The Anarchist

By Austin Corbin

The Fall into Anarchy made way for freedoms unthinkable; however, it has given power to evil as well as good. The U.S. dollar has no power; bartering and trade are the only forms of tender. Yet many fast food chains remain open and in regular business; people bring in small trinkets and bobbles to pay for food, making tip sharing quite the battle. 

After the Fall into Anarchy, the two generals of the Anarchical army destroyed all firearm manufacturing plants, confiscated all firearms, destroying them in the process, and all ore mines were decimated. The Former States of America have been walled off and separated from the rest of the known world. No cellular, radio, or telegram devices function in the country. No postal service has been reestablished since the Fall. Now primitive weapons such as swords, clubs, maces, hammers, bows, crossbows, etc. are the only means of non-architectural defense. 

In the brief time between the surrender of the United States military, and total anarchy, three and a half years to be exact, the two generals plunged America into a complete dictatorship. Where agreements were made with the entire outer world, no one was allowed in or out whatsoever. Walls were built and guarded by surrounding countries. All trade was barred at both land and sea.

After all the agreements were made, the right people pissed off, and government officials assassinated, the dictatorship was abolished. The two generals were nowhere to be found. After a brief period of inner turmoil, everything settled down, and people began to fend for themselves, throwing the former United States of America into complete and total anarchy. 

                                                                     —-

Several generations later, the treaties still stand, and although many have tried, no one has risen to power, and the former country has become surprisingly calm. Disorder has become order, and this order has become the norm.

———

Corvus Cellarus Crow rolled over in bed, reaching for his hand coffee grinder—which he always kept on his nightstand. As he stood up slowly, he felt the morning grog hit him like a freight train. Step by step, he made his way to the kitchen through the long, thin hallway in his small dugout house. In entering the kitchen he swiped his coffee percolator off of the counter. The large sack of whole coffee beans lay on the floor. He took the wooden hand scoop sticking halfway out of the bag and felt satisfied with the amount of beans, filling the grinder as he grabbed a match from behind the stove. As he ground, he took a small break to light his pipe filled with pure North Carolina tobacco, pure Nicotiana rustica. The Florida-imported coffee beans met his nose through the smoke, a sign the beans had been ground to perfection. Cory loosened his grip on his pipe and moved his hand to the percolator; that's when he heard the knock at the door. 

Slightly confused, Corvus reached for the handle of the door leading to the outer world from his humble dugout house. Then remembering himself, he quickly walked to the coat closet, at the bottom of which he kept his rapier and dagger. Swiftly he retrieved the rapier—heftier than most. It was strong, well-balanced, and still considerably light. However, on his way back to the door, Cory caught his eyes fixed on the location of the carefully hidden trap door under which he kept his revolvers and Thompson gun. Corvus, after a moment, decided against arming himself further. He opened the door. Corvus was met by a man with a gun—a fairly primitive slam-fire shotgun, with bad welds and all; signs of an imbecile wannabe politician who somehow had found one or two shotgun shells and decided to make a big deal about it. The man raised a hand in greeting as he shouldered the makeshift shotgun. Corvus invited him in; a short dialogue was made between the two before the man went on his political rant about restoring America to its former glory. Needless to say, Corvus was not interested, or at least not as interested as the man was in the blade that appeared to hastily find its way into his neck, handled by a strong arm—no squirming could save him…