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Area 52

After 2019 by Neta Q

By Neta QPublished 3 years ago 3 min read
1
Area 52
Photo by Nagatoshi Shimamura on Unsplash

Beth stood with her mother in line at a boarding port. A temperature check-in. Trembling hands, emaciated bodies worn down with anxiety, grief, and hunger. Fingertips blackened, pressed down. Visages and fingerprints blinked from computer screens taunting worth, acceptance, and placement.

Volunteer your skills for a better life. That was the enticement and encouragement blared in the media. It was involuntary servitude. With most supermarkets closed, food rationing, and your name on a list posted in the neighborhood, it was not arbitrary, you are called into service. There was no way to hide from the monster of hunger and the scavenging beast of starvation. After all, everyone needed to eat, but Beth could no longer remain with what was familiar and safe.

Beth knew the relegated diseased and undesirables were kept offshore in container ships the size of small islands. The Pacific dotted with the manmade islands, and plagued by storms, offered no respite. Tides roared to expel the inhabitants from these structures, Swells, skyscraper high, moaned in displeasure, a voracious rebound, tormenting to destroy.

The population all segregated according to skill level. Beth a teacher. Her mom a nurse. Unceremoniously relocated. Moving to where they were needed. Areas one to sixty. Not in order of acquisition by the United States of America, or the size of each state, but areas selectively designed to benefit the one percent. They determined the lives of all within the country and territories. The president still a figurehead to convince the masses that democracy was intact, but they all knew who was in charge.

A lone tear, cold and bitter, trickled its way down. March 2020. Remembered peals of laughter at the scramble to buy toilet paper and hand sanitizer. The uncertainty of virtual schooling and the first few weeks of quarantine more like a vacation. Marie Kondo’s Netflix episodes were binged worthy. Organized drawers and cupboards, bolstered egos. Groans of satisfaction and contentment echoed the superficiality of the new normal.

Moving back home with her parents was borne of familial love and protection. Frank and Laura retired two years prior, enmeshed in a life of volunteering, friends, and movies. Beth enjoyed the closeness and comfort of her parents. The animated conversations to find her a significant other. Laughter, and cooking, or ordering in, or eating out. Now all gone. Relics of the ‘before’, a time taken for granted, innocent and significant, now unfamiliar, and gluttonous. Memories activated died with tears of regret. Decaying with the present circumstances as fear fought and invaded to erase hope.

Five months after the virus, many were in peril. Escalating paranoia, food shortages, and racism slithered through communities. Pervading social media posts desecrated family livelihoods and conversations. The virus did not spare anyone. Beth’s father, Frank, increasingly belittled the news reports citing conspiracies and big government. The twenty-four-seven news cycle became his eyes and ears to the outside world, dismantling the psyche of this once gentle and kind man. Blame became his mantra, and concrete statues his martyrs.

Converted cruise ships now ferries. Bound for the Area Communities. Militarized and sanitized. Distorted mausoleums of a gilded era when society sacrificed integrity for opulence.

Down a gangplank and into an assembly port viewing room. Beth held on to her backpack of small mercies. She hugged her mother’s frail frame. They all stood shoulder to shoulder.

Hundreds.

No social distancing.

Fearful chatter skittered.

Bodies held taut as if the act of standing tall, protected hearts, and minds, and preserved dignity.

Then, a raspy bold tone growled into the tension like scalding water over ice cubes, jolting, trying to gain access, soothing and reawakening. Fatigue and tension fought this piercing song of memories. The word great sauntered and roared as the phrase caught flight ‘Great Is Thy Faithfulness’. Rhythms of salvation swayed, soared, and bounced off glass walls and throughout the room. A hymn of the devout, stunned and shattered the present paralysis. Memories torn asunder, laid bare in tearful exhilaration, revealing a new hope.

Voices soon rose in song. Some reedy, boisterous, or strident. All with heart. Hope once denied now restored. The comfort of faith, belonging, and familiarity, amidst remnants of discord and uncertainty, reassured and comforted despite the looming shadows of Area fifty-two, two miles offshore.

science fiction
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About the Creator

Neta Q

Reader. Writer. Substitute. Loves coffee, sleeping, and solitude.

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