by Mic Shannon
“There ya go,” said Masterson, calm yet cynical, “Now stay there all evening!”
He turned to the rest of the platoon, their bodies locked at attention.
“I don’t know what you jackasses think this is,” he began, forcefully walking up and down past the men, staring into their eyes, “In here, we are not the enemy! In here, WE ARE FAMILY!”
--- 6:32 pm ---
New York City, NY, USA
“So, what do we got?” yelled the President to her advisors over the headset as she tried to drown out the noise from the helicopter rotors of Marine One.
“Not good,” yelled General Adams, “all of our reconnaissance units were hit hard. They’re scattered throughout Central America without communications. We’ve been scrambling to try and get in contact with them, but this…force…is still blocking our COMM signals. Frankly, we don’t know whether our men are alive or not.”
“And our main force?”
“Our main force is in Mexico City on high alert. Make no mistake, ma’am, we are in combat.”
“That’s not good,” said the President, sinking into her seat in thought.
“Not good at all ma’am,” yelled Patricia, “We have, uhh,” she shuffled her notes, “close to three hundred missing or K.I.A.”
The President was stunned at the numbers, raising her hand to her head and rubbing her temples.
“Damn,” she mouthed under her breath, “So what are our options?”
“My best suggestion,” said Adams, “is to start making some weapons of our own!”
“Of course it is, General,” she groaned, rolling her eyes as she thought back to previous conversations. It was always about more funding for him, “but before we start blowing everything up, let’s figure out what we’re dealing with first.”
She pulled her PDA device from her pocket, selecting the Marine One WiFi and then encrypting her data. All the communications towers had been disabled, minus a few highly classified ones for the military and executive branches. On the civilian side, when the Army Corps of Engineers built the new facilities, they had set up communications the only way they knew how…a Comm Center. It was the only place to speak to family, through one WiFi network shared by the masses.
Pressing the side button on her PDA, she enabled the Bluetooth to connect to her headset, dialing the number for her ace-in-the-hole.
“Horn.”
“It’s me,” she said, the conversation drowned out to the rest of the passengers due to the loud noise in the cabin, “What do we got?”
“Are you encrypted?”
“Listen, Jim, I’m asking you a direct question. We are in a state of martial law with our country in shambles and you haven’t quite figured out that I know how to encrypt a call?!”
“Relax,” he pleaded, taken aback by her harsh response. He pondered it. Her stress levels were high. If she were an agent in the field, he’d have her come in for an evaluation. Instead, she was his superior. He had no qualms with that. Still, he worried.
“Tell me what you got,” she said in a calm tone.
“I gave my report to Patricia this morning. It doesn’t look good. But to summarize…I don’t think so.”
They descended into New York City’s Turtle Bay. Manhattan had never looked so dead. Stores were smashed and destroyed. There were no people. Empty shock gun cartridges and shattered glass told the story of the aftermath of the civilian roundup. It was awful.
When they touched down, the President stepped off the helicopter with shame in her heart at what one of her country’s biggest cities had become. Still, she grabbed her lapel and tugged her jacket firmly onto her shoulders with dignity, unwilling to show a weak and broken nation.
“Welcome, Madame President,” said the Political Director of the UN, extending his hand in gratitude at her arrival, “Please come inside.”
The group headed into the building while the two Marines stood outside, guarding the helicopter. As they entered the main hall of the United Nations Headquarters Building, the President waved with her political smile, something she often practiced in preparation for cameras, greeting everyone and then taking her seat.
“Welcome everyone,” said the President of the UN in a somber tone, “we appreciate all of you coming.”
“So,” said the Chef de Cabinet, his lips pursed tightly, “a lot of things have changed, so let’s start with that. Going forward, we would like to operate together, as we think this is the safest and most effective way to coordinate our survival.”
The crowd started to mumble to each other; the translators relaying the message to the world leaders.
“What we’ve proposed,” said the UN President, “is that we shall all be under…one directive.”
“Je ne l'approuve pas,” shouted the French President, standing up in anger, “France does not approve of this. How do you say to all of us that we will be under your directive we do not intend to be under your control.”
The crowd continued to banter noisily, most in agreement with the French politician. There were too many terms to work through. For France, it was deeper than the obvious. Their country had been ravaged by terrorism for decades, and one directive would mean even less oversight when it came to their enemies. They would be vulnerable to more violence, especially with their country being susceptible to attacks from terrorist organizations in Central Africa and a refugee crisis looming, pitting morality against common sense.
“Moron,” whispered General Adams underneath his breath to the President.
“Quiet everyone, quiet!” retorted the UN President, “Our intention is not to control anyone. We are under attack! Our intention is to survive! We need to come together and coordinate. We will elect a panel to be in charge. Individual country affairs will not be disturbed. But to do so, we will need to settle our differences.”
The North Korean Supreme Leader stood up and began to speak, his face shaking with anger as he denounced his enemies in Korean.
His translator stood up and relayed his message, “The Supreme Leader says, ‘And by settling our differences does it mean that we must work with our enemies?’”
“Indeed, today,” said the Chef de Cabinet, pounding his finger onto the desk, “I am saying to all of you, that our survival depends on it.”
The Supreme Leader began to speak again with malice in his heart, retorting the Chef de Cabinet.
“The Supreme Leader says,” continued the translator, “that he does not intend to work with the United States or the South Koreans. He says America dropped the atomic bomb on the Japanese. They are the ones who imposed sanctions and told others they cannot have nuclear weapons while they stockpiled their own. They are the ones who offend the Muslim community, the destroyers of civilization. They are the true terrorists, and there is nothing that could convince me that they would not revert back to their original behavior once this war is over!”
The crowd began to uproar with discontent. Similar divisiveness buzzed throughout the hall. Palestinian complaints against Israelis. Greek complaints against the Turks. The opinions and hatred causing the noise to slowly crescendo to an inaudible volume.
“Everyone please!” said the UN President, quieting the crowd, “please understand that this meeting is about our survival. About our children. You may elect not to join us, but just know that you might make a grave error that lands all of us on the wrong side of history. We can only solve this problem together, by sharing information and manpower. In my mind, when I think about this problem, it is a global problem. It effects all of us! There is no other path to take. So, if you are not with us, you most certainly are against us!”
The crowd quieted. No matter how cocky any of them were, deep down they all knew that the only appropriate course of action was the one suggested, and that without aid none of their countries could survive. Still, some had apprehensions about what the state of their country would be after, and if things would ever return to the state of chaotic normalcy that they had com
e to expect from politics.
Patricia sat next to the President, shuffling through the report given to her by Director Horn. President Oliver slumped down in her seat, leaning over toward Patricia and covering her mouth.
“What does China plan to do?” she asked.
The political climate was fierce, and China was embroiled in their own struggle. The second disk had landed in South China, and displaced more than half a million Asians. No matter, it all depended on their move. China was the big dog in the room, and whatever they decided, the rest of the countries would follow.
“It’s not looking good,” said Patricia, shaking her head as she flipped through the pages.
Voting to put America into this multilateral deal could strain their resources ever further if China didn’t share the burden. Furthermore, it’s exactly what China wanted. America had almost plunged into anarchy, barely hanging on by a thread, a delicate balance of conservation and comfort. They had already given up a vast amount of land for refugee placement, a highly unpopular move. China was hurting too, but it wouldn’t make anything better for the U.S. to share their resources with underdeveloped nations unless the big dogs…China, Russia, India, Pakistan, France…agreed to balance the load. Still, although it took nothing away from the Chef de Cabinet’s statement of truth, the multilateral deal appeared to be dead in the water.
“God help us all,” she said to her blonde advisor, leaning back into her chair.
SUN, JUN 11th, 2034
Southern border of Nicaragua
9:59 pm
“I
never thought when I threw out that MRE omelet before we took off that I’d actually miss it,” said the Chief as he chomped down and yanked the meat away from a dead snake cooked over a small fire and washed it down with the water they had boiled.
“Eh, I could never miss that thing. Honestly, I think I’d rather be eating these bugs instead.”
The Chief cracked a smile. They had been eluding and evading for almost a week as they continued to head north through the clear fog covering everything for miles, navigating through the rough terrain.
“Do you think we’re gonna make it?” asked James.
“Remember Southern Pakistan?” asked the Chief, reminiscent of their hardest mission to date.
James smirked with doubt, pessimistic but silent.
“We’ve made it this far, so focus on surviving just one more minute, one more hour, one more day.”
“Chief, I’ve been through the same training as you,” replied James, dismissing his canned response, “I’m asking you man to man, what do you think?”
The Chief stared at the young man, his face covered in mud and dirt for camouflage.
“You don’t wanna know my answer.”
“Shhh, you hear that?” said James, putting his finger over his mouth.
They both sat quiet, looking around and attentively listening. As darkness fell on the valley, the only thing heard was the sound of crickets and cicadas making noise to attract a mate.
“What did you hear?” whispered the Chief.
They heard trees branches snapping in the distance.
“Grab cover, now!” whispered the Chief as both men scrambled into the brush of the tree line and laid flat on the ground, concealing themselves.
They laid there in panic, hearts pounding as an object moved in the distance. Neither of the men moved. They could barely make out the object in the low light, and remained paralyzed from fear as it got closer.
When the faint object began to appear, James was almost certain that his heart was beating loud enough to be heard. Sweat rolled down his forehead, collecting dirt along the way and falling from his eyelash as he blinked. They heard the branches snap again. Neither one of the men moved.
From the other side of the brush a Jaguar tiptoed out of hiding, its head below its shoulders and its nose twitching from side to side. It crept quietly and moved toward the food. Both men sighed with relief. James slowly started to reach for his sidearm, being careful not to alert the large cat.
As he snapped the button holding the pistol in place open, the cat looked up from the food it was sniffing, alert. James stopped moving. The cat looked around, still hearing noise in the distance and wiggling its nose to detect any foreign scent.
In a swift instant, the large cat lifted from the ground as bite marks appeared around the Jaguar’s spine and pulled away, chewing. Blood squirted onto the leaves of the bushes where the two men hid as their breathing became heavier and their anxiety spiked. Still, they did not move.
The blood dribbled down the front of the unknown creature, showing for the first time a profile. It appeared larger than life, at least eight feet, towering over the two men lying prone just meters way. It took another bite out of the Jaguar and paused. The Jaguar flew away into the trees, flung like a rag doll. The creature wasn’t moving.
“What the hell is it doing?” whispered James to the Chief, afraid to move his lips.
“Shhh,” replied the Chief.
It stood by the fire for several moments. The blood spatter across the front of the creature only giving subtle clues to its size and possible shape, but vividly profiling the mouth, with long, finger length teeth, snarling ferociously. The visible, blood stained teeth lowered down toward the fire.
The men laid in their positions, still paralyzed from fear. James closed his eyes and then opened them again, too afraid to look, yet too afraid to not look. Looking between the leaves of the bush in front of him, he saw one of the burning logs lift into the air. He blinked twice.
The makeshift torch burned in the night sky, reflecting an orange glow onto the creature’s nearly transparent exoskeleton. It had arms. Legs. And, those teeth. For a moment, James feared that the light would reveal their position, illuminating them in the darkness of the night. As the bloody mouth of the creature leaned in to examine the floating log, it bumped the metal pot that they had acquired from a hardware store along the way to boil clean water. The pot leaned over and spilled some water onto the fire, causing part of it to smother in a ball of smoke.
The bloody mouth moved back from the smoke, then descended to the pot, swinging back and forth over the fire. Observing from their dangerously close position only mere meters away, they watched the mouth back away, the burning log still next to it, illuminating it in the darkness of the jungle. Suddenly, the rest of the pot flipped over onto the fire until it was extinguished, as the floating log paced away into the distance.
MON, JUN 12th, 2034
700 mi Northeast of Alexandria
7:17 am
C ynthia laid on her back in her bed with her eyes closed, somewhere between asleep and awake, anticipating the bright lights being switched on in the morning. She counted four days since her arrival, and she had come to the realization, this morning, that what she feared most was the routine. It frightened her to think that this was it. That this was her life.
The facility had become more crowded day by day. She hadn’t seen the two women who attacked her days before, but she didn’t necessarily look forward to it. They had taken her completely out of character, to the point where she was now beginning to ponder how tough she could be. She didn’t know if she was a good fighter, but she knew that she would always fight for what’s right.
In the silence of the room, she heard the front door of the SWA hut open and close silently. The slow, careful sound of footsteps crossed the hut in Cynthia’s direction. Someone was sneaking around. Cynthia slightly opened one eye, keeping it mostly squinted so she would not be noticed.
She made out a dark figure, slowly creeping toward her. It got closer and closer, making her suspiciously nervous. Cynthia’s heart started beating faster. She clenched her fists slowly, not wanting her hands to move to quickly underneath the sheet.
The figure slowly moved past her to the next bed, where the older woman slept. What were they doing? Were they trying to steal something? Hurt the older woman? She pretended to roll over towa
rd that side onto her stomach and stopped moving. It was a much better vantage point to see what was going on. The dark figure paused and looked at her for a few moments, trying to determine whether or not she was awake, then sat down on the bed.
“What are they doing?” Cynthia thought, remaining still and trying to calm her breathing.
The figure pulled off their clothes and tucked them away, then pulled back the sheet and laid down in the bed.
Ten minutes later the lights flipped on, signaling breakfast. She wasn’t very hungry, the constant stress of “what next” always plaguing her mind. There had been a protest the night before, the rebellious gathering en masse in outcry of the conditions. They felt enslaved, violated. They wanted answers. It had appealed to Cynthia, but she was not willing to risk her safety, especially after being attacked, and she ordered the same for the orphan boys. She believed in human rights, but she didn’t believe unruly behavior could accomplish their goals.
She was right. That night, there had been a riot. First, there were fights, as expected of every protest since she could remember. Some had gone out for fun, only looking to stir up trouble through chaos. After the fights broke out, the police stepped in shooting and the powder in the keg was lit. Before long, the State Police had put on full riot gear and lined up, stretching across the opposite end of the square, cutting off the Headquarters building, the State Police barracks, and the front gate.
Everything else was fair game. People were beaten and bloodied with sticks, throwing rocks and bottles just for the sake of throwing rocks and bottles. It was a mess. Police didn’t step in to break up much of the violence, worried only about protecting the institutions of control.
Cynthia sat up in her bed, rubbing her eyes and swinging her legs over the edge, facing the older lady’s bed. She went about her normal routine, grabbing her clothes and the bookbag. She was still wearing the same shirt. It disgusted her. The police had said they would be getting new clothes for days now, but instead, she wore a shirt with armpit stains that almost made her vomit. And to top it all off, her nails were chipped!