apocalypse? :3
July 11, 2019. Tropical Base.
Beads would be an understatement to describe the rivers of sweat flowing down the soldiers’ faces as they kept guard at the gate, weapons at the ready, eyes on watch. Even the heavy sun struggled to send its rays through the dense air, let alone a soldier’s breath through his mouth and into his lungs. A truck rumbled through the shrubbery to the gate of tropical base, and its driver wore the uniform of the army. The driver rolled down the window.
“Hot day,” not knowing what else to say as he pulled out his identification.
“Certainly, sir,” replied the officer, scanning the identification badge. “All clear.”
The driver of the truck turned to his partner, wiping the sweat from his forehead. “Thank God, only two more days in hell.”
“Thank God indeed,” replied the second officer. He noticed the still bleeding cut on the other soldier’s forehead, the blood mixing so slightly with the sweat to make it seem like it was bleeding more than it was. But it was just a small cut, nothing to worry about, the kind that would heal by tomorrow. It was just the humidity that was making it seem worse, so thought the soldier as they drove into the base, ready for dinner that evening, the thought leaving his mind as fast as the sweat from his forehead.
September 21, 2019. Dallas, Texas.
“Marty, come back inside!” called a mother from her patio, her son kicking a plastic ball, enjoying the fact that it changed colors as it rolled.
“Mama…” yelled the kid in disappointment. “But I wanna stay out here…”
“Come one honey, we’ve got to go pick up your father at the airport,” she said. “Let’s fix you up and then we can get in the car and go. You want to see Daddy don’t you?”
“Yeah…” said the kid, as he looked at the ground, then the ball, then to his mother, and back to the ground.
“Yeah?” said his mother. “Come on Alex, let’s go inside and get you cleaned up.”
The mother bent down as her son walked to her with struggling legs, and then she picked him up to go inside…he seemed very tired from the heat outside. The news was on in the kitchen, talking about the terrorist attack in London two days before and its potential impact on the upcoming Olympics in Tokyo. As she was putting on her favorite shirt, the news switched to a segment about two other soldiers who had died in Virginia from an as yet undetermined disease. They didn’t know if it was at all connected with the other soldiers who died in mid-August, shortly after returning to the United States.
December 21, 2019. New York City, New York
“There’s a pandemic among us!” yelled the burly man with his short, unkempt brown hair rustling in the cold breeze. “The United States has gone too far this time! I’ll tell you why all those people are dying! Operation Lasting Freedom! That’s right. We’ve pushed too far and now we’re all being cursed for it.”
Some people stood to listen, although whether or not it was through legitimate interest to his cause was not apparent. Most people walked quickly past him as it was the holiday season, and they were all scouring for gifts on this bustling, cold Saturday afternoon.
Two police men on patrol took notice of the man.
“Sir, you’re gonna have to come with us.”
The shouting man took no heed, instead continuing his monologue maintaining eye contact with the sum of the people who didn’t seem to care.
“We don’t need people fear mongering so close to Christmas,” said the officer in a more firm voice. “Now if you’ll just come with us.”
The man pointed at the police officers. “You see this?”
“Sir, put your hands down.”
“Put your hands down!” said the other police officer.
“Put your hands down now!”
Another officer had heard the commotion and took a baton from his belt, pressed a switch on the side, and immediately, all the surrounding smartphones went dark.
“Hey what gives?!” yelled an angry passerby on the sidewalk.
But the officers ignored them. Instead, an officer took out another black baton, stabbed it into the man with the pressure of a light punch, and instantly, the man fell to the ground incapacitated.
“Damn, I’m gonna have to recharge this thing now,” said the officer with the baton as he turned the man over to examine his face for injuries.
The people had paused as their phones were shut off, staring at the scene with empty and frustrated looks on their faces.
“I’m sorry, please, Merry Christmas everyone,” said the police officer as he put the baton back into his belt.
The man’s eyes were scanned as the people began to use the phones again, walking down the streets, focused on the near holiday.
April 2, 2020. Baltimore, Maryland.
I stayed in my room, alone, my back against the furthest wall from the window. I had never felt true fear in my short and safe life, but I heard the loud noises outside, and suddenly the walls around me did not feel safe as they once did. I heard glass breaking, some kind of explosion. Then quiet. Then shouting. All I could do was sit there paralyzed…a bullet had been shot through my wall and out the ceiling. I didn’t want to go out…I didn’t want to stay in.
The disease had killed so many people so mercilessly, and so many people couldn’t commit to their social services. All the television channels had a red bar on the bottom recommending everyone stay indoors as it was unknown just how contagious this disease was, considering it had such a long incubation period and the fact that at the moment, it could not be detected until minor symptoms occurred.
Every sneeze I had, every time my throat went dry, my stomach sank as the thoughts raced through my mind…could I have this disease already? Will I die tomorrow or today?
More shouting and a loudspeaker. Things seemed to be calling down from the morning.
