The Birth of Dystopia

by A. Q. Moser

  The

  Birth

  Of

  Dystopia

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual locations or events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2015 by A. Q. Moser

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  ISBN-13: 978-1507830055

  Cover design by A. Q. Moser

  Manufactured in Canada

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  T

  h

  i

  s story contains over 100 secret messages and blends in a whodunit murder mystery.

  W

  h

  a

  t are the two last words of the secret messages?

  G

  o

  o

  d luck and enjoy.

  FOR MY FAMILY…

  Prologue

  “The experiment is a failure.” The lead scientist looked over at the Director.

  “No, I don’t see that way. It’s the selection of the subjects that is the failure. We need different subjects, younger ones, much younger. It’s time to sacrifice the few for the many.”

  “Begin Phase II.”

  Even though the lead scientist knew this experiment was pushing the boundaries of human emotions, he knew he had to comply and follow the orders. “Beginning Phase II.” His favourite t-shirt was drenched with perspiration but lay covered by his white lab coat.

  “Good luck, chosen ones.” The Director smiled, expecting encouraging results.

  * * *

  “Mommy, mommy,” I cried out from my dark bedroom.

  “Honey, are you okay?” My mom burst in to my rescue.

  I wrapped my arms around my mother. “I’m scared, mommy.”

  “Did you have another bad dream, honey?” My mother squeezed me tight.

  I nodded, wiping my tears on the shoulder of my mother. “I had a bad dream, mommy. Evil vampires in black suits were chasing me. It was really scary.”

  “Don’t worry honey. I’m here to protect you.” A selfless mother offered her most comforting words for her eight-year-old son—her only child.

  “They wanted my blood. They wanted to hurt me. There was nothing I could do. It was so real. It really hurt.” I shut my eyes, frightened by the ordeal.

  “You’re safe now. I’ll be here all night with you.” My mother lay down beside me.

  “Another nightmare,” my father concluded from the bedroom door. “That’s the third one over the past three nights. Something is wrong.” He looked on disappointed.

  My mother ignored my father and rocked me gently. She hoped I would fall back asleep. Once I awoke from a nightmare I would never fall back asleep no matter what. It was always the same thing; every night was disrupted by a nightmare.

  1

  Many a time I recalled that dreadful event, yet, remembering the exact date at this particular moment was nowhere in sight and mind. “As for today, it’s Wednesday, June fifth.”

  “Are you sure of today’s date Mister Taw?” the prosecutor asked in her usual, derogatory manner.

  “Yes, I am,” I replied, taking a firm stance. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  The prosecutor stood between the jury box and the witness stand, arms crossed and on the verge of tapping her foot. “Well, your previous statements sounded a little unusual,” she criticized. “I just wanted to ensure the people of the jury that you know what you are talking about. Is this a fair statement, Mister Taw?”

  The probing demands of the prosecutor troubled me greatly. I glimpsed down at my plain brown hat clenching it tight between my sweaty palms. The situation was out of my control but I needed to remain calm and focused. I was not on trial, so why was she aiming to portray me as being senile at the ripe age of twenty-eight? I came here to supply crucial information for her, but in turn, I incurred a barrage of questions against my character and my mental integrity. I was her key witness to begin with.

  Everyone has made mistakes. So I slipped up on the date of the accident. It was just one simple mistake. How could this be so detrimental to my credibility? All my responses were candid as prescribed during the pre-trial preparation. And yet, there were so many questions to answer. Every single one was like a thorn in my side. If only they could understand my pain and how my problems were beating me down. The shear dreariness from years of suffering was far more important than this trial.

  Set up like a courtroom, it seemed more like a maximum-security prison established to hold me in. My prison cell was an uncomfortable witness stand with little legroom to stretch out. My watch guard was the mean prosecutor. She fed off me like a leech intent on making me miserable.

  The legal system with all its legal mumble-jumble forced me to appear as a witness to a hit-and-run accident. It just so happened that the accused was a renowned movie actor.

  Over by the defendant’s desk, two security guards stood tall and proud before a soundproof glass shield—its purpose to divide the principle participants from the spectators and reduce the unwanted chatter. The courtroom was heaving with reporters staring impatiently at the celebrity on trial. The high ceilings and air conditioning could not control the high temperatures brought on by human perspiration. The notoriety of the public trial attracted publicity rather than justice.

  Nearly two hours, the members of the jury listened in on my testimony. The jury box, squished over to the right side of the courtroom, consisted of twelve jurors who were by far overdressed for their role in the proceedings. They seemed more interested in basking in the delusion of stardom than in the trial proceedings.

  I returned my attention to the prosecutor, or better described as my Shakespearean Brute. “No.”

  “Thank you Mister Taw,” the prosecutor announced disappointed. “Your honour I have no further questions at the moment for this witness.” She flung her hands in the air and proceeded to her desk to skim over some notes.

  Everything about the prosecutor meant trouble. She wore the typical power blue business skirt and white blouse with her pale brown hair—stern and unforgiving as the tight bun of hair she affixed on her head. Although her journey to becoming a prosecutor may have been difficult, treating others as she was treated only redeemed her spitefulness.

  The omnipotent judge observed it all from his throne—a throne decorated more for royalty with the hand-carved woodwork decked in a red oak colour. He had a look on his face that suggested that he was not an easy man to surprise. It was as if he had seen every legal tactic that could possibly be presented to him. The grey hair on his head was a testament to his experiences. His snug black robe, his hands resting comfortably over his rounded gut, he smiled as though enjoying his role at overseeing the proceedings.

  “Your honour, I have no questions for the witness,” one of the defence attorneys stated from the comfort of his seat. He adjusted the lapel of his dark indigo three-piece suit like he was more than satisfied by the outcome.

  Was anything achieved from my testimony? Was it a waste of time due to a missed date? A high profile actor was on trial for murder and it seemed everyone was stargazed except me. They were acting like serfs in the presence of nobility given the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to partake in a glorious festival.

  “You may step down now.” The judge smirked benevolently.

  Overcome by a wave of liberation, the judge’s words brought in a welcomed feeling of triumph all the way down to my soul. I was no longer obligated to be submissive to this inquisition into the nature of my well- being.

  The first thing I wanted to do was bolt f
or the exit at the other end of the courtroom. Instead I eased out of the chair, and with care and calculated strides, moved down the centre runway past the glass barrier. On the other side lay a nest of vulture-like reporters, eager to sink their claws in me. I continued my way out of the courtroom to a silent hallway. The glaring warmth of an awakening sun poured through the wide windows illuminating the marbled hallway.

  How wonderful it felt to be out of the clutches of the trial. All this craziness left me drained and homesick. I truly wished I had not been a part of this. I wished I had not seen the accident. This would be my last courtroom experience ever.

  Redefining the phrase media circus, this murder trial gave a whole new meaning to that expression. A rich and famous celebrity was implicated in a tragic accident. What better way to draw in a nation than to have a celebrity on the verge of failure? In the end, there were only two possible outcomes: either the great shall become greater, or worse, the great shall fall to obscurity.

  Every detail of the trial was pushed out to the populace like it was the end of the world. The media was absolutely out of control and people ate it up.

  “Take the back door over there if you want to avoid the media downstairs.” The security guard, dressed in his grey uniform, sluggishly pointed to an obscure door down the hallway.

  Escape, yes. I might have underestimated the power of the court system but there was no way the fourth-estate was going to hassle me for any inside scoops into the trial. I put on my plain brown hat and made my way towards obscurity—so I hoped.

  I pushed open the secret back door and peeked inside. There was a flight of lime-coloured stairs and an unusual smell of burnt mothballs in the corridor. I checked up and down the stairwell but could not see anyone. Feeling secure, I made my way down the stairs.

  The final few steps to the ground floor seemed to resonate like twenty giant pickup trucks were roaring their engines on the other side of the wall. My heart thumped faster and I trembled at what really lay beyond the exit door. I gulped down the butterflies collecting in my throat and slowly eased the exit door open.

  Sneaking a peek, the main foyer packed in a myriad of reporters, cameramen, technicians, cables and more microphones to capture a live speech from a corrupt politician a hundred fold over. Everyone, including each and every single camera, was pointed in one direction only—the elevator on the far side. The same elevator I used this morning to get to the courtroom. The live television feed of the events in the courtroom meant they knew I was coming down. Everyone was waiting for me.

  The floor vibrations were actually coming from the entrance doors. Outside through the glass windows were protestors, fans, and regretful reporters screaming to be let in. Bitter citizens banged on the windows in deep protest to the entrance blockade. Mayhem could not even describe an ounce of action unfolding outside. If this tribunal building were Heaven, one could understand the adverse reaction of those forbidden to enter through the Pearly Gates.

  Opening the exit door a little more, I slipped out into the congested foyer. I walked with my head down, hoping no one would notice me.

  “Mister Taw?” a suspicious reporter questioned, almost immediately.

  Unable to get a few steps out into the foyer, a meddlesome reporter had spotted me. I stopped in my tracks, unsure where to go.

  The meddlesome reporter fixed a digital recorder at my face. “Do you feel you were treated fairly?” he inquired impersonally.

  “I believe things went well,” I replied in a hushed, semi-confident manner—possibly my voice cracked near the end of my reply. “My recount of the events was accurate and to the best of my abilities.” I did not want to dwell on the mistake with the date of the accident.

  Geared to react like a cluster of penguins spotting an intruder, the heads of every single person in the foyer shifted in unison to my direction. The entire assembly advanced forward while calling for their camera partner to reposition the video camera. There were even reporters crawling on their hands and knees trying to get closer to me.

  Hoping to control the situation, a wave of police officers and security guards forced their way through. The officers and guards formed a circle around me, thus, keeping the leeching reporters at bay while maintaining some sort of order.

  Being in the eye of the storm, I have never been so nervous in my entire life. Not even the childhood pressure of having to recite a two-verse nursery rhyme in front of an elementary school assembly could compare to this intense pressure.

  Under and over the police barricade, eager journalists reached across in an effort to position their microphones as close to me as possible. Questions were shouted at me. The officers shouted back. The situation was utter chaos. The crowd was just too much for all to be satisfied.

  The sheer volume of noise was so intense that it all seemed nonsensical. It was like entering a walk-through birdcage at a zoo and then trying to decipher the non-stop gibberish from all the unrelenting birdcalls.

  Drowning in the attention, I felt so lost. This was all so foreign to me. My right knee began to quiver under my dress pants. An overwhelming wave of panic exploded inside of me and I needed out.

  “I want to leave,” I begged the police officer closest to me.

  Obliging, the police officer proceeded to direct some other officers and security guards with hand signals to push a path through the crowd to the foyer exit. I was heaved forward from behind to keep up with the group. I lowered my head and placed my hands on the officer in front of me like a villainous boxer passing through a raging crowd while making his way to the boxing rink.

  As we made our way outside, the humid air was a stark contrast from the air-conditioned tribunal building. More alarming was the belligerent mob pushing against the security posse. I ignored the random chants from the mob and marched on in hopes that they would get me out of this mess as quickly as possible.

  Beyond any social decency, brave fools were lashing out and smacking me on the back of my head. I crouched down lower in the security circle to avoid being knocked on the head. As I moved slower to the officers leading the circle, the officers behind me also slowed down. This created an opening for a bold protestor to grab me by the dress shirt. His relentless yanking pulled me down to the ground. Instinctively, I reached out and brought down a police officer on top of me. The bold protestor, an embittered teenager, was attempting to drag me out of the confines of the posse.

  Launching himself at the bold protestor, an officer caught the teenager in the gut. The teenager maintained his death grip on my dress shirt until he ripped off the left sleeve. Before any prying hands from the horde could reach in and pull the teenager away, five more police officers pounced on the assailant and locked him down with a painful chokehold.

  “Accomplice! Accomplice!” a hostile teenage girl shouted while pointing at me.

  Eager to inflict further pain on me, strange hands clawed at me. The influx of reinforcements to the circular barricade meant the situation was under control and I was safe from further harm.

  “Are you alright?” the officer on top of me yelled, and then lifted off of me.

  I nodded despite being stunned by what just happened. The officer hoisted me up to my feet and pointed to my torn white shirt. To make matters worse, my lucky hat was gone and my cell phone laid in pieces on the ground. I gathered up the broken cell phone and stuffed the pieces in my pocket.

  Making swift work of it, the battered assailant was fitted with handcuffs and taken away. I looked out to the unruly mob and all the anarchy instilled by this trial for a movie star accused of a hit-and-run and I wondered why me. What did I do to deserve this? I tried my best to deliver a true testimony of the events. Could a mistake in the date of the accident be worth all these repercussions?

  Marked with experience in dealing with large crowds, the police escort continued in stronger numbers and I was moved forward in safety. My guides directed me to a nearby squad car where I sat in the front seat paranoid and confused. As I wa
s driven away, two additional cruisers followed us in the rear for added police protection.

  “Where to?” the sweaty officer asked, keeping his eyes on the road.

  “Home,” I responded as if I had been punished. “I live in Springfield, close to highway four-oh-one.”

  “Head for highway four-oh-one west,” the officer radioed in to the other squad cars.

  Off in the distance, the pandemonium faded to oblivion and I let out a sigh of relief. Above the mob were three helicopters hovering high above. This was nothing more than extra news coverage with a different angle to it.

  Running through red lights and cutting across traffic, the escort made its way out of the downtown core. Heading through a quieter neighbourhood, I had the feeling that I needed to get out of the car. I wanted to be alone with my thoughts.

  “Can you drop me off at the nearest subway station?” I worked up the courage to ask.

  “Bad idea,” the sweaty officer remarked.

  How could an officer deny my request? This was my decision. “I don’t like this. I want to go home by subway, please. I don’t want to go home in a cop car,” I insisted.

  The notion of arriving at my apartment via a police escort would only serve to draw extra attention to which I did not want. I felt safe coming down alone by subway this morning so I faired the same would be true returning home.

  “Are you sure about this? The subway could be just as dangerous for you.” The sweaty officer turned to me as if I were off my rocker.

  I nodded. “Please, I want to go home by subway,” I pleaded as persuasive as possible without having to tear up.