Saturday August 8, 2026 [8/8 +0]
Chicago, United States of America
Matthew McBride drowsily swung his arm above his head and yawned mightily. Halfway through the arc, his hand knocked over a mostly-empty bottle of Irish whiskey off of his side table, which promptly smashed to the ground. The room quickly filled with the stench of alcohol, mixing in with other stenches from the previous night.
“What the hell?” A voice on his right side. Damn it, Matthew thought. Who the hell did I bring home last night anyway?
A brunette with smeared makeup and a mess of hair sat up abruptly beside him. “Mark, what the hell, that stinks!” she whined.
“Arrghh… my head… it’s Matthew, not Mark. And… I’m not even going to pretend to remember your name.” He yawned again and stepped into his slippers, which were already soaked with the spilled booze.
He cursed and got up out of bed. His erstwhile drunken fling started to rapidly get dressed, a mixture of disgust and embarrassment on her face.
She’s obviously not staying for breakfast, Matthew thought idly.
In a weak attempt at courtesy, he followed the brunette out into the hallway and through the living room to the front door of his renovated two-flat house. She paused to stare at the golden memento hung over the mantle of his wood-burning fireplace, then pulled on her shoes and wordlessly exited the house.
Matthew buried his face in his hands. Man, I’m really hitting new lows these days…
He glanced over at the mantle at the object that represented the pinnacle of his life, received just one year ago before his life started to turn to mud. Although dusty from a year’s neglect, the Pulitzer Prize for Journalism still gleamed brightly in its place of honor. His work on the atrocities in the ongoing Iraqi Insurgency earned him international recognition. The world’s acknowledgment of his work was distilled into this over-sized golden medallion that should have been his ticket to fame and prosperity.
Unfortunately the work that got him the recognition he craved for all of his life also ruined him. Matthew had seen things in Iraq and Syria that would mentally scar anyone who witnessed them.
Twice weekly visits to a therapist did not help. Scaling down his work hours made things worse.
Booze on the other hand, that actually did help.
Matthew wandered off into his kitchen and flicked on the smart screen on his fridge and tapped on the news channel tab. He started to rummage around in his fridge and pulled out some packaged ham, a couple of eggs, and a can of beer.
“…Early reports show that the phenomenon is worldwide. Millions around the globe have collapsed unconscious with no apparent explanation whatsoever. Many of the world’s leaders have been silent on this phenomenon so far. The U.S. President, Parker Rhodes, is reported to be on the phones right now with world leaders. Press Secretary Mark Melanger has stated that the President will make a statement on the phenomenon as soon as he is able…”
Matthew’s head snapped up, the hangover fog slapped straight out of his brain. He slammed the fridge shut and stared at the news video broadcast playing on the fridge’s screen.
What the fuck?
