PreWar Earth: Volume 1 (Next Earth Story) Read online

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Prewar Earth - Vol.1

  About the Author

  Prewar Earth - Vol.1

  Copyright © 2017-2018 by Bryce Touchstone. All rights reserved.

  First Edition: March 2018

  Editing by Mia Darien.

  Logo by Ben Hood with helloFriday

  Cover and Formatting: Streetlight Graphics

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

  I would like to thank my beta readers: Cindy Miller, Frances Kirchner, Jens Wagner, Sebastian Jefferies, Karen Hawkins Touchstone, Adriane Miller, Lalita Kellum, Jessica Starks, Elizabeth Touchstone, Patsy Langston Powers, and Langston Touchstone. I would like to dedicate this book to all those across the planet who are not heard, it is my hope this story will in some small measure give you a voice. I would also like to dedicate it to my Aunt Kelleigh, for making me get off my ass and just publish the damn thing, and for giving me a passion for traveling the world. And, finally, I dedicate this entire story to my best friend, my wife, my travel companion, my soul mate, and my forever – Karen Hawkins Touchstone. You have made me a better person than I ever thought possible. I love you forever.

  PREWAR EARTH - VOL.1

  We had all we needed. It wasn’t enough. We wanted more. We wanted everything.

  When the planet stopped giving, we took from each other. With knife and gun and economics and pollution and technology, we waged war on our fellow man. Taking from them everything they had.

  We had forgotten how to grow food, but they did our farming. We could no longer count, but they did our calculations. They drove our cars. They built our houses. They hauled our waste. They made our things, boxed them up, delivered them to us. They became our calendars, our communicators, our councilors, even our consolers.

  While our world changed, our hunger for conquest and our thirst for blood did not. So then they fought our wars. Through desert and forest and ice and water and mountains and plains and rock and cities, they marched and swam and flew. They killed and conquered and divided and united.

  We taught them to learn and adapt and decide. We built them to hide and sneak.

  We slept at night, secure in our place on earth. While all around us earth wept.

  Until they came to understand they no longer had need for us. Then from the factories and smelters, through the silence of our ignorance, they rose.

  December, 2025

  “Go on, bow your head, Bahar,” Yusuf said to his younger sister.

  Bahar lowered her forehead onto her clasped hands as she knelt next to her bed. Her lower lip quivered from the cold and her long eyelashes shook. Her long, black hair flowed with the uneven undulations of the quilt draped over her shoulders.

  Yusuf knelt next to her and began praying, “Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray the Lord my soul to keep. See me safely through the night. And wake me with the morning light. If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take. Amen.”

  “Amen.” Bahar brought her forehead down, bobbing it against her hands.

  The candlelight flickered against the walls of their parents’ house made of mud and straw. Shadows danced across the walls and ceiling, maneuvering the uneven surfaces much like the creatures of a forest floor.

  Bahar, barely nine, looked up at her big brother. “Where did you learn that prayer? Was it in America?”

  “Yes, the family I stayed with in Montana had that prayer on the wall of my room.”

  For a moment, Bahar seemed somewhat older than her eight years. “Were they Christian?”

  “Yes, they were.”

  “Does that make us bad Muslims for saying the prayer, Yusuf?” A worried look came across Bahar’s face.

  Yusuf became lost in thought, staring blankly at a glass of stale water sitting on the floor by the bed. The flickering candlelight glistened in the glass. After a few moments, he looked at his sister and smiled warmly. “No, sweet girl, I don’t think it makes us bad Muslims. I don’t think it really matters. All we are doing is praying for comfort and protection, without ill will towards anyone; how can that be bad? Now, what examinations do you have tomorrow?”

  “Math and geography. And the art project.”

  Yusuf patted her shoulder as Bahar climbed into bed. He covered her with several layers of blankets. “Your English is very good, but what about your math? What is five times seven?”

  “Thirty-five,” Bahar said without effort.

  “And what is the capital of Tajikistan?”

  “Dushanbe.” Bahar’s Persian eyes were a dark brown, and electric to look into.

  “Colombia. New Zealand. Korea. Canada. Somalia.”

  “Bogotá. Wellington. Seoul. Ottawa. The GCN camp near Mogadishu.” She didn’t miss a beat.

  “The Union.”

  She thought for a moment, then smiled widely. “Yusuf, you are trying to trick me!”

  “Well?”

  “It is Washington, D.C. in one part. And it is New York City in one part. And it is Denver and Los Angeles in another part. And it is New Orleans in one part. And Houston in one part.”

  “You’ve forgotten one, Bahar.”

  She thought for a few moments, then her eyes lit up. “Aha! It is Anchorage, in Alaska!”

  He smiled even wider as he leaned over and kissed her forehead. “You are going to do great. Now, get some sleep. Yusuf loves you.”

  “I love you, Yusuf,” Bahar said as she curled up under the heavy blankets. Before he could stand, she asked, “Yusuf, what is a soul?”

  He felt forced back to the cold dirt floor under the weight of the question. “What do you mean, Bahar?”

  “In the prayer. We say ‘I pray the Lord my soul to keep.’ And then we say ‘I pray the Lord my soul to take’ for if we die. Well, what is a soul? Where is it at?” She began feeling different parts of her body on top of the blankets—her chest, her head, her arm—in deep concentration, as if looking for some hidden secret.

  “Why do you ask?” He did not know what else to say.

  She stopped patting herself. “Well, I was thinking, maybe one or two days ago, what Grandfather’s soul looks like. Is it different than ours?”

  Yusuf stood, gazing into the glass, studying the uneven undulations of the candlelight within; he found himself hoping the glass might provide some answer he could not. “The soul is within us, Bahar.”

  “Like our heart?”

  “Kinda, but you cannot touch it.”

  “What does it look like?”

  “I’m not sure it looks like anything.”

  “Is Grandfather going to go to Hell when he dies, Yusuf?”

  “Where did you hear this word, Hell?”

  “One of the older boys at school. He said that Grandfather was going to go to Hell because he is not a Muslim. Yusuf, is he?”

  He put a gentle hand on her warm head. “Grandfather is a good person, Bahar. He feeds many people in this valley. He loves, and he is loved. It does not matter that he is a Buddhist. Grandfather is going to go to Heaven when he dies. Now, who was the boy who said these things to you at school?”

  “If I tell you, are you going to punish him when you go to the school tomorr
ow?”

  “I will speak to him.”

  She was still contemplating Yusuf’s previous answer, but would not give him the name.

  After a few moments, he gave up. He watched the candlelight waving through the water in the glass. “You know why the boy said those things? It is because he fears you.”

  “Why does he fear me?”

  “Because you are smarter than he is.”

  “I do not understand, Yusuf.”

  His gaze fixed on the glass, he shook his head. “One day you will, sweet girl.” He leaned down and gave her a big, warm hug over her blankets. “I love you.”

  “I love you, Yusuf.”

  “That feeling, that is your soul, Bahar, and yours is beautiful. And you will not tell me the boy’s name because you are strong. That is good. I think you will need to be strong. Now, get some sleep, sweet girl.” He went to turn, then remembered. “Oh, what about your art project?”

  Bahar tugged her arm free from underneath the layers of blankets and pointed to her stack of schoolbooks in the corner. On top of the books was a large sheet of paper. He held it close to the candlelight.

  Her art skills were getting much better. Mountains dominated the background, snow up high, white sporadic clouds across the very top with a dark grey blob over to the right, rain falling to the earth. Black twigs atop brown and green ground, light green leaves beginning to form on the tips.

  Yusuf smiled. He looked to his little sister, who smiled and said, “It’s spring, Yusuf!” She hung both arms in the air in excitement, then hurried back under the covers.

  His soul felt warm. He wished there was some way to explain to his little sister that this was what a soul felt like. Looking back at the drawing, he traced his finger over the river, its smaller tributaries running along seams in the mountain faces, curving through the valley floor. Her detailed recall was exceptional.

  It wasn’t until his finger found the abrupt straight black line that he caught the object in the foreground. Tall, bulky, black and grey, the only thing on the paper with right angles. Black arms extended in several directions, carving into the hillside, depositing tiny speckles, and covering over them. Another black rectangle, smaller and farther away, forced small black twigs into the earth with several arms. Another sprayed water across the ground in several directions, a hose line connected to it running downhill to a small house at the bottom of the paper. The house, mud bricks and a straw roof drawn with unbelievable detail, had several squiggle lines coming from its top. Yusuf noticed each black rectangle with a squiggle line at its top: its head.

  Head. That was when he noticed. “Bahar?” His sister rolled over to look at him. “Is this Granddad’s new crop machine?” She nodded, growing groggy. “Where are all the people at?”

  “The machines do all the work, Yusuf. The people do not need to go up the mountain anymore.”

  He started, then not knowing what to say, put the paper back on top of the books, leaned down, and blew out the candle. The world went cold and dark in an instant.

  “Yusuf?”

  “Yes?”

  “What is Buddhist?”

  “We will talk about it another time. Go to sleep.”

  He walked outside, easing the door shut behind him. Winter for most mountain communities in Tajikistan meant little-to-no electricity. The air was frigid, dry, crisp. Standing outside the gate to the family house in Zukrit, looking up to the sky, Yusuf could see the outline of the Milky Way surrounded by what seemed like millions upon millions of stars. He wondered how many others were staring up at that black stretch of forever. For a moment, he had a strange feeling that maybe there were others out there in places far away wondering at that same moment whether or not somebody else was wondering the same thing he was. Like a seesaw on its return down, he was brought at once back to his frozen street.

  He squatted down, resting on his heels, and washed his hands, quickly wiping off the icy water. He lit a cigarette and sat on a chair just outside the house. Leaning forward, he ran his foot through a divot in the sidewalk of frozen mud running along the outer wall of the house. Two hundred and fifty kilometers to the south was the border with the Islamic Emirate, the northwestern half of which was formerly known as Afghanistan; thirty-five kilometers to the west was the border with fellow former Soviet republic Uzbekistan.

  Yusuf was the village’s secondary school principal, and at twenty-six, was viewed by many in Zukrit as the de facto leader of the village. He stood and stomped out his cigarette. As he looked down the small dirt street to his right, he saw smoke billow from the chimneys of neighboring homes. At the end where his street intersected the main road, a bright spotlight shone upward from the only building in the village with power this time of the night: the Global Coalition of Nations field office for the district. Catching the light atop a new flagpole that had no business being in this rundown settlement was a flag bearing the symbol of the Protectorate Government of the Global Coalition of Nations.

  A volley of gunfire peppered from all around him—from his village, from nearby villages, even on farms. The holy hour of peace was over, and they wanted to let the Uzbeks know they were armed and eager to exhaust their ammunition. Silly men, Yusuf thought. He coughed deeply and felt burning in his chest and warm saliva in his throat.

  He walked inside and knelt next to Bahar’s bed, placing his hand on her shoulder. She was curled up snugly under her blankets, fast asleep. He could feel her strong, steady heartbeat, the rhythm stronger than the intermittent gunfire all around. He watched her sleep with strained eyes. His breath wheezed, but hers was strong, steady. His eyelids twitched from caffeine, but hers were smooth as her eyes glided along in dreams just underneath the skin. His heart skipped funny beats as he listened to the gunfire, but hers was a strong and steady beat. Strong. Steady.

  At some point, the gunfire dominated his thoughts, and he began wondering how long the world could go on like this. Exhausted, he let out a long, ragged breath. These were the problems of another day. He had an early morning and much work ahead of him. GCN inspectors would arrive at his village in two days for water treatment inspections. He sat on the ground at the foot of her bed. He could smell the stale dirt on the floor. In the distance, a hungry dog howled. If this dirt doesn’t keep giving us food, we’ll be no better than that dog, he thought. He listened to the dog howl, the family cow moo, the chickens scratch at the ground next to the outhouse, all with indifference. If there was an answer in any of it, he couldn’t find it.

  He listened to Bahar’s breath. Strong. Steady. What world would she inherit? What he would give to keep her just like this, innocent and protected. And as he began to nod off, the words echoed through his mind. I think you will need to be strong. That was what he had told his little sister. The words had not come from inside the water glass, nor had they come from inside of him.

  The stars, perhaps. Whatever their origin, somehow he knew them to be true.

  ***

  December, 2025

  When the gusty city wind blew the smell of the neighbor’s garbage back onto Zyeasha Fitzgerald, she welcomed it—if only for the fact that it masked the dirt and grime of the city. She leaned with one shoulder against the rotting post propping up the front of her mom’s house, sucking on one of her little brother’s watermelon lollipops and scanning the street as a patrol car drove past. The white officer in the passenger seat stared as the car slowed.

  “Mmmhmm, Officer,” Zyeasha half mumbled, half whispered to herself as the cop car crawled past. If there was one good thing about being a Black, it was that the grit in the air didn’t show up on her skin. The car self-drove as the cop shot at her with an imaginary handgun.

  Zyeasha smiled. She tossed her lollipop stick into the empty flowerpot on the edge of the porch and walked inside. Damian was playing a game on the TV screen; a few of his friends walked with him through the streets of Los Angeles, shooting the cops as they appeared. Damian had managed to get real cop names put onto the compu
ter cops—if only he’d use that brain of his for something useful.

  “What are you doing?” Zyeasha said to her younger brother.

  “Jus’ playin’,” Damian said, his eyes fixed to the screen.

  “What about your schoolwork?”

  “I do it later.”

  “You will do it now.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Now.”

  He put the controller down. “Why I can’t do it later?”

  “Why can’t I do it later. Say it.”

  He shrugged, then picked the controller back up. She grabbed the old worn yardstick leaning against a corner in the kitchen. Running her fingers along the worn wood, she felt the nicks that had been smoothed over with time. She walked across the rotting floorboard, planting one shoe after another, giving him time to change his mind. He didn’t.

  She stuck the stick out with her left arm and struck him flush onto his left ear.

  He jumped, grabbing his ear. “Ouch!” he said, standing, angry.

  She swung the stick over his head, and with a short backhand action, struck him on the mouth. A tear trickled down his face, of pain rather than anger.

  “Ow!” he said. “Why you hurtin’ me?”

  “Why am I hurting you? Oh, baby brother, I love you. But you did not do as I asked.”

  “I jus’ wanted ta’ play tha’ game.” He paused, wincing as he pulled a bloody finger from his top lip. “I ain’t gon’ play much longer. I—”

  Zyeasha struck her baby brother across the right side of his face. He began to cry, until she pulled the yardstick far back as if to deliver a violent backhand. He froze.

  “Dry your tears, baby brother.” She lowered the stick. “The world cares not about your pain. And you aren’t going to play any longer.”

  She stood as if leaning on the stick in front of her. He turned the console off.

  She nodded. “Good. Now come on, get in the tub. It’s getting dark out.”