In the end, equality just isn’t cost-effective. It works well enough for small groups, in a carefully-controlled setting, with easy access to crucial resources. But if you put enough desperate people on a sinking ship, sooner or later civilization falls prey to survival. Sooner or later, someone gets pushed over the side.
 

In this story, the metaphorical sinking ship is the United States of America. And people like us are the poor bastards left treading water.

​

The year is 2055. Thirty years since the point of no return for global warming. Fourteen since the coastal flooding started, and ten since the Heartland gave up the ghost and began its slow transformation into a thousand miles of desert. Crops failed. Rivers dried up. Dust storms and tornadoes became a year-round threat. Anyone who could leave, left. Anyone who couldn’t was forced to fend for themselves.

​

The government did its best, all things considered. Millions of people were evacuated en masse and moved to temporary housing—spartan supercities, low on amenities, but built a safe distance away from the constant storms that threatened the nation’s dwindling coastline. Militarized farms were established along the thin band of still-usable land that circled the Central Desert, their produce carefully guarded and distributed to civilians by armed convoys. But they simply didn’t have the resources to rescue everyone. There is no safety net big enough to catch an entire country on the brink of starvation.

​

“TEN MINUTES, PEOPLE!” announced Jacob. His handheld megaphone cut through the noise of men and women loading crates of food onto trucks, making us pause. “IF YOU’RE NOT READY WHEN WE LEAVE, YOU GET LEFT BEHIND.”

​

I slipped my dust goggles down around my neck, looking at the spoils of our latest heist as I rubbed my lower back. Four automated haulers, filled to the brim with fresh fruit and vegetables bound for New Sacramento. Enough food to feed our people for weeks, if we were careful. A circle of rusty old-world pickups surrounded the overturned convoy, buzzing with activity as we transferred the stolen goods.

​

We had to move fast. The first few years, the Coastal Alliance had looked the other way when the occasional convoy went missing. But these days we were on the clock. As food grew increasingly scarce, the harsh math of our reality was becoming more and more apparent: someone was going to go hungry. And the coastals made damn sure it wouldn’t be them.

​

To my left, Frank nudged my elbow. “Come on, man. We’ve gotta get moving.” I nodded, leaning down to help him muscle another crate up onto the nearest truck. “Whaddya think is in these things, anyway?” He smiled, the ever-present dust of the Central Desert deepening the lines around his eyes. “Potatoes? Watermelons? Jesus, it’s been years since I’ve tasted a god damn watermelon.”

​

A few feet away, May stood up and cocked her head. “Hey,” she frowned. “You hear that?”

​

She was young, as far as raiders go. Barely twenty. But we didn’t have a lot of people to work with, ever since the last crew went missing. Anyone who could drive a truck and lift a crate was needed.

​

Frank laughed, turning to speak over his shoulder as we hoisted the crate. “You gettin’ jumpy over there, kid? Don’t worry, we’ve got time. They won’t even notice this shipment is late until—”

​

His head exploded.

​

“Jesus Christ!” I shouted, letting go of the crate as Frank’s suddenly-limp body collapsed under its weight. I crouched behind the heavy metal container and scanned the sky wildly, trying to pinpoint the source of the attack. Screams filled the air as raiders started dropping to the ground, either diving for cover as I had or falling to the sudden gunfire in our midst. Beneath the chaos, a whirring, mechanical buzz began to fill the space between the cries of pain.

Jacob was the first to regain his senses. “DRONES!” His amplified voice boomed over the yelling. “DRONES, DRONES, DRONES! GET THE FUCK—” his warning cut off in a squeal of static as the megaphone in his hands burst into pieces.

​

The Coastal Alliance, it seemed, had grown tired of losing its convoys.

​

I slammed the tailgate shut, scuttling around the truck in a half-crouch and clambering into the driver’s seat. The keys were still in the ignition—standard procedure on a raid—and I cranked them with one hand while desperately reaching over to disengage the emergency brake. Beside me, a figure ripped open the passenger-side door and jumped into the cab.

​

“Drive, god dammit!” shouted May. She wrenched her door closed behind her, then tore her mask off and threw it in the wheel well at her feet. “They’re dead! Fucking go!”

​

I cursed, fumbling the truck into gear and sending a spray of dust up behind us as we peeled out of the dunes and skidded back onto the highway. A burst of machine-gun fire clattered against the truck bed as the drones turned to give chase.

A few miles to the north, a dust storm boiled toward us. “There!” May pointed. “They can’t follow us through that! If we can reach the wall, we’ll make it!”

​

“If,” I growled. But we didn’t have much of a choice. I willed the little truck to pick up speed and raced for the approaching storm front, praying a lucky shot or an unseen pothole wouldn’t blow out a tire before we got there. Praying we weren’t the only ones who had survived. Praying we’d grabbed enough food to make this loss of life mean something.

“They’re gaining,” May said. I didn’t bother looking in the mirror. I knew what I would see.

In the wreckage we’d left behind, the wind of the approaching storm blew a fresh layer of ocher dust over the bodies of our comrades. Twelve raiders, claimed by the same desert that was slowly killing us all. The latest victims of a planet that no longer tolerated our presence.

​

The age of man was already over. Those of us who remained were just fighting for the scraps.