Blockchained — An Original Short Story: Part Three ( Read Time - 4 Minutes )

Blockchained is a short story set in a dystopian one-world-government future where blockchain technology has been used to enslave the people of the world.

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For convenience, I have added the text from part one and part two to this post. If you have already read them, simply scroll down to find part three.

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Part One

I had that same dream again last night. It's becoming an almost nightly thing. Eyes. Hundreds of them, surrounded by darkness. They have no pupils— only a cold, smokey grayness to them, like a hurricane trapped inside a snow globe. Yet somehow, I know they are looking at me. From the blackness, a deep, harrowing roar of laughter emerges, immediately followed by the agonizing wails of a thousand broken voices.

That's when I wake up, with a sheet soaked in sweat and my heart beating on the wrong side of my rib cage. I wish I knew what it was about. Perhaps then I could make it stop. If I'm going to find out, I will need to overcome my cowardice and stop allowing fear to drag me out of the dream. Maybe if I can find out what happens after the screaming, then I'll know what it is I need to do to be rid of this cursed nightmare.

I can't believe this is still on my mind. It's been four hours since I woke up and I have just begun my journey to work. Why am I still letting this bother me? I can't shake the image of those eyes or their cold, dead stare. It feels like they're still watching me right now. At least I know that once I get to work, I'll be far too distracted to be focusing on anything other than the task at hand. That's if I make it to work. My nightly torments have left me abstracted, and I feel I will be lucky to complete this short journey without crashing.

There are less than twenty people in Sector D17 that have been permitted a vehicle for private use. I didn't ask to be one of them. No, I have my brother to thank for this luxury. He was a politician before all this happened. The UK's Defense Minister to be specific. Now he's a corpse. I don't even know where he's buried, or if he was at all. He had been one of the first to die during the insurrection. The rebels had dragged him out of the Houses of Parliament, beat him to death, and hung his bloody corpse over the side of Westminster Bridge by the neck.

We'd had our problems in the past, he and I. Three years had passed without us speaking prior to his death. I hadn't even seen his face in all that time. But the internet was still available then, and I was given the opportunity to see it again when the video of his murder was uploaded to a rebel-controlled twitter account. Now the only image my mind is able to conjure when I think of Jason is a swollen mass of blood and bruises, with an appearance more similar to a piece of spoiled fruit than that of a human face.

I never thought I could ever forgive him for what he did, but after seeing that video, I did. No one deserves to die like that. His brutal death may have earned him forgiveness for sleeping with my wife, but I will never forgive the role he played in creating this new world. I don't know what he did for them. He must have done something though, or I wouldn't be driving this car right now. I wish I was brave enough to say I don't want it. I'd quit this job and wipe the blood he forced onto my hands clean. But I have seen how the C and D class citizens live.

I can't live like that.

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Part Two

Arriving at the United Nation Tower, I find that I still have eighteen more minutes before I need to be at my post. I was so eager to get out the house and escape my thoughts that I hadn't considered how preferable the affliction of a torturous mind is to being here.

Ever since my very first day—long before the incident with Lady Gotha---I have always felt very unsettled around this place. In spite of the building being the largest I have ever seen, the halls are desolate, with a macabre presence lurking in the emptiness. At least, that's how it feels on each of the twelve floors I am permitted access to. Who knows what goes on from the thirteenth floor upwards, where all the controllers dwell.

Even here, in the car park as I wait to go inside, I am unable to escape the feeling of unease. Though there is only six windows on each of the one-hundred-and-eleven floors that are transparent, through the blacked-out ones that remain I can feel the ominous stare of the watchers.

I guess it makes no difference. Be it their eyes, those of my reoccurring dream, or the camera fitted on the dashboard in front of me— I will never be free from observation, and I need to start getting used to that.

With sixteen minutes still remaining before I must be at work, I decide to kill time—and my imagination—by reading yesterday's Daily Dispatch. It's this new world's answer to the newspaper. In truth, it's little more than a directive of newly imposed rules and regulations, not-so-subtly masquerading as information.

I reach under the seat and grab the distraction. I already skimmed through this last night, but failed to commit any level of attention to it. What a surprise.. More rules.

"Children will now be required to attend the Education Program from age 1."

I wish I could say I'm surprised by this. I was when they changed it to age 2. And again when they changed it to 18 months. But by then I had caught on to the pattern. I'll give it another 6 months before they are demanding government education from birth. God. After trying for so long, I never thought I could be so glad not to have any children of my own.

"In response to reports of malnutrition, D-Class citizens will now be granted free nutrition."

If I was still in possession of a sense of humour, I'm certain I would laugh out loud at this one. Nutrition? I am a B-Class citizen—the highest class. Yet, not even the food I have access to contains any sustenance of value. I worry for those poor souls. They would probably be better off eating nothing than whatever is planned to be given to them.

With the dispatch serving only to deepen my depression, I decide to head into the Tower for work. As per usual, I exit the tiny single-seater vehicle with some difficulty. I don't think these things were made for people of my height— but I won't complain. It's better than walking. I never have the energy to do that nowadays.

Making my way across the vacant car park, a sudden gust of wind howls passed my ears and sends a shiver of coldness up my spine. The sound thrusts me back into my dream momentarily, reminding me of the echoing cries of anguish that cause me to wake every time. Who do they belong to?

I hurriedly make my way to the huge doors on the tower, eager to avoid any more of the wind's uninvited reminders. The bio-metric retinal scanner permits me access to the building, and with the all-too-familiar sound of air pressure being released, the giant iron doors begin to slide open.

Here we go again..

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Part Three

I hate this place. The black and white checkered floors make me feel dizzy, and the excessively bright lighting stirs that dizziness into a feeling of nausea. Art was always a passion of mine. So you would think that the many sculptures and paintings that adorn the walls and ceilings would at least provide me with some comfort. But that would be a good thing— and there are no good things in this world. Not anymore.

This building is a murderer. My interest in the arts is but one of its many victims. My predilection for creativity was stolen from me within two days of working here. When heading deeper into the tower, each piece that once comes across is infinitely more disturbing than the last. Creative they may be, but I care not for the paths my imagination is ushered down upon viewing them. I often worry that looking at their so-called works of art for too long, may result in me becoming like them. It was the way a painting could make me feel that spawned my love for art. Now, thanks to this place, I despise it for that very same reason.

I'm able to find a small measure of solace in the emptiness of the ground floor. The thought of sprinting down the hallway to the elevator crosses my mind. That would narrow the chances of someone I'd rather not see emerging. A stupid thought. God only knows who is watching me right now. The building is riddled with cameras and other surveillance equipment. Running to the elevator would more than likely provoke a controller to come down and interrogate me.

Instead, I put on a mask of calmness and attempt to casually walk down the corridor towards the lift. My eyes stay glued to the doors of the elevator as I desperately try to avert my attention from the perverse imagery that surrounds me. Some days I am lucky, and I'm able to focus on the doors well enough to hide all other visual stimuli behind a protective blur. Today, I am not lucky.

Half way down the corridor, my peripheral vision is invaded by large, curved, goat-horns that seem to be reaching out towards me like predatory tentacles. I know that they're not really moving. because they are part of a nine-foot statue of a half-man, half-goat deity. A momentary viewing of the horns is enough to bring an image of the entire sculpture to the forefront of my mind. My imagination elects to pay attention to the one part of the depiction I wish to forget— the human leg that hangs from the mouth of the beast.

I quicken my pace and shoot up the hallway, hoping to leave both the statue and the thoughts it provoked behind me. Unsurprisingly, I fail. The mental image of that leg becomes so potent that I struggle to see the elevator a few feet ahead of me. If it was just the average human leg, I could probably bear this. But it's so much smaller than that of an adult. Smaller even, than that of a child. The limb must belong to a baby.

It's just a statue. It's not a real kid. It's true, I tell myself. It is only a statue. But why is it there? Why did they choose to put it on show? And why have I heard the waling of infants emanating from the thirteenth floor on several occasions?

This is why I try so hard not to look at those damned statues and paintings. I had managed to convince myself last week that the thirteenth floor is a hospital for the controllers, and the crying I heard was the delivery of new born babies. Now, as I make my way into the elevator, I am once again considering the absurdity that they might just be eating children up there. What the fuck is wrong with me?

The doors of the elevator close behind me, and I turn and place my palm on the access panel. The chip in my hand determines that I am heading for the twelfth floor, and the lift begins to ascend. With some level of desperation, I attempt to push the thoughts of a thirteenth-floor feast from my mind. I fail, yet again, but am quickly rescued by the sound of the doors opening in front of me.

Stepping out of the lift, I scan my surroundings to see if anyone is around. Thank God. The only thing that could make this day any worse would be an appearance from Lady Gotha or Lord Rockefeller. It's a rare occasion for any of the controllers to come down to the lower levels, but every time they do, it ruins my entire week.

Glad to be alone, I let out a sign of relief and march over to my desk. I hang my coat over the rack and sit myself down on the cold metal seat provided for me. Waving my hand in front of the centre-screen boots up all the monitors and grants me access to the blockchain explorer.

A second sigh escapes my lips, this time indicative of my exhaustion. Just 12 hours to go now. Then I get to return to another place I fucking hate.

Lucky me.

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