Insurrection

Reads: 48  | Likes: 0  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 0

More Details
Status: Finished  |  Genre: Science Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: July 20, 2017

A A A | A A A

Submitted: July 20, 2017

A A A

A A A


I looked over at the brown-eyed, freckled girl that sat in front of me. She had a stern face while talking to Governor Marshall, and yet she still looked beautiful. I blinked for the hologram to show up. The dreaded date had came, the day I would lose Sandra Orway: 6 hours,14 minutes, and 16 seconds remained in Sandra’s lifetime. I looked around her constantly looking for the dangerous threat that could potentially hurt her in the small beige room. Governor Marshall looked at her like she was a criminal. They were talking about the march that would happen against the death clocks in three hours.

 The death clocks are a device that the government owns and forces its citizens to have at birth. They were installed into our brains via a small chip located on the back of the cornea of your right eye. If you blink once at a certain person their time will show up in a hologram, if you blink twice towards them, their time gets saved in your calendar in order to be close to that specific person. It notifies you at the 10 day mark, 24 hour mark, and the 10 seconds mark. There hasn’t been anything different in over three decades when scientists figured that our “expiration date” is based off of solar genomes located in the Occipital lobe of our brain that deals with body awareness. The death always happens, always at the time time predicted, no one has ever beat the death clock, and people have gotten fearful of death and the failure to escape it.

 Governor Marshall looks at me and I nod, not paying attention and just thinking of how Sandra will ultimately pass. I look over at her and her slim, but yet athletic body is turned towards me. Her face is almost covered by her long and wavy raven hair. She is wearing a white sweater, and it opens slightly to reveal a small explosive.

“This is for Representative Perrotta.” I hear Governor Marshall explain to me, most likely for a second time. “There will be a time, when one of you will have to get him close to you, and ultimately take the sacrifice. The march will happen soon, and it is still past Salem and into Danvers. You need to go. Now.”

 Governor Marshall put his hands on Sandra and I’s shoulder and directed us to his garage where Elgin was waiting, “You can take the chauffeur and the 2043 Camaro Dust Boar to get to Danvers and make it to the march on time. Get through the Salem traffic easier by going through the back roads, Elgin.” He turns his gaze towards Elgin with a micrifying look. We get into the car, and the garage opens, providing an autumny-orange view of the street lined by two big houses on either side. Elgin closes our door and starts our trip towards Danvers. It takes 67 metre-seconds. Sandra looks at me and is preparing her notes for the first speech in the march.

 “You weren’t very talkative in there, Jimmy. I thought that you were afraid of Governor Marshall for siding against his party and siding with us.” Sandra casts her fretting eyes at me, and puts her calloused hand on mine.

 “It just seems too Anakin Skywalkery for me. First he was for it, then he was against it. It just seems fishy to me.” I reply back with an anxious smile. Sandra needs to know I’m okay, she won’t die worrying about me. I blink at her again, her time shows up. 5 hours, 54 mins, and 34 seconds remain.

 By the time that we got to the march it has gone down to her 30 minute mark. I look at the crowd of people. I see faces full with dirt and some with blood, shirts are tattered and pants are ripped unevenly and the horizon full with small and shackled refugee housing. I’m escorted onto the rickety, wooden stage in front of a giant house, and I sit in a blue chair, that feels like one I would sit in if I was a child. I am panickingly look around the crowd looking for anything that could potentially kill her.She starts her speech directed at the giant house, living there is Representative Perrotta, as she is talking about how the death clocks have given the American people a reason to hate the authoritarians, that is our government, I blink at her: 12 minutes, 14 seconds. Instantaneously, all I can see is gray smoke. I start coughing and feel the life come out of me. I hear tickings, and look around the crowd as people are shot down by a militia, coming from behind the crowd, dressed in all black with riot shields on their left arms.

 I look at Sandra as she is taken by 3 of the men. I start running towards her, and fling the chair that I am sitting in behind me. I jump off of the stage and start running through the crowd where the men have taken Sandra. I pass people who are laying lifeless in the streets, crimson blood flowing from their torsos and legs. Some are screaming in pain, all while the newscasters just record from the sky and not call for help for any of us. I look ahead and they take her into the massive house through the small wooden door on the side, I start sprinting towards that small wooden door. I am tackled by one, and then another, and another. They yell at me to get on the ground or to face the consequences. A small screen pops up in the blackness: May 24, 2053. Sandra Orwell, age 35: 10 minutes. I start to whimper, and listen to the men. I am thrown out from the bottom of the pile and have been told to get on my hands and knees and to face the stage for ‘something that would blow our minds’.

 Sandra is taken out, along with approximately a dozen of the militiamen. Her face bloodied and beaten down to a pulp. I can see the black eye forming on her right side, and he nose is bent in a crooked way. The door of the backstage opens as Representative Perrotta swaggers out with a chuckle and smiles towards us, or what’s rest of us. He sweeps the crowd with one gaze, and I sweat sweat beads fall from his white brow as his toupéed hair blows in the wind. He has been in power of the commonwealth of Massachusetts for 34 years.

 “Some of you may think that you have a voice. Some of you believe you can overthrow us, and our new way of life. We are what has been left of the original framework of the constitution. We are the new fathers of this country.” He clicks his tongue and motions his men. Sandra is taken from behind the militia and sat on her knees in front of Perrotta. “This is someone who ultimately believes that she can make a difference for you peasants. This is Sandra Orway, and she has been a thorn in my side for a long time. She will be dealt with shortly.”

 I blink once for her time again, 1 minute, 17 seconds. This is how Sandra dies. This is how my best friend, Sandra Orway, will be remembered. I close my eyes and weep. This is not how we imagined she would go out. We always joked around about how each of us would go out. I would be just doing something dumb, and get a small forgettable death, and she would be doing something heroic for friends and sacrifice her own life for them. Her white sweater opens a little as I see her slip her hand into the inside left pocket. The small device is barely noticeable in her hand as she primes it.

 “This ‘March’ against us, it is over. Grab the girl, and face her towards her cohorts.” The men violently twist Sandra towards the crowd with a kick to the face. I see the device in her hand again as Perrotta gets close to her face with an undying look of certainty that he’s won. “Sandra Orway, thank you for showing me that a rebellion is useless, and thank you for showing everyone else that a revolt is not what will stop us.”

 “Go. To. Hell.” She murmurs to him. I hear the ten second notification for Sandra Orway, and the device in my head ticks for Sandra. Tick, Tick, Tick. He slaps her against the left side of her face, and the militia aim their weapons towards the back of her head. The device emits a low hum and a faint tick before it explodes in Sandra’s hand, blowing her and Perrotta to bits. The hot air knocks me backwards and I see some of the militia get flown back by the loud explosion.

 “No!” I start screaming. I jump up to my feet, almost as fast as a adrenalized animal, and sprint towards the militia, and so does the crowd. I overlook the scene as townfolk and militia battle it out in bloody fashion, a battle that no one can survive for their cause. I tackle a man, around his twenties shooting a family of three women. His gun drops to his side, and we continue to hit each other with our fists. He knocks me backward, and reaches for his pistol. A small, smiling tear rolls down my face at the same time as I agonizingly endure as the bullets rip through my skin. I fall, almost paralyzed, to the ground. The militia are gunning down the townfolk. I can hear the newscasters already buzzing above surrounding the area with sounds of the helicarriers and the gunshots from the militiamen, recording the scene that is happening. I gradually pass into darkness listening to the sounds of gunshots and yelling.

I wake up in a hospital bed, surrounded by white figures in a white room. I can feel the pain of the bullet holes, but they aren’t crimson red with blood anymore. My sweater was torn off, and my jeans thrown astray. The only thing remaining on my body are my glasses and boxers. I look around, and the white robed figures look at me in awe.

“What?” I question, very groggily. I stare into their faces, as each of them whisper to the others. They each blink their eyes once at me. “What is it?”

“Your time is in the negatives. We thought you had died. You just seemed to restart your heart. We don’t know how, but you broke the system.” The man with a white brow replies with a very quiet tone. I look at him, and recognize him as Governor Marshall.

“Let’s get to work then.” I somehow vocalize as I remember the bloody scene in the poor town filled with refugees and the poor. The other figures in the room smile, they know what had happened in the poor town, and fully support the new uprising. The government had slain innocent people for using their first amendment rights. I remember Sandra’s beautiful face, and a tear starts welling up in my eyes. This is going to be for her. The revolution has started thanks to her.

 


© Copyright 2017 BryanGargan. All rights reserved.

Add Your Comments:

More Science Fiction Short Stories

Booksie 2017-2018 Short Story Contest

Booksie Popular Content

Other Content by BryanGargan

Popular Tags