Jasmine needed food and there it was not fifteen feet away. She got down on her hands and knees and slowly, painfully, crawled to the pantry. There was rice, beans, corn, powdered milk, and other canned and dried foods. It was enough food to last three weeks for her and her family. She was going to bag up as much as she could, and bring it back to her mother and kids.
There was also something else in the pantry. Had she not seen it in the first place, she never would have had the confidence to risk her life for the food. An AK-47 set up-right next to a sack of flour. Using the rifle was her only real chance of getting the food and perhaps her best chance of getting out of there alive. The more she thought about what had happened to her that night, the more she wanted to make the men pay for what they did.
Jasmine had never fired a gun of any type before, but that didn’t distract her from the growing rage inside. She picked up the assault rifle and attempted to balance it. The gun was heavier than she thought it would be. No matter, she held the forestock with her left hand, and clutched the stock by her side with the right, just like in the movies. Jasmine took a couple of breaths, put her finger on the trigger, and with a surge of adrenaline stormed the patio door.
The door was not closed all the way and flew open with a crash. Someone yelled, “Bitch gotta gun!” right before she pulled the trigger. The rifle lurched backward and her hands stung with needles of pain. Still, she managed to retain her grip. The blast sent a shock wave that startled her, but she followed the first shot with a second, and then another, and another, until the clip was empty.
The men never knew what hit them. Her mind recorded an image of their bodies reeling in slow motion from the impact of bullets and blood flying everywhere. She left them in a dead pile of gore and tossed the rifle onto it when she left.
Jasmine quickly filled two bags with as much food as she could carry. She ran all the way home ignoring the pain shooting through her thighs and genitalia.
When she reached the house, her mother nearly fainted at the sight of her bruised and bloody face.
When Jasmine saw the bright smiles of her children though, she felt released from the night’s horrific events. Everything she had experienced that night faded to the back of her mind like a bad dream. They hugged her legs and she cried tears of happiness. She would be able to feed them tomorrow.
The Government food trucks did not come three days later. On the fifth day with no new food deliveries, the good people of Chicago rioted. The city burned for days and hundreds of thousands died. Jasmine and her family didn’t survive to worry about hunger ever again.
* * *
President Juarez sat back in his chair, now residing in an undisclosed location. On his desk was a creation of a scientist that would save mankind.
He picked it up and smelled it. It smelled like a green tomato. He didn’t find it particularly pleasing, but it did make him hungry. It was nearly twelve inches long and had a dirty looking yellow color to it. It looked completely unappetizing.
It was an ear of corn.
The intercom on his desk buzzed. “They’re here to see you, sir.” The President pushed a green button without uttering a response.
Two well-dressed men of moderate stature entered the office and stood before the president’s desk. Two military personnel entered carrying automatic rifles, followed by a civilian, and then two more armed members of the military. The five men waited at attention in the back of the office.
“You know, when I get a message from intelligence that we have something that will end the wars and bring order to our society, it’s usually a new weapon,” Juarez skeptically said.
“Yes sir, Mr. President,” Kyle Martin, the Secretary of Defense was the first to speak.
“Sir, the military has been involved with the Department of Agriculture on this project from day one. As you know, a terrorist plot to poison the food chain was foiled ten years ago. This event was put in the category of weapons of mass destruction, and our department got involved to pursue the possibility of ‘weaponizing’ food.”
“Cut to the chase, damn it,” Rob Chin, the Secretary of Agriculture interrupted. “The DOA wasn’t any more successful than the terrorist. All they could do was make a strain of quick growing poison corn. Their hopes of making it an accumulative poison for certain genetic markers failed. Thank God. If the program had succeeded it would have been a perfect tool for genocide.”
“Now see here, Chin,” Martin said.
Chin raised his hand to Martin and continued. “The world has been going to hell in a hand basket for a long time now. Food and energy are the immediate needs for all countries. We have been working with the scientist that developed the original strain of the corn—”
“You mean the terrorist, don’t you,” Juarez interrupted.
“Shoko Ihiro was imprisoned ten years ago to a life sentence for his crimes. He has been working with the DOA scientists over the last five years to develop a food source that could sustain the current needs of our planet. We have the finished product, Mr. President. It’s sitting on your desk. If you want to control people, you can do it through their stomachs. If you want the wars to stop, feed them first, and supply their energy needs later,” Chin said.
“And how does this supply our energy needs?” Juarez asked.
“As a food, this corn is unique in that it provides the perfect combination of carbohydrates and protein. Every amino acid the body needs and all the sugars for cellular reproduction are in that one ear of corn. This corn when mixed with an enzyme can be converted into a synthetic fuel that can power any gasoline engine. Mr. President, that one ear of corn can be made into ten gallons of fuel,” Chin said proudly. “This corn requires little water, and in fact, can be grown using untreated salt water. This genetically modified corn can be harvested just three weeks after planting.”
“Three weeks?”
“Three weeks, in any temperature a few degrees above freezing, with a minimum of three hours of sunlight a day. The corn even grows in sand,” Chin said with a big grin on his face.
The president rose and looked between Martin and Chin, at the civilian. Ihiro was conspicuously shorter than his military escorts. He was a small, meek looking man with thinning hair and small ears. “Bring him over here,” he commanded.
Martin and Chin parted and Ihiro took the position in front of the president’s desk, gave a respectful bow, and said, “Mr. President.”
“Ihiro, you spent a good part of your life researching ways to destroy mankind, and now they tell me because of your work, you are going to save it. What possessed you to make such a conversion?” Juarez asked.
“When I was a young man I was angry. I had a narrow view of the world. I had wanted to end the suffering of mankind by destroying it. However, five years of incarceration in your federal prison allowed me to reconsider my philosophies.” Ihiro looked at the ground, paused, and returned his gaze to Juarez. “Frankly, Mr. President, it was incredibly painful for me to be in an eight by eight cell for twenty three hours a day. When I was offered the opportunity for a pardon by working with your government, I accepted it. I can still end the suffering of mankind, in a way of benevolence, and not one through pain and misery.”
“So, you reached your breaking point and said screw ideology. You took the deal to get your ass out of prison, not save the world,” Juarez said.
Ihiro’s gaze returned to the ground, then back at Juarez. “If saving the world allows me to be able to walk in the gardens and smell the sweet nectar of the flowers, then by saving the world I am saving myself.”
“Selfish, but it proves you’re human like the rest of us,” Juarez said. “Chin, how sure are we that this stuff is safe?”
“Mr. President, Ihiro removed the toxic gene from the genetically modified corn from the beginning of his work for us. He has been eating all of his test strains for the last five years without any ill effect. All of our tests have confirmed that it is 100% safe,” Chin reported.
&n
bsp; “What’s this stuff called?” The President asked.
“We call it Euphoria. The test strain’s name is U4-320.”
“How long before we can get this out to the people?”
“In less than a week,” Chin said.
“A week, how?”
“We have been growing and testing this strain for over two years in Mexico. We have been stockpiling it in FEMA districts waiting for approval for distribution.”
“How much do we have?” asked Juarez.
“About one hundred million metric tons, Sir.”
“Jesus Christ! We’ve been sitting on that much food?”
“We had to prove it was safe. Two years and not one harmful thing can be found.”
President Juarez thought for a moment. The war in Iran had stirred up a hornet’s nest and the country couldn’t stand another Chicago debacle. Sometimes the boldest decisions were made as a last choice in desperation. “Martin, get on the phone with China, Russia, and India. Make a deal with them on some of this corn and get them off my ass about Iran. They’re going to be skeptical. Hand deliver the message if you have too. Buy us some time. If this stuff works as promised, we have a chance. If it doesn’t, well, it really doesn’t matter then. We’re out of options. If the world goes nuke, we’re all dead.”
“Mr. President, the bellies of America and the whole world will soon be filled. You will be known as the greatest president ever to have lived,” Ihiro said smiling.
Juarez dismissed the group and sat back at his desk. He had many phone calls to make.
* * *
Shoko Ihiro used a small butane burner to heat a pot of water for his green tea. The electricity had been off for weeks, but he had prepared for that so he could still enjoy simple pleasures until the end.
The last ten years had been quite exciting for the former terrorist. He had lived a life few ever had the privilege. He was wealthy beyond imagination, residing in a lavish two-bedroom apartment in Olympic City, Hong Kong. This was just one of his five properties.
Steam wafting from the ornate ceramic teapot signaled it was ready. Ihiro put a spoonful of tealeaves in the pot of boiling water to steep and then strained the herbal delight into a mug when it was ready.
He took his hot drink and walked to his study. The far side wall was dedicated to his public recognitions. Custom made shelves of mahogany displayed photographs of him and worldwide dignitaries, along with his many awards. To the right of the shelves was a simple corkboard with a timeline of news stories he had printed out and hung with tacks.
The photo history began with a picture of him and President Juarez shaking hands in the Oval office. Juarez was re-elected in a landslide three years later.
He had several more photos with other top officials from every major country. His favorite being of him and the Japanese Prime Minister, Yukio Hu.
As for the awards, he was the most proud for receiving the Nobel Peace Prize. The Nobel medal was very precious to him, and set on a small ‘shrine like’ shelf by itself. Ihiro took a sip of tea and remembered the intense emotions he felt when presented to him.
He moved over to the corkboard and read the headlines. ‘Genetically Modified Corn to be Distributed by FEMA.’ ‘Dooms Day Clock Moved Back Due to New Food Supply.’ ‘Societies Becoming More Civil Around World.’ ‘Euphoria In Your Stomach and Fuel Tank Lifts Stock Markets Worldwide.’ ‘GM Wheat, Rice, Barley, and Oats Next.’
The first couple of years were the most exciting of times. Ihiro had earned himself a seat as one of the most important scientist ever. His name regularly mentioned right alongside Einstein’s.
Every Country around the world was eager to get their hands on the genetically modified grains. The greatest challenge was keeping the first shipments away from the hungry people. It took several weeks for the seed stock to reproduce and finally be shipped out to farmers to be grown as food. But once the production started, it didn’t take long for the food to reach the hungry. The grain production around the world increased exponentially.
The genetically modified grains crossed pollinated with the indigenous varieties, passing on many of their superior genetic qualities. The GM grains had worked their way into every society in the word. The world prospered as never before.
But as it’s said: What goes up, must come down. And when prosperity dulled the memories of times past, mankind once again funneled their excess into their war machines.
The headlines continued, ‘Russia Moves to Reform Soviet Union.’ ‘China Gives Timetable on Taiwan.’ ‘Pakistan and India Threaten Nuclear Exchange.’
A yellow bottle containing the antidote was on his desk. He had stopped taking it over a week ago.
Ihiro took another sip of tea and continued to read the news clippings. The next grouping of headlines were different. ‘People Report Feelings of Mild Euphoria.’ ‘Consumer Confidence Up to Unheard of 90%.’ ‘Positive Outlook: Charity Giving Up 500%.’ ‘Workers Not Reporting to Jobs,’ ‘Hospitals Over Run with Despondent Patients.’
Ihiro finished his tea and placed the cup in the sink. He put on a pair of walking shoes, a light jacket, and made his way down the six flights of stairs to the street below.
The dead bodies on the street gave off an awful stench. Most of the recent dead still had smiles of bliss frozen on their faces. There were still a few people alive and wandering about, celebrating life in their own chosen way.
One woman spun slowly about and moved her arms to a silent symphony. A young man ran past him laughing hysterically while banging a tambourine.
But most of those alive he encountered were lying on the ground, their faces contorting in ecstasy. They weren’t concerned if they were hot or cold, if they were hungry or thirsty, or that they were wallowing in their own filth.
He entered the park and headed for the gardens. The camellias, azaleas, and philodendron were beautiful this time of year. The stench of death and decay competed with the flowers’ delicate fragrance.
Ihiro had set a genetic ‘clock’ inside the original production of the U4-320, and every one of his GM creations after. Each reproducing generation counted down by one. And when zero was reached, a dormant gene switched on. This allowed the production of a chemical compound that stimulated the pleasure center in the brain.
He named the U4 strain 320 in honor of the sarin attack by Aum Shinrikyo. On March 20, 1995, the Aum Shinrikyo cult poisoned five different subways in Japan.
He held some flowers to his nose and breathed in the sweetness. He felt a tingling sensation of pleasure and smiled. Ihiro didn’t hate mankind. He loved mankind with every fiber of his being. He just couldn’t stand the suffering of the people he loved so much. Man had proved he wasn’t capable of rising above animal status and would eventually destroy himself and the world that gave birth to him.
He wanted to push the reset button and give the Earth a chance to bring forth other sentient beings.
The chemical compound that affected the pleasure center of the brain was not water-soluble. Once it entered the body it stayed in the fat cells. Its effect was accumulative, and eventually ushered in a state of bliss to where nothing was desired beyond existing in a chemical state of nirvana.
He would be one of the last to survive, but only he would know how history, ‘his story,’ the story of man, would end.
The world of man would not end by fire or ice as the poem of Frost debated.
T.S. Elliot would come closer with his, ‘This is the way the world ends, not with a bang but a whimper.’ But Ihiro didn’t think the final chapter of mankind should end by such an unflattering verb.
The final verse to man’s story was written over two thousand years ago. He would be the one to bring it to fulfillment.
‘And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away.’
Ihiro felt another wave of euphoria surge through his body
, his smile broadened.
He was born kicking and screaming into the corruption of humankind. But he would die fulfilling the promise of a loving God.
The End
Over the Rainbow
The footprints in the soft earth suggested he was on the trail of a very large man, if foot size was any indication of his actual height and weight. The hunter had stopped by a shallow creek where the prints ended, drank some of the cool running water, and scratched a splinter out of his hand.
It had been the coldest spring in memory. The days didn’t warm into the sixties until June gave way to July. Winters over the past five years had grown longer and colder. It was the mounting fear warm weather would never come that had provoked him into leaving his home in a little town located on the West Bank of New Orleans. The encroachment of the Gulf waters threatening to make his town beachfront property also aided in his decision. The barrier islands that had once protected the mainland vanished under the constant bombardment of time and tide.
It had been twenty years since he’d seen another human and had given up any hope of finding anyone else alive long ago. Seeing the footprints changed all that. A measure of excitement mixed with a measure of fear. He didn’t know what to expect.
A mutated strain of influenza had brought humanity on the course of extinction. The disease had spread rapidly around the world, with simply not enough time to develop a vaccine. The average time of death from the first symptom was eighteen hours, with the vaccines available for that year providing no immunity from the new strain.
The hunter vaguely remembered when the fever overtook him. Broken segments of the burning, the splitting headache, and the darkness of unconsciousness that brought no relief from the slow agony.
When he’d awaken in his bed after the fever released its grip, the sheets were so wet he’d wondered if his mother and father had doused him with water to cool him off. His head still pounded as he worked to bring the room into focus. He didn’t expect to find his mother and father both dead on the floor, but there they were.
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