by JD Dutra
Nazeer put them on, while the old man disappeared for a few moments. Nazeer looked around, trying not to think about each painful step he took, and suddenly the machines came to life. Olives were poured into an agitated bath where they were cleaned and separated from rocks and twigs, and sometime later they fell into a premeasured basket, which was automatically transported and poured into separate stone mills. Nazeer recognized them immediately, the circular stones that spun around automatically were enormous.
“How do you like that, eh?” Asked the old man as he joined Nazeer once again.
“It’s truly fascinating that the mind of man can come up with something like this,” Nazeer said with a grin. “Look how well and steady the grinding stones move, it would take me and my cousins hours of pushing and pulling them by hand or camel.”
“Yes, automation is a beautiful thing Nazeer. Come on, let me show you something.”
Nazeer followed the old man towards a section of the machine where the light tan olive pulp from the grinding stones was stirred and moved. He showed him how the thermometers worked, to make sure the pulp was kept under 27 degrees Celsius. Next Herman took Nazeer to the hand washing station where he cleaned himself and was fitted as a factory worker, wearing rubber boots, gloves, face mask and an apron. The old man then equipped himself.
Both of them walked to a different section of the manufacturing plant, where the olive pulp was automatically moved through pipes to fall slowly onto round mats. Nazeer ran his gloved fingers through them, ignoring the pain, and began to follow the old man along, spreading the olive pulp onto the mats and stacking one above the other, as if they were building a giant pancake.
“We use sheepskin mats for this,” Nazeer said quietly, almost as if to speak to only acknowledge the memory that had been stirred.
“Sheepskin is too expensive, these are synthetic, but they work just as good,” said Herman, who was enjoying Nazeer’s enthusiasm.
They worked together slowly, stacking the mats filled with olive paste on top of each other until Herman said it was good. Then he wheeled the entire column on to a nearby machine. They stepped back and the old man pressed a button, a hydraulic press squeezed the mats down and the oil flowed thick and yellow like water filling a bathtub.
Nazeer’s face made the old man chuckle.
“Like it?” Herman asked, smiling as he already knew the answer.
“This is incredible, look at this… it’s a more than a day’s worth of work in just a few minutes!”
Nazeer’s childlike infatuation with olive oil made the old man laugh.
“Now can you imagine having something like this in your town?” Herman said with a slow nod. “How many people live there?”
Before or after your people destroyed it? Nazeer wanted to say but kept his mouth shut. What had happened wasn’t really Herman’s fault.
“About 25 thousand people,” he answered after some time.
“25 Thousand people” said Herman, looking thoughtful. “Well this factory here can produce about 35 thousand gallons of olive oil a week, or roughly 100 thousand liters a week. That is about 4 liters or just over a gallon of olive oil per person, per week, for everyone in your town. Can you imagine that?”
“That would be a miracle” Nazeer said. “Between using it for fuel and for cooking, an entire family would be lucky to afford four liters of olive oil per week,” said Nazeer.
“You see, this is the secret. Automation increases people’s productivity. With more products available, the cost goes down, and when competition comes in, the price goes even lower. Now imagine two or three small factories such as this one in your area. With equipment like this everyone in town can have more than enough for their needs,” said Herman. “Your family would be able to lower the cost of olive oil, and you’d be able to ship it farther, more people would be able to buy and consume it, you’ll make more money, build a bigger factory, that’s how it works. Now try to do that without automation, half of your village would have to be employed making olive oil in order to match the output. The machines and technology free people up to do other things to improve their lives, you understand?”
“Only in the past when slaves were used we could manufacture so much and still have free time,” said Nazeer.
“The machines are the slaves here. The people are free to do as they wish,” said Herman.
“To have more with less effort,” said Nazeer, his mind beginning to grasp where the prosperity of his enemies came from.
They walked out of the pressing room and began to remove their protective apparel.
“God blesses us with the ability to provide for our needs. He’ll never send his angels from heaven to do something for us we can do ourselves,” said Herman. “So with a little bit of sacrifice, savings and ingenuity, there is no reason a factory such as this couldn’t be built anywhere in the world, and the oil can feed the people or give them light.”
Nazeer nodded slowly, and Herman couldn’t decide if he was looking thoughtful or if he was just feeling ill.
“Come Nazeer, you’ve got to taste the final product,” said the old man with a mischievous smile on his face.
They walked towards rows of stainless steel holding tanks, stopped in front of one of them. Herman got a wine glass and gave it to Nazeer, he held another in his own hand.
“Now the oil that just came out will go into tanks so that the sediments and residues will sink to the bottom, and after a few days this is what we get, the oil ready for bottling,” said Herman while motioning for Nazeer to bring the wine glass under a tap. He opened it and the smooth, golden olive oil began to pour into his cup, filling the air with its unique and delicious aroma.
The old man smiled at Nazeer while he poured himself a glass, his eyes had a mix of pity and admiration towards him. It was the unspoken knowledge that Nazeer would probably die soon due to whatever illness he suffered, but it was mixed with the true esteem for someone newly acquainted, but who shared a deep love for a mutual interest.
“Cheers,” Nazeer said with a smile, leaning his cup to click Herman’s.
“We don’t do that… But, what the hell… Cheers!” Herman said before the cups touched and the tinkling sound of glass on glass filled the air. They brought the cups to their lips, and immediately the familiar perfume of freshly pressed olive oil filled Nazeer’s senses, it made his mouth water and when the golden liquid touched his cracked lips, it soothed them. When the freshly pressed oil coated his tongue, it felt creamy, buttery and bitter with just a touch of nuttiness due to the large pits that were crushed during the mashing process.
Nazeer felt hot tears swell his eyes, the flavor of the olive oil he had just tasted was exactly like the one he used to press with his father and his young family. He tried to fight the overwhelming wish to let the tears flow, he tried to turn it all to anger, he thought of how an American missile had destroyed his family’s legacy that went back several generations, but the taste in his mouth reminded him of the love his own father and mother once had for him, reminded him of their dreams and hopes, and he missed them so very much. He missed the lessons he learned from his father, the ones he would never get to teach his own children.
When he shut his eyes tightly the tears flowed and he began to sob, wishing he could go back to live a life he always thought he would, the one of someday inheriting his family’s farm, working it until old age and then and passing it on to his eldest son. He wished his children and wife were still alive, so that he could still love them and raise his kids to care for his farmland as his father taught him, as his grandfather taught his father and father taught son going back generations.
He felt a comforting hand on his shoulder.
“It’s alright, Nazeer,” said Herman.
“Thank you for everything, Sir Herman. I’m so sorry. I need to go,” Nazeer said in between sobs, placing the glass in Herman’s hand, before running as best he could, heading outside towards his van.
Chapter 33
White House, Washington D.C.
Sunday, October 25th, 2020
3:08 P.M.
A group of secretaries and other politicians sat around the large oval table located in The Situation Room at the White House. They were taking random notes, shuffling through documents that were in front of them in between water bottles, whispering things to one another, waiting for the meeting to start. Large screen TVs adorned every wall, like a gallery of moving pictures as they quietly streamed the images of breaking news and the faces of other world leaders. The room smelled of a mix of expensive colognes and perfumes, blended with the stench of cigarettes and fear. Barry looked at the people around him one by one, realizing they were all afraid but hiding it well. He hoped he did the same.
“I guess this is all who’s coming, I hope the folks we’re missing from this meeting are okay,” Barry said, thinking they must be all dead or with the dying. He wondered where Secretary Woods was, unable to think of him as no longer being around.
“Good afternoon and welcome everyone, as you can imagine this an extremely difficult time for our citizens and for our government. A mystery illness has swept all corners of the world and I’ve just been updated that here in America our citizens are dying by the millions every hour.”
There was an unnerving silence in the room when he mentioned the number of the dead. Some of the dignitaries stared at one another, others just looked down at the documents on their desks. It was a number no one could really comprehend, nor wanted to. Barry continued in an even more somber tone, struggling to control his emotions.
“Yes… I did say millions. Not three days ago we were struggling to keep our economic grip on the world and also keep a muzzle on the alternative media sites when they were reporting about this illness around the world. Now things have progressed to a point where entire hospitals have become graveyards and large metropolitan cities had their populations decimated down to just a few thousand people. The social media is spilling an amount of proof that we can no longer contain. The truth is out there and it is… simply terrifying.”
Barry paused for a moment, wondering if anyone had something to say, but the people around him just mourned in silence, waiting for more information.
“This is a catastrophe of unprecedented magnitude, not seen since the Dark Ages when the Black Death swept Asia and Europe and killed off around 80% of the population in certain areas in just a few years. What we are experiencing is a much stronger virus or bacteria, and with our world being so interconnected, the speed of this… modern plague, or pandemic, if you will, has taken every single government in the world by surprise. Like us, other world leaders were mobilizing a severe response, but people succumbed too quickly, and I’m not only talking about those needing assistance but also a great part of the responders as well.”
Barry paused and this time, someone spoke.
“Mr. President, how many people have died so far here in America?” Asked the Federal Communication Commission’s chairman Rebecca Harrison. Her red hair lightly streaked with white was curled to perfection even today, but there were tears glistening in her light green eyes.
“The blow to mankind globally has been nothing short of severe,” said Barry. “Here at home, the estimates from the Health Department is that the death toll in America has been, or will reach well over 90%.”
Around the table shocked faces sought to take in what they had just heard; most shook their heads as if none of it could be true. Barry broke the silence again.
“That brings our population of about 400 million people down to just 40 million or less. Within two or three days we went from having our normal population size, to it being smaller than the amount of people in the state of California.”
A younger African American woman named Kristen Teague, who was the Republican Minority Leader in the Senate added, “If those numbers hold true, then the world population has gone down, or is going down, from eight billion down to 800 million.”
“Several of our partners and allies around the world have the same casualty estimation. Everyone in Europe, South America, Africa, even in Australia are dealing with this horror,” said Homeland Security Secretary Ahmed Valdez, looking eager to speak. He was a thin middle aged man with a hook nose and glaring eyes, whom Barry struggled to trust.
“Most of those 800 million will be in Asia, China and Russia alone will account for over 150 million,” said Barry. “Go ahead with your report, Secretary Valdez.”
“I hate to say this, but it’s about to get a lot worse. Essential infrastructure has already began to fail in certain parts of the country, full failure is expected within the next 72 hours. People will go back to a world without internet, electricity or even running water. Out of the 40 million which aren’t directly affected by the disease, who knows how many we’ll have left once everything breaks down and we cannot even provide the most basic sanitation or health care.”
Some of leaders and public servants began to look around, as if taking one last look at a lit light bulb, all of them knowing the room would soon be plunged into darkness. Barry felt relieved to think all of the places he could go with his family, even the bunkers in the Colorado Mountains would have solar power generators, wells, running water and nearly all comforts modern life could provide.
Thank you taxpayer and the Federal Reserve.
By the look on everyone’s faces, they were unprepared but hoped someone would arrange for their comfort.
I’m not going to do it.
Secretary Valdez’s voice cut the silence in the air.
“Mr President, nearly all FEMA regions have been activated as you wished and the ten governors are in place, but only a few of them have taken full political control of their assigned territories. Governors Kelly Rigo of Texas, Stephen Juarez of New Mexico and Marco Nadine of New York have unfortunately passed away and the governors of Hawaii, Montana, Utah, Oregon, Alaska, Nevada, Maine and South Carolina are missing. In all of these states, eleven in total, either the Lieutenant Governor or the Secretary of State are claiming they are the ones in charge and they are maneuvering to keep our influence out of their state.”
“We are the Federal Government, tell them we are going to declare Martial Law within their states and send in our troops to help control the situation. Actually, be more direct and tell them if they don’t change their stance we’ll brand them separatists and take control by force,” said Barry.
“That will start a civil war, Sir…” Argued Valdez, actually wondering if there would be enough of the armed forces left.
“The innocent American blood will be on their hands, not ours Secretary Valdez. They are the ones not following protocol.”
“As you wish. I’ll give them one final warning, how about this, ‘they need to surrender political control within 24 hours or we’ll take it from them’. Would that be acceptable, Sir?”
“Eight Hours, not 24, American citizens are dying out there.”
“Very well, Sir.”
Barry knew it was futile, but he had to appear as if he was still in control. He now turned to Labor Department Secretary, Thomas Thornton. Before Barry could even ask his question, the other man sighed as if already priming his President for even more bad news.
“Secretary Thornton, how are things on the ground? How are the people responding to being taken to the FEMA camps around the country?” Asked Barry, mentally checking off one of the items he was told he had to ask. He wasn’t told to bring back an answer, this room was probably wired with secret microphones from top to bottom.
“A good part of the people who are still healthy don’t want to come, they think they can tough it out on their own.”
“Oh, let me guess, they’re the ones who call themselves Patriots, the Constitutionalists, is that right?” Asked Barry with mockery on his voice.
“Yes, Sir.”
“Hah, give me a break. Are you and the military coordinating your efforts to take care of them? I’m meeting with the heads of th
e armed forces today.”
The Homeland Security Secretary joined the conversation.
“Mr President, the National Guard has stepped in to help throughout the country and the Military, Air Force and Navy have told me they stand ready to assist us in controlling the population.”
“Good,” replied Barry with a nod. “How do you feel about controlling our own population by lethal force if need be, Mr. Valdez?” All eyes around the table turned to the man, waiting for an answer.
“Well, Sir, this is no different than defending the population against criminals. I feel fine…”
“Mr. Valdez,” Barry interrupted, “Before we were protecting one class of citizens from another, now it’s quite different. We are protecting us from them. How is that affecting you and your men?”
There was a brief silence in the room and Homeland Security Secretary Valdez cleared his throat.
“I think we are just protecting the rule of law, Sir, and no man is above the law. Everyone who is against the laws of this country is against the country itself.”
Having given his answer Valdez quickly glanced around the room, hoping his answer would stick. When all faces turned to the President, he spoke.
“I’m glad you think that way Mr. Valdez. You’re the right man for the job, at the right time,” Barry nodded, and the people in the room followed with their approval. “If they obey the law, they come to the camps willingly and donate their belongings to us. If they disobey it, we’ll bring them to the camps under arrest and confiscate what they have.”
“You are completely right, Mr. President. Besides, letting the healthy people out there by themselves would be the same as sentencing them to death. If it weren’t for us in the government, these people would be in even more trouble,” said Secretary Thornton, exhaling in relief.
“You are correct,” said Barry, wishing he felt numb about his own hypocrisy. “What about the Radio Frequency Identification chips, any feedback on how the implementation is going?”