The United States doesn’t give in to demands; it’s not Lady Liberty’s way. Instead she buys allies. Our technology for their help.
Then someone gets clever, decides that if we can unmake a hurricane, maybe we can help one grow. I don’t know if that’s possible. It’s for smarter people than me to know. But that’s when everything explodes. The atom bomb, its power and destruction, is tossed aside for a new potential weapon that everyone wants: the weather. Mother Nature as a war machine, bent to man’s will at last.
Every able-bodied man goes to war. There is no fleeing across borders because they’re going to war, too. Pick the wrong border and the final taste in your mouth is metal.
Colleges close, so even those are no longer havens for those who don’t want to fight.
Who could have known that the War to End All Wars would have nothing to do with God?
The
We are a dozen, not including the skeleton crew. All of us downtrodden, our hearts crushed beneath life’s careless boot heels. Not long ago this route was filled with honeymooners and vacation-goers, people who would have to struggle to conjure up anything dimmer than a delighted grin. Not us. We can barely lift our chins to acknowledge each other with anything more than grim suspicion.
There are two other women, both middle-aged, maybe sisters, maybe friends. They cling to each other as though the other is a life vest. The men slouch in their carefully selected territories. None of us turn our backs. We are still animals with animal instincts. Who carries the disease? Who passes as human and yet is
My gaze sticks on the man hunched in the far corner. He’s maybe sixty, although stress can age a person and we’ve had more than our fair share of trauma. His shoulders stoop as though he carries the burdens of a thousand men upon each one. It’s not just his hair that’s gray but his very soul. Despair seeps through his pores. He’s a man out of context, so I slot him into various visions of my old life, trying to gauge where he fits.
Lisa rests her head on my shoulder. I put my arms around her, link my fingers. The Swiss leans on the railing on the starboard side, watches the sea.
Still, the man captivates me. I change his clothes, make him one of those paper dress-up dolls I loved as a girl. Tidy his hair. Shave him close to the bone. When the penny slides down the chute in my head, I gasp. For a time, I sit and watch him and try not to stare. Why is he here? Stupid question, because why are any of us here? Still, why is
“Mr. President?”
He looks me in the eye like I’m his superior.
“I’m the president of nothing.”
“I voted for you.”
He nods slowly, as though he aches from it. “Really?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you.”
“I was pleased to do it.”
“You should have bet on the other guy.”
The war taints all. Men go to war and never return. Word of their demise sometimes reaches home. Wal-Mart’s shelves empty and remain that way without cheaply made goods to replenish them.
One night on the news I see Jorge’s red truck being pulled from the river, squirrel heads sodden and rotting, still danging from the mirror.
Nobody says anything at work. Nobody says much of anything now. We all go about our jobs like automatons set to
Soon I start missing faces. One day the regular receptionist is gone from the downstairs lobby, and in her place is a perky twenty-something who’ll stay friendly until benefits kick in. After that, she’ll adopt a bored stare and a
Another day I go into the bathroom, where three women are gathered around a calendar, trying to calculate the first day of their last periods. One of them stops mid-conversation, races to the nearest stall. The door slams, then swings open just as her vomit splashes the floor.
“Sorry,” she says. “I figure I only have about eight more weeks of this.”
I make all the right noises, but really I’m thinking about Ben, Raoul, James, Mrs. Sark.
And Nick.
I contact the CDC. They redirect me to 911. The tin woman answers, and when I tell her about the jar, she dismisses me as a lunatic.
George P. Pope appears in the paper one morning, posing next to a brittle blonde the caption identifies as his wife. He’s made all the right quotes, meant to soothe a panicking public. Phrases like
Mrs. Pope doesn’t buy it, either. There’s a speck on the ground more worthy of her attention. So she places it there and hides her lack of faith behind a wall of fair hair.
The picture gives a better sound bite than Pope’s mouth.
Night comes to the open sea, creeping from the east. When the ferry’s lights flicker on, their beams absorbed by the encroaching darkness—when just we two are on the deck—the president of nothing begins to speak.
“Where are you from?”
I tell him.
“They liked the other guy.”
“How did you get here, Mr. President?”
He shrugs. “I never wanted a life in politics. It chose me… much later on. When I was a boy, I wanted to be an astronaut.”
Even in his world-torn state, he oozes charisma, and I remember why I—and millions of others—voted him into the highest office. Together we lean against the port rails and watch the void come for us.
“You and every other American boy.”
He nods. “Ours was a country with great dreams, all of them bold and large in scope. But we were not too good at the details. Do you have time for a story?”
He pauses for a moment. Two men have come on deck, gripping the ends of another; two trees and a hammock. They swing back, forth, toss him overboard. Sending the dead to a better place.
“There was a man whom the people chose to lead them. ‘If I accept,’ he said, ‘I want you to share with me your ideas to make this country stronger.’ ‘No, no,’ they said. ‘This is why we have you. Your ideas are better.’ Pleased that they had so much faith in him, he accepted. Soon they came to his doorstep crying. ‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘I want you to share your ideas for making this country a happier place for all.’ ‘No, no,’ they cried. ‘This is why we
