Chapter 2: What Happens After Trust Collapses?
This Sunday, take a break and dive into something fun. Chapter 2 of The Herd, When Democracy Falls is in your inbox now—read or listen on Substack.
Beep, beep, beep. Notifications from my phone snap me out of my haze.
I take a deep breath and stand. I need air and a stroke of good luck. I figure if I leave for a short time, I won’t miss my name being called. I head to the locker room to change.
When I enter, a group of young women laughing loudly suddenly drops their voices to whispers and observe me from the corner of their eyes.
"Good luck, Foenix," says Stacey.
Stacey is tall, smart, beautiful, curvy, with silky brown hair and perfectly dewy skin—so many things I am not. I try not to resent her for just existing the way she does.
"T-thanks," I reply, hesitant.
These interactions are always a bit awkward because, when it’s time for the test, people truly don’t know if they will ever see you again. I take off my uniform and glance at my athletic frame, wishing I had a bit more of the curves Stacey does.
Then I slip on my worn, patched-up leather jacket, threadbare jeans, and battered sneakers.
Stacey looks like she wants to say more—maybe "bye forever." But I don’t wait for the awkwardness to linger. I grab my things and head toward the building’s garage. There, I check out the most battered Station 7 vehicle and drive out.
Beyond the station—a rare occurrence given the chaos outside—I make sure to drive inconspicuously. I try to blend in, appearing as worn and beaten as possible to avoid attracting the attention of robbers or gang members prowling the streets.
It’s been 23 tumultuous years since a sinister collaboration between China and Russia unleashed an information war that toppled the U.S. economy, snatched jobs away, ignited riots, and coerced Americans into joining factions. Whispers of underground information wars circulated for years—pro-Black activists' social media pages run by Russians, and American-appearing white supremacy blogs churned out by the Chinese. But when the war erupted, barraging the public with a relentless stream of messaging online, on the radio, on television, through smart speakers, and in text messages, no one was prepared—especially not the government.
Elected officials became the primary purveyors of disinformation, spreading outright lies in a desperate bid for votes from a disenfranchised, distrustful, and despondent public.
I drive past the haunting remnants of a once-magnificent bank building in one of Washington, D.C.’s wealthiest neighborhoods. Bloodstained ropes still dangle from its sides—a chilling memorial to the public hanging of bankers, investors, and any other affluent-looking person the furious mob of years past could seize after the crash.
Russia and China targeted the economy with laser-like precision, disseminating fear-mongering information to stock market investors, bitcoin bros, and every other kind of dealer you could think of, goading them into a frenzied selling spree that sent market valuations into a nosedive.
Countless people lost everything. As faith in the government withered, they took it upon themselves to administer their own brutal brand of justice.
Suddenly, I feel the car shudder. Someone tries to pry open the back door and clamber inside. The other back door starts shaking too.
"Damn it, gangs," I mutter, my heart racing.
Normally, I’d be ready for this kind of assault, but today, my mind is swathed in a fog of anxiety about the Aptitude Test.
My foot slips for a moment as I try to switch from the brake to the gas. Just as I hear the shattering of one of my car windows, my foot slams onto the gas pedal, and I speed away from the assailants.
A rock wrapped in newspaper crashes through the passenger window. Cold air nips at my cheek, but I can’t help wondering where they found the newspaper.
Before the crash, the independent American news media was already fragile, reeling from the loss of advertising dollars to social networks and celebrities who often boasted more followers than the most popular news outlets. The crash dealt the final, crushing blow.
Initially, networks struggled to counter the flood of propaganda from all directions. As they attempted to debunk lies and remind audiences that stories cited by congressmen or excerpts in the president’s speeches were sourced from falsehoods, these sources only gained more traction.
Disinformation had been festering on society’s fringes for years. Outlandish conspiracy theories found a home among small groups of neglected and disenfranchised people. The more these theories spread, the more people subconsciously grew accustomed to them—until even those who wouldn’t normally entertain such ideas began to consciously embrace them.
Overseas information warmongers targeted the free media, casting doubt on their work by distorting reporters’ words, exploiting private chats, and highlighting mistakes to claim bias. Their goal was to discredit, and they succeeded.
Before everything went haywire, newsrooms had cut funding for editors and fact-checkers while ramping up production. Reporters churned out stories at breakneck speed, sacrificing accuracy to meet demand.
So when foreign actors unleashed their information war on the U.S. news media, public trust crumbled. Then, when the economic crash struck, fragile U.S. news groups were wiped out—losing venture capital funding and public support, laying off thousands.
For a brief period, it seemed like all independent news media had vanished, leaving only billionaires and government agencies to spew messages through every available channel.
Without independent media as a check, American government-run news agencies devolved into propaganda tools. President Michael Dickson declared a state of emergency and incessantly broadcast his messages. He implemented desperate economic policies, slashing interest rates and offering funding to the poor, but these measures did little to alleviate the harsh realities people faced.
Inflation soared. Those on minimum wages—about 40 percent of the employed population—could no longer afford basic goods like bread, eggs, and milk. People formed gangs, raiding grocery stores. Protests escalated into nationwide riots. America, once a pillar of democracy, crumbled.
Before long, the riots reached the White House. To the horror of democratic societies worldwide, President Dickson’s administration ended with a mob hanging, streamed live across multiple platforms.
The new president, former mob leader Jeffrey Lewis, clamped down even harder on all media outlets. He transformed the FBI and the Department of Homeland Security into a police force that monitored traditional and social media for "terroristic ideas." Overnight, people found to harbor such ideas were arrested and thrown into makeshift prisons. The waiting times for court hearings stretched into years. With Senate support, he suspended constitutional rights, claiming he needed to control the messaging to stabilize the economy and rebuild the country. If people disagreed, their dissent was considered a threat to national stabilization, and they were also labeled terrorists.
All billionaire-owned news entities existed solely to amass profit for the wealthiest Americans, safeguard their interests, and provide them with exclusive information while distorting facts to manipulate the public and squeeze out more profits. Most wealthy Americans retreated into gated parts of cities, isolating themselves from the struggling masses. Reporters at billionaire-run news agencies, largely replaced by printer-bots, focused only on gathering business intelligence to sell at exorbitant prices. Consequently, the majority of the population was left in the dark and economically disadvantaged.
The fourth estate, once meant to bring checks and balances to power, was effectively shattered for several years. Governments and billionaires, both domestic and foreign, waged relentless information wars against each other and the people they governed. The rich grew richer as the middle class plummeted into poverty. The powerful monopolized information to maintain their grip on power, even at the nation’s expense.
Amidst the chaos, Station 7, my workplace, emerged from the rubble. Initially, a small group of renegade engineers ran the operation, releasing short articles auto-generated through algorithmic code. This sent government officials into a frenzy as they tried to locate and apprehend them.
The code incorporates popular news-writing principles like varied introductions and putting the most engaging information at the top of a story. The articles are based on information sourced from scanners that scour the internet, with source code free from Russian or Chinese influence.
Station 7 employed a single human editor to review the information before it went online. This editor quickly gained a devoted following for producing and fearlessly revealing information no government or billionaire-owned news agency will touch. She became a beacon of hope for many across the nation and the world, her image synonymous with truth, bravery, and resistance in a world that had forsaken democratic ideals.
Now, she is the news director, answerable only to the public that donates what little they can to keep the network afloat.
Station 7 evolved from a covert operation to a public one. Its headquarters blossomed from the ground like a flower in the desert. Though the director remained a wanted figure, her popularity grew so immense that an army of supporters rose to defend the building every time government forces approached. For them, keeping Station 7 alive and thriving is a cause worth dying for.
I finally arrive at my old apartment building. I park the car in an alleyway, hoping it won’t draw unwanted attention. Then I enter the half-empty structure. With my hand on the knife strapped to my hip, I wonder why I even came back. The polluted soot in the air reminds me that I couldn’t even get the breath of fresh air I was hoping for.
Although I know many of the apartments in this building are vacant, I feel eyes on me as I sprint through the hallways and navigate corners searching for my old apartment.
This will likely be one of my last visits, I think.
I eventually find it—the door to our old apartment. The wood shows beneath the chipped gray paint. I push on the door, and to my surprise, it opens with a small creak. I cautiously step inside, scanning each corner for potential threats. Memories flood back.
As a teenager, I remember sketching the station director’s image onto a piece of scrap paper. Her fiery red hair billows in the wind, her intense green eyes stare back at me from the paper. My uncle adored it so much that he hung it on the door.
"This could be you one day," he used to tell me. "We must never lose hope, or we’ll become the savages all around us."
I nodded to appease him, but deep down, I never believed it. I could hardly fathom finding food for the next day, let alone running a place like Station 7. It was clear my uncle saw something in me that I couldn’t see in myself.
Six years ago, the news director sent shockwaves across the globe when she announced that she was suffering from an incurable disease that would ultimately claim her life. She sought a successor for the station, someone she planned to mentor until her final breath.
That night, my uncle and I embraced each other, tears streaming down our faces. Despite having only a few candles to ration for light, we attended a vigil outside Station 7, using our limited wick to honor her. It felt as though a beloved family member had fallen ill.
Her impending death inspired those with sinister ambitions, and that year, violence escalated. No accurate count could be confirmed since the government didn’t maintain reliable records.
About a year after the announcement, my uncle staggered into our shabby one-bedroom apartment, clutching his side. A stab wound oozed blood.
"They took everything I had," he mumbles, choking on the blood bubbling in his throat.
My memories of that moment are fragmented. I recall screaming, desperately trying to stop the bleeding with a blanket, and the look of despair in his eyes. He wasn’t afraid of death, but he dreaded leaving me alone in this cruel world. As I held him and sobbed, he made me promise to pursue the news director position. I sat with his lifeless body in my arms until it grew cold and still.
The next day, I buried him in a lot behind our building. Though I doubted God’s existence, I prayed for my uncle’s eternal peace.
Later that afternoon, I spotted a man in the distance wearing my uncle’s jacket. Rage consumed me as I realized he must be the one who robbed and killed my uncle. I charged toward him without any regard for my own safety.
I must have caught him off guard because, in no time, he was on the ground, and I was punching without control—hoping to pummel his face deeper and deeper into the cement until I could feel the rocks on the other side of his head. After a few hits, I pulled out my dagger and prepared to gut him like a fish.
He screamed, begging for his life, offering my uncle’s jacket and wallet. I suddenly felt the deep pain of my uncle’s loss, and my eyes began to swell with tears. But I refused to let that monster witness my grief. I took the wallet and jacket and raced home.
Aware that only station employees can vie for the news director position, I cleaned myself with a rag, changed clothes, and headed to apply for an opening at the station that same day.
Walking around the apartment, I notice the bookshelf still leaning against the wall. I can see the initials my uncle and I etched into it one night when I couldn’t find him after waking from a nightmare. He was out bartering for money at the time, and when he came home and saw me terrified and sobbing, he reassured me that if he was ever absent, I could simply place my hand on those initials to feel his presence and dispel my loneliness.
Tears well up in my eyes as I trace the carved letters.
"I really need you now," I think.
It’s as if my uncle is there to warn me; I sense danger approaching. Instinctively, I drop low and prepare to flee. I hear three men enter the room.
"You sure she came in here?" one man questions.
"Positive," another voice confirms.
"Hey, pretty thing, we won’t hurt you too bad," taunts a third voice. "It’ll be quick and painless if you enjoy it."
My mind races. Three against one—bastards.
Then, suddenly, as if my uncle is still there guiding me, I spot the fire extinguisher. It appears to be in working condition. I stand up and yank the extinguisher off the wall. Startled, the men charge toward me. I pull the lever, unleashing a spray that clouds our vision, but I’ve already mapped my escape route. I hurl the extinguisher at one attacker’s head and sprint for the door.
As I reach the threshold, one man lunges, grasping my heel, and we both tumble to the floor. Adrenaline surges through me.
"Get the hell off me, you bastard!"
He clamps down harder with his other hand, smirking. Rage consumes me as I think of all the women and young girls they must have tormented over the years. Without hesitation, I whip out my knife and plunge it into both his wrists.
His smile morphs from shock to agony in slow motion as he registers what just transpired. I break free and sprint for the car, driving straight back to the station.
"Fucking fresh air," I mutter, shaking my head at that stupidly unnecessary adventure.
When I get back to the station, I sit in my seat, exhausted and bloodied.
"Foenix Cheenoma," the sound of my name through my headphones snaps me out of my thoughts.
"Group B, contestant 3," announces the robotic voice.
I hastily jot down the number and group letter on a sheet of paper, curious about the others in my group. I shake off the worry, knowing I’ll find out tomorrow. I resume my work—only two hours left as an editor.
***
At the end of the day, I gather all my things, aware that tomorrow morning someone else will take my place.
Like most Station 7 employees, my home is in the living quarters underground. I think about my apartment outside of the station. I remember my family.
Both of my parents and my little sister were killed when an angry mob attacked our faction’s living quarters nine years ago. I was told that hysteria started to rise after the Russians pushed out an onslaught of propaganda reports against key leaders in our faction, alleging that they were working with the Chinese to embezzle government funds meant to go to the Patriots.
The Patriots faction is mostly made up of those who believe in extreme American nationalism. There had always been people who subscribed to some forms of nationalism. Before the fall, sayings like "America first" had become more pronounced.
But the economic crash—and the knowledge and fear that foreign actors were behind it—drew a new kind of fever out of people. The country split into factions that acted more like tribes. The most extreme people took over, drawing on the worst parts of their ideologies.
More than most factions, the Patriots suffered severe economic loss because of their refusal to trade goods with non-American entities. But for many of them, it was easier to believe that the source of their suffering is an outside faction that stressed tolerance for foreigners than to accept that their ideology is in conflict with their own economic well-being.
Patriot members quickly turned their anger and the pain of their economic loss toward innocent people within our faction, and one night, the group attacked us. Stores were robbed, and many homes were burned to the ground, including ours. I don’t know who saved me from my burning apartment that day. I only remember the sooty building crumbling beneath my feet as the fire tore through the foundation.
I woke up in a hospital bed, terrified.
"Relax, little one," a nurse cupped my hands in hers.
I pulled away.
"Where am I? Where is my family?"
"They are gone, but you are safe now," she replied, her tightly curled hair pulled back in a bun.
The nurse told me I was lucky to be alive. My father, a newspaper reporter before the crash, had become the faction leader at the time we were attacked, and they intended to kill our entire family. I remember not comprehending all her words and wondering why anyone would want to kill my family.
I also didn’t quite understand what she meant by "they are gone," because after that moment a part of me still expected to see them. But when I saw the sadness in her dark eyes, my own emotions—fear, sadness, and confusion—overwhelmed me, and I joined the weeping voices of many others who lost loved ones in the hospital.
After the incident, my uncle took me in. He was a quiet man, a historian and writer before the crash. Somehow, he managed to save several books that filled his tiny apartment, which felt more like living in a closet. He was still a reader and writer, though he sold used goods on the side of the road.
I spent my days reading many of the books in his apartment and digging through trash to help him find things to sell so we could survive. I also maintained an irrational fear that the people who killed my family will come back for me. I began training to protect myself with a knife I found and polished while rummaging through the trash one day.
In the evenings before bed, he talked for hours about "how things used to be." He always said he felt "overwhelmed" with the ignorance around him. He had a hard time watching people behave as if this is the way the United States has always been.
"How could they forget their own history so quickly?" he scoffed while watching a fight outside the window. "Savages."
Most days he seemed to waver between crankiness and loneliness. He lost his wife and son the night the Patriots attacked our faction. His only delight seemed to be in teaching me. He said teaching me made him feel like he had a purpose again, like he’s doing his own little part "to save the next generation."
Where my dad tore me down, my uncle built me up. He taught me about the history behind our current state of affairs, who ran the news groups, what information could be trusted and what couldn’t.
"Leader of the communist party during the Vietnam War," he quizzed.
"Ho Chi Minh," I replied.
"Theory that suggests that countries should specialize in the production of goods and services in which they have a lower opportunity cost and trade with other countr—," he continued.
"Theory of Comparative Advantage. David Ricardo. Early 19th century. Too easy," I smirked.
"No, you’re too smart," my uncle looked at me as if in wonder.
"I’m not smart," I looked at the ground, shaking my head.
"Stop saying that. You’re brilliant. You are a born leader. I loved your father, but he was a fool for not seeing that in you," he put his hand on my shoulder and closed the book.
I choked back the tears. My uncle pulled me close for a hug.
"There are so many things I wish Fred had done differently," he said. "But even the best heroes are flawed."
My uncle and I talked about almost everything, but he always has trouble talking about the night of the attack.
"It was like your dad knew something was coming," my uncle told me. "He knew something he never told me. A month before the attack, he had the same look he got when he stumbled onto something interesting. I wish he told me. Maybe we could have saved some people that night."
I could tell this mystery ate at him. Sometimes it ate at me too. I wanted to know what my dad knew. I wanted a more satisfying explanation for my family’s death. Was it really just ignorance that drove the Patriots to attack?
It’s this mystery that kept me from seeking revenge by killing Patriots like some in my faction chose to do after the attack.
I am more interested in learning the truth. Something in the story isn’t complete. It’s like the systematic breakdown of trustworthy information hits me on every level. This breakdown robs me of peace. It keeps my family alive in my dreams, as if, even in death, they won’t let me rest without the truth.
I knew finding that truth will bring me to the front lines of the information war and could possibly get me killed. But I didn't know where to start until the day my uncle died.
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