In the near future, the Second American Revolution is over and a new nation of tyranny is unveiled.
Itâs been two years since the establishment of the brutal dictatorship The Incorporated Precincts of America, and the death of the old America. Sixteen-year-old Joey Cryer has two missions: to keep their six-year-old sister, Julia, safe, and to not die.
Two years earlier, Joeyâs biggest concern was sitting at the right cafeteria table at his high school or if the girl he liked liked him back. Now, Joey must keep his vigilance in staying clear of the IPAâs ever-watching Sons of Libertyâits ruthless police forceâto avoid becoming âdisappearedâ with his little sister, the only family he has left.
Any thought, word, or action against The Corporation means self-destruction. Itâs no surprise to Joey that the high school bully, Harlan Grundy is a loyalist to the fascists, carrying out their brutal orders to keep the community in check.
But when Joey finds he must ally with a betrayed Harlan to save his sister, can he trust his former enemy with their fates? Joey must risk it all to find out.
This first title in The Revolutionâs Children trilogy.
In the near future, the Second American Revolution is over and a new nation of tyranny is unveiled.
Itâs been two years since the establishment of the brutal dictatorship The Incorporated Precincts of America, and the death of the old America. Sixteen-year-old Joey Cryer has two missions: to keep their six-year-old sister, Julia, safe, and to not die.
Two years earlier, Joeyâs biggest concern was sitting at the right cafeteria table at his high school or if the girl he liked liked him back. Now, Joey must keep his vigilance in staying clear of the IPAâs ever-watching Sons of Libertyâits ruthless police forceâto avoid becoming âdisappearedâ with his little sister, the only family he has left.
Any thought, word, or action against The Corporation means self-destruction. Itâs no surprise to Joey that the high school bully, Harlan Grundy is a loyalist to the fascists, carrying out their brutal orders to keep the community in check.
But when Joey finds he must ally with a betrayed Harlan to save his sister, can he trust his former enemy with their fates? Joey must risk it all to find out.
This first title in The Revolutionâs Children trilogy.
No law respecting the established religion, prohibiting its free and compulsory practice, may be passed. All citizens free or otherwise are responsible for their speech, as is the press. The Board may sanction the people or the press should they choose to malign The Corporation or its representatives in print, thought, word, or action.
âFirst Amendment, Constitution Incorporated Precincts of America
A hand grabs my shoulder, and I know Iâm screwed. The flickering light from the Jumbotron across the street dispels the concealing darkness. What was I thinking trying to sneak my way across town square after dark? I pull my hat lower, hoping that he wonât recognize me.
Especially if curfew has started.
Dan and Katie are starting the Manhunt preshow on the Jumbotron, which isnât a good sign. Manhunt rarely starts before seven.
My mouth is dry, and my heartâs hammering fills my ears. Itâs the fight-or-flight response kicking in big time. Except in my case, itâs the flight-and-still-get-pommeled response.
Even knowing how it will end, I still think about running.
Just for a second.
Old habits die hard.
I move my eyes to the hand, hoping itâs not covered by a white glove. Crap. It is. So, the he attached to the hand isnât a regular cop. A cop will just shake me down and let me go. But not this guy.
Heâs a Son of Liberty.
Iâm surprised he hasnât shot me yet. They usually do. I mean, itâs kinda their go-to move. I glance from his glove to his face.
I silence a scream. This guy isnât any old Son. Heâs Harlan Grundy. That name alone makes most kids cry. Always has.
Harlanâs been bullying kids since the old days, back when we still lived in a place called the USA. By the time The Corporation ran things and changed the name to The Incorporated Precincts of America, or IPA, Harlan had transformed bullying into an art form. I mean, watching him terrorize a kid is like watching Michelangelo turn a hunk of stone into a statue. Pure artistry.
Unless youâre the rock.
All the Sons are big, but Harlanâs bigger. Not like Schwarzenegger big. Itâs more natural. Like a gorilla. Most let his stocky form, with its squashed nose, thick fingers, and stubby legs, fool them. But he possessed a speed unheard of, even among Olympic athletes.
And I, underneath this big ass coat, am just a scrawny sixteen-year-old. Exercise and me are not the best of friends. I mean, we wave when we pass by in the halls. Unless running from Harlan counts. Because if it does, Iâm a gold medalist.
Okay, maybe a bronze because he always catches me.
âHold it, citizen,â he says loud enough for me to hear over the Jumbotronâs droning voices. That is quite a feat since they always have it turned up to like a million.
Wait. Citizen?
He doesnât recognize me.
He says something, but Dan speaks over him from the Jumbotron. âWeâll be back after this message.â
A second later, tolling bells replace his smug voice, sounding out the half hour. I glance at the screen, hoping it says six thirty. Instead, a robotic voice says, âThe time is now seven thirty. Curfew is in effect.â
Iâm doubly screwed.
After curfew, you get arrested or worse, unless youâre on official IPA business. It wonât take anyone more than one look to know Iâm not. And Harlanâs fists and I have known each other since I was eight, and he was eleven. Itâs only a matter of time until his dim brain dusts off the cobwebs and the first faint itch of recognition dawns on him.
If he doesnât shoot me, which I doubt, I have two simple choices left. But I wonât get to choose. Instead, an Inquisitor will decide between sending me to a Liberty Camp or inducting me into the army.
The second is most likely. Theyâre drafting more people every day. Younger and younger too. I mean, except for like Ward Commanders, Inquisitors, and Auditors, the whole Corporation is getting younger. I guess they figure the young donât have as much attachment to the way things were.
The CEO says weâre winning the war, and the extra troops are for the last push into Ottawa. But Iâve heard the rumors. Who hasnât?
Some say Mexico, Canadaâs ally, has won ground in the Southwest. Others say the early winter weather has paralyzed our troops in Ontario and Alaska. Whatâs happening in Europe is anyoneâs guess.
So, whatever the Inquisitor decides, itâs better if Harlan shoots me.
Usually, Iâm home before curfew, but I had forgotten itâs earlier now. Thatâs thanks to the DoesâJohn and Jane Doeâand their rebels blowing up stuff. Last Tuesday, the day most Sons get their rations, they blew up the rationing center. Now, the rest of us are still living off our last pitiful portion.
Movies make rebellion seem exciting and heroic. I guess it is, fighting oppression or whatever. But from where I sit, trying to get by and staying off The Corporationâs radar, itâs terrifying. It doesnât help people like me. Maybe it will someday, but Iâm not holding my breath.
I burrow deeper into my fatherâs coat, trying to avoid eye contact. The coat must be the only reason Harlan hasnât recognized me. Thereâs no point in trying to hide the bag of contraband Iâm holding.
I mean, itâs right there.
Besides, itâs just dumb cans of stupid beef stew I bought at the black market. E-rations donât hardly give anyone enough food. So, most people, leastways those who can afford it, turn to the black market. Even Block Watch Commanders like Harlan.
Itâs not totally the Does fault, though. Food, at least the unpowdered kind, was scarce even before they blew up the rationing center. The troops passing through on their way north to the wall, took most of what we had. They didnât bother leaving much for us citizens.
Iâm not sweating the stew, though. I expect heâll âimpoundâ it. Iâm more worried that whatâs stuffed into my belt will spill out. If it does, heâll definitely shoot me.
Heâs eyeing the bag though. His mouth might even be watering. We both stand there, playing our weird freeze tag while waiting for the stupid bell to stop tolling.
As soon as it does, Harlan says, âYouâre behind curfew, citizen. Slice me the stew, and I wonât donate a one.â
Ugh. Slanguage.
It takes me a moment to translate his words to regular English. If I give him the stew, he wonât give me a class one penalty. I canât speak because heâll recognize my voice, so I nod. Kneeling, I set the bag down and take off.
I donât look back.
You never look back.
If you do, they might see your face, connect it to a list of subversives, rebels, or whatever list you didnât know you were on.
Iâm two blocks away before a grin spreads across my face. Dumbass Harlan was so preoccupied by the bag that he didnât notice the cans crammed in my pockets.
I decide to go home through the woods. Itâs longer and a thousand percent spookier, but it has more cover. Plus, The Corporation hasnât put cameras in the forest. At least not yet anyway. That might change if they suspect the squirrels of treason.
Plus, Harlan lives two houses away from me. If heâs heading home, itâs worth the extra twenty-minute walk to avoid him.
I trudge along. I canât see a thing in the inky blackness. Everything is a muddied silhouette, and I donât want to trip on something and break my neck. I used to find the sounds of leaves crunching under my feet satisfying. But I donât anymore.
They just tell the Sons or the rebel squirrels where you are.
My breath comes quick now. Heart racing. Itâs my anxiety getting the better of me. I donât bother fighting it because Iâm too busy cursing myself. If Harlan is out on patrol, heâs nowhere near his house. Then again, it might be dumb luck that we ran into each other.
Either way, I donât really care right now because Iâm sure Jason Voorhees or Michael Myers has spotted my dumbass alone in the woods. I stop for a second, but the sound of crunching leaves doesnât.
A twig snaps.
I turn.
A half-naked figure lunges from the darkness, falling to the ground.
I almost scream.
A man lies motionless. I get a little closer and notice heâs covered in blood. Against my better judgment, I turn him over. A few holes leak his blood.
Someone shot him.
The only people with guns these days are Sons or rebels. Which means theyâre probably out searching for him. That thought alone makes me nope my sorry ass out of the woods as fast as I can.
I emerge, unharassed by either rebel squirrels or a fictional slasher, near the non-Harlan end of my block. My breath comes in short, panicked gasps. Iâm more than a little embarrassed by how fast Iâm moving down the block.
I turn the corner. My house blazes bright in the frigid night. Itâs almost enough to chase away the harsh twilight glow from the screens on the telephone poles.
Julia, my little sister hates being alone, but she isnât right now. Unless Winnieâs wandered off again. She has turned on every light, which means he probably did. The Sons donât pay him much mind, so heâll be okay. Hopefully, she hasnât used up our electricity ration for the month.
I linger in the driveway, eyes darting. I need to make sure I wasnât followed.
An angry orange flower of fire blooms over the nearby hills. Must be the rebels blowing something up or being blown up themselves. Either way, a bunch of people are dead. A tenth of a second later, a dull roar reaches my ears, and everything shakes.
Every porch light in the neighborhood blinks on, and people spill out from their houses, scurrying around like angry ants. A few have wide eyes, their O-shaped mouths gulping the chilly night air. Which reminds me of the fish that Dad and I used to catch. Others just sigh, wringing their hands. A few look furious.
Iâve lived here for like forever and recognize everyone.
That is everyone except the young man with the neat dark hair walking along the walkway in front of the house next door. His hands are in his pockets, posture crisp but relaxed.
I do a double take because I didnât expect to see anyone coming from there. It and the house across the street have stood vacant since the Perrys and the Youngs disappeared a year ago. He might be a zig though.
Zig is short for zigzag. Theyâre the people who refuse to go along with The Corporation but wonât join the resistance either. So, they zigzag between the two opposing forces that shape the IPA. They usually come in small groups, no more than four. Thereâs not a lot of them. At least as far as anyone can tell. Anyway, neither side likes them much, and both will see them wiped out just as soon. Which is why, if he is a zig, he certainly wouldnât be so careless and let everyone know where he lives.
He might be a rebel. They sometimes hunker down in vacant buildings. That thought both excites and frightens me.
As he draws closer, thereâs no mistaking this man for a zig or a rebel. He wears a suit, but the distant flames give everything a crimson tone, so I canât tell what color it is. Something on his jacket flickers. He reaches the end of the walkway, and I notice that the light glints off a bunch of Corporation commendation pins on his lapel.
At first, he acknowledges no one as he crosses his arms and stares straight ahead. He appears calm, but his breath comes in peculiar fits like heâs out of breath but doesnât want anyone to know. Maybe heâs asthmatic? I donât know. His eyes donât watch the distant flames like everyone else; theyâre watching the streetlights.
Something glistens on his forehead like sweat, but the night is cold, so thatâs impossible. He appears to sense me gawking and gives me a nod.
By reflex, I wave.
Another fireball blossoms, this one almost bright enough to read by. The windows rattle from the blast. The neighborhood lights blink a few times before going out. Someone screams as weâre plunged into a weird twilight of flickering screens since those never stop.
I swear Pinman smirks.
A second later, old Doc Salazar asks, âDo you think itâs the Canadians?â
That isnât as silly as it sounds, since if youâre lucky enough to own a car, itâs like three hours to the border.
âNah. I bet itâs the Does and the rebels,â Mr. Taylor replies.
Everyone stares at him for a moment. Calling the Does rebels is against the law.
âYou mean terrorists,â a throaty unfamiliar voiceâmy new neighborâsays.
âYes, y-yes,â Mr. Taylor stammers. He probably noticed every commendation on Pinmanâs jacket. He chuckles nervously, running a hand across the back of his neck.
I donât want to call attention to myself, but Taylor was my dadâs fishing buddy. I canât count the number of times that the Taylors shared a meal with us after a good day on the lake.
A familiar voice breaks the uncomfortable silence. âMr. Taylor is scaredly is all. Heâs not trying to be outside the box.â
I look around, trying to find who spoke. For some reason, everyoneâs staring at me like I punched a nun or something.
Well, everyone except Taylor. Heâs got a grateful smile pasted on his stupid round face. The looks confirm my growing suspicion. The voice was familiar because itâs mine.
Pinman doesnât reply, just cocks his head.
âWell, um, good night, sir,â Mr. Taylor croaks as he scurries back inside his house.
A second later, the loudspeakers atop every telephone pole on the block crackle to life. On the screens, a severe looking yet appealing middle-aged woman appears with her hair wrapped tight around her head. Everything can go dark but not PR Polly, the voice of The Corporation.
Thereâs a whine of feedback, and Polly stares with a Mona Lisa smile on her lips, waiting for it to pass. It fades to a crackling static and clears.
Her familiar, faintly British voice sounds out. âReturn to your homes. All is goodly. We have the situation under control.â As always, she adds the Corporate slogan. âAmerica first. America last. America always.â
Another squeal of feedback sounds out. Dan and Katie return to the screens, laughing about the ratings bonanza itâll be when the real Does are caught and put on Manhunt. But since Manhunt is required viewing, ratings are a bonanza every day anyway. Iâm also not sure how weâd know if theyâre the real Does. I mean, every time they think theyâve got them, it turns out theyâre regular rebels.
No one even knows what the Does look like.
A weird sensation tingles my leg. Itâs my phone vibrating in my pocket. I put aside my stray thoughts for now as I fish it out.
âWhat did you think of this Realnews briefâ flashes on the screen. Underneath, like always, are two emoji:
a smiley one,
and a frowning one.
I tap the smiley face to show that I loved it. No one clicks the other one anymore. Well, no one without a death wish.
Soft clicking echoes around me as my neighbors do the same. By the time Iâm done, theyâre scurrying back into their homes. I guess theyâve all realized itâs after curfew, so we are all technically criminals right now.
Pinman still stands there with his arms crossed, staring at me. I try not to meet his gaze and mumble something about how my little sister is waiting for dinner inside.
In the distance, sirens blare. A lot of them. All isnât goodly. I sense the stranger watching me as I walk into my house.
I donât look back.
You never look back.
Joey is simply trying to keep his dwindling family alive in a world where it's become illegal to even think differently. The Corporation government has taken over the United States of America and turned it into the Incorporated Precincts of America (or the IPA), where the states have become Precincts and the towns Wards. The streets are patrolled by the Son's of Liberty, who will happily shoot you first and ask questions later if you're caught out in the open after curfew.
Food is scarce in Joey's ward, after the Does bombed the ration supply warehouse, and people are frequently disappearing into so called Liberty Camps, where they're worked to death, or worse, brainwashed. The IPA is trying to invade Canada to the north, while the Mexicans to the south ally with their Canadian brothers.
Year Zero grabbed me from the very first sentence, as it built a feeling of tension and fear. No one trusts anyone, with neighbours being afraid to speak their mind, just in case they're reported for free thinking and carted off to the Liberty Camps.
This is a futuristic dystopian nightmare - where programs are broadcast on giant screens and are mandatory viewing. Manhunt is such a program, where captured, so-called rebels are left to try and escape their imminent death at the hands of the Sons of Liberty. Even children as young as six are made to watch this televised brutality.
When Joey brings home a contraband, bright red journal, he begins to document the daily life in his Ward. He gives a brief history lesson on how the United States fell into this dictatorial nightmare, even while he muses that this could be a death sentence for him. His bravery and determination to tell the truth is commendable and gut-wrenching.
There's definitely tones of The Hunger Games in Year Zero - but don't let that put you off this incredible novel. Lugo manages to switch from first person to omnipresent narration with skill; moving from Joey's simple and sincere honesty, to Harlan's conflicted and confused rumination about his colleagues and the Cooperation.
S. A.