"The Only Thing We Can Count On Anymore"
*
Everyone in the United States was terrified, except, apparently, for Iowa Senator Martin Frawl.
“I do not live in fear. And neither should you.”
That was the line that convinced Darren Calloway—as well as roughly 85 million other fearful U.S. citizens—to vote for Frawl in the 2048 Presidential election.
Frawl would later thank his team of speech writers for cooking that one up. Thanks, guys, he would say in his homegrown, Midwestern manner, before popping the cork off of one of the 250 chilled bottles of Brut at his campaign headquarters. Nobody knew why he bought so many bottles, but it’s better to have too much than not enough.
Citizens like Darren Calloway love when strength can be expressed succinctly, in two short sentences. They also love when someone has the linguistic capacity to empathize. It makes them feel significant. And so that’s how Martin Frawl got elected President. Two short sentences.
*
Darren Calloway was terrified for a multitude of reasons. He was afraid that if he continued to grind his teeth while he slept he would develop cavities. He was afraid that his life partner Abigail Roddick would leave him because she found a man who was more adept at crossword puzzles. He was afraid that he would faint for lack of nutrients if he didn’t eat every three hours. Mainly, he was afraid because everyone else was. Fear is a parasite that feeds on itself. He was also afraid because life in his country was no longer consistent. Nothing was certain. Nothing, of course, except the war against fear.
*
“I can’t wait until we beat Fear,” Darren said eagerly, using “we” as though he were an actual part of the battle. He was conversing with Roger McCroy, a fellow home security specialist, one of the only people with whom Darren could exchange more than a handful of words aloud. This was because Roger at least acknowledged that fear dictated much of his life. Both spoke rapidly, in high tones, breathing unevenly.
“I’m pretty sure that by the end of next year, we’ll be a lot closer,” Roger said. “I think we’re winning the war so far.”
“We’ve been winning the war for a couple of years now.”
“Tough war.”
“Thank goodness for the war.”
“It’s the only thing we can count on anymore.”
*
The administration prior to Frawl’s had vowed to get the country out of the war. Ex-President Manuel Flores had enunciated, “This war has killed too many of our sons and daughters. We must end the violence.” Many citizens listened with the same horrifying thought in mind: are we losing?
Then came Frawl: “Surrendering now would be saying that fear wins. The enemy is not a country, nor a group. The enemy is fear! The only way to live free of fear is to confront it with strength. The United States is the strongest nation in the world. We will not let fear erase what our forefathers created!”
He capitalized the word Fear through repetition. It, much like “terror” in the administrations of yore, had evolved from an abstract, common noun to a concrete, proper entity. It no longer hovered over people, but rather grasped them physiologically.
President Flores, thought much of the country, the blowhard, didn’t even identify Fear as the enemy. What could he possibly know about protecting the nation?
People closed their eyes and waved little star-spangled banners and sang the national anthem and voted for the man who promised to end Fear.
*
Darren held out his left hand, seeing if it was actually shaking or just his imagination, as he thought about how quickly the world was changing. According to the pretty female anchor on channel 343—which was either Fox or Disney, because all stations were now owned by either Fox or Disney—the economy was still as unstable as a vase on a teeter-totter.
“How lucky we are to just have jobs,” Darren said to Abigail. Her gaze was fixed on the LifeTablet electronic device she held, her brown hair slightly covering her eyes. Darren and Abigail had been together since just before Abigail joined the U.S. Army 12 years earlier. Thirty years ago they would have been married, but the odds of getting a divorce were such that it was cost-effective to remain legally single in contemporary American society.
Darren leaned back in his PosturPedic recliner, specially designed for his body, reading the news on his own LifeTablet—Microsoft’s response to Apple’s iExist, which rivaled DigiDoon, Inc.’s revolutionary NowPad 3K, a sort of “everything-in-one” technological apparatus.
“Monica Redd was just laid off,” he said, noting one of the hundreds of status updates scrolling down the corner of the screen—if you could even call it the corner anymore, everything being at least three-dimensional.
“I already know.”
“Everyone already knows. It’s been up for a minute. Just wanted to say something out loud.”
“Hm.”
He checked his hand again, just to make sure.
*
“Of course we want our soldiers home,” spoke Frawl. “But the question you have to ask yourselves—the question I have to ask myself before I sign over our fate to the rest of the world—is this: would we rather save a small handful of lives in the short-term and live forever under the reign of Fear? Or would we rather defeat it? I think you know the answer.”
Darren nodded frantically.
*
Roger McCroy took a lengthened gulp from the lime green concoction he held in his hand—purified water mixed with a Serotonin supplement.
“What have you been up to today?” asked Darren, sweating though it was no hotter than 66 degrees Fahrenheit. They were each sitting at home, on their PosturPedic recliners, using their LifeTablets to conduct daily business, check status updates, watch television, and talk on the phone—all at the same time.
“Nothing, just bored.”
“There’s too much going on. Nothing to do.”
“Talked to Abigail?”
Darren saw Roger abruptly dart off the screen for a second. He came back on with the tired, lost eyes of an orphan.
“Sorry, kicked over my drink.”
This made Darren grasp his own drink even more tightly.
“Haven’t talked to her, no.”
“Haven’t talked to who?”
“Abigail.”
“Did I ask that?”
“I thought so. I hope I’m not imagining things. Do I sound okay?”
Both took a moment to try and breathe, eyes closed, allowing the unwelcome silence to break the conversation in a surprisingly calming manner.
“I’m sure she’s fine. I’m sure we’re all fine,” said Darren, trying to convince someone other than himself.
*
The last time Abigail was deployed, she was stationed in north Haochin, better known as India in its years of independence. Though no one expected much violence to come from a stable Chinese colony, Abigail and her fellow soldiers had grown accustomed to spending late nights constantly revamping the highly advanced radar and sonar devices that would alert the American soldiers of any nearby, impending danger. Nobody ever attacked them. It’s a good thing, too, because the soldiers were so fearful of engaging in warfare that even the most accurate shot in the group would tremble violently when wielding a firearm. But the soldiers all kept their loaded, automatic weapons close at-hand. Just in case.
In three days, Abigail was planning on being deployed again—for only nine months this time. She had been told that she would be stationed in Europe, but in two days she would receive notice that a new threat was identified near the Amazon River. Her unit would occupy the region in search of Guillermo Padron, a high-value-target allegedly working on behalf of Fear.
Padron questioned his “target” status, claiming he was searching for Fearists, too. He didn’t know why America targeted him. Neither did Abigail.
It wouldn’t matter, though. They wouldn’t need to find him. In two months, channel 343 would report that he became so irrationally obsessed with the notion of being captured, he ended up committing suicide during a panic attack one night on an Argentinian beach. A few journalists would question these accounts, but the pretty blonde woman on channel 343 would repeat it until it was as good as fact.
*
“Today’s accomplishment shouldn’t be seen as victory. Still enemies to be found. We celebrate this stepping stone, tho.”
President Frawl’s updates were usually shorter than this, but Darren knew that the firebombing of Fearist camps in the Ural Mountains was significant enough to warrant more than the standard 50-character NowMessage.
Also, the use of the collective “we” gave Darren a chance to inhale more completely than usual.
According to sources, the United States military had allegedly killed an unnamed member of a purported Middle-Eastern Fear organization.
(“Does this mean you’ll come home early?” Darren would later ask Abigail. “If I came home, what would I do? At least here I have a purpose.” “Thank goodness for the war.”)
Abigail had not been present for the bombing, judging by the fact that she had updated her own status at 11:47 am and 11:50 am that day. The bombing occurred at 11:48 am and lasted almost two minutes.
Though, according to another pretty lady on channel 343—who looked an awful lot like the other anchors—the military could not confirm who exactly was present in the camps, they were pretty sure it sent a strong message to Fear.
*
Darren pressed his pudgy, hairless fingers tightly together on either side of the packet, squeezing the last of the powder into his water, turning the liquid an emerald blue. He realized that this was his final Sero-Pack, but all he needed to do was give the InstaCommand on his LifeTablet a “refill prescription” order and his Serotonin supplement would arrive within the hour.
He forced himself to watch 45 seconds of news, to catch up on the happenings of the world. With Abigail gone, he took a far greater interest in world news. As he watched, the screen flashed “Breaking News,” which happened every three to five seconds. This particular headline captured his interest, so he hovered his middle finger over the sensoscreen (a technological upgrade deeming the touchscreen obsolete), and navigated his LifeTablet to the story that read, “Fear Threat Quelled: Mere Act of Terror.”
Darren labored through the thirty-word article before reading that a suspected Fear group of three men ended up actually detonating a bomb and killing one American soldier before being detained. This calmed Darren’s mind for a full second.
Attacking with a bomb had a limited impact, only killing the people within range. Attacking with Fear worked more efficiently—torturing the minds of countless.
The terrorists were given three years with parole for disturbing the peace.
*
Darren tried to smile at Abigail as she sat onto the couch, tossing her bag aside. He picked up his LifeTablet, and she hers.
“How does it feel to be home?” he asked.
“Boring.”
“Too much to do.”
She stared intently at the screen before her, Darren at his. Twenty-eight seconds ago the President announced an increase in the Fear Alert for the USA. Apparently, all people should be, “Moderately to Extremely Afraid.”
“Can’t be much longer now,” he said.
“Until?”
“Until we win the war.”
Abigail visibly quivered.
“What’ll we do without the war?”
“Who knows? I’m terrified to even think about it.”
“We need something consistent in the world. Something to count on.”
“Thank goodness for the war.”
*
Coincidentally, the firebombed camp was abandoned. The United States would not discover this for several days, and would not disclose this information anyway. A victory is a victory.
The previous inhabitants had evacuated to attack a group that, based on inside Intelligence, consisted of major Fearists. Incidentally, that group claimed they were not Fearists. Nobody was sure who to trust.
All you could do was go with your Intelligence.
*
Darren’s front door closed behind him. Like all doors, five impenetrable locks clicked automatically, requiring his optical authorization to re-open. He thought briefly about the forthcoming “Lockless Revolution” that President Frawl promised, the day for which everyone pined. The day when doors would close and not lock automatically. The day when windows could stay open at night once again. The day when everything was consistent and happy and peaceful…
At least we still have the war, he heard himself think.
Darren exhaled as a disheveled Abigail entered the room, military duffel bag in hand. “It’s not true about Padron,” she said. She looked down at his constantly shuffling feet.
Darren nearly froze, though his hands instinctively reached for his LifeTablet. He wasn’t sure why.
“He’s dead. That’s true. But he wasn’t…afraid.”
Darren attempted to contemplate the magnitude of this fact. He wondered how the pretty blonde ladies with the shiny lip gloss on channel 343 could have been misinformed. It didn’t seem likely.
“Of course he was afraid,” Darren said, slightly raising his inflection so that his comment sounded almost like a question.
“No.”
“Then what was he? What else is there?” Darren’s voice tripped up and he felt an involuntary twitch in his right bicep. He picked up his LifeTablet so that he could connect with humanity in this strange moment. He was updating his status, Abigail going to war.
Abigail hoisted the bag onto her shoulder.
“When fear stops—”
“Fear doesn’t stop,” Darren interrupted. “Without it, what would we be?”
“Bored.”
This notion, even scarier than being afraid, cauterized the conversation. Abigail’s eyes met Darren’s. He noticed for the first time the green outline surrounding the brown center of her eyes. Breathtaking, he thought. But he also felt the sentiment her eyes conveyed. She, too, was bored. He felt the beating of his heart in areas of his body that made no logical sense.
“I need to go back to war. At least I have that.”
“Thank goodness for that.”
Everyone in the United States was terrified, except, apparently, for Iowa Senator Martin Frawl.
“I do not live in fear. And neither should you.”
That was the line that convinced Darren Calloway—as well as roughly 85 million other fearful U.S. citizens—to vote for Frawl in the 2048 Presidential election.
Frawl would later thank his team of speech writers for cooking that one up. Thanks, guys, he would say in his homegrown, Midwestern manner, before popping the cork off of one of the 250 chilled bottles of Brut at his campaign headquarters. Nobody knew why he bought so many bottles, but it’s better to have too much than not enough.
Citizens like Darren Calloway love when strength can be expressed succinctly, in two short sentences. They also love when someone has the linguistic capacity to empathize. It makes them feel significant. And so that’s how Martin Frawl got elected President. Two short sentences.
*
Darren Calloway was terrified for a multitude of reasons. He was afraid that if he continued to grind his teeth while he slept he would develop cavities. He was afraid that his life partner Abigail Roddick would leave him because she found a man who was more adept at crossword puzzles. He was afraid that he would faint for lack of nutrients if he didn’t eat every three hours. Mainly, he was afraid because everyone else was. Fear is a parasite that feeds on itself. He was also afraid because life in his country was no longer consistent. Nothing was certain. Nothing, of course, except the war against fear.
*
“I can’t wait until we beat Fear,” Darren said eagerly, using “we” as though he were an actual part of the battle. He was conversing with Roger McCroy, a fellow home security specialist, one of the only people with whom Darren could exchange more than a handful of words aloud. This was because Roger at least acknowledged that fear dictated much of his life. Both spoke rapidly, in high tones, breathing unevenly.
“I’m pretty sure that by the end of next year, we’ll be a lot closer,” Roger said. “I think we’re winning the war so far.”
“We’ve been winning the war for a couple of years now.”
“Tough war.”
“Thank goodness for the war.”
“It’s the only thing we can count on anymore.”
*
The administration prior to Frawl’s had vowed to get the country out of the war. Ex-President Manuel Flores had enunciated, “This war has killed too many of our sons and daughters. We must end the violence.” Many citizens listened with the same horrifying thought in mind: are we losing?
Then came Frawl: “Surrendering now would be saying that fear wins. The enemy is not a country, nor a group. The enemy is fear! The only way to live free of fear is to confront it with strength. The United States is the strongest nation in the world. We will not let fear erase what our forefathers created!”
He capitalized the word Fear through repetition. It, much like “terror” in the administrations of yore, had evolved from an abstract, common noun to a concrete, proper entity. It no longer hovered over people, but rather grasped them physiologically.
President Flores, thought much of the country, the blowhard, didn’t even identify Fear as the enemy. What could he possibly know about protecting the nation?
People closed their eyes and waved little star-spangled banners and sang the national anthem and voted for the man who promised to end Fear.
*
Darren held out his left hand, seeing if it was actually shaking or just his imagination, as he thought about how quickly the world was changing. According to the pretty female anchor on channel 343—which was either Fox or Disney, because all stations were now owned by either Fox or Disney—the economy was still as unstable as a vase on a teeter-totter.
“How lucky we are to just have jobs,” Darren said to Abigail. Her gaze was fixed on the LifeTablet electronic device she held, her brown hair slightly covering her eyes. Darren and Abigail had been together since just before Abigail joined the U.S. Army 12 years earlier. Thirty years ago they would have been married, but the odds of getting a divorce were such that it was cost-effective to remain legally single in contemporary American society.
Darren leaned back in his PosturPedic recliner, specially designed for his body, reading the news on his own LifeTablet—Microsoft’s response to Apple’s iExist, which rivaled DigiDoon, Inc.’s revolutionary NowPad 3K, a sort of “everything-in-one” technological apparatus.
“Monica Redd was just laid off,” he said, noting one of the hundreds of status updates scrolling down the corner of the screen—if you could even call it the corner anymore, everything being at least three-dimensional.
“I already know.”
“Everyone already knows. It’s been up for a minute. Just wanted to say something out loud.”
“Hm.”
He checked his hand again, just to make sure.
*
“Of course we want our soldiers home,” spoke Frawl. “But the question you have to ask yourselves—the question I have to ask myself before I sign over our fate to the rest of the world—is this: would we rather save a small handful of lives in the short-term and live forever under the reign of Fear? Or would we rather defeat it? I think you know the answer.”
Darren nodded frantically.
*
Roger McCroy took a lengthened gulp from the lime green concoction he held in his hand—purified water mixed with a Serotonin supplement.
“What have you been up to today?” asked Darren, sweating though it was no hotter than 66 degrees Fahrenheit. They were each sitting at home, on their PosturPedic recliners, using their LifeTablets to conduct daily business, check status updates, watch television, and talk on the phone—all at the same time.
“Nothing, just bored.”
“There’s too much going on. Nothing to do.”
“Talked to Abigail?”
Darren saw Roger abruptly dart off the screen for a second. He came back on with the tired, lost eyes of an orphan.
“Sorry, kicked over my drink.”
This made Darren grasp his own drink even more tightly.
“Haven’t talked to her, no.”
“Haven’t talked to who?”
“Abigail.”
“Did I ask that?”
“I thought so. I hope I’m not imagining things. Do I sound okay?”
Both took a moment to try and breathe, eyes closed, allowing the unwelcome silence to break the conversation in a surprisingly calming manner.
“I’m sure she’s fine. I’m sure we’re all fine,” said Darren, trying to convince someone other than himself.
*
The last time Abigail was deployed, she was stationed in north Haochin, better known as India in its years of independence. Though no one expected much violence to come from a stable Chinese colony, Abigail and her fellow soldiers had grown accustomed to spending late nights constantly revamping the highly advanced radar and sonar devices that would alert the American soldiers of any nearby, impending danger. Nobody ever attacked them. It’s a good thing, too, because the soldiers were so fearful of engaging in warfare that even the most accurate shot in the group would tremble violently when wielding a firearm. But the soldiers all kept their loaded, automatic weapons close at-hand. Just in case.
In three days, Abigail was planning on being deployed again—for only nine months this time. She had been told that she would be stationed in Europe, but in two days she would receive notice that a new threat was identified near the Amazon River. Her unit would occupy the region in search of Guillermo Padron, a high-value-target allegedly working on behalf of Fear.
Padron questioned his “target” status, claiming he was searching for Fearists, too. He didn’t know why America targeted him. Neither did Abigail.
It wouldn’t matter, though. They wouldn’t need to find him. In two months, channel 343 would report that he became so irrationally obsessed with the notion of being captured, he ended up committing suicide during a panic attack one night on an Argentinian beach. A few journalists would question these accounts, but the pretty blonde woman on channel 343 would repeat it until it was as good as fact.
*
“Today’s accomplishment shouldn’t be seen as victory. Still enemies to be found. We celebrate this stepping stone, tho.”
President Frawl’s updates were usually shorter than this, but Darren knew that the firebombing of Fearist camps in the Ural Mountains was significant enough to warrant more than the standard 50-character NowMessage.
Also, the use of the collective “we” gave Darren a chance to inhale more completely than usual.
According to sources, the United States military had allegedly killed an unnamed member of a purported Middle-Eastern Fear organization.
(“Does this mean you’ll come home early?” Darren would later ask Abigail. “If I came home, what would I do? At least here I have a purpose.” “Thank goodness for the war.”)
Abigail had not been present for the bombing, judging by the fact that she had updated her own status at 11:47 am and 11:50 am that day. The bombing occurred at 11:48 am and lasted almost two minutes.
Though, according to another pretty lady on channel 343—who looked an awful lot like the other anchors—the military could not confirm who exactly was present in the camps, they were pretty sure it sent a strong message to Fear.
*
Darren pressed his pudgy, hairless fingers tightly together on either side of the packet, squeezing the last of the powder into his water, turning the liquid an emerald blue. He realized that this was his final Sero-Pack, but all he needed to do was give the InstaCommand on his LifeTablet a “refill prescription” order and his Serotonin supplement would arrive within the hour.
He forced himself to watch 45 seconds of news, to catch up on the happenings of the world. With Abigail gone, he took a far greater interest in world news. As he watched, the screen flashed “Breaking News,” which happened every three to five seconds. This particular headline captured his interest, so he hovered his middle finger over the sensoscreen (a technological upgrade deeming the touchscreen obsolete), and navigated his LifeTablet to the story that read, “Fear Threat Quelled: Mere Act of Terror.”
Darren labored through the thirty-word article before reading that a suspected Fear group of three men ended up actually detonating a bomb and killing one American soldier before being detained. This calmed Darren’s mind for a full second.
Attacking with a bomb had a limited impact, only killing the people within range. Attacking with Fear worked more efficiently—torturing the minds of countless.
The terrorists were given three years with parole for disturbing the peace.
*
Darren tried to smile at Abigail as she sat onto the couch, tossing her bag aside. He picked up his LifeTablet, and she hers.
“How does it feel to be home?” he asked.
“Boring.”
“Too much to do.”
She stared intently at the screen before her, Darren at his. Twenty-eight seconds ago the President announced an increase in the Fear Alert for the USA. Apparently, all people should be, “Moderately to Extremely Afraid.”
“Can’t be much longer now,” he said.
“Until?”
“Until we win the war.”
Abigail visibly quivered.
“What’ll we do without the war?”
“Who knows? I’m terrified to even think about it.”
“We need something consistent in the world. Something to count on.”
“Thank goodness for the war.”
*
Coincidentally, the firebombed camp was abandoned. The United States would not discover this for several days, and would not disclose this information anyway. A victory is a victory.
The previous inhabitants had evacuated to attack a group that, based on inside Intelligence, consisted of major Fearists. Incidentally, that group claimed they were not Fearists. Nobody was sure who to trust.
All you could do was go with your Intelligence.
*
Darren’s front door closed behind him. Like all doors, five impenetrable locks clicked automatically, requiring his optical authorization to re-open. He thought briefly about the forthcoming “Lockless Revolution” that President Frawl promised, the day for which everyone pined. The day when doors would close and not lock automatically. The day when windows could stay open at night once again. The day when everything was consistent and happy and peaceful…
At least we still have the war, he heard himself think.
Darren exhaled as a disheveled Abigail entered the room, military duffel bag in hand. “It’s not true about Padron,” she said. She looked down at his constantly shuffling feet.
Darren nearly froze, though his hands instinctively reached for his LifeTablet. He wasn’t sure why.
“He’s dead. That’s true. But he wasn’t…afraid.”
Darren attempted to contemplate the magnitude of this fact. He wondered how the pretty blonde ladies with the shiny lip gloss on channel 343 could have been misinformed. It didn’t seem likely.
“Of course he was afraid,” Darren said, slightly raising his inflection so that his comment sounded almost like a question.
“No.”
“Then what was he? What else is there?” Darren’s voice tripped up and he felt an involuntary twitch in his right bicep. He picked up his LifeTablet so that he could connect with humanity in this strange moment. He was updating his status, Abigail going to war.
Abigail hoisted the bag onto her shoulder.
“When fear stops—”
“Fear doesn’t stop,” Darren interrupted. “Without it, what would we be?”
“Bored.”
This notion, even scarier than being afraid, cauterized the conversation. Abigail’s eyes met Darren’s. He noticed for the first time the green outline surrounding the brown center of her eyes. Breathtaking, he thought. But he also felt the sentiment her eyes conveyed. She, too, was bored. He felt the beating of his heart in areas of his body that made no logical sense.
“I need to go back to war. At least I have that.”
“Thank goodness for that.”
