Breaking the Silence: Within the Walls trilogy, #2

Breaking the Silence

Book 2 in the

Within the Walls trilogy

by Stephanie Bennett

Breaking the Silence

Book 2 in the Within the Walls trilogy

Copyright ©2013 by Stephanie Bennett

All Rights Reserved

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for purchasing and downloading this ebook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to purchase and download their own copy from their favorite authorized retailer. Thank you for your support.

This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by Copyright laws.

This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual products or events is purely coincidental.

Published by Wild Flower Press, Inc.

P.O. Box 2532

Leland, NC 28451

Web site: www.wildflowerpress.biz

ISBN-978-0-9909616-2-8

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013952309

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Two friends who worked on the cover are simply beyond compare. What would I do without you, Chris Jefferies and Terry Craig? I never want to find out. You are so dear to me!

Further, I can’t put my name on this book without acknowledging the support and encouragement of a few other friends, Ann Cadaret, Eric Goodman, Wayne Jacobsen, and Terry Craig. Your input and early reading of the manuscript have helped beyond measure. Many others have offered a kind word, a willingness to share the book, or have been faithful to review it. And so, to all my friends and family: I love you and thank you, especially for letting your love for me flow in so much more than words.

Inspiration for this project comes from many directions, one of which that rarely gets mentioned is from my colleagues and friends in the Media Ecology Association, particularly Lance Strate, who has modeled creativity, leadership, and integrity in our intellectual pursuit of meaning.

This book series started in my imagination in 1995 when I was confronted with the challenges of functioning within a corrupt system where people were treated as objects—cogs in a wheel—to work for the vast and elaborate vision of one person. Initially, I entitled the book The Vision, but found that dehumanization takes place on many levels and many contexts, not just in the heart of a single individual. It is corporate. It is systemic. It is the world. My eyes were opened to see that the destructive forces of nature are not just found within the hurricanes and tsunamis around the globe; they are within each of us. It was a difficult lesson, but for it I am thankful and acknowledge the many people who contributed to my education, especially those who taught me how to steer clear of institutional evil.

In addition, and most importantly, I want to thank my husband for his liberality, loyalty, and support. These qualities are not immediately apparent in the hearts of every man, but I find them to be some of the most attractive features a man can exhibit. Without the freedom he has given me to expand my wings, this project would have stayed in the cocoon stage forever, scrunched up inside my head, lifeless. Instead, Emilya’s story has become something that is alive, soaring through my spirit with joy into the hands of a reading public. Thanks, dear.

Table of Contents

Copyright page

Acknowledgements

April 2071

Chapter 1, Day 25—The Moment

Chapter 2, Day 32—The Weight

Chapter 3, Day 46—The Break

Chapter 4, Day 52—The Light

Chapter 5, Day 62—The Birds

Chapter 6. Day 65—The Change

Chapter 7, Day 67—The Opening

Chapter 8, Day 69—The Thinking

Chapter 9, Day 80—The Walk

Chapter 10, Day 88—The Rollercoaster

Chapter 11, Day 89—The Food

Chapter 12, Day 93—The Clouds

Chapter 13, Day 99—The Desire

Chapter 14, Day 99—The Desire

Chapter 15, Day 103—The Talk

Chapter 16, Day 110—The Pondering

Chapter 17, Day 111—The Surprise

Chapter 18, Day 125—The Grief

Chapter 19, Day 130—The Nothing

Chapter 20, Day 137—The Empty

Chapter 21, Day 144—The Remembering

Chapter 22, Day 150—The Strength

Chapter 23, Day 152—The Arrival

Chapter 24, Day 154—The Realization

Chapter 25, Day 155—The Tangle

Endnotes

About the Author

Other Books by Stephanie Bennett

Other Books by this Publisher

April, 2071

My feet are flying down the mountain path! Stumbling now and again over small rocks and broken branches, I am running faster than I ever could have imagined. Birch trees pass by me as though they are on wheels. What just a bit earlier in the day seemed like a great idea to head out and hunt down my stalled car on this impeccably beautiful day, suddenly changed into chaos as a huge, golden-hued cat leapt from rock-to-rock behind me. After all that has transpired, I never imagined my demise would involve being ravaged by a wild animal.

I am breathless and don’t know how much longer I can last at this pace! Heck—I was never much of an athlete, but after the last few weeks of learning to survive out here, my body is a bit more agile and capable of extreme stress. I risk a quick look behind me to keep my eye on the cat, and all at once I see stars. Something takes me down; I am unconscious. Here I am, in some sort of incredulous out-of-body experience, watching myself as I lay motionless underneath a large, scratchy spruce tree.

Fading in and out of consciousness, I see myself encircled in terror. It’s not just one, but six hungry-looking mountain cats. There will be no one coming to save me this time; they don’t even know I left! Any hope of getting back to the Lab is dashed.

No doubt, my father will be searching for me. Liam may be quiet and stand-offish, but even in this short span of time he has shown himself to be a fierce man when it comes to tangling with the forest. Surely mother will be the first one to become aware that I am missing, and she’ll let him know. Either he or one of the other men in the community will eventually find me, bury me—at least what is left of me—and then there will be no one concerned in the least with trying set things right at the Lab.

I begin to weep; it is uncontrollable.

I should never have tried to leave FRANCO. Although they are regularly annoying, this community of outliers includes several members of my family who I thought died decades ago. Although I was told they perished in a skiing accident when I was six, they are alive and well in this remote mountain range. Besides that, I’m just starting to scratch the surface of understanding what Grand’Mere meant when she first told me that her secret writings regarding FRANCO weren’t about a man, but a people who exist to share life together outside the walls of society. When I first heard the acronym—For Revelation And Nurturing—Community Optimization—I was shocked. All my projections about Grand’Mere having a secret love named FRANCO were totally wrong. That first day I had absolutely no idea what it meant, but now even the crazy concept of community optimization is beginning to make sense.

The very last thing I remember seeing is a vague line of deep green swirling above my head. Suddenly, as if someone pulled a dark shade over a wide open window, I open my eyes, look hazily about and see that the surroundings are familiar.

A few sticks of straw from what passes for a mattress at Grand’Mere’s earth shelter are pricking me, pushing into my left shoulder blade. I turn to shake myself awake and see the same inscription on the wall that was there the day I first arrived at this backward mountain camp and have stared at every night since then.

In that desolate land and lone,

Where the Big Horn and Yellowstone

Roar down their mountain path,

By their fires the Sioux Chiefs

Muttered their woes and griefs

And the menace of their wrath.

Revenge! cried Rain-in-the-Face,

"Revenge upon all the race

Of the White Chief with yellow hair!"

And the mountains dark and high

From their crags re-echoed the cry

Of his anger and despair—

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Oh Henry, Henry. I wonder what you were really like. Russa says you’re one of her favorite poets, but you sound so vengeful and cantankerous. Huh—I bet you had your reasons.

The fact that my mother and father have been living here in these low mountains of Pennsylvania for over twenty years without even telling me, well –that makes me pretty cantankerous too. But revenge? Nah. Not my style. But I do wonder what sort of revenge you were writing about, Mr. Longfellow. Without access to my deep archives I haven’t a clue, although I am starting to understand the echo of these mountains. Their cry is loud and clear—a lonely wail, especially when night falls. (And by now that Rain-in-the-Face passage is embedded in my brain!)

In the meantime, I continue to deal with these crazy night terrors. My face is wet from real tears and a bit of sweat. This numbers five times that I have had the same ugly dream about mountain cats; a nightmare, really.

Still, I tell no one. They don’t need to know the extent of my emotional unraveling. I’ve got to somehow keep it together in spite of the deactivated state of my technical support system.

I hear Grand’Mere is stirring at the other end of her narrow quarters. The feeling of betrayal is still fairly raw, but it’s impossible to be truly angry with a woman of her character and elegance. She raised me with soft words and countless kindnesses, and—for Strength’s sake—I know Marissa and Liam were the ones who put her up to the deception!

This morning is like every other since I’ve arrived here in this hidden community they call FRANCO. I’m accustomed to micro-sleeping and would never stay in bed this long back at my flat, but here I sit, barely able to see what I’m scribbling in this paltry candlelight. I am stuck within these granite walls. I am stuck; so stuck.

Out of the open end of Grand’Mere’s sparse residence juts a small wooden structure where the hearth is located. The table covered with a faded rose-patterned oilcloth takes up most of the room where she is probably at this very moment making tea. It’s early, even for her. I wonder if she heard my flailing.

The cot I sleep on is tucked within the stone wall that separates my grandmother’s sleeping space from my own. Clearly, this room was her pantry before I came. All the jars of beans, tomatoes and pickles that lined the walls are now piled up on either side of the hearth. My space is definitely not more than four feet wide and actually is more like a crevice than a room, but at least it gives me a modicum of privacy. I feel relatively safe, but some days I feel sort of like an animal—like a lion or tiger in its lair.

The dim moonlight of the pre-dawn stillness makes everything beyond my lap look black. In an hour or so the shadows will appear.

A strange anxiety slowly ripples through my body this morning, and my mind is weary for want of the pristine clarity that was so basic to my existence.

Back at the Lab and in my own flat on Addison Avenue, I never had to deal with shadows. Everything was clear. Choices were few; decisions were easy. What’s happening now is inconceivable to me. All my tek is gone. My car—gone. My identity—gone! Or at least it that’s what it feels like. Thankfully, I do still have my nail flap. That was safely attached to my finger when they found me. And my P/Z 1000 is intact, but without diamond dust there’s no way to maintain any sort of stable connection with the Lab, my deep archives, or anyone back home!

One fleeting message—a befuddling paradox—probably got through from the residual diamond dust left around the surface of my nail flap. It was sketchy, difficult to read, and its meaning even harder to discern. It came through almost as soon as I arrived here and I’ve not been able to make sense of it since. That first day was a blur anyway. Dusk had settled in and I was finally by myself again resting on this lumpy cot when I saw the virtual tickertape running along my prefrontal cortex. My head was swirling with so much new information that I could barely think straight, but the message was there. It was short and simple, but utterly unclear:

___XrO is ready to go. We’re monitoring progress. Let sleeping dogs lie. Do not go in until I give you the word. I repeat: Do not apprise.___

What? It made no sense; still doesn’t. I couldn’t re-read it because the connection broke almost immediately, but it was greatly disturbing. Was it meant for me? It was most definitely from the Lab because the source code always comes first, and I saw that clearly, but was the message meant for me? Was it about me? Whatever it was, it’s really unnerving.

Oh, how I hate being out of the loop! It’s bad enough the Lab pushed me into a forced leave of absence, but whatever is going on in that communiqué feels sinister. Strength—I must remember not to project my uncertainty onto the situation. Without my digital attendant it is so easy to stress out. I’ve got to stay strong! Perhaps it was just a stray message that had nothing to do with me and was sent by accident. Oh I hope so; I hope that is the case!

In the midst of all this continual inward uproar, one of the things that’s most troubling is that no one understands me. Well, maybe Russa does, a little. The rest of them are celebrating my arrival—acting as if it is the most significant event in the history of FRANCO, but they are oblivious to all that I’ve lost. What’s worse is that in spite of their obvious good intentions to make me feel comfortable, they don’t seem to care a lick about my losses, especially the tek. They act as if our neuro-digital enhancements are superfluous, and I find that maddening!

It’s . . . it’s quite as if my parents—and the entire community—are from another planet. But they’re not. What’s worse is they’re family, my family. I mean, finally, family. I’m here; they’re here; but . . . where are we? They say we’re just a two and a half hours drive outside of the New Jersey shoreline but it feels like another universe! My head has not stopped swirling. I feel as though I am smack in the very center of a waterspout of confusion.

It might not be so bad except that I have so very much time to think; just me and my brain in Grand’Mere’s cozy little earth-shelter—UGH—I want my P/Z 1000! Life without my brain-interface is sooooooooo slow. Never would I have imagined how sluggish and painstaking every little step could be without connection to the network or my Deep Archives. Heck, my D.A. is my go-to place for anything I need to remember. It’s all stashed there, and now. . . Strength—I can’t get to any of it.

With all this time to ponder, I will admit that my role as virtual vacation developer at Travelite Global did get a little complicated in the last few months, but everything else was so much less demanding than it is here. In fact, I don’t know how to deal with all of these . . . these—what should I call them—inconveniences? That’s to say nothing of the larger issues that loom ahead. What if the Lab is actually monitoring me? If that message was indeed about me, maybe they’ve located my car and started to track me. Oh dear. What will they do to my parents if they discover FRANCO? On top of it all, my own allegiances are unclear. I wonder about my own responsibility in all this. Maybe I have a duty to expose FRANCO. They’re not hurting anybody, but I’m quite sure ADMIN would see them as dissidents. Ugh. I don’t know.

The only thing that seems right to do is something that never made a speck of sense before this year, and that’s writing. The log I kept last winter literally kept me sane, and now, writing everything down in my log is just about the only thing productive that I am doing with my time, so . . . so . . . although it’s not terribly efficient, that’s what I plan to do. Now that I’ve been here in FRANCO for a little while, I have once again taken up this endeavor and I’m determined to add my observations to it to my log every day. Writing by candle light is the most tedious thing I can think of, but at least it helps to lessen the boredom, especially on dream-rocked nights like this.

The funniest thing is I am finding that there’s something I genuinely like about the writing too. Although I’m not quite sure what it is, the quaint practice of lettering is strangely comforting. I’m hoping it will continue to help keep my mental faculties sharp because frankly everywhere I turn I find some crazy challenge to overcome, whether it’s what to eat, how to clean my clothes, or even what to say to people who pass by me and say, Hi Emilya, how are you? Ughhhhhh. What should I say . . . fine? All this attention is so tedious.

Some days I even find myself struggling about how to think. Perhaps the worst is dealing with people who have not learned to separate the individual regions of their brain into proper sequestered sections. They haven’t a clue as how to control their emotions, nor do they seem to have any desire to learn. It’s boggling, simply boggling, and just . . . well, it’s not one of those small, nettling challenges; it’s grueling.

It’s doubtful that any of them can see through my charade, but this morning I must admit it to myself: my own emotions are a little out of control.

Although I’ve been denying all of their many observations about my melancholic expression and sullen demeanor, and this issue with my tone and that, I must admit, I am sad today—really sad. There isn’t anything that’s motivating me to get off this cot. It’s not very comfortable, but—Strength—it’s more comfortable than walking around with a smile painted across my face.

I hate it because . . . because, well, they’ve all been so encouraging, trying to help me make sense of this . . . this . . . life of sweeping complexities, but I am unable to truly embrace it! It seems so primitive. It is primitive! The earth-shelters are beyond rustic—the walls barely keep out the elements. Most of the residents here sleep in the dark, narrow crags of this rocky terrain, with barely enough real roof overhead to provide privacy. I don’t like it, and I continue to be confused at my parents’ willingness to cope with it all. What’s worse, they seem to like it this way!

I don’t know. Maybe I’m sad mostly because I miss my flat. I miss my own space and the steady order of each day. I really don’t know. Heck, I should be happy. It’s just that the sleek walls and controlled temperatures of my home back on Addison Avenue seem so remote and irretrievable. It’s . . . it’s disheartening to think about how I shall ever get back there, though I do find a modicum of relief knowing that civilization is a mere two-to-three hour jaunt down the mountain and back through the old roads. That little bit of knowledge is indeed a quiet comfort. One day, I will find my way back.

I’m not sure how I’ll get there, but I must devise a way out. In the meantime, I guess I’ve just got to wait it out. The right time to leave will present itself.

There’s no way I can stay forever.

Chapter 1

Day 25—The Moment

You keep talking about our community as them, Emilya. Don’t you think it’s about time to include yourself?

I must say, mother’s words took me by surprise. It’s only been a few weeks of being here at FRANCO. She expects too much.

I’m noticing, too, that she has such a way of cutting to the chase. She blurts things out, insensitively and in no uncertain terms. It can be really aggravating. The funny thing is, in spite of everything else that bothers me about this woman, I can’t help but notice that her directness is almost the only thing I actually like about her. Well—wait—that’s not right to say; she is my mother. I probably shouldn’t even write that down being that someone may find this log someday, but the thing is she acts as though she actually has sway in my life.

It’s as if she thinks that the fact that she gave birth to me should garner the respect that other mothers have from their daughters, but—come on—really? I have not even known this woman for the past twenty-three years; she left me before I even had a chance to get to know her. Grand’Mere, having raised me, always made sure that whatever she told me about my mother was positive but I was left filling in all the blanks! Frankly, what I see is far different than what I remember.

Marissa’s feckless effort to be simple and sweet is outshined by a bombastic personality that is immediately evident upon seeing her face. With eyebrows that are so dark and pronounced her face seems to be a footnote, except for her smile which—when she laughs—is as wide as two of mine! But then there’s this undercurrent of melancholia that pops up only once in a while, as if it’s a misplaced comma in the middle of a run on sentence. I see it in the fleeting, wistful look that appears whenever we broach the subject of my childhood.

To be sure, in spite of the ongoing internal outrage that continues to nip at the outer edges of every fiber of my being there are actually things about Marissa that well, aren’t . . . terrible. After all, she is my mother. She has this sort of quirky sense of humor that catches me unexpectedly from time to time. She has actually made me laugh on a couple of occasions, and even though I mostly don’t get her jokes (which are really more like puns), my mother’s overly expressive facial gestures and ultra-animated voice fill whatever space she enters with laughter and lively conversation. It’s definitely comical to watch. Knowing that I come from her is especially ironic for Marissa and I are absolutely nothing alike.

There’s one other thing I’ve observed that is