Interesting Times: Once Upon A Future, #2

By Allison M. Azulay

Lockdown lunacy: overbearing health officials, power-hungry governments, mendacious media, fearful citizens, and failing businesses. What do you do when everything is falling apart around you?

• Language: English
• Publisher: ALLISON MARGARET AZULAY
• Release date: Dec 3, 2020
• ISBN: 9781989215920

Allison M. Azulay

Born to Canadian parents of mixed, predominantly British heritage, Allison M. Azulay spent her formative years in a village outside of the capital city of Ottawa and her teen years in the steel city of Hamilton, Ontario. Like her mother, she read voraciously, and she composed stories of her own at home as well as in school. Later, encouraged by her husband to explore her ideas and talents, she wrote poems, short stories, children's storybooks for relatives, and more. After the death of her husband, she began to write and independently publish novels and short stories.

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Allison M. Azulay

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INTERESTING TIMES

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Once Upon a Future 2

Copyright © 2020 by Allison M. Azulay. All rights reserved.

The use of any part of this publication, reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system without the prior written consent of the publisher is an infringement of the copyright law, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Interesting Times is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

https://www.allison-m-azulay.ca

ISBN 978-1-989215-92-0 (e-book)

ISBN 978-1-989215-91-3 (softcover)

Cover Design by SelfPubBookCovers.com/LaLimaDesign

Published in Canada by Allison M. Azulay

Table of Contents

Chinese Curse:

Quote

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

AUTHOR’S NOTES

FURTHER READING

Chinese Curse:

May you live in interesting times.

Quote

When everything seems to be going against you, remember that the aeroplane takes off against the wind, not with it.

— Henry Ford

Chapter 1

WHERE WERE YOU when the world went nuts? That will be the question asked of several generations who lived through the insanity.

Me, I was minding my own business, making a soup in my crock pot, when I first heard on the news that the world would end because of a virus. Naturally, I looked up corona virus as soon as I got online. And there it was: one of the many common-cold and influenza viruses that had been racing through families and communities every year with little lasting effect for as long as anyone could remember. Since I rarely caught cold or flu, I immediately dismissed the Chicken-Little scare tactics as the usual load of hooey invented on slow news days.

But it didn’t go away. The talking heads kept flogging that dead horse, and plenty of people apparently forgot that those same grave-faced know-nothings had predicted biological Armageddon for Sars, Zika, and Ebola, too. Not to mention an asteroid and other assorted disasters. But here we all were, still billions strong.

Some people just have nothing better to do than whip themselves into a frenzy over...whatever.

And so they did. With the help of corporate-funded organizations and corporate media all spouting conflicting and often incredible statistics that were easy to disprove with just a little research. The rumour mill went wild, of course, with all manner of conspiracy theories, some silly and some based on enough actual evidence to give them the ring of truth.

Then governments started getting involved, with dire warnings and subsequent ridiculous regulations based on thin air, supported by perennial hypochondriacs, media morons, corporate interests salivating at the opportunity to make billions or trillions on meds of questionable efficacy, and public health bureaucracies seeing a chance to throw their weight around.

I ended every day shaking my head at the monumental stupidity of my countrymen. What possessed them to readily stand six feet apart in the snow or rain waiting to get into a store, follow lines and arrows like kindergarteners, and don masks that would inevitably starve their brains of oxygen and lower their IQ’s further than television addiction and general grey-matter disuse had already dropped them? But I hadn’t really taken it all seriously, yet.

Then I found The Plan.

Over and over, one expert and another had mentioned the Global Economic Caucus. Being curious, I decided to look it up. So, despite fatigue from more than a week of sleepless nights thanks to the oppressive heat that, by day’s end, turned my upper-floor bedroom into a veritable oven, I perused several tabs and found a diagram—a sort of graph—with corona at its centre. That certainly drew a frown and a Huh?

One page led to another to another to another as I followed the trail of connections outlining expected consequences and proposed solutions in everything from government reactions and economics to education and child care to population control and tracking.

Dawn brightened my window by the time I sat back, still having made only a dent in my exploration of the site. I rubbed my eyes and shrugged my shoulders and twisted my neck right and left. Finally, I decided to log off and quench the thirst that had gone unnoticed for several hours.

One look into the fridge told me I needed to fetch a few things. Avoidance of shopping had forced me to use up a few ill-chosen items once I had finished off my favourites, but now my shelves were bare. I sighed. And I trudged to the shower.

***

A FOG OF DEPRESSION had filled my mind and the lack of sleep had by no means improved the functioning of my frontal lobes. I barely noticed the traffic on the streets, though I managed to cross at the light rather than jay-walk. (There’s something to be said for automatic responses). On I plodded, eyes downcast, occasionally snorting irritably at a whiff of vehicle exhaust or casting a gimlet eye toward a fart-mobile sorely in need of a new muffler. Protests went in one ear and out the other as I continued past the lineup of patrons and sauntered into the grocery store to toss my purse into a cart and wheel it on into the market proper. No doubt glares followed me, but I marched up and down aisles, oblivious to all around me as I snatched up vegetables and fruits, eggs and milk, a package of trout, and a loaf of bread before I headed for the check-outs.

I stood waiting for an open cashier, mulling all I’d read the night before, when a repeated sound finally broke through my haze.

Ma’am. Ma’am. The voice had become louder and more insistent.

I looked up and frowned at the man in the dark blue uniform and the pale blue mask. Huh? What?

You’re supposed to be wearing a mask.

I blinked at him, uncomprehending.

His head tilted and grey-blue eyes surveyed my face. Are you all right, Ma’am? Are you feeling ill?

I considered a moment before I answered, No. Just tired, I guess. I was up all night. But I ran out of pretty much everything.

Do you have a mask?

I blinked at him again. Mask? His blue face-covering drew my focus. Mask, I repeated.

You really are tired, aren’t you?

I vaguely noticed his tone had softened.

Can we move along?

At the disgruntled demand from behind, the cop suggested, Ma’am, just go to the cash, there. I’ll see you get home.

Right. Cash. I pushed the cart to the empty conveyor unit and piled my groceries onto the newly disinfected black plastic. Minutes later, bagged foodstuffs in each hand and purse over my shoulder, I followed the policeman out into the parking lot.

Which car is yours?

I stared at him a second before I responded. I don’t have a car.

He looked at the bulky bags already cutting into my hands, a couple straining with the weight of their contents. Come on. I’ll drive you.

With that, he waved me on and I walked beside him as he led me to his squad car. When he opened the rear door, I frowned and wondered, Am I under arrest?

At that, he chuckled. No, Ma’am. I’m taking you home.

Oh.

Here. He took one handful of bags and placed them into the rear seat of his vehicle, then shoved the second lot beside and slammed the door. When he opened the front passenger side for me, I slid in. A sniff dragged into my lungs the scent of pine, and I spotted the air freshener tab attached to the dash.

Where to? he asked as he started the engine.

Florence, I said. Um, twenty-eight.

Seatbelt, please.

Oh, right. I fumbled with the buckle as we pulled out of the lot and turned onto Main.

***

TWENTY-EIGHT FLORENCE, he announced when he stopped in the empty driveway.

Thank you, I replied as the seatbelt released and snapped back. I had climbed out of the car and rearranged my shorts, pulling away the sweat-dampened cotton from my thighs, and fetched my keys by the time he opened the rear door to gather my groceries.

I’ll carry them in, he offered. Just go ahead and unlock your door.

Oh, thanks, I said, now befuddled not only by fatigue, but by the heat that had soared with the intensity of the solar rays in clear, blue sky. On the front stoop, the keys rattled as I twisted first the deadbolt and then the handle lock. When the front door opened to somewhat cooler temperatures, I sighed with relief and turned to tell the kind stranger, Just set them here. I can carry them to the kitchen in a minute.

There you go, he said, easing the bags down gently in the vestibule. Then, he looked me over a moment and added, I’d advise you to get yourself a drink and get some sleep.

Sleep, I repeated, nodding absently.

At that, he frowned. Is there something you need help with?

I searched his face a moment as I considered the question, zeroing in on the mask mottled with darker spots where sweat stained the papery shield that did not serve the intended purpose. You shouldn’t wear that, I said.

It’s mandated.

My gaze rising to his eyes, I replied, It’s all a scam, you know. The whole thing. The GEC has been planning it for decades.

What are you talking about?

The Global Economic Caucus, I specified. And whoever is in charge of that. I read it on their website.

His tone skeptical, he challenged, They said it’s a scam.

My mouth pulled awry in echo of the cynicism in my eyes. No, they didn’t say it in so many words, I admitted. They blow smoke and sunshine. But they’ve linked the virus—maybe the specific disease was something slotted in just a few years ago, but the general idea had already been part of the plan—they link the virus to every facet of our lives and the changes they intend to manoeuvre us into. The ‘new normal’ they’ve been drumming into our heads to excuse more and more stupid rules that make no sense. More and more restrictions on our rights and freedoms. Until we have none at all. I added, "Just like Orwell predicted in his book, Nineteen Eight-Four. But worse."

He stared at me for a minute. At least, it felt like a minute. Finally, he said, The Global Economic Caucus.

Click on the Platforms tab and check out Corona Action Plan.

He regarded me another few seconds. Then, he said, Get some sleep, Ma’am, and he left.

I stared at the closed door for an unknown amount of time before I locked it, put away my groceries, and took myself to bed to crawl between the sheets fully clothed.

Chapter 2

MY FACE SQUINCHED and I squinted into the brightness of my room. I recognized where I was, though not why, at first. But the noise from outside gradually triggered neurons and I blinked wide and threw off the sheet as I rolled up and then out of bed. Shoving aside the flimsy curtains, I reached to close the sliding half of the window, but stopped and listened to the rants of my neighbour.

Hell’s bells, I muttered as I padded barefoot down to my back door and out into brilliant sunshine and oven heat one could actually smell as it baked grass and flowers and trees as well as houses and cement and asphalt. Down the wooden stairs I tromped and marched over to the fence that separated my place from the next house. On the other side, the dishevelled, middle-aged Sam Weston yelled and gesticulated wildly at another man (whose multi-syllable last name always escaped me) across a hedge to the right. Meanwhile, two cops strode up Sam’s driveway with grim faces and hands on their pistols. At once, I recognized the guy from the grocery store.

Reaching the pallet barricade Sam had erected to replace a rickety and rusted stretch of chain-link, I stuck two fingers into my mouth and blew the loudest whistle I could. All four men jumped and Sam whirled to gape at me.

Fixing the man’s eyes, I demanded, What the hell, Sam? What’s the problem?

The balding man on the right started to speak, but I put up a quelling hand and snapped, Wait your turn, Jacob.

At that, he flinched and shut his mouth like a kid commanded by his mother. He stood blinking at me as I focussed again on Sam.

For his part, Sam straightened proudly, having no doubt deemed himself vindicated by my insistence on hearing him first. He said, I’m tryin’ to get some work done and he’s bitchin’ about it.

Now outraged, Jacob Whatshisname protested, He’s making racket enough to wake the dead!

I asked him, What time is it?

He hesitated, startled by the apparent non sequitur. Then, he answered, Nearly noon.

With an exaggerated sigh, I asked, Jacob, why can’t he finish his work, whatever it is? Would you rather he did it in the middle of the night?

After a moment in which his pout put me in mind of a petulant six-year-old, Jacob retorted, He hasn’t got a job, anyway.

At Sam’s red-faced belligerence, I cut off his angry reply and raised my voice. None of us have jobs, right now, Jacob. Remember? And this is the best time to get work done on our homes, isn’t it? While we’re off?

Jacob shot back, He isn’t working on his house. He’s selling stuff. With a scowl toward Sam, he added, And it’s probably illegal since he’s on Disability.

Again I cut Sam off. Jacob, people have a right to make extra money, even on Disability or Welfare. And with all this lockdown business, most of us who aren’t getting some kind of pension, or whose pension is inadequate, need to find other ways of making a living, don’t you think? I added, At least by day.

Guessing his own financial straits were his real concern, an ongoing stress that preyed on his mind to make him irritable, I inquired, Are you growing extra vegetables in your garden this year? Maybe you could sell the surplus—like to me, for example—since supplies aren’t always making it to the supermarkets, according to articles online.

Sam had turned thoughtful. Now, he spoke up to offer, Yeah, and I could fix that porch o’ yours, Jacob. For tomatoes, maybe. Millie could can ’em.

Jacob mulled the notion a full minute before he said, Okay. I suppose that would be okay. Especially if Millie helps Hannah with her canning. She’s been feeling poorly with all this heat.

You got a deal, Millie called from her back door.

You’ll have to wear masks in each other’s homes.

All turned to the second cop, the one I didn’t recognize. None of us said a word, but sidelong narrow-eyed glances expressed a universal dismissal of the unenforceable order. He caught the looks, but what could he do about it?

Looks like we’re done here, the familiar officer announced. He nodded to his colleague and the two turned to walk back to their respective black-and-whites as Sam sauntered to the hedge to chat with Jacob in a much friendlier fashion and Millie gave me a wave before retreating to her kitchen.

Noon, I thought as I headed for my own kitchen. I’d have preferred to sleep a few more hours, but I supposed that knocking my internal clock out of whack to that extent would mess me up for days to come. I sighed as I stepped into the shade and the relative cool of my boxy little two-storey to pour myself a glass of water from the bottle I kept in the fridge.

I had downed half the tumbler when a knock at the front door announced a visitor. I opened to the kind cop whose hair, I now noticed, was a deep brown, and my eyebrows jumped high.

He smiled at my surprise and said, I don’t think your doorbell works.

No, I replied. Never has. And I don’t figure it’s worth the effort and expense to fix it.

His mouth broadened into a grin. Good point. Then, he gave me the once-over with a penetrating gaze and asked, How are you feeling?

I shrugged and grimaced. Only got a couple of hours’ sleep. But it’ll have to do, I guess. No doubt I’ll sleep straight through, tonight.

If you don’t dive into conspiracy theories.

My eyes chilled, I’m sure, and my face turned to stone. I shot back, Yeah, I’m sure the people of Germany and Russia figured it was all just conspiracy theories before they woke up with jackboots in their faces and family members being carted off to gulags for disagreeing with Hitler and Lenin or for standing up for what had once been their lawful rights.

His smile disappeared as I spoke and he stared at me a small eternity. Finally, he murmured, Good day, Ma’am. And he stepped off the low porch to stalk to the cruiser parked at the sidewalk.

***

I PEALED AWAY from the kerb, pissed at myself for ticking her off with that remark and pissed at myself for giving a damn what she thought in the first place. But deep down I realized, as I headed for the highway to resume my usual survey of the traffic and the streets, that crack about Germany and Russia had struck a chord. At the thought, I yanked the sweat-soaked mask off and tossed it onto the passenger seat. The last thing I needed in this heat was a piece of fabric distracting me while I drove. If the Chief didn’t like it, he could get his ass out of his air-conditioned office, where he never wore a mask, and get on the road like the rest of us.

***

A PIZZA AND A BEER hit the spot after my shift. My top-floor apartment overlooked the old neighbourhood full of small homes built during World War II to house officers of the training base nearby. I carried my second beer out to my balcony and sat in the aluminum-and-plastic lawn chair to stare into the backyard of the woman named Myra Stark. (I’d looked her up, of course.) She stood in shorts and a tube top, retrieving laundry from a line that stretched from her back porch to the unused single-car garage at the end of the asphalt driveway that had sprouted weeds in its many cracks.

I’d seen her before, of course, and noticed her figure and rich-red hair. Truth be told, I’d watched her often over the years I’d lived here and even considered getting a closer look. But I hadn’t made the effort. Afraid I’d be disappointed, I suppose.

I checked my watch. Just past seven. She’d likely go to bed soon. And the instant image of her spread-eagle on a white-sheeted mattress hardened me. Damn! Why did I always go for the fruitcakes?

She worked for the accountant in the professional building at the corner of Main and Prince. (I’d seen her on the street from time to time and recognized her walk: arrow-straight and fast.)

At least she’d worked there until the lockdown. Maybe she worked from home, now. Easy enough, I supposed, since most people had switched from actual books to computer programs for their bookkeeping, anyhow. I wondered whether old Howard, her boss, mailed receipts to her. Or maybe she picked them up at the office. I shrugged my eyebrows. What the hell did I know about accounting other than the fact that a man—or woman—with the know-how and a criminal bent of mind could cook the books and rob clients blind?

The condensation on the bottle of Coors dripped onto my thigh, bare south of my cut-off jeans, and I absently wiped it away as I took a swig.

You’d think a woman whose job was about as straightforward and methodical as they come, the sort who wore sensible shoes and probably plain white cotton briefs—a mental picture that stiffened me even more—would be too practical to fall for the fringe-group notions that filled the internet. I snorted a chuckle at myself and shook my head as I watched her pick up her loaded wicker basket and walk back into her house: You just never knew about people.

As the screen door closed behind her, I wondered if she’d refuse to wear a mask the next time she went to a bank or a store. Would she put up a fight? Would I find myself patting her down and cuffing her and taking her to the station to put her in a cell by herself? Would she be wearing those skimpy shorts and that tight top?

I shifted at the throbbing beneath the pants that had become entirely too tight at the crotch.

***

FLIPPING THROUGH THE CHANNELS showed me nothing of interest: mostly newscasters and mouthpieces talking up the pandemic and the latest statistics that even I knew had to be bullshit. It occurred to me as I flicked off the television and sauntered back to the kitchen to grab another beer that I had not seen a single patient in the waiting room, today, when I escorted the paramedics into Emergency with the accident victim who had passed out at the wheel and ended up in a ditch. Luckily, the nearest vehicle had been a truck about a half-kilometre back; so, no one else got hurt. Luckier still, the guy had been alone in the car and had gone off the road at a point where the only thing he could hit was a wire fence surrounding a flat field. Not even a cow had been endangered.

But he’d been wearing a mask to protect himself and the public from the novel corona virus that, according to the World Health Organization, was killing people worldwide.

Yet the hospital had been empty except for a couple of nurses and a doctor.

I frowned as I popped the cap, leaned back against the counter, and gulped golden ale. What had the Stark woman said? The Global Economic Caucus?

What the hell. It was too early to go to bed. I walked over to the desk shoved into the corner next to the television stand and turned on my laptop. Maybe I could find a way to convince the woman she was wrong. That there was no conspiracy. Maybe she’d follow the rules like a good citizen.

I grinned to myself. Maybe I wouldn’t get a chance to frisk her. But if we got to talking, maybe that could lead to an even more thorough search of the woman’s person. And I’d find out if the hair below was as red as that above.

Chapter 3

I LEANED BACK and stretched my neck, still staring at the screen that bore a grey circular pictograph on the left and a series of explanatory notes on the right. A glance to the time on the task bar widened my eyes. Cripes! I swore as I glanced to the window, where the skies had lightened beyond the blinds.

Well, now I knew why Myra Stark had spent a whole night online. I closed down and headed for the shower. Then, I cursed when I remembered no restaurant would be open this early, thanks to the lockdown. And all I had in the fridge was beer.

As I stood under the tepid spray, I reflected upon all I had read over the last eight hours. Try as I would to discover something to refute the woman’s assertions, all I found was page after page of the sort of double-speak I knew well from watching lawyers in court. It all sounded good. But when you analyzed it, the assertions did not stand scrutiny. Worse, the overall picture did, indeed, put me in mind of what I’d read of Soviet society and Nazi Germany.

And then there was that statement that only those who became devil-worshippers would be accepted as citizens in the New World Order. Stated outright! On an official page of a respected organization!

I shook my head at the arrogance as I picked up the soap and began to scrub away the sweat accumulation.

As disturbing as the thought was, I was coming to the conclusion that those I had accused of wearing tin hats and being gullible fools were, in fact, the first to spot the truth and warn the rest of us. We were the gullible ones: swallowing whole whatever we were fed by media and governments and corporations whose only real goal had always been wealth and power.

And here I was: a cop. One who had seen humanity at its worst. And not all the worst were unkempt and barely literate junkies living in gutters. Many—most, truth be told—wore suits and expensive watches and spoke with the smoothness of university education and silver-spoon social position. Yet, still I had just accepted the rhetoric without question, had gone along with whatever I was told to do.

As I towelled off, I realized this line of reasoning was taking me into dangerous territory. The regs were the regs. I had sworn to uphold the law. And the Chief and most of my fellow cops would adhere to the government’s program, right or wrong. Some, I suspected, actually preferred wrong.

I wondered if my great-grandfather had felt this pinch: As a police officer in Eastern Europe when the Nazis invaded, had he been faced with a choice to do what was right or to just follow orders?

Damned if I do and damned if I don’t, I realized as I strode to my closet to don a fresh uniform.

***

YOU’RE EARLY, WISOTZKI.

I glanced to the sergeant, a beefy man with white hair, and pouches under pale eyes, and a blue surgical mask floating around his neck. Rough night, I said.

He grinned lewdly. With Gertrude or Mabel?

I returned the grin and raised my left hand. Mabel’s been cranky.

He belted out a laugh and chortled as he went back to his computer screen. But as I passed him, he said, Oh, by the way, the Chief’s out of town.

I grunted acknowledgement but did not ask whether Chief Fitzpatrick had joined his mistress at her lakeside cottage or had gone golfing with the mayor. (Social distancing and other lockdown rules applied to some and not to others.)

After a putrid coffee from the kitchenette in back and a packaged doughnut from the vending machine, I checked the duty board and the notices. Then, I strode out back to my ride and performed the usual safety checks. Half an hour later, I drove toward the highway that edged the town. A mask lay on the seat beside me. If all went smoothly and no interaction with members of the public was required, I might get away with leaving it there all day.

***

HOWARD HAD E-MAILED a note that he would be spending the week at his cottage. So, I stayed home and worked on the Heins and Nugent accounts. Not that I wouldn’t have liked to sit in the air conditioning in the office, but I felt energized after a decent night’s sleep and I wanted to get the backlog caught up because both clients had a bad habit of waiting a month or more before handing in their receipts and invoices.

By noon, I had input the figures and filed the hard copies for both. By suppertime, I finished three more accounts, as well, for clients who had dropped off their paperwork during their lunch hour. As I shut down the programs and put the computer to sleep, I thought about the significant drop in income for all five businesses since the lockdowns began. Though some of their supply costs had dwindled with the lowering of demand for their products or services, their overhead remained high, overall. Thus, they were headed toward bankruptcy. And every company that trimmed its expenses or went under altogether reduced the income for others in the area, setting up a domino effect that would devastate the local economy before years’ end, I guessed.

And it had all been planned by the most influential (meaning richest) members of the Global Economic Caucus and the UN.

Something had to be done.

But what?

I plodded to the kitchen to make a salad. Tonight, I decided, I needed to do more research.

***

LUNCH AND DINNER at my favourite diner, on the patio formed by roping off part of the parking lot, allowed me to go maskless under a canopy that blocked the sun’s rays but allowed a sweat-blotting breeze to blow through. Jerry Farnel and Babs Rossi and Yves Cousineau joined me for both meals and we complained about heat and the need for haircuts and the latest word from the union about contract talks. But I kept mum about what I had found online.

Had I wussed out? Maybe. But I had a strong gut feeling I needed more evidence. Something that applied directly to this country and our own laws. A legal reason to refuse to follow orders.

So I left my friends to head home after supper and I set myself up at the computer once more, back in civvies and with a beer on the left and a pen and notepad on the right.

First, as