Dystopia Chapter 36: Hope, a Cruel Joke

We know so little about each other and even less about our galaxy, the Milky Way. A system filled with stars, gas, dust, dark matter, and a supermassive black hole at its center. Scientists predict we will collide with a neighboring galaxy. The result, uncertain. The end is inevitable. Relax, that’s about 4.5 billion years in the future. I recalled reading that we needed to chill out. Everything would be fine. Technology Will Save Us! Artificial Intelligence is our salvation. Or the second coming…For the Lord Himself will descend from heaven, with the voice of an archangel, and with the trumpet of God… to meet the Lord in the air. The arrival is imminent.

We are so short-sighted. We think humanity will eventually come together to resolve whatever Mother Nature sends our way. Father Time knows better.

But… The oceans rose. The temperatures increased. Heat is now the leading cause of death. The polluted air and tainted water worsened. Greenery replaced by a concrete forest. Biodiversity in decline. Population grew while livable space diminished. Environmental stress, real. Natural Resources exhausted. Unprepared for a subsequent global pandemic.

And… the deterioration of our social fabric resulted in apathy and social conflict, promoting anarchy.

All this balanced against man’s eternal capacity to find that silver lining, a ray of hope, the proverbial bright side.

Here I sat, hoping.

Hope is invisible, intangible, a cruel joke.

The next morning, we returned to our table. Brett and Cord were missing. The server noted their absence but said nothing. This morning Diana joined us and inquired, “I see we are missing Brett and Cord. What’s up?”

I made eye contact, not exactly knowing what to say. I remembered I’d been told to tell no one.

Addison interjected, “I invited Diana to join us. Our newest member. She will update us on how our med center is doing.”

Frank pulled his chair next to Diana. How foolish, I thought as I watched her lean away.

“She’s a full member,” I added, while shaking my head at Frank.

“They are out surveying the area. May be gone for several days. Seems they were getting squirrelly, restless, needed to ramble about, and,” Addison shared.

We all knew better. They were trying to find the location of my daughters or what happened to them. Who was this person who claimed to know their location?

We sat looking toward the rising sun, a slight breeze pushing along a toxic haze. Mask sitting nearby. Meanwhile, sipping on a glass of cloudy water. Even if boiled, you had to wonder what was settling to the bottom. The life expectancy was once in the seventies, dropping every year now barely sixty. Men of science, once referred to as ‘natural philosophers,’ had warned humanity for generations. More recently, climatologists, students of climate change, climate variability, and its effect on the biospheres, once ridiculed, now denounced. In fact, climate change, traced back to 1760. A day would come when the environment would crash. The rainforest consumed by greed. Glaciers melted. Islands underwater. I once announced to my students that one day, man’s primary source of protein would be bugs. Ugh, they moaned in disbelief. The climate flipped and became unpredictable. Fact: Over a third of the world now gets its daily protein by consuming insects. We had passed the tipping point years ago. This was only the second time in man’s history that the population had declined. The other during the Black Plague.

Winters are bad, gloomy, cold, and rainy. Did I mention the cold? But, FYI, summers are worse. Summers are hot as hell. During winter, you’ll need a warm place, companionship, extra blankets, and fuel like wood, kerosene, or cooking oil. If the sun appears, solar power would also be beneficial. Summer, well, like my uncle used to say, “you can only take off so much clothing.”

Summer is coming.

I thought about Brett — well-traveled, always with a story to share. He was maybe forty, slender, a little over six feet, with a quiet, confident demeanor. He arrived at the compound a week before I did, then settled into working odd jobs, like most, as assigned. Once a roving investigator, a rule follower, cautious, a skilled marksman. He ended up on Scout Team 3 and proved to be capable, cautious, and observant. Not overly chatty, he could engage strangers on a wide range of topics. Unlike Frank, always chatty, annoyingly chatty.

Brett commented the previous day that he has a talent, a skill. He could find people, missing people. In the past, for a price. The reason did not matter: a runaway, innocent or not, wanted, dead or alive. Like a roving investigator working for private parties or the government, he made a living, compensated for his abilities. Well-traveled, he’d ended up here by chance. From what I can glean, no family. His words still echoed in my ears: “I can find your daughters.”

Cord, like Brett, has been around, having worked for the government, undercover seeking groups, the lawless. Those dealing in contraband, weapons and explosives. Maybe late thirties, a little under six feet, blond with blue eyes, muscular, quite the looker. A quick draw followed by a reputation. Still one to hold his tongue. A family? Arrived a month after I did, hired by Mr. Maddox to provide security. He became a member of Scout Team 3.

I volunteered to go with the guys.

“Nope, you seem to attract too much attention,” Brett replied. “This is what we do.”

I sat back as the sun cooked the earth. Need to head inside, wondering, could they? What would they find? What would a reunion be like? To know or not to know. Wondering what to expect.

The conversation was cordial. Diana shared the center’s need for medical supplies. She organized what was available and shared how melanoma, a common affliction, and COPD — chronic obstructive pulmonary disease, an inflammatory lung condition that makes breathing hard and limits physical activities — were ever present.

“Every day a line of health issues enters our center. Mostly, we lack the capacity to treat. We do what we can. Every day someone reminds us how we once had a doctor who, apparently, was a miracle worker. Could do no wrong. How he was gunned down because of a woman. Murdered.”

“There are now multiple versions of the story. All pointing toward someone. Some suggest you,” Diana, looking at me, added.

Addison shook her head. “Unlikely, Jesse. He’s more likely to shoot himself in the foot.”

Across the quad, several figures headed our way. Something’s up. Our lives were about to be preempted.

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