The tour shuttle cruised slowly above what remained of New York City harbour and came to a halt and hovered, her anti-grav fusion engines little more than a feint hum. The low winter sun glistened off of her silver sides and inside her passengers pressed themselves to the windows. To the east and out towards the Atlantic they could see the city lights were already burning brightly, 25 million people crammed into towering glass and concrete hab-zones. To the west the refugee tents stretched as far as the eye could see, fires burning and palls of acrid smoke twisting and writhing into the sky.
Caleb pulled on his father’s sleeve.
“Why don’t they move to city dad?” He asked pointing to the tents.
His father paused. “There just isn’t room son” he said looking away. “The city is full.”
“Full?” Caleb said confused “we have a spare bedroom? We have lots of bedrooms.”
“It’s just full son” he said putting a hand on his shoulder.
Caleb looked at his father and knew that it was best not to ask again. He was a patient man but some times you had to know when to stop asking questions.
“Where do they come from?” he asked.
“From the south” his father answered “they’re the ones that made it.”
Caleb knew about the South, his tutor had talked about it. “They’re the ones that survived the plague? ” he asked.
“They are yes, many died but it could have been much worse.”
Caleb sat upright, he knew about this too. “Tutor said that if it wasn’t for the great wall we would all have died, we’d have been over run.”
“Exactly” his father replied proudly, “if it wasn’t for the wall none of us would be here now…”