[Author’s Note: The following is the Prologue of Zero Hour, the short story I originally wrote for Beautiful Monsters over on Substack. Although writing fiction is not my forte, as I prefer writing nonfiction, I nonetheless recognize the creative and artistic benefits of fiction. I am hoping to eventually repost the four Chapters that were posted on Beautiful Monsters over the past several months and Chapter 5 tomorrow. Expect another Update post plus the Chapters. -DAH]
In the uncertain future of a new millennium, Neoliberalism collapsed in the fires of the Third World War, its unipolar Empire of Liberty replaced by new and old ideologies. The German Reich, People’s Republic of China, Soviet Union, and Imperial Japan emerged as the victors of an uneasy, yet fragile alliance. A morning thunderstorm rumbled over the ruins of Washington DC, dousing the former American capital in heavy rainfall. Countless buildings were reduced to rubble, the bullet-ridden ones that continued to stand were riddled with large holes, broken windows, and busted doorways. Scorched vehicles and aircraft debris lay strewn alongside empty shell casings all over the cratered streets.
Some government buildings were seized by the occupation forces, with signs written in their native languages. The ones the occupiers did not acquire were taken over by the newly established ‘West Columbia’ and ‘East Columbia.’ Postwar reconstruction efforts had already begun, the war having ended days ago through a peace treaty that resolved the absence of one in the last world war. Remaining locals were rounded up by the occupiers to put out fires and clear debris. Convoys of military trucks ferried civilian construction crews to the city as part of the postwar reconstruction efforts. The West Columbian and East Columbian governments had reached an agreement to construct a fortified wall stretching from Chevy Chase in the north to Anacostia in the south. A section of the proposed wall ran through the middle of the old National Mall, the Washington Monument connecting the northern and southern sections of the wall.
At one of the recently restored areas of East Columbia, there stood a Soviet-style cafeteria that had been built there since the war’s end. Staffed by women in Soviet maid uniforms and frequented by foreign construction crews and relief workers sent alongside those from the States north of East Columbia, the place was serving breakfast in the early hours of the morning. Although daylight had yet to arrive, the cafeteria continued to attract the same faces as it was one of the few places preparing food for all non-military personnel in a ten-block radius.
Inside, four German men in their twenties were seated at a corner table near the back of the cafeteria, engaging in small talk and playing poker. All bets were placed at the center of the table, the bets consisting of Greater German Marks in various denominations. Their dealer, one of the Soviet maids, pulled up a chair and dealt each of them their pair of cards.
“‘Fortress America’…,” one of them muttered. “That’s what they called this land, Wilhelm.” He turned to the man sitting on the chair to his right. “It’s a fitting name.”
“Who is they?” Wilhelm chimed. “Christoph, you know I don’t pay much attention. We’ve come here as part of the international relief mission.”
“The Democratic-Republican Party, who else would I be talking about?” Wilhelm replied. “This country never had more than a political party split into two parliamentarian ones.”
The Soviet maid, pretending to ignore their conversation, took one card from the deck and placed it on the table. A King of Clubs was placed in front of the pile of Greater German Marks.
Wilhelm spoke to Max and Andreas, the other two men to the right of Christoph. “You both know what I am talking about?”
“Of course,” Max answered. “When they couldn’t be allowed to rule the world, they instead hunkered down here in America to make a final stand for Neoliberalism like in the last great war.”
“They did fight tooth and nail to keep their vision of the world alive,” Andreas recalled. “I hear there are bands of military stragglers and partisans launching attacks lately.”
“Who in America is going to support them after they drove everyone and everything into the ground?” Christoph chortled. “Nobody from Massachusetts, Pennsylvania, Virginia, Texas, Utah and California wants anything to do with Neoliberalism.”
Two more cards were taken from the deck and placed next to the King of Clubs. The second was the Five of Diamonds, the third being the Seven of Hearts.
“Not counting the big six,” Wilhelm spoke, “The lower forty-eight is all there’s left. Thanks to the peace treaty, the Soviets regained Alaska, while the Japanese annexed Hawaii.”
“And Puerto Rico and the other territories got their independence,” Max chortled.
“Have you seen the sort of ideologies on display these days?” Christoph said. “The Americans have plenty of foreign ideologies to choose from, and not even one that could be considered ‘American’ in any genuine sense. Most are not going to resonate with Pan-Germanism, Pan-Arabism, Falangism, Titoism, Fascism, Bolivarianism, Peronism, Maoism, and so forth.”
“There are always exceptions, aren’t there?” Wilhelm added. “America has always been a diverse nation, even among the various European people’s communities.”
“But which of them has the most sway over the States?” Christoph retorted. “The sheer racial diversity of their nation makes it impossible for any one particular foreign ideology to resonate with the rest of America. On the other hand, simply having American followers outside positions of power is not tantamount to achieving much these days.”
“Then I can’t think of anything that comes to mind,” Andreas voiced.
“You sound like you want the Americans to consider starting an Anarchist commune or something,” the Soviet maid told Christoph in a Russian accent, her head cocked to the side. Taking two more cards from the deck, she placed the fourth and fifth cards on the table. The Nine of Spades was the fourth, the fifth the Three of Clubs.
Christoph quipped, “Am I?” He gawked at the hand he was dealt and the five cards on the table. “Honestly, I’ve never thought of myself as an Anarchist.”
“The King of Clubs, Five of Diamonds, Seven of Hearts, Nine of Spades, and Three of Clubs…,” Max murmured. He glared at the Soviet maid. “Are you sure you shuffled this deck of cards beforehand?”
The Soviet maid nodded. “I did.”
“Don’t mind him,” Andreas the maid. “He’s actually new to playing poker.”
Christoph, confident in the hand he was dealt, declared: “Check.”
Wilhelm and Max persons followed in his wake. “Fold,” they announced.
Andreas also gave his hand to the Soviet maid. “Fold.”
The Soviet maid and Christoph revealed their hands, settling them on the table. The first person had the King of Spades and the Nine of Clubs. The Soviet maid had the Three of Spades and the Seven of Diamonds. Christoph and the Soviet maid had both gotten a two pair, which meant they got an even share of everyone’s bets.
“One of these days,” Christoph swore, “There is going to be a new Americanism in response to everything that has happened. I don’t know when it will happen, but it is going to be change the destiny of this nation.”
Wilhelm scoffed, sipping his coffee. “Well, if you’re willing to put everything into that perspective,” he yawned,” Last week feels more like the last days of Ancient Rome.” Max glanced at the time on his wristwatch. “We can talk more about this later, preferably on the way back to Europe.” He finished his coffee before standing up from his chair. “Our shift is about to start in the next thirty minutes,” he reminded his comrades. The four men got up and walked away from the table, the Soviet maid cleaning their table as they left the cafeteria.
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