c. 2024 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(9-24)
Dr. Judson Baines had kept himself busy while being isolated at the Evergreen Estates village of mobile homes. Every boxcar residence was a tomb of sorts, containing lost secrets from a century ago. So, there was much work to occupy his days as a refugee. When the cyclical storms raged, he took cover in a bunker by the abandoned maintenance garage. A crude hole dug out of the earth. Something that he reckoned must have been constructed as the Great Uprising was sweeping across North America.
In this dark, dank space, he found more notebooks penned by his great grandfather. Apparently, T.C. Lincoln had been appointed as a sort of archivist for the neighborhood. Scribbling notes in real time, as the society around them was collapsing. His thoughts were expressed candidly and in plain language. He did not have the artistic flair of a professional. Yet each document resonated with authenticity, as a portrait of disaster.
A particular entry, probably written in the dim light of a fading, electric torch, spoke about the emptiness that he felt as one of the few residents to remain in place, after the mass exodus to Mars.
“Maylene Jefka was taken to a military hospital by Lake Erie, yesterday. I probably won’t see her again. She is in her 80’s at least, if not older. The best neighbor I ever had here, in this junkyard oasis. A sane voice, when everyone else has been riding the political bandwagon. There are Confederate banners still flying, up and down my street. And Gadsden flags, yellow and bright and confrontational. With their illustrated snakes wriggling in the breeze. But I don’t hear much traffic, or boot leather, on the pavement. The Larman transports have been leaving from a central hub which I think is up by the shoreline. At least one of those big shuttles, every day. They are crowded and dirty. I can’t imagine spending a year flying through outer space. It must be hellish, especially with some of the people from this downtrodden community for company. I guess they are used to each other, maybe. Used to the stench of cigarettes, and weed, and stale beer. Personally, I like fresh air. That’s why I spend so much time on my front porch. My legs are shot, I can’t go for walks around the property anymore. But it still feels good to breathe in the scents of nature. Even if they tingle my nostrils with hints of gunpowder and diesel fuel...”
Baines had been living on ears of wild corn for several weeks. This diet made his insides gurgle and protest for a better variety. Yet he still did not have the courage to dig his ancestor’s Ithaca Model 37 shotgun out of the bedroom closet.
He would sometimes watch deer leaping in and out of the brush, around his sanctuary. They were playful and lively, in defiance of what had transpired with the human population. He found recipes in some of the manufactured homes, for preparing woodland dishes from their flesh. Even a manual about how to dress out a carcass, with a military knife. But pondering such a feast always made him sick, and reluctant. He had never eaten meat of any kind. It was something that the modern population of his Red Planet considered to be vulgar. A sign of depravity, which had tipped their race of beings toward an inevitable collapse. Still, hunger made him needy. He would dream of turning one of these nimble beasts on a spit, over an open flame. While savoring the aroma of their torso and limbs cooking gently. Perhaps dripping rendered fats and oils into a pan above the hot coals. These slumbering visions filled him with fear and guilt. He did not want to surrender his identity. After months alone in what used to be called Ohio, however, he had begun to question the integrity of his soul. And the purpose of his mission.
Were he not to be rescued ultimately, it wouldn’t matter. No one would know of his shame. Or his surrender of values instilled while coming of age, at the Mars colonies.
Radio signals from Roosevelt Station had disappeared after his visit, and interaction with citizens in Atlantia. Yet new bursts of satellite communication appeared on the multiple channels received by his Digger craft. They were largely unintelligible. Most offered little more than an aural diversion, as he tuned across the frequency spectrum, seeking contact. There were squawks and blips and rapid clicks, echoing from the atmosphere. He took it as a sign that someone on the continent had started investigating the vast, uninhabited region between west and east. A sprawling vacuum occupied by nothingness. Overgrown and forgotten.
He decided that conserving energy was more prudent than touring the landscape in his shuttle. But as the cryptic broadcasts intensified, he wondered if they offered evidence of some explorers that were approaching. Perhaps individuals who were curious, like himself, about the ruins of their old world.
Late in the evening hours, after filling his belly with uncultivated Maize, he received a com-link notification. The sensor array of his tiny ship had detected a swarm of electric vehicles, running overland. They were traveling slowly, along an intra-costal route left from wartime days. A paved road that still reeked of poison, death, and blood.
With caution in mind, he moved his wounded Digger to a spot less visible in the trailer park. Then, returned to the bunker entrance, where he could remain anonymous while observing.
The chatter from his onboard receiver panel had been garbled and confusing. But when heard over a device retrieved from one of the prefab dwellings, these transmissions were surprisingly sharp, and focused. He was able to listen carefully, while sitting on a wooden crate full of automobile parts, in the garage.
“This is the command terminal at Toqua Platte Center... Swarm away, all drones are activated... locate and retrieve the C-drive vessel... I say again, locate and retrieve...”
...and then...????
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