Arranged around a semicircle, flags lined the walls from all over the world. Delegates and international leaders sat in blue seats; scientists and activists sat in green seats. At the front of the auditorium, a dramatic video screen served as a reminder that, behind the polished suits and pristine personas, lie individuals grappling with the complexities of global warming. Their wrinkled faces twitched at the montage of melting icebergs, burning forests, and the graphic slides of rising sea levels. Violin music played in the background; sad starving children’s faces stared back at them–demanding action. The world leaders watched the video presentation in silence. The ‘United Nations Climate Hope Summit’ was gearing up for its biggest star.

  Greta Thunberg, the climate warrior, stood at the rostrum, passionately addressing the United Nations General Assembly. Her voice carried over the high ceiling and polished wooden floor, like an opera singer’s in the cavernous hall as the screen went dead.

  “How dare you!” she said, her voice trembling with emotion.

  “How dare you steal my dreams and my childhood with your empty words? How dare you continue to sit there and pretend that everything is okay when the world is burning?”

  Greta’s spiteful bitter words waffled through the simultaneous interpretation system so the delegates could hear her speech in their native languages. Press in the gallery snapped close-up shots of her sullen face from the back of the hall. The world leaders squirmed in their seats. Some of them looked down at their laps, while others looked around the room, hoping to avoid eye contact with Greta.

  “You are failing us. But the young people are not going to let you get away with it, oh no. We will not let you destroy our planet. How dare you!”

  After taking a deep breath, she closed out her speech to a standing ovation; basking in the adulation. When silence hit the hall for the next speaker. A spluttering, conking sound rattled from the ceiling. Everyone looked up in alarm. The mainframe from the air conditioner units gasped for its last breaths before finally cranking to a halt. Sven Ingrid, the President of the General Assembly, stood up and walked to the podium. He was a short, distinguished-looking man, elderly with a shock of white Scandinavian hair.

  “Thank you, Greta,” he said, enunciating each syllable in a clear, strong voice.

  “Your passionate speech about the climate crisis, spoke to the millions of young people around the world. We are just as concerned as you are. We will not forget them. I now call for a recess. The Assembly will reconvene in one hour after some refreshments while the air conditioning gets fixed.”

  The delegates filed out. Greta knew the work ahead would be difficult fighting for the planet. But not on an empty stomach. She said to her friend, a young climate activist named Luisa.

  “I’m going to get something to eat. Do you want to come with me?”

  “Sure. I’m starving. I hope they have some good vegan options. Great speech, Greta. I’m really feeling your vibes right now. The bit about the displacement of the animals in the Amazon was right on the mark. You really spoke for us.”

  “Thank you. I’m glad you think so. I heard they had some great BBQ in the back!”

  “Cool, sister.”

  Greta and Luisa walked out of the assembly hall into the schmooze-fest of the lobby bar. World leaders and delegates cut trade deals. Discussed weapons contracts and territories. After the leisurely interlude, the world leaders were back in the assembly hall once again. The President of the General Assembly, Sven Ingrid, stood up and tapped on the podium microphone.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, the summit will now reconvene.”

  The delegates fell silent, turning their attention to the podium. Sven Ingrid cleared his throat.

  “I now have the privilege of introducing to you the President of the United States, Mr. Donald Trump.”

  Bronzed from too many rounds on the golf course, Donald Trump stood up from his seat in the front row of his United States delegation, and walked to the podium. Perspiration dripped incessantly like tears in a cruel summer tragedy down his forehead. Then he cleared his throat, taking a big gulp of water.

  “Thank you, Sven,” Trump said. “I’m honored to be here today to speak to you about the climate crisis—Is it me, or is it, like, over 100 degrees in here? Somebody fire the air conditioner guy already. And China and Russia aren’t even here. That’s really sad. They’re the biggest polluters in the world, and they’re not even here to talk about it. But we’re here, and we’re going to talk about it. We’re going to make the world great again!”

  Trump swigged more water. "But I believe that we can address this crisis without destroying our world economy. We can do this by investing in clean energy and by developing new technologies."

  Trump wiped his brow, the heat getting to him. He tried to continue his speech, only to feel a twinge of something sinister taking hold. A familiar sense of contempt surfaced that he’d never been able to fully suppress.

  “Is something wrong, Mr. President?” Sven Ingrid asked.

  “No, no,” Trump said. “It’s nothing.”

  But he knew it was something. A savage, primordial urge took hold of his body, like some reawakened ancient force. His eyes went black, leaving behind an abyss devoid of compassion. Trump transfixed his unblinking focus on Greta Thumberg, radiating nothing but calculated malice and cruelty.

  “You know, Greta! You're nothing but fake news. And I’ll tell you what GRETA!, I’m going to pull out of the Paris Agreement and I’m going to open up all our coal mines and oil fields. Drill baby drill motherfucker. You little twerp!”

  The United Nations delegates, whose faces were once draped with optimism for a brighter future, now dropped in sheer surprise as the unmistakable words escaped Donald Trump’s lips. One ill-timed comment sparked the first shove, and within moments, diplomatic courtesies were forgotten in the ensuing scuffle. A riot unfolded within the hallowed halls as Ferox 13 stealthily infiltrated every sinew of their bodies. They should have stayed away from the house water.

  “Oh, by the way, I want the media to get this. This is not fake news, by the way. If you’re watching President Wang of China and President Pushkin of Russia. My red button is the biggest. In fact, my red button can blow the entire United Nations out of the water. What do you think about that?” Trump said brazenly.

  Greta Thumberg sprang from her chair with a fervor likened to an undead creature locking onto her target—Donald Trump. Scum hung from her lips like a toxic residue clinging to the edges of her words.

  “How dare you!” she screamed. “You are a monster! You are destroying our planet!”

  Luisa’s mood changed, following her, creating an effective diversion by ramming herself straight into Trump’s bodyguards like a bowling ball, knocking them down for a lucky strike. They had never experienced such unnatural strength from a small woman before. Gripped by an evil rage. Greta Thumberg reached the podium undeterred and stood face-to-face with Trump. The once gentle pool of her hazel eyes; now burned within an inferno of a thousand suns.

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  “You are a liar! You are a fraud. I am going to kill you, Donald!”

  Trump smiled. “Oh, you think so, Thumberg? There’s nothing you can do to stop me.”

  In an apocalyptic scene, the world watched live footage in shock as Greta Thunberg, the young Swedish climate activist, moved like a honey badger in a personal duel with the giant orange bear of America. She was quick with vicious swipes and feints, but she was no match for Trump’s power. With practiced moves from his appearance at WrestleMania; she never had a chance. Trump lifted her off the ground like Hulk Hogan with an authoritative and thunderous—power slam. She flew like a rag doll off the center stage. Then Luisa followed up to no avail—double power slam.

  “You’re both old fake news!”

  They laid on the floor immobilized. It didn’t just stop there. Gripes seeped out to all of the other delegations. Aurelia Ironheart was trying to take a bite out of the Argentine president’s neck, licking her old wounds from her time in the Falklands. Greece and Turkey were in an all-out brawl over terrorism and territory. Trump moved into the melly with his eye on the president of Mexico. Globally, people in homes and offices sat in front of their screens, as scenes at the United Nations got transmitted by all of the news channels. At Bloomberg’s headquarters in New York, lead anchor Alisia Brown covered the footage. She tapped her earpiece.

  “Jessica, can you describe what you’re seeing there right now?”

  The camera cut to Jessica in a gas mask, surrounded by shouts and screams. “Alisia, it’s total pandemonium. The fighting has spread everywhere. I can see the Brazilian delegation squaring off with the Saudis over there.”

  She had to duck, as a chair flew by. “The security forces are struggling to maintain control. They’re using tear gas. but it isn’t working. We need to leave, now! Nobody is holding anything back anymore. Trump has just knocked out the President of Mexico—holy cow!”

  Jessica’s camera crew swiped around to Trump in the rafters. In a blatant lack of respect for international relations, he was now with his bodyguards having a showdown with the President of Venezuela.

  “Oh god, she’s just brought out a live weapon, I have to get out of here.”

  “Who has a live weapon, Jessica?”

  “Greta Thunberg. She is coming toward the press gallery with a rifle.”

  Through the viewfinder, Greta came into the frame like a haunting vision of fury. Nothing could stop her now. Trump had stoked her anger further. Her normally calm face was now twisted, icy eyes burning with lunacy. Frizzy pigtails had come undone; flying loose like the mane of a feral beast. She darted between delegates and the security forces, taking out President Adamdski of Poland with a boat load of bullets. The wooden stock of the rifle gripped in her slender little hands. Its long metal barrel gleamed under the spotlights, leveled straight at the camera.

  “How dare you lie about the climate?” she screamed, a vein throbbing maniacally in her pale neck. Saliva smeared her lips.

  “I’ll show you what your future looks like!”

  Jessica and the camera crew backed away, but Greta closed in with disturbing speed. The gaping maw of the rifle bore down on the lens. For a split second, her gaunt face filled the entire frame, twisted features; inches from the camera in a frenzied grimace. The world watched trash TV.

  “Greta, no!”

  Jessica cried out, throwing up her hands uselessly. The last thing seen was Greta’s finger tightening on the trigger before the feed went dead, replaced by Alisia’s terrified expression back in the studio.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve lost our correspondent at the scene. All we can do is pray for anyone still trapped in the United Nations.”

  She turned at the producer’s signal. “We’re getting breaking news—Russia and China have issued a joint statement. Let’s go to China for the reaction from President Wang...”

  The scene cut to a grand hall in Beijing’s Zhongnanhai leadership compound. President Zhi Wang stood surrounded by aides, his serious expression reflected in the sea of lights and cameras.

  “Citizens of China, today we are witnessing shocking events at the United Nations. While violence should always be an absolute last resort, the actions of certain leaders today cannot go unanswered.”

  He let the translation sink in for global audiences. “For decades, China has advocated for peace and mutual understanding between all nations. But peace requires responsibility from every side. When some seek only conflict, they threaten the stability and prosperity of us all.

  To our allies who share our beliefs, know that China stands with you. And to those who want to destabilize global order, I say this—any move against China or her allies will be met with a swift and decisive response. We strive for harmony, but we will not hesitate to defend our people and our interests!”

  The scene shifted to the Kremlin, where President Pushkin gripped the podium.

  “Comrades...” he began.

  “Today the so-called leaders of the free world have forgotten that every person on this earth is deserving of dignity. Through their actions, they have made a mockery of diplomacy and sown seeds of fear across the globe. Russia does not take these threats lightly. We will not stand by idly. Bullies can’t go around unchecked. To those who feel small in this crisis, know you have a strong big brother watching over you. And to those who brought us to this precipice, take care; any move against Russia or her allies will be your last.”

  His voice dropped to a dangerous rasp. “Push us no further into this darkness you have created. The consequences of further escalation do not bear thinking about.”

  Fights broke out across the world, as ATMs quickly ran out of cash. People rushed into supermarkets, carts in tow, grabbing anything they could get their hands on. They stocked up on food, water, and other supplies, preparing for the worst. Shelves emptied from preppers at the sight of doomsday on the horizon. The chain effect was one of panic and fear. Cars honked their horns on gridlocked roads. Investors and homeowners saw the prices of their homes vanish in a blink of an eye.

  **********

  Out in the quiet Catskills, the white box van wound its way through sparse forests of maple and birch, their autumn leaves just starting to turn brilliant shades of red, orange, and yellow. Gulag held up a hand quieting the chatter from the Bloodies.

  “Listen...”

  Coming from the static-filled radio was a broadcast from CNN: “We’re receiving reports that protests have now developed in dozens of cities worldwide. In London, protesters have stormed Parliament. Riot police are struggling to contain clashes in Paris, Berlin, and other major European capitals.”

  She adjusted her earpiece. “I’m getting word that thousands have occupied Wall Street and shut down the New York Stock Exchange... we’ll have more on this developing situation after the break.”

  Even Gulag was surprised at how well it was coming together. “Bohemian Rhapsody, gentlemen?”

  Emerging from the trees to driving rock music, with an impromptu chorus from the Bloodies. Gulag had a view of rolling green hills sloping down to sparkling lakes. There was a hut at the foot of one of the hills. He parked the box truck in a stony car park of a weathered old tavern called ‘The Wayward Down’, sitting solitary on a back country road. It was a simple two-story building with peeling paint and a wooden sign creaking in the breeze. They scrubbed grease from their hands. Aromatic scents of fried food drifted. They stepped through the screened door, finding a bar with a barman and a lumberjack. Behind the bar, the grizzled barman in a faded check shirt focused on the crackling little television.

  “Looks like the end of the world is upon us,” he called out. “World War Three has broken out at the UN.”

  “I’ll drink to that, Brock.”

  The lumberjack downed a whole pitcher and burped. “Line up another one.”

  Brock’s eye was on the group of maintenance contractors, as he pulled his beer pump.

  “Didn’t think I’d be serving to my last customers. The world’s gone mad out there. You all look like you could use a drink. First round’s on the house before we’re all dead.”

  Brock lined up the tall pitchers for everybody. Gulag and the Bloodies took stools. On the bar TV, scenes looped endlessly from the United Nations. Gulag raised his glass.

  “To the end of the world. And may all your deaths be swift.”

  https://books2read.com/u/bWaRL0