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The Refugees

The Campfire Stories: Volume 2, Issue 1

A series of short fiction stories guided by randomly chosen writing prompts on the days I have time to write them. Check out Volume 1, “The Unpredictable Adventures of Inspector J.R. Pinkerton,” for more stories like these!

These stories usually take about 5 minutes to read. They are aimed at giving you – the reader – some entertainment during your breaks in the day that isn’t reliant upon an audio-visual bombardment.

The daily prompt: “That metallic taste…” with thanks to www.thenarrativearc.org

I have no sponsors, I don’t get paid for those lovely ads they put on here, nor am I affiliated with Pexels.com or TheNarrativeArc.org; however, if you would like to pay me for my content or site traffic, I would love to discuss terms (and I am sure the other site owners would also love to do the same)!

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Nuclear sunrise. 

The day after the apocalypse in the stratosphere. 

The global superpowers of nuclear mutually assured destruction have outdone themselves. 

A tiny bleak speck of light on the horizon signifies the rising of a new day and the dawn of a new epoch. The smoke from the rockets still fills the air and is settling on cities like volcanic ash in the Midwest. There were so many missile silos there. We never thought they were crazy enough to go through with it. The leaders of the world’s nuclear-armed states did something in unity for once, in any case. Finally came to a unanimous decision in less time than it takes most of us to pick a paint color for our homes. Most of the world’s citizens don’t believe it was a well-thought-out plan in the first place, but what place does the majority play in politics? The first day since the end of an era of relative safety and security for most of the world, but some of us are more prepared than others. At least now, the 195 countries in the new United Nations are united by a common, undeniable, unarguable cause – watching the UN growing into a new, as yet unnamed, entity was probably the only exciting thing ever aired on C-SPAN.

I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the sky looking like that; I hope it doesn’t last. The haze envelops everything, drowns out the sun to the dimmest speck of light. You’re lucky to spot the moon through the atmospheric soup, even with night vision. A few military vehicles are rolling down Main Street. It looks like one is coming down our cul-de-sac. Yep, it’s parked right outside. Someone has to suit up and go out into that toxic radiation smog to meet them when they come; that’s what we were told on every media outlet just before the launch of the end of the world as we know it. I drew the short straw. I had to meet with the soldiers today for my new tribe and gather our daily water and other rations. I felt ill-equipped for it when I looked out the window, but I put on my Tyvek suit, a full-face scuba mask that Kelli, Rob, and I stole the other night, gloves, and booties, then duct taped over every connection, joint, and seam.

Each dwelling unit is supposed to have a minimum of twelve people over the age of fifteen in it. This ensures that the person collecting rations isn’t exposed to the outside for more than one hour every twelve days. My group consists of my cul-de-sac. I have the only home with a basement and a heating and ventilation system that could be rapidly converted to meet the United Nations’ recommended specifications. I have the only house with a solar power system and a Pelton wheel generator on the stream. The Pelton wheel was illegal until yesterday; the authorities decided I was no longer a threat to the monopoly since I had a system that could easily power twelve refrigerators. I had been trying to get it permitted for years, as my solar power system is reaching the end of its warranted lifetime.

Now those bureaucrats, the authorities, they’re all stuck in basements and hermitages with their new tribes, just like everyone else—the end of the world as we know it, the great equalizer. Luckily, I still have both systems. We need the batteries when systems turn on and draw more power than the Pelton wheel generator constantly generates. I was lucky enough to have someone that knew that in my little tribe. 

Kelli, who works for – excuse me – who up until yesterday worked running and maintaining the small hydroelectric dam that ran the City Hall and some of the schools, has lived two doors down from me since her divorce. She still drives that stupid damn maroon 1990s minivan around for some reason. She always says it’s practical. I didn’t see it as such until the other night when I got to take it for a little test drive. She even got collector car plates for it because of its age. It’s a Dodge Grand Caravan with a tannish interior, guaranteed not to offend anyone. There are still crayons and Cheerios in the seats from a bygone era in her life. The kids grew up, the only thing holding Kelli’s fragile marriage together. We got together during the riots in Kelli’s minivan and went to get supplies. It was the most fun I have had in twenty years. 

I was still smiling from the high I got off that exciting night when I reached the soldiers behind a large armored vehicle. I hoped they couldn’t see my smile and didn’t know that everything I wore was stolen. It looked a little like something I used when I had served, but it was modified heavily. Two soldiers, wearing what looked like Space Force spacewalk suits with the trademark Army camouflage patterns hastily painted upon them, stepped out of the back of the vehicle, and one handed me a tablet to begin filling out information for my “Refugee Pod,” the other would occasionally ask questions as I filled in the questionnaires.

The first of four alarms I set on my watch every fifteen minutes went off as I filled out demographic information about my Refugee Pod. Forty-five minutes left to get inside. They told us that if we had all the proper precautions, we could go out for an hour at a time – but we could only do it every 12-20 days, depending on our health. I am still determining who qualifies for the 20 days, but I want to get on that list. I continued tapping my way through the form with the stylus as the soldier with the tinny voice kept asking me yes or no questions, to which I would have to either give a thumbs up or thumbs down to answer. Once the forms were completed and submitted, I was given a garden cart filled with mystery supplies in sealed containers. I grabbed the handle and started walking home with my little wagon full of gifts. I felt a pang of hidden joy. I felt like a child, lighthearted and carefree for an instant, just happy to have my wagon and toys. Then I looked up again. 

I returned to the garage, and we commenced doing the decontamination procedures we had been instructed to do. We didn’t know what we were doing, but we religiously followed the directions on Rob’s iPad. We got inside, and Rob’s mom, a little Filipina woman called Noemi, had made a big batch of lumpia. I had them once before when I went to Rob’s for a fish fry, and they are one of the most delicious things I can ever remember putting in my face hole. Now I’m eating them, and it tastes like I just licked a nine-volt battery. That metallic taste in my mouth is drowning out all others. 

With some good fortune, I’ll be able to taste my food again soon. If I have more luck, our food will last until the community greenhouses are completed, and distribution tubes are built. With a miracle, I will find a way to earn enough bonus rations to keep my family, pets, and tribe alive inside our little DIY hermetically sealed home until it is safe to go outside.

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