Give Your Immortality to Me
The air always held a gray ambience. A rusty scent lingered on every corner and through every street. The sky affected the people. Sons were drafted and taken from families, land was destroyed, civilization was killed. Society itself was turning gray.
These, of course, were the effects of the fifth world war. The year was 2098, and the chances of America surviving were twenty-eight to thirty-five percent. These statistics said by Mathew Novak, the most popular news personality as of the beginning of the war. He referred to the war as “Moby Dick”, as did all of America.
“We need Moby Dick. It needs us to help our allies and defeat our enemies. After all, we are the previous superiority.”A television speaks, with Mathew Novak on the screen. Novak had recently moved, along with his news station, to Britain.
“We, America, are aware of Moby Dick’s negative effects on us, and yet we continue. This is because we know we can get so much from it.” He doesn’t speak of his move, he doesn’t alert the public of Russia’s manufacturing of a new nuclear attack, nor does he tell about the money he makes from the government by withholding information.
A shrill voice, no smarter than a junior-high student, speaks in a small cottage of a house. “If we still had elections, I believe I’d want Mathew Novak to run. I know I’d vote for him. Can’t you see him as a leader? Sitting on the television like that, telling us everything. That’s what I like about Mr. Novak, he’s honest. He loves his country. Don’t you think?”
“Um” says Harrison McKoy, an elderly man, the husband of the dunce.
“Well, I can see him being perfect. Everyone already loves him. I bet he’d do good.”
Unfortunately for the McKoy’s, the desert next to their town recently became a weapon testing facility. The fumes and clouds of hazardous gas swarmed into their homes and fumigated the few good aspects of living that existed. People would move, but the war has taken so many men that nearly all families had lost their main source of income.
“The minimum age for drafting is once again being reduced. Now fifteen-year-old males can bask in the joy of protecting their families. Mothers, be proud of your husbands and sons, they’re fighting for you!” buzzes the television.
In the distance, Harrison hears a booming sound. He feels the sensation as his shack, plaster on top of plaster, shakes.
“Gee, that one was a doozy. Wasn’t it?” speaks the wife.
“Yep,” says Harrison. The aftershock shakes the house a second time, windows rattle, cupboards knock against one another.
“This just in, the maximum age for drafting is also being raised to 55. We are giving more and more men the opportunity to fight for our rights.”
“I sure do wish they didn’t come into that desert and start up all this weapon testing. I bet Mr. Novak wouldn’t allow it; he’d make them go somewhere more excluded. Wouldn’t that be nice?” Mrs. McKoy adjusts the rug that had been moved by the vibrations.
“Yes, I guess it would.” Harrison says, feigning a hopeful smile to his wife.
“I always do wonder what they’re doing over there,” her eyes focusing on the window overlooking the outstretched desert. “Must not be too safe, all those booming sounds, must be making plenty of explosions.”
“They are testing weapons that are meant to kill. I don’t think their intentions are safety.”
“Yes well. . . I don’t know. I worry for the soldiers that have to guard the facility, what if a test goes wrong?”
Harrison shrugs and fixes his foggy glasses. The month was July and the clock had just clicked at two o’clock, yet it didn’t feel like July. No one wanted to believe that this was their summer. Wives, young children, and men aged enough to not be included in the draft were the ones who really experienced the war, as only twenty-nine percent of those who fought survived, including the injured. Only twelve percent of those returned to their homes, the ones not critically enough injured would be sent back into a battle.
“Moby Dick requires sacrifice, but sacrifice gives great rewards.” Mathew Novak says in a commanding manner, his voice only slightly distorted from the static.
“They say,” Mrs. McKoy sneezes quickly then continues, “They say our governor got replaced again. Last one, what’s his name, spoke about us not having much money.”
“That so?”
“That’s just what they say though.”
“Well,” Mr. McKoy begins “I believe I’m going to check if we’ve grown anything.”
“Okay Hun’, do tell me how it is.”
Harrison nods and rises from his seat, followed by removing himself from their house, and into what remains of his yard behind the shack. His once blooming garden has turned rustic. His tomatoes and radishes, his beloved carrots and spinach, the onions and the peppers had withered into dried hollow mutations.
Harrison shuffles to his dying creations, and slowly, somewhat painfully, bends over to grab onto a tomato that still holds some pinkish tint. On impact of his hand, the tomato collapses into itself, revealing a dry jack-o-lantern. Always smiling, always lit.
A series of bursts shoot from the desert, not as loud as before, but plenty of them; Harrison winces. His eyes scan over the peeled paint that surrounds his low home and the homes next to his. Harrison struggles with tears as the world scans through his mind, the destruction. The man remains in that state for several minutes before he is able to return indoors.
Later that day, after the colorless sun had sulked down and a dim, hidden moon had risen, Mr. and Mrs. McKoy were laying in the bedroom of their two room home. Harrison was mildly enjoying one of the few government approved novels that had been published. The television was on, and Mathew Novak was preparing to end today’s show in five minutes.
Mrs. Novak turned to speak to her husband about Novak, but stopped as she noticed his fogged glasses, puffy face, and watery cheeks.
“Oh dear, are you okay? You look like you’ve been sobbing.”
Harrison smiles at his wife, wiping both his cheeks with the back of his hands. “Yes love, I’m fine.” He moves to hold her, a kiss on her forehead, fingers wrapped around her arms. Harrison feels happiness in this moment of silence.
The television buzzes, “So, society, let me finish with this: Who deserves your pity more, a king given all the marlin he wishes for, or the fisherman who learns to catch the whale?”
Gender:
Points: 300
Reviews: 0