Published: 2025-11-03

Behind the red ribbon in front of the hotel, a crowd of businessmen wearing Italian suits waited for the president of the republic to arrive. Their wives accompanied them as they usually did for important events; their twenty years younger secretaries — and lovers — didn’t get to pose for the newspaper.

The hotel and resort were built next to the beach in what — until recently — was a protected area. “Turtles better find another place to lay their eggs” was the quote attributed to the visionary behind the construction of the hotel.

That’s how things worked in the half-island, an area could go from protected to for sale after a short conversation between two parties; the law was the same for everyone, except for millionaires and businessmen.

A few kilometers from the hotel, a group of locals protested the opening. The main avenue was closed in anticipation of the president’s visit, and the police had set a barricade around the hotel to keep protesters out. It was an orgy of the public and private sectors, painting an idealist picture in the eyes of the press; “everybody is happy that the new hotel is finally here” was the message, and they wouldn’t allow reality to tell otherwise.

A motorcade of police motorcycles, followed by black SUVs, was the splurging extravaganzza that signaled the arrival of the president. The cameras were directed at him as he got out of the vehicle and started shaking hands. Everything was ready for the cutting of the ribbon, but letting an opportunity to slip propaganda into the minds of the people was not part of the president’s plans.

“With the opening of the Golden Coast Hotel, we reaffirm our commitment to the development of tourism in the east side of the country. Tourism, alongside open-pit mining, as the two main pillars of the economy, we will make of this nation a great one.” The president said.

Journalists, businessmen, and even the few civilians that were inserted into the crowd — strictly for show — applauded with much energy as the president took a break to regain his breath.

His speech continued for another minute, as he kept selling the press on the greatness of his achievements as head of the nation.

After a brief display of big words and insincere applause from those who didn’t know — nor did they care — about politics, the president cut the ribbon, posed for a couple of pictures, and shook the hands of a group of businessmen.

The sea behind the journalist seemed to recede, but nobody noticed; the Earth started shaking, the president had to be evacuated. Someone pointed at the distance; he wanted to scream, but the words wouldn’t come out. In the distance, the city crumbled; skyscrapers fell as if they were dominoes pushed by a child. The Golden Coast Hotel started shaking; chaos took hold of the crowd.

The cries of the locals, kilometers away from the epicenter of the media charade, still resounded loudly. It was the cloud of dust in the distance and not the earthquake what informed them of the situation. They ran, dropping signs and banners with slogans like “if you kill the Earth, the Earth will kill you back.”

The receding sea returned to the coast with a wave over 30 meters tall. The crest impacted on the Golden Coast Hotel, dragging businessmen, journalists, and policemen.

The land kept sinking.

The news reached the rest of the country: the east side of the island is crumbling apart, the president is missing and believed to be dead, earthquakes over 7.0 magnitude, waves over 30 meters tall; the nation sunk in chaos.

People across the country joined in prayer, while others joined rescue teams. The highways were congested, entering and leaving the east side of the country had become impossible.

All radio stations broadcast the same message:

“All roads leading to the east side of the island will remain closed to all civilians. Please, stay out of the road until further notice. Rescue teams led by the corresponding authorities will be granted access. Please join a rescue team if you want to help.”

The roads were filled to the brim with civilians, some in their vehicles, others on foot; some wanted to help their relatives and fellow humans on the east side, most were moved by morbid curiosity.

The earth started shaking again; the land succumbed, engulfing people and vehicles, returning them to the sea. Half the country, and with it, most of its inhabitants, were now under the sea.

All hope vanished; the message was clear: their prayers would go unanswered. The radio could do nothing but report the facts now; the government didn’t have a plan. People ran to the west, as far westward as they could, until reaching the border with the neighboring nation.

People piled at the border gates, begging the smaller, poorest nation to take them in. The tables had turned; the richest, most cultured nation couldn’t save itself, despite its economic superiority and self-proclaimed racial supremacy; there was no land under their feet to support their prejudice anymore.

The desperate mob shook the gates with fierce force. On the other side, the army prepared for an impending invasion. The neighbors were desperate, their government had no plan, and their country had been reduced to nothing; even their president was now probably under a pile of rubble, or worst yet, at the bottom of the sea, but those were all the more reasons not to open the gates; a nation has to deal with its own problems first, and they already had may of their own.

The mob became bigger; its number augmented by the tens with each passing second as more people arrived from every corner of what remained of the country. The heavy metal doors gave up and fell, and the desperate crowd ran towards the neighboring nation for refuge.

The army was in place, pointing their rifles at them.

“Sir, we stand by for your orders.” A soldier said.

“Open fire.” The commander said.

THE END.