President Crohn

President Alex Crohn sank into the plush cushions of his limousine. The Pennsylvania countryside rushed past the window. Grey from an early winter, a river choked with grime down the middle, the ravaged landscape reeled under the onslaught of climate change. On the road to Philadelphia, the presidential motorcade made its way into a city with a shrunken population. Many had heard the call to war. They neared the University of Pennsylvania, his Alma Mater, for the special tech demo. Crohn reached for the window control.

Agent Menendez leaned forward. “Sorry, sir,” he said. “The protesters might throw something.”

“They’re everywhere I go. We can handle it,” he reached for the control.

Menendez glanced at his partners. He locked the windows.

Crohn sat back and stared out the window. White and yellow signs faded from the sun were plastered with images of dead animals and choked rivers. Some signs called for a ban on fossil fuels.

“Climate Change is Here!” some chanted.

“It is Our Fault,” others replied.

Crohn shook his head. “It’s not man-made,” he said, “and fossil fuels aren’t the problem.”

“There’s more green energy produced,” finance officer Chuck McClintock said, “like you always say, Mr. President.”

Science advisor Mitch Rainier leaned forward from the side of the stretch limo. “The effects are here regardless. We need action.”

Crohn pointed at him. “When will the genetic engineering techniques be ready?”

“A year, sir,” Mitch said.

Crohn gave him a thumbs up. “This administration will modify all plants and animals, change the way the world breathes, and reduce carbon dioxide.”

Fossil fuels were plentiful, but there was money in green energy. Man-made carbon dioxide had dropped. But the climate had shifted anyway. Genetic engineering was the only solution, radical and wide-reaching.

Chuck patted Crohn’s shoulder. “It’s your legacy, Mr. President.”

The motorcade reached the entrance. Thousands of people filled the university, separated from the President’s path by lines of guards and barricades. Most booed, but many cheered, holding signs calling for a swift end to China’s wicked proxy wars.

“Stop the violence,” one side cried.

“Fight Chinese aggression,” the other side responded.

War Officer Roland Parch handed a tablet to the president. “Battles in Cuba, Brazil, Nigeria, and Moscow are ongoing.” North America, Europe, and China were the only stable places left.

“Send airstrikes," Crohn said, "fifteen-minute warning.”

“Yes, sir,” Roland responded. He pointed at the tablet. “Troop movements, Mr. President. China is planning proxy attacks in new countries.”

The president shoved the tablet back without looking. “Take care of it. I don’t want to hear about it again.” The world was in the midst of a global war, fought in countries far off from the aggressors.

A man climbed up a stone ledge. He raised a bull horn. “Crohn started this war!” he crowed. "Elected in 2072, re-elected in 2076, we're doomed!"

“Negotiate,” his group cried, “negotiate.”

The protesters and their cronies in the media claimed he had lit the fuse of international politics which had erupted into war at the end of his first term. They claimed it had been avoidable.

Crohn crossed his arms. “We don’t negotiate with terrorists. China killed those hostages.”

“Yes, sir,” the advisors replied.

A few of the signs welcomed Crohn to the special demonstration.

“The Shroud will save us,” some chanted.

Chief Publicist Marina Moropova leaned forward and handed the president a tablet. “Here’s the itinerary, Mr. President.”

He gave it back. “Just tell me, sweetheart,” he said.

“As requested, they renamed the lab to the Alexander Crohn Temporal Laboratory. The demonstration starts in a few minutes. They expect it to take several hours.” She turned away from the president’s gaze. “Mitch can explain it.”

“Another part of your legacy, sir. A brand new technology, ‘the shroud,’ transmits images and sounds from the future. We don’t know how, but when it falls it connects to the future. It’s a graphene gossamer matrix.”

“That’s enough, Mitch.” He turned to Marina. “We need to get in and out fast, is that understood?”

“Yes, Mr. President, of course. I’ll have an excuse ready.”

Crohn tapped the door, it opened and he climbed out. He waved to the cheering voices and ignored the rest. He strode down the path and past the library with the historical archives. The agents kept their pace, in front and rear, and they climbed the stairs to the lab. Five scientists rushed out to surround the president. They shook his hand and ushered him inside the stout building.

The lead scientist pushed his way to the center, grabbed the president’s hand, and shook it twice. “Mr. President,” he said, “please push the on button for us.”

Crohn stepped over to a podium next to a silver disk on the ground. Thin wires held the light blue shroud to the ceiling above the disk. Crohn nodded at an agent who stepped over the bundles of thick wire to move the scientist away from the podium and then stepped back.

The on button was the way he had requested it, big and red. He slammed the button, stepped back and tripped. He fell under the shroud. The light blue net settled over him and a bright light hurt his eyes. He covered them and screamed. His hands and feet prickled with pins and needles. The light dimmed, so he removed his hands. White light surrounded him, dotted with blue sparkles. The smell of ozone made him cover his nose.

***

He could not see and his eyes hurt. Sliding forward, he felt for his agents.

“Where are you?” he said.

He got up and tripped. His eyes adjusted to the sudden darkness. He had tripped over a strange root. It was thick and squishy, with bright blue patches glowing in the dark.

“This can’t be real.”

He felt his way forward and found an opening filled with bright orange light. He stepped through onto a hill in a forest. Not a regular forest. Neon blues and greens were on the leaves, and the bark glowed orange and black. The sky was filled with angry clouds and a hot, orange sun lit the gray remnants of buildings peppering the landscape.

He looked up, he was in the foyer of the lab, but it was not the lab. Its structural members had cracked, the concrete moldy and rotted away. Puddles of grimy water littered the ground. He pinched his arm.

“This can’t be real,” he repeated.

A roar shook him and he spun around. A lion, with blue frills instead of a mane, bright green claws, and red teeth stalked toward him from inside the lab. Crohn froze. The lion roared again, ribbons of thick saliva dripping from its teeth. Crohn’s heart pounded. He inched backward. The lion charged and a spear struck its chest. It fell to the ground.

People covered in dirt and grime jumped down from the trees. They surrounded the wounded frilly lion. A tall man approached and slit the lion’s throat. He started to skin it.

Crohn jabbed his nail into his arm. This was real. He was in the future. “I’m President Crohn,” he said, “Crohn, Crohn.” He patted his chest.

The group howled at his name. They were clothed in rough linens stuck with dirt, and dark lines of paint crossed their faces and backs. The group patted their mouths and narrowed their eyes.

The taller one stopped skinning the lion. He glanced at the others. “Youk?” he said, “youk rea sanyig?”

Crohn’s knees weakened. He grabbed a collapsed wall for support. How far in the future am I? “What happened?” he stammered.

The group moved closer to him. He turned and ran, bounding down the hill that had been stairs. He spotted the library in the ruins and burst through the crumbling opening. Thanking his wife for not being more forceful about his smoking, he reached into his pocket for a lighter. He moved slowly, listening for any dangerous animals until he found the stairs.

He made his way to the historical archives. The vault door was broken open; he squeezed through. The archives had been built to be secure, but even they could not withstand the collapse of civilization. That was the only explanation for the people he had met. People had transformed into savages again.

The archive was arranged from most recent to the ancient past. He found the stack nearest the door and yanked it open.

“2080,” he said, “that can’t be right.” 2080 would have been the last year in his second term.

Grabbing the topmost folder, he opened to the first page. No mention of his disappearance or an accident. He had remained in office but the wars had never ended and climate change had worsened.

The genetically modified plants and animals had worked at first. Carbon dioxide levels had dropped, and crop yields had risen. The classified goal of the genetic modification project had worked as well. Super soldiers had defeated the Chinese proxies and had pushed the war to their doorstep. But then their enemies had stolen the technology. They had tweaked it, made it more deadly, and soon unforeseen mutations had ravaged the populations of North America and Europe. China had launched a nuclear strike to stop the roving mutants, both plant and animal. MAD had fallen apart and had taken the world with it.

“I never should’ve listened to those scientists,” he said.

The same ones who had built the shroud had also run the genetic research. They had claimed both were ready when he had ordered their implementation. The protesters had said the scientists were incompetent, chosen only for their loyalty to him.

What else went wrong? He fumbled with the folder, unable to focus. He turned it to the opinion section.

“They blame me,” he said.

It was plastered all over the news. Every article was a tirade against him, against his mistakes and the ones he had entrusted to fix everything. The people had vowed to never forget.

There were no more entries after the nuclear war. He did not know what year it was, but it must have been several hundred years in the future for the plants to have conquered the city. Unless it was the mutations. They were neon plants after all. He tossed the folder aside, climbed out of the vault, and up the stairs to go out the door.

The group of savage humans stood in a semicircle around the entrance to the library. They blocked his path. A fully clothed woman stepped into the semicircle. Her hair was clean and her skin was supple and dark brown.

“I am Makshi,” she said.

A wave of relaxation spread over Crohn’s body, he stumbled forward and collapsed. A dart poked out of his side, he managed to pull it out before losing consciousness.

***

He awoke. The sky was dark, the angry clouds blocked most of the stars. He tried to move but his body was wrapped in rough rope that stunk of rotten animal fat.

His eyes adjusted. The cleaner humans surrounded him, whispering and grunting.

Makshi stepped forward. “Who are you?”

“I’m Alex Crohn, President of the United States of America. You know, the big country that we are in right now.”

Makshi glanced at her comrades then nodded. One bent forward and struck him with a club. He slumped over.

***

When he awoke he was alone and inside. There were no stars above him only rotten concrete and broken support struts. He struggled against the ropes, they dug into his sides and the rotten stench made his eyes water. They attacked me.

Some of the natives had spoken English, that much had been clear. Had they recognized the title? Or the name?

If only he had negotiated all those years ago. China would not have had an excuse to start the proxy wars and he would not have been forced to turn to genetic engineering. Should I have banned genetic engineering? That would not have solved the problem. China would have worked toward it on their own. There had been definite promise in the venture.

It was the people he had chosen to do the work. They were incompetent. If he ever got back, he would have to replace them. But with who? Everyone around him crowed his praises and agreed with every suggestion, there was no way to tell who has qualified and who would doom the world. Maybe he should not be making the decision. Ludicrous, I’m the President, I have to get back.

A spear crashed beside him. Then another. And another. He tried to roll but was bound to the wall with more rope.

“We vowed to never forget the one who did this,” Makshi said.

“Crohn, Crohn,” the group cried. They dragged over a stick bundle in the shape of a man and lit it on fire. It sizzled and charred; the smoke hurt his eyes.

Another spear landed in his thigh and he screamed. “I’m sorry,” he yelled.

A fifth spear just missed him. Makshi approached with a torch and the darkness lifted. She had put paint on her face and dirt across her clothes.

“You did this,” she said.

“No, I chose the wrong people.”

She smiled. “You did this, and now you are here.” She patted his side. “We have a special end for you. This is the lair of the frilly lion and he will devour you in the cutest way.”

She backed up with the torch in hand. Crohn watched the group leave. They dropped their spears and turned away from him. He was not worth their attention.

A low roar rumbled deeper in the building.

“Please, don’t do this. I can change it. I can go back.”

The roar echoed again, closer this time. He wriggled left to right. The ropes were old and frayed and the ones binding him to the wall split and cut his wrists. He rolled forward. The rest of the ropes held him tight, but he could move.

A bright shimmer appeared in the center of the room. “Mr. President,” a familiar voice said, “if you are there, you need to return to the same spot.”

He rolled and rolled, then flopped over and wriggled to the glowing dust drifting in the center of the room.

The bright light returned, he clamped his eyes shut but the light still got through. It seared his eyes. A loud roar echoed around him, but then seemed to shrink like he was running away. His hands and feet tingled, prickled by pins and needles again. He opened his eyes; there was only darkness. The light had blinded him for a moment, worse than before.

He felt hands on him pulling at the ropes. Somewhere a knife poked between them and they split.

Crohn rubbed his eyes. “My leg,” he said.

The lead scientist waved a Geiger counter over him. It clicked a bit faster as it got near. He examined Crohn’s fingers. "How do you feel?"

“I was in the future, how do you think I feel?” he said, “did you know what it was like there?”

“It’s not supposed to do that.”

“You never put anything inside when it dropped?”

“No,” he said.

Crohn let the agents lift him to the stretcher. He grabbed the lead scientist.

“You’re fired,” Crohn said and shoved the lead scientist into Agent Menendez. “Take him away.”