Crossing Borders

By michael keller

A minority in a post apocalyptic, bigoted city discovers a larger world outside

• Language: English
• Publisher: michael keller
• Release date: Dec 26, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465867704

michael keller

I was born in Wharton, Texas in 1953. Wharton was the setting for the fictional stories of Horton Foote whose queries about home, place and time echoed in my ears through the years. The quiet wisdom and dignity of his southern characters has often spoken to me in hard times. There commonality is their ability to endure in hard times. I grew up in the local theatre where the borders of fact and fiction crossed, clashed and blurred. I watched Steve Mcqueen up close and personal as he entranced the locals on the street sets of Baby The Rain Must Fall and heard Horton Foote speak at the Wharton premier. Stories have always been in my blood. It was only natural to try my hand at some. In my opinion you should read only the final version.

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Table Of Contents

The Beginning

The Beginning

CROSSING BORDERS

By

Michael c Keller

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2012 by Michael c Keller

Original Copyright 2008

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Crossing Borders

The summer sun was slowly setting in the west behind a cluster of rich evergreens. A large hulk of a man with coal black hair stood next to a petite olive colored beauty and stared into the wide expanse beyond. His hands were firmly clutching the metal railing. He stared in amazement at the architectural beauty and symmetry of the structures that reflected in the slow running creek that separated them from New Bryan City. Penny’s hand reached out for Miguel’s. She slipped her slender fingers into his large, calloused, sinewy hand. A light breeze from the north tussled Penny’s hair and blew up her skirt. Miguel laughed. Look over there in the distance! Penny exclaimed, Is that a school, and what is that beautiful building next to it? The thought of Penny’s wide smile and easy excitement always brightened Miguel’s endless mind numbing workdays, and he cared for her deeply. Miguel stroked Penny’s check and looked into her dark brown eyes, then gently kissed her. He enjoyed her company, but knew they had absolutely no future. An open relationship with another minority would dissolve his last shred of hope to join in the ‘New World Order.’ As he walked Penny back to the workhouse

she shared with two others,his thoughts turned to his future.

Miguel had spent most of his thirty-two years as a laborer. Hard work and circumstance had made his extraordinarily large six foot nine-inch frame solid and muscular. He and others like him were a part of the crews responsible for a large measure of the growth of New Bryan City.

He had been born into a caste system without the opportunities open to be another, more privileged segment of society, ‘The Fathers of the American Republic.’

Ever since the war ended in 2049 and left the earth’s infrastructure shattered, society had been piecing together a semblance of normalcy.

After fifty years of an excruciatingly slow and hand—to -mouth existence, things were finally coming together. A society emerged—steeped in passionate patriotism and indoctrinated into a new advanced technology, but they steadfastly clung to the ancient mores of bigotry. Any white citizens who could trace their linage to the pre—war clans were permitted a place of esteem and position. Those in control felt that a lack of control and political expediency had rendered society into a helpless, paralytic group blown like leaves in the winds of change. A new strict social structure seemed to be the best solution after the cataclysmic events of the pre -war years, the end of which occurred on the day just prior to the new year.

The domino like effect occurred so quickly that the historical records of the individual battles were lost. Only the stories of ‘the old ones’ remained in remembrance of those.

It began when warplanes struck nuclear facilities in Iran and began to irrevocably

unravel when troops advanced north across the demilitarized zone in Korea. The political resolve of the allied forces proved so weak that diplomacy proved not only ineffective but useless.

After the war, the few survivors migrated southward. All the land had been ravaged by nuclear fallout, and the water tables poisoned. They instantly separated the Latino refugees from the whites and forced into work camps on the south side of the city. Everyone was confined to an area of only six hundred square miles in what was once called the Brazos Valley.

Miguel could not seem to remember anything earlier than his second or third birthday. But it hardly mattered. A Mexican heritage was an impediment. In recent days, he questioned whether things were changing. He imagined his unquestioning devotion to the precepts of his betters would earn him a more valued place.

He was unaware of the tall, beautiful young aristocrat slumming in the commons who lusted for the behemoth, whose bronze body she saw glistening in the sun, his muscles defined by sun and sweat.

Desire and empathy settled into Anna’s mind. Despite her father’s stern warnings, she thought she must have him regardless of the taboos.

Anna was the headstrong daughter of the wealthy industrialist -Frank Oz, whose money, influence and ideas shaped this new economically, architecturally progressive society. His firm, uncompromising demeanor seemed unassailable, but his weakness was Anna, his protégé -in every sense of the word. When Anna asked, his resistance melted, his power was impotent in her presence; she always got what she wanted.

The strident cadence of the alarm announced to Miguel the beginning of another day. The work itself was not an issue with Miguel. Work was all he knew. It was that damned sameness—those same old stiff work pants that Penny always put too much starch in, that same old cold bowl of cereal, the tepid milk, even the boots by the door. It had long become a mindless blur. He had walked through the courtyard so often that the grass would not grow.

He thought of Penny. She is probably getting dressed about this now, ready for her walk across the divide, into the city.

Miguel thought that he and Penny should rejoice that they had the privilege of work passes.

Only a few had earned that right, but social interaction with those on the other side was unthinkable. The gulf between the castes was still too wide. The only citizens on this side of the boundary who had any interaction with ‘the fathers’ were the workers’ ruling council, and Miguel didn’t even know their names. They may as well have been aliens from some other planet, their habits and duties never understood.

When Miguel arrived at the bridge, he inserted his work card into the slot, like every morning before, and made his way into the heart of the construction zone and into his assigned area.

Penny must be running late today. She usually had a sandwich and a kiss for him. Although he cared for Penny—he was a little embarrassed to be seen with her. What if someone from the other side were to see? That might hurt his chances for a future with the pale skinned white men he admired. He made a special effort to avoid friendships with his peers, trying to separate himself from the commons.

As he walked along the narrow quay designed as a footpath for the workers, he saw the familiar figures of two young boys handing out packets to the workers as they passed. The larger one spoke. Hello Miguel! Miguel smiled and patted the smaller one on the head. How are you today, Francisco? The older boy answered for him, He is fine Mr. Gonzalez, two packets for you, he said emphatically.

Miguel opened the top with his teeth and cringed. He hated the slimy, gritty taste of CG1. The draughts that plagued the city in recent years had spurred the labs at Frank Oz Industries to develop a substance that would economically provide energy and bulk to the mass of starving laborers in the construction zone. Random inoculations were a normal occurrence in the work zone, he seldom paid that much attention to being poked or prodded in the morning, but this man and women whom he had never seen before standing there in their white smocks running their gloved hands through the hair of every fourth or fifth worker then pulling on their ears seemed a tad strange even to him, though he was normally taciturn and serious, he laughed.

As Miguel made his way along the footpath, he noticed a car parked parallel to the path, the driver’s door open. Whites were a strange distraction in this sea of brown faces, and usually this was not a good sign. The driver seemed to be looking at him. Miguel tried to avert his eyes, hoping it was only his imagination. Mister Gonzales, could I have a word with you please? Miguel felt a tinge of fear. He had heard the name Gonzales so seldom that sometimes he forgot he had a last name. He sheepishly looked up. Yes, sir. The man beckoned him to the back door. Miguel hesitated for a minute. Please Mr. Gonzales, come with me. As the car made a wide circle, he could see the eyes of the workers focused on him—the relief on their faces almost palpable.

As the car drove into territory that lived only in his imagination, he thought of his childhood. His questioning eyes turned upward to his father. What’s it like over there? His father could only shrug his shoulders and smile.

That forbidden realm beyond the barrier had become a sanctified place. The special place designed for the elites—streets lined with gold, heavenly sights that he could not envision with his young mind.

His wonder and awe at the architecturally improbable designs and people dressed in fashions he had never seen turned to fear.

Why was he here? The drive created an apprehension that stretched moments into hours. He finally had a glimpse of heaven, and fear numbed the wonder of the vision.

After what seemed an eternity, the car pulled in front of a column of cascading steps that descended from the mouth of a pair of immense doors that exuded a grandeur Miguel had never seen, and he had helped erect some magnificent edifices.

Miguel’s fear was somewhat relieved when he felt no imposing presence to greet his arrival; He was taken aback by the sight of an energetic older man who met him on the steps and extended his hand.

Miguel shyly shook the offered hand. My name is Frank Oz. You must be Miguel Gonzalez. Your council speaks your praises.

Having never met the council Miguel was stymied as to a response. The silence was short -lived and did not allow for a answer. You may not realize it, but we have had our eyes on you The council felt a change was in order for the good of all Mister Gonzales, something positive, a meeting of the minds—so to speak. Frank Oz ignored the confounded look on Miguel’s face. "We are going to propose a new council, where the ideas of both segments of society will be considered. We as a people cannot grow until we embrace our brothers across the divide. You have embraced our ideas and ethics without complaint; something even our peers cannot seem to do. We feel you have earned more of a say in our mutual future. We see