New America Awakenings

By Tyler Davis

2022 Bronze Medal winner- Readers Favorite International Book Contest.

 

After a polarizing election, America breaks into a civil war, followed by a failed foreign invasion. Winning is not the end! New America divides into projects based on race and religion. Citizens who protest or break the laws are labeled an "enemy of peace." An enemy of peace quickly loses their head to the guillotine.
Colt Jenkins resides in the New Bethlehem Project, where New American youth must navigate between Country, God, Survival, Love, Family, and Friends. Surviving daily attacks from Broken Mecca is not the only challenge. Katherine Shay, New Bethlehem's keeper of the law, terrorizes citizens using the red phone, turning them into the government as enemies of peace. In a world with intermittent electricity, the President makes decrees from the television. The government controls the news and all information.
The rising tension in the country and the Project puts Colt in Katherine's and the government's crosshairs. After being publicly humiliated by Katherine, Colt discovers the government is not what it appears. Colt will have to decide what kind of man he will be and what he will choose to leave behind in his race to save his family and his love.
"New America Awakenings is a powerful new release that goes for the jugular. This book has the makings of a dystopian classic." ~ San Francisco Book Review
"Davis gives us a possible future we really don't want. Even if we can't stop ourselves from reading it." ~ Portland Book Review

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tyler Davis
• Release date: Sep 3, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215501320

Book preview

Chapter 1

The light shone through the tattered and dirty curtains in my window directly onto my face. I rubbed my eyes, pulling my vision into focus. I rolled over, pulled the flimsy blanket with me up to my chin, and sighed. I hated mornings. Morning meant another day of attempting to survive. I reached for the old brown leather watch, the one possession I owned in the world, and my eyes shot open. The old watch told me the time: 8:30 AM.

I sat up in bed, and my heart pounded. No one slept this late. Sometimes sleeping in our community felt impossible. The sounds of gunfire and bombs going off started early in the morning in our neighborhood. I jumped out of bed as I slung the watch over my wrist with complete ease, and with years of practice, fastening the leather around my wrist.

You should never leave your belongings behind at home. Often, advanced notice of violence didn't happen. Many people enjoyed little these days, what they owned, they did not advertise. Smart citizens won't carry food stuffs around with them if they possessed food. Real food attracted too much scrutiny.

Drawing attention to yourself meant a person would likely meet their god of choice. The reason I didn’t scream out to my parents or sister, avoiding attracting attention to myself.

The fact that nobody heard my heart pound was beyond me. The traitor attempted to jump out of my chest and run down to the pier to buy passage out of here. Despite not having enough money to leave, my heart struggled to escape, nonetheless.

I sprinted out of my room and rounded the corner of the small two-bedroom apartment housing all four of us. I ran into the living room. My breath already ragged from fear. Father hung on the edge of the couch, giving me the telltale Be quiet, you idiot stare. I loved my dad, even when his actions made loving him difficult. Although sixteen, my father forced me to regress back to twelve with his glare.

The television showed a broadcaster, which meant the power reached us today. Nice! The state- sponsored newscast ran as I scanned the room, not listening to the show. Eliza sat on my mom's lap.

Eliza's possession, a tattered-looking dolly, rested on her lap. Her ragged doll renewed a fire in me daily to provide better for my sister. My mother sat with her arms around my little sister holding onto her, eyes glued to the television.

Northern forces cut off the Muslims from the gates of the New Bethlehem project today. Reports of Muslim troops mounting an attack on the already battered small city reached safety officials. Our sources tell us this is the first day in two years, gunshots and bombs have not detonated in the Christian project.

His voice projected arrogance, like he took up arms holding back the Muslim Liberation Front, or MLF, himself.

My mother shook and lowered her head slowly and let out a little sigh.

This will be a temporary peace that will lead to no gain. I only pray Abaan is alright, Father, she said softly as my father waved his hand for her to be silent. Electricity worked intermittently, and we only got the news when power flowed through the lines

I say news, but the transmission came across more like some cheesy story meant to cheer us up. Instead of commercials, we're treated to rousing choruses of patriotic songs showing lucky Americans running across fields and sitting down to eat plentiful dinners.

Nothing plenteous sprang up from where we lived. Dad called the show propaganda. When parents try to convince you that liver is delightful, parents use propaganda. Liver is not appetizing. My stomach churned at the calm.

Quiet meant someone had time to scheme and plan. At least with explosives and bullets, they announced loudly their presence. Eliza also glanced at the window fearfully as she pulled the ragged doll close to her and bit her small lip.

The only noise in the room came from the newscaster. Dad tapped his foot with his hands folded in front of his mouth. Occasionally, he would let out a grunt or snarl. He hated the newscasts, telling everyone in the house, often in whispered or hushed tones. He, like the rest of us, feared someone would turn us in as sympathizers, which we were.

Dad's best friend, Abaan, followed Islam. He lived outside New Bethlehem and not allowed in New Bethlehem or any other Christian project. A new feature of American freedom: separation. New laws determined geography through projects built on race and religion. After the attacks and wars ended, segregation became law. That's right, sports fans, wars.

First came the civil war. Civil War Two was messy, with no clear boundaries like North versus South. Then a few pesky foreign invaders tried to take over. After our forces defeated the outside aggressors, we moved to projects based on religion and race for our safety. Our government's idea of protection left us less safe.

Christians didn't hesitate to round up nonbelievers, helping them disappear. The joke became No second for them, referring to the Second Amendment. Citizens kicked out undesirables from the shelter of the city walls. Atheists died quickly at the hands of rogue groups, or so the story goes.

Dad started pacing around the living room, tapping his chin and grumbling, while the television played And the truth goes marching on while plump-faced white children carried American flags, smiling and laughing.

Eliza carefully monitored the little girls in their clean clothes and ribbons while my heart broke. She wanted ribbons for her hair, not the string she used. Eliza never complained, but her desire was obvious. Mom petted her hair, knowing better than to interrupt my father in his thinking.

Consumed about Abaan and Abaan's family, the tension showed in dad's tight frame and face. Abaan's son Ryaan and I spent a lot of time together in pre-war times. Ryaan's birthday arrived several months before mine. Whenever the opportunity presented itself, Ryaan would remind me that his birthday came before mine, therefore, older than me. Before resettling began, Ryaan had become my best friend.

New Bethlehem's shortage of friends occurred as commonly as shortages of food. Enemies grew in abundance in our city streets, never knowing which one would betray a person or family. Citizens never were sure of who would pick up a red phone and turn them in.

I calmly walked over to the window, peering out, which we didn't often do. Bullets not flying around gave us the illusion of safety. As I glanced out the window, a few people ventured out into the street.

They appeared scared, wandering around in the quiet. The bright red phone box glared back at me angrily.

A cheerful, cheery phone booth made of wood with glass coverings, housed the red phone. I spotted a booth like ours in a picture of London in history book from school. In all the gloom of the city, the phone box stood disconnected from everything else. No matter how much bombing or shooting went on, the red phone box always maintained its appearance of being brand new. Today, the cubicle went unused.

A telephone call on the red phone meant troops rolled into town. Someone would be dragged into the back of the death wagon, and our community never saw them again. Well, that's not true. The public would view them one more time.

Citizens gathered in the public square to see the accused one more time, listening as the offender's judge returned a guilty verdict before being loaded into the guillotine. A few moments later, whop! One less member of the New Bethlehem project. Enemies     of peace received swift justice.

As I stared at the red phone box, dad stepped behind me and put his huge hand on my shoulder, giving me a gentle squeeze. Most citizens hated the red phone, except Katherine. Dad leaned in, saying to me, We deserve better than living in fear.

I remembered the time before the wars. Life before the war challenged us as a nation, but compared to this reality, pre-war life remained a paradise.

Colton, one day we will experience freedom again. Dad's voice sounding heavy, whispering in my ear. And with our heads still attached, Dad stole one last glimpse out the window and stepped away. I wanted to believe him.

My stomach started to twist, pondering about the nightmares of my family beheaded in the square.

Nightmares of beheading plagued most of us younger people. I couldn't wait until the day came, when the red phone no longer existed. If the attacks stopped tomorrow, how would we survive in harmony?

Gunfire and bombs became our way of living for so long, enduring the quiet felt worse than a gunshot.

Wars became the background music of our existences, in which the movements gave our lives purpose. Hatred became the seasoning that made our food. The thought of peacefulness remained significant until a simple realization sets in. What will we do when we aren't shooting at anyone?

Movement across the street caught my eye. Katherine came bursting out of her front door like a bomb. Katherine's motivation for power made her a malicious woman. Most people didn’t like her. Mostly   because we all suspected they put the red box outside her house to make her chore of dialing easier, turning unsuspecting people of New Bethlehem simpler for Katherine. Our government made such conveniences a priority.

Katherine placed her hands squarely on her hips and surveyed the boulevard with a disapproving eye. She slapped her chest with her right hand over her heart. Katherine practiced her forceful sign of patriotism often. I felt certain a callous above her heart formed, if she possessed a heart. God bless America, her shrill voice carried across the road up into our apartment.

Katherine gained the attention of everyone around her. Her round face projected disdain for the unlucky enough to be near her. Mom said her face always appeared that way because she stayed so sour   like a lemon. The people shifted around without eye contact with Katherine, but put their hand on their chest to utter, God bless America.

She surveyed the street, glancing up, catching me gazing at her. She glared at me as she moved her hand over her heart in a circular motion, showing me what I needed to do. I raised mine to my heart, smiling back. For now, my little display would be satisfactory enough for her to drop her gaze. Katherine surveyed the street one more time, scowling as she disappeared back into her house.

I caught one of the passersby turn toward her house and give her half a peace sign precisely as her front door closed. I couldn't help but laugh a little to myself. Hearing dad talk turned my attention back to the room.

I'm worried. If soldiers surround Bethlehem, then we've lost our ability to come and go. I don't think we can risk attempting to travel to Abaan and find out what's going on in Broken Mecca.

Dad and Abaan worked for months to build a coalition of Muslims and Christians to work collectively to bring peace to our two projects. They couldn't march around town saying everyone should hold hands and sing songs together. Speaking openly would assure both men died on a guillotine. Before the lockdown, their ability to move back and forth proved   easy.

I wandered into the kitchen and pulled out a protein bar and began to unwrap my breakfast. I took a huge bite, not because of the delicious nature of the bars. No one ate around here because they liked the flavor of the bars. We only consumed them to beat starvation.

Protein bars made me remember in pre-war days how we munched for pleasure too. Since the wars, we didn’t receive a lot of food, and we couldn't trust the ground to produce things. Protein bars kept us going and reminded us how grateful we should be watching those chubby American children on TV eat proper food.

Eliza didn't grow up with decent food. Her mouth watered when the girls ate apples and ice cream on the   TV. I asked dad why the state would show those images? Because they are cruel, Colt, and because making people mad is their goal. Regular citizens can't obtain real subsistence because of the wars. Our government wants to keep Americans inflamed, which keeps us at war with one another, not the government. The president understands showing us these videos is propaganda, used by a cruel, corrupt regime. He uses these techniques to ensure citizens keep battling, using religion to accomplish his goals.

Protein bars tasted like chewy cardboard. Protein bars showed up when the ground didn't grow food or import food. People tried to melt the bars and put seasoning in them. I remember when mom attempted to cook the bars. For all her effort, mom made a foul, smelly, gloppy soup none of us could consume. Empty stomachs often don't turn away food yet melted protein bars offered the perfect reason to not eat.

I strolled back into the living room as Eliza left mom’s lap and stepped into my parent's bedroom. Eliza slept in their room. I smiled at her tickling her behind the ear. She made her kitty noise, which sounded like purring. I suspected Eliza was going to lie down.

Eliza always appeared tired, gaunt, and listless. Mom said her health condition came from lack of happiness and vitamins. I believed Eliza's dreams transported her to picnics filled with ribbons and ice cream. Dreams brought her more joy than living in our reality.

Eliza slept with mom and dad in the larger room. I didn't share my room. Usually, rooms housed multiple people due to lack of space. Most children all shared, but my room was facing the street and far too dangerous for Eliza. Dad contemplated not using the room for fear of firebombs and shootings.

Eventually, he gave in when I told him an empty room made a quick breaking in space. Dad also remembered teenage boys need their privacy.

Occupying my own room provided a small form of normalcy. Things like privacy, cell phones, and the internet no longer existed in our New America.

Genuine panic ensued when cell phones stopped working and the internet disappeared. Gaggles of people walked around looking like extras in a zombie   film, in some type of withdrawal. We all took the technology for granted, and when stripped from us, we appeared empty and lost.

Mom squeezed past me, standing in the doorway to the kitchen. Mom stood tall, planting a kiss on my   cheek. I leaned into mom's lips because she stood so short. I smiled with a mouthful of protein bar while she wrinkled her nose up at me. Reluctantly, I went back to the living room to find dad sitting on the couch with a map spread out after I closed my mouth and chuckled to myself.

What are you doing? I asked, peeking at the map, which became memorized by all of us. Maps of our two projects in New America held a lot of familiarity in our house. He rubbed his chin again, took his finger, and traced out his route from New Bethlehem to Broken Mecca, where Abaan lived.

The normal path is blocked by troops. Two exits out of Bethlehem here and here. He pointed at the beat-up piece of paper. Hopefully, they aren't aware of the other exit underneath the basement of the old high school.

By now, dad's talk about things like routes out of New Bethlehem became repetitious. One way to leave New Bethlehem, but no one could afford, led down to the piers.

As soon as the project boundaries became law and everyone separated, the captains secretly offered to take people from New America to England. Closed New American borders provided national security, so there is no way to slip in illegally or get out.

One drawback of trying to sneak out of New America remained expense, no credit cards accepted, and if caught, citizens earned an enemy of peace verdict immediately. With no defense available, enemies of peace lost their heads quickly. However, some parents who hoarded money estimated the risk outweighed the cost.

Parents with cash snuck their children in containers to be smuggled out to England, hoping they wouldn’t be discovered. No one questioned the disappearances, blaming the MLF when loved one vanished. Parents never found out if their kids arrived   in England or died at sea.

A captain of one ship was captured with a couple of children. The capture of the boat made national news. The captain's severed head made the most headlines though. Enemies of peace didn't last long. Unfortunately, not only the captain lost his head, but also the parents of the children, including the kids over thirteen.

Law stated that juveniles can tell the difference between right and wrong at the age of thirteen. If a child didn't show the proper training, respect, and love of the motherland, they died as an enemy of peace. All the kids over thirteen found themselves in the guillotine. Congress made a holiday out of the executions.

Politicians took to podiums to give long speeches of our freedom and love of our nation. Choirs in bright red gowns sang outside the White House before the lotteries. The lottery changed from giving   away money to handing food. No one from New Bethlehem won a lottery.

Cameras panned around, showing the doomed trapped in pillories. The younger kids stopped struggling. Tear-stained cheeks overpowered camera angles, panning in on the tearful faces. The TV coverage kept the condemned in the bottom corner of the screen. Dad said this broadcast of the beheading served as a warning to all of us to show what would happen if we disobeyed the government.

Finally, the president came to speak. The audience went wild with cheers and chants of God bless America, went up, waiving Bibles in their hand. Excitedly, the mob waved their Bibles above their heads while screaming out to the president.

As the president took to the podium, the condemned in pillories a few steps below, he raised his hands, and a hush descended. The president always wore a dark suit. His salt and pepper hair, thin and combed over, blew in the breeze.

The president's lack of previous governmental office meant Americans viewed him as a political outsider. The president obtained his fame and fortune through his business skills. Americans grew sick of partisan insiders running Washington, and citizens hungered for something new. He offered the possibility of a new start to regain the country.

My fellow New Americans, when I won reelection of this office, I pledged a new vision for our once glorious nation. Our divine motherland became flooded by the enemy. We let go of our call to the Lord God Almighty. I vowed we would return to our greatness. We endured this arduous journey together. We've witnessed so much bloodshed from inside our own land and then fighting delivered to our shores. Yet I ask you, are we still here?

The spectators erupted into chants of God bless America at a fevered pitch. The president moved his hands up to quiet the throng with a generous smile.

The rest of the world pays attention to New America. I can promise you that! The international community marvels as we come together to support our solidarity. Because, as the world knows, we do nor lose anymore. We do not lose on our soil. Yes, we've made sacrifices. Yes, we've dug in deep to secure our own home, and we still fight our enemy today. But I promise you this. Once we eradicate the root of this evil, our New America will rise out of the ashes and be great again!

Applause erupted loudly on the television. I imagined how loud the actual event must be. TV cameras showed people working up to a frenzy outside   the White House. The energy began feeding on itself. As always, dad sat next to me, mumbling comments under his breath about living in a fascist state, and democracy died. Mom kept silent. The pictures televised people technically smiling, but the smiles appeared to be a deranged sort of smile—the smile of the possessed.

This is not what Jesus wanted, mom whispered.

Later, I would ask her what she suggested. Mom believed Jesus taught his followers love and not hate. She concluded our world hijacked the Word of God to justify killing, discrimination. I didn't understand at a young age what she proposed.

The president ended his speech to the crowd and declared the time to move on to the peace ceremony. Peace described the event in the president's words yet proved the absolute opposite.

TV cameras panned around, showing the condemned dragged off the steps, still having to wear a yoke and chained. Marched down the street through the crowds, the cameras showed the prisoners being pelted with small stones as they trod with chants of Burn in hell.

Mom wanted me to leave the room, but dad figured watching was vital for me to understand what the government's cruelty looked like. Dad explained to me beforehand what to expect. The ceremony of peace, mandatory viewing for all residents of New America, meant I had to watch as well.

The walk from the White House to the platform of peace took thirty minutes of pained marching for the condemned. Parents begged for the lives of their children. One girl in particular, who appeared at thirteen, kept falling with her yoke.

The military leading the procession flogged her every time she fell. Tears fell from mom's eyes as she left the room. I turned to dad wanting direction from him on what to do. He shook his head, Let her go. As soon as the convicted climbed the steps, with their yolks individually removed, the soldiers loaded the condemned to the guillotine. The process of loading the victims into the guillotines showed the twisted part of the ceremony.

Each guillotine, designed for maximum fear, killed several people together. Efficiency of this set up   gave Americans a clue into the government's cruelty. Ten innocents loaded into one guillotine make an authoritative statement. Our government did not consider killing numerous citizens simultaneously a moral issue for them.

The guillotine towered above the crowd at over twenty feet tall, with two twin blades, hung up at the top. The condemned laid on their backs, so their heads looked up. Soldiers roughly tied their arms and legs to the sliding tables, pushing the slabs forward once secure. Finally, a bar secured their heads down, locking the victim into place completely immobilized.

Brightly shined metal gliding surfaces housed victims, giving an appearance of bodies stacked on top   of one another. Dad said this way the detached heads would hit the ones at the base. Soldiers loaded adults at the base of the guillotine first, so the last thing they visualized would be the separated head of their children falling to the ground.

I wished I left with my mom.

The minister of tolerance closely monitored the securing process of victims before he spoke. You guessed it; the proceedings dragged on. The preacher talked about the greatness of God granting the truth    New America followed.

All the enemies of God, considered apostates, deserved death according to government philosophy. To their way of thinking, killing miscreants showed dedication to God. Dad's hands clutched tightly as he   told me we needed to pray for these poor souls about to be murdered. We said a quiet prayer for them as the preacher offered up his readings from the Bible.

Choir members marched up to the stage, singing behind the minister. No one wept during the deranged church service. Finally, the moment came. The crowd became hushed as the minister of peace stepped to the box next to the guillotine housing the master switch, which released the dual gleaming blades. The condemned screamed when one of the parents told their child to close his eyes.

Witnessing innocents lose their heads became one of the most scarring events in my young life. Twin blades dropped down until the screaming turned into silence. As all the heads collected in the bucket, cheering erupted with a unified chorus of God bless America.

Cameras panned around the crowds of crazed on lookers. Then to my horror, the cameras showed the severed heads in the bin. The ceremony of peace continued with more speeches, while the bodies lay on the guillotine and the blood flowed. I shook the memory from me as my father talked to me.

If I can exit through the high school, I can attempt to cross the ditch to Broken Mecca and reach Abaan.

I leaned over, peering at the map, I winced.

Crossing the ditch was not preferable under suitable circumstances. Dad, I spoke quietly so mom couldn't overhear me, the ditch? Are you sure you want to cross the ditch? I mean, I trembled, thinking about dad crossing the ditch with pleading eyes. I didn't want him to cross the ditch.

Abaan is in Broken Mecca, conceivably in need of our help. He glanced out the window and said, Do you hear that?

My senses went into overdrive. What did he hear? My ears didn't pick up anything as I shook my head no.

Not hearing anything is what concerns me, son. The silence unsettled me, but what made the quiet so terrible? Quiet meant less death, right? Dad sensed my question as his eyes questioned me, If we aren't shooting and being shot upon, that means Broken Mecca isn't shooting. He waited for me to place the facts together.

You mean, if they aren't firing, someone is stopping them? Dad nodded in my direction.

Go on. Follow your thoughts to the conclusion, son.

He placed his hands over his mouth while I contemplated for a moment. My eyes widened in terror of the realization as I said the words out loud, Or Broken Mecca's gone.

The horror of New Mecca being destroyed shook me. Dad closed his eyes for a moment and lowered his head. But the project can't be gone. The only thing causing destruction like that would be a flash bomb. Sounds still came from the TV, Our electricity is on.

As if tempting fate, the power went out.

Instantly, dad started to scream, Run to the hallway now! Grab Eliza! The only thing missing from dad's lips. This is not a drill, did not need to be said.

I ran into mom and dad's room and scooped up my fragile eight-year-old sister. We flew out the door, grabbed the handle, slamming the door behind me. Mrs. Bees! Eliza screamed with her arms stretched out toward the door.

Dad rounded the corner with my mother as he dragged a bookcase behind him. Eliza continued freaking out. Her only possession, one ratty dolly, needed protection too.

Without thinking, I ran past dad, who started screaming at me. I barged in the room, scanned the bed for the tattered doll running back out of the room. I slammed the door as a bomb exploded. Debris started raining down on our building as the detonation blew out the windows in my parents' room.

The blast threw me past my dad as he pulled the bookcase to cover the small hallway. Eliza and my mom began crying, huddled in the corner behind the mattress we kept for bombings. I crawled forward, my ears ringing and the room swaying. Another concussive blast rocked the building. The floor swayed as the room began to dim around me.

Chapter 2

I hated waking up in normal circumstances. Someone ran me over with a Humvee and decided to back over me again for good measure, according to my body. Nowhere on my body didn't hurt. The explosion caused my head to burst with a cold pulse,