2520 The Last Day

By Rollin Miller

The world of Larry Sawer and every other human being still alive was about to change, but not necessarily for the better. Some shackles abrasively gnawed the flesh while others consumed the mind, with everyone captive in a world gone mad.  

 

Above the entrance to prison E52 languished the words Ultima Thule, Latin for End of the World. A more sinister rubric could not have been chosen, almost prophetic in nature.

 

While the other prisoners joining him in the back of the truck as they bounced along on the rutted mud road saw only painful suffering and death in their near future, Larry had a different vision. For in the presence of mounting despair, he clung to the hope of an ancient promise giving him an unnatural sense of peace.

The day of that promise was fast approaching, and he only had to hold out a little longer. The count of that day was 2520.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rollin Miller
• Release date: Jun 15, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201052775

Rollin Miller

Rollin Miller, the author of Are We Monsters?, Virgin Birth, and the dystopian thriller 2520 The Last Day, recently retired and lives with his wife in Las Vegas, Nevada. Rollin is currently at work on a series of novellas titled Havoc Tales. The title comes from the lead character, Jack Havoc, who leads a specially chosen team in dealing with the frighteningly unimaginable. 

Book preview

2520 The Last Day

Chapter 1

HOW CLOSE TO DEATH can a man be without being dead? How much pain can he endure before his mind has had enough and retreats from itself? How much longer will he have to experience the suffering of these terrible days? Not long now.

The prison, surrounded by thick leprous walls of crumbling stone and crowned with pirouetting razor wire runs, bore no formal name other than E52. A hand-crafted wooden sign hung ominously above the front gate, its disheartening words repeated above the frame of every internal door—Ultima Thule, Latin for End of the World.

Narrow hallways, dimly lit with caged bulbs, mazed their way throughout the structure. They connected the wings of cell blocks and secured common areas with the rest of the prison. They carried a dank, musty odor of age and mildew, mingled with hints of vomit, urine, and worse.

Built during the last throws of the nineteenth century and housing thousands of inmates, it had gradually fallen into neglect and disfavor in the shadow of modern prisons with their high-tech advantages. It was eventually abandoned and locked up like the prisoners it once held. It was only recently that the chains were cut, and the old prison was forced out of retirement. The global political landscape had drastically changed, and not for the better. E52 was now part of that political landscape, supporting the processing of the burgeoning population of human rejects.

Rejects—a fitting name for those held captive behind the barriers of stone and iron. The word aptly depicted both an action taken when someone dared to reject the new global rules, as well as their punishment—summarily rejected from the living framework of humanity.

Aborted from society, their bodies were disposed of behind the walls of confinement. There, hidden from curious onlookers, the rejects endured manipulation, torture, and endless interrogation.

Many of the rejects ended their chapter in E52, their lives taken from them in a most terrifying and gruesome manner. But not all. A great number, given a choice, once they had witnessed the execution of countless others, opted to swear their unwavering allegiance to the global leadership and were granted their freedom. Little did they realize what they had done, for what does freedom mean to a person if they lose something more precious?

The global policy dictates that no prisoner may be held in confinement for more than thirty days. With the limitations imposed by the lack of facilities and the vast number of people who needed to be processed, it is surprising that that number was shortened. A ruthless interrogator with any modicum of ability ought to be able to coerce a reject into making up their mind in a manner of days at the most. Suppose we leave the thirty-day policy up to dictatorial benevolence. At least for now.

Thirty days was considered more than sufficient to turn even the hard cases and extract any useful information the state may require. Still, some held out, refusing to mark their allegiance. Based on their decision, on the morning of their thirty-first day of captivity, they were summarily and publicly executed and witnessed by all the other rejects. At that point, there was no due process, and there were no appeals.

To call E52 a prison is technically correct but completely disingenuous. The title of prison only attempted to hide their insidious purpose, or at least that was the case in the beginning. After several years of use with executions across the world numbering in the millions, there was no longer any chance of hiding their purpose. Everyone knew.

The prisoners were brought into the walls of E52 by old troop transports trucks from various ports of entry to the area. No comfort was provided as the rejects clung to the hard benches as they were jostled and thrown on the bumpy ride. No latitude was given for disobedience, no matter how small the infraction. Anyone who tested the rules found themselves with a bullet in the head and thrown out the back.

Upon arrival, the canvas tarpaulin was thrown open. With the guards yelling, the rejects stumbled out of the trucks and were forced at gunpoint to form a single line. They were also reminded to remain quiet with a less-than-gentle rifle butt to the gut.

The line was then herded away from the trucks and through a narrow wooden door, which they would soon find out led to intake processing. There, stern uniformed personnel, usually women, sitting at cloth-covered tables, took their photographs and keyed the rejects' personal information into the prison database. By this time, all the prisoners had witnessed or experienced the price of disobedience. But intake processing was particularly difficult for some, asking for family and friends' information. Some refused to provide their names and addresses, and when they did, the guards stepped in, and retribution was swift and often deadly.

The next stop had no official name but was called the screaming room amongst the prisoners, and for a good reason. Forced to enter a metal chute one reject at a time, handlers on either side pulled irons from their glowing heat source and branded each prisoner's upper right and left arms. The screaming which ensued was quickly followed by the stench of burned flesh.

The brands reflected the date of their scheduled execution, thirty-one days after their arrival, followed by a dash and a number. Each prisoner received a different number, and it was by this marking they were addressed. Their given names no longer had any meaning and were discarded.

From the screaming room, the rejects were taken to a large cell area and locked inside. There they splintered off, each finding another space of the wall to lean against as they slid to the cold floor and tenderly nursed their wounds.

Larry Sawer squatted in one of the corners, dripping water from the bucket in front of him on his own painful brands, now a day old. He tried to see the new rejects being brought in, but the swelling in his eyes and caked blood made seeing nearly impossible. He had also given up trying to see the brands on his arms, but he did not need to. He knew who he was, why he was there, and that there was a death sentence on countdown—his.

Though he couldn't see his brands, he knew that he was a walking calendar day, showing the twelfth of March. The brands were excruciatingly painful, and yet compared to the previous day when he went through the chute, flesh melting under the hot irons, he could live with it.

Larry reached for more water, dripping the tepid water over the tender scarring of his other arm. He swallowed sharply, his breathing intensifying as he put his head back. He had to hang on, no matter how much torturous reeducation the guards inflicted on his wrecked body. They began on his sometime late last night, rousing him from his fitful sleep with the gentle persuasion of their batons.

After half an hour or so of being a punching bag, he fell unconscious, having wakened only a couple of hours before the latest truck arrived. The sound of keys and the cell door nearest him squeaking open made him tense as he squeezed tighter in the corner, attempting to be inconspicuous. His efforts to not be seen had no effect as the guards came over and kicked the water bucket away. Larry threw his hands in the air to protect his face. But the next move didn't attack his face as a heavy boot smashed into his left side.

The other rejects moved as far away as possible as the blow sent Larry to the floor, a painful wail escaping his lips. He drew his knees close, his hands shaking from the searing pain. Not only was the floor cold, but many areas of the concrete were sticky. Larry's head dropped into a sticky mess. He didn't care.

Leave him, a gruff voice said, followed by the scuffing and crunching of heavy footsteps moving away. Larry's head was spinning, and nausea swept over him as he curled tighter. He heard the clanking sound of the cell door being unlocked in the distance, the long, harsh squeal as it was pulled open, and the loud clang as it was slammed shut. At that moment, it was the greatest thing Larry could hope to hear as a deep moan betrayed the grin on his face.

How much time had passed, Larry had no way of knowing as he faded in and out of consciousness. He was frequently prompted awake by his body's weight compressing skin, tendons, and muscles between the hardness of bone and concrete.

During his latest painful awakened moment, something else caught his attention. It was quiet, too quiet, considering that he was sharing a large cell with the most recent arrivals of rejects. He pushed himself up, lifting his head from the floor. That's when he realized that he wasn't lying in a sticky mess. Had he been moved? he wondered as he forced himself to sit up against the wall.

To his surprise, he was able to open his right eye just enough to get a slit view. Turning his head, he scoured the unfamiliarity of his surroundings, realizing that he indeed had been moved while he was out of it. His new cell was small, brightly lit, and from what he could see, clean. I should be thankful for small things, he muttered as he continued to look around. There was a small table and stool in the far corner, nearest the door. What he saw next really got his attention and his salivary glands going. It appeared that the guards left a pitcher of water and a glass on the table.

His tongue snaked out of his mouth, running itself over his lips as he strained, testing his broken body. After several failed attempts to get on his feet, it seemed that the only thing he could do was crawl and drag his way over to the table.

It was slow going, his elbow taking the brunt of it, planting it on the cold floor before slapping his hand down and pulling. But at least he was making progress as he drew near to the table. When he was only a couple of feet away, he was nearly spent, dropping his head on his outstretched arm.

Come on, man, you can make it.

Larry stiffened before lifting his head just enough to rotate it toward the voice. The cells beyond the walkway were cloaked in darkness. Reaching up to his eye, he used his fingers to widen the slit, but it didn't do any good. Digging deep, he pulled close enough that he could grab the stool.

Told you, man, the voice laughed.

Annoyed, Larry reached up to the tabletop with his right hand, his left gripping the stool's seat. Sweat broke out of his face like some hideous disease and poured down his face. His arms were shaking as he grunted his butt over the edge of the chair. Dropping his head to the table, he struggled to ease his breathing.

Man, you got all the way there, and you're not going for it. The voice laughed again.

Sitting up, Larry clasped his hands together until the shaking subsided. Calmer, he lifted the pitcher and filled his glass. Putting the pitcher down, he grabbed the glass and threw his head back, and downed the water in one take.

Dropping the glass to the table, he filled the glass again, drinking half of it, before turning his head toward the voice. Why don't you come a little closer, toward the light. He was answered by the clinking of chains. Nodding his head, he finished the glass of water.

They got me chained to the far wall, across from you. Sorry man. I'd love to get social, but I'm not going anywhere.

No reason to be sorry, Larry said, pouring some more water. We're both in a tough spot, and there's not much we can do about it. At least there's nothing I'm willing to accept that they're peddling.

You mean other than the water, he chuckled. Maybe a little food now and they, and the most prized possession, just to be left alone.

You know what I mean, Larry said, sipping his water.

Yeah, sorry about that, the voice said. Sometimes the sarcasm just sort of takes over like I'm possessed or something. I think it helps me keep my head on straight.

Whatever works in this place, Larry said.

Well, just wanted you to know that I'm with you, the voice continued. They may have to carry me out on a Sleepy Hollow morgue slab, but they're definitely goin' to have to carry me out. I don't want nothin' to do with what they're offerin'.

Larry lifted his glass and tilted it towards the other man before finishing off the glass.

You never know about some people, the other man said, but you, after watching you get beat to within an inch of your life—man, oh man, it was bad. And you took it like a man. Didn't cry or beg or nothin' like that. You took it.

You saw it?

Yeah, man, last night. That was the worst of it. And then just a while ago, when big old Ollie put that size sixteen boot in your side.

That his name? Ollie. Larry said, memories of the fat guard's girth bouncing and rolling as he and his partner punched and kicked him.

The big ugly guard, the voice replied. Reminded me of those two old comedic dudes back in the silent-era day. The fat comedian was called Ollie, so I sort of borrowed the name. It was a good fit.

The imagery popped into Larry's mind, and he chuckled. Yeah, I can see how you came up with that, but I was wondering. How did you see me getting beat up last night? Larry looked around, seeing a little better as his other eye parted a little. I was in a different cell.

Ollie and Turk moved you early this morning, the voice answered. You first, and then me. No idea why. Maybe to make room for the newbie rejects.

By Turk, I suppose you mean the other guard.

Yeah, the tall one that doesn't look like a marshmallow.

Larry chuckled some more, the pain in his ribs crying out as he did. Reaching over to the cell bars, he grabbed one and started pulling himself to his feet. Ollie and Turk, he repeated, laughing some more. He wished he hadn't.

I just wanted to give them names so when I was cussin' their names, I could be sure the cussin' got to the right target. You know. The voice looked over in astonishment as Larry stood up, his legs less than sturdy as they wobbled a little. It also brought Larry's face full into the light. No way! the voice cried, the chains jingling. You're that guy, right?

Shifting his weight from one leg to the other, painfully gasping as he did, Larry was happy to find things working. To further test, he stepped sideways, gripping the bars as he did. He was still weak and in pain, but he thought he would feel a lot better if he could get moving.

Yeah, it is you, the voice screeched and started laughing. It's been a few years, but trust me, I've seen that face of yours.

Yeah, Larry grunted, taking another step.

You're that crazy mountain-climbing-airplane-flying-boat-sailing rich dude. Your face was on that really big downtown billboard. His chains were jingle dancing as he slapped his leg and let out a whoop. Man, what am I saying, downtown? Your face was everywhere back in the day—newspapers, magazines, and television—yeah, I saw you once on ... uh, what was it? One of those late-night comedy shows, not that I ever watched them except when my sister came over. Couldn't keep that girl away from those shows. She really liked that guy with the poofy hair, Jay somethin' or other. He cackled. I'm tellin' you that she took it real hard when the poofy-haired guy left the show."

Larry grunted as his hand slipped and his legs started to give way. He grabbed the bar and held on, taking a deep breath.

Poofy got replaced by some kid. She didn't like him so much.

Locking his knees, Larry forced himself to stand up straight, letting one hand go.

Man, I can't believe it. We've got a real live celebrity here with all us rejects. I'm tellin' you, man, that if I wasn't stuck way over here, chained up and behind bars, I'd be right over and shake your hand.

You have me at a disadvantage, Larry said as he turned his pain-wracked body perpendicular to the bars and started hesitantly to walk. You seem to know all about me, and I don't even know your name.

Benjamin Jackson David, he sang out, though everybody calls me BJ. Never liked Benjamin very much, and please, his voice turned dramatic,  don't get me started about Benny.

Larry was making progress, shaky progress, but progress nonetheless. He let go of the bars, his arms reaching out to maintain his balance. Good to meet you, BJ.

Likewise, BJ said, his eyes widening in the dark as Larry suddenly began to teeter one way and toter the next. Careful man!

Larry grasped the bars immediately, barely keeping himself from taking a nosedive. Whoa! Larry said, still wobbly. I'd give anything for a recliner right about now. Larry pulled himself close and rested his forehead against the bars, his breathing rapid and painful.

Damn, man! The rattle of chains went on for several seconds as BJ moved as close to Larry as he could. You need to take it easy. I mean, they really worked you over. Maybe you should just lie down and get some rest.

Larry looked down at the concrete and shook his head. It's not looking too appealing at the moment. Besides, I've already been on the floor too long. He winced, tensing his chest as he tried to control his breathing. I'll be alright. Just give me a second.

Or a hundred, BJ said.

Yeah, or a hundred. Larry stood up straight and took another uneasy step. By the way, my name is Larry—Larry Sawer.

That's it, BJ cried. I remember. As in LSSports, and you're the LS, right?

I was, Larry said, releasing his grip but keeping his hand close to the bars. That was a long time ago before everything in the world went to hell.

Man, LSSports. BJ was laughing so hard he could barely contain himself. I used to walk by one of your stores, the one downtown at First and Claymont.

The first store we opened. Larry took another step, feeling a little better. It was kind of a big deal at the time.

They had those big windows in the front, BJ said. And there was always something on display. Not my thing, you know, all that fishin' and skiin' stuff, so I never went inside to check things out unless I got pushed in by bad weather. That happened once, I think.

Well, BJ, you might like to know that it's not my thing anymore either. Larry smiled and shook his head. He hadn't given much thought to those early days in a long time.

Do you miss it?

Larry put his back to the bars, releasing his grip. Carefully he slid his foot forward and took a step. Then another. I guess that in one sense, I'd be a fool to say I'm happy the world we once knew is gone, and yet— He was now more than an arm's length from the bars.

What's that LS?

And yet, BJ, I was lost back then. He paused, plastering his face with both hands, a tear starting to fall. I had everything a man could ever want, you know? And yet I was so lost, and I didn't even know it.

I'm glad you found what you needed, man, BJ said, a tone of regret in his voice. There's no goin' back to the past, my friend. And from where I'm sitting and seein' things, hell man, we don't have much of a future. So all we've got is the here and now, and at the moment, like it or not, that's you and me.

Larry's small, sliding steps had finally graduated as his confidence grew. Reaching the other side of his cell, he turned and started walking the inside perimeter.

Man, look at you go.

Larry walked the first lap a little too fast. He paused, leaning up against the cold bars, bending at the hip with his hands on his knees. The pain in his side was barking loudly. You're right about that, BJ. So what shall we do with the now?

Well, I've already pulled up a chair. BJ laughed, hiding his discomfort from the hard floor. And I'm ready to hear what's been happenin' in your life for the past seven years.

Larry turned his head. You're serious?

I am, BJ said. And don't leave nothin' out. You've got a captive audience, my friend, and we have all the time in the world.

Or at least what's left of it.

2520 The Last Day

Chapter 2

SEVEN YEARS EARLIER—LOS Angeles

By all accounts, Larry Sawer and LSSports finally made it a corporate success. Their presence was now being felt in nearly one hundred stores across the country. But more importantly, they were thriving where others like it had withered on the retail vine. Having completed construction on the newest high-rise to grace the downtown Los Angeles skyline, they moved in, setting up their new corporate headquarters.

With the economy in the skids the way it was, it was not easy for them, with similar companies shuttering under the burden of debt and poor economic forecasts. But Larry Sawer was no ordinary CEO, and he was determined to make it work.

Mid-morning, the main conference room doors at LSSports swung open, and the glut of company executives spilled quickly out into the hallway. They brought the meeting with them, forming into small huddles of discussion, some of it heated and contentious, as they walked back to their offices. The room was empty but for one lingering executive, still sitting in his chair, an open pad with scribbled notes in front of him. He picked up his pen and slipped it into his pocket. Pushing himself away from the table, Larry Sawer spun his chair around, scooted up to the window so he could gaze over the bustling city below.

Unlike the others still hammering out the details, the meeting was over for Larry. His direction was bold, with no small measure of risk from any perspective. And as expected, he received push-back from some team members who, deep inside, probably thought Larry was being a little reckless.

Larry smiled at the thought, knowing that he wouldn't want it any other way. He preferred a little business dissent over a room full of glittering teeth mouthing yes all the time. He brought his hands together, interlacing his fingers as he went over the main points in his head. Satisfied with everything he presented, he resigned to the fact that it was now a matter of company policy. It was up to his team to figure out how to make it all work.

Traffic was heavy. Buses, delivery trucks, automobiles, and bicycles all fought for precious inches on a street whose right lane was eaten up by a long stretch of orange cones stretching for several blocks. Lifting his eyes, Larry looked across the way at the window washers dangling dangerously hundreds of feet in the air, washing and wiping away the city's grime.

Sticking his finger in his collar, Larry stretched and pulled before letting go. It was an uncomfortably hot day. The thermostats were adjusted to the low end of their allowed range, the associated units on the roof sucking in the heat of the smoggy day and spitting out cool air. On days like today, the cooling systems never seemed to do enough as Larry stuck his finger back in his collar and tugged, resisting the urge to remove his tie altogether.

Turning his chair around, Larry maneuvered back to the conference table. He took his time gathering his planner, pad, and loose paper, slipping them back into his leather portfolio. As he did, a thought came to mind which he needed to address. He pulled his planner back out, placed it on top, leaned over, and began to write when his phone started ringing.

He finished his note on the third ring, pulling it from his pocket. The screen was lit up, showing him that the call was from his sister. Hey Amy, Larry said as he gathered his things and slowly made his way out. To what do I owe the pleasure of this call? His sister always put a smile on his face, and as he listened to her voice, he left behind the stress of meetings and the struggling air conditioning. He felt completely at ease.

As he listened, he put his things down on the table and leaned up against the long credenza lining the wall. The doors to the conference room were wide open, and outside, Reginal Hatfield, Larry's personal assistant, stood by, waiting for his boss. Reggie, as he liked to be called, made every effort to make himself available to his boss and anticipate anything that might come up. After a handful of years at Larry's side, Reggie had gotten really good at his job.

Yeah, I can make that ... Larry's voice peaked as he looked at his watch before fading into the background hum of the office building.

Reggie tried not to eavesdrop per se, but he attempted to listen in just enough to get a handle on things. He grinned as he fanned through several screens of his boss's calendar on his tablet. While he was anxious to hear how the meeting went, Reggie was happier to hear Larry talking with his sister. Reggie perused Larry's obligations over the next few days, and as he did, his grin grew larger as it sounded as if Larry and Amy might be getting together. Reggie couldn't remember the last time his boss took any time off. He was well overdue.

I can't wait to see the look on Casey's face when he walked in, Larry said, the excitement in his voice evident.

Casey, Reggie mumbled, the additional information pointing his mind as he started thinking about Larry making a trip to Vegas. Scanning the calendar, he saw that Larry's schedule was packed. But as he darted through the items, he realized there was nothing he could see that was so pressing that it couldn't be rescheduled or delegated to one of Larry's top managers. He looked up at Larry on the phone. But with Larry, you never know. He whispered and chuckled.

No, I'm driving the GTO, Larry said, his portfolio back in his hand as he edged toward the doors.

The mention of the GTO lifted Reggie's hope. Not only a trip to Vegas, but he's driving. Minimum of three days, he thought. To him, a trip to Vegas was starting to sound like a sure thing. On the assumption that Larry was going to go, Reggie began to investigate Larry's two favorite hotels for availability.

Larry started laughing, once again leaning against the credenza, his face beaming. I haven't taken the goat on a road trip since I drove to San Francisco last year. Its four-barrel is begging to get the cobwebs blown out. Besides, you'll love driving the strip with the top down.

The past two years had been difficult. The stress that Larry endured, doing the near-impossible by expanding the company during a time of financial uncertainty, had taken it toll. Other companies ran in the opposite direction, turning isolationist, hunkering down, and holding on to everything they could scrape together, riding the storm. But despite the prevailing corporate wisdom, Larry remained optimistic, seeing an opportunity and taking it.

So I'll meet you in baggage claim, Larry said, pushing away and walking up to the door's threshold, glancing at Reggie. "Yes, I'm aware there are a lot of carousels at McCarran. Just look for the tall good looking guy with the square chin and wavy red hair wearing a Cardinal sweatshirt.

They both were laughing as Larry stepped out into the hallway. Reggie looked up from his tablet at his boss, who took two