Down There - A Short Story.

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JOHN

‘A carbon neutral you. A better you and a better world.’? John clicked the link. It was nearly 15:00 and he had been site hopping since midday. This was not a one off. He had been down this rabbit hole for months, googling self-sufficiency and off grid living. It was an addiction with good cause.

??????????? After receiving a call from the IRS, about his data being cloned, he was certain this was the way forward. They are listening in. The men in black were out there, down the alleys, in the shadows and they were not there for your protection. They knew everything. Location, bank details, medical records, purchase history, likes, dislikes, trends, patterns, desires, even who was screwing who. Not that John would ever consider an affair, he loved Rose too much, but he was curious how someone could partake in one. Not the actual act or moral dilemma that comes with it but the fact THEY would know and THEY could use it against you. And THEY would.

??????????? ‘I’m going to the store. Can you manage until I’m back?’ John called upstairs.

??????????? ‘Dinner is in 15 minutes,’ said Rose.

??????????? ‘Can you manage?’ snapped John.

??????????? ‘Yes, I can ‘manage’ darling.’

John could feel the frustration in Rose’s tone but he knew she understood what he meant by ‘manage’. Amongst his recent interest in self-sufficient lifestyles, he had also delved into authoritative control. Something was occurring nationwide that could not be ignored. Eventually it would not be such a democratic government in power and that time was approaching fast. John knew Rose didn’t believe his theories on certain parties tampering with everyday supplies to add mind control drugs but he also knew she was not na?ve to the ministry creeping into power. She knew managing meant keeping alert and never drawing attention to yourself whether virtually or in your daily life. If she knew how involved John really was in opposing the Ministry then she would know the real danger they were all in.

Connor looked across the dinner table at his dad who was engrossed in his phone. John heard his son speak but hadn’t listened. Something about a goal? ??????????? ‘Uh-huh.’ replied John without looking up. ??????????? ‘John,’ snapped Rose, ‘your son is trying to talk to you.’ ??????????? ‘Sorry C, a goal you say?’ John laid the phone face down on the table. ??????????? ‘Yeah, it was my left’– the phone buzzed– ‘foot as well.’ John glanced at his phone. Rose glared at him. ??????????? ‘Left foot, was it? That’s impressive. I guess all the’– the phone buzzed again– ‘coaching has … has–’

??????????? ‘Oh, just check the darn thing,’ said Rose.

John snatched up the phone and swiped. ??????????? ‘This will be over soon, I promise,’ said John, ‘we can leave THEM behind.’

Rose rolled her eyes. He swiped again.

??????????? ‘A fully attentive husband and father. Our family will be the best team ever. Isn’t that right C?’

Connor looked to Rose, who smiled back. A reassuring smile that tried to say have faith in your dad but the sincerity was not hitting home. If Rose wasn’t sure then how could her 10-year-old son be?

John jumped up, sending his chair crashing across the room.

‘John,’ yelled Rose.

‘My head hurts,’ grumbled Connor.

‘Sorry,’ said John as he scrambled for his coat. ‘I have to go to the library.’ What he meant was he needed to use the public phone booth as the Ministry had bugged his phones. Even if the government were spying on everyone, why would he be of any interest to them? thought Rose.

??????????? ‘My head,’ cried Connor.

??????????? ‘Don’t worry, Dad will pick something up for you whilst he is out. John, get some Tylenol for Connor and–’

??????????? ‘Jesus Rose, it doesn’t take a government to tamper with store pills, remember Chicago?’ John often used this as his go to argument.

‘That was 1982. We have tamperproof packaging now,’ Rose would always respond leaving John to go off on a rant about how the culprit was never caught and maybe he was part of the ministry. John knew that always made Rose think because there was no logical argument against it.

‘We have some ginger and willow in the cupboard,’ John said, ‘You want some ginger and willow mix, C?’

??????????? ‘I’m going to bed,’ sighed Connor.

?

ROSE

As the clock struck 10pm there was a knock on the door. Not before 10 and not after 10. At 10 on the dot. John was out as THEY well knew. THEY were messing with Rose. Her heart raced but she would not let her fear be shown. Deep breaths Rose.

‘Any decent person would know this is no time for an unannounced visit,’ said Rose as she opened the door, ‘which is why I knew it must be you.’

She was used to these visits now. It was a peculiar verbal doorstep dance she was becoming regularly forced to participate in.

‘Can I–’

A raised finger abruptly stopped the visitor from speaking as Connor peered around his mom’s side.

‘Go back to bed.’ Rose stared at Connor, who backed off gingerly, knowing now was not the time to push it.

Rose smiled to apologise for delaying a visitor she never invited and had no desire to engage. Rose was not dragged up. Her middle class mid-western parents had always aspired to climb the social ladder. She remembered one particular social function at the country club. The hegemony clique was circling to either welcome or devour newcomers. This clique had cultivated a unique Hamptons accent through generations of exclusivity and keeping up appearances, and Rose had to admit it did have an elegance to it. So, in desperation to spend weekends masquerading at this charade of decency her mother had attempted to join the conversation by mimicking their accents. It had not gone well. It could only be described as an unfortunate blend of Queen Elizabeth II and Foghorn Leghorn. The moment those first few syllables left her mother’s mouth Rose nearly lost it. Her mother shot a stare and her laughter ceased.

It was a strict but well-intentioned upbringing which made her who she was. It was why she wanted to swing for John every time his darn phone buzzed at the dinner table and why she accepted these all too regular late-night visits.

‘Manners cost nothing Rose,’ she would often remind herself. Rose might have worried about her reputation, having often received male visitors late at night when her husband was at work, but she wasn’t the only one. The whole country was aware of these tactics. 101 in their fieldwork textbook. Even more likely on a wet night and the heavy rain that had been falling meant Rose had been anticipating this tête-à-tête.

The moment Rose lowered her finger, the clandestine man spoke.

‘Can I speak to Mr Sharpe please, Mrs Sharpe?’ His glasses and fedora didn’t move and neither did the muscles in his face. Straight from the Ministry production line.

‘You can’t at this time,’ as you know, ‘and you can’t every day at this time,’ as you know, ‘as John is never here at 10,’ as you know, ‘John is at work at 10,’ as you know, ‘at your offices, and will be until the early hours.’

Rain started to pour off the rim of his hat. Unaffected by the weather and maintained by the single-minded determination for his purpose. Nothing distracts these clones. They are programmed that way. Once he may have been old Joe from down the street. Help you with a car issue or stick a band aid on your kid’s grazed knee but now he, like many others, was one of THEM.

‘Shall I tell him you called?’ As he well knows.

‘Please inform Mr Sharpe he is a highly valued member of society and we would hate for him to leave us as–’

‘All members of society are valued highly. We are all special,’ interrupted Rose.

He was neither annoyed nor amused. When you constantly repeat the same party slogans it becomes the norm for someone to finish your sentences. Either by indoctrination or fear.

‘Please inform Mr Sharpe he is a highly valued member of society and’–most people would have closed the door by now but Rose being Rose was compelled to let him finish. THEY weren’t even in power… yet.

A beep from the other room. A new email and a reasonable excuse for Rose to end this encounter. She smiled politely as she closed the door and raced to the computer. From hiding her terror from the ministry man to the sudden hope offered by the electronic arrival, her heart had gone a million beats a minute. This was the one, this was it. What John had always said would soon arrive. An opportunity not to be missed. An opportunity for a better future. A better you and a better world. God, he better be right.

‘Connor get up, let’s go.’

Rose grabbed her coat and keys. ‘Come on, let’s go.’

‘Jesus, Mom,’ Connor stumbled down the stairs, ‘go to bed, get up, let’s go.’

‘Baby, we are green lit.’

Connor’s face lit up.

‘I’ll get the bags.’

Rose dragged Connor back. Her focus through the curtain edge. The man still loitered, studying the house for what felt like a lifetime. An elite Ministry car glided up beside him. Elite Ministry cars were cutting edge and one of the only things the Ministry expertly manufactured. Easily identifiable from a distance as their headlamps were two thin curves resembling the corner of a sinister smile. Perhaps no coincidence. Standard ministry vehicles had oversized circular lamps that often blew. Elite vehicles were for high-ranking agents.

This Ministry clone must be important, so what would he want with John?

The glasses and fedora vanished into the vehicle and it left without making a sound.

‘Let’s go,’ said Rose.

?

CONNOR

Connor was fed up. At 10 years old he was no longer a baby and they needed to stop treating him like one. He had gone to bed because he chose to go to bed. He had come to see who was at the door because he had a right to know and he went back to bed because he chose to. His mom sending him was mere coincidence.

??????????? For the last semester, Connor had noticed sizeable changes to his school day. He hadn’t spoken about it to anyone because he liked to make certain before collating his thoughts. Something felt off to him. In history class they had been learning about the Constitution and the Oath of Allegiance. The oath they had recited every morning since they could talk. Until recently.

??????????? The new teachers had been running the school for about three months. There hadn’t been any kind of handover period or explanation to prepare the pupils. One day Mrs Summer and her sticky stars was enthusiastically explaining about the Solar System and the next day Mr Black drilled nonstop repetition of the Charter.

1. I will abide all rules of the Ministry.

2. I will adhere to instruction from Ministry supervisors.

3. I will strive to excellence as dictated by the Ministry.

4. I will never question the Ministry.

5. I will remember my societal position.

Pupils were permitted to have a written version of the Charter in front of them for one day and then must know it by heart.

A new boy joined the class around the time of the changes. Connor never caught his name. Tom or Tim or Michael or something. It didn’t seem to matter as he was gone as quickly as he arrived. Had he known the boy’s stay would have been so short, Connor would have tried to learn his name. Good word and deed was a mantra John installed in Connor when he was little and the new boy should have been welcomed warmly. He wasn’t. Warmth was no longer encouraged.

Tom or Michael or something couldn’t get the hang of the Charter. He struggled with the order. So, Mr Black arranged for him to have some specialist help. It seemed so important to the new teachers that the class were always precise, so it made sense he was taken away for additional training.

‘He just wasn’t fitting in,’ said Mr Black.

The class understood as he really brought down the group rendition. As time passed, they grew to like the Charter. They grew to take pride in their presentation of the Charter. They grew to love the Charter. They grew to love Mr Black. All except Connor. He had grown up constantly being told by his father to question everything and he was not ready to accept these changes. Not by a long shot.

Connor packed the bags into the family station wagon. A car made before technology that guzzled gas, but also didn’t contain any microchips within the parts. This was the car of the 1970s. Once a fixture and fitting of suburbia, but now had gone the way of the Model T. Its rarity created a market of collectors resulting in it costing a small fortune. The price of anonymity.

Connor was already belted up on the back seat when his mom got in. She appeared to be having doubts, so Connor offered a silent nod of agreement. A gesture usually reserved for military operations where any noise could be fatal. This show of understanding seemed to surprise his mom. Connor was no longer a baby and they needed to stop treating him like one.

JOHN

The automatic lock bolted across the doorframe. All locks at the Ministry were computer controlled and that end of the corridor was shut off. Ministry corridors were always well-lit and monitored by cameras and the security brigades that patrolled them. There was very little opportunity to move between the offices or archives to the outer grounds through these corridors without being detected. But that little opportunity did exist and John was ready for it.

Each corridor had a door at both ends with an electric locking system. Once a brigade passed through the corridor, the door would close behind them initiating the automatic bolt lock. The door at the other end would simultaneously lock as full secure was activated. Or that is what was supposed to happen. As with a lot of Ministry operations, nothing quite ran as smoothly as it should. The belief of the others was the Ministry spent all money confiscated from recruits on the next group. Constant improvement with each recruitment drive. A pyramid scheme for building a militant wing. What actually happened was one door would lock and the archaic system would send command to the other door after a forty-five second delay.

??????????? John lifted the file from the cabinet and slid it under his jacket. It was exactly where he was told it would be. Was this too easy? Were they expecting me? The possibilities of what the others could achieve, and the standing he could gain through this action, soon extinguished any doubts. Being a founding father of the new world would mean real difference.

‘This was for the greater good. Not personal gain,’ John reassured himself.

With one end of the corridor bolted, time was limited. Making his move out of Citizen Data Room 1, John calmly strode towards the opposite end of the corridor. This was no time for sprinting. The floor housed sensors designed to pick up abnormal behaviour such as the heavier feet of a man running. This was a test of nerves. Calm and cool.

??????????? ‘Breathe,’ John whispered, ‘left foot, right foot, calm, controlled. Keep a steady pace.’

??????????? ?John had forty-five seconds to reach the door and exit. Forty-five seconds was just enough time to get through without triggering a sensor, but you must stay calm. One false move could result in doubts and these moments were the difference between forty-five and forty-six seconds. Forty-six seconds did not bear thinking about. He must get through the door in forty-five seconds and then sprint. Within one minute of the outside breach sirens activating, a brigade would reach the scene and apprehend him. Forty-six seconds inside or sixty seconds outside would result in the end of John’s life. Well, his life as John.

The courtyard door smashed open and John flew through. The sirens blared like snitches. Their high-pitched wailing would soon disable him. He had to move fast. Heads turned in unison in surrounding windows like a circuit of motion detection cameras. Some offered threats and others intrigue. A Ministry employee in the courtyard was unheard of. Dressed in the standard issue overcoat, fedora and glasses made this a natural presumption for onlookers. Until he ran. They don’t run. When you know you will soon be the unquestionable authority then you do not need to run. When you are a mole stealing secrets for another party then you better haul ass.

How John ever managed this escape, he would never know. It was all a breathless blur. Waiting in the shadows of the old back road was his vision of hope. A 1970s station wagon. John leapt into the passenger seat and the vehicle sped off. He placed the file in the document holder of the station wagon. The station wagon that now contained one microchip.

?

ROSE

Rose’s adrenalin hit overdrive. She never considered herself anything more than a social driver, but now sat at the wheel of the unorthodox getaway car. Her hands slipped from the moisture of her fear. Streams of sweat snaked down her cheeks leaving salty daggers in the corner of her eyes. But she noticed none of this. Even with John’s non-stop verbals, she could not be distracted. Rose had never been so focused.

The main rule of a getaway is be in the car by the agreed time or the car leaves without you. There are exceptions to this rule though. If your boss is the one running late. If you must wait for a specific action or event. Or if you are a small Midwest family stealing from a government facility to assist an uprising of a revolutionary party and the target of the theft is the only thing that holds any value in the world.

The only other rule is using a fast car and skilled driver. You rarely found getaway drivers to be suburban mothers in a 1970s station wagon with the kids along for the ride. The only modernisation to this automotive dinosaur was the addition of a rear seatbelt and it was this modification that delayed their escape.

‘Go, Go, Go,’ John yelled.

Rose’s maternal instinct had kicked in and incessantly jabbed her. Although she had maintained clinical focus through John’s frantic shouts and her sweat drenched face, she was a mother first, and needed to make sure her child’s seatbelt was secured before driving anywhere. She could not push this thought aside.

The compound’s floodlights burst into life illuminating the old back road like Times Square. The station wagon stood as conspicuous as a soldier at ease in no man’s land. Rose hit the gas. The car accelerated with all the speed expected of a 6 litre, 3 speed engine. Rose’s hands were drenched, John’s yelling interspersed with involuntary convulsions and Connor was nothing. Connor sat in the back with his seatbelt on as if on a trip to the beach.

‘Connor baby, you okay?’ asked Rose.

In the rear-view mirror, Rose caught eye contact with Connor who offered her a smile. She had expected to see him scared, or at least a little concerned. She had expected to have to comfort her baby. How could a child, who found himself in the highly tense atmosphere of this escape, be so calm?

Before Rose had even a second to ponder this, the large dim yellow circles of a standard issue black Ministry car appeared in the mirror. Rose yanked the stick down hard to the right and floored the gas. The station wagon gradually picked up pace. This was not the vehicle of choice for high-speed pursuits but what it lacked in speed it made up for in stealth. Though ugly and bulky, once out of eyeline, it was untraceable.

Acceleration was never a priority when escaping the Ministry as their standard issue black cars were like most products of their manufacturing. Substandard. Whether it be for financial reasons, production deadlines, party requirements or interdepartmental deals, the Ministry would always cut corners and once Rose did the same, she soon lost the tail.

They could breathe again. They were far enough away from the facility and had now lost the only pursuing Ministry spooks. It had been so easy.

‘How many junctions have we crossed Connor?’ asked Rose

‘Three along North/South,’ answered Connor, ‘turned off at the fourth.’

‘So how many possible routes would anyone following have to guess between?’

‘Jesus Mom, I’m not a baby anymore.’ Connor responded indignantly.

‘You are my baby. Come on, it is just a driving game.’ Said Rose.

'Fine. Nine initial possible routes from the North/South and, since we crossed five junctions on this road, you could expect the same amount within this time frame along all other exit routes. So, in total about 90 different possibilities.’

‘Clever boy.’ Said Rose as Connor rolled his eyes. Though secretly he still liked to impress his mom.

90 possible choices for any pursuers. The only way they would be caught with the file now would be pure dumb luck, and the best way to avoid that was to not draw any attention. To ‘manage’, as John would say. This was why suburban mom Rose and the 1970s station wagon were perfect for this role. Unassuming, unsuspicious and urban camouflage.

?

CONNOR

The station wagon turned right onto National East/West Road at a junction 140 miles from where their journey commenced. They had driven three hours without seeing another soul since the standard issue black Ministry car in the rear-view mirror two hours back.

Connor roused from a slumber he found surprisingly easy to come by considering the tense atmosphere devouring the car. His rousing was accelerated as the car abruptly jolted and four bangs blasted out. Connor shook his head as he observed his mom struggling to control the vehicle as it skidded across lanes. He expected nothing more. Though the speed was not great, to a 10-year-old, it felt like being on the fairground Waltzers as the spinning took grip, and metal screeched against tarmac from all four corners of the underside of the car. The vehicle felt like it sunk about 10 inches. With low visibility, steep banks flanking both sides and zero hope of regaining control or continuing, the car grinded to a halt.

Twelve large round yellow car headlamps lit in unison with one blowing immediately. Once again, the 1970s station wagon was illuminated like Times Square.

‘Impossible,’ said John.

‘The file,’ said Rose, ‘hand me the file.’

Rose ripped open the file and scoured every corner until she felt an abnormality in the inner lining. Easy to miss if you were not looking for it but glaringly obvious if you were. And when it comes to the Ministry, their surveillance and their substandard end product, you should always look for abnormalities. Rose tore the microchip from the file lining and threw it at John.

‘How could you miss this?’ she screamed.

John stared at the bulky antique microchip sitting in his increasingly sweaty palm. This lump of 1950s technology had caused their downfall nearly 70 years after it was made. John wound down the window and tossed the intruder out with disgust. Immediately a spotlight lit up from the ahead convoy landing directly where the microchip lay.

‘Step out of the vehicle with your hands on your head and walk 10 metres towards us,’ came the anonymous instruction over a loudspeaker.

The three car doors opened with Connor’s rear door obscured by his mom’s front one. Rose dropped the file on her seat to place her hands on her head and slowly they exited the car.

‘C?’ called John.

‘It’s okay, he’s with me,’ said Rose, ‘focus on the agents.’

Rose looked back at Connor who was peering around the corner of the rear door. They made eye contact and Connor gestured to the file he had slid under his coat. He comforted her with a reassured smile and slid back into the rear seat. Finally Rose knew he was no longer a baby. He had made his mind up. They slowly walked towards the agents until the strong lights warmed their faces and they were commanded to stop. Before they could question what or why, two gunshots were fired and the lifeless bodies of John and Rose collapsed to the cold surface of the National East/West Road.

Standard Ministry agents inched towards the station wagon, rifles primed and fingers twitching with deadly intent. Ordered to retrieve one stolen file with the potential to cause the collapse of the whole Ministry, all its political affiliates and financial allies, and to also eliminate one 10-year-old anti-ministry terrorist. Both objectives failed.

To be continued…