Dos Rios, Venezuela, January, 2078, Monday…

"There was a time when the mills were our industry here."

Javier pointed a gnarled finger towards the remains of the saw mill. His wife, Consuelito, sipped on her beer.

"And there was a time when you could do your manly duties." Her laugh was still the most beautiful thing he had ever heard. "Viejo, we're getting old. No one cares about us anymore."

The Venezuelan couple's lives barely spanned two centuries. Javier, born in 1996, was the oldest. Consuelito, born in 1999, was enough younger than he that he often said that he had robbed the cradle.

They had been married for a long time and were already great-great-grandparents. All of their descendants were gone from the town. The draw of the factories in the big cities had left it decimated. When they were born the town's population had already fallen to half its peak. Now there were exactly thirty-seven people living here, eking out a living with the government stamps and the fruit and vegetables they were able to produce in their gardens.

Suddenly their dog started to bark, destroying the peace and quiet of the sultry late afternoon. Even the flies stopped buzzing as the dog would sniff, bark, and then sniff again.

"Mierda, mija, what's wrong with that hound?"

"I think he smell's something strange," said Consuelito.

The dog was right. It was a group of armed men in jeeps and trucks.