Y.A.I.W.L.R.
By Paul Stansfield

(continued)

The blackness this time only lasted for a few more seconds, and then they were there. They were in a small town by the looks of it, in a residential neighborhood. Apparently on a weekend day, too; many adults were about as well as children, engaging in various acts of leisure or casual yard work.

"This seems pleasant," said Doyle after a minute or so. "Did I inadvertently teach people how to enjoy their free time?"

"No, wait. This change isn't frivolous. It's very serious and important."

A few seconds later a series of armored trucks arrived, coming from both directions. Before they had even come to a complete stop the soldiers flew out. It quickly became a slaughter. Men, women, and children alike were summarily shot, stabbed, strangled, burned, electrocuted, or beaten to death. Not all were necessarily murdered rapidly, though; rapes and tortures were doled out commonly as well. Doyle watched in shock as a female soldier blew apart a baby at close range, then sodomized the child's mother with the rifle barrel viciously, before finally squeezing the trigger and ending the victim's misery. A few houses away, a trio of soldiers were playing a cruel game with an old man; they were shooting him as many times as they could, obviously aiming for non-vital areas to perpetuate his agonized existence. Eventually, his lack of remaining blood terminated their gleeful fun. None of the suburban residents had any weapons that Doyle could see. Their attempts to fight back with garden hoes, tire irons, and fence slats were brave but laughably futile. Not a single soldier was even wounded as far as he could tell.

Doyle had difficulty speaking for a moment, but he finally succeeded. "Is this unusual?"

"Not at all. This is typical warfare of these times, all over the world. This is Borneo, but it could be anywhere."

Doyle let his grasp slip, and only the fast re-grabbing by Adlai maintained their contact. "Jesus Christ, why'd you wait so long to show me this?" he bellowed. "Case closed. Even if I actually wanted to go on living, how could I? Even if it's accidental, that's complete mayhem, senseless carnage. This world is unquestionably better without me."

The scene dropped away, and it was only the two of them again. "Not so fast. It's not that simple. Yes, war because of your continued existence is clearly more drastic and extreme, with the usual rules about not involving civilians and torturing and such out the window, obviously. But there's another side. Actual battles and actual wars are much rarer than in the time we left. Plus, it's not as if civilians were never raped and tortured back then, either. It was just officially against the rules. Now, it's more honest in a way. So, to sum it all up, due to your influence there is much less fighting, but when it is resorted to it's much more intense and nasty, with civilians definitely included. There are no more, 'Splendid little wars,' anymore."

"Well shit... So if I commit suicide they'll follow the Geneva Convention rules more, at least officially, but more people will actually be subjected to the horrors of war?"

"That's right."

"Relax, there's only one more serious change. Then the rest are trivial, amusing, really."

They arrived on the next scene. A skinny man, dressed in some sort of smock, lay on a cot in a small, windowless room. The only other piece of furniture was a toilet in the corner. As they watched a woman in a green Tyvex-style suit pushed a tray of food through a slot at the bottom of the door. The man hesitated, then moved over and picked up the tray. He brought it over to the bed, sat down, and began to pick at his meal.

Doyle didn't feel like guessing anymore, and so he simply waited for Adlai to tell him what was happening. "This guy is a prisoner. A biological one. See the sores on him, and his runny nose, and general ill look? He has Rousseau's Disease. Very nasty, often fatal. He's in here for criminal negligence — he spread his disease to several people, some of whom died."

"Spread it deliberately and maliciously, like Typhoid Mary?"

"No, I said negligence, not deliberate, wanton infection. He had symptoms and didn't follow them up very quickly. By then it was too late for some of the other victims."

"Well that sounds like an accident, and his punishment harsh, then. How did he know?"

"It's 2051. Health care is free and much better than the time we left. But this comes with a price. People are responsible for being aware of their own physical condition. If you're lazy and in doing so hurt others, then you're responsible. Many of the diseases and conditions of the past are now cured — a lot of cancers, autism, MS — but by no means all. Quarantine is more strict, too. A fair number of people spend lots of time away from loved ones, sometimes permanently. They have infinitely better quarters than this, obviously, but still, they're locked away."

"Sounds awfully Big Brotherish and draconian to me. Another fine Doyle Murdock production."

"It is strict, and stifling, at times. On the other hand, overall health for society is better. The biological catastrophes like Flu 2009 and Ebola 2022-2023 won't be repeated."

"Okay, you said this was the last serious one. What's left?"

"Right." Their passage this time only lasted a few seconds. Now they were in a man's apartment. The decor was a little off but otherwise seemed typical of a bachelor pad. Tapestries hung from every wall, and the furniture was made from white wood, covered with what appeared to be velvet, and ridiculously high-backed. The entertainment items were smaller and different shapes, but seemed clearly to be a television, video game assembly, and stereo components. Doyle also noticed that an opened magazine was handwritten. "That's from me!" He thought. His head was continuing to throb. He hoped Mistress Magda had some Tylenol or some pain relieving herb or root or something. The man walked around his living room, talking into a small device.