Lorac: An Excerpt
John C Flavin
Genres: Science Fiction/Fantasy/Historical
Product: Novel
Lorac is a science fiction, post-apocalyptic novel. The main plot takes place far in the future, 4447, long after humans have obliterated the swelling populations and melted every scrap of ice on the Earth. Populations are at pre-historic levels–about 1.5 million people–which of course means that billions upon billions of people have perished, and the worst-case scenario has played out. Coastal regions of the continents are under water, and now the majority of the human population lives in the Himalayas.
There are two main societies: those who believe in progress and those who do not.
A secondary plot follows the dreams of the main character, Matias DeVon. He is from the smaller, less powerful society which assumes that human progress is not possible. Matias responds to his dreams as though they are advising him, so as he alters his choices accordingly, therefore he alters the fate of his people.
There are also very brief historical and fictional excerpts (every 4 or 5 chapters) that explain how humans went from prehistoric times to the glory of ancient civilizations (circa 800 BCE) to the Industrial Revolution to the Technology Explosion to apocalypse and beyond (i.e., through the apocalypse and onto 4447).
This novel is first and foremost a science-fiction, post-apocalyptic story. Underlying the action, it proposes a chronological progression of human activity to outline our ultimate past, present, and future.
Prologue
In the year 4447, there were only two societies: “The Body” and “The Mind.”
The Next Morning
Like an excited puppy, all it took was the notion of dawn to awaken Ambie. Showing a semblance of maturity, he waited for his father to wake up. Actually, he didn’t want to rouse any suspicion in Matias; he knew his father knew him well. Ambie’s best bet, if he wanted to fool his father, was to “act normal.”
The top of the deep orange morning sun just exposed itself, and as if responding to an alarm, Matias woke up a couple minutes after his son. Ambie saw him start to move, so he closed his eyes and began rubbing them in order to appear to have woke up at the same time. Ambie tried” “Good Mornin…”
“Ah, ah,” Matias cut in, like he were talking to a puppy, “I’m very serious. You know how to pack, Ambie. Do it and be on your way.”
Ambie tried the “ol’ Dad” tactic: “Aw, dad, aren’t you being a…”
“Listen to yourself: ‘Dad.’ It’s a good morning as long as you head home and I get on with the expedition—by myself.” With the ensuing silence, Matias felt a little guilty, so he tried to soften up. “I’ll tell you what, the next time I go on an expedition, you’re on the team…promise. Alright?”
Smiling inside, he replied, “Sure, Matias.”
“Still, not a word from you. Just pack and be on your way,” Matias reminded him.
Ambie sulked while he packed. He jotted quickly in his journal. “January 06, 4447: Time to repeat history.” Then he sulked some more. The more he sulked, the more it would appear he would heed his father.
Ambie finished gathering his things and left without making eye contact. Matias was uneasy about him leaving. And he was uneasy about his boy leaving before he could pack his own things, because he wanted to follow his boy a bit to be sure he went home. He was also uneasy about leaving his things for animals to investigate. He took one last look to see if Ambie was careless in an attempted return. Nothing. So he hopped aboard Mud and rode toward his original destination: The Note.
Meanwhile, Ambie rode a half‑mile down the path back home and studied the landscape for the next two or so miles in the direction toward Scimitar Ridge. He sketched a rough idea of it in his journal, and then turned right around, keeping pace at an estimated speed that Matias might be traveling. He didn’t want to catch up too quickly. “Ol’ Matias never learns,” he said under his breath, with a small grin forming.
Matias was now a full mile and three-quarters ahead of Ambie when he heard the forest floor crackling with activity. “It’s Ambie, of course. Or it’s nothing,” he thought. He entered a small patch of forest and began to feel claustrophobic, so he picked up his pace. Another sequence of sticks rustled and Matias spun Mud around, expecting to see Ambie there with his smart grin.
But nearly forty yards away, barely visible through the dense stand of trees were a half‑dozen mounted horses. A tenuous moment of surrealism touched Matias, because even at that distance the horses seemed unreasonably huge. He bolted immediately toward Scimitar Ridge. Matias didn’t have to turn around to know they were ensuing—there was a buzzing sound that he could vaguely hear over Mud’s rampaging hooves.
A hideous scream let out behind Matias: a celebratory and ritualistic and a mad-pursuing-soldier-let-loose kind of scream. It echoed and filled the unsuspecting calm of Mother Nature, and at the same time, it was all that Matias heard. Branches swiped Mud’s and Matias’ faces and they both felt panic and loss. He thought he might be able to outrun the larger horses if he could make it to the clearing, and if he could do that, he could swing back toward home, and then maybe still have a chance. He didn’t have time to wonder why they were attacking this far out of their authority. The screaming got louder, but not closer, as Matias was successfully keeping his distance. Ahead he could see the clearing and he felt a surge of adrenaline, which prompted a speedier getaway. The branches stopped smacking him as the forest began to clear. He felt he was going to make it, imagining that he might reach the Isaiah Caves and hide there, or hit the back-route home.
Matias reached the clearing, shouted at Mud and kicked her in the sides. Mud responded well, increasing the distance between him and his pursuers. But the echo of the mini‑canyon created an even more haunting sound, as the pursuers’ rapacious screams filled his and his Mud’s heads. Underneath Matias’ sweat were chills and goosebumps.
A half-dozen spear‑shaped projectiles arced from the clan toward Matias. They were waiting for this clearing for their opportunity. They planned it like this. And if it didn’t go like this, there were groups of fellow clan members waiting at every escape that Matias could conceive.
All of them had the distance to strike their target, but only one had the accuracy. It struck Matias at the base of his neck and, instead of impaling his body like a sharpened spear, it splashed and clung and fell about his head, shoulders, and arms. The spear was designed to go from a solid form to a jelly-like liquid upon impact. As it struck Matias’ neck, some of the liquid splashed harmlessly off, but most of it stuck to him, like a liquid net. It turned fluid upon impact, and then slowly turned back into a solid, so as it attached to Matias, it slowly constricted around his upper body, and before long, enough to pull his arms from Mud’s reins. Mud naturally slowed, allowing the clan to catch up with ease. Matias did not resist. He could distinctly feel that no amount of determination was going to give him the strength to break the liquid-turning-solid web that had captured him. And by the time it dried, it felt like a rubbery cape wrapped around him. Only words could bring his freedom now, but even those were likely futile.
The clans’ screams changed from frantic, excited outbursts to a low, composed rhythm. Matias heard them, like a choir, synching their tones and notes ceremoniously, and before long the other clans joined around the original predators
Matias lowered his head, knowing his fate. He did not escape. He thought of Ambie and was glad to have been tough on him. Though, he concerned himself lightly with having turned soft toward the end. He thought of Asper, and her sister, Minn. His life presented itself like a rapid pictorial: his garden, his little home, the games coordinator’s burned veggie‑stick face, The Note, the village as he last saw it from the crest…Ambie’s obstinate and comical personality.
All invoked a sort of indifferent emotional surge. There was clearly no time nor was this the place for Matias to react to what he knew with great certainty were now memories. The pictorial of his life was now a pictorial and no longer the symbols of daily hope and motivation. Then he looked at the liquid net constricting around his arms and tried to imagine from what material it was made. It was trivial, at the time, but he couldn’t help but wonder.
Then Matias felt a bite on his right shoulder and before he could decide whether it was a horsefly or the liquid net, he was sleeping peacefully on Mud’s back. Mud stayed in one place and was fidgety, breathing heavily.
The clan circled them, bringing their rhythm down to a quiet hum. The woman, Captain Xiong, who netted Matias, dismounted and pulled him from his horse with remarkable ease (although, he is five-foot-nine and 155 pounds—not a large person). The others continued the melancholy hum until she was through removing the net by sprinkling salt on it. It melted away enough for Matias’ arms to fall limp, which she used to secure him to Mud. The remaining four riders stopped their hum the very moment she plucked the dart from his right shoulder.
The ritual was over.
She mounted her horse and lowered her head, as did the others, and they prayed briefly. They looked at each other stoically, then guided Matias and Mud back to their territory: Saint Elowah.
Ambie remained safely a mile behind. For now.