Death Of A Pirate

The wind howled through the trees, rattling the branches, but the brick house stood firm. Isolated. Hidden. Sunlight filtered through the clouds in broken beams, flashing across the damp ground. A storm was coming.

Inside, the living room smelled of woodsmoke and old leather. The walls were lined with mounted animal heads, their dead eyes reflecting the firelight. Elk, deer, rabbits and wolves of all kinds. In the corner stood a large taxidermized bear, looming over the cozy room. Fur rugs softened the floor.

However, none of this was bringing comfort to the 40 year old Navajo woman who sat inside it. People called her Holly. Not because that was her name, but because that’s what other people called her. Holly sat in a worn armchair, a cup of tea in her hands. She wasn’t drinking it. Her knee bounced. Her eyes flicked to the clock above the mantle.

4:15 PM.

Something felt off. She set her tea down, stood, and walked toward the clock. Stared at it. Tapped the glass. Nothing. The clock wasn’t moving.

She pulled out her phone. The screen lit up.

5:18 PM.

Her stomach tightened. The clock was an hour off. Which would mean they were late. Real late.

Then—

SCREEEEEECH!

Silence.

BOOM!

She flinched. A car. Brakes locking up. A door slamming. Voices—shouting, urgent.

She moved toward the door just as it burst open.

They stormed in. Four of them, armed. A man with a long salt and pepper beard, Jeff, led the way, carrying Henry, who was slick with blood. Henry was a chubby man, now looking like he was deflating. It poured from his stomach, his hands trying—and failing—to hold it in.

“Fuck, man!” Henry gasped. His voice was wet. He was going into shock.

Holly stepped back. “What happened?! Where are they?”

Jeff didn’t answer. “I need a towel, now!”

“Where—”

The others pushed in behind him. Mike, built solid, breathing hard, a musket strapped to his back. Mike was a tall tanned White man with sky blue eyes. Behind him was Tucker, his 12 year old son, carrying an AK-47 like it was weightless.

Holly exhaled in relief. “Thank God. Are you ok, baby?”

Tucker didn’t even hear his mother. His mind was relentless with thought. Tucker’s eyes were wild. “That was fucked up.”

Mike didn’t even look at him. “Save it.” he responded coldly. “Holly, clear the table.”

She moved fast, leading them into the kitchen. A heavy wooden table dominated the room. Candles, plates, a white tablecloth.

She swept everything onto the floor. Glass shattered.

They laid Henry down. He rocked back and forth, panting.

“That bastard,” he moaned. “I don’t wanna die… I’m going to hell, ain’t I?”

Jeff pressed a hand to the wound. “You ain’t gonna die, dickhead. Where’s that towel?”

A man ran in and threw him one. Jeff snatched it and pressed it hard against Henry’s gut. The white towel turned red in seconds.

“See?” Jeff forced a grin. “You’re gonna be fine.”

From the doorway, Tucker spoke, voice low.

“We didn’t have to do that…”

Tucker sat in the chair, hands unsteady as he ejected the magazine from his rifle. His breath was uneven, his fingers trembling. Across the room, Mike paced like a caged animal, running a hand over his beard.

“What did you want me to do?” Mike snapped. “He was gonna kill me!”

“Bullshit!” Tucker’s voice shaking with anger. “He just caught you off guard!”

. “And because of that, I had to make a decision.”

“Was it worth it?”

“You wanna starve? That it?”

Tucker hesitated. His eyes turned away. His father was right. But it felt so wrong. For the first time in his life, everything just felt so wrong.

“If you know a better way to survive, I’m all ears.” Mike said, “But let’s not forget who shot first.”

Silence.

“That’s what I thought,” Mike said. “Now get up and help unload the haul.”

Tucker gripped his rifle. His jaw tightened.

“…No.”

Mike narrowed his eyes. “Excuse me?”

Tucker’s chest felt hot. He shot up from the chair, got right in Mike’s face. “Fuck no! Fuck this shit!”

SMACK.

Mike’s backhand landed fast and hard, knocking Tucker sideways.

“You better watch how you talk to me, boy.”

A voice from the hallway cut through the tension.

“He’s dead.”

Holly stood in the doorway. Her face was blank, but her voice wasn’t.

Tucker wiped his mouth. Mike reached for his shoulder, but Tucker shrugged him off. He turned and stormed upstairs, boots thudding on the wood.

Holly moved to follow, but Mike caught her arm. She exhaled, then pressed her face into his chest.

“He has to learn, Holly,” Mike said. He left and turned on the T.V, trying to drown out the memory of what’s just happened.

Tucker ran inside the upstairs bathroom.

He turned the faucet, splashed cold water on his face. He stared into the mirror. The reflection looked back at him like a stranger.

Then he saw his hands.

Blood.

And not his own.

Dark, sticky, stuff. Under his nails, in the lines of his palms.

He turned the water hotter. Scrubbed harder. But no matter how much he washed or prayed, the stained blood wouldn’t come off.

From upstairs Tucker could hear his dad blasting the TV.

The voice of the anchor was calm, detached. Too polished for the chaos playing out on screen.

"It’s been twenty long years since the oil fields went dry."

The footage rolled.

Aerial shots of looters pouring out of a gutted store, arms overloaded with supplies.

Buildings in flames, smoke billowing into the night. The streets below were packed—people chanting, waving signs written in a dozen different languages. Some were desperate. Some were angry. Most were both.

Gas stations overflowing with cars. The price on the sign read $21.94 per gallon. People filled jugs, tanks, anything that could hold fuel. Some fought over it. A hand-scrawled sign at the pump read:

“ONE FILL-UP PER CAR. NO EXCEPTIONS.”

Wind farms sprouted in deserts, across rolling plains, even in the ocean. Rows of turbines stretched for miles.

Nuclear plants under construction, their cooling towers rising against the skyline.

Politicians screaming at each other across tables, their faces red, their fists pounding.

World leaders signing documents in rooms lined with flags. Forced smiles. Hollow handshakes.

Highways once choked with cars were nearly empty now.

In the Middle East, men in robes gestured to the vast, dry land where oil had once gushed freely. The black gold was gone.

Scientists huddled in labs, testing circuits, running electricity through wires, searching for something—anything—that could fill the gap.

Offshore drills stood abandoned, rusting, forgotten.

International teams worked late into the night, experimenting with hydrogen fuel cells. The last great hope.

Over it all, the anchor’s voice droned on.

"Fields that were supposed to last another century suddenly went dry in 2027. No country was prepared for the immediate shift to renewable power. For two decades, governments have scrambled for solutions, but none of the so-called ‘International Power’ facilities have delivered real results. Billions in funding, yet no breakthrough. Are they worth it?"

The montage ended.

A news anchor stared dead into the camera.

"Millions are left without power, and with no promising research, many fear global war over what’s left is inevitable. According to the details, we have only one year of resources left before the end. Hold your loved ones close."

CLICK.

The screen flipped.

A comedian stood under bright stage lights, microphone in hand.

"And that’s when I said, ‘Bitch, what am I? A dog?’ And she goes, ‘No, I like dogs!’"

The crowd howled with laughter.

Now we’re somewhere else. A government building four years later. More specifically, the IPD: International Power Division. A group of people specifically chosen to handle the world’s energy crisis. In an abysmal lunchroom. Nevertheless, the cafeteria was packed. Men and women in suits crowded around tables, their voices mixing into a dull roar. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead.

At a large circular table, a man threw up his hands in frustration.

“Oy!”

The complaint came from Gary, a stocky guy in his fifties, still holding the remote. His badge read IPD.

Across the table, Tucker—older now, 16, his face shadowed with stubble—was already halfway through his meal. He held the remote in one hand. His badge reading: IPD - Intern.

“Gary, some of us are on break,” Tucker said, hitting the power button. “We don’t wanna see that bullshit.”

He tossed the remote onto the table, grabbed the last bite of his sandwich, and stood up.

Gary snatched the remote back. “You can’t ignore it, Tucker.”

Tucker dumped his trash, wiped his hands on his pants. He turned back, expression flat.

“What do you think we’re doing here, Gary? We work on this issue day and night trying to save this stupid planet and we got about a year left before we all lose our jobs and die. It’s the end of the world. Not exactly easy to ignore it.”