c. 2024 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(8-24)
The glee of Dr. Judson Baines over discovering wild corn growing near Evergreen Estates lasted for only a short time. After a few meals cooked out in the yard, over an open fire, he felt both satisfied and relieved. Yet once again, unpredictable weather patterns were at work, causing the planetary atmosphere to swirl violently and buffet the rural trailer park with threatening winds and hail.
A survey conducted with meteorological instruments on his Digger shuttle predicted that this latest session of climate unrest would be more threatening than those that came before. With his on-site research completed for the moment, it seemed to be a fortuitous juncture. A change of plans might let him escape the worst of this rowdy period. So, he made a quick assessment of the power reserves stored in his transport batteries. Then, began to calculate how long it might take to travel between the barren spot in old Ohio, and another population center. Each model had its own advantages. Yet unless he ventured a long distance from what had once been known as Middle America, his plight would be unchanged. The storm system on his radar was huge, and moving slowly. He guessed that the damage done could be far worse by comparison, than any experienced over the past century.
Atlantia tempted him with its gentle, anachronistic culture and relaxed social order. But that eastern territory would also soon feel the vehemence of Mother Nature’s wrath. To escape the event and be safe, he needed to chart a course in the opposite direction. One headed south and west, to the district of Calimex. A place that made him slightly anxious, due to its aggressive pursuit of technological sophistication. He knew that civilization on Mars had evolved into a sterile sort of obedience, something necessary because of living on worlds where the conditions were not so friendly to human residents. He feared that similar attitudes might dominate the western commonwealth. And, make him a target of suspicion, as an outsider.
These thoughts were loose in his head, as he fell asleep on the couch at Lot 13. After packing up volumes of his great-grandfather’s handwritten journals, and having a final taste of Jack Daniel’s Tennessee Whiskey. He had stuffed the interplanetary truckster with every artifact that it could hold. But in the balance, his own stamina was sapped. Restlessly, he turned from side to side, tossing cushions and blankets in the process. He wanted to be sharp when the little craft lifted off, for its next adventure.
While dreaming, he flashed on visions of rising floodwaters and floating manufactured homes. One nightmare seamlessly blended into the next. He gasped and coughed and jerked, while unconscious. Then, just before sunrise, he slipped into the blessed embrace of oblivion.
A muted glare of overcast skies roused him from this uneasy slumber, around eight o’clock. It had already started to rain, hard enough that the empty driveway trickled streams of wet muck onto the street. When he stumbled out to the porch, sheets of torn skirting danced along the property perimeter. Broken windows howled through cracks and crevices. Tall grasses whipped in the wind. Garbage cans rolled freely. Debris scattered over the tarmac.
There was little time to ponder these conditions. He sprinted for the Digger, with limbs aching and his eyes fighting to see through the falling precipitation. Once inside, he keyed in an authorization code, and took the helm. A hard pull on the joysticks caused the tiny vessel to lift itself toward a vertical stance. The engines throttled up, with a roar of Cloitanium crystals glowing white hot. Then, a furious blast of ejecta pummeled his ship. Broken boards and stanchions from an abandoned boxcar flew sideways, uninhibited and angry. The horizon seemed to spin in his windshield. He had to tug against the seatbelts, to avoid being tossed from his seat. Vertigo hit him squarely in the cerebral cortex. He became nauseous and disoriented.
“HOLD ON DAMMIT! HOLD ON! HOLD ON!”
He could see trailers ripping away from their concrete anchors. One turned on its side and slid along the resident boulevard. Another split in half and spewed its contents across a wide swath of gravel and grass. Wheelbarrows and buckets, and all sorts of yard implements sailed toward the sky. Beer bottles crashed one-by-one, rendering a symphonic song-suite of destruction.
The Digger shuddered in this melee. It rose many feet in the air but then curled downward, and streaked through the muddy wasteland of their front field. It came to rest next to a ruined tractor. The din was so loud that Baines held both hands over his ears.
“GOD HELP ME, IF THERE IS A GOD! I DON’T WANT TO DIE OUT HERE, ALONE!”
The transport rocked upright, on its landing skids. This unhitched his safety restraints, and sent the scientist face-first, into a viewing portal. A concussion resulted that blanked out his ability to perceive and comprehend. He fell on the floor panels, numb and drooling. More than two hours passed before this visitation of natural rage subsided.
When his torment abated, a signal from Roosevelt Station, in Atlantia, woke him from the nothingness.
“Friends, I hope you’re staying cooped up and dry today. It’s not fit for man or beast out there, please do be careful. Look after your families and friends. Here’s a traditional song that might explain what you need right to do now, during all these storms. Listen to Bascom Lamar Lunceford, and keep your noggins down, and stay alive...”
A crackle of vintage shellac yielded to banjo plucking, and a crooning call of folksy musicianship.
“I wish I was a mole in the ground
Yes, I wish I was a mole in the ground
If I’s a mole in the ground I’d root that mountain down
And I wish I was a mole in the ground...”
Somehow, despite the assault on its structural integrity, most of Evergreen Estates remained intact. Rivers had formed in between the trailers. Trash was piled in yards and alleyways, and against propane cylinders and storage barns. But the flagpole stood erect, by their front entrance. Stripped of its national colors, and bowed by the velocity of cycling gusts. A symbolic gesture of defiance, to the heavens.
Dr. Baines smeared dirt from his cheeks and forehead. He still reeked of whiskey. The stench made him sick.
“In the name of Sir Issac Newton, what the hell can I do now?”
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