2074
Fourth Year of World War III
Washington, D.C. United States.
Washington had stopped being a city long ago.
Buildings leaned where they hadn't fallen. Streets existed only as lines between rubble. Nothing moved unless the wind pushed it. The air carried a taste that burned the throat if you breathed too deeply, so people learned to breathe shallowly.
Eighty percent of the world looked like this now.
The bunker did not feel like safety.
It smelled of damp concrete, old smoke, and something sour that never left. The walls sweated. The light flickered, then steadied, then flickered again. Six men sat or stood where they could.
Five senators.
One minister of finance.
And Jim Mu.
Once, he had been the richest man alive.
Now he was eighty-nine, thin, and wrapped in clothes that no longer fit his shrinking body.
A senator crushed a cigarette between his fingers and stared at it for a long moment.
"Well," he said, exhaling smoke that had nowhere to go, "that's the last cigarette of my life."
No one answered.
He looked at Jim Mu.
"You," he said. "Can you make a cigarette?"
Jim Mu shook his head.
The senator's face tightened. He grabbed Jim Mu by the collar and yanked him forward. Jim Mu's body didn't resist. It just followed.
"At least if you can't make a damn cigarette," the senator shouted, "you should be able to make a QTR. Take us somewhere clean. Africa. Australia. The Arctic. Somewhere not poisoned."
His grip shook.
"You invented Nedva. You built this shit. You've done it countless times. Why can't you do it now?"
Jim Mu's voice was quiet.
"I've told you. The materials are impossible to get in this condition."
A second senator stepped in and shoved the first away.
"Leave the old man," he snapped. "You fool."
The grip loosened. Jim Mu staggered but stayed upright.
The first senator rubbed his face, breathing hard.
"Sorry," he muttered. "Anger got the best of me. Last cigarette and all."
He laughed once, sharply.
"Fuck those Chinese communist bastards," he said. "Nuking our soil. This is on them."
A few of the others chuckled.
The sound cut off suddenly.
Something moved near the wall.
A rat.
They reacted instantly.
One kicked, another slammed a boot down. The rat squealed once and stopped moving. One of them picked it up by the tail, grinning.
"Protein," he said.
They built a small fire. The smell of burnt fur filled the bunker. No one complained. Hunger had erased standards weeks ago.
When the meat was ready, they reached for the food bag beside the body of the man who had died two days earlier.
The bag was lighter than it should have been.
No one said it, but every mind did the same calculation.
A week.
Maybe less.
If it was only one person, maybe a month. Long enough for something to change. Long enough for hope.
The leader, Senator Donald, picked up the bag.
He started to portion it like always.
"Wait," another senator said.
Donald stopped.
"You going to pretend we have more than a week?" the man snapped. "Are you serious?"
Donald frowned. "We'll manage like we always—"
"Manage?" The senator laughed, high and thin. "It hurts, but we need to be honest."
He turned and pointed at Jim Mu.
"Why are we sharing food with the man who caused all this?"
The punch came fast.
Jim Mu's head snapped sideways. He didn't fall. He just stood there, blinking.
"Billions died because of you," the senator shouted. "This is your fault."
Hands pulled the man back.
"That's enough," Donald said. "This is shared responsibility. We were all leaders. We all carry this."
The senator twisted free.
"Oh, so now it's our fault?" he yelled. "Did we create the damn math? Did we make billions off it? Did we reverse engineer QTR? Did we help the president hide it?"
He spat on the floor.
"And why should we "white men" sacrifice our food for an Asian who doesn't even share a common ancestor with us?"
No one argued.
Some nodded.
Jim Mu said nothing.
His mind replayed decisions without order. Meetings. Equations. Warnings dismissed. Confidence mistaken for control. He had believed reason would win. He had believed time existed.
He had been wrong.
Donald lowered his eyes.
"That's it," he said quietly. "He doesn't get food."
No one objected.
Night passed without sleep.
Near midnight, footsteps approached Jim Mu.
Hands closed around his neck.
There was pressure. Not rage. Not panic.
Just pressure.
The bunker stayed silent.
And the world went on without him.