Year Zero: Revolution's Children, #1

By David Dean Lugo

In a future fascist America, sixteen-year-old Joey Cryer must answer one question; What will I sacrifice to save those I love?

In a dark and dystopian America, hope is a scarce commodity, and survival is a dangerous game. Unyielding and merciless, The Incorporated Precincts of America have established a stranglehold, their CEO and Board ruling with an iron fist. In this shattered version of the country we once knew, sixteen-year-old Joey Cryer fights for their life, with two missions burning in their heart: protecting their vulnerable six-year-old sister, Julia, and defying death itself.

"America first. America last. America always," is the chilling mantra of the ruthless leader of the IPA, the oppressive regime that holds the nation in its grip. As violent rebellion escalates, innocent lives are shattered, and the dark specter being selected to be a contestant on Manhunt, a brutal gladiatorial TV show, looms over all. Joey, unwillingly drafted to assist the IPA, becomes a target, and is constantly watched by the merciless Sons of Liberty—the enforcers of The Corporation's reign of terror. Survival means treading a treacherous path, where a single misstep could erase Joey and Julia forever. Their only hope lies in avoiding any thought, word, or action that could attract the wrath of their all-seeing overlords.

Pushed into this nightmare at the tender age of sixteen, Joey's world was once simpler; sitting at the right cafeteria table, trying to catch the eye of Cameron Black, and staying one step ahead of the school bully, Harlan Grundy. But Harlan, driven by loyalty, becomes one of The Corporation's obedient Sons, crushing any remaining hope beneath the soles of his jackboots. Fear, starvation, and the constant threat of death replace the once familiar rhythms of Joey's existence, turning neighbor against neighbor. Dissent becomes the deadliest sin, and silence becomes the only language of survival. In this dystopian landscape, the only acceptable response to a Son is the submissive assertion that "Everything is goodly."

Bereft of everything in the turbulent aftermath of revolution, Joey embarks on an unthinkable act of rebellion—aiding the wounded leader of the resistance, John Doe. In this world where allegiance to Doe means a one-way ticket to the gallows, Joey risks it all to keep Julia safe and forge a path to freedom. Against all odds, they find an unlikely ally in Harlan, who has tasted the bitter betrayal of his former masters. Trusting a former enemy might harbor the key to their survival, their future, and the liberation of their entire community. But at what cost? Only Joey can decide whether the risk is worth it—for their sister, for themself, and for the hope of a better tomorrow.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Dean Lugo
• Release date: Mar 12, 2024
• ISBN: 9798985769517

Book preview

YEAR ZERO

◊◊◊

DAVID DEAN LUGO

Copyright © 2022 David Dean Lugo.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed Attention: Permissions Coordinator, at the address below.

ISBN: 978-8-9857695-0-0 (Paperback)

Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Names, characters, and places are products of the author’s imagination.

Cover artwork and Design by Jeff Brown Graphics.

Interior design by Lorna Reid.

First printing edition 2022.

Spinning Monkey Press

196 Main St.

P.O. Box 547

Keene, NH, 03431

www.spinningmonkeypress.com

www.daviddeanlugo.com

Table of Contents

Acknowledgements

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Five

Thirty-Six

Thirty-Seven

Thirty-Eight

Thirty-Nine

Dedication:

For my son, Jacob. Your innate sense of what is just, and your capacity for kindness towards others inspire me to be a better person every day.

And

To all those who have fought and continue to fight for a more inclusive and just world. Thank you.

Acknowledgements

To my developmental editor Adrienne Kisner, thank you for your honest advice and your encouragement.

To my cover artist and designer Jeff Brown, thank you for your hard work and imagination. I came to you with no ideas, and you gave me a perfect book cover.

To my copyeditor, Robin Le Ann, for the no holds barred corrections and suggestions. Year Zero is a better book because of you.

Year Zero contains depictions of war, terrorism, suicide, bullying, and children in peril, as well as mild swearing including one use of the F word, alcohol consumption, and sexually suggestive situations.

We, The Board of The Incorporated Precincts of America, do establish Justice Tribunals to ensure domestic conformity, to provide for the common defense against all internal and external enemies, and to secure the blessings of The Corporation to all free citizens. We do ordain and establish The Incorporated Precincts of America.

—Executive Summary, Constitution of The Incorporated Precincts of America

One

No law respecting the established religion, prohibiting its free and compulsory practice, may be passed. All citizens free or otherwise are responsible for their speech, as is the press. The Board may sanction the people or the press should they choose to malign The Corporation or its representatives in print, thought, word, or action.

—First Amendment, Constitution Incorporated Precincts of America

A hand grabs my shoulder, and I know I’m screwed. The flickering light from the Jumbotron across the street dispels the concealing darkness. What was I thinking trying to sneak my way across town square after dark? I pull my hat lower, hoping that he won’t recognize me.

Especially if curfew has started.

Dan and Katie are starting the Manhunt preshow on the Jumbotron, which isn’t a good sign. Manhunt rarely starts before seven.

My mouth is dry, and my heart’s hammering fills my ears. It’s the fight-or-flight response kicking in big time. Except in my case, it’s the flight-and-still-get-pommeled response.

Even knowing how it will end, I still think about running.

Just for a second.

Old habits die hard.

I move my eyes to the hand, hoping it’s not covered by a white glove. Crap. It is. So, the he attached to the hand isn’t a regular cop. A cop will just shake me down and let me go. But not this guy.

He’s a Son of Liberty.

I’m surprised he hasn’t shot me yet. They usually do. I mean, it’s kinda their go-to move. I glance from his glove to his face.

I silence a scream. This guy isn’t any old Son. He’s Harlan Grundy. That name alone makes most kids cry. Always has.

Harlan’s been bullying kids since the old days, back when we still lived in a place called the USA. By the time The Corporation ran things and changed the name to The Incorporated Precincts of America, or IPA, Harlan had transformed bullying into an art form. I mean, watching him terrorize a kid is like watching Michelangelo turn a hunk of stone into a statue. Pure artistry.

Unless you’re the rock.

All the Sons are big, but Harlan’s bigger. Not like Schwarzenegger big. It’s more natural. Like a gorilla. Most let his stocky form, with its squashed nose, thick fingers, and stubby legs, fool them. But he possessed a speed unheard of, even among Olympic athletes.

And I, underneath this big ass coat, am just a scrawny sixteen-year-old. Exercise and me are not the best of friends. I mean, we wave when we pass by in the halls. Unless running from Harlan counts. Because if it does, I’m a gold medalist.

Okay, maybe a bronze because he always catches me.

Hold it, citizen, he says loud enough for me to hear over the Jumbotron’s droning voices. That is quite a feat since they always have it turned up to like a million.

Wait. Citizen?

He doesn’t recognize me.

He says something, but Dan speaks over him from the Jumbotron. We’ll be back after this message.

A second later, tolling bells replace his smug voice, sounding out the half hour. I glance at the screen, hoping it says six thirty. Instead, a robotic voice says, The time is now seven thirty. Curfew is in effect.

I’m doubly screwed.

After curfew, you get arrested or worse, unless you’re on official IPA business. It won’t take anyone more than one look to know I’m not. And Harlan’s fists and I have known each other since I was eight, and he was eleven. It’s only a matter of time until his dim brain dusts off the cobwebs and the first faint itch of recognition dawns on him.

If he doesn’t shoot me, which I doubt, I have two simple choices left. But I won’t get to choose. Instead, an Inquisitor will decide between sending me to a Liberty Camp or inducting me into the army.

The second is most likely. They’re drafting more people every day. Younger and younger too. I mean, except for like Ward Commanders, Inquisitors, and Auditors, the whole Corporation is getting younger. I guess they figure the young don’t have as much attachment to the way things were.

The CEO says we’re winning the war, and the extra troops are for the last push into Ottawa. But I’ve heard the rumors. Who hasn’t?

Some say Mexico, Canada’s ally, has won ground in the Southwest. Others say the early winter weather has paralyzed our troops in Ontario and Alaska. What’s happening in Europe is anyone’s guess.

So, whatever the Inquisitor decides, it’s better if Harlan shoots me.

Usually, I’m home before curfew, but I had forgotten it’s earlier now. That’s thanks to the Does—John and Jane Doe—and their rebels blowing up stuff. Last Tuesday, the day most Sons get their rations, they blew up the rationing center. Now, the rest of us are still living off our last pitiful portion.

Movies make rebellion seem exciting and heroic. I guess it is, fighting oppression or whatever. But from where I sit, trying to get by and staying off The Corporation’s radar, it’s terrifying. It doesn’t help people like me. Maybe it will someday, but I’m not holding my breath.

I burrow deeper into my father’s coat, trying to avoid eye contact. The coat must be the only reason Harlan hasn’t recognized me. There’s no point in trying to hide the bag of contraband I’m holding.

I mean, it’s right there.

Besides, it’s just dumb cans of stupid beef stew I bought at the black market. E-rations don’t hardly give anyone enough food. So, most people, leastways those who can afford it, turn to the black market. Even Block Watch Commanders like Harlan.

It’s not totally the Does fault, though. Food, at least the unpowdered kind, was scarce even before they blew up the rationing center. The troops passing through on their way north to the wall, took most of what we had. They didn’t bother leaving much for us citizens.

I’m not sweating the stew, though. I expect he’ll impound it. I’m more worried that what’s stuffed into my belt will spill out. If it does, he’ll definitely shoot me.

He’s eyeing the bag though. His mouth might even be watering. We both stand there, playing our weird freeze tag while waiting for the stupid bell to stop tolling.

As soon as it does, Harlan says, You’re behind curfew, citizen. Slice me the stew, and I won’t donate a one.

Ugh. Slanguage.

It takes me a moment to translate his words to regular English. If I give him the stew, he won’t give me a class one penalty. I can’t speak because he’ll recognize my voice, so I nod. Kneeling, I set the bag down and take off.

I don’t look back.

You never look back.

If you do, they might see your face, connect it to a list of subversives, rebels, or whatever list you didn’t know you were on.

I’m two blocks away before a grin spreads across my face. Dumbass Harlan was so preoccupied by the bag that he didn’t notice the cans crammed in my pockets.

I decide to go home through the woods. It’s longer and a thousand percent spookier, but it has more cover. Plus, The Corporation hasn’t put cameras in the forest. At least not yet anyway. That might change if they suspect the squirrels of treason.

Plus, Harlan lives two houses away from me. If he’s heading home, it’s worth the extra twenty-minute walk to avoid him.

I trudge along. I can’t see a thing in the inky blackness. Everything is a muddied silhouette, and I don’t want to trip on something and break my neck. I used to find the sounds of leaves crunching under my feet satisfying. But I don’t anymore.

They just tell the Sons or the rebel squirrels where you are.

My breath comes quick now. Heart racing. It’s my anxiety getting the better of me. I don’t bother fighting it because I’m too busy cursing myself. If Harlan is out on patrol, he’s nowhere near his house. Then again, it might be dumb luck that we ran into each other.

Either way, I don’t really care right now because I’m sure Jason Voorhees or Michael Myers has spotted my dumbass alone in the woods. I stop for a second, but the sound of crunching leaves doesn’t.

A twig snaps.

I turn.

A half-naked figure lunges from the darkness, falling to the ground.

I almost scream.

A man lies motionless. I get a little closer and notice he’s covered in blood. Against my better judgment, I turn him over. A few holes leak his blood.

Someone shot him.

The only people with guns these days are Sons or rebels. Which means they’re probably out searching for him. That thought alone makes me nope my sorry ass out of the woods as fast as I can.

I emerge, unharassed by either rebel squirrels or a fictional slasher, near the non-Harlan end of my block. My breath comes in short, panicked gasps. I’m more than a little embarrassed by how fast I’m moving down the block.

I turn the corner. My house blazes bright in the frigid night. It’s almost enough to chase away the harsh twilight glow from the screens on the telephone poles.

Julia, my little sister hates being alone, but she isn’t right now. Unless Winnie’s wandered off again. She has turned on every light, which means he probably did. The Sons don’t pay him much mind, so he’ll be okay. Hopefully, she hasn’t used up our electricity ration for the month.

I linger in the driveway, eyes darting. I need to make sure I wasn’t followed.

An angry orange flower of fire blooms over the nearby hills. Must be the rebels blowing something up or being blown up themselves. Either way, a bunch of people are dead. A tenth of a second later, a dull roar reaches my ears, and everything shakes.

Every porch light in the neighborhood blinks on, and people spill out from their houses, scurrying around like angry ants. A few have wide eyes, their O-shaped mouths gulping the chilly night air. Which reminds me of the fish that Dad and I used to catch. Others just sigh, wringing their hands. A few look furious.

I’ve lived here for like forever and recognize everyone.

That is everyone except the young man with the neat dark hair walking along the walkway in front of the house next door. His hands are in his pockets, posture crisp but relaxed.

I do a double take because I didn’t expect to see anyone coming from there. It and the house across the street have stood vacant since the Perrys and the Youngs disappeared a year ago. He might be a zig though.

Zig is short for zigzag. They’re the people who refuse to go along with The Corporation but won’t join the resistance either. So, they zigzag between the two opposing forces that shape the IPA. They usually come in small groups, no more than four. There’s not a lot of them. At least as far as anyone can tell. Anyway, neither side likes them much, and both will see them wiped out just as soon. Which is why, if he is a zig, he certainly wouldn’t be so careless and let everyone know where he lives.

He might be a rebel. They sometimes hunker down in vacant buildings. That thought both excites and frightens me.

As he draws closer, there’s no mistaking this man for a zig or a rebel. He wears a suit, but the distant flames give everything a crimson tone, so I can’t tell what color it is. Something on his jacket flickers. He reaches the end of the walkway, and I notice that the light glints off a bunch of Corporation commendation pins on his lapel.

At first, he acknowledges no one as he crosses his arms and stares straight ahead. He appears calm, but his breath comes in peculiar fits like he’s out of breath but doesn’t want anyone to know. Maybe he’s asthmatic? I don’t know. His eyes don’t watch the distant flames like everyone else; they’re watching the streetlights.

Something glistens on his forehead like sweat, but the night is cold, so that’s impossible. He appears to sense me gawking and gives me a nod.

By reflex, I wave.

Another fireball blossoms, this one almost bright enough to read by. The windows rattle from the blast. The neighborhood lights blink a few times before going out. Someone screams as we’re plunged into a weird twilight of flickering screens since those never stop.

I swear Pinman smirks.

A second later, old Doc Salazar asks, Do you think it’s the Canadians?

That isn’t as silly as it sounds, since if you’re lucky enough to own a car, it’s like three hours to the border.

Nah. I bet it’s the Does and the rebels, Mr. Taylor replies.

Everyone stares at him for a moment. Calling the Does rebels is against the law.

"You mean terrorists," a throaty unfamiliar voice—my new neighbor—says.

Yes, y-yes, Mr. Taylor stammers. He probably noticed every commendation on Pinman’s jacket. He chuckles nervously, running a hand across the back of his neck.

I don’t want to call attention to myself, but Taylor was my dad’s fishing buddy. I can’t count the number of times that the Taylors shared a meal with us after a good day on the lake.

A familiar voice breaks the uncomfortable silence. Mr. Taylor is scaredly is all. He’s not trying to be outside the box.

I look around, trying to find who spoke. For some reason, everyone’s staring at me like I punched a nun or something.

Well, everyone except Taylor. He’s got a grateful smile pasted on his stupid round face. The looks confirm my growing suspicion. The voice was familiar because it’s mine.

Pinman doesn’t reply, just cocks his head.

Well, um, good night, sir, Mr. Taylor croaks as he scurries back inside his house.

A second later, the loudspeakers atop every telephone pole on the block crackle to life. On the screens, a severe looking yet appealing middle-aged woman appears with her hair wrapped tight around her head. Everything can go dark but not PR Polly, the voice of The Corporation.

There’s a whine of feedback, and Polly stares with a Mona Lisa smile on her lips, waiting for it to pass. It fades to a crackling static and clears.

Her familiar, faintly British voice sounds out. Return to your homes. All is goodly. We have the situation under control. As always, she adds the Corporate slogan. America first. America last. America always.

Another squeal of feedback sounds out. Dan and Katie return to the screens, laughing about the ratings bonanza it’ll be when the real Does are caught and put on Manhunt. But since Manhunt is required viewing, ratings are a bonanza every day anyway. I’m also not sure how we’d know if they’re the real Does. I mean, every time they think they’ve got them, it turns out they’re regular rebels.

No one even knows what the Does look like.

A weird sensation tingles my leg. It’s my phone vibrating in my pocket. I put aside my stray thoughts for now as I fish it out.

What did you think of this Realnews brief flashes on the screen. Underneath, like always, are two emoji:

a smiley one,

and a frowning one.

I tap the smiley face to show that I loved it. No one clicks the other one anymore. Well, no one without a death wish.

Soft clicking echoes around me as my neighbors do the same. By the time I’m done, they’re scurrying back into their homes. I guess they’ve all realized it’s after curfew, so we are all technically criminals right now.

Pinman still stands there with his arms crossed, staring at me. I try not to meet his gaze and mumble something about how my little sister is waiting for dinner inside.

In the distance, sirens blare. A lot of them. All isn’t goodly. I sense the stranger watching me as I walk into my house.

I don’t look back.

You never look back.

Two

Harlan Grundy slams his front door shut and tosses a white plastic bag emblazoned with the words Shop 'n Save on the floor. He pauses long enough to unlace his black Doc Martens boots. They’re not regulation, but he doesn’t care.

He has worn them for as long as he can remember. When he bothers to remember. Remembering is a quality of creatures far less concerned with their immediate gratification than Harlan Grundy.

Besides, apart from a few high-ranking bureaucrats, who’d never be caught dead in a berg like Symes, who in their right mind would tell Harlan what he can or can’t do. The last guy who tried still slurps his meals through a straw. He kicks the boots off, smirking at the thought.

The cold floor stings his feet through the holes in his dingy socks. He growls a curse. He can have new socks at will, but it’s too much of a hassle. All that paperwork. No, it’s simpler to requisition them from a citizen. The problem is that few people in this dumbass town have feet as generous as his. He should do the paperwork soon and just be done with it. But that’s tomorrow’s problem.

His hand slips into the bag and fishes around for a second. Finding his prize, he pulls out a can of soup. He examines it for a moment with the delight of a thief who has just snatched The Crown Jewels.

He doesn’t know who the sucker was out after curfew, but he doesn’t care. His only care is he has snagged a free meal. Not that he paid for his food or even dealt with the pitiful e-rations. In fact, his fridge was exploding with more food than the average citizen saw in a year. A tribute from the local black marketeers for looking the other way.

No, the dirty, dented can satisfies him for one reason: it had belonged to someone else, and now, it was his.

It takes his pudgy fingers a few tries before he grips the lid’s metal ring and tosses it into the trash. The mass