By Baart Groot

For Little Eva

Foreword

The stories in this book are a reaction, a reaction to events that have unfolded around me since the beginning of 2013. Each of the stories is I guess, an attempt to purge the anxiety I feel regarding the future of our species and more importantly our planet.

I often say I am pessimistic by nature, but that is no strictly true. I do spend far too much time thinking about the potential paths actions may lead us down; but in doing so I’m often able to make the best of a situation.

Each of these stories is a reflection of mood, of idealism and of fears; not for myself so much, but for those who come after me, for those who I hope will have a safe and prosperous world in which to live. I have ordered them chronologically, to provide sequential reference to the downward spiral I fear we are on, I hope my fear is unfounded and that by the time each of the years rolls around; that my writing is dismissed as the paranoid ravings of a worry-wart and that there was never anything to worry about. Everything’s fine.

That’s what I hope for, but as a former boy-scout, I always like to be prepared.

I hope you enjoy the stories in whatever way you can and that perhaps they inspire you to be a good person, or if you already are; a better person still.

We can all improve, not just for the good of ourselves, but for the good of all.

Baart Groot

AKA The Reluctant Idealist.

Contents

Contents

1. 2042: Citizen Rat
2. 2043: Death of The Unions
3. 2047: The Flood
4. 2051: The Throng
5. 2055: A Dog’s Life
6. 2055: Human™
7. 2056: The Nomad
8. 2062: Home
9. 2057: After School
10. 2057: The Shortest Route
11. 2058: Shift Work
12. 2059: Religion 2.0
13. 2059: Last Hunt
14. 2062: Lilly’s Last Days

Citizen Rat

Frustration threatened to overwhelm Matthew Jackson.

He glanced at the fuel gauge of his 2022 Hyundai Omega sedan and sighed. 

Almost out, it would cost a lot to refuel, but the government was doing all it could. It was due to the instability in the oil producing sector. The public just had to bear the brunt of the cost until some headway was made. The oil crisis would be solved eventually.

The traffic seemed especially bad today. Every year the traffic had gotten worse, every year more cars congested the badly worn roads and every year the smog became more toxic. Matthew could barely see five cars ahead in the slowly crawling throng of chugging automobiles. It wasn’t that there weren’t enough roads being built, on the contrary there were roads being built in every conceivable direction, but the tolls charged by the corporate lease holders were high; tolls that a regular office worker like Matthew Jackson simply couldn’t afford. Matthew abolished the thought, it was because he didn’t work hard enough that he was in this situation. Everyone knew that if you worked hard enough, success was certain. His laziness was keeping him down.

 “Step up your game Jackson” he said to himself.

Jackson knew that his tardiness arriving at work would mean a docked pay check. He’d be lucky to break even with his fuel, rent and tax costs this month. More likely he’d have to apply for yet another personal loan, just to keep his head above water.

Jackson wasn’t alone in his financial predicament. The shock jock on the radio was yet again droning on about the soaring price of commodities, the increase of unemployment to 37%, about the government’s talk of cutting back on services to finally get the budget back into black. It was all the socialists’ fault, he said. They had ruined everything almost half a century ago. The people without jobs weren’t pulling their weight, damn socialist bludgers, Jackson was grateful he had his job at all.

Matthew Jackson had worked since he was fifteen years old, he was now forty-two. He had worked for the same company all that time, he was pretty proud of that. 

He had never known a government to get the budget back into black. People needed to work harder if the country was going to get back on track. 

It wasn’t from his lack of trying though. When he had finished school way back in 2015 there were great plans in store. New infrastructure, roads that would make commuting from the outer suburbs a fast and painless experience, health services that were fair and affordable, tax incentives and lowered rates that were all supposed to get the nation back on track after a disastrous six years of political uncertainty.

Talk was evidently cheap; the long term consequences weren’t though.

The roads that were supposed to make things easier had instead become expensive; much delayed money sinks which, when finally opened had been perma-leased to transport companies in lieu of direct payments along with full rights to charge fee for service. Now travelling to work from home along those shiny new streets could cost half a day’s earnings, the alternative was to take one of the only two public roads still left that led into the central city district and that meant a four-hour crawl through smog and grime along roads that were no longer maintained because the government said it couldn’t afford it.

The car inched forward into a half-foot deep pothole, Matthew cursed as he felt the scrape of metal on bitumen. He would be fined for damage to company property for that.

Seven AM, he was half an hour late, he wouldn’t get paid for today but if he got there before eight then at least he wouldn’t owe the company money. Late fines, dress code fines, language fines, respect and due diligence fines, there were a lot of ways to be fined in Matthew Jackson’s line of work.

Ironically, Matthew Jackson’s work was to process fines, he had processed his own more than once, he had stoically processed the fines and grimly added a late fee as he knew his wage wouldn’t be able to meet the deadline on time. By doing it now he was just being more efficient, it would save the company money, maybe get him noticed.

The car eased out of the pot hole, the sedan was technically his but it was tied to his employment and while he paid for the fuel and maintenance it wasn’t his to sell. He did have to pay his company to replace it every five years as part of his contract. The payments cost almost half of his monthly income but that was pretty standard. The bright yellow logos emblazoned on its bonnet brought some cheer to his otherwise gloomy mood.

Loyalty was its own reward.

Matthew’s thoughts drifted to his mother in her bed over at Saint Morrison’s Unity Care Hospital. She had lung cancer although she hadn’t smoked a day in her life; almost anyone who lived past the age of sixty got lung cancer these days, so at seventy-three she wasn’t doing too badly. Jackson knew that if he had more money she could buy her a lung transplant. Scientific research had leaped forward in the past couple of decades but with the abolishment of public health care most people couldn’t afford the new cures, remedies and treatments that had seen life expectancy jump for eight four to one hundred and forty, more if you could afford Amgen Rejuvenation.

She wouldn’t have to suffer long now, the complete lack of care she received as a NVAP, that’s non value adding pensioner, meant that at most she could expect a nurse to visit her in her ward once a day to make sure she hadn’t died and to fill up the slow drip of sedatives and painkillers. Matthew worked for the very same company that made the medicines, although he worked in a different division entirely. Citizens didn’t mix with the four fifties. He could imagine the hundreds of scurrying workers doing their mono-tasked jobs in the artificial light of the factory floor before returning to their in-house bunks to rest and do it all again the next day. Matthew rarely saw those workers, they didn’t have citizenship but private companies’ grounds were not beholden to national laws, they were in effect their own micronations. Matthew wondered what it would be like to work in their position as indentured workers, instead of as a legal citizen, if the grass was greener on the other side. He shook his head and snorted, he had a great life and he should be thankful for it. The shock jock blathered on.

Not far to go now. Only a couple of city blocks until Matthew arrived and could set about finding a park. Naturally all the cheaper ones would be gone so he would have to pay for the convenience of being closer to the security gates. At least he would get some of his work done. 

Another bulletin on the radio, the terrorism threat was raised to high. Members of some undisclosed leftist political group were suspected of planning an unspecified terrorist attack on government offices sometime in the near future. Two unnamed suspects had been brought into custody by security forces contracted by the Justice and Religion Minster’s office, but several other conspirators were suspected to be at large and may undertake retributive attacks. Extra security forces would be contracted as a result.

Matthew rolled his eyes; every time extra security forces were deployed it meant an increase in security levies and more delays as the helmeted goons searched cars and houses. The levies weren’t taxes though; actual taxes were at the lowest rate in history. Everyone had to pull their weight in these difficult times.

Those lefties should all be shot. That would solve the problem.

There was a break in the traffic as the morning congestion began to clear out. The crawl became a limp. The limp became a steady march. Finally, Matthew arrived at the government sector. Luck was with him today, he found a park that would only cost a hundred dollars for the day and was little more than a ten-minute walk from the office blocks where he worked. He carefully fitted his re-breather, collected his satchel from the passenger seat and stepped out of the car.

The hot, foetid air blew his hair out of place, the premature grey growing black with micro particles of soot and grime. The monstrous noise of a growling, moaning city assaulted his ears as Matthew Jackson strode purposely towards the dull, ugly buildings set apart for the government’s outsourced financial activities in this city. 

A blank masked guard stood in front of the automatic doors, a drooling quivering security dog held tightly by its leash. Matthew could see the lesions on its feet and between its toes from exposure to the pollutants, or maybe the drugs they fed them to keep them alert and aggressive. The goggles on its eyes almost made it look comical.

Matthew held out his ID badge and the blank faced guard waved him through without a word. The foyer was silent as Matthew Jackson entered one of the twenty elevators and pressed the button for his floor.

He smiled at the company logo emblazoned on his work shirt.

Mc Government Administration™

Only twelve hours to go until the day was over.

It could have been worse.

The socialists could have won.