Xiaomi and Kunmar were on an assignment from the Asian Reinvestment Congress to document conditions in the United States of America. Once the richest and most developed country, the USA had spent the last two decades decivilizing itself, while imposing random hardships and exorbitant fees on foreigners who dared to visit. It had become a cipher to the outside world. Its persecution of non-White people made a visit from an East Asian and a South Asian especially fraught, but all the more reason to send these particular officials to reveal the face of the now-hidden former hegemon.
As soon as they landed outside of Washington, Homeland Security—of course—pulled them into a small room for questioning. The air conditioning wasn't working and there were a lot of flies. “You come America," said the masked, armed, badgeless officer. “You pay, we no hurt you.”
“Pay what?" Xiaomi asked.
“Donation, United Christian National Fellowship.” The sum, in renminbi or rupees, would feed an American family for a week, but meant nothing to someone on an Asian expense account, so they both paid up and were set free.
As soon as they exited security into Trump International Airport, they began to fret about the unhygienic conditions. Indeed, the USA was known throughout the developed world for its hostility to medical science, especially vaccinations, and its embrace of unproven folk remedies, which had led to one life-threatening epidemic after another.
“Fortunately,” said Xiaomi, “I had the Huiba immunization against 100,000 viruses with a single nasal spray. Do they have that in Mumbai yet?”
“Our Arjuna spray only covers 60,000. I thought that would probably protect against anything in the U.S., but—after seeing this airport—I’m not so sure.”
Indeed, the carpeting was filthy and threadbare. What had once been moving sidewalks and escalators stood silent. The whole terminal smelled faintly of gangrenous limbs or the contents of stomachs reacting against barely edible food.
They waited over an hour for a shuttle to the minimal Metro system, which had not been extended or upgraded in decades. The shuttle broke down in Beltsville. They tried to call for a ride, but their burner phones couldn’t get a signal and, of course, the USA had long since firewalled itself off from the rest of the world. A Black guy driving what was left of a Ford F-150 took pity on them.
“I take you Anacostia, but no White Zone. Maybe you stay outta there.”
“We have business in Massachusetts,” said Kunmar.
“We have to get to Cambridge,” said Xiaomi. “Our grant requires us to photograph the ruins of Harvard and MIT.”
“I no know. Sound like another White Zone. I take you Anacostia. Watch out gangs,” said the driver. Kunmar knew that the American education level had plummeted, but to hear the pidgin English this once eloquent people had resorted to … Xiaomi thought of how she’d achieved full English fluency in the fourth grade. She would have been as fluent as an American after six months of study.
They tipped the driver with one of the advanced microchips that cost less than an ice-cream cone in Singapore, but were impossible to find in the States.
They navigated the Washington Metro and, after more delays, connected with the Acela to Boston. “They call it high speed. It would be the slowest train in China,” said Xiaomi.
They made it to Cambridge on a smoke-belching MBTA bus, as the subway hadn’t functioned since the flood of 2035. Harvard Square loomed ahead of them. It used to be a few blocks from the River Charles, but now the water lapped at the edges of the square itself.
The ancient academic buildings, some now inhabited by gangs of White Catholics of Southie ancestry, some by other groups such as Azoreans (those who had avoided campification from ICE), were full of cobwebs and rats. It was hard to read the attitude of White gang members toward an East Asian and a South Asian, here amid the ruins of a once renowned institution that had enrolled large numbers of both. Massachusetts Hall had been claimed by White Christian Dominionists who kept their women hidden at home for safety and who—now, as adults—would be unable to qualify for the preschool programs that had graced Harvard Square two decades earlier.
“Me call Trigger,” said one, with tattoos so crude it was impossible to decipher what they depicted. He pointed to his chest. “Trigger. Trigger hungry. Help family.”
Kunmar thought of handing Trigger a couple of microchips, but immediately his fellows emerged, armed with pieces of lab equipment they had repurposed as weapons. Others brandished crucifixes. “Foreign! Not USA!” one shouted, pointing. Then they all took up the chant: “Not USA! Not USA!”
Xiaomi, per her assignment, recorded all of it. The mob lunged for her recording device, but of course they could not comprehend that it was virtual, and she could make it disappear with a wave of her pinkie.
Xiaomi and Kunmar easily outran the screaming mob, who were debilitated by cholera and TB. They decided to hike the mile and a half (2.4 km) to what was left of MIT. Massachusetts Avenue still had a few food trucks, perhaps drivable, and even a jazz saxophonist busking. Kunmar thought he had seen him a decade ago on the Ultranet. Maybe he used to teach at Berklee before it became an internment facility. A ragged band of toughs accosted them; they bought them off with a couple of chips and a few renminbi.
“I forgot how nasty petrol-powered vehicles could be,” Kumar said, taking a hit from his programmable inhaler. “This whole place stinks.”
“I can’t wait to get back to Asia,” said Xiaomi.
“I know,” said Kunmar. “This country is so Second Millennium. All I’ve read about how it turned its back on science, education, and the rest of the world never prepared me for the reality of it.”
“It’s sad,” said Xiaomi. “But they freely chose this path.”
“The United Hates of America,” said Kunmar.
When they were done with their mission, the only food choice was a chicken joint. “I don’t know, Kunmar. There’s no health inspection and the whole country is rife with Salmonella.”
“Yeah, but it’s probably not really chicken anyway, just some kind of soy.”
The next morning Kunmar was heaving into the wastebasket of his roach-infested motel room. Xiaomi offered to somehow get him to the hospital.
“Fuck, no! American health care? Just get me on a plane back to the civilized world!”
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“Leaves of Oak” © MMXXV Lindsey D. Eck. All rights reserved.
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