent each day, trying to peddle their blighted wares to the passing transports and catering to the perverse, would-be tourists; looking for prostitutes, contraband, or ancient drugs. On certain days, everyone wou
ld migrate to the center of the area to further carry out their brand of commerce. This was because, in the center there was an old covered railroad station, they used for what was called the Bazaar.

  The entire prefecture was named accordingly by the Academy, based upon an ancient, crumbling paper book at the Archive of fact; about slaves and life among the lowly. The book was severely incomplete with only a few pages that were capable of surviving digitization, and a badly worn cover consisting only of the two legible words Stowe and lowly. What the Academy Elites could digest from the incomplete text of the book, with its somber theme and wretchedness; sounded much like the place called Humbletown. So upon a whim, they changed the name of the prefecture in ceremonial fashion from Humbletown to Stowelowly, in honor of the surviving words on the book’s cover.

  Truly, like the slaves of the Nineteenth century Americans; the people who dwell in Stowelowly were held with invisible chains, isolated, and made unable to leave. This is because their presence in any other part of New Judah, was deemed against the Edict. If they left, it would call for their immediate eradication. How this could be is, each one had embedded into their wrist, a traceable marker known as a Bio-mark. They could literally be tracked with a simple Biometric Positioning scan put forth from any roving sentry or Acad-trooper. So simply, for the wretched of New Judah--it was Stowelowly or death.

  Everyone in the Academy had a Bio-mark, even Beaver and Timmy. They too could be tracked with such simple measures, however the Academy was more lenient with Selects and Elites. As long as they were in their required places at the pre-determined times, the Academy usually turned a blind eye to where they went. Primarily, Bio-marks for Selects and Elites were used for verification and commerce. However, the kind of commerce that slowly approached, annoyed them both greatly.

  “Oh Look! Bobble is selling again!” Timmy said in a jovial tone, “You want to get off so you can get one of his tasty gimp pies? Ha!”