Beaver2416 (Reviler's Affray)

by Thayer, Jeremy M.

  “I FOUND IT!” Morgan yelled in jubilation.

  His frantic outburst, suddenly revealed their location.

  “GET THEM!” one of the troops shouted as they rushed forward.

  “Primary detonation – initiate.” the words followed the sound of a mid-ancient klaxon.

  All of a sudden, great explosions rocked the complex, where they were standing. Massive stones and plaster began to fall on top of them. Beaver could hear the sounds of death screams all around him. A massive wave of grey dust, filled the air, and agitated with the fury of a tornado. He felt the scourge like an electro-whip, lash against his face.

  Then … there was a sudden, calm silence. Beaver laid on the ground in the black surrounding, with the overwhelming feeling that his life had left him. All around was total darkness, without a speck of light to be found.

  In this euphoria of seeming nothingness, Beaver knew that he was dead.

  Chapter 17:

  Suddenly, a great light illuminated before his eyes. He thought that it must be the light of heaven coming into view. This was exactly as he was told throughout the words of Matthew’s book. As he tried hard to focus his eyes to catch a clear glimpse of glory, he quickly realized that miraculously he was still alive.

  It was the face of Verb-bot!

  It had loomed over him, and was holding up with mechanized strength a massive boulder.

  “RUN ISAIAH! RUN!!!” the robot shouted in his father’s voice.

  Instinctively, Beaver quickly crawled through the rubble, scrambling back in the direction of the shop entrance. After a short distance, he rapidly stood to his feet and ran with all of his might towards the hov-vator, he came down in.

  Beaver could see scattered lights that shone before him, leading him back. They swung back and forth from the initial shockwave. He knew that within ticts, more explosives would detonate and destroy the rest of the complex. Beaver ran with abandon at breakneck speed, back through the closet and into Morgan’s salvage.

  “Almost there …” Beaver huffed to himself.

  He could see in the distance the steely rust from the hov-vator’s opening. Within moments, like a mid-ancient gazelle; he leaped with a great heave onto the platform.

  “Secondary detonation–initiate” bellowed brokenly, from the remaining speakers.

  Beaver repeatedly slammed the red button.

  “COME ON! COME ON!”--Beaver yelled in frustration.

  The doors suddenly closed and the hov-vator began its warbling in ascent.

  Without warning, a great fury of rumblings, like the sheer power of a massive earthquake; rocked the sides of the platform. It unforgivingly knocked Beaver hard to the floor, as the greenish hue went dim around him. Beaver quickly covered his ears from the intense howling, that travelled up the ballistic tube. The lift’s motion, all of a sudden began to greatly slow down, to the point that it was barely moving. He anticipated with panic dread, that at any moment the platform would fall, and he would be consumed by the seismic revulsion beneath him. He laid there in the darkness holding his breath in terror,

  waiting…

  waiting…

  waiting…

  Then suddenly, the green lights re-illuminated and the hov-vator slowly returned to its normal speed.

  With this motion, Beaver released his hold of fatality upon his breath. With tears welling up, he was now broken without a single consolation. His heart pulsed with intense sorrow and suffering.

  “Morgan … NO!!!” Beaver said to himself, as he rolled back and forth on the transport’s floor in fetal captivity.

  He felt as if he were tainted, as an emulation of macabre ante mortem. Every life’s episode that he had ever experienced, seemingly always ended with the same resolution.

  “ALL THAT FOLLOWS ME IS DEATH!” He cried loudly with passion, as a flood of sadness gushed forth from his eyes.

  His family, Matthew, and now Morgan … Beaver was overwhelmed with intense emotion. He didn’t want to live anymore. He did not want to cast his eyes upon another day. He wanted to fall through the metal floor into the great void of collapsing finality--to be forgotten. He had come to point of absolute defeat, where no light could seemingly be reached. This was his nadir—his lowest point of lowest points. He wanted nothing more than to step off of the hov-vator to find a place to quickly end his miserable life.

  “WHY WAS I EVERY BORN?!” he throated raspily, being engulfed in a wash of sorrow.

  Rapidly the Hov-vator began to decelerate, nearing the shop above. As it did, Beaver clumsily regained his balance from the metal floor. He started to wipe away his tears as he finally stood, however his heart was completely broken. He was completely numb to all feeling, other than complete apathy towards his existence.

  Without warning, the braking mechanism engaged and the platform slowly stopped all motion.

  Beaver’s plan at this consequential moment in time—

  Was in one mind, the emotional:

  To end his life, however he could.

  And in the other, the logical:

  To somehow escape from New Judah, and join the others who had evacuated in time.

  But, his willpower and nerve to do either task was now gone. He felt as if his very existence and strength to cause action, bore nothing at all. Everything that he had hoped for and dreamed of, fell with rocky ceiling that was now greatly beneath him. He had lost all faith that anything good in this world, was there to be found. Beaver could not even lift his head to look forward, as the doors of the hov-vator began to open.

  Suddenly, Beaver felt a burning sensation in his right shoulder. It felt like the stabbing of an extinct viper, pressing down its fangs into his tender flesh. He jerked backward quickly in concussive suffering.

  “OWWWW!!!” Beaver yelled out in severe pain, as he grabbed his shoulder.

  He then looked up from his excruciating depression, to see several Acad-troops that were standing in wait.

  “Thanks for the Mag-trace--Idiot! It led us right here!” an Acad-major bellowed, as his dunner chimed with confirmation.

  Beaver’s eyes greatly widened, realizing what had just happened.

  He had just been infused!

  Beaver quickly pulled the steely, burr-catch out of his shoulder with an outcry of agony. The troops surrounding him began to clap their hands and laugh in mockery. He wobbled forward, as they shouted in congratulations. Each one gave Beaver back slaps and nudges, as he staggered. He slowly moved with all of his might towards the doorway, leading out to the bazaar. He could already feel the poison reacting in his body, greatly blurring his vision. As he fell out of the doorway, other troops near the Bazaar came rushing forward.

  “He’s been dunnered--let the fool go to the sar-rats and die.” The Major told with a tone of laughter.

  The rest of the troops standing idly by in the pathway, also began their uproar of mockery and laughter, as Beaver carefully stood and then reeled and swayed into the dusk. He was stumbling ahead into an unknown area of Stowelowly, which was to be his final place of ruination.

  Soon, he was out of all the troops’ sight. They had let him leave to die in Good Silence, as the Academy powers had pre-dictated. In the distance, he could hear more explosions. The troops were obviously destroying what was left of the partial hov-vator. This made Beaver sink even further into depression.

  Everything was now over.

  Everyone that he had ever loved and cared for was dead, and soon he would be too. As he mused upon his necrosis into nothingness, Beaver wandered into a section of Stowelowly that he had never been. The area was long abandoned by the Humbles, because of the high levels of toxicity lingering in the air.

  He looked up for a moment with swollen eyes to notice a decaying building with a whited, open door.

  This was to be it--his final resting place.

  It was seemingly welcoming him with the ancient siren’s call of death, as he could now barely see at all. He stumbled inside and peered as hard as he could at h
is accommodations. With his blinded gaze, he could only materialize scattered papers on the floor, a crumbling padded chair that fell victim to sar-rats, and a yellowed painting of a flower upon the molded wall. Beaver suddenly collapsed upon the concreted slab underneath him. Lying down, he could still make out the strokes of painting on the wall.

  Beaver suddenly laughed out loud, with a dampered sound because of his bulging lips and face. He remembered from the Archive of Fact, the variety of flower that was hanging.

  “A rose!” he mumbled to himself.

  “Such beauty to behold, in such a world of ugliness--” He again throated with great difficulty.

  Tears began to stream from his swollen eyes, realizing something that he had never experienced throughout all his days.

  “To smell a rose--it must be glorious.” He spoke breathlessly, with each tear dropping into the dust.

  To know the scent of a flower, was something he was never allowed to have. He also rapidly thought about all of the other simple freedoms that he had been denied throughout the spans of living with the Academy.

  To touch a tree …

  To feel a blade of grass …

  To taste the sensation of sugared cane upon his lips …

  To smell the salted air of the great seas …

  There was so much of life’s simplicity that was taken from him. He all of a sudden, came to the epiphany that living for the Edict was worse than death itself.

  “God … As I die, somehow let this free-willed rose upon the wall be my legacy.” He said, shutting his eyes and waiting for his disappearance.

  As he laid motionless waiting, Beaver then thought about all of the countless millions just like him. They all had been denied the same simplistic things throughout the spans--all for the cause of an ideology of technological slavery. Mindless victims brainwashed from birth into believing such horrible lies--for a false god. Progscreens and androids—Dunners and Edicts—these were the manacles of inhumanity. They were the very building blocks of the darkest of matter. They were evil—pure evil.

  The God that Morgan had told about, was a God of love and forgiveness. Peace and joy—mercy and reclamation—these were the tools meant for all humanity, regardless of status. The society of the Great Master had cast off such basic needs. They tossed them out like refuse. They had dismissed them all and their rooted conscience, for the worship of falsehoods and the security of prisons. Freedom had become safety. Hard work had become slavery. Dreams had become treasonous. And holiness had become stark familiarity and legalistic display--for a hologram!

  Truly, he knew that this was never meant to be.

  “If in a few ticts I am going to die--what about them?” Beaver said in deep contemplation, with his words reaching out to the heavens.

  “Why was I born and then given such hidden things--if I am to die without reason?” he throated with great soreness in his voice.

  Tears quickly flooded his eyes, as his heart was again broken beyond compare.

  “Jesus! Forgive me of my sins and make my life worth something … Not for my sake, but for all of them.” He loudly cried, writhing upon the floor.

  “There is no Great Master! Jesus … you are the Only God!” He cried out in desperation, “Let my existence be not to die … but to tell others! Let me live for your glory!”

  “Jesus is the LORD!

  Jesus is the LORD!

  Jesus is the LORD! …”

  --Beaver repeated frantically, just as his father and Matthew did before him.

  In that moment he truly did not want to die, but live for the sake of so many who languish in chains. He felt deep within, the desire to carry the truth that he had been given, to everyone that he could. As he repeated his adopted Raison d'être with a burden in his heart, something amazing began to happen.

  Suddenly, the wound in his shoulder began dripping. Each drop that was produced, fell to the concrete floor with a bellowing puff of smoke. It crackled and hissed as it began to blacken the slab below him. Beaver began crying like never before, as he realized—

  The dunner’s poison was retreating from his veins.

  He was overwhelmed with raw emotion, in so much that he could not utter a single word.

  After a few ticts, the puffs of smoke stopped and he began to drip hues of crimson.

  All at once, Beaver’s eyes shot open as wide as they could go. He shrieked a blood curdling scream in intense convulsion of pain. Beaver quickly sat up and cradled his arm, rocking upon the ground in torment. He looked down and could see an agglomeration of great swelling agony, moving slowly up his forearm towards the wound. It was very small, but to Beaver it felt like a mountainous tumor, devouring his flesh. He wailed and howled in throbbing excruciation, as the anomaly finally neared the place of the Dunner’s wound.

  It all happened in mere ticts, but it had felt like days of torture. He screamed at the top of his lungs, bending his elbow to flex his muscle. When he did, the growth burst forth from the wound with a gushing of blood. It quickly fell to the acidic contents below him, and began to dissolve in the blackened mire. With the welling of great pain, slowly beyond him, Beaver looked down into the acid. He quickly realized, that this was no random movement of a chance abnormality.

  It was his Bio-mark--being dissolved right in front of him!

  As he slowly recomposed himself from such intensity, Beaver felt a release like never before. All of the spans of misery were now behind him. He was no longer Beaver2416--an Academy prisoner. He was unlocked from their drudge of indentured servitude. He had no official identity, nor was he rich with the slave wages of Electronic Goldpence. His former self had been consumed, by the very poison that was to cause him to be destroyed. He was now emancipated from their fetters and shackles of technological slavery. He was a free man.

  “I will keep my promise … Jesus, I will keep my promise.” Beaver called, looking towards the ceiling with tears of joy.

  Without warning, the whited door quickly swung open. A shadowed figure stood in front of him in the darkness. Beaver shielded his face in fright, knowing that the troops had sent out Mar-bots. These hulking androids, had massive, rotating appendages that stood ready to decapitate anyone at a ticts notice. It stood there watching, as if it were scanning the room. Beaver held his breath and sat motionless, hoping that it would leave without finding him. Suddenly, the form dashed forward and engulfed him. The scattered rays of light that shone through the doorway, reviled its true form as the figure came closer.

  It was Bobble!

  “Praise God… you’re still alive! I heard you screaming and I thought the troops were torturing you …” Bobble said in a frantic tone, trying to help him to his feet.

  “I… I was infused. But they didn’t get me!” Beaver quietly stated, pointing at the blackened void upon the concrete.

  “You truly are Robert’s son …” Bobble quipped in wonderment.

  After a few moments of excitement, reality again reared its ugly head to Beaver.

  “Morgan’s dead …” Beaver whispered, still out of breath from his excruciating ordeal.

  “I know … some of the others told me what happened,”--Bobble said with a solemn candor—“… all the troops and the explosives.”

  “Verb-bot saved my life …” Beaver said, with tears flowing from his eyes.

  He again broke down, dropping to the floor in overwhelming emotion. He was limp and prostrated upon the floor, as if his skeletal frame had turned into neo-rubber. Bobble quickly heaved him back to his feet, and then slapped him hard across the face.

  “Enough Isaiah! Enough! You have much more than yourself to think about now!” he said with authority, shaking Beaver and peering into his eyes.

  Just then, Beaver thought about that name that Bobble used.

  Isaiah … That was the same name that Verb-bot said--he pondered.

  His mind was quickly awash with contemplation, searching for any nuance of that name in his memories. Suddenly, he had a recollection that
was deeply hidden, appear to his cerebellum of thought. It was something that was to be daily beaten out of him, by all of the years of Academy hardship.

  His father called him Isaiah--that was his true birth name.

  He said that it was the “name of a great prophet of the ancient world.”

  “You must live up to your name someday, Isaiah,” His father told in fleeting memory--“You were born for a powerful reason … you will lead them.”

  Quickly, his apparition of long ago dematerialized into nothingness.

  “FATHER! … I AM NOT A LEADER!” Beaver yelled out loud, in his fading mental delirium.

  “You are not going to be anything at all, if we don’t get out of here …”--Bobble hurriedly said, interrupting Beaver’s past reminiscence.

  This comment brought back a sense of logic to Beaver’s brain. Troops were everywhere--still scouring to find Bobble. They had to leave now, without any hesitation. Regardless, he now had a promise to keep, and he intended on fulfilling every word of it. He had lived his life for many spans in disguise, working for the Academy powers. He did so, only for his own selfishness and survival. Now, that Beaver2416 was dead; he was determined that he was going to live in freedom, for the sake of others. His past had dissolved before his eyes, and now he had to become someone else--someone much, much greater than before.

  With a hand grab from Bobble, he fully stood to his feet with a new found composure.

  “Ok … Ok … lead the way.”--he surrendered, with his hand outstretched.

  The two then wandered out of the whited door, arm in arm, into the blackness of the unknown dark.

  Chapter 18:

  “Were you followed? You are Bio-marked, remember?” Isaiah barked with a brotherly authority.

  “You know good and well, there isn’t an Acad presence for at least 400 miles from here!” Bobble snapped back.

  “A Mile-- Five Thousand Two hundred and Eighty feet--Right?” Isaiah said inquisitively.

  “Yes--you are still learning. Soon … you’ll know what a salsa is.” Bobble said with a laugh.