Seneca Rebel
43

THE EASTERN SEABOARD had taken a beating over the past several decades, and until now I’d only witnessed it via the news. The most recent tropical storm, Hurricane Molly, had left the majority of the coastline from Maryland down through Virginia, the Carolinas, Georgia and Florida, in a state of emergency. This was the biggest storm on record since these parts had been settled.

The absence of moonlight made it harder to see the scenery along the highway, but I didn’t mind, because it was such a nice contrast to the urine-colored blaze that had replaced LA’s night sky so many years before. As the morning light began its slow fade-in, the weather-battered land became more and more evident. An overturned water tower nestled, abandoned, in a bed of weeds. A massive uprooted oak tree had taken out half of a gas station.

Only those places rich in private financial reserves had enough resources to repair the damage in the affected areas. And those communities were few and far between. The government had nothing to give and nobody to borrow from. And now I knew that the resources that could have saved these areas were being channeled into Seneca instead. My Country, ‘Tis of Thee’ was being left in the dust. It was depressing, really, but I tamed my emotion, and recognized that the cyclical nature of empires, and even species, were amply illustrated by the history of the rest of the world. Now it was America’s turn.

After Maryland, we crossed through a cool, cobalt Washington, D.C., in its wee hours, and then on to Northern Virginia. We traveled against the flow of the morning commuters ascending from the exurbs in sync with the rising sun. Below a golden tree-tufted horizon, prisms of amber morning light bounced between the stream of flighters in the air and the cars moving slowly on the roads beneath them; the two socioeconomic groups were connected whether they liked it or not. Dom and I were starving now, our stomachs running on empty.

We pit-stopped at a gas station in Front Royal, Virginia to use the bathroom and grab a snack. This was a town stuck in the past. Strips of one-and two-story red brick office buildings and warehouses, dormant apple orchards and sprawling horse farms. Four lane roads. Old time yellow traffic lights on posts. Ironic as it is, Front Royal is Virginia’s main Smart Road hub. Footballfield size solar awnings covered the communication towers and generators that powered the automated vehicles.

At a classic, “you pump, you pay,” gas station Dom and I agreed to take turns waiting at the car to keep a lookout, just in case. Dom awkwardly danced his way inside, trying to withstand the pressure of a near-bursting bladder.

He came back, relieved. My turn. I thought nobody was in the gas station except the cashier but then I saw some old lady in the aisle reading the label on a pack of vita-melts. Ancient country music was playing. Patsy Cline. A muted monitor with the news was on behind the FlexPay hub. Local weather report– 30 degrees.

I hit the bathroom. As I headed back out, I looked straight at the cashier. There was just something about him. The guy was about fifty years old with thick gray hair, weathered reddishbrown skin, shielded by a layer of red-gray stubble. A toothpick dangled from his mouth. A dark blue and white striped buttonup, sleeves rolled above his leathery elbows, this was a man who had clearly worked his whole life to provide for someone, somewhere, who loved him, like I loved my dad. There was a sparkle in his eye as he smiled and nodded at me. I grinned back.

Then, behind him on a screen, something snagged my attention. Side-by-side pictures of Dom and me, captioned with, “Runaway teenagers in extreme danger. Please report to authorities.” I froze, tried to keep from choking and jetted out to the car, not giving a second glance at the cashier I left in my dust.

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