Capital Punishment

By Alex Feigns

Life should be hard in any dystopia. So imagine yourself inside the body of the 10-year-old Regina Faulkner. The year is 2139. Decades after an untold apocalypse, the United States of America is no longer united. But Regina and her brother Tom still have the best. The rampant devastations and diseases barely affect Vernigan, where outsiders are more likely to be shot at the gates. This city is teeming with synthesized food, purified water and ramshackle homes, thus independent from any exerting pressure. So a safe house and a full belly.

But everything changes after the Faulkners are accepted in the Seattle Literacy Program. Like any school, it is a dream for any parent. Again like any school, it becomes a surrealistic nightmare. Their transport convoy is bared to the teeth and flames, triggering a deafening leadership crisis in Vernigan.

Hungry and traumatized, the Faulkners have many reasons to be afraid. No evil bikers in ragged leather patrol these wastes. There are neither green mutants nor decomposing zombies as well. Their fear is realistic, for they need the help from the very communities who Vernigan has shunned for a very long time. Against the background of slavery, harlotry and banditry, Regina falls into the hands of a very powerful mogul, the Shorrosh. Despite experiencing unspeakable savageries including a mass rape, she has a strong reason to cling to life.

At the head of the cavalry is her father, a trucker turned mayor. He forms an unlikely alliance with the Beresford, another crime family. This newfound coalition however does not sit well with the President as any cooperation with criminals is treasonous. A political infighting unexpectedly festers into an open rebellion, shattering the shaky stability that binds the republic. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alex Feigns
• Release date: Sep 30, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386371113

Book preview

1

He kept hearing his grandfather’s words about this broken world. Apocalypse was now in the past, after 2,000 years of warnings and tidings. But the feared Judgment Day never happened. It was plainly misleading, for this new dawn was chaotic and unjust. He had seen many things in his travels with the old man. Wheat prairies once like amber silk were now ash. Urban expanses long ago dared everything. But in the wake of the twenty-second century, many great cities were ghostly and ghoulish. Mothers never had enough to feed all children, often fighting for the choice of which. Diseases were mostly incurable. Even sometimes shooting was just too expensive; so they would slit the throat instead.

Rick Faulkner never saw his family anymore. He never knew if his father had sobered. His grandfather must still be smoking from a stolen pipe, if he had not taken the dirt nap yet. All his sisters should have been married off to churchgoers twice their age.

He really missed everyone. But he could never ever return to Moyie Springs. Too many things had been said and unsaid. He had to bury everything there after his trade earned him a place in Vernigan somewhat ten years ago. The administration gave him a heap of junk with all the necessary tools. Within a month, the city gained a working semi truck. And he had been cruising on the same leather seat since.

Vernigan had been better over the years. But elsewhere was still the same, as if locked in a suspended timeline of death and destruction. While meandering on the old US 2, he had slept through an example. Where are we? he croaked.

Batavia. Better suit up, said James, easing on the clutch. A woman with a baby waved me to pull over.

Rick grabbed his bottle. You didn’t, right?

Actually, I had to.

Jim. What the hell, man?

Just kidding, replied James, laughing. Of course I didn’t. Could be a man with a hunting rifle somewhere."

Wake me up next time.

James responded with only a snort. He was already covered to the toe. A sack was zipped from his head into a seamless mask with goggles and a breathing gear. Soon the crumbling elementary school and godforsaken Conoco refueling station appeared on their left, just as briefed. Their officers highlighted about a small community holing up in this smell of blood and shit. These people were from Kalispell, a yellow zone in this devastating health crisis. James stepped on the gas, speeding up against these hungry watchers.

The presidential billboard at the end of the highway portrayed anything but approval. Obscene graffiti overlapped Jeremiah Kirchoff’s Uncle Sam posture. The man was no way related to Samuel Wilson or anyone in the War of 1812. But he was the latest gas firing the federalist pistons to combat pandemics, panhandlers and pan-American plutocrats. And his efforts had a small cost. Below his unwelcomed, turd-smeared image was the everlasting quote: God Bless America.

Patriotism was always his mantra. But he was from another time. The society had withered into this pathetic shell begetting poverty and cruelty, drying whatever pride left in this misshaped society. For those whose day-to-day concerns were nothing but food and water, nationalism was the last thing in their priorities.

Rick never bought this unity rhetoric. He had everything in Vernigan. But not James, oh no. James was a survivalist patriot all the way to his genes. He bled the same as the long lines of the McClures, who fought valiantly for the Star-Spangled Banner. His ancestor was purportedly honored by President James K. Polk for a brave service in the Mexican-American War. From then on, his family always had the president’s name to commemorate the man who painted a new definition to the American borders. Doubtless James shall continue this tradition; only he was not fortunate to have a son from all his roller-coaster marriages which ironically included four buxom Mexicans.

He drove on, incensed about the billboard. Rick asked him to turn by the Fourth Avenue. The houses here were reconstructed to perfection, though with new owners. In revived regions, deeds were handed to the property restorers. The original owners did not matter. Though right now, all houses were unoccupied for some reasons. Something’s not right, said James.

Rick took out his grandfather’s pocket watch. It’s five in the morning. Strange noises were in the air. Park it. Lemme get us a room.

A bell tolled when Rick entered a hotel. It was more like a horror show though. But the lobby was a walk down the memory lane. This hotel was long ago an apparel store. During the Blackout when the whole world sat in angst and panic, a hostage situation broke out. Eight police officers were needlessly killed. The terrorists swore an oath to a pernicious radical empire. And they too never made out after setting the store afire. The one-way sign outside weathered these dark times, pockmarked with bullet holes from that encounter.

Rick grabbed a chair at the frontdesk, joking to himself about zombies and vampires. The receptionist was a button-nosed lassie, with a curly smile. Welcome to Francis Hotel, she said. How may I help you?

I need a room for two. Got any garage for trucks?

Got a marriage certificate?

For what? asked Rick, incredulously.

The woman tried her best despite the awkwardness. New law, sir, she gestured to the framed Biblical verses from the Books of Hebrews and Acts. I’m so sorry about it. The mayor is an asshole.

Ah. Nothing to worry about. I’m with my associate. His name is James.

The receptionist checked her book. Ah, okay. It’ll be thirty chips, with insurance.

That was funny. The truck was insurable. But in no way can this hotel reimburse what they had in the freight box – at least without going out of business. No insurance. Rick noted the desperation for money in her eyes. Something happening out there?

Same crap every weekend. The receptionist pulled a drawer for a registration paper. They think the mayor been poisoning them because Beresford said so. Rick filled the forms after a careful read. We won’t be responsible for any losses and damages that may come upon yourself and your vehicle. Also I’m sorry to tell you but – we can’t stop the Bible thumpers from breaking into your room if they determine you’re engaging in a sexual perversion.

I don’t even know what that means.

Sodomites, sir, said the receptionist, with an evident distaste in her facial lines.

If they break in, you’ll have dead bodies to clean. Rick smiled. I mean that.

She smiled back. Here you are, Mr. Faulkner. Room Forty-Two.

The key had a permission card for the gated parking space across the road. Rick watched as James reversed into their garage. And all through they heard people roaring and cursing from definitely the City Hall. The marchers they saw thus far were holding torches and baseball bats. No doubt some would be carrying guns. Rick had a bad feeling about it. Even the hotel receptionist disapproved their sicksuits. He did not want to be anywhere near the commotion. But the City Hall was why they were here.

Mayor Kittinger was in a big trouble. Thousands had packed in front of his barred building; none of them were in any way friendly. A man in suspenders climbed over a step. They could make nothing out of his face, except for a beard like a big rig driver. Over a surprisingly functioning speakerphone, he shouted, "Kittinger, you pillow-biting bastard! I know you can hear us! We’re all sick and tired of your lies!

You in there nice and warm, we’re freezing! That’s all right. But you just had to do something, did you? We’re all dying out here! When good Charlie came, you banned his stuff for your useless shit! Just what the hell do you want from us? Get it in your ugly head that your stuff ain’t working!

There was a scuffle, which saw another man grabbing the speakerphone. I lost my daughter to yellow fever. What is it you nerds call it? Typhoid? Whatever! We trusted you. But it got very bad, and Beresford’s is the only thing she needed. Huh, your dogs got into our home the day you ban his meds! We had to go for your shit again, and now she’s dead! You happy now? You happy?

He grabbed a rock to throw upon the steel door. Just as then, everyone did the same. Rocks clacked upon the tiled wall and two-inch reinforcements. We better get outta here, said Rick, noting the scowls upon their gears.

People! People! An air horn diverted their rage in unison to the car park next to a building. Five men in brown robes approached the mobs with two naked teenagers chained together. Will you all start behaving like men of God? The priest walked through them, dragging the couple along. May the Lord forgive us for this insanity.

Father Dace, we’re sick and tired of this!

Indeed. Sick and tired because of our sins. Lest we forget how pestilence, war, famine and death diminish us all into mindless monsters.

What brings you here, Father? asked a protestor.

"What brings you here?"

That shit of a mayor got some explaining to do!

We share the same cause then. Disease and decay are catastrophic, said Dace. But the Lord is our shepherd, as always. He traced the Cross with a finger. While you come here, with holy motives, you’ve left your homes empty for Satan to pass around his woes and pomp. Husbands leave wives, and likewise. These sinners will never get caught in the act had you stayed home.

You’re the sinner!

The teen girl was slapped for that. Silence, you immoral wretch! Dace said, you already sinned once. Let’s not make a habit of it!

Father, what is all this?

Yeah, man. We’re just here ‘cause the meds. It’s killing us!

Mary? gasped a protestor, aghast.

The arrested girl looked in despair. Ron? Honey! Help me!

Ronald was close enough to be her father. He would have reached for his wife if not for those disciples. Father, what is this? Get your minions out of my way!

Minions? They’re the Lord’s servants.

Ronald nearly punched him. That’s my wife! Put something on her!

I understand your vehemence, my son. But she doesn’t. She willingly unclothed herself in this dreadful path. Why is it a problem when we parade her publicly?

Don’t listen to him, Ron! They broke into our home!

Dace put a hand on Ronald’s shoulder. You love your wife. But she is an adulteress. These noble children of God brought them to me for us to see that she’s a slandering liar.

This could’ve been done properly, Father!

How many times have I ever exposed a marital sin, my son? Or is it so strange to you for a cow to seek a calf after having the bull?

Mary looked terrified. Ron! I didn’t do it! He’s a liar!

Dace had a deep, resonating voice, capable of a projection without a speakerphone. The Lord has spoken countlessly. That a marriage bed must be kept pure, he said. Tonight though, your hot-headed pursuit for justice paved for this unspeakable sin.

We ain’t got nothing to do with this!

So did many before the Apocalypse. But really they voted for their leaders. They tolerated these hordes of man-child from time after time. The blood is in their hands as this sin is in yours. The crowd processed his words. The only sound to hear was from Mary, sobbing and sniffling. You didn’t commit adultery indeed. Only a fool would say you did. But your – congregation tonight abetted to one. But before we pass the judgment, might we hear from the adulterers?

You broke in when I was at my bath! screamed Mary. And you call me a sinner?

Dace nodded. And you, my son? Speak truthfully.

The boy finally looked up to Ron. She said you’re sissy in bed, man.

Mary gasped, swinging with a frown. Let’s get outta here! James hissed. Her cry of rage was wordless as big, callused hands choked her voice. Ronald squeezed until she turned blue, limp and finally lifeless. He then turned to find Dace on the ground with the boy fleeing. Rick and James were safe in their room when half the city was in a hunt. The protestors dispersed to pursue the boy, barking and shouting. Their search went unabated, marching everywhere with whatever weapons they could find.

The scene was rather diabolical. Rick checked in another room just in case. These religious zealots had trudged and toiled all over this wasteland, suppressing everyone into gender-based roles and restrictions. These days even kissing in public may subject a hefty fine. Repeated offenses would result in imprisonment or for women a capital punishment. In the southeast, as far as southeast goes, stories about women being culled for not wearing modestly inspired a misogynistic lifestyle in this new America.

Ironically those affiliated with religious organizations were known to have harems. No adultery charges were ever placed upon them. Rick truthfully pitied Mary Presterfield. She stood no chance in this hypocritical landscape. He had been there once, on his knees before a group of fanatics accusing him the same in Moyie Springs. He still wanted to strangle that damned priest. He did so in his sleep before waking up to a bright light from the window.

It was already half past eleven. He put his watch back in the shoebox under his bed, where he kept a knife and a revolver. He took a sip from his bottle before taking a bath with his dirty sponge. After that he sat for a while in a chair, thinking about the promises he made to his children. They hated when he had to leave. He hated leaving them as well, given the state of things. He could tell that they would cry in their beds every time he was off somewhere. But it was the duty of a driver.

Rick zipped his sicksuit on and went to check the truck. Then he set out around the block, his breath upon the gear soft of mint. Everyone was indoors somehow. But some shops were already open in this nocturnal city. He packed a loaf and headed for a store by the 2nd Street East, where he found a pre-Blackout building still strong with its structure. But he had no idea how a bank was now a gift shop.

Their items were quite fascinating. He browsed over a variety in the steel aisles. The woodcarvings of a scorpion, snake and rat were all too ridiculous. He considered an eagle and a cat however. But then he caught one of a man holding a child. You like that, sir? asked Aubrey, the assistant who tailed him like a vulture. It’s handmade from England.

You expect me to believe that?

England, Arkansas, sir.

Oh. Damn. That’s a good selling point! Rick was mortified. I’ll take two of this. Can you make like a necklace and a wristwear?

Sure, sir.

Rick strolled around. Gold watches made the most of the inventory. Musical instruments were next. Avoiding any issue, he stayed away from these aisles, keeping himself in Aubrey’s scope. The pictures on the walls were also for sale. There was a monochromatic group shot from the Second World War when, according to the summary, the Big Three sat for the Tehran Summit. But Winston Churchill was so badly creased that he was completely out. And the communist despot had a hole in his chest where his heart should be – if he even had one.

The store had a small camera in a locked display case. Rick could buy a house with that price. Over the counter though, Rick found something definitely for himself. The seven-inch military grade bayonet was there in a plastic sheath. Rick had been looking for one of these in Colburn and Sandpoint. How much is this? he asked.

This one, sir? Aubrey brought it out for viewing. A standard blade from an old war. Fifty and it’s yours.

You got some more of it?

No. Someone pawned it years ago. He can’t pay it back.

He’s that hungry, huh?

And alcoholic. Want it?

Some other time. I ain’t got enough.

Alrighty. It’ll be seven chips. Aubrey packed the gifts in a neat box. Will you be back soon, sir?

That depends. Why?

Suddenly she was whispering. I know where you’re from. The knife is yours if you can take me back to Vernigan!

You’re mistaken. I’m from Thompson Falls.

Please! You’re not some rich rain dancer! I’m giving you that knife. Just get me there. I’m sick of this place. It’s no work, no food. I haven’t eaten well these three days!

Rick was moved. I’m really sorry, love. I really came from Thompson Falls.

Aubrey punched the cashier stand. Fine, she breathed hotly. Imagine someone lie to your kids when they needed help!

The mounting hostility against Vernigan was not the real reason behind his refusal. The rest of Idaho, now Montana, regarded them with such enmity. This antipathy began after Mayor Kellen Nehemiah built electrified fences to keep the wayfarers away. But the incumbent mayor ratified an enforcement to shoot asylum seekers as well. Not everyone supported John Hardaker. But disagreements were kept among themselves, as nobody wanted the omnipresent barbarity. The period of destruction saw them all walking in a darkness that was the Blackout. Rick never cared how dust blanketed their skies. After all there was no point. His great grandfather went through a dreary time when humanity stooped lower than animals.

Rick could have gone through the same if not for Vernigan. He could never afford this sicksuit on his own, primarily the reason he could penetrate the yellow zone without catching cold or cancer. At least the people in the City Hall were not so antagonistic when they showed up a day later. They were told to wait in an exclusive lounge. And the Mayor came about an hour later. Ah. Mr. McClure. Mr. Faulkner. The big mayor gave a hand. I assure you. I’m sanitized.

I hardly think otherwise, sir.

They shook hands. We’re deeply sorry about that night. Had we known, we would’ve come today.

Yeah. Lucky I got my priest with me, said Kittinger.

James was taken aback. I meant the thing with Mary Presterfield, sir.

Kittinger tapped his back. Blood politics, Mr. McClure. Blood politics, he said. Dace is for situations like that. We’re at the dawn of a new day with leechers of the night sucking my blood. Anyway, forgive my impatience. Mayor Hardaker didn’t send you here to assess my methods.

Uh, yeah. He didn’t. James breathed slowly. He’d like to convey you his sincerest sadness over the health issues your city is facing.

Straight to the point, Mr. McClure. I’m tight in the ass with these honeyed languages.

We know your supplies are contaminated.

The less diplomatic approach however stumped the mayor. I procured our meds from the Shorrosh. When it’s not working, they say I’ve been careless.

Careless how?

You see. They send us all the health thingies. Sealed and shut. No one can do nothing. Once they dropped these stocks into our reserves, it’s off their hands, said Kittinger. So they’re saying, Beresford or Kirchoff been tampering it. Then there’s this bill Kirchoff signed. Says all meds must come only from the government. What the hell am I supposed to do? But he’s sending us placebos!

They ain’t placebos, sir, said Rick. They’re just expired vaccines. Or so our mayor says.

I thought medicines don’t expire, that it’s just a marketing technique?

Well, dunno about that one. We’re just delivering our briefings. But sir, those drug manufacturers – do you see any of them alive now?

Kittinger sighed. Point taken. It’s been too long.

We’re here to share our health supplies. What can you give us in return?

You’re talking diplomacy here. You want something of equal importance. But we don’t have any! We had to beg for oil and gas from Kirchoff to power up our city.

Mayor Hardaker saw that in you. So we’d like to ask for scrap metals.

Is this a joke? asked Kittinger, gaping.

Nossir. We’ll supply you meds. You give us every scrap metal you got from Heritage Park to whatever dump sites you have.

Kittinger wrote on his notepad. I’d like to ask for water from Vernigan.

Is there something wrong with your supply?

Tell me you showered?

We bottled ours, sir.

Okay. We draw our tap from the Flathead, said Kittinger. There’s a plastic factory right at the river. Dunno what it did. But it’s been contaminating our drinking too. I’ve petitioned Kirchoff to take a look but nothing happens. I even took some men to find out what’s going on. But we don’t have the know-hows to get it fixed.

Where’s this factory? In your municipal?

Kittinger’s color changed. No. What I did was necessary and illegal, he said. I have enough with Beresford and Shorrosh saying I’m a poisoner. But the Columbia Falls Mayor, that arrogant Desmond Karson ain’t doing anything.

We’ll see what we can do, said James. I’ll suggest him some science team to work with treatment while we’re at it.

That’ll be nice.

We’ll perhaps also give a strong word to President Kirchoff.

Thank you. Thanks a lot, said Kittinger. How much scrap metals you need?

Everything you got for the next three thousand operation days.

How long is that?

More than eight years. If either of us stops for a month, the time frame will extend a month. A day delay, a day addition. We’ll send a team to assess how much you have to determine the minimum threshold you are obliged to send. Your job is to make sure that line is met every day. Don’t matter how you do it – but the threshold must be met.

Kittinger sighed. You have a deal.

We brought you some vaccine and meds I can’t pronounce the name to sweeten the deal. It won’t include in your scrap metal deliveries.

It’s always a pleasure to work with Vernigan. I’ll send my man to get the load.

Kittinger was of course unable to stay long. Rick and James were escorted back to the lobby for someone apparently waiting. Rick almost walked away in disgust when he saw that gaunt face over cotton clothes. Afternoon, gentlemen, said Dace. I was told to bring something.

Right this way, Father, said James, dryly.

Rick could not hold his breath. I saw you that night. What’ll happen to that Ron?

He took things into his own hands. It’s gonna be murder sadly.

You brought the Presterfield girl, Father. Don’t you feel bad about it?

I do. I didn’t want that to happen, said Dace. But a man’s got to do what a man got a do. I’ve seen the troubles that transpire after order is deposed. We don’t want situations like that here. Hell is not a better place. People are already killing here and there. Babies were thrown into the fire. Women were raped without fear to godly repercussions. They ganged up on Mayor Kittinger despite his best efforts. I had to do something.

Did she do it?

Dace only smiled. He was truly a priest who sold his faith for worldly gains. His involvement in church affairs was strictly political. Obviously the confessing boy was his underling in this network of spies for the City Hall. Dace conveyed whines and mitigated dissents. Rick did not have to ask anything else. But he knew for sure that life would continue in Kalispell.

After unloading, Dace returned the truck to Francis Hotel. The mayor insisted you have something in return. Corns and carrots. Like how we used to say – icing on the cake?

That afternoon they were back on the highway with Rick behind the wheel. James was boiling when they entered Kalispell. And now it was Rick’s turn perhaps to simmer about Father Dace. On the road, he started to feel homesick. He was adamant to hug his children that he did not stop in the three-hour drive through the dead rural areas.

James did not complain. The former settlements were scattered like a wreckage, carved and looted. Lighten up, man. You know how cold politicians are.

I keep thinking about that dude who started the Apocalypse. I always wanna kill him.

Get in line, said James, half-laughing.

I looked out for a keepsake the morning we got there. The girl behind the counter was willing to give me a fuckingly expensive bayonet if I can get her into Vernigan. James moved to look through the rear window. It’s getting worse out here. Something she said pains me.

Forget about it, Ricko. We can’t help her.

Yes, I can.

James gulped a drink. You really wanna go down there? How do you think the kids will take it?

She’s a looker. I’m sure they’ll love her.

Hmm. Better hurry up, Ricko. James shoved a hand into his pants. Before I get very, very naughty.

Maybe I’ll bang your wife instead?

Which one? 

They laughed. When they passed Copeland at 1500, James could already smell his wife’s cooking. They parked the truck at a checkpoint where they removed their sicksuits for decontamination. Freshly showered, they sat for a routine blood test. Rick did not like how the nurse stared while repeatedly pressing his neck. Then she went for his armpits, also with that same grimace.

Is everything okay?

I’ll have to run this test again, she said, her voice betraying.

Rick was told to wait. He was getting concerned, meandering about the small room. The nurse returned with a doctor who performed the procedure again. Then the doctor carefully looked at his papers, before giving out a bombshell. Mr. Faulkner, I’m afraid you have the bubonic plague in you. I’m sorry, sir. You’re to be quarantined immediately.

2

Rick was screaming inside. They told him about the quarantine procedures over a crackling intercom, perhaps a recorded message to repeat to every patient. He only had to remain calm because half out of a hundred quarantines were false alarm. Rick’s knees gave out after hearing that. A fifty-fifty odd was discouraging. But nobody heard his prayers. The Containment Area was a separate section about a mile away from the main city. It really was as named. The staleness in this small room provoked him into thinking a lot of things.

It was just unfair. Rick never belonged here. He touched no one. Kittinger only shook his glove, the pair he discarded on their way back. In the hotel, he slept on his own covers. He even sprayed the mattress. Despite the precautions, he was still condemned to a five-day waiting period. He had to spend 120 hours in this cramped room. 7,200 minutes was a cruel waste of time for someone whose sole purpose out of Vernigan was for the city itself. Now his children had to be fatherless for 432,000 seconds before his fate was known.

Nobody could know about this. He had to ride this out. But he was losing it. The pressure exerted a migraine. His possible exile could be a great embarrassment to his family, especially with that backbiting Jivenia Palaver next door. He threw himself into a corner, sobbing as the days passed uncounted. No sleep could give him rest. There was no telling what his moonlighting wife had done.

He spoke over the intercom to no answer. His throat started to sore, and then he had a fever which aggravated his emotions into a tumultuous mental breakdown. He had to crawl to the toilet bowl; one day or maybe night, he cannot move at all, an abdominal cramp so paralyzing.

By the time they came for him, he already accepted his fate. It was on the sixth day. He lied still in his cot, as three medical personnel in sicksuits scaled down. Good evening, Mr. Faulkner, he heard a woman’s voice distorting. One of them took a sample of his blood, while the others pointed their FALs from at least four feet. He could not remember when they left. His head was pounding. But he heard the ceiling hatch grunting again. Only it was