Publication
Date: May 24th, 2022
Genre: YA
Dystopian
A
thrilling new YA dystopian novel has dark parallels to a conceivable
future America.
It’s
been two years since the establishment of the brutal dictatorship The
Incorporated Precincts of America and its governing Board and CEO, as
well as the death of the old America. Sixteen-year-old Joey Cryer has
two missions: to keep their six-year-old sister, Julia, safe, and to
not die.
America
first. America last. America always. This is the vow that the CEO
leader of the IPA—The Incorporated Precincts of America—pledges
to his suffering citizens. With violent protests breaking out in
every city, attacks against immigrants, and the national crisis of
the Capitol Event, young Joey must keep their vigilance in staying
clear of the IPA’s ever-watching Sons of Liberty—its ruthless
police force—to avoid becoming “disappeared” with his little
sister. This means not maligning the governing body, The Corporation,
with any thought, word, or action, or else suffer the consequence.
One such sanction for disobeying citizens is being forced on to the
required viewing television show “Manhunt,” where they fight for
their lives against the Sons, upholding The Corporation’s
domination over society.
Two
years earlier, before the Second Revolution ended and before the
election, Joey’s biggest concern was sitting at the right cafeteria
table at his high school or if the girl they liked them back.
Avoiding the school bully, Harlan Grundy, was always a plus, and so
was not getting pummeled. So, it was no big surprise that Harlan
became a Son, loyal to The Corporation and carrying out their dirty
deeds to keep citizens in check and in fear. The only correct
response to a Son? Everything is goodly.
Having
lost everything in the revolution’s aftermath, Joey takes an
unfathomable risk by helping the near-dead leader of the rebellion,
John Doe. Having anything to do with Doe will skip you right past
penalties and sanctions all the way to the death penalty, not only
for you, but for anyone you love. And yet Joey’s sole mission is
keep Julia safe until they can secretly escape to freedom. To do so,
they finds they have an unlikely partner in a recently betrayed
Harlan. Trusting their former enemy may be the only way to ensure
their future—but is it worth the risk for Joey, Julia, and his
community?
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Chapter
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.
Available
on Amazon
About
the Author
Author
David Dean Lugo often gets ideas for his stories by wondering what
if? In his new young adult dystopian novel, Year
Zero, he probed this when writing about a future fascist America
run by a governing body called The Corporation and its CEO. Lugo
believes that today’s trend of people judging one another too
harshly—whether based on their political party, gender identity, or
something else—is causing people to drift too far away from one
another. His story explores potential extreme ramifications of this.
Lugo
believes a great book is one that has believable characters that
readers can identify with and relate to. He hopes his stories evoke
emotion and thinking from his readers long after the book is closed.
When
he isn’t writing thought-provoking YA novels, Lugo enjoys playing
guitar, watching movies, playing video/board games, and hanging out
with his amazing family. He lives in southwest New Hampshire with his
wife Meredith, son Jacob, and their rascally Labrador/Collie mix
named Astrid. Year Zero is the first volume in
his The Revolution’s Children trilogy.
David
Dean Lugo | Twitter | Facebook | Instagram
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