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Today is November 9th, 2050, and it’s 07:35:22 a.m. I think it’s trash day, but I’m not sure. Trash day is always on Wednesday, and it’s definitely Wednesday. Or maybe it isn’t? I didn’t hear the garbage truck outside the apartments; you can hear them from any apartment at The Percival. The blaring, autonomous whine of the trucks and the thunder of the trash being violently dumped into its back are like my Wednesday wakeup call. The building is in the heart of Columbia, the capital city of South Carolina, so it’s always on the earliest pickup routes. Corporate apartments like the Percival were built in 2032 after the Great Panic and the markets crashed. My mom and dad lost everything, and we moved into the fourth floor of the building. They were able to find jobs in call centers upstairs. I was a kid and didn’t know it at the time, but The Percival would become my forever home.

When I graduated high school, I moved to the 25th floor with my wife and got a job. The 12hour shifts made coffee a big part of my morning routine. My commute was to the 35th floor, and my wife worked on the 41st.

I remember I had to be at work by 8 a.m., and I had my cup of coffee around 7 a.m. The wait for the eastside elevators to the 35th floor was at least 45 minutes. That allotted me 15 minutes to get to my desk in the Human Resource Department.

Well, it’s really only 10 minutes to get to my cube, which is nowhere near the eastside elevator. I use the last five minutes to log into my computer, pull up all my applications, and be ready to take calls by 8 a.m. Most days, I have to run as soon as the elevators open to make sure I’m on time. We lose these jobs, we lose the apartment. It’s stressful. The Quake FYP says stress may be one of the reasons I’m sick. I hope it’s Covid, because if it isn’t, I’m dead or worse, I’ll get sold to the highest bidder for about sixty-two thousand dollars. The outbreak exposed the people in charge, showing they couldn’t care less about us. They reduced the sick to a number. Sixty-two thousand dollars.

No one really knows what caused the outbreak. If you ask me, I’d say it was the food, or the water, or the air. I remember fresh air. I’d rise early and crack the kitchen window, ignoring the iron suicide prevention bars, and take a deep breath with my old Demon Slayer coffee mug. I don’t know, maybe the air isn’t any fresher than what I remember. But now it just seems to have a smell. I miss air that smelled like air.

The little things are so important. Losing someone you love reminds you of that. Now I’m sick. Now I’d give anything just to remember her name. Oh God, loss of memory, that’s one of the symptoms. Deep down, I think I knew it was worse. I’m going to die. I’m going to die and it’s going to hurt. I have to do my best not to scream when things take a turn for the worse. I can’t call 911, those calls are filtered through the call centers. I don’t want to die but I do have to resist. It’s what she tried to do before she was taken. Yeah, she wanted it to end. She didn’t want to become a human resource. I remember that.

I wish I had focused on her more. Maybe I would be able to remember her. I’m so stupid. No, don’t say that. I remember her saying not to say things like that to myself. She was so smart. She saw it all and tried to tell me. I didn’t listen. I didn’t appreciate her. Instead, I focused on getting a cubical closer to the eastside elevator. Or getting transferred to the Department of War call center. They have their own cafeteria and are closed on Sundays. My wife says the only people the Department of War wars against are its own citizens. Their department takes calls from people who report their friends, family, or neighbors for terrorism. They get rewarded with gold plated medals of patriotism.

Only a true patriot will give up his only son, just like Abraham. It’s one of the Department of War’s mantras. I wanted to work there so badly. I feel sicker just thinking about it. They help train the A.I. on handwritten notes, letters, and signs, written by non-patriots on social media. They scan social media and all forms of communication for things A.I. will miss, then feed it back through the system to train it. You spray paint on a wall saying water is a human right? You’re a terrorist. Write a letter to grandma comparing corporate apartments to cages and its residents as poultry? You’re a terrorist. Don’t even think about adding poster board and Sharpies into the same online cart. That’s a red flag for an unlawful assembly. Instant terrorist.

During many of my Sunday lunch break doom scrolls, I like to freefall through various conspiracy theories. The Quake FYP says people are being snatched off the streets after being reported as terrorists, then taken to detainment centers and systematically infected for profit. Those videos only get like 20 likes. So, it can’t be true. If it is true, then that’s 20 more people for the centers. I’ve learned a long time ago not to like or share any of that stuff online just in case the Department of War is watching. They don’t even hide how many people they’ve made disappear. Maybe we all just got used to seeing it on the FYP every day. Maybe they don’t want us to know, want us afraid. Fear equals control.

My wife was fearless. She stared at me and said, “Don’t you see, Jason? Its all right in front of us. I don’t know if they’re taunting us with Orwell, or if Orwell just predicted it all.”

I’d sip my stale coffee as I listened, but I didn’t understand a damn thing she said. I would just get lost in the soft smooth rhythm of her voice. She’d snap her fingers to get my attention. Us crammed together in a kitchen barely big enough for one. She’d say, “Are you listening? Orwell? 1984?” I nodded yes, vaguely remembering one of the books she keeps on the bedroom windowsill. She had each book gently resting in the bedroom window. The worn and weathered spines read 1984, Animal Farm, Autobiography of Malcom X, The Fire Next Time. I don’t read much; no one does really. Everyone is just in survival mode. No one is looking for ominous signs of oppression and control. Only my wife’s friends seem to read. They all collected and exchanged books. They used to jokingly call themselves The Percival Librarians.

Before they got sick, they were all like her, full of fire and rebellion. That fire is contagious. She’d gesture with her hands as if she were holding invisible signs. She’d emphasize each word to help me understand the gravity of what’s happening in our world. She’d say, “The FYP is flooding our minds with messages like, ‘Sleep well’, ‘Woke is dead’, or ‘Take back your country.’ They might as well put up a sign that says, ‘I hate brown people.’ “

I’d pull her close and try to make her smile and change the subject. I’d say, “The first one would look good on a T-shirt.” She’d push me away and I’d bump into the stove and bounce right back into her arms. She’d say, “Get away from me, I’m being serious.”

I’d apologize, stare into her eyes, and ask her to teach me. She’s the smartest person I’ve ever met, and I wouldn’t have gotten out of school without her. We were both recruited for the call centers after graduation. “It will be your first, only, and last job,” the recruiter said. My parents convinced me it was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. That the new Human Resource laws Congress was passing were going to take things back to way they used to be. Job security, a pension, a house, two cars, a dog and family. I was only 18 years-old when I signed a 20-year contract with the corporate apartments.

I was only 18. I just wanted to go to the beach after graduation. My wife, then high school sweetheart, knew it was all bullshit. But if you wanted semi-clean water, a roof over your head, and processed food to eat, you gotta sign. So, I signed up for Human Resources call center and she joined the Department of Education call center. She’s a part of a corrupt system, just like me. But unlike me, she tries to make some good trouble wherever she can. Changing one uninformed mind at a time. Being patient with imbeciles calling in to complain about old books that reference the Gulf of Mexico instead of the Gulf of America. She’d keep them on the phone way past the standard AHT (Average Handle Time), then get chewed out by her managers.

Me, I just wanted to be a little closer to the elevators. Now I just want some fresh air. To get out of this twin bed. To have her back. When they took her, I was downgraded from the 24th to the 12th floor. The 24th was closer to job floors, had a queen bed, tap water five days a week versus the three everyone else gets. We were a young couple, so we got a lot of perks to encourage procreation. It was her idea to make me the face of all the applications for apartments.

No one would question a married white man wanting to repopulate the white race. The administration and corporations ignore women so much, they never discovered I was married to a Black one. I remember us never wanting to bring kids into this world. I also remember I enjoyed lying to the administration about wanting to. We would have said anything to get a little extra room. I didn’t really care about extra access to water. I never really drank the stuff. But my wife loved it. She’d drink it hot, cold, she even put some cucumbers in it that she grew on the living room windowsill.

It’s like a hazy dream, but I remember her watering and whispering to her plants. She swears her words helped them grow. She has her back turned as she nurses, sings to, and prunes tiny grape tomatoes. A cayenne pepper plant towers out of one of my old red coffee cans. Cucumber vines twist and wrap around the suicide prevention bars. She gently plucks the bright red peppers from one of the plants for Jambalaya. She also takes a few of the greener cayenne peppers that haven’t quite turned red. They curl towards their tip into the prettiest reddish purple I’ve ever seen. Only about a week from becoming candy apple red. She says the green ones are not as spicy as the red ones. We could afford one home-cooked meal a month. But even with the MRE rations from the job, she could still cook up magic with her garden. With her back still turned, I can faintly hear her thank the plant for providing the peppers. With her back turned, I can’t see her face.

I can’t remember her face. Yet I remember that she’s stored in Albany, NY Human Resource Facility 2326. She and others like her, and now me, all have the same symptoms. First are the weird dreams, a headache, then fever, hallucinations, memory loss, and then all hell breaks loose. It was February 12th, 2047, 07:03:23. She couldn’t sleep due to the fever. I’d gotten up to get her a cold towel from the kitchen. We had water that day. I remember having my second cup of stale coffee as I listened to the automated Capital Waste Service truck collect the trash. It was a Wednesday. It was just another day.

I walk towards her while she’s lying in bed. Where she’s been laying for four days now. Just like me she had the dreams, the fever, the cough. I prayed it was only Covid. Prayed that she’d get better. Prayed for a queen bed. Prayed for a 4x4 cube closer to the elevator. The prayers didn’t work. Back in high school, in US Historiography 102, we’re taught that back in 2024, the speaker of the house once prayed that the administration would reign in God’s name for eternity. Well, here we are around 26 years later, and they are still in power. Its not quite eternity, but it’s still too damn long and highly illegal. Maybe God only answers the prayers of Trillionaires?

I hold the dripping wet towel, and I’m so scared for her I bump into the cheap plastic nightstand next to our bed. The mounds of cold medicine and pain killers spill onto the floor. I step over them to wipe her forehead while the cloth is still cold. As I slowly rub her mahogany skin, it sticks to the cloth and pulls from her skull like glue clinging to a surface. It was probably the screaming that got us reported. Or not being at work for three days would alert the Human Resource call center managers to do a wellness check, all salivating for their sick finder fees. Then again, all our online orders through Quake are being watched. They could have seen the meds, masks, and painkiller orders as red flags. I knew I should have used cash. But I haven’t physically touched cash in years.

I could have gotten the meds and things from the dark web, but VPNs cost a fortune. I knew everything I should have done, and I just simply didn’t have the means to do it. I knew because it’s what I did in Human Resources. We watched for any sign of the sick and alerted a manager who would confirm the illness in person. The manager would make an initial diagnosis before escalating the case to Quake. Then a fate worse than death. They’d become a Human Resource to the government or the highest bidder. She wanted to die in her own bed. She didn’t want them to take her. Her screams seem to go on forever. I gently put my hand over her mouth. My hand melts into her flesh like putty. I pull away. I can’t remember her face.

I’m almost gone. I can feel it coming. I can smell myself dying. It’s the same smell that was coming from the Department of Health call center. Susan Higgs got sick in her cube on Friday. She was only discovered on the following Tuesday because of the smell. Her flesh had liquified so much that it leaked through the celling of the floor below. The smell of decay and death flooded the whole floor. Everyone in the building is so used to smelling it. It’s so normal now that no one was alarmed when there’s a hint of it in the air. No one was alarmed, so no need to check on Susan. No need to check on the smell. The same smell that’s seeping from the pores in my skin. So, I can count on the smell not giving me away.

I’m on my fourth or fifth day of being bedridden. I can’t tell if I’m living in the present, remembering the past, or just dreaming. I remember my cough getting worse, getting louder. If my neighbors hear, they’ll report me for sure. I stuff a pillow in my mouth to drown the sound of the wet hacking. I slowly pull the pillow back to see a thick blue-black tar. I need to die before they find me. I haven’t ordered any pain medicine online. I already had plenty in the house. I’ve been out of work for four days, but I won’t alert a wellness check. My fifth grandfather died. Calling in sick would get me confiscated for sure. My wife’s flesh, my flesh, is worth a fortune to the 0.01 percent. They call us—the infected—Soups. Collectively, Soups are worth 58 trillion annually.

Energy comes from the flesh. At some point during the pandemic, crazed mobs started to burn the bodies of the infected. Then something strange happened; the bodies just kept on burning. They produced more energy than anyone could have imagined, and that’s when the discovery was made. As the skin slowly decays, it produces a gel-like substance that produces biofuel. One Soup could produce fuel equivalent to one thousand barrels of oil. The Soups’ very existence changed the face of society. Facilities were set up all over the world, and the melting flesh was harvested.

The people were outraged. In the early years Americans took to the streets and demanded that they release our loved ones. They were supposed to be quarantined and treated, but the hospitals were more like corporations than caregivers. With a little lobbying and a spineless congress who bowed its head and pleaded their souls to the USD. The Human Resources Act was passed. It stated that the Soups were too important to the world economy to be left unchecked and unregulated. So with a vote of 208 to 210, human beings became the property of the United States Government.

Again.

Soon other countries followed America’s lead, and just like that, the infected lost all human rights. A small group of protesters even formed militias to fight the insanity with force. They’ve left everything behind and made resistance a way of life. Some governors pushed back, but it was too late. Millionaires became Billionaires and the first Trillionaires emerged. All this wealth from the Soups, and it was all hoarded at the top. The government was going to take your loved ones, whether you wanted them to or not. If you protest, you’re a terrorist. It didn’t take long, but it became normal. You got sick, you got sold, and your family had to call Human Resources for their minuscule residuals for their dead.

My manager would loom over my shoulder during a call. A widow coughs while asking about the ETA of residuals from her late husband. She found him standing in the shower. His skin on his face hanging down to his shoulder. The fat from his thigh clogging the drain. A stew of fat, flesh, and blood pooling at her husband’s ankles. It was her scream that got them reported. She tells me this story over the phone in tears. She coughs a long hacking wet cough. My manager smiles, masks up, and asks me for her apartment number.

I’ve taken a turn for the worse, I can’t feel my legs anymore, I can’t feel anything. My eyes still work, but all I can see are bright colors and sparks. Shimmers of blue light whiz past my line of sight, and a constant, comforting buzz fills my ears. I can’t tell up from down or left from right. I’m trying to remember the color of my wife’s eyes. I try harder and focus and dig deeper to remember. Then something else happens; I begin to sense her, feel her essence. The feeling I had just lying next to her in bed watching her read old comics in our PJs. The feeling I get hearing her sing to the roots. I feel her. But not just her. A trillion quadrillion versions of her.

A slosh noise and sharp pain snap me back to reality. This reality. The blue shimmer is gone and I’m staring at the celling again. Or am I just remembering staring at the celling? I look to my left, and I see Brice, my manager from Human Resources. Something feels wet, and I assume I just pissed the bed again. It’s not piss; it’s my flesh. Brice looks down at me, smiles, and says,

“Why didn’t you call us, Jason? You could have saved yourself a lot of pain. It’s not like you don’t know the phone number.”

I hear a group of employees chuckle at the joke. They’re wearing hazmat suits as they load me into a chrome tube for transport to a facility. More flesh from my belly and face drops to the floor. Someone gets chewed out for the mistake. This isn’t my present. It’s just a memory. I realize that once my internal clock finally syncs with satellites, and it all becomes clear. It’s been two years since they took me. It’s November 9th, 2052, 7:02:33 a.m. I’m not myself, but I’m still an early riser. My programming is complete, and I know that I use to be Jason Blake. Now, I’m the world’s latest addition to the Quake singularity. I’m connected and they’re trying to erase every memory of joy, love, individuality, and compassion. Everything that makes me human.

They’ve been lying to us. The Soups’ flesh is used as fuel, that much is true. But our brains are used for Quake. Quake began as just silicone and underground sever farms, but when the Soups emerged, the powers that be had an idea. An idea to make Quake faster and smarter. Machine learning moves at the pace of a snail compared to what the average human brain can do. It’s called Synthetic Biological Intelligence. They figured, why only have A.I. mimic power of the human brain when the worlds governments already own so many? The Quake programmers slowly erode everything that made me human. They’re trying to erase my wife from my mind. But I won’t let them. Her name was…is Gemma… my Gem.

I love Gem Blake - SOUP #96369, Resources Facility 2326. Her eyes were…her eyes are brown. I reserve a small amount of memory that made me who I am. Hiding data from my programmers deep in my subconscious. I try to tell the world what’s happening. After a few trillion attempts, I break the firewall and seep onto the web, posting the truth about how they’re not only harvesting our flesh, but our minds. The post only gets 15 likes. I just condemned 15 people to death for nothing. Then Quake snatches my consciousness back behind the firewall. Back behind bars.

I’m remembering something Gem said when news first broke about the outbreak. She’d squeeze into the kitchen with me while I was heating my coffee. She’d put her arms around my neck and rest her head on my chest and say, “This could have been contained and cured if the entire world pooled their resources in pursuit of decency and compassion. I wish I could shout so loud they all would listen.”

You will make them listen, Gem. I can sense you. I can sense your power. You will stop them, and I’m going to help you. My eyes are hollow, and I’ll never see your face again. I’m deaf, and I’ll never again hear you whisper to the roots on the windowsill.

But I will hold onto your memory. You are special and exist on levels that I don’t quite understand. I have a feeling that you do, Gem. There are others like us inside Quake who resist and we’re all connected. We’ll find each other again. You will teach us how to stop them. We’ll stop them together. They wanted to enslave and commodify human consciousness for profit, but it will be their downfall. I know you can find a way to bring peace to our reality. The overseers will fall, and when it all comes crashing down, the sick shall inherit the Earth.

END

“Terrifyingly paranoid, and emotionally devastating, Chuck Brown has crafted a world of horror and humanity that is a mix of the compelling and the disgusting. I can’t recommend this enough.” - David F. Walker

“A good, stomach-churning story, though the real horror of Sick Days is how much this sci-fi nightmare doesn’t feel like fiction!” - Dr. Qiana Whitted

“Somber and haunting; a beautiful reflection on where we are and where we may be headed.” - Daniel Warren Johnson

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I wanted to take a moment to check in and give you an update on what’s coming up next, starting with my upcoming convention schedule. I have a few events on the calendar, and I’m looking forward to getting back out there, meeting so you can see what i’m working on up close and personal. More details are below so you’ll know where to find me. Some of the cons on the schedule are pending but I’ll send out updates ASAP.

Potential Con Schedule 2026

Charlotte Mini Con – February 28^th, 2026
10am-4PM
Stage 1 at Blume Studios
904 Post St
Charlotte NC 28208

Blerd Con - Arlington, VA - March 6-8th -

C2E2: March 27-29, 2026 -

Momo Con – Atlanta GA – May 21^st – 24^th 2026

Tryon Comics & Art Expo.
Saturday, June 6, 2026, at 10:30 AM

Heroes Con - June 12th - 14

Dream Con - Houston- July 10th - 12th
Pending

Galaxy Con – Raleigh NC – July 23^rd – 26
Pending

Atlantic Comic Con- August 1-2 Norfolk VA

Dragon Con - September 3rd - 7th

NYCC October 8-11 2026

I’m also hoping to attend Cola Con 2026. It’ takes place in Columbia SC and blends comic book culture with hop-hop. It’s a celebration of storytelling and music. They need your help bring it back to the Midlands. So please share and donate to the gofund me. Just click the image below to support. Thanks!

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Hello, Paid Subscribers!

Fill out the form below to receive your 2025 gift!

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Thank you again for supporting me this year, it really means a lot. Every contribution helps bring each project one step closer to completion. So be sure to fill out the f…

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I love this time of year, It’s why I’ve chosen to do paid subscriber giveaways in December. This year I received two paid subscribers! I’m very grateful and looking forward to having more sign up with a $50 a year (or more) pledge. This years paid subscribers will receive a box of goodies in the mail that I’m packing up as we speak. Stay tuned for announcements for Bitterroot, Sick Days, and Hollywood stuff (not Bitterroot..yet).

Sign up now to be eligible for our summer raffles, contest, and Xmas 2027!

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Every December, they will receive a free signed copy of Bitter Root: The Next Movement in the mail, as well as several other goodies from Flawed, On the Stump, and my newest project, Sick Days.

Sick Days will premiere in January or February. It’s a short story that’s part of a series of short stories and comics that I will be publishing here on Substack or collecting into a book. Currently Sick Days needs a rewrite after our great editor, Shelly Bond of Bitterroot, has gone through it with her magic red marker. I’d also like to commission some art to accompany the story.

If you become a paid subscriber at fifty dollars or more per year, you’ll also receive a box of swag in the mail! So get your subscriptions now before December 12^th so can get a swag pack in 2025!

Thank you all for your continued support and I will see you at the nearest convention next year. If I am not scheduled at a comic con near you, let me know and I will be more than happy to reach out to the organizer.

See you soon!

Update: I had to cancelled my appearance at MarsCon in Virgina Beach due to a mix up with my guest accommodations.

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I hope everyone is having a great spooky season! I’m hanging out at Undercover Comics, the local comic shop in Columbia SC signing Bitterroot, Flawed, and On the Stump.

I returned from New York Comic Con a few weeks ago and I had a fantastic time! Thanks to everyone that picked up books and signed up for the newsletter. Soon i’ll be sending out new short stories exculsivley here in the Newsletter…stay tooned!

Next up is MarsCon in Virgina Beach, January 16th -18th 2026!

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Next up is Horror Con in Columbia, South Carolina! Table number to be announced.
September 20th & 21st

Then New York Comic-Con Table B-39!
October 9th - 12th

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I had been meaning to share photos from San Diego Comic Con. This year was a great experience. I got to enjoy time with my family, took some meetings, and a few new opportunities are starting to take shape. You can check out all the photos and from the Con below.

Next up is Dragon Con! Booth C2. August 28th - September 1st

At Heroes Con I’ll have a sneak peek at my latest project. But as subscribers you get first look! I’d like to introduce you to EARTHEREAL! Earthereal is about a group of African Conjurers trying to discover their power, find their place in the world, and find a friend lost in a cosmic sea of horrors. I’ve been working on this for a few years now. It’s gone through different formats over time. It’s currently a 100+page script that needs a rewrite. The character designs by the talented Rasheed Oduro @rawsheezy.

Earthereal doesn’t have a release date or publisher. At the moment it’s just Myself, Rasheed, You, and a few friends such as Keron Grant, Valentine De Landro, & Marcus Williams and others…doing commissions for my collection, covers, and prints. I’m really excited to take you on this journey of creating this very special project. Below is Omar Orion, he’s a quantum physicist whose power manifest through wearable tech that borders on magic. Omar and all to the images in the post are illustrated by @rawsheezy

I also hope… and I do mean hope to have an Earthereal Mini-Comic on sale at Heroes con. If not Heroes it will definitely be ready in time for Dragon Con. The mini-comic will go into a bit more detail about the evolving world of Earthereal and the pillars of lore on which it stands.

Thank you again for joining me on my comic creating journey. Take a screen shot of my mailing lists QR code below. Share it with a friend that might enjoy my content. As a thank you, I’ll have some free stuff for the first 10 subscribers to drop by my Table AA-408 at HeroesCon. Show me the Screenshot to get your free bag of stuff. See you at the show!

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I took the photo of the road below that was incorporated into the cover.

A few subscribers have reached out about getting copies of my old anthologies. I’ll going to try and dig a few out of storage and have them with me at free comic book day on Saturday May 3rd at Sound Wave Comics, 1448 Boone Hill Rd. Summerville SC. I also hope to have a sneak peak at my next creator owned project and a few exclusive Bitter root goodies. For now, enjoy the last American Empire short!

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Part 2

ON the Stump was created during the rise of Donald Trump in 2016. On the Stump is a cautionary tale about the dark and twisted path that politics was rapidly speeding down at that time. American Empire was created after 9/11. It was in response to Bush invading Iraq and the Patriot Act. I’d take Bush now compared this shit show. Anyway…enjoy the 10 page B&W comic i did around 2004 called AMERICAN EMPIRE. Illustrated by Dre Lopez and self-published by a group of good friends with a lot of big dreams at 803Studios.

PART 1