short story start 2076 circa 2013

In 2074;

In what could be considered the greatest tragedy or the greatest victory for the human race depending on one's pragmatic views 3 nuclear bombs were detonated, destroying Jerusalem (death toll; in the millions), Vatican City (388 dead) and the Cayman Islands, which created a mass economic murder as corporations, banks throughout the world lost the 'paper trail' of assets that were sequestered there.

There was much bible thumping and Quran throwing however with each side indicting the other for the mass genocide neither could put up a strong case as to the organization responsible.

Most blamed the United States, except for the United States who blamed secular terrorist organizations in 48 different countries who all had links to Al Quaeda which was interesting as the last known Al Quada member had died of natural causes[1] in 2049.

It was the grandparents, long spurned as expendable and over-nostalgic that tried to remind people of the collective internet-based group Anonymous. But their postings were drowned out in reruns of the latest editions of 'So You Think You Are A Thinker' and 'Extreme Bat Fights' on the wall screens of most nation's homes and public supermarkets.

Anonymous was prepared for the backlash. The years of planning, the conspiracy theories started decades ago, the revenue from their shares in duct-tape was more than adequate to fund the operation. 

Yet even they weren't prepared for the general apathy that most of civilization displayed after the discovery that the holy trinity of religions was annihilated to nothing more than radioactive decay. There was a short burst of general disorder and chaos throughout most nations that again, thanks to the proliferation of corporate news agencies was summarily censored and (word to describe mass flaunting) in different parts of the world so that while Californians were aware of the mass killings of French tourists by sharks off the coast of Normandy they were blissfully unaware that over 19 million fellow Californians had disappeared from government data banks.

Everyone knew someone who had been killed, yet nobody knew anybody who made the news, barring a quick one-line throwaway story placed between the search for the Holy Land Destroyers and another cute story about a dog and a cat who were best pals.

So this is where the story begins, at the end of religion.

---

[1] he fell to his death after he was headbutted off of a rocky crag in Afghanistan by a unruly mountain goat.

Sneak Peak; Karmageddon Chicken-style

Karmajuana In The Chicken Coop

ABB +93 (93 days After The Big Bangs)

“Let me ask you this. What’s your passion? Because I don’t feel you are passionate about this job.”

Curt Camfield cursed under his breath. The chicken gizzards, guts or whatever you called the inside of a chicken was piling up in the pail beside him. Three months ago, before the bombs hit, he had been a simple financial officer, living a comfortable life in a mid-level bank in a mid-level town in mid-level mediocrity. 

Chester Cloverfield, the semi-geriatric man currently standing across from him on the slaughtering table was waiting for his answer. In one hand he held the carcass of another headless, featherless chicken, the other a butcher knife. He held it more for effect than for efficiency as all he did was bring the headless chickens to Curt from the killing room.

Chester reminded Curt of his former district manager, who asked him the same question four months earlier, one month before the shit really hit the fan, six days before the financial markets collapsed and all the money in all the vaults was efficiently taken away by armed, mindless men in armored semi-sentient cars.

His former manager ordered Curt to calmly reassure those who cared too much about their money that their deposit was insured by the federal government, even if it wasn’t there. That was the last he ever heard from the district manager.

As Curt dutifully repeated those words to clients he never met, he had felt a gnawing unease in that part of the brain he assumed was his intuition. Soon someone in the growing mob would stop being vocal and start being physical. Especially when one of them voiced the suspicion Curt shared; there was no more federalized Bank of Canada, much less a working government able to guarantee their deposits. His promise was worth no more than the paper it wasn’t written on.

At that life-evaluating moment, as he looked over many of his employer’s most valued and valuable clients, he reconsidered that same question. What was his passion? Was he truly that passionate about this job he was willing to risk his life over someone else’s money? Wasn’t that his superior’s job, the guy who disappeared three days earlier, with a simple ‘Gone fishing’ email, leaving Curt the one with the most seniority in the branch? Was he passionate enough about this job he was willing to defend the honor and empty words and coffers of his employer?

Hell, no.

So he led the justified nervous mob into the back and pointed to the vault’s open door. They surged in, victims of cinematic shortcuts, envisioning shelves stacked with dollar bills. He relied that they would be so anxious to get their life savings they'd forget they needed Curt for more than directions to the vault. As the last pushed their way in and the first realized they had no combinations to the vault’s many empty safes, Curt was out the door faster than the stock market crash. He ran to his car, thankful that in the banking industry one only made clients, not friends. None of his clients knew where he lived. Still he raced home, told his wife and kids to get their shit in the RV and headed north as quickly as possible.

They drove two days before the back roads and gas ran out. The caravan they inadvertently joined on the highway led them here to Bluenose City, one of the many small city-enclaves survivors had established. It was here, Curt and his family found themselves new-age pioneers, living a simple, non-currency based life. Now it was all about survival and showing your worth to the whole, not to the stock market.

But still it was the same crap. 

Chester Cloverfield was an original resident of Bluenose City, third generation. His grandparents settled here back when it was too far away from anything to be even marked for prosperity on a map. It was simply a small hamlet carved into the mountain which bore its name. The City moniker came after the bombs as the refugees arrived and felt safe enough to stop moving on. 

Chester thought he liked the isolation and solidarity of raising chickens. It took until the refugee influx to realize he enjoyed being a head rooster even more. As the community grew, he tapped into a buried urge to be a respected leader of the masses and it certainly helped his political aspirations that he owned the biggest chicken coop in the area.

He once confided to his flock weeks ago that he always dreamed of a moment such as this since he inherited the chicken farm. There was a decades-long stigma to the family farm due to the infamous, yet rarely discussed, Great Easter Chicken Massacre of ’08. But Chester felt he could break the Cloverfield Egg Farm curse with hard work, dedication to the people and by not dabbling in God’s creations, whispered to be the reason behind the massacre.