EXPO: Cafe 2030

Passing through the downtown streets, it is hard to neglect the arduous stench enveloping the blocks, only to alternate with decaying smells from cooking pots one block further. The lady cooking has been taking care of many sick residents for the past year but had fallen sick herself not too long ago. Those who hadn’t fallen sick yet had resorted to scavenging others’ supplies. Lady Pryderi used to scour the substantial hunks of food waste collecting near the housing batteries to cook up her meals. The entire city was packed with the huge flats, as massive crowds kept moving to the city, requesting living space. The batteries were tiny and lacked facilities. When urban areas ran out of housing, folks started taking over office blocks and stores. Eventually, the only stores left were small automated warehouses, often raided by protesting city folks.

When people first started moving to the cities the government tried to manage the housing shortage by destining industrial buildings to living spaces, but at the cost of sustainability alternatives taking up space. Streets became more and more crowded and polluted. It didn’t take long before people became sick and unhappy. Wastewater management couldn’t keep up with the overcrowding; a previously unknown virus, probably caused by mutation from the polluted city, spread through the water supply, contaminating residents. The battery flats became ground zero. As no cure was found, most cities have been quarantined ever since the year 2036. It now has been three years since the outbreak.

Logan Stark has been part of the last ones unaffected. Promptly, he rests his weary feet on a tarp, covering a pile of junk of which the contents should preferably remain unknown. Only few people show concern anymore. Logan is stifling, as thoughts keep pressing on his already jaded mind. Trying to divert his mind from the defiled remains of the Irish capital, he takes out a photograph of his parents. It has been a long time since he felt a maternal embrace of heard advice only a father could give; the warmth formerly given has been replaced by a strong sentiment of melancholy, both soothing and sorrowing the 20-year old survivor. As he brings his canteen to his mouth, he acknowledges that his food supply has nearly been depleted, thus needing to find more supplies. Most places have been cleaned out by now, and trash piles are often contaminated. If he is unable to find more food, resorting to trade will be the only remaining option, but only a few painkillers and aid supplies to trade with are left, stuffed in the inside pocket of his bomber jacket. It would be too risky anyway, as many people have resorted to violence to keep themselves alive. Resources are too scarce. Disease roams the districts. He couldn’t survive this forever; the city is not a safe place to stay. Escape is the only option.

Several survivors have tried to leave the area. Those who could get past the barriers had been captured or killed by sentinels. The quarantine is strict, although the surrounding area accommodates fewer guards than before. Most guards are militaries, although some are hired by the influential and affluent – citizens capable of buying their way out, now sustaining themselves in remote towns and boroughs, neglecting the urban necropolis. Most common townsfolks were ousted by the wealthy. Those who refused to give in were forced out by corrupt authorities. The crisis developed in most cities and ethical dilemmas were mainly led by the dominant conceited. Socialism succumbed to the urgency of the disaster.

Unsure if he would be able to make it out of the quarantine; or if there will even be a place for him to go outside of the area, he determines to set foot to the barrier. He knows he will have to cross district 24 to reach the border. Aware of the dreadful atmosphere enveloping the district, his forthcoming adventure unsettles him. District 24 is by far the most colossal part of the capital, consisting of mainly gargantuan living towers, rising far above the clouds, as it was holding up the sky itself. Accommodating the most citizens in the city, this part of the capital is by far the most crowded. Urban planning made few to no space for greenery or roads and walkways, resulting in a narrow network of alleys running through a concrete mass. By now most alleyways have been obstructed by rubble or bodies. Few living souls roam these paths.

Proceeding through the district, Logan is not only appalled by all the suffering dressing the passages but is constantly reminded of the grief – now inherent to him. It is incomprehensible how all circumstances have led to the abandonment of thousands of citizens. Or even how this catastrophe couldn’t have been averted. The unflagging misery daubed his sight; then suddenly his raucous stepping catches notice. An eidolon – a deprived soul planted between the piles of rubble and dross stretching out over the entire lane snorts at the determined but puzzled Stark. An ashen grey flowing beard covers the figure’s virtuous face. As he puts down his cane and grabs his cracked pair of glasses he speaks: ‘dear fellow, do you consider yourself a blackberry or a gooseberry?’ Logan takes some time to process the appearance’s question and promptly answers ‘I’m unfamiliar with berries, how come you seem like you aren’t suffering?’ ‘Visceral discomfort is no less than a subjective construct, brother.’ It replies. ‘The matter disheartening me is man’s ignorance. The people perceived, yet they did not apprehend the evidence,’ he continues while polishing his glasses. It is unclear if the unshaven visage was an eerie construction of Stark’s probable hysteria, yet he feels that the blabbering was not at all fruitless; instead heartening his spirit. The soul speaks once more before taking off into the distance: ‘they were presented the confirmation; it was unequivocal that dissimilar actions were crucial. They chose disregard, thus leaving all and sundry in ashes. The Earth could not bear our burdens even in the slightest.’ The tapping of his cane is still audible for a few more seconds after disappearing, repressing the stillness that had dominated the lane for the past hours.

After this rousing occurrence, Logan resolves his brief abide and advances to the outer perimeter. Barbed wire fences start to fill the horizon which had previously been merely saturated by the towering illustrations of anguish. The checkpoint seems as desolate as the quarantine itself but still reeks of presence. The barren gates suggest the guards have departed, troubling Logan, knowing they never have done so before. He surpasses the border unhampered; as to renounce his grim existence, passing the last signs of architecture making up the outskirts of Dublin. Before advancing towards a town, professedly safe, he sets up camp in a small cabin neighbouring a roadside restaurant. A soothing feeling of tranquillity befalls him, unlike the bitter quietness he had known before. Covering himself with a quilt he allows himself to rest, with the velvety fabric embracing his bruised bod. The evening retains little sound, except for the snoring of the palpably drained survivor.

The following night would continue in silence until a sudden whining passes the sky. A desperate effort from the state fills the sky with immediate heat deteriorating the following minutes to mere seconds, making Logan’s sleep ultimately perpetuated. Men’s blindness leading to oblivion, ceasing metropolitans’ torment.