She handed my license and electric bill back to me. “There are labels on the shelves for how much of each item you are allowed to purchase based on how many people are in your household. They are state-mandated limits, so don’t argue with the employees about it. I don’t want to be called in to enforce the rules. Understand?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Now that you’ve popped up in our system, you can expect a visit from the Rationing Board soon. Do you have any firearms at home?”
“Firearms?” I was still reeling from the implications of her statement.
“Guns. You know, rifles, especially automatic rifles, pistols, revolvers, shotguns… Firearms.”
“Oh. No. I’m a college student.”
“That doesn’t matter,” she said dismissively. “So, no weapons then?”
“I mean, we have kitchen knives.”
She sighed. “No guns?”
“No,” I lied. The pistol that I’d acquired suddenly seemed a lot more important to me for some reason.
“Okay. Have a good day, Mr. Haskins.”
As I put my things back in my pockets, I heard her asking the person behind me for their identification. What the hell was a rationing board? And for that matter, why were we rationing food? America produced more than enough food to feed everyone, why wasn’t there enough to go around? So what if I wanted to have extra food in the house? If I bought it, why couldn’t I have it?
The thoughts and questions swirled around in my head as I inched closer toward the door. The entire thing felt off. There wasn’t any reason for it. The Crud was a respiratory illness that three-quarters of the population recovered from even if they caught it. Why was everything going to shit?
I sent Cassandra a quick text message telling her to bury our go-bags in the back of the closet along with the item I got from the soldiers the other day. I was purposefully trying to be cryptic because I’d suddenly become paranoid that our phones were being monitored. She didn’t get it and asked if I meant the gun. Jesus. We exchanged a few more text messages back and forth and she understood what I was talking about.
Once I made it past the employee screening people with a no touch forehead thermometer and a few generic questions about my general health, I walked into the coolness of the grocery store. The inside was like some dystopian nightmare. A large American flag banner hung from the exposed rafters right as you entered, making it impossible to miss. Emblazoned across the red and white stripes in bold black letters were the words, “Share the Love! Citizens are authorized one week of food. Remember to do your part for your neighbors.” Another sign further back asked, “Citizens are required to register. Have you gotten your new identification yet?” I wasn’t sure about that one, but I chose to ignore it.
3x5 cards were affixed next to every price tag. The cards listed ranges of household members and how much of each item a shopper could purchase. For example, a household size of one-to-two people could have two zucchinis, three crowns of broccoli, one-third of a pound of green beans, two bags of lettuce mix, and so on. Whoever figured out the rationing limits was apparently unconcerned whether a person was a vegetarian since the amounts were clearly meant as side items to a main meal.
I wondered if I’d somehow lost track of more time in quarantine than I’d thought—like twenty years instead of only two weeks.
I was about halfway through the store when I saw the same National Guard guys from the incident two weeks prior. They were standing near the front with their weapons held at the ready like they were going to shoot somebody. I wasn’t entirely sure it was the same two since they wore facemasks, but one was much taller than the other. Remember that fear I thought I’d conquered? Yeah, it came back.
I made my way up the aisle quickly and then back down the opposite one, hoping they hadn’t seen me. “Hey, you. With the wagon.”
Too late.
I stopped and turned around. The soldiers were coming right toward me. Other shoppers got out of their way and stood around, watching what would happen. Hell, I wondered what would happen.
“You were here a few days ago,” the taller one accused.
“I haven’t left my apartment in two weeks. This is the first time I’ve been out.”
“It all runs together,” Shorty said. “You were there when we carried out the sentence for crimes against humanity, weren’t you?”
“Crimes against humanity? I mean, the gangbanger was trying to mug me, steal my wallet.”
“Yeah. You are him,” the tall guy said. “We left something there at the scene. Did you pick up anything?”
The gun! “No. Not that I remember,” I lied.
“There wasn’t a weapon of some kind on the ground?” Shorty asked.
“Um, no. I mean the guy had a gun on me, pointed at my head, but I never saw it again after you…uh, carried out the sentence.”
“We can take you out back and force you to tell us the truth, Citizen,” the tall one said menacingly. “It’s within our jurisdiction.”
“I don’t know what happened to it.” I was feeling very threatened by these two assholes with guns. I stared back at them in defiance. Give me a minute without weapons and I’d pummel the two of them into the ground.
“Search him,” Shorty ordered, raising his rifle to my midsection.
My hands shot up above my head. “Whoa! Whoa, guys. I don’t have anything.”
“We’ll see.”
Rough hands patted me down, digging into my flesh at every opportunity and completely violating the social distancing orders. He didn’t miss a single spot, even places where a weapon could obviously not be hidden. It was both embarrassing and infuriating, fanning my anger even more.
“He’s clean.”
“You sure you didn’t see a weapon?” the short one pressed.
“No.” I wasn’t about to call this piece of shit “sir”. He didn’t deserve that respect. “I was pretty much in shock. First at having a gun pointed right at my forehead, then for having the gangbanger’s blood and brains all over my face after you guys shot him. I didn’t see what happened to the gun.”
“Watch your tone, Citizen.”
I looked directly at the tall one. “Why do you keep calling me that?”
“You’re a resident of the United States of America, aren’t you?”
“I used to think so,” I scoffed.
“Then you’re a citizen, bud. Citizens have more rights than illegals. Be glad you ain’t one of them or else we’d round you up and toss you over the Border Wall back where you came from.”
Shorty lowered his rifle and stepped forward. “This is the second time we’ve had to deal with you. There won’t be a third.”
He didn’t wait for a response before turning and walking back toward the front of the store. His partner stared hard at me for a moment longer. “Give me a reason, big boy,” he hissed.
I stared back at him, seeing red. I wanted to beat his stupid fucking face into a pulp. “What?”
“You want to resist. I can tell by the look in your eyes. Give me a reason.”
“I don’t—”
“Thomas! Let’s go,” Shorty called out. “We need to secure the perimeter.”
“Coming, Sergeant.” He spun around and stalked off.
Around me, the other shoppers were beginning to disperse. Like rubberneckers at the scene of an accident on the highway, they’d gotten an eyeful, but the show they’d stayed to watch was finished before there was bloodshed. The situation was absurd.
I hurried through the store, picking items at random. Well, not totally random, because I knew roughly what we needed and what we had plenty of. The milk was limited to one carton, so I opted for the big plastic gallon-sized jug versus the smaller half-gallon organic milk that we normally drank. That would double our milk supply while still following the rules. The eggs had the same restriction, one carton per household, so I got the eighteen-egg flat instead of the twelve-egg carton. Take that, dickholes!
&n
bsp; The frozen section was pretty much bare, its contents long picked over and not resupplied. That made sense from a totalitarian regime’s perspective. Goddamn Animal Farm, I mused as I thought of the political term I’d recently learned about on my internet searches. If you wanted your population dependent upon the government, you limited the amount and type of food available, including the ability to store food long-term, like frozen items. By forcing everyone to buy fresher products, they would be required to visit the store more frequently.
I was finally ready to check out, but when I got in line, an employee walked over to me. “Have you gotten your new Citizen ID yet?”
“What?” I asked.
He pointed at a large sign on the wall that was similar to the banner hanging in the entryway. “All citizens are required to have the new Citizen ID card in order to purchase groceries. It only takes a few minutes.”
“But my cold stuff…”
“It’ll be just fine. We don’t have a long line right now, so it’s best if you do it today.” He chuckled. “I mean, you wouldn’t be able to buy your groceries without it anyways, so you have to do it.”
“Um. Okay,” I relented, not willing to make another scene with those two National Guard douchebags hanging around. My eyes followed the employee’s outstretched finger toward the customer service desk. “Over there?”
“Yes, sir. Just go over there and Alicia will take care of you.” He hurried to the next line and asked the shoppers if they had their new Citizen ID yet.
I sighed in frustration. It was a good thing that I didn’t have ice cream, or popsicles, or any frozen items because they’d probably be ruined by the time all of this was over.
The employee at the customer service desk, Alicia, asked for my current ID card and then proof of residency. It was a damn good thing that I’d brought the power bill with me or else I wouldn’t have had the proof that I lived in Austin. She typed a few things, then had me look into a hand-held device that she said scanned my pupils. Next, she took my fingerprints on the same device. I felt like I was being processed for prison.
For my final indignity, she opened a paper package and removed a cotton swab. “Open up,” Alicia directed. “I’m going to get a swab of the inside of your cheek.”
“What for?”
“Your DNA.”
“No way,” I said without thinking.
“It’s required for your Citizen ID.”
“My DNA sample is required to buy groceries?”
“Is there a problem?” a man’s voice asked.
I turned to see the same employee who’d directed me to the customer service desk. “Yeah. She wants a DNA sample from me to get this ID card thing.”
“Sir, we don’t make the rules,” the male began in a tired tone as if he’d said the same thing thousands of times over the last few weeks. “The biometrics data is required in order to receive your Citizen ID.”
“What’s all of this stuff for?” I asked. My Spidey Sense was on overdrive.
“I don’t know, sir,” the manager sighed. “All I know is that if we want to stay open, and that means all of my employees have a job, we are required to collect all of this information and issue a Citizen ID card to all eligible patrons.”
“What if I wasn’t a citizen?” I asked.
“That’s what those soldiers are for,” he replied, pointing at the douchebags.
“The National Guard guys?” I said, incredulous. “What about the police? I mean there’s a Sheriff’s Deputy out front checking IDs too.”
“Citizenship is a federal issue that’s required by the NAR. Have you been hiding under a rock, young man?”
“I uh… I’ve been reading a lot, not really watching the news too much anymore. What’s the NAR?”
“You have been hiding out. The NAR is the New American Republic. The Crud has caused a near total collapse of our economy. The payments the government made to individuals wasn’t working, so they’ve decided to federalize most of the essential processes, which I think is wonderful. They’ve also revamped a lot of the processes used in our everyday life to make everything that was wrong with America better.”
After he said that, I knew the manager was full of shit. The federal government screwed up almost everything it got involved in. They were too far removed from reality to be effective. State and local governments were where the rubber met the road, so they should be the ones making the laws at the local level.
“So, how does requiring DNA samples make sense?” I asked.
“I don’t know about that part yet, but I do know that it’s a requirement to receive your Citizen ID. I also know that no ID means no groceries from my store.”
“I’ll just go somewhere else then.”
“Good luck,” the manager chuckled. “There are soldiers stationed at every grocery store in Austin.”
“Oh, geez,” I groaned. “This is ridiculous.”
“I’m not trying to pressure you here, sir, but I’m supposed to report any problems to the soldiers. They’ll ensure that you comply or go away hungry.”
“So… Citizenship or death, is that right?”
“That’s a harsh way of looking at things. You should focus on what citizenship provides for you. Food, a monthly stipend, access to education and healthcare… I even heard there’s a job program in development for everyone who’s out of work.”
“Okay, okay,” I relented, holding up my hands. This guy was obviously some type of government zealot. I should have figured as much. Austin has always been full of a bunch of weirdos and the idea of free everything seemed right up some of these guys’ alleys. “Give me the damn cotton swab and get your sample. My raw chicken is going to spoil by the time I walk home.”
Alicia passed me the cotton swab and I ran it along the inside of my cheek like she directed. The swab went into a port in the biometrics machine, which she then set aside and began typing again.
“Very good, Citizen,” the store manager said. “I’m glad you made the right choice. If you’ll excuse me, I need to go back over to the lines before some dirty non-citizen loads up the conveyor belt.”
The computer beeped and Alicia said, “Oh.”
“What is it,” I asked, looking back at her.
“Um, it says here that there’s a Ms. Cassandra Ortelli who lives with you, but it doesn’t have a relationship status listed. What is your relationship with her?”
“Why does that matter?” I was beyond upset about this entire process. Something felt off about it. The federal government was expanding their authority far beyond what was legal and moral.
“I just have to fill out all of the fields before it will let me advance to the next page. Your options are spouse, significant other, roommate, sibling, parent/grandparent, or child.”
“Significant other.”
“Okay. Oops. Anther page popped up for her information. Date of birth?”
“I’m not comfortable giving you all of my girlfriend’s information. I don’t have authorization to do that.”
Alicia pointed helplessly at the screen. “I can’t help it, sir. I have to input the information into the system for you to receive your Citizen ID.”
I tapped my fingertips hard onto the customer service desk counter in frustration. This whole thing stank of a communist coup within our government and Americans were happily complying just to make things easier on themselves. My fingers drummed harder until I finally stopped.
“I have to call Cassandra and get her permission to share her information.”
“Okay, sir. I understand.”
I dialed my phone and tried to explain the government bullshit as succinctly and non-aggressively as I could to Cassandra. She agreed with me that something about the registration of citizens was frighteningly similar to Germany in the 1930s. But there was nothing we could do. No citizenship meant no food. No citizenship also apparently meant an immediate visit by the goon squad in the corner that already had a hard-on for me.
Wh
ile she was still on the phone, I gave Alicia her information. The form even asked for next of kin address and phone number, which was totally weird. Why would they need that? I gave a bogus address for both my parents and Cassandra’s. They could figure it out for themselves later.
After a few more minutes of answering questions about medical problems and family history, Alicia declared that the government stated Cassandra and I were fit for citizenship, although my girlfriend would need to provide her biometric data to a registration specialist in order to have her full citizenship confirmed.
The registration specialist, as I assumed Alicia was labeled, handed me a warm plastic card with my photo on it. “Here you go, Citizen Haskins.”
“Hey, where’d you get my photo from? You didn’t take one of me.”
“It came up in the system. I’m not sure,” she answered honestly. “It scours the internet and social media, then downloads the most recent photograph of you. I just verify that it’s you before accepting the picture.”
I studied the picture. It was me in a burnt orange University of Texas polo shirt. “Son of a bitch,” I muttered. “That’s from my freshman year. It’s the photo they took of me for the team webpage.”
She glanced at my chest before looking back at my eyes. “I thought you were a football player. I’m sorry the season got suspended, hun.”
I nodded noncommittally. “Is there anything else I need to do?”
“Nope. You are now registered with the federal government as a citizen of the United States. You can participate in any federal or state-approved functions. Your girlfriend is not a full-fledged citizen yet, though, so don’t try to bring her to a social function until she sees a registration specialist.”
“Social function? What about the Crud?”
The woman shrugged. “The government has begun easing restrictions for citizens and allowing small gatherings as long as they are approved by the city social committee.”
“Um…okay.” That didn’t sound right to me, the whole purpose of the federal quarantine and social distancing was to stop the spread of the Crud. How could some random local committee approve a social function where people were bound to get within the required six-foot space? Unless the quarantine was to hide some other purpose. All of the idiotic conspiracy theory websites I’d read flashed to mind.
American Dreams | Book 1 | The Decline Page 6
