Humankind_Saga 1

by Mic Shannon

  “HUMANKIND”

  SAGA 1

  Preface

  “This trilogy is intended to be an introspective look into humanity as a whole. More important than the events are the reactions. How will humanity survive this? Does racism or sexism or classism matter when the indiscriminate nature of the destructive force is coming for us all? I chose to put humankind under the looking glass, so we could all look inside ourselves. Learn who we are as people. Learn life lessons at every turn about love and unity. This is more than just a novel; I feel the world needs this.”

  - Mic Shannon

  A special thanks to everyone who supported me bringing my talents to the world. I love you all.

  PART I

  FRI, APRIL 21st, 2034

  Alexandria, VA, USA

  2:48 pm

  A s the tall, awkward, dark skinned teen sat and stared out of the principal’s office window stroking the fuzz on his chin, he looked up at the clear blue sky, daydreaming as he often did, clinging to the unrealistic hope that things could be different. He was an obviously handsome young man at first glance, but his facial expressions were always twisted in a combination of anger and pain. He had a right to feel this way; his life had been a series of unfortunate events. Misery had taken his innocence and buried his happiness deep inside of an emotional shell so strong that the external illusion of callousness had become his go to reaction. Maybe if he was a little less shy and had more confidence, he pondered, he could be popular like some of the other students in his school. But then again, he knew that wasn’t his life.

  Among the many things he had learned, even as a young child, was how to wear his mask properly. He and his mother had moved around a lot when he was a child, and she did her best to make an honest living. She was educated, but also single, putting a damper on her spirits as well as his. Never showing much interest in men, it was apparent that she had never truly moved past the relationship she had with his father. He harbored plenty of resentment toward the absent man, but chose to bury it as best he could to function day to day. That was a part of his mask.

  It was his auto-demeanor, hiding his true feelings from the world. He knew nobody would mess with him if he appeared angry and hard. He knew how to be left alone. After all, who could he really trust? The world was a dangerous place.

  The United States was once again at war, struggling with their economy after the nearly worldwide shut down of free trade in 2030, leaving corporations to feast. Abroad, they fought state-sponsored terrorism, stepping it up even more than the previous year, honoring the men and women who left their homes to go to foreign countries and fight in their war-torn societies. At home, race, ethnicity, class, and hatred of those outside of your own had divided the country, turning it into a hollow shell of bitter prejudice while the world continued to look to follow their lead.

  It wasn’t just the U.S.; the entire world had gotten worse. Greenhouse emissions had begun to change the atmosphere drastically, increasing the need for chemically induced hormones to supply the growing population. Countries had begun the backward process of fending for themselves, dissolving treaties and cultivating a culture of greed while its citizens cultivated their addictions to technology. Although it was all he’d ever known, he wondered when humankind had truly lost its way? He imagined a time long before him; a time when humankind hadn’t been so greedy and destructive.

  The principal swung the door open and rushed in with notes in hand, dropping them on his desk and flopping down into his chair.

  “He must have just come from the review board meeting,” he thought to himself, “It doesn’t look like it went well.”

  The principal sat and stared at the young man for a moment. He glanced down at the paperwork and then back up at him. This hadn’t been their first encounter. They had been in front of each other more than 10 times over the past year. A long sigh was followed by a look of disappointment as the principal looked away and rubbed his hands together in thought.

  “Michael,” he said with a dissatisfied tone as he leaned in and looked down at his paperwork, “as you know, today was the day to review your ability to be retained at this school.”

  “Here it comes, they’re kicking me out of school…again,” he thought, preparing himself for the worst.

  “Let’s cut the crap,” said the principal sternly, “this is not your first, but your second, high school. The board knows you well.”

  He thumbed through the pages of his record, reciting the various incidents like a business accountant reading from their ledger, “October 2033, assault on a student. December 2033, fighting. January 2034, threatening another student. February 2034, fighting. March 2034, throwing a desk at a student…I could go on.”

  “Mr. Marlow, can I say something…”

  “Wait,” he interjected, calming his voice to a softer and more fatherly tone, “let me finish. I spoke to the board about you...about everything that’s going on outside of here. They know you’ve had a really rough time. I explained to them that almost all of these suspensions were a result of you being provoked by other students, not the other way around. I even had a few teachers testify on your behalf.”

  There was a long pause. Michael wasn’t aware that any of the teachers cared enough to do anything but send him to Mr. Marlow’s office for suspension. He sunk in his chair and cut his eyes toward the floor in embarrassment.

  “They’ve decided to let you stay by my sole recommendation only,” explained the principal, apprehensive in his statement as if he himself knew it was a bad idea, “but if you mess up once, just once, you’re gone. And not I, nor any of the other teachers, can help you.”

  Michael looked toward the window, sinking into a daze as all teenagers do when they only pretend that they aren’t listening. Mr. Marlow knew better.

  “Michael, you’re a smart student,” he continued, “Your grades are fine, no problem there. I used to take you for quiet and reserved, but your temper needs to be controlled son. Is everything ok at the group home?”

  These types of exploratory questions always felt intrusive. His reaction was no different than that of any other 17-year-old.

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” he said. Again, he cut his eyes toward the window as he put on his mask.

  “Are you sure?” replied the principal. After more than 15 years in the school system, it wasn’t hard for him to pick up on a teenager’s body language, “How’s your mother?”

  “Yeah…she’s good,” he replied, submitting to him another canned response that overshadowed his true feelings.

  “Listen,” he replied as he leaned in with genuine care in his ice blue eyes, “you can tell me anything. I’m here to help you.”

  A long pause as Michael stared back into his eyes, reading his sincerity like a book and contemplating the risks and benefits of his honesty. The last bell of the day buzzed right on time.

  “Yeah,” he said, “I know.”

  He stood up and slung his backpack lazily over one shoulder and walked out of the office toward the front door.

  --- 3:15 pm ---

  Walking through the streets of his hometown never felt so distant. He glanced casually at the faces of the people whom he passed on the uneven urban sidewalk. Not one smile. It was as if everyone was in their own little world, walking past each other with their faces twisted in discontent and blind animosity. Harboring pain and resentment against each other and against themselves as if it was worth hoarding, reinforced by a society which hailed it as your own free right.

  He made his way over to the local hospital, not far from where he stayed, going through his weekly routine. He hated going there. It was awful. A grim reminder daily of everything wrong in his own little world.

  Approaching the security stat
ion at the front entrance, he emptied his pockets before being waved through a detector by the guard. Searches, pat downs, and a new system that scanned the body for weapons and explosives were commonplace in all hospitals. Recently, more businesses and public domains had adopted the technology, using it as a precautious measure against the rise in domestic terrorism.

  Michael made his way through the scanner and held his arms out to his sides, waiting for the security guard to pat him down like a bouncer at the local nightclub. Once he was cleared, he grabbed his things and turned left, making his way down the hallway toward the elevators. When he got there, he stopped, pressed the button, and waited.

  As the doors opened, he stepped onto the elevator, standing next to a tall, handsome, well-dressed man holding a briefcase. The man was dressed exquisitely sharp, wearing a suit that could not have cost less than three thousand, looking as if he didn’t have a care in the world. For a moment, Michael couldn’t help but wonder how someone could ever be so happy; especially in a world of fear, confusion, and despair. “Excuse me,” he wanted to say to him, “why are you so happy?”. He pondered it for a moment, figuring it couldn’t hurt to ask. There had to be a secret.

  The doors opened on the fourth floor and the man exited the elevator with a bounce in his step. Michael sighed, missing his opportunity. Every time he entered this building, he had an underlying sadness, a staunch feeling of uncontrolled chaos that hadn’t left him in almost a year. His depression blanketed him, rather, held him tight like a strait jacket of sorrow.

  The doors closed and continued up to the fifth floor. When they opened, he stepped out onto the bustle of the walkway. Nurses were moving back and forth fast, wheeling by patients on gurneys and bringing blood and other fluids to hang in the rooms. Across from the elevator was a rather large sign, a sign he hated seeing every time he disembarked the elevator. A sign indicating the floor he had arrived on: Oncology.

  This wasn’t anything new for him. He had been coming every week for months on end. Walking these same halls with the same sadness. At first the depression was debilitating, but now, after making a new mask, it had manifest in anger and coldness.

  Approaching room 511, he stopped at the doorway and tucked in his shirt. She would have made him do it anyway. He took a deep breath and rounded the corner, entering the room with his best attempt at fake cheer. He took off his mask and knocked on the open door twice.

  “Hey mom,” he said, smiling. He always hated this part. It was the same thing every time. It was hard to try to be lively and upbeat when your mother is dying in a hospital bed, the absolute opposite of the strong woman he always knew her to be.

  Once as a child, he reminisced, he had witnessed her foil a purse snatching with a vicious combination. It almost tickled him. The man grabbed the purse, but she didn’t let go. Next came an assault that couldn’t have been executed any better with planning. Knee to the groin, headbutt to the nose, and finally an elbow to the face. He had never seen anything like it. But now, she was different. The disease had changed her.

  When she heard his voice, she moved her head ever so slightly, looking at him in the doorway and trying to smile. On her face was a breathing mask attached to a ventilator, assisting her in the use of her lungs. She inhaled a long, wheezing breath, then lifted the mask and spoke to him slowly.

  “My…son…” she got out, her eyes softening almost to the point of tears at the sight of him.

  “How you doing, mom?” he asked rhetorically, knowing the answer.

  She inhaled slow and deep, “I’m…only…as good…” she inhaled again, wheezing, “as…you are. How was…school?”

  He debated on telling her the truth. She had always stressed school to him, among other things. It was very important to her that he did well. Her explanation; she just wanted him to know that he could. It was important life lessons like these that buried themselves deep inside of him, just waiting to be leaned on one day in times of desperation. In several ways, whether he knew it or not, she was his source of strength.

  “School’s good,” he replied, shrugging his shoulders, the tone of his voice rising in dishonesty as he walked into the room and pulled the chair up next to the bed.

  She laid her head back, knowing that he had lied. She regretted not being able to be more of a mother to him. To see him grow up and become the man she had always wanted him to be. Instead, her time was cut short. It broke her heart, the debilitating pain from the disease paling in comparison to the pain of the inevitability that she wouldn’t be able to continue to mother him.

  “How…was the…hearing?” she asked.

  Michael looked down, scratching at his pants, “It went fine.”

  “You…know,” she began, “If you…had just…breathed…”

  He rolled his eyes. He hated those childish things she used to make him do. Whenever he would get angry, or upset, or anxious she would make him sit down, take a deep breath, and relax his mind. She knew that he could choose whether or not to be bitter. He was smart enough to know he had the option as well, but he chose to stew in his angry ways.

  Michael sat down in the chair next to her, grabbing her hand with his. Her hand was colder than usual, and he could almost see her veins through her weak, brittle skin. She had lost nearly fifty pounds, her body now frail with the appearance of malnutrition and her hair having left a long time ago, with only a few tangled strands remaining on her bald head. Her breasts were gone, leaving only large scars across her chest. More than anything in the world, he hated seeing her like this.

  The cancer had spread aggressively, causing her to fall ill quicker than usual, but there were some memories that he still held dear. He remembered her hair, a full head of it; a curly brown mixture of black and something else, something she had expressed that she was never able to identify. She was born a British citizen, moving to the U.S. in her mid-twenties. He remembered her showing him some old pictures as a young child. She was beautiful.

  “Did you eat, mom?” he asked, looking at the tray of food by the bed, beginning to crust over from sitting out so long.

  She inhaled a deep breath again, looking away. There was no need to respond, she thought, knowing that he had seen the tray. It was not in her character to lie.

  “How…” she wheezed, “is…the new…” she coughed.

  “Are you okay?” asked Michael, hopping up to grab water from the tray and present it to her.

  She waved it away, “I’m…fine.”

  He sat the cup down, twisting his face in worry as he once again felt that familiar feeling of helplessness.

  “Do…you…like…it….th-,” she coughed again, inhaling deeply as she paused, “there?”

  She had been asking him the same question for months since he moved in; he had always given her a canned response of ‘good’ or ‘it’s cool’. He would have thought to tell her how he really felt, but it would change nothing. She was unable to care for him anymore, so the state had retained custody. There was no father around to take him in. No rich aunt or uncle to see to it that he’s taken care of. He was state property, now living in a group home with group home boys. His life had gone downhill, and fast. Instead, he was just silent, because she had always taught him to be silent if he had nothing positive to say.

  “You…hate it,” she concluded easily, knowing her son and his personal body language.

  “Yes.”

  She wheezed again, “Why?”

  He had a thousand reasons, but instead, he chose just one, “I miss you.”

  A tear rolled down her face as she looked at him, her expression filled with sadness and loss of hope. Her own fate she had accepted, but her son’s she couldn’t bear watching pan out. The disease was terminal, and there was nothing she could do about it except give him as much of herself as she had to give while she could give it.

  “Well…” she began, attempting to comfort him, “some…times…we…”

  She coughed. Michael scrunched his eyebrows.


  “We…don’t like…life,” she inhaled again slowly, struggling to breathe, “but…when life is…hard…you have…to find…a way...to…live…just…one more…day.”

  He wiped his eye, playing it off as some sort of allergy or itch. The only things on his mind now were depression and anger. Angry at his depression. Depressed by his anger. How could his entire world be crumbling like this? Why did it have to be him and his mother? Why couldn’t he just wake up from this dream and come home with a healthy mom tomorrow.

  “Michael,” she said, inhaling again with that same wheeze, “I…love you…son.”

  He looked away and sniffed, trying not to cry in her face. She would never have it. She had always raised him to be resilient to negative emotions, but it became harder after seeing her decay from illness.

  “Yeah…yeah, I love you too, mom,” he managed to get out, wiping his eye before a tear could fall.

  On the television, the news ran in silence, displaying violent images of protesters clashing in fisticuffs over polarizing issues. This was commonplace in the country as of the last decade. The issue was never truly relevant, almost always lost, and at this point most people went out to rallies simply to stir up another fight and film it for social media.

  The news switched to another story, studying the aftermath of a bombing near the Mexican border. The country was numb to it, only harboring hatred and fear when the media stirred them to do so. Mostly they went on about their lives, devices glued their hands, using public forums to post private thoughts behind a wall of anonymity.

  “The…world…” his mother began, sliding the mask back over her face to take a long breath, then sliding it back off to talk, “is a…crazy…place. I’m…old school…sometimes…I don’t understand. You…be…better than…the world. Promise…promise me.”

  He tried to smile through the sadness in his eyes, “I promise, mom.”