Eco Act
History is a subject I struggled with throughout school. It just never settled right with me, and I could never keep the dates right. For the longest time, I thought that the Civil War happened in the 20th Century, just two-hundred years ago. God, I was so stupid. So I don’t know why I began writing biographies and biopics. Maybe because it’s all just a story rather than some subject in school. If I wrote about someone, there wasn’t a test or tuition to be paid for it: I just had to look back and start writing. Of course, things get lost in translation, but isn’t that the same with every story? Nothing ever turns out quite how we like it.
Science was the other subject I hated. Ask me to name an animal and I could likely do it if it was big and famous enough. Ask me how the world worked and I’d just say “God.” People just sort of stopped asking what that meant too.
My two hatreds combined this past year. 2133, the centennial of the signing of the United & Immediate Sustainability Act, or the Eco Act. You know, that anniversary that gives you the day off from school and work. Another labor day. The fact is, you don’t need to know it word for word and
you don’t know the world it was made for.
I’ll be frank in saying that I went into this for the worst possible reason: I wanted the money. I wanted that fame that comes with everyone’s big break, to have those massive conglomerates beg for me to write movies for them. I pitched the idea of a safe, family movie covering the history of the Eco Act. Something tame, PG at best: you know the kind of films where a bunch of kind-hearted kids buckle down and write their senators and march in the streets to demand a change of any kind. They bought it up and mentioned very explicitly to me that it wouldn’t be a major film in terms of both budget and earnings — and no matter how it was made, the timing of release guaranteed it a massive return on investment. It was all very methodical, how they reacted to it. Each plot point I mentioned being possible scrutinized with a fine-tooth comb.
“We need to have the group be diverse.”
“We can mix and match characters, mold two people into one.”
They all laughed as they changed my idea in front of me. And I went along. I was so proud of that moment. None of those hack auteurs from school could touch me then, not when I had that five-hundred-thousand dollar paycheck. And then I made that big mistake.
“I can direct it too, if you want.” That shut them up. “Just give me one-thousand dollars for the script, some royalties, and I’ll direct it for cheap. Like you said, it can’t fail.”
That guy at the head of the table, the one who made the decisions truly, he smirked at this. And somehow, I got that contract to direct my own script. In an act of pure generosity, they told me that I needed to take all of their suggestions for the script before I began shooting. And then they sent me on my way to fix what I already made.
Then I started to do research. I scoured the net for articles from that time, for current events and what would be in the news at that moment.
I looked everywhere for the three biggest people involved in the Eco Act
, the architects and the inspirations behind this grand, life-saving act that saved this planet for generations. Representatives Sarah Clarke (D) from West Virginia and Simon Cormich (R) from South Dakota. These two were instrumental in drafting the legislation and getting it to pass in a bipartisan way. And, of course, little Sally Micci, the eight-year old who was the reported “patient zero” for climate change: the only victim of a forest fire stretching from North Carolina to Tennessee.
For the first two, I found piles upon piles of campaign contributions from large fossil fuel lobbyists, and a speech from Clarke denouncing science as something “Anti-religious.”
Instead I found a history hidden in plain sight. Bombings across the western seaboard, sabotage in the Dakotas, fire in West Virginia, and the last execution of a man for treason and conspiracy. But there was no body there. Just a mask: a haunting drama mask with wide eyes and vibrant colors, and attached hair that could stretch into whips. And then that mask came with its own ideas, its own manifesto. The collective work of millennia of civilization and evolution, cast into one last gambit to save it all.
And I’m going to risk my career in pitching this instead: changing it all on the hopes that somebody will accept something that is not feel good. What I am about to share with you is a reconstruction as best as I can make of some of the events leading up to the creation of the Eco Act. The Malcolm X, the Nat Turner, and the John Brown to the Eco Act’s Martin Luther King Jr., Abraham Lincoln, and Frederick Douglas. The dawn of the final day of the unnamed man behind the mask, whom I refer to as Future, for no real name of their own exists.
*****
The bombing of a series of fracking sites across the California coast was covered briefly between stories on local news channels in 2028. Successfully covered up as an accident involving a series of lighters lighting cigarettes at inopportune times. The police took note, but in order to keep the public calm and avoid terror about a possible fuel crisis, they kept investigations limited. The bombs were expertly placed, little remained of what was there before and instead there were now fields and rubble.
This was the first act of Future,
as described by their writings on the subject — hastily scribbled on the wall of a cell and photographed by guards: photos that still exist everywhere but remain hidden among the plain. Just one search away.
“I was one of many who saw things needed to change, and thus I began to walk when I awoke.” Was the first line of this unofficial autobiography.
From there, the bombings were worse and more terrible. More precise and lethal. Threatening notes and words of warning to avoid locations at certain times of the day. The results would always be the same. Future would announce an attack and direct those who would be close to avoid it at all costs. The police would scour the area in order to find anything. Nothing would be found. Work would resume, carefully. The bombs would go off at precisely 12:00 noon. Oil refineries, coal processing plants, the occasional power plant were all targeted. And each day, those in charge of said facilities would return to the office with a note on the desk:
“Now is not the time for discussion.”
Just a declaration and a picture of the mask they wore in full. A promise of more to come.
And more did come. More fire rained down, each more terrible than the last. What started out as attacks on the refineries and drills became attacks on the bastions of our civilization. Anything with a fleeting similarity to oil was subject to attack.
Yet, nobody paid any attention. Those that did know of the mysterious bomber out in California kept it to themselves. At that time, not a single person had died in any attack, thus the worst it could be described as was destruction of property. The majority of citizens just ascribed it to some incredibly skilled vandal or group of vandals. After all, this was only just a news story on the five o’clock news, nothing important enough to establish a national terrorist hunt upon. And the fact that the bombings had been in varied locations threw off police and citizen alike, leading to the main hypothesis of a group of vandals operating a series of copycat crimes. By the time Future had set off attacks in the majority of the fifty states, only conspiracy theorists considered them to be a single entity.
By 2029, with nothing to show for their actions, Future moved on to destroying pipelines. Each attack was left with the identical calling card: at each site there would be a single circle dug exactly one inch into the ground, upon which some crude oil would be poured into. At the center of every circle was that same note from before next to a mask:
“Now is not the time for discussion.”
And the oil would be lit, trailing back into the pipeline. It would burst into flames, explode, and spill crude oil across hectares of land. The billions of dollars in damages is what finally caught the attention of groups like the FBI, who finally began to make moves in identifying Future. Security would be increased at every step, and yet the attacks just continued. Billions of dollars in damage, hundreds of workers laid off, dozens of notes written, and a rise in gas prices the world would never consider possible. Of course, that’s what got the attention of those without a personal stake in the case: when it hit seven dollars a gallon, hell would break loose for once. The oil itself was not in short supply, but men and corporations willing to make the risk of transporting it were.
There would be one last pipeline attacked
on the dry and warm eve of April 14th, 2029. A pipeline running up from Virginia through appalachian territory and into West Virginia: the Mountain Valley Pipeline. The crowning achievement of all new pipelines, said to bring growth to both the local and international economy.
And it was in this attack that Future was caught.
The Pipeline companies who sponsored the construction held an event to celebrate it’s first full year in operation. Of the guests invited, the two included would be Representatives Clarke and Cormich — invited as a courtesy so that they could show support for the companies who had bankrolled them. Perhaps this was their way of saying they were not scared of Future. They should have been.
It was located near the pipeline, just steps away from the first area of broken ground. Amongst the trees and with tents and lights, they held this last supper of oil.
And it was then that Future made their move.
The many dignitaries gathered all toasted their successes.
“You’re not worried at all?” Clarke asked.
“No,” said Mr. Jemini, the current man overseeing pipeline security, “Not at all. This pipeline will outlast me and everyone here.”
At that time, a figure in a hooded dress stepped through the crowds and towards the pipeline. With pale skin visible from the fingerless gloves, nobody batted an eye towards them. The mask would be associated with a face tonight.
They stood facing towards the pipeline, and removed the hood revealing that mask. How nobody noticed it upon Future’s entrance and whether anyone saw their true face is a fact lost to time.
It was then that people began to move, for those who worked at the company were far too familiar with that mask.
And then Future simply turned to them all as the security lifted their guns.
“Don’t shoot! You’ll hit the pipeline!” Jemini said.
“I will go peacefully.” Future said, a voice but not attached to anything or anyone in particular. “But first…”
And then the trigger was pulled. And then another. And then another. Ten in total.
The explosive chain reaction came from someone’s gun and was aimed at Future. Who pulled the trigger first was never jotted down, likely ignored in the ensuing chaos.
The first bullet is believed to have traveled through Future’s arm and through the fence and into the pipeline. A spark hit the oil and caused an instant ignition.
Pressure built up fast in the burning pipeline. It exploded section by section to give some release to the tension.
Future stood against those who had shot them. All bullets that had hit past that first one likely did nothing to the pipeline — yet their impact upon Future could not be understated. It is believed that six of the shots hit their mark.
People panicked and ran. But Future just stumbled towards them. In the horrible chaos, more shots were fired at Future, only half hit as the flames grew behind them, reaching a crescendo as they spread from tree to tree.
Mr. Jemini stared at the flames undoing all of his work. He moved his eyes down to Future, who stood before him at this point. Blood dripped from wounds across their body.
“You’re real.” He said.
“Oh, very much real.” They said.
“What do you intend to gain?”
“Nothing. I plan to die here. You will execute me. And when I die, people will look at this fire and see who it kills… They’ll look at the deaths of others like them… And they will blame you.”
“You’re just some man in a mask. They’ll blame you.”
“How can they blame someone who may not even exist? How can they blame an idea?”
Bang.
The final shot knocked Future over, probably dead before they impacted the ground. The flames were high and powerful now. They had no choice but to leave.
The wildfire that started burned for five straight weeks, scorching the eastern seaboard in a way unprecedented. Homes, electricity, pets, it all burned. In that first city on the West Virginia border, a young girl slept as fire climbed through her house. Firefighters would save her parents, but not her. Dry trees from a lack of rainfall turned the house into an oven within minutes.
Sally Micci, the first white American victim of climate change, became the last. Her face became the one put to every news report on the fire as it rampaged. Jemini and all those associated, including Clarke and Cormich, were forced to debate with her picture in the background. In a reelection bid, Clarke and Cormich dropped all ties to fossil fuel lobbies and cosponsored the Eco Act, which they hoped to name the Micci act.
She became the face of victory. Future was relegated to the backburners, where true revolutionaries belong, I suppose. This is the story I want to tell, but they will never fund: not everyone gets their happy ending.