Fake News - A short story

The Johnsons hadn’t gathered like this in years.

The smell of roasted chicken and rosemary filled the house, settling into every corner. The TV in the corner whispered through a stream of headlines, a low drone no one listened to but somehow couldn’t turn off. They sat around the table, plates full, glasses half-empty, conversation looping in predictable circles.

“I tell you,” Uncle Robert said, sawing into his chicken, “the world’s gone mad. You can’t say anything anymore without offending someone.” A few nods. A few sighs. "Everything’s backwards,” Aunt Carol added. “The wrong people get rewarded. The rest of us just get left behind.”

Lena smiled faintly, mostly to stay unnoticed. She’d agreed with them before, or thought she had. Lately, something about these dinners made her skin crawl, the certainty, the rhythm of it all. Maybe I’m just tired, she thought. Or maybe this isn’t right anymore.

Uncle Robert poured more wine. “You see it on the news, all those people crossing the border. Who knows what kind of trouble they bring?” Before Lena could form a response, Carol interrupted brightly, "Oh! Speaking of Mexicans, a lovely family moved in across the street. The Gonzales family, I think. Such polite people. The little boy helped me with my groceries last week.”

Lena opened her mouth to answer, but a sound cut through the air, a heavy metallic slam from outside. Then shouting. They turned toward the window. Flashing red and blue lights bled across the curtains. Two black ICE vans screeched to a stop across the street. Officers in dark armor ran up the Gonzales’ porch, their boots pounding in unison.

The door broke open with a single hit. A scream followed, high and raw. The officers poured inside. For a moment there was silence, then a crash of furniture, a child crying, a man’s voice shouting something in Spanish, pleading.

Then the officers dragged them out.

The father was on the ground, blood streaking down from his temple. The mother’s arms were twisted behind her back as she cried out for her children. One officer yanked the boy from her grip, throwing him toward the van. The little girl clung to the porch railing, kicking and sobbing, until a hand tore her free.

Lena’s breath caught in her throat. “Oh my God,” she whispered. The scene outside grew louder, uglier. The father shouted again, only to be struck across the face with a rifle butt. He fell still. The boy screamed his name until the van door slammed shut. No one inside the house moved. Aunt Carol’s fork hovered in midair. Her father’s eyes were wide, unfocused, reflecting the flashing lights.

Then came the noise.

A low hum. Not quite sound, not quite silence. It vibrated somewhere behind the walls, inside their ears, beneath their thoughts.

For a moment, everyone froze.

Then Uncle Robert cleared his throat.

“So anyway,” he said, adjusting his napkin, “they’re saying gas prices might drop next month. Finally, something good.” The others nodded, returning to their plates. The hum grew softer, like it was slipping under their skin.

Lena blinked, stunned. “What, what are you doing? Don’t you see them?” Her father smiled patiently. “See who, dear?” She pointed to the window. “They’re right there. They’re dragging them away.” Her mother chuckled, shaking her head. “Oh honey, don’t get caught up in all that fake news. The media make it seem so real nowadays.”

Uncle Robert nodded. “The overlord said just this morning that the country is becoming great again. You can feel it, can’t you?” The lights outside flickered. The screams thinned into the hum, like they were being erased. Lena stepped closer to the glass. The Gonzales boy was still there, eyes wide, hands reaching toward her, before the van door slammed shut.

Behind her, Uncle Robert spoke again, his tone oddly gentle. "You wouldn’t want the thought-checker to think you’re doubting, would you?”

The room went still.

Lena turned slowly.

They were all smiling now, perfectly still, perfectly calm, as if waiting for her to nod. The hum rose again, steady, deep, alive. Lena sat down. Her hands trembled as she picked up her fork. The laughter resumed, soft and automatic.

Across the street, the Gonzales’ door swung open in the wind. The TV in the corner whispered on, the same news cycle looping endlessly, nothing had happened, nothing ever did.