A Short Story: The Republic of B by Frank Sonderborg

This was the start of my “Apocalypse Book” I now call “The Republic of B” I built it up from the premise that everything would collapse but some pockets would survive. I chose Brighton as it is an odd place. With lots of odd ball people.
So here then is the long intro into my much anticipated Book: Enjoy and if you like it, do please leave a note and of course a vote.

Republic of B - by Frank Sonderborg

Standing in the sun, on the stony beach in my red uniform. Feeling quite at home now, in the brave new, "Republic of Brighton." We had just voted for our, “La Presidenta,” and MF-Tec Mounties would now keep Law & Order and the, "London Calling," howling hordes at bay. There was always talk of, "Bring back the Harry." But it remained for the moment just that, talk.

The UK was a smashed broken land. A tortured wounded Kingdom. Made up now of a few City states and ravaged national fiefdoms. Scotland was tearing itself apart. And Wales was, as always, just drifting.
A far cry from the happy halcyon days of, “Mods and Rocker,” Brighton beach-front fistfights. And endearing, stop start stop, train journeys to work, in the city. Now London was just a blood sucking beast, of hungry mouths and lice infested insanity. Pillage and rape was the coin of the realm as they ravaged the southern sectors. Screaming out their battle cry, like badly trained Orc chanting, Monty Python trained parrots, “London Calling, London Calling.” They hoovered up the land for food and succor. And all this in the name of their exiled King, as they robbed and slaughtered. The sudden energy crisis had unleashed the man-beast from its chains and brought all the great domino’s tumbling down.

I remember well that bitter cold, snowy winter, when I first came to Brighton. All eager and excited to see it. The town that nearly ate Maggie Thatcher. The famous Pier, the fantastic student night-life. MF-Tec was the company that had brought me here. Direct from my degree course at the Dublin Institute of Technology. I was to endure 3 months intensive financial IT training before getting unleashed on to the world, of stock trading derivative algorithms.
Getting a pad in Brighton back then, before, “The Great Implosion,” was pretty much as it is now. I mean, Brighton, was boom-boom-town UK. The University had taken up all the slack on cheap accommodation. I was on a list of possible rooms. But they always seemed to fall through. Some long legged blond Fraulein, would offer way over the odds. And whoosh, I was back at the end of the queue again. Just when I was about to despair. I discovered one of the unsung underbelly gems of Brighton, "Fluggies Hostel to the Stars." Online and bookable by the week. "Get in there son," So I booked. And myself and the parents headed for, “Brighton on Sea.”
Fluggies looked cold and grim from the outside. And as it turned out, it was cold and grim on the inside too. The smelly Hobo, limping by, with his plastic bag stuffed full with bottles of, ‘El Cheapo Hooch,’ was perhaps a sign. But he didn’t pass by. He went in.

With no choice in the matter, I entered, **"Fluggies Hostel to the Stars.” **
It was rough, and had a very distinctive aroma waft of decaying armpit. There were four tough looking guys, covered in plaster dust, at a table, speaking some heavy East European lingo. The Hobo was swigging from a bottle of cheap no name port and harassing them, about a broken microwave and the current collapsing world political situation. The hostel clerk was completely trashed. Head hanging down, but still trying, unsuccessfully to smoke a giant rolled spliff.
A week, I thought, I can survive a week. Then find somewhere else. It was then I cursed all the, ‘Blond German Valkyries,’ that have ever lived. I signed in and went upstairs to the so called, “Bunk Room.”

The door would not close. Probably had never closed. The windows would not close. One of the guys had a heater plugged in from the landing. The wire snaked its way back into the bunk room. So there was an ever present danger of falling over it and possibly continuing out the window. I waved to my worried parents as they drove away in the falling snow. One week, just one week. I can survive.

MF-Tec was a company that required all their employees to turn up for work suited and booted. And here I was, in the land of the great unwashed juiced Hobo. And the ganja smoking, loud nattering, dust covered, East European builder’s mates. My first night in, “Brighton on Sea.” Needless to say I didn’t get much sleep. Sleeping in a business suit to keep warm, priceless.

I heard the other dodgy denizens arriving and slithering into their bunks.
Next morning we all sat up in bed. Looking like dressed dummies in a sales window.
Joe was a store manager with a local supermarket. Dave was a graphic web designer for a new start-up and just like me a newbie in Brighton. Ali was a trendy cloths shop manager.
And so it went on. All working, but unable to get a pad in Brighton. All stuck for that eternal moment in time, in down-town, "Fluggies Hostel to the Stars."

The MF-Tec in-house training uniform, was the, "Royal Canadian Mounted Police," blazing red. With matching hat. We were about a hundred newbie's wearing this. And we cut quite a dash on the promenade for the photo shoot. This was living the dream.

I was in an algorithm boot camp being trained for, “The Hong Kong Banking IT World.” Life was looking pretty good. The only way was up. We tramped around Brighton on our lunch break and looked very much the part of a blazing red Mountie Law & Order team. Which we would, as the deck of cards began to fall, in time, become.

Back at Fluggies the builders were still caught up in their never ending war with the Hobo, over the broken microwave and the current world political situation. Solved, after buying them all some strong beer and getting the builders thrashed on some excellent ganja weed. I ended up loving Fluggies. As it turned out to be a great place to spend an eternity one week. The night scene in Brighton was steaming and I did manage to use the famous Fluggie curve ball. Always tell the girls you're staying at Fluggies.

1. They have to invite you back to their place.
2. You get to have a decent shower.

The sudden energy crisis was followed on by the even quicker collapse of the global reserve currency, the mighty Dollar. This was like a quick stiletto into the guts of the western economic machine. I was based in Hong Kong with a major UK bank when everything went crazy in a heartbeat. The pound went south, as Gold became the only acceptable payment that could be traded. You wanted something you paid in Gold. Unless of course you had food. Or petrol. I was on the last plane out of Hong Kong and landed into a chaotic London Heathrow Airport. I headed straight back to Brighton as MF-Tec still seemed to be functioning. And they were still paying their employees, in Gold. It turned out there was a reason for that. They had access to Gold, a lot of Gold.

The civilian powers that be in Brighton then approached MF-Tec. As the only Corporation in Brighton with any convertible dosh. As well as having, at hand, a paid uniformed force. Those left in the regular constabulary switched to the red Mountie uniform and took the MF-Tec Corp Gold shilling. MF-Tec Mounties became by default overnight enforcers of the new Corporate/City State of Brighton.

The Republic of B had arrived. Massing at our borders were the blood sucking mindless moron Orcs, from, “London Calling." They smelt food, treasure, women and plunder. But we had Gold to pay for weapons. And battle trained mercenaries that could use them. We were constantly sending out feelers to other City states. Southampton and Bournemouth seemed to have kept it together, just. Portsmouth and Essex had descended into Piracy and Cannibalism. But then I think everybody had expected that.

What was the future for Nova Brighton? Who knew? Horses now doubled as food and transport until we could get more solar power into our grid. We had built a wall of wood and guns around our borders. Anybody coming through was gunned down. Unless they had the stamp of approval from M-Tec. We had even sent a special team over to mainland Europe to hunt down the new age, “Holy Grail.” The near mythical “Zero Energy Machine.” In Italy, it was whispered, lived a man who had a working model. And would sell it all for a bag of Gold. Or a knife through the heart. If the truth be told.
Large bands of starving Scots where burning and raiding as far down as Cornwall. We had a team sent to the Eden Project in Cornwall. They came back with the news it was gutted. It seemed the Age of Reason was over. And we were entering a new Dark Age. An age of unthinking beasts in the night. An age of the sword. An age without electronics as all mother boards and print circuits where fried in a sustained Electromagnetic Pulse attack. Or maybe it was just a big solar flare. Who knew?

We fortunately, just had the brain dead dredges of, “London Calling,” scraping at our front door. Five days without food deliveries, they had prophesied. That’s all it takes for a city the size of London to die. Descending first into savagery and bestiality. Then the rampant unchecked black plagues took care of the rest. Thanks to Corporate Gold, well-armed mercenaries and the Mounties of MF-Tec, Brighton was spared, for now.
There was unsubstantiated reports of monsters roaming around the old HG Wells Martian town of Byfleet. There was a government Bio-defense Lab based there. So it was to be avoided for now.

Should we bring back Harry our King? Sunning himself on some Caribbean beach with his fawning lackeys. Nobody was in favor now, just another clueless mouth to feed. Our future lay in cooperating with strong, like minded states. We had Gold. A highly educated population. But a serious lack of grid energy. We were working on low tech power units that can be traded for food or Gold or even women. Child bearing women where a much needed asset.

The Brighton State run brothels are booming. But it is, after all, the second oldest profession in the world. A man's want list is very small. Food, drink a roof over-head and a warm woman. Brighton Republic had it all. If you have the Gold coin to pay. But women were being bought out at furious rate and needed to be replaced.
I was practicing on the beach with a long-sword and a Swiss crossbow. Courtesy of Marco an Italian Mercenary. We employed him to train us in the old arts of war. Marco used to work as a medieval castle entertainer. Sword fights four times a day and crossbow shooting every evening. Unpaid and going hungry he slashed his way across Europe in search of, “Brighton, the City of Gold.” That legend will run riot across the ruins of what is left of the German European Empire. Soon, we too, will have a greedy heavily armed Hannibal, at our gates. We will need to relearn all we have lost. At the moment we are living on the fruits of the past. Soon we will reach a point where we need to live for the future.

Do I ever miss the past? No, some days I remember the past and Dublin in all its touchy feely colorful glory. But most days I try to forget. Father none, Mother none, family none. Our future is here and now. We must embrace, “The Republic of B,” or end up like the bottom feeding zombies from, “London Calling.” city-less, they perish unknown, unwanted, unforgiven.
There is a big sign in the centre of our City of Gold.
“What to do in B without electricity”. ....B Happy...
So yes we will fight and survive. Yes, we will burn our candles at both ends in the darkness.
And yes.... We will....B Happy.
“Viva La Republic”
“Viva La Presidenta”
“Long Live B”