The War?

T.L. Huchu


Zig-zagging across Julius Nyerere, wrapped up head to toe in tinfoil. People pointing—stuff ’em. Small holes for my eyes and pinpricks for my nose. They try to say the War? is over. We won. Bullshit. Never trust anything the government tells you. If we’d won, how come they’re still remain hidden in their bunkers? Wouldn’t be out if didn’t need supplies. Too dangerous.


Nip into Kaitano’s. Employees and customers all dressed in silver suits like the one am wearing. We’re the resistance, all that will be left when mankind is finally wiped away while it slumbers. Rustling with every movement we make. Solid-arity.


“Fiftieth anniversary today,” says Gore. Know him by the sound of his voice. Listen to his weekly podcasts religiously.


“Of the War?, but the papers say it’s the tenth anniversary of the armistice,” says a voice in one of the suits. It’s high pitched, so it could be a woman or a...Never mind.


It started five years before I was born. Built entire career around it. First as an intelligence officer in the ZDF and then as a War? correspondent for Chimurenga Magazine, until sacked last year. Said I was irrelevant, a dinosaur, Cold War? neo-War?rior. Hadn’t published any of my work in years. But they’ll see. The whole world will see just what they sleepwalked into.