Amanda’s Tale #1 - The Descent Of Darkness - Atlanta, Summer, 2148 A.D.
Her two terrified employees—long-time friends, really—found the elderly woman sitting on the floor of her spacious living room amid the shards of broken window plasto and the shattered ruins of tables, chairs, lamps, and the worst destruction of all, the battered remains of her Steinway Imperial Concert Grand piano, the one she had used as a concert pianist for decades—the one she had taken with her to many cities in The ConfederatedRepublics of America as she performed with acclaimed symphony orchestras—a no-longer-made musical instrument that had delighted untold numbers of classical music lovers since she was a young woman.
Now, the old woman was staring at the ruins of her life—at what was that morning her most valuable possession. All of her books, her manuscripts, her family Bibles, her photo albums, her vidisks--everything had been ransacked and desecrated by the ignorant gangs of “No-Nos” that were increasingly dominating the city of Atlanta, Free Republic of Georgia. In the once-manicured but now partly overgrown back yard, all of the evidences of her long and successful life were blazing in the fire of destruction and ignorance caused by a collective evil that was being induced by the demagogues of political madness and the enemies of a constitutional republic that had survived for a hundred years. With blood trickling from a cut on her head where she had been struck by one of the marauders, she was helped off the floor by both of the other women.
“Thank God, Miss Amanda, that you’re not badly hurt. Thank God they didn’t kill you,” wailed Minerva, the younger of her two household employees. The older of her two companions cleaned some shattered wood and glass from off of one of the slashed couches, and led Amanda to it.
“Sit here, Miss Amanda, and I’ll get you some cold water. Min, you get some clean bandages and the alcohol, and we’ll get her fixed up. Are you able to walk alright, Miss Amanda?” she asked with concern.
“I think I am, Mary. Let me take your arm, please.” She held Mary’s arm tightly as she walked the few feet to the couch, despairing of its destruction, for it had belonged to her parents and had been lovingly protected for almost a century. As she sat down, she began to weep, and her faithful friend just put her arm around her, holding her tightly.
“What’s happening to our country, Mary?” she asked. “Why is this hatred of culture and learning and knowledge becoming so common, even right here in Atlanta? Why can’t President Morgan do something to stop these gangs that are looting and destroying our property?” By this time her bleeding had mostly ceased, but her tears were flooding down her cheeks.
“I wish I knew, Miss Amanda. I really wish I knew”, Mary replied. “All I do know for sure is that for the past ten years or so, things in our country have been goin’ downhill faster and faster. When President Morgan was re-elected three years ago, in 2145, he promised an end to these lawless NO-NO gangs that have taken over Atlanta and most of our big cities. Why can’t our government protect us, Miss Amanda?”, she asked, the desperation apparent in her voice. “It seems like they don’t care about us anymore.” The elderly woman just looked at her faithful employee for a moment or so before answering, fear and confusion showing on her face.
“Mary, I’m really afraid for our country’s survival, now. All our remaining army and air forces have been battling the invading Mextec hordes and the barbarians from the Northers for over ten years. Our forces are spread so thin now that I don’t see how we can continue to keep them out. We push them out of one part of The Confederacy, killing lots of them and having many of our military killed also, only to have them invade another place at another time. Our forces have been so decimated in the past ten years that there are no more people left to train to resist. That’s what the telynews said last night. They’re even taking fourteen-year-olds now, Mary. Did you know that? Helen Masters told me three days ago that they took her Marty—he’s just turned fourteen, but she said he was anxious to go. She told me she was very fearful, but very proud of him.”
Min brought the bandages and alcohol to Mary, and together they managed to clean up Amanda’s cut and tape a bandage over it. Mary brought her a glass of cold water from the refrigerated water faucet, which she drank slowly, tears starting to fall from her eyes.
“It’s all gone, Mary. It’s all gone, isn’t it? The old books and manuscripts from my cabinets---look—everything’s been smashed and looted. I can’t see any of the old vids I had of performances of Will Jennings and Bryon James, from the historical recording series I had of them and other great pianists from the late twenty-first century. Is there anything left in my cabinets, Mary?”, she asked, sobbing. Mary went to the smashed cabinets, which had been sealed with pressure glass and which had dominated a portion of the living room wall. She looked into their empty ruins, then looked back at the old woman she had worked for over the past twenty-eight years. With tears beginning to trickle down her own cheeks, she admitted the truth to Amanda.
“There’s nothin’ left, Miss Amanda. It’s all been taken out back and burned. Everything old and valuable and beautiful was stolen or ripped up and burned, Miss Amanda. Everything!” She felt as violated and helpless as her elderly friend, knowing in her heart that the possible end of their civilization was hovering over their lives. She looked at Amanda Jennings, her long-time employer and friend, not wanting to tell her that all of her own historic vid recordings had also been vandalized and burned—all of the visual records of her triumphant performances from the time she was in her early twenties until she stopped concertizing in her late seventies—over fifty years of magnificent music destroyed by the barbaric vandals who were rampaging with increasing ease throughout Atlanta, in their mindless zeal to destroy everything of beauty and worth that Western Civilization had brought about over centuries.
Min helped Amanda up off the couch and held her arm as she slowly walked over to the vandalized cabinets, which had been custom made for her when she built her beautiful large home by the Great Stone Mountain almost fifty years previously, in 2099. The old woman stared
into the violated cabinets, shaking her head in disbelief, tears running down her cheeks. She looked at her two faithful employees, the last of a staff of ten who had made her life enjoyable and meaningful over many years.
“I talked with President Morgan last week, Mary,” she admitted. “He’s always been one of my biggest fans, and he really loves classical music, you know—especially Beethoven, Rachmaninoff, Westerfield, Malankoff, and…”. Her voice dropped off, and she stood by the ruined cabinets, seething with frustration and despair. “He told me that it appears that the Mextecs have formed an alliance with the Northers recently, and are getting ready to make a final invasion of the Confederated Republics. He said he wanted to launch nuke strikes into the Mex armies, but that Senator Goren, the Senate Speaker, has agitated the Senate so much that they have forbidden him to even defend our country, Mary. They won’t even let President Morgan defend our borders at all, now. I know that Goren is a scoundrel, but I never thought he would rally the senate to the extent that we have to stand by and watch our country be taken over by barbarians, or that our own people would be appeasing our enemies.” By the time Amanda had finished speaking, her tears had ceased, and her old feistiness was reappearing.
“The President told me, Mary, that he was rallying the last of our loyal Field Commanders for a final defense of our country, and that he was determined to use his remaining battlefield nukes to destroy the barbarians who are invading us. He sounded like he really meant it, Mary. I only pray that it’s not already too late for us to save ourselves. Oh, God help us—God help us”, she said softly, almost prayerfully.
“Miss Amanda”, asked Min, “when did those No-Nos come? Mary and I got here at 7:30. They must have come in the middle of the night.”
“They did, Min,” responded the elderly woman, as she slowly walked into her kitchen with the other two women. “They woke me up about 4 a.m., I think it was, when they broke open the front doors. Made a lot of racket, also. I assume the break-in alarm was sent to the constables in Stone Mountain, but they never came to investigate. They still haven’t.”
“Miss Amanda,” said Mary, “my husband, Marky, told me a few days ago that there are hardly any constables left in Stone Mountain, or in Atlanta either, for that matter. He said he heard that almost all able-bodied men and women from the city and country constabularies have been conscripted by the military. He said now they’re calling for a home guard, to be made up of real young and real old folks. Miss Amanda, how’re they goin’ to protect us”?
“If I still had my .40 caliber Calitron”, Amanda replied firmly, “they wouldn’t have to bother trying to protect me. I’d have taken care of those crazies with hot lead. I’m still a pretty good shot, even if I am eighty-two. But I gave my pistol to the militia volunteer that came around here last year asking the people to turn in their firearms for the militia and for the military. Things are getting desperate, Mary. Now we have no way to protect ourselves from the marauding gangs of crazies and looters—no way to stop the evil from overtaking us, except for prayer.”
“I pray all the time, Miss Amanda,” volunteered Min. “All the time,” she emphasized.
“Well, Min, don’t every stop praying, because I fear that’s all we have left if our militia can’t control the city, and our military can’t protect our borders. Mary, my head hurts a bit. Can you bring me some aspiral, please, with some more water. Do we have any coffee or tea left? I could use a cup.”
“Haven’t been able to buy coffee for at least two months, Miss Amanda,” replied Mary. “All of it’s goin’ to the military. You can still get tea, though, but it’s gettin’ real expensive. Would you like me to fix you a cup of tea, with some biscuits and jam? We don’t have a lot of food in the house, though. I’ll have to go to the market when it opens at noon. Food’s gettin’ more expensive every week, Miss Amanda. Lots of things I can’t find at the market anymore. Do we—I mean, do you have enough cash to buy some food? Market won’t take anything but cash, nowadays.”
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Next: Part 2 and Part 3 of the Story of Amanda Jennings
