Fighting the Quiet Tide
By Thomas X Veil
In a coastal town ruled by rival factions and constant surveillance, Sara navigates checkpoints, fanaticism, and quiet coercion to protect her daughters. As loyalties blur and old connections resurface, survival becomes a daily act of suspicion in a dystopia where rebellion begins at home.
Genre: Speculative Family Drama
Home > Thomas Veil > Roselife
Page 1
A single snare drum kept time. The bass drum pounded a triplet, and the others joined in. Flutes rose high above everything, their melody floating, threatening and sinister.
Huge banners demanding loyalty and faith were carried by big men flushed red with the heat. Boys marched to the front, twirling their batons, throwing them high, never dropping them once.
They strode on, claiming the streets as their own. Past the BMWs and Audis. Past the well-kept gardens. Past the Georgian terraced houses in their stone splendour.
Locals watched from kerbsides with pedigree whippets, from behind sand-blasted stone garden walls and thick shrapnel-proof net curtains. Flags of support were draped from windows and recently clipped hedges, all calling for unity, loyalty and obedience.
No one moved until the march was past.
As the last banner vanished around the corner, Sara detached herself from a knot of onlookers and slipped away down a side street.
Residents quickly took their flags and banners down, never sure which faction’s parade would pass, or on what day. Someone had already seen the chaos coming and made a killing selling banner packs, complete with every faction’s colours and slogans. Keep them all handy, switch at a moment’s notice, and no one gets offended. Unfortunately, old Mrs. Heatherington at 56 William Place got them mixed up one day and had to be kindly escorted to the community centre for a language test and a mandatory re-education course. Took her seventeen tries to pass, poor thing. Her neighbours were already eyeing up her fuchsias and laburnums and were quite put out when she came home again. Maybe next time.
Survival was essential these days.
Outright supporters of the Heritage Front or New Tomorrow were everywhere. They demanded only English be spoken and only real natives be allowed. The Heritage Front was as intense as ever, but it had also swallowed smaller factions with similar outlooks. Even The Green, which had surprised many.
Times changed.
Most people were like Sara. Neutral, and just trying to get by in the country’s latest national insanity. Division and strife, generously seasoned with disbelief, had been the national special for years. Standing up for beliefs, protesting, even fighting the factions achieved absolutely nothing.
Hearing the pounding of feet and drums, seeing the banners or the sudden lack of them, and smelling the fear that always pervaded these occasions steered Sara down the backstreets.
She reached for the scar on her arm, a habit since she had been a teenager. Her fingers always found it. The memory followed immediately. The man she had fought off. The knowledge that his faction connections would protect him long after she had been told to forget.
Her girls were that age now.
How could she keep them safe when she had barely survived it herself?
Mari was difficult to hide, especially with those looks. Too noticeable. And now the Ethnic Beauty Initiative had started sweeping up girls like her. Sara’s fear gnawed at her every day.
Sophia worried her differently. Too clever. It never occurred to her that other people could be just as clever, but far more cunning.
Earlier, Sara had seen New Tomorrow guards pulling people into the old post office on the road to the beach.
Some were taken. Some were persuaded to wear Harmony Pins and released. And some young women, like Sara’s ex, Paula, once Paul, were given Warm and Helpful Tips on how they could best help the cause increase membership.
Paula had taken six months to lose the “conditioning” she’d been given.
None of this made one faction better than the other. Both used hypnosis, psychology, or good old-fashioned brainwashing to get their way.
New Tomorrow had seemed more attractive at first, but beneath the fire-breathers, snake charmers, and easily provoked belly dancers, they were just another cage. Despite coming from wildly different cultures, they still enforced an English-only policy. It alienated the elderly and the children left in their care.
For Sara, both factions provided her income.
She was an English teacher.
Things had been easier before the internet was blocked and the mainstream media abandoned, humiliated by their lies and corruption. Messages, GPS, social media, all gone. People adapted to the new normal.
Sara was on her way home to pick up Mari and Sophia and take them to school for the now compulsory orientation. Who could say which faction would shape the curriculum this time?
Sometimes she wondered if it was all worth it. She could teach them more important life stuff. The thing is, these days, that probably wouldn’t be enough for them.
As she reached the gate of their small downstairs conversion, she was whistling Let Me Into Your Heart, a popular song with her students and a signal to her girls that everything was as it should be.
She hugged Sophia first. “Everything OK today, love?”
“So far,” she said, pointing to the letterbox. “Someone with a New Tomorrow armband popped the usual flyer through the letterbox. Heritage Protection Drives, Open Harmony Sessions, food banks.”
“Creepy sods,” Sara muttered, tossing her bag down. “Come to the food bank and we’ll feed you as long as you work for us. And don’t get me started on heritage. We need to get out of here before it’s too late. Like last time, when we waited too long and your Uncle Leo disappeared overnight.”
“Easier said than done, Mum,” Mari said, coming up and kissing her cheek.
“I know. Anyway, are you ready? We’ve got to get a move on. You know what they’re like if anyone’s late.”
They left the flat quietly and walked up the road, not too fast, not too slow.
Then they turned the corner.
Right into a checkpoint.
“This wasn’t here five minutes ago,” Sara whispered. “Follow the drill.”
Sara was always amused by how New Tomorrow was so well organised considering the chaos surrounding their operators. SUVs and trailers formed a funnel leading into a tent. Inside were the questions, all designed to trap you into an admission.
Mari snapped her fingers. Sophia hummed softly. Their tells were obvious. Nervous. Afraid.
Sara’s hand dropped, fingers straight down. Follow my lead. Don’t speak.
Sara muttered under her breath. These damp tents; the canvas flapping noisily in the wind, the little plastic stools creaking with every movement. She wanted them out.
“Phones. Now!”
The guard’s breath stank as he thrust a bag forward. The phones dropped in with a dull clunk.
Grey-uniformed armed guards formed another funnel.
“What can we do for you today?” Sara said brightly. “We’re late for the new school orientation.”
Raising his voice to counter the gusting breeze, the next guard said, “We’ll not keep you long, madam. Names?”
“Smith. I’m Sara, this is Mari, and this is Sophia.” Sara forced a stiff smile, clutching her bag strap as if it were a lifeline. “Thank you, sir, but we need to get going.”
“Ages?”
“Thirty-four. Seventeen. Fifteen next month.”
Crack!
Everyone in the tent froze as a strong gust loosed a flapping canvas wall. A guard retied it efficiently. Relief.
Sara’s stomach ulcer twinged as she recognised Chris. An old student.
Of course it would be him. Just my luck.
His eyes were harder now. The way his finger rested easily on the trigger of his gun said he was in charge.
“If Mari’s seventeen, she’ll need to attend the Ethnic Beauty Initiative. You know the drill; image training, male visual fodder, fertility quotas… and, of course, becoming a hero mum.”
Fingers snapped.
Sara’s stomach twisted. She’d heard from her friend that a ‘hero mum’ had to have at least ten kids! What kind of mother would let her daughters go through that?
“She’s having problems in that area,” Sara said softly. “She needs her mum. Could you make an exception this time? Next time, everything will be fine.””
“She should have a letter from her doctor if she’s having trouble,” Chris said, shifting his grip. “You know that I’m sure.”
“Officer, you know how hard that is now.”
“Your daughters’ files are both here. Yours aren’t. Up against the wall.”
Sara’s hand went up and formed a fist. The girls started screaming and shouting, even looking as if they would attack someone. Everyone was looking.
Sara peeled off a note from the small pad in her sleeve and slipped it to the guard, the movement lost in the dimness.
Chris glanced at it.
“Halt! Silence!”
The scene stood still.
Only the tent dared to make a noise.
To the girls, he said quietly. “Any more of that and you’re taken.”
“Yes, sir,” they said together.
“Let them through. Wait for your mum.”
“You. Come here.”
In the dull side room, Chris folded his arms. “If you want to get to school without trouble, you have to wear a New Tomorrow badge.”
“Is it like a Harmony Pin?”
“It records everything.”
“Yes, sir. Is there no other way?” Her eyes flitted to the door. “Maybe we could be… friends?”
“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.” The guard’s gaze hardened.
He jotted down the badge’s number and pinned it on Sara’s jacket.
“It’s synced. Don’t be late for school. Wear it every day. We’ll be listening.”
They collected their phones and left.
Enjoying these stories? Try the book.
They turned the corner.
“Bloody hell, they’re everywhere!”
Bad luck. A New Tomorrow march rolling in like some carnival from hell. No coordination. Just a coincidence. No surprise. Not anymore.
Gaudy belly dancers thrust at them, hips snapping to the wild, flutey screeches blaring from behind. The air stank of sweat, spice, and synthetic perfume. Scantily clad supporters swayed beneath a banner-laden platform they carried, making it sail down the street.
Three henchmen lunged forward, thrusting flyers into their hands: We Are New
Tomorrow emblazoned across their neon vests. The same phrase blasted on repeat from a sound system the size of a car.
Lashing tongues, wild eyes, and snarling brows. Flashing machetes spun mid-dance. Guns, barely concealed, tucked at every hip.
“Let us go!” Mari was struggling, Sophia yanking her arm away as a lasso coiled around them like a fishing net.
Sara pushed her chest forward, not to entice, but to display her badge.
Freed.
Sara reached into her bag and pulled out a notebook and pencil.
Phones bugged. Everything recorded. Be normal.
The last words were shaky as Sara let out a sharp laugh. The girls grinned.
As they approached the school, Sara pressed her hand to her heart. Be sincere. No cheek.
Inside, a slideshow declared how exam results had suffered due to ‘unsettling circumstances’. To remedy this, students would be issued with electronic bracelets and receive a shock if their performance dipped. The school was ‘fortunate’ to be the first to pilot the scheme.
Mr White greeted his pupil, Mari with a vice-like handshake and spoke enthusiastically about the EBI.
Reading from his script, he said, “First of all, Mari, I’m happy to tell you that you’ll probably qualify for the EBI initiative as you can see from the chart here,” he said, pointing to a grey chart pinned on the wall.
“You’ll make your mum a grandmother many times over. She’ll need to be available for the babes,” he added, smiling at Sara over Mari’s shoulder.
“Now I know that this’ll probably sound like a lot of work, so there are graded financial incentives for each successful birth. The more babies you have, the more you’ll earn in bonuses. Do you have any questions?”
Then he saw the badge
His brow furrowed, eyes widened. He hastily flicked through the script looking for a more suitable version.
Sara frowned at him and gave the tiny palm-down gesture: calm.
Leaving Mr White to steady his nerves, they went to find Sophia’s teacher, Mrs Windsor.
Sophia hummed that song again.
Mrs Windsor froze at the sight of the device on Sara’s lapel, but after a subtle signal from Sara, she shifted, quickly scribbled a note, and pointed at a side door.
Leaving Mari and Sophia, Sara opened the door and slipped inside.
A low voice came from the dark: “Close the door; we can talk in here.” They cleared their throat, a small familiar catch.
Sara’s head snapped up, eyes narrowed.
She hesitated as if her instincts screamed. She stepped in anyway.
“I have a blocker.” There was a slight click followed by a faint hum. “The badge can’t work in here. Well, it’s reliable for five minutes, anyway”
“What do you mean?” Sara stiffened.
“It feeds the badge other noises. We can say what we want.”
“Are you with The Return?”
“Yes.”
“What do you want?” Sara stepped back, crossing her arms.
“No factions. No madness. Real life again.”
“Do you think that’s possible? After everything? The breaks and rifts… even in families?”
That voice…
No, it couldn’t be. Could it?
“We have a plan, and we need people like you.”
Neither spoke.
“People like me?” Her voice was low, almost a whisper.
“People who can flit between factions. Keep control without going all namby-pamby or brave-boy. You always had that, Sara. Even when you didn’t want it.”
Her head bowed, Sara’s hand touched her hairline.
“Recruiters get gear. I’ve got blockers, decoys, and even New Tomorrow override codes. It’s risky, but we need every edge we can.”
Sara leaned closer into the dark.
It couldn’t be…
“You still don’t know? It’s me. Paula.” The voice cracked. “After what they did… I couldn’t stay. I wanted to burn it all down.”
Sara’s breath stopped. Paula.
Hope rose hot and sudden.
“Can you get us out?”
“Yes, maybe not for a while. But we have a plan.”
Sara’s hands clenched into white-knuckled fists at her sides. A helpless, shuddering gasp escaped her, then another. The dam broke. She wept great heaving sobs she hadn’t allowed herself in years, muffled only by the dark and the blocker’s hum. She wiped her stained cuff across her face, smearing the tears and sniffles.
“If it means protecting the girls… getting out…” She gasped, forcing the words out. “We’re in. What do we do?”
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