Beaver2416 (Reviler's Affray)

by Thayer, Jeremy M.

  --Tomorrow I will … or die trying.

  Chapter 9:

  As it was last Decision day, Beaver found his auto-straps loosened and the sleep vessel in its upright position. The sun’s rays, again were dancing upon the walls of the sleep chamber, through the small porthole window. These glistening sparks of color were seemingly beckoning him.

  “Decision day …” Beaver said to himself with a look of determination. This time he had awoken at least half a proc before the assigned get up. This light, he felt like jumping off the sleep vessel. This of course, before it descended at the pre-determined time, into its upright position. Simply put, Beaver2416 wanted to get it over with. His episodic quest had left him longing for an ending, with a slight cynicism. He wanted answers and he wanted them today.

  In that half a proc, he mapped out in his mind every step that he needed to take. The grab, just like the artifact’s placement behind the Lev-basin; had to be flawless. One misstep before leaving his home would hold death and worthlessness. The death part was obvious. A dunner’s blow to eradicate another insubordinate from Westbrook. However, the worthlessness part, is what worried Beaver the most. This small hope in a dusty mystery, had become Beaver’s raison d'etre. If there was a single misstep, his entire life’s existence would be in vain. He thought again about all of the well-wishers on the transport. This is whom, he had to do it for. He could no longer dwell in fleeting memories and images of former times.

  The past was just that--the past. He was the last of his kind. The last bunker dweller, who attended so-called church, with his father named Robert. He also had a friend named James Matthews that he played with as a child--who died in his arms. This was all he knew with assurance about his past. Whether all of the missing pieces would ever be put into this puzzle of his life, he didn’t know. However, what he did know was:

  This decision day, there was contraband behind his Lev-basin.

  He wanted to know what that contraband was, and how to use it against the Academy.

  If he didn’t retrieve it correctly, his past would never matter and his future would be non-existent.

  Beaver walked over to the receptacle and slowly put on a fresh oversuit. He then, slowly put on his shoes. With logical fear, he hesitated from stepping into the hallway. One step past the threshold and it all begins--he nervously thought. Even though it was Decision day, the house still had its many sensors and automation to detect any anomaly of unorthodoxy. I get only one shot, to do this right--Beaver rationalized. He looked down at his hammersack and carefully moved the clasp; making it easier to open quickly. He took a massive deep breath and held it tight. He then gasped another and another looking towards the hallway. Every breath he took was more rapid than the one before. It was as if he had become a mid-ancient locomotive, building up speed and massive torque. In the culmination of his entire life, everything led up to this one single crescendo of time.

  “For freedom …” Beaver whispered out loud, without regard.

  He then, took the first motion past the threshold of the sleep chamber.

  As he stepped from the sleep chamber, the Lev-basin quickly called stating “sanitation is recommended…” In silence, Beaver slowly entered the basintory. The Lev-basin quickly moved and latched unto his goodi-port. As it was planned, Beaver slowly moved his hand down and fully unclipped his hammersack. He could see it lying before him! This was his one moment in time, the only moment that mattered. With a nervous shake, he lunged his right hand forward and grasped his destiny in the dust.

  “Quit moving, Beaver2416 …” the Lev-basin suddenly demanded.

  Beaver closed his eyes in fright, paralyzed in place. He felt as if his heart had stopped and he had died for a few ticts. Frantically, he stood still waiting for the absolute moment to move his right hand back from the depths. Abruptly, the Autonomous bio-waste servant stopped its whirring and clicking. Everything to Beaver seemed as if it were traveling in slow motion.

  All at once, it then detached from his goodi-port, and began its short trek into the dusty corner. Beaver held tight the artifact, and with a mighty thrust of his hand he shoved it quickly into his hammersack. He then with sensational force, slammed the encasing shut in so much that it reverberated throughout the basintory. He then started taking very short breaths, to the point of almost hyperventilating and passing out in the floor.

  “UNACCEPTABLE!” the robot seemingly screamed in alert, as it quickly retreated from the dusty corner, with a beeline towards Beaver. As it moved, the Lev-basin produced a long spiked appendage, much like an ancient mace-like pernach; out of a hidden orifice. It radiated with visible electricity, as bluish shockwaves slid up and down its plat-steel.

  “WHAT WAS THAT SOUND?!” it demanded as it backed up Beaver into a corner, near the threshold of the basintory.

  Beaver was still breathing heavily and could hardly speak.

  Again, it demanded--“WHAT WAS THAT SOUND?!” as it pushed its electrified weapon almost against Beaver’s throat.

  In his panic, Beaver’s sociopathic mind could only produce one singular thought.

  “I … I … I … fa … fa … Farted … I Farted …” Beaver stated between his breaths.

  The Lev-basin again clicked and whirred, as it contemplated Beaver’s stuttering. Suddenly, the appendage retracted and the Lev-basin retreated again towards the dusty corner.

  “Sanitation is complete … please exit the basintory.” it sounded in its normal tone. Beaver quickly dropped to the floor. He felt as if all of his blood had left him, and he was existing with mere air. He shook with spasmodic fury, as he tried to regain his pulmonary composure.

  With one hand he began to fan himself, trying to breathe normally.

  “The floor is not for you … please exit promptly!” the Lev-basin shouted. Beaver knew that he had to start moving or it would alert the foot troops. He gained enough breath to crawl passed the threshold into the hall. When he crossed, the Lev-basin sounded “Thank you!” with a snarky attitude.

  As he was on all-fours in the hallway, he slowed down his breathing. He thought for sure that he was a dead man this time. After a few moments, Beaver seemingly grabbed unto the wall trying to regain his balance, and slowly stood to his feet. With new found footing, his breathing and mentality slowly returned to normalcy. As he stood idle, his former thoughts of all the innocent brainwashed followers returned. He looked down at his side-mounted hammersack.

  Could this be the answer to a new world?--He thought, as a look of determination returned to his visage. Suddenly his respiration quickened, like before in the sleep chamber. He was re-starting himself, much like a mid-ancient gasoline engine. When his mental RPM’s finally reached the right amount, he let go of his internal brakes and rapidly began to trot up the hallway. Swiftly, his trot became a full run, as he turned towards the threshold leading outside. He accelerated as fast as he could past the threshold. And with a mighty spring, he leaped into the air tumbling to the pathway below.

  “Made it …” Beaver vocalized with a slight breathlessness.

  A random passerby looked at Beaver as he was kneeling in the pathway.

  “Idiot!”--he said under his breath.

  Normally, such a misnomer would be a cause of rage on Beaver’s part. However, this light he did not care. Threats or torture … Cursing or death … he was determined regardless, to find out whatever was hidden in his hammersack.

  “Good light to you … SdotG.” Beaver returned in salutation.

  The man looked disgusted and just kept walking towards the transports, ignoring Beaver.

  All he could say to that display of snobbery, as he stood was “Heathen!”

  Beaver dusted himself off (however, the pathway is fully sanitized by hygien-bots every proc) and also began walking towards the transports.

  Even though it was Decision day, the transports were almost empty. The reason was, the workers were pushed to the brink to fulfill their quotas; due to the near end of the model span. Plus,
there were no major announcements of any new upgrades or technological advances to cause all of the mindless to frenzy, like a mid-ancient crowd on what was called Black Friday. (Who this Friday was or why he was considered Black, was still a measure of great debate among the foppish Elites) Beaver delighted in this fact that most were still in their sleep chambers. Whether this would work to his advantage or not, only time would tell. His plan was to get off in Stowelowly and find a place of solitude there. As Beaver saw it, the fewer that seen him leave the transport, the better.

  He snagged a clear, open place in the back of one of the passing transports. He made sure to do everything quickly and without alarm, as not to draw any sort of attention to himself. As he sat, he once again quickly glanced at the encasing, molded to the side of his oversuit. He could not wait to see what it actually was inside. For days his mind raced with speculation after speculation.

  Could it be plans for a weapon?--He casually thought. Or … instructions to break down the Academy’s electron-bank?--Or perhaps, a map leading him and others to freedom?”--His mind flooded with fleeting ideas.

  What if it’s nothing?--He awkwardly theorized.

  Beaver quickly shrugged off such a foolish notion. It had to be something. It must be something. He could not bear to resort to thoughts of anything otherwise, than it being the greatest something in his entire scarred life.

  As the transport buzzed past the electrified borderway, Beaver’s heart suddenly became somewhat giddy. He mused greatly, that this was his Christmas morning and he was soon to open a present. Even though, any religious celebration had been outlawed since the Great Conflict; he faintly remembered something called Christmas when he lived in the bunker. The only part of it he could grasp was receiving some crude gift, wrapped in discarded papers. What it was, he could not remember. Because of this closely held thought, Beaver deemed that it must be in the former time, when someone received a gift from someone else they were to say “Merry Christmas.” Why … he surely did not know.

  He smiled as he looked straight ahead. This was the first time in his life that he was filled with jubilation, upon the sight of the disease-filled area called Stowelowly. He had hoped to see Bobble this day, so he could question him discreetly about James. However, as Stowelowly materialized into view and the transport made its stop, Bobble was nowhere to be found.

  “This is his busiest day … where did that bum go!?”--Beaver rudely quipped to himself, as he arose from his seat and stepped off of the transport. He looked everywhere he could, but the bum was seemingly non-existent. Beaver could only huff a perturbed sigh, as he paused and re-evaluated his ultimate goal.

  Where to go?--He questioned within himself. This was the one thing that he could never figure out, in all of his daily contemplation. Wherever he decided to go had to be secluded, without anyone to see him enter or leave. Of course, Beaver knew that Stowelowly, with all of its ruin; would bear the greatest chance of holding such a place.

  But where?--He chastised in his mind, as he looked at all of the crumbling buildings. Humbles were seemingly shoved into every placeholder of each towering structure. He kept going over the mappings of his mind, looking for any roadside stop that held the right amount of anonymity. Suddenly, he had a stark revelation that left him with an inner feeling of sheer stupidity.

  “Of course! The dugout!” he audibly spoke, as he felt like hitting himself. In all of his turmoil and times of reason, he had forgotten about the one place that James ritually went to, each and every decision day.

  With his puzzle solved, he quickly dashed like a free-winded schoolboy, towards the general area of the dugout. As he neared, he took things much slower, considering each step and guarding himself from the sight of anyone or anything that could be watching. As he stealthily slunk closer, ever towards the door of the dugout, he thought about all of the times that he had come here with Tim. He always made him turn away, so he couldn’t see his key presses into the archaic locking system of the dugout’s door. With honor, Beaver never did turn around to see what sequence was entered. However, Timmy never considered that each press made a different electronic sound. Beaver didn’t know the numbers, but he certainly knew the tune that unlocked his secret hide-a-way. This thought made him giggle like a child, as he finally stood in front of the weathered door.

  The lock had a series of eight illuminated numbers. How they were still lit with an orange hue after all these years, was a great mystery to Beaver. Since he knew a mental tune and not the combination, he thought he should start in the middle with the tone of the four.

  Higher-- he thought as he pressed the six.

  Obviously, it was correct because it changed colors from Pale Orange to Lime Green.

  “Ok … a little lower than the four” he spoke out loud, as he pressed the three.

  As the tone sounded, it too was correct.

  “Low … low” he spoke as the one key was entered.

  “Correct! Now two more… high… high” he said in anticipation, as he pressed the eight key. However, his excitement quickly turned into grief as he could not remember the final note.

  Ok … six, three, one, eight … was it higher or lower than four?--He contemplated with intensity. It was merely one note away from the would-be end of his quest. He stared hard at the green illuminated numbers.

  “It would have to be different than what was already pressed … either two, five, or seven”--Beaver vocalized, as he peered hard at the electronic lock. He believed that the correct one was the lower one, the two. However, Beaver greatly hesitated. If he was wrong, he was afraid that some sort of alarm would sound.

  This was because of the mid-ancient home exhibit, he once saw in the Archive of Fact. It would sound an alarm, every time that someone would turn the brass door knob on the mock-up house and enter. Because of this, Beaver knew that the people of the former time had alarms on their buildings. How many was what he was most afraid of. And, if a building of such antiquity could have Orange and Green glowing numbers, it could also have an equally antiquated and working alarm system.

  “No turning back now ….” Beaver said to himself. He held his breath and closed his eyes, as he laid his finger against the numbered button two. He thought hard about the tune, that he had heard every decision day for spans. Suddenly, he let go of his breath and blurted out a resounding “two!” as he pressed the button.

  His fears were swept away in an instance of calm, as he could hear the snap of the electronic lock opening. The two was changed to Green. With his crisis averted, Beaver serenely opened his eyes. He then, slowly turned the half-broken handle. The door creaked open, as he was entering forbidden territory. This was the first time that he was going to see the inside of James’s storehouse. As he walked inside, the mid-ancient door closer, quickly snapped the door shut behind him. From all of the Decision days James had been here, Beaver knew that it must be filled with a literal museum of junk. He would jokingly tell James how he would one day suffer injury from an avalanche of all his acquired swag. However, upon entry Beaver was quickly confused and filled with disbelief.

  “EMPTY!” He shouted as he spun around the large entryway, looking for any nuance of Tim’s wares. Shaking his head, he quickly dashed from room to room. Like a mid-ancient police sting, he explored everything. He scanned every cabinet and closet. He furiously pulled on knobs and nails looking for something hidden. He moved faded pictures and dusty plaques, still hanging for life upon the yellowed walls. There was nothing--no residue or fragment of James Matthews and his many likes and dislikes to be found. Other than some mid-ancient medical supplies, the entire place had been thoroughly gutted.

  “WHAT?! NO! HOW CAN THIS BE?!” He shouted in anger.

  Beaver was LIVID!

  The sight of this blighted shame sent him into a rage. These were his friend’s … his only friend’s things, and they had been shamefully stolen from him. This was to Beaver, a great dishonor and desecration towards his fallen companion. In his anger, h
e began throwing scraps of garbage, tossing rocks and fallen boards, and smashing pictures and windows. He had become like an insane lunatic, grasping anything that was in his path.

  “HEATHEN!” he resonated with a primal scream.

  He didn’t care if all the Academy had heard him. He wanted revenge-- he wanted blood!

  Suddenly, there was the crunchy plink of broken glass behind him. Beaver quickly spun around to see a person, watching in another room. The figure was physically startled and began to run. Beaver sped towards this phantasm, like the rushing of a battle worn grav-tank upon the craggy wastelands. As he ran, the darkened figure began to materialize. It was Bobble!

  Trying to get away, the bum tripped upon the broken mess that Beaver left in his rage filled wake. He screamed in panic, as Beaver reached down and grabbed him by the throat. With a mighty heave, Beaver lifted him by the throat, high into the air and then slammed him against one of the wall’s faded pictures.

  “YOU WORTHLESS THIEF!!!” Beaver screamed as he began to squeeze tighter.

  “Wh … wh … where … where’s yo … your frien … your friend?” Bobble questioned in fear of losing his life.

  With the inner pulsing of hatred, Beaver moved within millits of Bobble’s face and snarled with absolute sadism—

  “JAMES IS DEAD … AND SO ARE YOU!”

  Without warning, Bobble’s demeanor changed drastically as tears welled up in his eyes with intensity.

  “Matthew is DEAD?! No NO!” Bobble throated in an accent that Beaver had never heard before. Beaver paused, as he tried to process what had just happened. Knowing deep down that Bobble’s tears were real, he abruptly loosed his grip.

  “I knew it! … I knew when you looked at me on the transport that something awful had happened! NO!” Bobble breathlessly stated between sobs. His face was filled with tears, in so much that they began to drop to the filth below. Beaver too, began to choke back his sorrows as he observed this lowly man, grieving in the dust.