Alright, here is what I will do. The first chapter of my dystopic novel, Beyond the Land, is 23 pages typed. So, rather than subject you to all of that in one massive mudslide, I will break it down into shorter segments and post it in "serial format" like an old Flash Gordon story. The divisions will be arbitrary, depending on where I feel it easiest to break the chapter up. Here is the first part:

It was in the winter months, which had increased their stranglehold on the calendar, when the black rains came and the winds blew voices that reminded us that there was a price to be paid for human life. It was a myth, it was a reality, it was a tangible fact in contrast to the official deceptions.
“The rains are caused by nature,” they said to the huddled masses of grown-up children beneath the roof of umbrellas.
“There is no other explanation,” They sneered over the rims of their all-seeing glasses, and somehow they thought that would change the event. But the children knew better - they had grown-up in mind as well as in body, tempered like wine by the centuries they had endured. The children knew that nature had become the fairy-tale, the screen behind which to hide the hard facts of an industry that were too upsetting to face. And the rains continued....
                                 
HumaniTech, as The Corporation calls it, gave us hope, sweet cups brimming over with infinite hope to drink in the midst of a wasteland. It changed the world It gave us hope, sweet cups brimming over with infinite hope to drink in the midst of a wasteland - but it changed us as well. We found ourselves caught in a war waged not just on ourselves, but on the very fabric of what made us human. And we learned to accept that we ourselves, and our friends, and millions of abstract others we had come to know through common peril might vanish from existence at any moment. We, whoever ‘we’ are, ceased to be The Corporation’s consumers and became its product. Now we have marketable worth, and now we are worthless...                                                                      
They say that the Catastrophy was over in seven months. I say the [i]real catastrophe is just beginning. It was during those rainy months that he arrived. His footsteps were like the rain - silent, yet tactile. An anonymous catastrophe, without a name or a face, villified by The Culture and made to play the devil to the Corporate gods. He was a yellowed page torn from an old book, and in so many ways, his story became our story…
From the Diary of Jessica Saint Claire
Seventeenth Orbit[/i]

Chapter 1: This Winter Land
November 10th, 2075
New Rome 10:30 pm

Winter never ends here.
It has been winter for a thousand years.
It will be winter for a thousand more.
The cold, the sleet, the slush in your boots, the damp hair clinging to your brow are the definition of life.
Chill is the only feeling you will know, as long as you tarry in this country.
Chill has been here for forever.
It lives in every hollow of the City and it creeps into your bones and coils around your brain, whispering you to sleep at night.
The great concrete behemoths that stand there in the fog with frowning glass faces are the Chill People. The one immediately before you is a tavern – and they say, albeit errantly, that liquor warms the inward parts.
Look carefully now. Through the frosted windowpane of this tavern, you might still catch a glimpse of life unfrozen.  
The tavern doors are a mouth and they swallow this old man, Peter, at night and spit him up again at the beginning of the workday.              
Note this man Peter, and learn from him, you children of the cold; for he has begun to thaw.                              
---  
The Sleepy Sailor was one of those rare places that lingered on after the War, where one could still find a pint of beer and good company. It had been overlooked when the Statue Garden was built on Grand Coliseum Street, and since then, it had become a strange vantage point from which to view the Statues, where one could still speak critically about them and reminisce about the Oaks that once grew up on that patch of land. Or were they Maples? Some of the old men still held that Maples had grown there once, and that syrup had poured out of their bark like water. But the details were not really what mattered in The Sleepy Sailor. All that really mattered in that smoke-filled room was the credo inscribed on Ernest’s old wooden counter: “Speak freely, mariners, and speak well.”                                    
 Peter had begun to spend his evenings in The Sailor since he had joined the Construction Crew at the Miles High Tower. He had quickly become addicted – not to The Sailor’s beer, but to its conversation. Small though the tavern was, it had enough room for any thought to take shape and float about in the smoke of an old sailor’s pipe. Ernest claimed to have been a real sailor in his youth, and the red-haired Irishman certainly had enough scars to lend credence to his story. There was a debate as to exactly what sea he had sailed, and whether he had been a naval man or not. At times, even Ernest himself was unclear as to the details of his personal history, and so there had grown up two camps of customers – those who held that the proprietor was a genuine seaman, and those who held that the whole thing was merely an act to drum up business. And though Ernest would promise his detractors: “just wait ‘till I get out at sea again,” even that debate was allowed to rage unchecked within the walls of The Sleepy Sailor.                                              
But now Peter had gone a step too far. He had become intoxicated by chatter and made one of those remarks that one makes under the influence of strong liquer and hopes to forget the next day. Through the yellowed windowpane, he could see the three Statues on the opposite side of the road. The sun had crossed the street now and had begun to sink behind the black hummock of the East District HumaniTech Offices. Turning his eyes back to the bar counter, Peter glanced at the clock. It was 6:30.
“That clock has a name you know!” Ernest growled from behind the counter. “It’s Captain Stanley Carrington. And Captain Stanley, me grand-dad, says its time for you to head outside.”
“After one more beer.” Peter found that someone had glued his boots to the ground, and so he stalled in hopes that he would soon get himself unstuck. Certainly, his boast had been well-made at first, but as the evening wore on and it became painfully clear that he was expected to follow through, the reality of what he was about to do – of what he was about to become – became no more palatable after three pints.
“I’ve given you enough beer to fill your water gun.” Ernest said. “The boys want you to get on with this three ring circus. ‘Course, I want you to get on too, before I give away an entire keg.”
Arvis, Peter’s Foreman, looked up from his beer and shook his head. A quiet, white-haired man – one of the few white-hairs besides Peter to make an appearance in The Sailor – Arvis rarely spoke, except when he was giving orders, and then he bellowed and cursed more than he actually spoke.
“No work tomorrow, Pete, if you can’t follow through on your boasts.”
Peter only snorted and muttered: “I’m not sure that’s such a bad thing.”
“I’m with you on that one, Peter!” A stout man shouted from across the tavern. “I didn’t learn this craft just to haul steel to that blamed Tower all day.”
“Then by all means, stay in bed tomorrow!” Arvis barked. “And wait and see how many people want craftsmanship this week.”                                                                              
“We’re just tired of making laborer’s wages doing laborer’s work.” The man whined. “Things have gone from worse to worser – just a few years ago, they still hired folks like us to be carpenters. Then President Euller up and passed those new employment acts. Now if you ain’t born with the right looks, it don’t matter what skill you have.”                                                                                        
“Then get another set of genes.” Arvis said with a shrug. “If you ain’t human – ain’t Culture Human, you know – then you’re a laborer. That’s all there is to it.”
“Ah, but I can’t say I don’t sympathize.” Ernest interjected from behind the counter. “They treat you boys like human forklifts these days.”
“And that’s what we’re all going to be, if we don’t do as we’re told.” Arvis murmured as he turned back to his beer.
After a lengthy silence, in which everyone drank, the stout man spoke again.
“There’s going to be another census tonight.”
“And?” Ernest asked.
“Well, they called my neighbor last time, and my sister the time before that. She got tapped for the War, she did. They needed more portable generators to keep Comrade Arclion and his men warm over there in Jerusalem.”                  
“The past stays outside.” Ernest reminded him.
“All I’m saying is that it’d be a prime night for Petey to hose down the President. Lotta people would see it; hope some will slip in it, too.”
Ernest gave Peter a hard glare and pointed to the clock.
“Grandpa says its almost seven.” The sailor said. “Time for you to head out.”
“Give me another ten minutes to think it over.” Peter replied.
“I’ve already thought it over for you.” Ernest said, raising his voice so the whole tavern could hear. “Tell me what you think of this, everyone: right on the boots of  Benjamin Euller.”
“What about little Maxwell?” The stout man suggested. “Spray him down, too. He’s the reason we’re all here mugging down our poverty.”
“Why not all three?” Arvis added.
Ernest waved him off.
“Ah, leave Mr. Ozymandias alone.”  
“Why?” Arvis asked. “If he’s going to do the deed at all, he should be thorough.”
“True.” Ernest conceded. “But Ozy’s a decent man, from what I ‘ere. It’s the Euller family that’s been takin’ all of his inventions and putting them to wrong use.”
“Sure, but then I wonder if that Maxwell kid even knows how to use Ozy’s inventions.” Arvis argued. “He’s been so busy waltzin’ around in his flashy white suits that he didn’t even notice the HumaniTech rates going up until we were all paying out our butts. Then, what’s the brilliant kid do? Go and start a reclamation war down there in Jerusalem, just to bolster our energy supply. At least Benjamin Euller knew how to run an ecnomy; but then, traits skip a generation, you know.”
“Even sailing skills.” Ernest added, with a wistful look at the clock.
“Wasn’t your father a sailor, though?” Peter asked.
“I don’t consider ‘dem nukyular submariners to be sailors.” Ernest grumbled.
“Enough talk!” Arvis yelled, pounding his mug on the counter. “I say we send Peter off to do his deed and get back to our drinks.”
Peter rose and stared out the window. The Statues were still there.
They should have vanished by now.
The whole scene should have vanished, and he should have awakened in a puddle of sweat.
“Listen…” He pleaded, as he passed by the bar counter, but by the looks on the men’s faces, he knew he had no choice but to follow through and hope for the best. At root, it was an ideological issue, a keep up of The Sailor’s sanctity as a place of straight talking honesty. Had Peter chosen not to act on his words, he would have been forgiven, no doubt, but he would not have been welcomed into that circle again.
As he pensively paced to the door, Peter caught Ernest’s sea green eyes looking at him with a deep – almost tender - glimmer.
“You still think about her, don’t you?” The sailor whispered.
“Hardly.” Peter shook his head, his grey locks falling down over his brow. “She’s become dim to me now… but she’s still there. She won’t go away.”  
“Peter.” Ernest snapped. There was a haunting light in the tavern-keeper’s eyes now, as though two green light-bulbs had been squeezed inside of his face. By the tone in the jolly old man’s voice, Peter knew that things had moved beyond casual jesting.
“This is my last night filling cups here.” The sailor’s gruff voice whispered, as though he were imparting Peter with confidential information. “And I want to go out riding a typhoon.”
Though he was surprised to hear that the sailor was retiring, Peter tried to ignore him and focus on the task at hand. He was nearly to the door, when Ernest called him back.                                                                      
“Peter, listen.” The barkeeper murmured, so quietly that Peter had to strain to hear him. “If you’re serious about this – I mean really serious – then you ought to know that there’s going to be another gathering at the dump tonight. Don’t know what will happen. If you decide that this is just a joke, then laugh and go home and go to bed. But if you decide to go all the way – all the way - then I want to see you there.

Quote :

Arvis, Peter’s Foreman, looked up from his beer and shook his head. A quiet, white-haired man – one of the few white-hairs besides Peter to make an appearance in The Sailor – Arvis rarely spoke, except when he was giving orders, and then he bellowed and cursed more than he actually spoke. “No work tomorrow, Pete, if you can’t follow through on your boasts.” Peter only snorted and muttered: “I’m not sure that’s such a bad thing.” “I’m with you on that one, Peter!” A stout man shouted from across the tavern. “I didn’t learn this craft just to haul steel to that blamed Tower all day.” “Then by all means, stay in bed tomorrow!” Arvis barked. “And wait and see how many people want craftsmanship this week.”                                                                               “We’re just tired of making laborer’s wages doing laborer’s work.” The man whined. “Things have gone from worse to worser – just a few years ago, they still hired folks like us to be carpenters. Then President Euller up and passed those new employment acts. Now if you ain’t born with the right looks, it don’t matter what skill you have.”                                                                                         “Then get another set of genes.” Arvis said with a shrug. “If you ain’t human – ain’t Culture Human, you know – then you’re a laborer. That’s all there is to it.” “Ah, but I can’t say I don’t sympathize.” Ernest interjected from behind the counter. “They treat you boys like human forklifts these days.” “And that’s what we’re all going to be, if we don’t do as we’re told.” Arvis murmured as he turned back to his beer. After a lengthy silence, in which everyone drank, the stout man spoke again. “There’s going to be another census tonight.” “And?” Ernest asked. “Well, they called my neighbor last time, and my sister the time before that. She got tapped for the War, she did. They needed more portable generators to keep Comrade Arclion and his men warm over there in Jerusalem.”

This is my favorite part. A really neat hook ... "get some new genes" .... very effective.

Suggestion. Maybe you should consider STARTING this section, right here, with this? Then fill in the rest of the scene sort'a backwards ...

That's an interesting thought. I'll move some paragraphs around and see how it comes out.