Apocalypse Drift

by Joe Nobody

  Congressman Wallace nodded to Brenda, who advanced to the final slide.

  “In summary, my plan provides for the same level of income that our nation collected before the collapse. Those monies will come from the growth of our Gross Domestic Product, a fair taxation of immigrants, and interest collected from all private debt. It will become our primary responsibility to improve the standard of living for every American. This motivation will become a natural part of our political system. As we all know, politicians love to spend money on their constituents. The only way we, in Washington, will have more money to spend is if the economy is expanding. No more raising taxes for public or social programs. The failsafe of borrowing money will no longer be an option. The only way we, and future elected officials, can spend more is if the United States is thriving. The enforcement of this budgetary restraint, I believe, should be accomplished via Constitutional Amendment.”

  Reed stepped closer to the conference table and leaned on its edge with both fists balled tight. His expression changed to one of anger, and his voice became low and serious. Gone was the salesman. Absent was the politician. He spoke as an angry man, “The best part of this proposal, my esteemed colleagues – the aspect that is the most important to me personally, well, it has nothing to do with economics or money. What moves me personally is the impact to the Chinese if our nation adopts this plan. They attacked us using electronic trickery. They manipulated the weakness of our debt and financial position of our government. This plan will crush their communist system, which cannot survive without taxation. They cannot continue to grow without siphoning off of the top of their people. They will not be able to compete with us, and their engine of commerce will crumble.”

  Reed looked around the room, trying to judge the acceptance of his proposal. He exhaled when the Speaker of the House broke his silence for the first time since the meeting had begun. “Mr. Wallace, would you be so kind as to bring up that slide showing sources of revenue again? I would like to ask a few questions about your numbers.”

  Internally, Reed flushed with joy. The Speaker wouldn’t have bothered if he didn’t see his plan as having possibilities. The Texas Congressman knew his little slide show was only the beginning – merely a seed planted. A lot of work would be required for the concept to survive and bear fruit.

  The meeting lasted four hours longer than scheduled, Reed’s presentation being the only topic of a long agenda that received any attention. Finally, fatigue began to set in, and several members made it known enough was enough.

  As the members made for the door, several congratulated Reed on his initiative and creativity. The Speaker and President of the Senate lingered to the last. “Reed,” began the top man in the senate, “you’ve done well, young man. I want to warn you that this will take a while if it is to become the law of the land. There will be a seemingly endless parade of experts, economists, professors, lobbyists and others who will demand their voices be heard. Don’t become discouraged. The Speaker and I have already agreed that we need to put this on the fast track. The time is right; the solution is right. We will contact the president in the morning. At minimum, you’ve put his war on hold for a while.”

  Matagorda Island, Texas

  July 30, 2017

  “Morgan, have you seen Sage?”

  “I think she’s up at her studio giving Laura Owens a painting lesson.”

  Wyatt scratched his head at the term “studio.” He had been vaguely aware of Sage’s renewed interest in painting, but had been so occupied with chores he hadn’t had the time to follow her progress.

  “Do you know if she has my toolbox up at the studio?”

  A voice full of playful frustration sounded from the cabin, “Now how would I know where your toolbox is? I’m worried about you, Wyatt. You’re getting to the age where the symptoms of Alzheimer’s begin to show. You can’t find your daughter, and now you’ve lost your toolbox.”

  Wyatt snorted at the retort – his wife was obviously busy with something and sending the message of “You’re on your own.”

  Grumbling over having failed in his parental duties of teaching children to put things back where they found them, Wyatt began the trek to Sage’s studio.

  With the intent of scolding Sage for taking his tools and not returning them, Wyatt strode toward the runways where he knew she had found a shady spot to sit and paint. He cut off the path and quickly found the small strand of trees where she had been hanging out lately.

  Approaching the spot, Wyatt stopped mid-stride, absolutely stunned at what he saw. There, mounted onto the trunks of several trees, was a virtual art gallery of scrap lumber that had been painted and carved. Sage was standing in front of three lawn chairs, demonstrating some technique to three of Crusoe’s citizens, their rapt attention focused on her instruction.

  It wasn’t Professor Sage that captured Wyatt’s eye – it was the artwork. Several boards of grey, weathered lumber were adorned with some of the most detailed painting he’d ever seen. The wood had been carved and then adorned with a mosaic pattern of embedded seashells, shiny rocks and other raw materials from the island. Beautiful brush strokes complemented the works, with colors of homemade pigment that accented the style.

  His missing tools forgotten, Wyatt ventured closer to his daughter’s work and examined it with his mouth hanging open.

  “Hi, Daddy.”

  Wyatt snapped out of his daze, “Hi, baby. Sage, this is unbelievable work. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like it.”

  Sage blushed and looked down. “Really? You really like it?”

  “Oh, Sage, this is…well…this is just enthralling to look at.”

  The students agreed, comments like, “I couldn’t believe it the first time I saw what she was doing,” and “I was so very impressed, I just had to know how it was done.”

  Wyatt slowly walked around looking at each example. He could tell his daughter had refined her methods as she progressed. Feeling everyone’s eyes on his back, Wyatt realized he was interrupting the class and turned to apologize. “I’m sorry to barge in like this. I’ll come back later.”

  After hugging Sage, Wyatt was halfway back to the boat before remembering his tools. Maybe Morgan is right – maybe I should be worried about Alzheimer’s, he thought.

  Matagorda Island, Texas

  August 4, 2017

  Wyatt climbed the ladder to Boxer’s bridge carrying a plate of fried oysters, complete with a side of kelp salad. He had been hoping a postcard-worthy sunset would perk up the bland meal, but cleaning the filters on the water maker had taken longer than anticipated.

  He glanced down at the plate of food, and for what must have been the hundredth time wished for a bottle of Tabasco sauce to go with his meal. A little oil and vinegar would’ve helped the kelp approach the threshold of having taste.

  Stop it, he chided himself. You have food, and there are probably millions of people out there right now who will kill for this meal.

  Munching the first bite of oyster, Wyatt glanced to the west and stopped mid-chew. He stared for a full second, not believing his eyes. There, off in the distance was a red blinking light – the kind used to warn aircraft of a high tower.

  Almost choking on the food in his mouth, Wyatt finished his bite without his eyes ever leaving the flashing red strobe. He was sure it hadn’t been there before. He was positive he would’ve noticed it. Afraid to look away, fearing the signal would disappear, Wyatt called out for David.

  It was a few moments before his son joined him on the bridge. “What’s up, Dad?”

  “Son, tell me if you see anything unusual in the western sky.”

  David’s scan was brief before he zeroed in on the flashing light. “Well, I’ll be. How long has that been there?”

  “Morgan!”

  It took his wife just a little longer to arrive. As she climbed to the bridge, she noted the distraction of both men. “What are you two staring at?”

  Neither answered, and in a momen
t the response became unnecessary. “Wyatt, if that means what I think it means, I would say that’s about the prettiest light I’ve ever seen.”

  David spoke up, “I’d have to agree with you there, mom. I don’t think I’ve seen anything that pretty in a very long time.”

  Wyatt finally broke his trance, “Amen to that.”

  Sage’s voice sounded from the cabin below, “Hey, what’s everyone doing up there?”

  David replied, “C’mere, sis – this will make your heart sing.”

  Sage grunted as her head appeared at the top of the ladder. Soon, there were four sets of eyes staring at the solitary, blinking, red light.

  Washington D.C.

  August 4, 2017

  Reed adjusted his tie one last time. He chuckled at his fussiness but then excused himself – after all, it wasn’t every day a freshman representative was invited to stand behind the president of the United States as the chief executive signed landmark legislation into law. Rarer still was the fact that Reed was personally receiving credit as one of the authors of the new tax code.

  It hadn’t been easy. After his presentation recommending a tax-free America, the secret committee hadn’t remained secret much longer. News of Reed’s concept had spread faster than the fires that had plagued US cities just a few months before.

  As the word spread, every special interest group and political organization in the country prepared for war. While eliminating the entire tax code caused concern, collecting money from banks and immigrants resulted in outright panic. The ensuing political battle reached epic proportions. Endless meetings with lobbyists were conducted. A seemingly infinite parade of experts, economists, professors and businessmen gave thousands of hours of testimony. Arguments raged while party affiliates attempted to influence virtually every aspect of the process. Countless hours of speeches were orated on the House and Senate floors, some speakers delivering into the wee hours of the morning.

  Reed checked the shine on his shoes, realizing all of the hoopla seemed so frivolous now. At first, he had embraced the friction as the necessary process of a democracy creating new law. Initially, he had consoled himself that all of the bickering and in-fighting was necessary and wise. As time wore on, his attitude began to change.

  His proposal was so radical most of Washington didn’t know quite how to react. The concept was so politically neutral, the power base was unsure of how to respond. Since it wasn’t from the left, it was assumed to somehow benefit the right. Since it wasn’t from the right, the left believed there had to be a hidden advantage for the other side. As time wore on, it dawned on both the right and the left that his plan would eliminate most of what the two sides had been fighting over for decades. Having nothing to disagree about was initially deemed unacceptable by the establishment.

  At one point he had given up, resigned to the fact that the two parties were fighting over the potential of having nothing to fight over. Reed couldn’t believe his fellow elected officials thought so little of their service to the people. He couldn’t comprehend anyone would find value in the deadlock that had plagued the US government for years.

  It was the president who understood Washington better than anyone. When it all started spiraling out of control, Reed judged the commander-in-chief disinterested and unsupportive. The chief executive came across like a parent watching young children settle a dispute. Short of anyone being injured, he was going to let the kids battle it out, keeping himself above the fray.

  Reflecting back, Representative Wallace now understood the president’s methods. With impeccable timing, the executive branch swooped in and played a powerful political card – patriotism. Like an ace topping a royal flush in poker, the White House used national pride to win the hand. It had been well done.

  Once the two parties were in sync, it was all over for the outside influences. Labor, banking, finance, insurance, military contractors and even the NRA had all tried to waggle their pet projects into the new law. Their efforts were wasted. When it was finally through committee, the new tax code of the United States of America was 11 pages long. Over half of its rhetoric addressed the taxes to be paid by those seeking US citizenship.

  Other bills were required, and those were making their way through the obstacle course as well. Immigration, Treasury, the role of the Federal Reserve Board and the Security and Exchange Commission were all going to play different roles in the future.

  For today, Reed pushed all of that aside. Today, the new tax code would be signed into law. It had passed with unanimous votes in both the House and Senate.

  Reed slipped on his jacket and headed for the door. I wonder if the president will give me one of the pens he uses to sign the new legislation.

  Matagorda Island, Texas

  August 15, 2017

  Word of the tower light spread quickly around Crusoe. Over the next few evenings, Wyatt noticed a tendency for the colonists to glance in that direction occasionally as if to reassure themselves that it was still there. Despite the positive sign of civilization, the distant beacon initially raised more questions than it provided answers. Had order been restored? Was the country coming back online?

  Radio waves eventually answered most of the questions. The first non-Crusoe voices were picked up on the handheld units carried around the island. An excited neighbor rushed to Boxer, the woman holding her radio in the air like a torch. “Wyatt! Wyatt! I hear people talking, and it’s not any of us!”

  As they offered a longer reach, bridge-mounted units were flipped on, eager ears tilted toward the speakers. Sure enough, distant ship-based traffic was detected on a few frequencies.

  Less than a week later, AM radio started broadcasting. Static frustrated the boaters at first, as they could only make out small blurts of information. Stations transmitting FM signals came online two days later.

  The news that martial law had been lifted initiated an impromptu beach party complete with loud music, grilled fish and limbo contest. A follow-on report detailing the limited restoration of electrical power resulted in more smiles than Wyatt had seen in months. Still, there were lots and lots of questions. Was there food? Gas? Water?

  Some of the boaters wanted to head back immediately, others unsure if it were safe to return. The news reports seemed to center on the larger cities. How far into the suburbs had the recovery spread? Another issue that dominated the conversation was fuel. A few of the larger diesel boats had enough left to make it back to Southland, while none of the gas boats did. Should they consolidate passengers? Shuttle? Carpool?

  The residents of Crusoe decided to commission a scout. Sage owned the newest model cell phone, kept fully charged so she could listen to music. Despite questioning looks from Morgan, Wyatt would always remember the day Sage and David motored off on one of the jet-skis, her phone in a waterproof plastic bag.

  Two hours later they returned, smiling broadly. They had picked up cell service strong enough to make phone calls at the north end of Matagorda Bay. The cell company actually had 411 service working. Someone answered at Southland and verified that indeed, water and electrical service was restored. “The city still recommends you boil the water before drinking it, but it’s flowing,” was the response.

  Food was evidently still in short supply, as was fuel. Sage tried to call two different marine fuel piers, and neither had answered. Still, it was clear that progress was being made back in the world.

  Debate flowed on when to leave the island. The group finally decided that everyone would stay together until it was known that fuel was available. They had left as a community, survived as a community, and would return the same.

  Three days later, Todd came back from a seaweed-gathering trip with news that he had encountered another boat on Matagorda Bay. The fisherman claimed a fuel pier in a nearby costal town had just received electrical power, and its tanks hadn’t been looted. They would even accept credit cards.

  One of the gas-powered boats was dispatched and returned with enough go-juice to
make it home. The owners were rationing the valuable commodity. One by one, the boats untied from the giant raft that made up Crusoe and voyaged to the nearby burg for fuel.

  “Are we ready?”

  David’s voice was filled with excitement as he stood on the dock, holding Boxer’s last line, ready to cast off. Wyatt scanned from one end of the island to the other, partially making sure his path was clear, partly solidifying the memory of what had been their home.

  “Let’s go,” he shouted back.

  Boxer backed away from her mooring as Wyatt was joined by the entire family on the bridge. The mood was an odd mix of apprehension and excitement.

  Morgan leaned over and kissed the captain for good luck.

  As the flotilla exited the Matagorda Ship Channel into the open waters of the gulf, Wyatt wondered if they had left too early. As the fleet moved north toward the Galveston Jetties, he relaxed somewhat as more and more radio traffic came through Boxer’s speakers.

  When they came within radar range of the Galveston Ship Channel, the first thing Wyatt noticed was the lack of the huge cargo ships they had encountered on the trip down. The Estes Marie and several others had evidently made it to port.