A rat

 

He had been born in an anxious time. Between the fear of a nuclear conflict and the invasion of floods of Islamicized metatics, everything announced death and desolation.

One had to admit that everyday life was acceptable in comparison. The old people had, if not the sense of relaxation, the attachment to work well done. The institutions and administrations functioned properly, even if the situation was deteriorating every day. In fact, the last decades before the Third World War were the most important for the world's oligarchs. It was during these years (70-80) that the globalists had significantly advanced their pawns. 

There had been a loss of knowledge between the generation of rural people who were coming to the end of their lives and the uprooted younger generation, like his own, who had grown up in cities with no past, no traditions, no practical knowledge.

Every year that passed saw new victories for the "camp of the good" that was striving to transform the population into a bunch of uncultured and uprooted individualists, convinced that their lack of survival instinct was a high achievement of civilization.

In his early childhood, in fact, the old people had been born in the last years of the 19th century. They had grown up with horses and bees circling jam jars. Two world wars had bled millions of young people full of vigor and conviction. The brave had died, and the weak and helpless were left behind. The maneuvering had mainly affected the Western countries and Japan. Germany donned a cloak of eternal atonement, the Japanese traded in samurai for blue-haired androgynous beings. Drugs were finishing off a youth that had no positive future in mind.

All the storms were blowing at the same time. There was invasion, insecurity, global warming, great power confrontations, unemployment and precariousness, price inflation, general impoverishment, pollution. The populations were attacked from all sides so that they remained stunned, divided, demoralized, ready to surrender without fighting. 

The politicians were all pawns, mercenaries playing their role of composition to divide the population and offer all possible alternatives. In the end, the candidates designated by the system were always the only ones left standing, after the population had been entertained with puppet fights.

All this was exhausting, demoralizing, it wore down the last resistance, blunted the last immune defenses. Slowly, gradually, people learned to march in step, to raise their hands on an order.

The most lucid human elements withdrew from the political arena, understanding that the cause was lost. The enraged were eliminated in one way or another. Only the swaying majority, the mass of expendable people and a few useful idiots were left to complete the division and destruction of the decaying social order.

At the time he was born, his country was living, as already said, in the 19th century. The old people of his childhood were a rural population, simple and limited. These beggars had bequeathed to their descendants a country of narrow roads, charming villages clustered around a church, well-tended bocages and a host of food products that sometimes tasted terrible, but which had constituted an original culinary art.

This country, this time, he had not inherited anything from it. He had just been lucky enough to catch a glimpse of it. It was a vaguely reassuring setting.

He had grown up with the illusions of his age and his time. He did some studying, enough to delude himself about his abilities and his personal dimension.

But he never managed to escape from his white boy condition. He accumulated small jobs, disillusions, failures.

He hardly managed to live better than a cockroach. He was not a good lover, a very imperfect father and his professional career was marked by many years of unemployment, poverty and frustration. So he looked at his time and his life with displeasure, measuring everything that prevented him from living a dignified life as a man.

He saw the frustration in his wife's eyes, the sad look in his children's eyes. He lived a mediocre life as a failed writer, unable to compensate for this personal failure with anything else edifying. He was a generally disappointing guy.

Some reading had convinced him that the history that preceded him had already been directed by some secret and influential actors. The old monarchies and central empires had been brought down by a First World War that these secret societies had wanted, sacrificing in the process millions of young people sent to their deaths in trenches designed to kill as many of them as possible. This bloodshed was accompanied by a ruthless war against religion, against traditional values, against patriotism. It was, yes, a plot hatched by corporations as powerful as they were discreet.

Abominable political regimes had been knowingly financed by the financiers of the globalist cartel to continue the massacre and destruction of the people during the Second World War.

Everything had been done, revolution and anarchy of the senses and convictions had been introduced through every possible orifice.

The village communities, the ways of life of the peasantry, the traditions, the folklore, the hopes for freedom of the different peoples of the West were gradually destroyed. The peasants had been driven from the fields to the cities without reference points, exchanging the misery of the countryside for the misery of the suburbs. Men had been thrown into unemployment to reduce them. School and television had destroyed what remained of common sense and purity in souls to throw them into the arms of addictive, lustful consumption, without conviction of a tomorrow, of a possible ideal.

He had only known a society already parked in the cities, in the middle of a population without roots, without memories, without immunity against the system. Weakened in his body by a toxic industrial food, deprived of physical outlets, stuck in a guilt-ridden and debilitating discourse, he had been mixed by force with other uprooted races. This mixing was not done in harmony, it was not the goal.

By the beginning of the 21st century, the globalist oligarchy had decided that this funny war had to end sooner than expected. The accidental election of Donald Trump in the United States, the political-economic rise of China and the long reign of Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin as head of the Russian Federation had decided them to speed things up. The planet had thus undergone decades of bacteriological or bio-genetic attacks. Sanitary" crises, intended to poison the populations, ruthlessly eliminated the old, the weak, the less resistant. In order to impose the enslavement of humanity, it was necessary to shock and break the populations through war, famine, and organized chemical genocide. It is true that there were only female fish in the rivers, the seeds of the men became sterile, the women lost their children.

So the attacks never stopped, until the end. One after the other, the assaults of science finished the work started by civil wars and organized hunger. Viruses conceived in military laboratories decimated each year the survivors of the previous attack. 

They took advantage of this to impose absurd measures, because it was not necessary to think, it was necessary to obey. The aim was to impose insecurity, to depress the group in order to weaken the people's defenses to the maximum. The school, the media and the social networks had done their preliminary work of conditioning well, people had obeyed without hesitation. They had confined themselves without understanding why, had put on useless masks and had been injected with poisons. In fact, the vaccines were destroying the last of the vaccinees' immune defenses. Doctors under the orders of Big Pharma, itself entirely in the hands of the globalists, were all calling for vaccination...

After several bio-genetic attacks and several rounds of vaccination, a large part of the population had succumbed, the survivors were sick, weakened for the rest of their lives. A few large-scale riots and regional conflicts had finished off the states and eliminated the last remaining reactive elements. 

In spite of these organized pandemics, there were always more migrants of all kinds to invade the western countries. All these migrants came to the Western lands to pillage, to seize objects, to ape what they could not understand.

The massive arrival of these foreigners had quickly destroyed all the structures of his country. This invasion had been initially wanted by the bosses who had been made to hope for a downgraded, submissive, cheap labor force. Their greed had been aroused, there was an overall plan to mix the populations, to deprive them even more of any reference point. 

In a few decades, schools and hospitals had been submerged. The metaculturists were popping up everywhere, driven out by wars, famines and the daily political and economic hell that they suffered in their countries. 

Ghettos were formed, neighborhoods and cities lived according to the time of the countries of origin of the newcomers. Distrust between our communities had set in. The countries targeted by globalism were submerged, like Rome and Athens in their time, by the violence and ignorance of these sacrificed peoples. Violence and fear reigned everywhere.

When the barbarians were in the majority, civilization collapsed. Political power passed into the hands of these invaders. But these unfortunate people were unable to offer peace and prosperity. They carried with them only war and principles of government based on the plunder of wealth and the most brutal despotism.

Wherever whites remained dominant, secession occurred. Walls had been erected, roads had been blocked. But these fragile barriers were, more often than not, overwhelmed by the onslaught of raiders. 

Clashes between communities had begun, against a background of organized scarcity.

As Ibn Khaldun had observed in the 14th century, the nomads had swooped down on the fearful and fattened sedentaries. There had been many massacres, many small whites at first, killed in the midst of scenes of pillage. Then, the resistance was organized, fierce. From the depths of the ages, the frightful instincts of the pagan peoples of Europe arose.

The streets and the countryside had been given over to clouds of locusts. The hordes from the south plundered, killed and raped the countries that were handed over to them. They stopped only in the lands that resisted them and exercised, in return, a savagery at least equal. The time of impalements, massacres and human sacrifices had returned. Blood was once again a war paint for the Westerners.

The ancient prophecies of hellish scenes were being fulfilled.

In this context of death, famine and unprecedented chaos, the world government had imposed itself without meeting any resistance.

Soldiers belonging to an unknown army had methodically finished off those resisting the world order in mysterious security operations. These law enforcement operations had initially ignored the looters, focusing on eliminating the last white recalcitrants, the warlords in priority. 

Where did these helmeted, well-equipped, unmarked units come from? Nobody knew. There had been no media for a long time, no one to investigate who was behind the killings.

In any case, even before the anarchy, no one had ever investigated the laboratories that had produced the viruses that had decimated the populations. More to the point, the investigations had never been broadcast in the media or on social networks. All these media outlets belonged to billionaires who were very much involved in the great reinitialization wanted by the globalist oligarchs. The camp of the good had implemented its worst nightmares, those it denounced in the ranks of the "extremists."

This was the third world war, started with the fake islamic attack of the World Trade Center, the first official act of a large-scale destabilization operation, conducted over several centuries. In the context of a permanent pandemic, a way was found to impose wars of extermination on panic-stricken peoples. Civil wars, confrontations between peoples, no one had been able to escape, except for a few inaccessible regions where the gotha gathered to safely observe the world depopulation at work.

In a few weeks, he had lost his job, his house and most of his friends, relatives and neighbors. 

Those who remained hid like him and his family. The streets were given over to looting, riots and savage killings. Soon, the last forces of order had succumbed. There were no more administrations, no more food in the supermarkets, no more pictures on the screens.

From the beginning of the first "health crises", he had cautiously abandoned the militant terrain understanding who was at the helm. Faced with the power of the attack and the division in the ranks of the resistance, he understood that the fight was lost in advance. This allowed him to escape the first F.E.M.A. camps or the summary executions of anonymous commandos who attacked the last resistance fighters. He was not a martyr, he knew that.

None of his family members had been vaccinated. They had quietly resisted all the injunctions, renouncing all social life, bypassing the authorizations, the tests, the vaccination requirements. 

When the civil war broke out, they had just enough time to hit the road, to join a friend who lived further north in a region of misty swamps. The building was just a cold old house, open to the four winds. But there were some fruit trees and a vegetable garden. The many sons of the family and their friends formed a small private army to defend the place against marauders. The place was very secluded, far from any settlement. 

His wife had at first strongly disapproved of the trip. She didn't want to live in the discomfort of this mothballed castle, far from the shores of her childhood. 

But the urban riots, an elderly neighbor impaled on a tree and the burning cars below their building had weakened her resolve. Prostrate, weeping for his recently deceased mother, his wife sat in the car without a word. Their youngest children were with them, so they had to try to save them. 

His oldest son was already a big boy. He had, however, decided to come with them. Without a word, he had taken a suitcase, leaving behind a past and friendships to which he had seemed so attached. The young man hardly spoke. It was difficult to identify what had motivated his decision, except filial love. 

In any case, the world government had organized the impossibility of fleeing the country and the war. It was necessary to fix the people to be eliminated in the territories at war.

So they set off on a hallucinatory journey, dotted with urban riots, burnt-out houses and battle scenes worthy of an episode of The Walking Dead. After hours of an endless and uncertain journey, they had reached their friend's house. It was cold, the rooms were uncomfortable, but the friend's friendship had given them the respite they needed.

Unfortunately, the whole country was given over to looters. Gangs roamed the countryside, killing livestock, raping women, committing the barbaric acts inherent in the despair, resentments and frustrations of doomed people. 

Several times they had repelled the incursions of bandits. But in the end, they had succumbed to the onslaught of a much larger band. His friend's wife had been killed, as well as several members of the group. His son was seriously injured. 

Their group's food supplies had been destroyed in the attack. The invaders were hungry people, and the purpose of their attack was only to get the food supply. He had to fight the attackers closely. They were just desperate people, lost beings in a world that gave them little chance of survival. They had no other plan than to survive at any cost. It was then that he truly understood that people were being thrown against each other to kill each other.

He and his family had survived on roots, chestnuts, berries, rats and friendship. Several more in the group had died of diarrhea, mild infections that lack of facilities made it impossible to treat. The original group had melted away, but others had come to seek the safety of numbers. All of them were in bad shape.

Finally, after two years, commandos from a world army arrived. They were equipped soldiers, an organized army, composed of valiant, well-fed soldiers. They spoke unknown languages, and picked up all the people indiscriminately. He and his group had been picked up like everyone else.

They had not put up any resistance. They were at the end of their strength. They would not have survived any longer if these soldiers had not arrived.

The reception in their camps had gradually become worse and worse. From the first hours of being taken care of by their military doctors, they had been vaccinated without being able to put up any resistance. Then came the shaving of the heads, including the women, the brutal separation of the children, then the separation of the couples. 

His wife had been assigned to another barracks. His children were scattered all over the place, in areas where they were taken care of by dedicated staff. 

All of them were busy with exhausting days, busy with routine tasks, tasks that were absurd or of little use except to break down the last psychological resistance. Men and women were separated, then the young from the old. The most harmonious faces and figures were set apart, etc.

His worst nightmares were materializing before his eyes.

Separated from his wife and children, separated from his friends, shorn, almost naked, he was unable to resist.

He then had to submit to batteries of tests, multiple and insidious questionnaires. Executives observed him for hours, consulted each other, filled out forms.

He was suspicious, didn't say anything, but they had quickly spotted him. During one of their questionnaires, a slight stiffening of his interlocutor, a discreet glance addressed to one of his superiors had designated him for further examination. 

They had understood or had been informed that he had been a radical opponent of globalism. 

He was strangely torn between pride at having been somehow recognized and concern. He suspected that they were less than thrilled to count him among the survivors of a genocide that they had organized and that he had foreseen and exposed years before.

So he had been moved from one side to the other, overnight. The people who supervised him in the reception camp had been, up to that point, civil servants, if not debonair, obviously not very knowledgeable about the ultimate goals of the operation. 

His new interlocutors seemed more "political", more fanatical about the globalism at work. They spoke to him angrily, like individuals convinced of the need to do away with people like him.

He understood that it was urgent that he get out of there. During a trip by train, he had taken the risk of fleeing. He jumped off a train, spraining his knee in the process. 

He had dragged himself to a river, let himself be carried away by the current. His leg was throwing him around very painfully. He never recovered from this fall and kept his leg dragging and aching until his death.

Days later, he was able to salvage some clothes from the ruins of a gutted house in an abandoned hamlet. Carefully staying on the ridges, he organized his survival, living like a hunted, emaciated animal.

He knew he had nothing left to lose. His wife and children were doomed to a fate over which he had no control. He had no friends, no way of contacting loved ones. He had lost everything. 

Probably, he was psychologically cut out for this ordeal. He had always been a sort of social misfit, not interested in developing human relationships. He had always been a loner, even within his family.

He accepted these events all the more willingly because he had anticipated them. In any case, he did not have the courage to let himself die. He had to last as long as possible.

He had always known that he was not a warrior, let alone a hero. He was no longer ashamed of it, he had already started this work of lucidity on himself years before.

Soon he met people who survived in the wilderness like him, people who were local, sometimes remarkably organized. Some helped him, others he had to fight. He even killed some of them, badly. He had no more problems with his conscience.

During a survival raid, he came across a shelter in the mountains. There were some supplies and several young women who had been kidnapped and were barely surviving their ordeals.

They had been raped and then used as sex and domestic slaves. Since he had killed their former masters, he kept them as servants. It was not that he had any aptitude for this role, but he was unable to offer them any other setting and none of them had expressed the wish to leave. In this existence where every day brought its share of fear, fury and blood, they lived together. He had no particular feelings for them, and they ignored him as best they could.

After each confrontation, he took refuge, sometimes wounded, in the middle of these women. He did not possess them, however, he had never had the desire to do so. A broken old man did not arouse, in return, any emotion in these creatures damaged by men. 

These women died or were taken from him rather quickly. He paid no attention to them, as he did to all the humans he met at that time. 

He managed to survive for a few more years in the forests, avoiding drones, surveillance cameras and the company of humans.

He went through different phases of madness, without realizing it. Whether such behaviors were the result of hunger, trauma, loneliness or disease, it is certain that he did not gain any wisdom or spiritual enlightenment from them. He dealt with his instincts as best he could.

According to his observations, the cities had been abandoned, but remained closely guarded. 

The surviving humanity seemed to be parked in huge collective buildings. People were born and died without seeing the sky. He could hardly see anyone coming out, except for corpses. Even the guards stayed inside.

A few rare convoys travelled the deserted roads, a few aircraft flew in the sky. He didn't know what was going on in these camps. He didn't know what was going on on Earth anymore. He didn't care.

One day he realized that he had reached the end of his life, the end of his desire to survive. He decided it was time to leave. Further up the mountain, there was still a place where the snow clung in winter. He went there on a cold night. The moon was full, illuminating a silent clearing. It was beautiful.

He undressed with difficulty. It was cold and his limbs did not respond. Death took a firm hold of him after an hour. Condemned, he knelt down in the snow, his chest straight, his head raised towards the stars. Then he collapsed, unable to keep this noble posture. Slowly, he curled up in a fetal position, trembling with all his being.

He was brought back to his true dimension.

The moment had arrived for him. He had done what the ancient Japanese did, he had gone to the mountain to end his last hours.

He had always known that he would die like that, naked in the snow, with his balls frozen.

He died without a thought, without a memory, without being able to produce a single interesting thought. His body simply stopped functioning, stopped vibrating. He returned to the light.

He had dreamed of this scene of his death since childhood. Ever since he was a little boy, he had known that he would end up like this, a thin old fool, lying there on the snow. 

He had hoped it would be a little more peaceful. But his shitty life was ending in shivers and cold tears, drool escaping from his chapped lips.

In moments of lucidity, he had often reproached himself for not having sufficiently anticipated the circumstances, the chain of events preceding his death. However, he had seen how it would end. He had even foreseen many peripheral events, many nightmares actually realized. And these tragic events, in spite of his gift of sight, he had not been able to avoid them. He had taken it all in his stride, like everyone else.

For decades, haunted by his visions, he had wanted to be political, to warn, to work to avoid the worst. But it had been an impossible fight to win. He had not been able to convince anyone. He didn't have the dimension, he wasn't ready to risk his skin even for such a fight.

It was as if the other humans, almost all the others, had wanted the worst to happen. All the political or philosophical movements he had approached, all the politicians, had proved disappointing, unable to change the course of things, unable to dare to name what was happening. Until the end, they had been blinded by their power games, by their ambitions, by their rivalries, etc.

And all the while, the globalists had been advancing their pawns, inexorably, with that discipline of thousands of years, that discipline fed by hatred.

He had come to recognize that popular revolts could only fail. Without the support of the elites, the people would only produce jacqueries, revolts that would be put down in blood. He had seen valiant leaders, heroes and saints betrayed by a mass of morons, mediocrities and envious people; betrayed by the very people for whom they gave their lives.

So he had gone to the depths of the woods and deserts, to the contaminated areas, to try to gain even a few months, a few weeks of respite.

So he had survived, for a while, like the rat he had always been.