I wanted to yell something, but didn’t.
I sat back down instead, reading the NY Times on a phone that won’t be replaced until America can build the necessary factories. And since my daughter’s hair always took forever, I was still sitting in that chair when that smug idiot returned to the lobby. That’s when I killed him. Kicked his feet out from under him and slammed his skull against the linoleum and concrete floor. At least that’s what happened inside my head. Just a daydream, a moment of pretend. But the new world was remaking me, and happily slaughtering strangers as well as legions of ex-friends seemed like a perfect use of time.
Speaking of murder.
I knew a respectable woman. Late middle age. Soft as pudding and usually sober. But one day, sitting with friends inside a quiet, respectable restaurant, she shouted out, “I don’t know how many assholes I’d have to assassinate before we got to somebody I liked.”
That lady would never miss a march. She carried banners even when the protests started taking gunfire. The bullets were unfortunate, but inevitable. Local police couldn’t protect the congested public streets, and what did these foolish people expect? Then a black congresswoman was shot at her kid’s basketball game, and a sniper took out that east coast senator, followed by two wrong-minded federal judges who were mangled with pipe bombs. Some of these perpetrators were caught, but nobody could pin down ties to any political movement. These were lone agents reacting to liberal excesses and Facebook, and nothing changed. Not until protests in different cities were ambushed. Organized teams were in play, automatic weapons killing dozens of civilians. Which was when the Feds clamped down on every possible source of civil disorder.
Marches were outlawed.
Free speech was supposedly retained, but one wrong word meant trash burning on your lawn and death threats in your email.
And that lady friend of mine? Weeks later, she was found sitting inside her car beside the same restaurant. Somebody had written, “Cunt,” on her Bernie bumper sticker, and maybe the same somebody put three bullets through her heart.
In little surges and then ten kilometer bites, Ukraine fell to an army of “volunteers” while NATO did nothing. Then Russian tourists arrived in the Baltic States, heavily armed and cocky, and NATO tried to do quite a lot. But their central ally claimed to be licking his wounds in the Pacific. So the Poles and Lithuanians and Ukraine hackers took their revenge. Power grids failed. Ransomware disabled the banking system. Boot heels on their throats, yet they retained a very clear sense of who their real enemy is.
A few weeks later, I was standing outside my cave. Two stories tall with a shallow basement, sheetrock and cheap pine. But like any cave, it didn’t have electricity or reliable water, and if I wanted heat, I would have to saw up our Christmas tree and burn it in the fireplace.
I was outside because there was nothing to do indoors. My neighbor had also emerged. He is an older man. A member of the other Party, although I can’t say if he voted for the winner, or for nobody. I have liked the man. But I’ve also watched him die inside my head. No, I’ve never imagined killing him myself. He’s usually strung up by raiders who might or might not have a political agenda. The story works either way, frankly. But on a day that’s warmer than we deserve, we act like two almost-friends standing at the invisible boundary between our respective properties.
“You know what’s going to happen,” he said to me. As if both of us had a window on the future.
“I wish I did know,” I said. “Why? What do you see coming?”
“Civil war,” he told me, the voice flat. Matter-of-fact.
I had to nod.
“Americans,” he growled. “We’ve been spoiled. Each of us grows up believing that civil wars should be simple. Nations dividing neatly on the map, raising orderly armies wearing distinct, handsome uniforms, and the battles had generals and wise orders and hilltops, and not even a hundred years later, good people could get into costume to reenact that noble carnage.
“But normal, traditional civil war…that’s something else. Messy and slippery, impossible to understand. A thousand years later, and passions still run hot.”
“Is that the war we’re getting?” I asked.
His eyes lifted, imagination putting him in a place that he had never seen before. “If we’re lucky,” he said. “Otherwise it’s roaches and fungus. They’ll be the ones writing the histories.”
Another day, wintery cold but otherwise blessed. We were treated to fifty-two minutes of electricity, which was long enough to warm the house and partly charge the family phones. And it was a chance to read some news. The New York Times seemed to be off-line, but oddly enough, Al Jazeera was reachable. And that’s where I found the first good explanation for everything that was happening to us. Politics couldn’t be blamed, and it wasn’t international mistakes either. No, it was CO2. The gas that they claimed wasn’t changing our weather. Carbon dioxide had been in the atmosphere forever, but our species had always enjoyed lower concentrations. Wise researchers in Australia had determined that humans were happiest when carbon dioxide levels were below 300 parts per million. But take us higher and every breath would make us feel less easy. The effect was a subtle neurochemical response. But of course where were we today? At 400 parts. Add to that the image of people occupying enclosed spaces, nervously gasping 500 and 600 ppm in the stale air. Which apparently was why everything felt wrong. Humanity was like a person thrown on his back, a rag to his mouth and water trying to choke him.
Anyway, that’s what I read on my old Chinese-built phone, and maybe I believed it and maybe not. Either way, it was interesting.
Then my daughter and her magenta hair walked into the room.
“Hey,” I said. “Guess what I just heard?”
APPLICATION FOR ASYLUM
Eileen Gunn
March 8, 2020
Testimony of Minor Child
My moms don’t want to even carry their phones with them, let alone turn them on. I say, what if there’s an emergency, what if an immigrant attacks you or something? Mums says there are no immigrants anymore, they’re all in the camps, and Mama always adds that I should say “illegal immigrant.” But I still see posts about how white women who go out alone are just sluts asking to be attacked. It’s all the bots talk about online, protecting white women, and Mums looks kinda white, so I worry about her. When I tell her that she shouldn’t go out alone because people will think she’s a slut, she looks at Mama and presses her lips together and glares at me. But she doesn’t say that’s sexist anymore, because that’s one of the words you can’t use in public. Public is anywhere there’s a phone, to tell the truth.
My moms make me leave my phone in a box on the front porch with theirs, and I can only use it outside the house. Mama says the phones are tracking us for the government and record what we say and where we go. They won’t even use a phone to check the time. In the kitchen, we got this wind-up clock that I can’t even read, like the speedometer on a car. When we’re out shopping, they’re always asking me what time it is.
And, yeah, yeah, I suppose the machines are tracking us, but I say that’s not the government, that’s the machines. It’s for our protection, and it catches the bad actors and the paid troublemakers. Plus, my phone is my proof that I have a right to be here, because the vigilantes might think I’m Mexican or Muslim or one of the other M-words. They make a lot of those kind of mistakes, but being a vigilante means you never gotta apologize.
I got stopped a lot last year when I hit my teens, but I never got beat up bad. Mama told me that she thought my clothes were getting me stopped, not my skin. And it seems to be true. As long as I dress like a girly white girl and act quiet when I’m on the street, the vigilantes leave me alone. It’s not like they’re fooled about who I am or care what I really think, they just want me to look like I know they’re watching me. When me and my girlfriends get together at home, we all bring jeans and makeup, and dress any way we want to. We don’t get too loud, though. N
o music: the new folks upstairs don’t like our music at all, and if the neighbors complained, the cops would come, and they know that, those folks. Our other neighbors would never call the cops on us, but these new white folks would do it.
I worry about the cops, and I try real hard not to get noticed by them. They size you up pretty careful, and their default is that every kid who’s not white has a gun and they need to protect themselves. They shoot you, it’s self-defense, and they kill you, there’s no video.
My moms keep me real close to the house unless they’re with me, not so much because of the cops, but because of the Child Reclamation people. They just snatch kids right off the sidewalk, sometimes—kidnap them. It’s not right, it’s not even completely legal, but it happens, and once it happens, you’re in their system for a long time.
The hardest part for my moms is they are registered abominations—well, that’s what my moms call it. They got married like fifteen years ago, right when it was legal, and everything was fine until after the Trump year. When the laws changed, my moms had to go to court to keep me, and they won—some people did at the beginning of the AT era, you know. The social worker argued that I was too old for the CRD to take away, plus I was Mama’s birth child. (And yes, my moms call the CRD “the crud.”) She was a fighter, that social worker. She fought for every client’s child to stay with their family, and in my case she won. She was a good woman, my moms say. Passed on last year, after her arrest.
Well, thank you for listening. I sure hope you can approve our application.
WELCOME TO TRIUMPH BAND
Yoon Ha Lee
Triumph Band Program, Advanced
2020–2021
Parents, please review these requirements with the cadets. Adherence to regulations is mandatory.
Keep America Great!
Jason G. N. Smythe
Liaison to the US Naval Band Academy
Dear Cadet:
Congratulations on your acceptance to the Triumph Band Program. Successful completion will prepare you for an exciting career in the Navy’s marching bands, including performances at our Great Nation’s capital. Cadets who are unable to meet minimum musicianship standards will be assigned remedial work and stationed at the Wall to provide entertainment for our loyal troops there.
Your four-year stint in the Triumph Band Academy will prepare you to be an exemplary citizen and role model. You are required to be a member in good standing of the Junior Plutocrats’ League, America First, and Twitter.
You can choose from the list of instruments in Appendix A. You will, of course, provide your own. Failure to maintain an instrument in acceptable condition will result in demerits and possible expulsion. Drummers may not chew gum, unless it is Midas Mint. Please note that, by order of the President, all instruments are notated in treble clef, to represent our Unity.
All instruments have been fitted with bayonets. You will be trained in sections on their use. Once sufficient proficiency in the basics has been attained, you will practice on live targets. Cadets who accrue too many demerits may be reassigned to the Voluntary Bullseye Corps.
You will also be required to carry and care for a standard-issue sidearm. Attacks on marching bands are, unfortunately, a sad fact of life, as not everyone in our Great Nation has accepted the President’s benevolent rule. Rest assured that any act of hostility or criticism directed toward a cadet will be taken seriously, and that retaliation against hostiles is encouraged. Attempts to distribute pictures or video of Triumph Band events are considered hostile unless approved by a government official.
You will be periodically tested at the firing range and expected to maintain acceptable aggregate scores. Be warned that, due to the variation in threat levels from terrorists and domestic threats, what constitutes an acceptable score may be revised periodically. Cadets who are unable to meet the program’s standards will receive demerits.
All cadets will be assigned standard band uniforms, including bulletproof vests and riot gear. Since free choice of instruments often results in imbalanced sections, some cadets will be assigned to march and play music while others undertake riot duty, and still others are responsible for piloting defensive drones from a secure location.
The standard curriculum includes several components. The Band Musicianship course specific to your instrument focuses on performance, marching band protocols, sight-reading, repertoire, and how to maintain a social media presence in line with our Great Nation’s policies. You will also perform in the Triumph Band as an ensemble. All cadets will be assigned additional practice time based on their proficiency and musical needs.
You will also attend a daily Citizenship course to expose you to government-endorsed facts. On Sundays you will go to Church of America services. Cadets will tithe to the Church of America. Exemptions may be granted in cases of proven merit. Family connections will, of course, be taken into consideration.
There will be periodic Performance, Music Theory, and Citizenship examinations. Cadets will also be required to memorize pieces from the Band Canon, which includes the Great National Anthem, other patriotic pieces, and “My Way.”
The full Code of Conduct can be found in Appendix B. Be sure to review it before your arrival. You are expected to stay vigilant and report any signs of suspicious activity, especially among other Triumph Band members. Remember, without vigilance, America cannot stay Strong!
Demerits may be handled in several different ways. Consult Appendix B for details. In cases of severe deficiency, a tribunal will be convened to examine the case in question. Penalties can be ameliorated by appropriate donations to an approved corporate sponsor.
In case an emergency court martial of your band director is called, do not panic. Such courts martial are rare, especially during performances, and a detailed set of procedures exists for them. See Appendix C for details.
As long as you remember to honor our Great President and the achievements of our Great Nation under his leadership, you should do well. We look forward to seeing you this year.
Sergeant Green L. Rollins, USN, Retired
Triumph Band Director
LOSER
Matthew Hughes
I am on block-hauling detail when I hear my number called.
“One-Fourteen!”
I straighten to attention immediately and shout, “Yes, Apprentice-Sergeant!”
He looks me over, flat-eyed, in a way that reminds me that if I am not useful I should be dead. Then he spits on my bare feet and says, “Report to App-First Carmody!”
“Yes, Apprentice-Sergeant!” I am already moving as I speak, wanting to get past him before it occurs to him to send me on my way with a kick. I’ve already had one of those today and my tailbone is sore. I mostly make it, receiving no more than a glancing blow from the side of his boot as I speed by.
My destination is the admin block just inside the main gate. As I approach the ramp that leads up to the door, the guards in the towers flanking the barbed-wire barrier train their M-16s on me, only standing down when I start to climb the incline. I come to attention outside the door, and knock the regulation three times.
Someone in the orderly room pushes a button and the door slides open. I step smartly inside, come to attention again, with my eyes fixed on portrait of Our President on the back wall and announce, “Loser One-Fourteen reporting to Apprentice-First Sergeant Carmody, as ordered!”
In my peripheral vision, I see an Apprentice-Corporal on the other side of the long counter gesture with a piece of paper he is holding. “Go stand by the wall,” he says.
“Yes, Apprentice-Corporal!” I go and stand, keeping my gaze blank and unfocused. It is a routine day in Camp 17’s admin center, the staff hunched over their keyboards, typing laboriously with two fingers, or staring into their monitor screens or at pieces of paper. I see a lot of knitted brows, some lips being chewed, one protruding tongue-tip.
And I see it all without focusing on any individual Apprentice. I never want to hear again the
words: What are you lookin’ at, loser?
Something buzzes, the Apprentice-Corporal speaks into a phone, then looks up at me as if I am a turd that refuses to flush. “All right, asshole,” he says, “see the First.” He gestures to a door at the end of the counter.
“Yes, Apprentice-Corporal!” I double-time across the few yards, come to attention before the door, and deliver the three knocks with the required timing.
“Come in!”
I open the door, step within, close it without turning my back on the man seated at the desk, come to attention again, my eyes on the wall above his head, where a different portrait of Our President hangs. This one shows him looking up and out of the frame, in visionary mode.
“Loser One-Fourteen—” I begin.
“Shut up,” says Carmody.
I know better than to say, “Yes, Apprentice–First Sergeant!” Shut up means shut up and I have the bruises to prove it.
The App-First has a round face that ends in a blue-stubbled lantern jaw. His eyes are small—“porcine” is the word I would have used, all those months ago, when I was well paid for my columns in the National Commentator magazine.
I stand with my eyes on Our President, trying to keep the tremble out of my limbs. Though we are all at the mercy of these merciless men, it is always a mistake to show overt fear. Weakness often triggers a beating.
So I wait while Carmody studies me. Finally, he leans back in his chair—I hear it creak under his considerable weight—and says, “You used to work for that National Commie rag, dincha?”
Welcome to Dystopia Page 14