BY MICHAEL IPPEN
Copyright is held by the author.
THE FIRST time it happened was in Houston, Texas, during an extended streak of very hot weather. The “New Normal”, people said, given the changing climate. A freak thing, they added, until it started happening in LA and Chicago and New York. Nobody, not the police, the FBI, or the coroner’s office, knew how or why. Social media was a frenzy of theories, ranging from terrorists to religious nuts, to Aliens and Skinwalkers.
Someone or something was setting fires. Lots of fires. Even at night, when honest people were asleep. But there was something weird about it all: no property damage, no burnt vehicles or equipment. Only people. No animals either, just humans, up in flames, and always one at a time. In the middle of whatever they had been doing: riding the bus, shaving, having lunch with friends, dead asleep, anything at all, anywhere at all. With never a hint of warning.
Shrines appeared all over the country, many overflowing with flowers and cards to commemorate the immolated (No candles please).
As the summer wore on, breaking temperature records set less than a year before, the number of fires increased. The U. S. President declared a pandemic. One for which there was no cure, no vaccine. Experts told folks to stay out of the smoldering sun, or to wrap themselves in wet towels. But nothing worked. There were no safe places to hide. No city, town or village was spared, even in the once damp and dripping Pacific Northwest. Forensic specialists discovered a pattern: it began with a whiff of fire starter, then a burst of intense heat, with a crisp, evenly charred victim.
What the media refused to disclose — though Instagram and Reddit were not shy — was the amazing aroma of barbeque at every scene. High end barbeque, enough to make any pit master worth their salt salivate.
By September government agencies stopped counting. The military had no answers, their role consigned to mop-up duty. Hundreds of thousands of neat, boutique conflagrations. They started happening in Australia, despite it being winter, and across Africa and South America. Evangelicals were certain the Rapture had begun, though not the one they’d counted on.
The other crazy thing: None of the victims’ families seemed overly upset. Psychologists claimed it was because people were at their limit, what with so many wars and floods and pestilence and famine. In every interview, every newscast, they shed guilty tears, but most shared the same satisfied, well-fed look about themselves.
Scientists began to call it a freak of evolutionary adaptation, a response to the climate and overpopulation crisis. Homo sapiens now tasted like chicken. Or was it pork? Nobody went hungry anymore.
“There’s plenty for everyone, even vegetarians, ” one Redditor exclaimed. “The vegans taste like tofu.”
“Be sure to bring your own napkins,” they said.
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Michael was born in Vancouver, British Columbia. He started writing fiction at an early age. His short fiction works “Late Fruit” and “Holding Back the Big One” have been featured in Island Writers magazine. Most recently, his nonfiction work “The Ditchpigs’ Christmas Eve”, was published in the literary magazine, Halfway Down the Stairs. Michael has also published two novels, The Raven Effect and Saint Illuminator’s Daughter, a novel about the Armenian genocide. He is currently working on a novel in the genre of magical realism whose protagonists attempt to heal our future world from the devastating impacts of climate change. When not writing, Michael and his partner Stephanie can be found roaming through their garden, grandson in tow.