Author of Dystopian Horror

Scooter snapped the tab on the can of Coors before kicking the refrigerator door shut. The sky had turned dark gray before it started raining cats and dogs, not the familiar consistent light autumn drizzle Alaskans were familiar with. He descended the single step into the living room and dropped onto the cream-colored couch. A familiar clown reflected back at him from the flat black screen of the television. He flexed his chest muscles several times, before searching for the remote control on the side table. It wasn’t there, so he felt between the couch cushions. “Irritating.”

He felt around under the couch and his finger tapped the remote further back, “Fuck.” 

He knelt down and reached his hand under the furniture to grab the remote before sitting back in his seat. He turned the television to Fox News; they were fair and balanced. He wasn’t a fanatic who watched Freedom Network News.  

He heard Genie’s Escalade pulling into the driveway, then the distinct beep of the car alarm. A minute later the front door handle twisted, with Genie standing in the threshold soaking wet from the rain. 

“Tesoro laid me off Scuddah,” Genie kicked off her sopping heels as she walked in the door, “They let everybody go.” 

The freezing rain had knocked many of the leaves from the trees. He felt the icy air swoop in to molest his exposed skin.

It had been several months since the pandemic began its scourge on the world. It was only a matter of time before the entire American oil industry shut down operations, in conjunction with the fall of Wall Street and the second Great Depression. The stock market had been walking the invisible tight rope of the economy, until the pandemic severed the rope completely. 

“Are you watching the news, Scuddah?” She asked, surprised at his interest.

Scooter was enamored with the television screen; the station’s four screens flashing riots on the streets of Chicago, riots on the streets of L.A., and more riots on the streets of New York City. 

“Thousands demand a vaccine,” the Chicago reporter said, standing with the city background. “And thousands more counter-protest the use of a vaccine.”

The videographer widened the lens to show an explosion in the background. Then Scooter watched as the camera swung to the right to reveal O’Hare International Airport in flames. 

“Who blew up the airport?” The flabbergasted reporter asked her earpiece. “I’m getting information that Chicago O’Hare was just attacked, as well as several post offices and the Chicago library. Is this happening in other cities? Who’s attacking? Is it the federal government, the protestors, the Freedom militia?”

Genie plopped down next to him on the couch, her blonde hair soaking wet from running the short distance from her SUV to the house. A few droplets splashed onto his exposed arm. 

“This is terrible,” she said about the bombings. “Wow…I can’t believe this is happening in America.”

The studio news anchors continued to discuss the divide in America with a political science professor from Harvard University, “The U.S. is a failed state; we can clearly see that in these destructive pictures. The Federal Government has lost control by not providing vital resources to its constituents. States are making alliances with one another to form autonomous provinces.”

“Please clarify what you mean by autonomous provinces?”

“States are joining each other based on regional location and political ideologies. We are seeing Florida, Louisiana, Georgia, and Mississippi joining a union together, and then California, Oregon and Washington state are forming another separate alliance. Then we are seeing the more individually recognized states, such as Texas, Alaska and Utah choosing to become individual, incorporated nations.” 

Scooter felt the space between the cushions for the remote and clicked the television off. “Now that’s better!” 

He took a long swig from his beer to empty it. Belching, he smashed the can between his hands. “I need another beer. I’m heading to the garage to work on some junk.”

Genie needed to call her parents in New Jersey, or whatever province it was now called. Would this be an international call? Would she need a passport to visit them? It was like the world as she knew it was being ripped out from under her. Her family, her job, her country, her ability to bear Scooter’s baby. 

“Scuddah, what are we going to do?” Genie asked him, reeling from the shock after watching the newscast. “Are we going to take the vaccine? They’re skipping some of the usual steps and important trial testing in order to get it distributed quicker. But Scuddah, if we don’t do it—we won’t ever have a baby. We’ll never have a family. We could die.”

She started crying huge mascara black tears; the salted liquid blending with the raindrops that weeped from her drenched hair down her stricken face. 

“Geez Genie, I don’t think you should worry so much,” he said, standing up from the couch. “This is all fake news anyway.”