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David's Journey Through a New World
The long stretched war the militants fought, the climate change, the economic crisis and system collapse in main parts of the world with a mankind that kept shouting for humanity being enforced no matter religion and colour... won.
The entire region was declared a failed nation area. From the Turkish boarder to Yemen and from Euphrates to Cairo did no Police or large military exist anymore.
Everyone had weapons and everyone came together to decide with those around.
It was a Switzerland style chaos in full arms and who gave orders over others was killed.
Climate change had its impact making life impossible to those minding sweating and the increased humidity cycle of vaporization and rainfall created more snowed in Jerusalem than ever in history.
Life had changed when the hard ruled nations turned into chaos and beyond the understanding of those that had gained in the order and structure industrialization had created, the humans that were cut off by Secret Service battles, corruption, drugs and terror it became better.
Quickly, next to the arms and ammo smuggling small goods were smuggled. Footballs, instruments, clothing and mechanical tools. They moved into the ruins and covered themselves from the Drone and Satellite surveillance by creating a distinctive different pattern than the militants create against each other been missed as no threat.
Eventually, the war machine ran out of money, soldiers and weapons. Both sides had taken themselves down. The militant survives either turned a new crime elite in the Shadows of a new all rainy, all hot, all chaos world with richer than ever rich people ghettos, regretted to join the Normals or choose suicide. No monuments were build and there were no sides anymore. The chaos won, the chaos flourished and satellite pictures for NASA geologists showed exponential growth in population indicated by ever more green, buildings and infrastructure constantly changing by additions in no visible pattern, yet solid and profoundly attractive.
This is about one of those born into there.
The world was a corpse, and the coast road its rotting artery. David Muhammad guided the bone-white UTE along its cracked, sun-baked skin, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the worn stock of the Kalashnikov propped between the seats. The radio spat static and the occasional burst of tinny, wailing music from a pirate station that would be gone in an hour. This was the new normal. The Long Stretch, his father called it. The war the Old Men fought had bled the land white, and from the ashes, the Green had come, fierce and untamed.
His UTE, a rust-speckled Toyota Hilux with a patched-together hydrogen cell converter, was his life. The tray was stacked with trade goods: salvaged server blades from the ruins of Haifa, a case of synthetic engine lubricant, and his most precious cargo – a sealed cooler of actual, non-lab-grown coffee beans, a king’s ransom for his cousin’s wedding in Cairo.
“The Good Fence” wasn’t a place, it was a concept. A hundred-kilometer-wide strip of what used to be borders, where the last vestiges of national armies had dissolved into the warm, wet air. He approached the “Beirut Gate,” which was just a concrete overpass covered in vibrant, psychedelic graffiti, currently manned by a committee of locals from three nearby hamlets. A man with a cybernetic eye and a woman with a rocket launcher slung over her shoulder waved him down.
“Destination, load, and proposed toll?” the cyborg asked, his voice a dry rasp. The committee system. Switzerland-style chaos, the scholars called it. You argued, you bartered, you consented. If you tried to give orders, you got a bullet. It was slower, but it worked.
“Cairo. Trade goods for a wedding. I have Haifa server blades, grade-B. I can spare two,” David offered.
The woman peered into the UTE’s tray. “The lubricant. One case.”
“Half a case. The rest is for family.”
A brief, hard discussion ensued between the five-person committee. The air was thick, humid, clinging to the skin like a film. The climate had gone mad, turning the Levant into a steamy greenhouse. In the distance, the mountains of Lebanon were an improbable, shocking white.
“Half a case of lubricant, and you transmit the latest map-data from the Sinai stretch to our node when you pass through,” the cyborg declared. Consensus reached. David nodded, swiped his commlink against theirs, and the data packet transferred. A wave, and he was through. No passports, no flags. Just data and barter.
The coast road was a tapestry of ruin and rebirth. Crumbling skeletons of old-world apartments were now draped in lush, vertical farms, their walls a carpet of green. Makeshift wind turbines spun lazily in the sea breeze. He passed a former military checkpoint, now a thriving market where kids played football with a patched-up ball next to stalls selling home-forged tools and bootleg simsense recordings. This was the “exponential growth” the NASA geeks chattered about on the global nets. Not ordered, not planned. A chaotic, vibrant, human fungus thriving on the corpse of the old.
He drove through Sidon, where the ancient sea castle was now strung with lights and satellite dishes, a node for the data-smugglers. He paid for a hydrogen top-up with three of his server blades. The attendant, a young woman with intricate circuitry tattoos snaking up her arms, warned him of a “Militant Ghost” patrol further south.
“Old habits,” she said, spitting into the dust. “They think they still own the shadows. They’re just bandits with a dead man’s ideology.”
The warning proved true near the ruins of Ashkelon. A junked-up technical vehicle, a pickup with a mounted machine gun, swerved onto the road, blocking his path. Three figures jumped out, their faces hidden by scarves, their clothing a mix of old militant gear and new-world rags. One had a crude data-spike grafted to his wrist.
“Out of the vehicle! All your goods! This road is under the protection of the Al-Quds Remnant!” their leader barked, his voice trying too hard for authority.
David didn’t get out. He just sighed, reaching for his commlink. He didn’t open a channel to them. He opened a local, open-sourced emergency frequency.
“Ashkelon stretch, kilometer marker 12. Three armed individuals, one technical. Claiming ‘Al-Quds Remnant’ authority. Attempting unauthorized confiscation of property. Requesting community verdict.”
He put the commlink on the dash. The leader’s eyes widened. This wasn’t how it was done. You didn’t call for a committee mid-robbery.
Within ninety seconds, the reply started crackling in.
*“Quds Remnant? Dissolved. Asset forfeiture authorized.”* – Sidon Data-hub.
*“Technical’s registration is listed as stolen from Gaza salvage yard. Use of force permitted to recover property.”* – A nearby farming co-op.
*“We have a drone inbound. Stand by.”* – An anonymous net-voice.
The bandits heard it too. They looked at each other, the bravado draining from their postures. The “Swiss chaos” had its own justice, and it was swift, decentralized, and merciless. A small quadcopter buzzed overhead. The leader cursed, waved his men back into their truck, and they sped off, kicking up a cloud of dust. No shots fired. Just the system working.
David drove on. As he climbed into the Judean hills, the temperature dropped. The humid heat gave way to a strange, cold fog. And then, he saw it. Jerusalem, the ancient city, was buried under a blanket of pure, driven snow. A sight no one living had ever seen. Minarets and church spires poked through the white like skeletal fingers. It was silent, beautiful, and utterly terrifying. He pulled over, the UTE’s tires crunching on the frozen ground. He stood in the cab, feeling the unnatural cold, watching his breath plume in the air. This was the world now. A world of miracles and monsters.
The final leg into Egypt was a blur of checkpoints run by Bedouin clans and Delta fisher-communes. The Green was even thicker here, the Nile Delta a sprawling, hyper-fertile jungle. The “Constellation” of Cairo appeared on the horizon not as a city of minarets, but as a mountain range of stacked, repurposed ruins, draped in green, threaded with a million lights, its form shifting and changing daily. There was no pattern, just a profound, solid, organic growth.
He found his cousin’s district in the shadow of a half-collapsed skyscraper, now a vertical village. The wedding was a riot of sound and color, a defiant celebration in the heart of the chaos. He presented the coffee beans to his cousin, who hugged him fiercely.
That night, sitting on a rooftop, listening to the pulse of the reborn city, watching the dance of countless lights and the flicker of cooking fires, David understood. The war machine had bankrupted itself. The militants were ghosts or gangsters. The Old World was a fossil.
The chaos hadn’t just won. It had inherited the earth. And as he looked out at the thriving, messy, dangerous, and breathtakingly alive world, he knew it was the only thing that could have. He took a sip of the priceless, bitter coffee, and smiled. The road was long, but it was his.
