Life is governed by advance. A gigantic history book filled with lies, wars and corruption. Inhumane paragraphs of manipulation perfectly describing how people are intentionally controlled in such a way that no one could possibly know the difference between right or wrong. We’d been kept in the dark for so long, oppressed from the truth that all we could do was progress at our usual controlled pace. We were accustomed. We had no choice. As a result, we began to think that only a handful of us were really evolving and that life’s fruits were tasted and were for the benefit of those few. What were they hiding, what could our next step possibly be? Possibly, our evolution in whatever direction it was headed would be made by beings we create ourselves using our own technology. Life forms we can design and program for our own good and not beings that would succumb to government and be constricted by the rules of invidious survival.
At the top of any corporate ladder, normally a managing director or president gloats the leather chair. But even they have to be supervised by someone, these fortunate few with their personalised, anonymous management departments silently giving orders with one iron rule, logic is the enemy and truth is a menace.
Then who is really in command? Who is this decision maker, the one that can end lives with a signature of a pen or the flick of a communicator’s button? Do presidents have bosses?
Human manipulation began its decline in August 2021 as one man, a scientist with the knowledge and guts to send us (technologically speaking) further on into the 21st century appeared on the plasma screen. Doctor Robert Lincoln had four months to live.
Three billion people watched as this anti-pessimist unravelled a plan, a verbal, sometimes scientific jargon that was going to change our monotonous, over creative and under stimulated lifestyle to which we had adapted ourselves.
“We’ve reached an era in our existence, a frame where human confidence has developed into maturity. Internet will have no boundaries. Internet will have no secrets. It is time we know what really goes on under and above the cloud layer.” Doctor Lincoln went on saying.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, it’s not only our job to eradicate technological loopholes, it is our objective. Even though our technology still has its limitations, better technologists will make better breakthroughs, I will guarantee it personally.”
We called his way ‘Lincolnism’. We believed in it right up until October that year, we believed until an unexpected, global sized negativity crept into our lives affecting every facet of our everyday existence. Greed came in many tongues, and this time it fell on top of us like the guilty verdict judges hammer.
Banks closed their doors. All public transport halted and our usual TV programmes took a back seat while omnipresent superpowers debated and fought for weeks before finally reaching cul-de-sac decisions.
News updates filled with pre-bought court cases and company skirmishes involved the largest corporations on the planet. Some I hadn’t even heard of before. Rumours began as people thought it was a publicity stunt to boost imperialistic moral. Other anecdotes weren’t so compassionate. Words like world strike or world crash were but a few.
It was during one of these corporate conflicts when the television switched off suddenly and without warning.
It was December that year, an overly cool and clear Saturday afternoon. For some it was just another cold winter’s day as the air thickened with ozone. It wasn’t just the smell; the air ripened with it. Animals sensed it first. Dogs barked uncontrollably at an invisible intruder. Birds flew in all directions in a futile attempt at escape.
People vacantly looked around and at each other for the reason. As the strange phenomenon disappeared, the water began to rise. In two hours, it had risen nineteen metres. We thought it would never stop; we thought it would continue to climb until there was no more land to engulf.
Without electricity and communication, people in their new watery environment couldn’t possibly know the status of other regions and thought it affected only where they were. As hours became days, the help didn’t come and the electricity remained dead like the mounting number of bodies floating on the sea, or ocean or river.
Only those inland were safe. Only those far from the water had survived the horror and awfulness.
As electricity gradually returned from generators situated on higher ground, a newssheet became available containing photographic information taken from the Reuters telegraphic imaging library. Its one aim was to reveal what had happened.
The horrendously detailed photographs explicitly spoke for themselves. It was awe-inspiring to flip the pages and witness with total clarity our closeness to disaster. Astrophysicists called it a micro nova. A large portion of the sun’s surface had simply vaporized. The article read:
Head of the European science administration, Doctor Malcolm Wilkie not only confirms the micro nova was caused by an imbalance of hydrogen-Tritium, he says:
“It’s a perfectly normal growth process that puts our sun one rung further up the ladder of evolution. As the suns surface disintegrated, it triggered gravitational variations causing the level of our seas and oceans to rise. The water however will begin to drop in the next few weeks as the solar surface restores itself.
Gamma radiations directly coming from our damaged sun have stripped away a large part of our life important exosphere. The hole, the size of the Asian continent will slowly swing over our heads in the next few days. The temperatures will begin to rise a few degrees and we urge you to remain calm. There is absolutely no reason for further panic.”
After the inevitable and eventual worldwide banning of fossil fuel combustion in 2016, we began using bio-fuels. Although Carbon monoxide pollution had successfully created a new chapter in history books, nobody could honestly believe that God’s capabilities involved inflicting atrocities such as this. Simultaneously, hardened sceptics believed that the micro nova was sent by God himself to clean up the mess we’d made of our planet.
It was so easy for man to point fingers in the wrong areas. Idealistic opinions hypocritical chatter, it was all nonsense; I guess we had our backgrounds to blame. But there again you don’t just change what had taken centuries to implant. No one knew which of the two was disillusioned more, the earth or us.
Two weeks after the rising of the oceans, Pope Venerdicto made an emergency public appearance. He commented:
“Man has continually raped our world from the beginning; he has extracted its soul and has replaced it with waste products stemming from the very Alma itself. It was in man’s nature to take what was not really his in the first place. We are only boarders on this world.” Pope Venerdicto went on saying:
“In comparison to what has taken place, it shows our true values and worth. In plain, in Gods vast universe we are nothing. Esteemed brothers and sisters, every one of us must consider this as a warning. If we do not heed these unspoken words and desist immediately with petty scrabbling for power, the price we will pay in the end will be the end of humanity itself.” Fear, unsuccessfully camouflaged by his authoritative voice gave us the impression that not even the venerated head of Catholic Hierarchy had the capacity or capability of concealing his human side. I switched off the television and retired to my chair.
Two years ago, I remember the squabble between Maria (my wife) and I just before we left Panama. Luckily, she flipped the coin. Heads for Acapulco or tails were off to Zacatal. I won. I wanted our home in Southern Mexico. I wanted peace and quiet. I was tired of city life and skyscrapers. I bought a house on the outskirts of the village on the forgotten side of a hill. We even had our own private road. I was ecologically in love again, for Zacatal was not only admired for its richness and variety of tropical plant life, it possessed the finest multi-hued contrasts anywhere on the American continent.
To add additional zest to the already underrated setting, Zacatal’s picturesque backdrop placed on the slope of a twenty-five metre, rocky natural hillside made even the most boring tourist take out his camera and memorise it.
Mexicans called shops, tiendas. Bono’s tienda for one had been a landmark on the banks of the Mexican gulf for more than ninety years. His speciality was homemade, artisanal. If it involved the sea he could, and probably would make it himself as his extensive line of accessories left even the most expert mouth agape.
Bertram’s restaurant provided work for ten residents and added tourism to the once short list of Zacatal economy.
Rod’s second hand car shop installed a service station just over a year ago and had plans on putting in a petrol pump. Rod’s business, like those of Bertram’s and Bono’s were embedded on the lower banks along with many others. Ninety-one businesses in all, including a shopping mall completed the unforgettable setting.
Business attracted customers from afar as the United States or Cuba. They came for weekends or just to waste some time. Accompanying the influx of tourism and flurry of fun seekers, the need heightened to create places of recreation where people could spend money and enjoy themselves. With the increase in economy and popularity, Zacatal was starting to become a well-liked nightlife trend especially among its adolescents.
The Boiler Room rose up from the rocks in less than two weeks. On termination, it became the third largest discotheque in Mexico.
Among other businesses, Mexico City diner, Bernstein’s apparel, Tony’s liquor store, Pete’s pets, King’s billiard parlour, Brown’s drugstore, and Freddie’s packers were amongst the victims of the flood.
Now that they had gone, an all-pervading empty contiguousness fell upon us. The bustling frenzy that once gripped this hillside with hullabaloo had transformed into a stifling serenity. No one showed compassion or mercy, for those who had once cared for these victims of circumstance were also dead. A part of us died with them.
For the remaining few, it was in their hands to continue where its creators had left off. Four hundred strong willed souls with a determination to survive, a determination to carry on where disaster had left off.
To reach our beach was a brisk fifteen-minute walk down a rocky promenade. When the water came, my morning exercise disappeared; the downhill walk became a beach, and what had once been a two-kilometre stroll was reduced to a stride. From the ledge, a few chimneys poked up above the water level. Desperate survivors were clinging to their roofs in the hope that help would arrive, but they were at the mercy of the surrounding death.
I still remember the bodies floating downriver; dozens of them, hundreds of them. It was our duty to clean them up. Between all of us, we dug mass graves in Palizada forty kilometres to the south. Twenty gaping holes filled with the bodies of both man and animal, it was a horrendous task. It had to be done, as the smell of death was everywhere. But, it was not only the water or the lack of it that had killed the people; it was the rampant and tremendous heat wave that started a month later.
As the damaged exosphere gradually focused onto the American continent, it only took three hours for the temperature to rise twenty degrees. At first, we enjoyed its touch, its supernatural power. We were used to extremities such as this. This time however, the mercury continued to rise until the survivors of recent disaster began passing out and dying on the street. Its stroke was everywhere and there was no escape.
During the forthcoming months, avid television commentaries appeared every now and then, soothing listener scepticism while commenting on the status of our planet.
“We are doing everything in our power to remedy the situation, please have patience and stay calm.” The same incompetent voice had been filling us with the same gobbledygook for the past eleven months.
“All efforts until now have failed,” or so they said. We on the other hand suspected the world governments had the answers and the capability to repair our exosphere. It was as if they were listening, a couple of days later during a news broadcast a journalist told the television viewer that NASA had recently launched a high altitude balloon filled with a powdery chemical substance.
“The results should become noticeable in the forthcoming days. Hold out for as long as you can,” he said. All we could do was await the news from the NASA representative. Can a simple balloon save us? Can a simple balloon the size of a bus, patch up a gaping hole the size of Russia?
“The Helium balloon once it has reached a height of ninety miles will explode. It will release the cargo of fine chemical powder onto the invisible exosphere layer. It will ‘bandage’ the immense hole caused by the solar eruption preventing the damaging rays from penetrating,” said the NASA representative before looking down at a note pad on his lectern.
“If it fails, we will keep on sending them up until such time the temperature does begin to drop.” Optimistically I looked towards María as she flicked the air conditioner to maximum. ‘Westinghouse wasn’t only good for their fridges’ I thought as the breeze whisked against my back.
It was as my body enjoyed and absorbed these life-sustaining qualities, a man in another part of somewhere stopped at the water's edge and made the sign of the cross on his chest before opening up a black brief case. Lucid eyes patrolled its outline while fingers reached for the combination lock just under the handle. As it snapped open, he withdrew a filled 200ml veterinary Pyrex syringe containing a clear liquid. The syringe had no denominating marks revealing its contents.
The man knew what he was doing as he pushed the plunger, releasing it into the calm water. His form; imperceptible from under a bridge was just a shadow, a darkness that no one noticed.
As he neared the embankment he mumbled to himself speaking Spanish. The words ‘vaya con Dios’ meaning ‘go with God’ quietly left his mouth.
Later that evening I drove into town for the local newspaper. It was full of incidents: all of them bad. Our paper, The Southern Tribune was government subsidised and on rare occasions, we even received it daily. A year later, memorable photographs of the event still haunted us. One whole page had been set aside for Zacatal victims and events. One whole page filled with names, sometimes a photograph appeared of someone I once knew. It had been that way since the beginning. There were no advertisements, no recipes, no sodukos or crossword puzzles. The Southern Tribune was purely dedicated to local and international news. Pages filled with death and heartbreaking images of pillage and struggle. It did have emergency radio broadcast frequencies. It did reveal where disaster collection points had been set up for those in need. Frustratingly, I threw the paper into a pile and went to bed.
At four the next morning, I lay awake staring at the ceiling while listening to nocturnal desert crickets doing love dances under rocks. The raucous chirruping, almost metronomic soothed my agitation as there was a noisy one right under the bedroom window. Maria, unconscious of my insomnia lay by my side. Like me, she slept through almost anything, and it was only when she subconsciously snuggled closer when I realised something was out of place. At first, I thought it was the remnants of a memorable dream, a vivid beginning to yet another day but as I opened my eyes, forcing my unclear piece of world into focus, I felt my arm down by my side under the blanket and not outside as it usually was. I took a deep breath.
“María, wake up,” I said leaning towards her.
“What’s up honey, what time is it?” She opened her eyes.
“Don’t you feel it, don’t you feel different?” her eyes widened.
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“María, the temperature, tell me you feel it too. Please tell me you feel it!”
Eleven months ago as the heat wave struck, a massive evacuation process began. In all parts of the globe, human beings were making efforts to build themselves shelters; some used machinery, some dug by hand. In many cases, individuals were scooping out simple earth burrows in the hope that they would provide adequate protection from the heat.
By March 2022, the water levels had subsided and the world’s extensive underground rail networks were readied for human occupation. In London, Tube Station entrances were partially bricked up and planking was hurriedly laid across the rails as the 254 miles of tunnels were adapted and converted to house up to five million people. It was announced that when this enormous shelter opened, places would be allocated on a first come, first served basis. Many people began to camp outside the entrances, forming queues that stretched for miles.
In some cities, communities were banding together in an attempt to try to convert mineshafts into makeshift shelters and in a few countries, governments were even making financial aid available for these efforts. People used everything below ground level to safeguard their future.
Public order first began to break down seriously when the heat declined to the mid thirties and even in the most advanced cities, mobs began roaming the streets. Governments or what remained of them were forced to put their carefully drafted emergency plans into action. Police and military units who were withdrawn from general duties were immediately deployed to protect the remaining government installations and communications facilities, airports and other sites considered vital to the continuance of national administration.
In less developed nations, those strong enough to withstand the cauldron during the daytime then had to endure the panic-stricken mass violence that was unleashed in their communities at night.
NASA had not only just sent up one high altitude balloon, they had sent up seventy. Not only had man successfully patched the hole, he had over-bandaged, increased the thickness of the exosphere layer preventing the suns life-giving rays from penetrating.
Climbing into my armchair, I reached for the remote control and switched on the television. It was another documentary.
“Honey, hey did you know the Antarctic has been reduced to only two percent of its original size?” The documentary was interrupted as a brown creased face appeared on the screen.