c. 2024 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(8-24)
When Dr. Judson Baines first arrived at the trailer community of Evergreen Estates, as a clandestine immigrant, he felt like an outsider. The village of mobile homes stood in ruins. Completely overtaken by a creeping advance of nature. He was careful not to disturb the site, except when a need to investigate made him prod into the rubble like an archaeologist. There were clues everywhere, mostly obvious and troubling. Signs of a culture influenced by populism and capricious bouts of rebellion. He cataloged each lot individually, with descriptive notes jotted on his wireless tablet. A link to the Digger shuttle kept all of his records backed up properly. But when three or four weeks had passed, he realized that his old self had begun to retreat. Being immersed in the stink of this rural oasis, not only from its stench of death, but also, lingering whispers of abandonment, caused him to change.
Strangely, he now felt at home in the graveyard development.
Cloudy, dark, overcast conditions were apparently the norm for Ohio in modern times. He rarely saw any direct sunlight. Though there was enough of a glow from Old Sol to light his path through the streets and courtyards. His chance encounter with the radio station from Atlantia was something never repeated. Though he fiddled with the onboard receiver in his stolen craft, hoping to again tune into their broadcasts.
Occasionally, he found decaying bodies in the empty, boxcar dwellings. These surprise encounters made him disgusted at first. He vomited outside once, when seeking to flee. But eventually, his role as a scientist and historian took over. Steeled with a desire to learn and document what he saw, the university professor grew internally stronger. More disciplined and perhaps, numb to the horror of skeletal remains riddled with shotgun blasts and rifle bullets.
Conflict had visited the isolated property for some purpose he did not know. The official saga of events as told on Mars spoke about a restlessness that permeated Middle America. Literally, a spark that lit the flame of their Great Uprising. Attempts had been made to quell this chaotic period, before society itself collapsed. Governing authorities were portrayed as benevolent and thoughtful. Yet in the end, crude emotions of prejudice and fear had overwhelmed the power structure. This tipping point coincided with the rise of technological advancement, and a desire by some to colonize the outer planets.
Now, Baines was peeling back layers of a metaphorical onion. With each strata revealed, he discovered that the truth was more complex in its totality. Though it had been supposed for over a century that most citizens in this central region of the continent had subscribed to aims of the MAGA Defense and its lust for a new order, he realized that voices of contrast had also resounded. The handwritten journals of his great-grandfather testified to that reality. He spoke as a Libertarian, a dissenter from every predetermined mode of thinking. Eventually, some kind of crackdown had sealed their fate. A sacrificial offering had been made, to preserve seeds of goodness for the future. His brain could not avoid making a quantum leap from that fact, to others on the intellectual road ahead.
If they had been spoon-fed lies about their origin as a transplanted race of beings, what other falsehoods were woven into that tattered fabric of obfuscation?
Upon having a second look through the trailer at Lot 13, he found photographs of Townshend Carr Lincoln and neighbors who had lived in the park. There were images of bonfires, macro-brewed refreshments, salty snacks vended by supercenter retailers, and weapons. Lots and lots of weapons. Pistols, long guns, even ceremonial swords fashioned from Viking patterns. Knives and hammers and axes, and flasks of caustic chemicals. After sorting through this trove of pictures, he realized that his ancestor had intended to create reference material for tomorrow. His careful analysis of their habits was too painstaking to be accidental. Too meticulous to have occurred by chance.
One phrase had been captured over and over by his wandering camera lens. ‘Make America Great Again!’ The very inspiration for their nickname, given not with respect but as an insult by federal stewards from their national capital. This slogan had been tattooed, smeared, spray-painted, and flown defiantly on banners across the region. Detainees had it branded into their flesh, at camps where they were processed and incarcerated. Though as a matter of history, they slipped into a void of non-existence. Their identities were erased from the rolls. Their ashes dumped in pits of waste. Their families encouraged to join the egress to Mars.
The Red Planet had offered them refuge, and absolution.
Among the trashy possessions of his deceased progenitor, Baines found a Sanyo boombox, which incorporated functions for intercepting radio signals, or playing compact discs and cassette tapes. It was left sitting behind a row of framed memories, whiskey bottles, trinkets, and beverage cans. Unplugged and dusty, but likely, still able to be put back into service. The outdated artifact got him jazzed on recreating his brief connection with the eastern kingdom. There were inputs of all sorts in the matrix of his shuttle. With some improvisation, he guessed that it might be possible to power the crude device.
He labored for several days, twisting wires and hunting for suitable connectors. None of the manufactured homes on surrounding lots had the parts he needed. But he refused to surrender hope. This exercise made him recall being taught about Thomas Edison, a figure of renown from their original homeworld.
Late on a Friday evening, he spied a cardboard box full of electrical hardware, in the Evergreen Estates maintenance garage. This wealth of junk contained exactly what he needed. A wall outlet lay on the surface, wrapped with a stout extension cord. When he ran back to his Digger craft with this prize, it did not take long to rig up a connection. The necessary voltage represented a mere pittance of what the vessel could generate from its Cloitanium reserve.
He plugged in, and started twisting the rotary tuning dial. Static and ambient noise echoed inside of the tiny spaceship. Then, there was a musical burst of comic relief.
A disc jockey in Atlantia had dropped his needle on a wax platter by Homer & Jethro.
“Here they are, the Thinking Man’s Hillbillies, with their rendition of ‘The Battle of Kookamonga!’ It’s an all-star parade here on your king of the airwaves, from Roosevelt Station!”
The doctor felt his jaw go slack as he listened. Something about the antiquated cube did a better job of sifting signals from the moist, musty air, than his 22nd Century transporter.
As the farcical song played, he smiled broadly, for the first time in a month.
“In nineteen and fifty-nine, we took a little hike
With our scout master down to lake Oneeganite
We took a little pizza and we took some sauerkrauts
And we marched along together till we heard the girl scouts
We’re the boys from Camp Kookamonga
Our mothers sent us here for to study nature’s ways
We learned to make sparks by rubbing sticks together
But if we catch the girls then we’ll set the woods ablaze..”
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