AFTER THE FLOOD: A NEAR-FUTURE SF TALE

Sienna watched the reeds for movement.

 May, 2052

Sienna watched the reeds for movement. She could see for miles in this drowned land. Much of what had once stood here—homes, stores, office buildings, gas stations—had been swept away by storm and flood. Over and over again, until the wetlands had come to reclaim the mud and rubble. Now only the wild things lived here. The things she hunted. The things that hunted her.

On the raised causeway that led past what remained of the city, the big shots reclined in their vehicles and let the comps guide them to their destinations. Holograms assaulted their senses from the very air around them, exhorting them to do their duty to God and Nation, to be fruitful and multiply, to buy and spend. Sienna could see the holos from here, even though she was a long way from the causeway. She ignored them. The people in those cars might as well live on another planet for all she had in common with them.

She certainly wouldn’t be multiplying. She had vowed to die before she would allow herself to be taken by the slavers coming up from the South to steal fertile women off the streets. So she had taken a year’s worth of pelts and scavenging treasures to pay for the illegal operation upstate that ensured she could never get pregnant. Now she would never be burdened with a child she couldn’t feed. And she was safe from bio-slavery.

The air around her already shimmered with heat, though the sun was barely above the horizon. The hazy sky told her it would be a scorcher today, a day to seek the shade in her home in one of the few concrete structures that still stood on higher ground. But first she had to find meat—a deer or a pig, if she was lucky, a groundhog or a muskrat if she wasn’t. She had learned the hard way that the shellfish that thrived in the swamp weren’t safe to eat. They were rotten, contaminated by poisons in the soil and water. She let them be.

The AR-50 rested easily in her hands, a weapon she was used to carrying. It wasn’t ideal for hunting—it often made a mess of a smaller target—but there were other reasons to pack the cheap automatic. Armed gangs and the police roamed the streets; feral pigs ran in herds in the swamp. Guns, unlike food or shelter or other basics, were easy to get. And though she lived with others, she hunted alone.

A splash off to her right caused her to whip around. But she saw nothing. No deer, no birds. A prickle of awareness raised the hair on the back of her neck. There were other things in the swamp that sometimes needed killing, wilder, more dangerous things.

When she heard the first coyote yip, she knew she might be in trouble. It was close, and on the right side, where she’d heard the splash. She eased silently to the left and back toward a raised tuft of grass. But an answering call came from even closer; the pack was circling. Then she heard the unmistakable sounds of something running through the knee-high water, splashing and grunting. The pack was after its prey now, yipping and warbling in the high, feverish calls that meant breakfast would soon be served. Coyotes never hunted strong, healthy individuals. Whatever they were after was wounded or sick or too young to survive. Not worth fighting them for it.

The chase ended almost before it began, with a high-pitched scream cut short and the triumphant coyote-party howls that always followed a kill. A feral human then. Sienna could tell from the scream. One of the many young ones that scraped out a life in the wetlands after those that were forced to bear them dumped them here. The series of foster homes where Sienna had grown up had been a horror show, but at least she hadn’t had to fight off coyotes. Just predatory males.

She cursed. The hunting in this part of the wetland would be ruined for the rest of the morning. All the prey would have gone to ground in the commotion. She decided to head back. Better to be hungry another day than dead.

She took the time to scan the marsh again as she slogged through the mud. Over on the causeway, the cars drove on, oblivious to the life-and-death struggle below them. In the sky, the holos filled the air with color and sound. “Only You can Save this Nation! Do your Duty Now!”

This mini-short story is a work of fiction in the long tradition of science fiction that places the issues of the present in the context of the future. Everything in it is directly extrapolated from the headlines of today. If the world I describe is not one you wish to live in, well, I don’t blame you. Me neither. Check the last line.

In hopes of change,

Donna