Like many people, I knew better than relying solely on hunting and gathering in the modern era when we still had a vote against it. Like many people today, I do not have a choice anymore. They took away all the sense of security that was keeping us inside the Dome. They even deactivated the shield over us that once named the Dome, exposing us to death rays, bullets, bombs, any other imaginable, man-made catastrophe.
Survival of the fittest. Their motto. It is the phrase plastered on billboards, chanted in unison, tattooed on the strongest. It is the phrase that is most dreaded by the weak.
It is the phrase that killed my father, one of the first politicians who felt brave enough to stand against Miracle Klein, the poster woman of the Survivalists. All of them stupid enough to ignore the hands pulling on her strings. The hands that once branded the overpriced weapons that we all have, of the masters that are watching us survive.
It is prime time fun for the masters living in their high-rise buildings.
“How ironic,” I scoff as the light breaks on my rifle, right where the brand name shines into my eyes as I move closer to the edge. I duck down and place my rifle on the ledge, as if it was some delicate China plate. I lean into the scope and blink for one last time, before my vision becomes clear.
The woman in my vision pushes her rounded glasses upwards, closing the gap between them and her squint eyes, as she slouches forward, picking up a thin pile of papers. Her face has always been devoid of any expression, except for the lifeless smile when she is addressing her people.
“Good morning, Miracle,” I mumble. “It’s been long enough.”
I align my aim towards her head and hold my breath.
In a blink, the bullet whizzes through the glass and pops her skull like a zit.
I chuckle. In five seconds, I will be knee-deep in trouble.
Still, my father has been avenged on Father’s Day. How ironic.
Image Credit: FaustusNotes
Happy Father’s Day!