Dystopia Road, page 6
part #1 of Dystopia Road Series
She sat back down in the comfortable patio furniture and looked at him. "So it's late. Are you going to stay another night?"
"Yeah if you don't mind. And hey, do you mind if I smoke a cigarette?"
"Not at all."
He pulled the pack from the front of his cargo pants. It was still slightly damp with sweat. He lit a cigarette and took a long pull. "Mmmmmm. That is good." He said.
She laughed. "You could have smoked. Why did you wait so long?"
"Well, two reasons. The first is I didn't want to offend you. The second is, they're getting harder to find. I've got two cartons that I just bought, but I think these may be my last two. So if I'm going to quit, I know that I'll have to do it slowly."
They talked easily on the patio for several hours. When they were both exhausted she rose first and he followed. They locked up the house and she reminded him to sleep with his pistol.
He lay still in bed for a long time before he fell asleep. This had been a nice diversion. His mind was settling, and somehow, that made things worse. He still had no idea what he was going to do with his life. And worse, no sense at all of his place in the world.
He dozed off, but was awakened some time later to an enormously loud banging. He shook his head to try and wake up and understand what was going on. Then he remembered Linda's alarm. He heard voices. He grabbed his pistol and sprinted to her room, but she was already gone.
He went to the living room, and saw that the door was still closed.
He looked to the patio and saw that the sliding glass door was ajar.
"You better get out now, while you still can." He heard Linda yell. Immediately the sound of the shotgun she had rattled him fully awake and alert. He ran out the back door and turned to the left where he thought the shot had come from.
He saw her standing right up against the house. The gun still pointed ahead. She loaded another shell and fired again.
The men's voices he had heard went silent. He heard rustling ahead of him so he slunk slowly behind her. "I'm right here Linda. Get ready. I'm going to fire three shots towards them."
He raised the pistol and squeezed the trigger three quick times. He heard a distinct "oomf" from someone, and then screaming. A flashlight lit up he and Linda both. He saw a muzzle flash and felt a bullet going into his chest. It was too the right side and high up. But not near the neck. He staggered back, fired two more shots blindly and fell.
Linda fired another blast and the flashlight fell to the ground. She racked the 12 gauge, fired again and walked towards the trouble.
"Pick him up! Pick him up! Get the hell out of here."
He lay still looking at the sky above. He tried to raise up on his right side, but the pain was so intense he passed out.
When he woke up, he was lying on the sofa in the living room on his back. Linda was bent over him checking a bandage, "How are you feeling?"
He tried to sit up, and felt a sear of pain along his right side. "Uh, not good. How the hell did you get me in here?" He asked.
"They left pretty quickly after they shot you. I woke you up with a slap and you mostly crawled your way in. Can you take a deep breath?"
He breathed in deeply. It hurt, but he could breathe. "Yes."
"That means it didn't hit your lungs. It's not bleeding anymore, so whatever it was and whatever it hit, it doesn't seem to be too bad."
"Yeah, it's just my muscles in my chest that hurt." She put a cool rag on his forehead. "You might need this. The power is out again and it's warming up outside. Grits are ready. Are you up to eating?"
"I think I'll just sleep if it's okay with you."
She just nodded and left him. A few hours later she woke him again. She made him drink water, then gave him a few crackers with peanut butter. He ate them, and fell back to sleep.
The next day he slept again, but by the third day he was sitting up and chatting. When night came he was nervous. He talked with Linda. "Any chance those guys come back?" He asked.
"I don't think so. In fact, I'm almost sure of it. This area is just for the opportunists. The quick buck on the way to what they think is a better opportunity nearer the big cities. I've also noticed over the last few months that when the lights are on, that kind of traffic goes way down. I think that was the first time I was ever troubled when the power was on."
This set his mind at ease a bit an allowed him to relax and enjoy his dinner. Tonight was a Chef Boyardee pizza. He had also become accustomed again to drinking cold drinks. Even if it was just powder mix lemonade, it was cold and that was quickly becoming a luxury.
"I'm sorry I've caused you this trouble." He said.
"That's nonsense. If you weren't here, it could have been worse. In fact, I know you being here will make me safer even when you're gone. I have a feeling these gangs are communicating. Now they know, or they think they know, that there will be two people, and two guns they have to fight. This little house in the middle of nowhere won't be worth the effort to them."
They went to the back patio and sat. While she made coffee for them, he tried to put the question together that he wanted to ask. But there was just no good way to phrase it. So when she finally sat down he just asked it the only way he knew. Directly.
"Linda, there's no way for me to ask this question. I've thought about it since the first night we met. So please, don't take offense to this. I know nothing about you, or your life. The reason I'm asking is because you're obviously well-educated and you've read a lot in your life. But the truth is, even out here in the middle of nowhere, you're in the same boat that I am. And I'd assume, millions of people are in the same situation.
What do you think is the nature of life, now that this has happened to the world? And I guess, before you answer, how long do you think it will be like this?"
"How old do you think I am?" She asked.
He was taken aback by the question. "Uh, well, I guess I really don't know."
"Stop the bullshit. I'm not fishing for a compliment here. How old?"
"Linda I really don't know. If you told me you were twenty-nine, I'd think that was reasonable. If you said thirty-nine, I'd say that was reasonable. People age well. You might be forty-two or three, and I'd just think you were aging well."
"I'm fifty-two years old." She answered.
"Damn!" I would not have guessed that.
"I don't let stress get to me. If I have to, I run away from the things that cause me stress. It's not my first instinct. My first instinct is to fight. I was raised with three brothers. So I don't take men seriously. But I do know sometimes I have to fight to get peace of mind, or peace of soul.
I fought the education system for years. And when I realized the stress was out-weighing any benefit I could gain by victory, I left. But that doesn't really answer your question.
You mentioned Nietzsche earlier. I've read his works, and the works of other philosophers. The beauty of studying English and mastering it, is that it makes everything else easier to read or study. When you've mastered the language, you've made it easier to both understand abstract thought, and to articulate abstract ideas.
Who is your favorite philosopher?" She asked.
"Well, I really only studied it for about a year, but I'd say Epictetus. I liked that stoic idea"
She nodded. "And how old are you? Because, I think you may be in your early twenties, but there is a stress in your mien that suggests you could be thirty or so."
"I'm twenty-four. I'll be twenty-five in a couple of weeks. July fourth to be exact. But you shouldn't read any foreshadowing or metaphorical pathways into that. I'm not fighting for my freedom from anyone or anything."
She nodded again and laughed. "Noted. Now, keep in mind, I'm not a clinical psychologist, but I have read quite a bit, so take my next question, and my analysis, with a grain of salt. What is the worst thing that ever happened to you?"
He sat quietly for several minutes and thought about it. "My initial response would be to say that it was my mother dying when I was ten years old. But that's not really it. When I was in high school I was given an IQ test. I scored 139 on it. It was even in the newspaper. I was the highest tested for the year in the entire school.
It messed with my mind. Overnight, people I barely knew started treating me like I was a genius. So I tried to live up to the expectation. Teachers started giving me an A on a paper when I knew it was C work. But they were afraid they might be wrong.
Being fourteen years old, I of course took advantage of this situation. But I also studied a bit harder and made sure I did well on my SAT scores and was accepted into college. And when I started at Ol' Miss, I carried a bit of arrogance with me. But I had a bit of a crisis of confidence.
From what I can tell, an IQ of 137 is in the top one percent. But the college I attended had twenty-thousand people in it. So there were about two-hundred people there, who were just as smart as or smarter than I am. And that's one average college in Mississippi.
Well, I guess that was when I realized it was the worst thing that ever happened to me. But I've tried not to think of it. I've got this above average brain, but I'm no Einstein. So I look at some of the things people do, and I think they are no better than dumb animals. But then I look at other things, and I'm just not smart enough to understand them.
So that makes me think, maybe I'm just smart enough not to figure out anything."
He stopped and noticed how intently Linda was listening to him. And he felt foolish. "I'm sorry, like I said a few days ago, I have a tendency to rant and talk too much."
She smiled warmly at him. "That's really only about the second time since I've met you that you've spoken more than two sentences in a row."
She took a sip of her coffee and then looked out at the darkening sky. "Let me answer your second question first. You asked how long it will be like this. And what I suspect you are asking is, when will life make sense again. But even that is a bad question. The real question is, when will your life make sense again?
That's a completely different question. And one I can't give you the answer to. You said earlier that your favorite book was My Side of The Mountain. But you may have missed something in that book. It's not just that he was a kid from the city that went to live by himself in the forest. Everyone used to live like that. Not by themselves of course, but living day to day.
I don't recommend it. It's fantasized in much of modern literature. It can be horribly stressful. If you got a cut on your arm two hundred years ago, and it got infected, you were dead.
If the summer was too cold or too wet, you were going to lose some people in the winter months. But life made sense, because it had always been that way. Life will return to normal, when you expect it next month, to be the same as it was last month. Then you'll adapt to it. It's really that simple.
As to your first question. That's a bit tougher. Philosophers have been wrestling with that question for at least a few thousand years. And I would suspect that human beings have been wrestling with it since the first person was conscious, and not an animal. The only thing that I've learned from the philosophy I've studied is that if you're favorite philosopher isn't you, you're doing it wrong.
Today, the purpose and meaning of life, is to survive. I know that sounds crass, but it's true.
Just before you got here I reasoned that I knew, or knew of, about two-hundred people in this area. Sixty of them are now dead. That's thirty percent. But of those thirty percent, the best I can guess is that less than eighteen of them are dead from the rabies variant virus. That is less than ten percent.
Most of the rest of them died of starvation, which is ridiculous. A disease that was treatable three months ago, but they can't get the medicine that allowed them to survive. A few more died of suicide. I suspect two of them were murdered, and there are a handful that I have no idea.
What ties most of these together, is that they were unable to take care of themselves. You are in a rural area of South Dakota. The people here are fairly tough and accustomed to some level of hardship.
But none of us lives more than an hour drive from a pharmacy, a doctor, or a grocery store. The few that starved to death, had no money saved, or they were on welfare of some sort, and the check didn't come, so they couldn't buy groceries. They did not even possess the ability to get to a grocery store, and ask for a handout.
If it's this bad in South Dakota, how bad do you think it is in the suburbs of St. Louis or Cincinnati?"
"I hadn't really thought of that."
"So, you see you have a mission. I think the first thing we have to do, now, is to make sure we are alive right? And, for those of us born in the last hundred years or so, that's a new thing."
He smiled. "That kind of simplifies it doesn't it."
"It sure does. But beyond that, and I'm sure no matter what happens, it will return to a point where your life becomes normal, and you expect to survive day to day. That's the point when you'll be able to create the 'you' that you want to be.
Your job is not just to create a life, but to create the "you" that experiences it and perceives it.
Have you ever heard about those rich people that go on treks to The Himalayas or some other God forsaken place to find themselves? It's a bad trip. When they finally get there, they realize there is nothing to find. Because the thing they were looking for, doesn't exist yet. You don't find yourself, you create yourself. I am not the same person I was thirty years ago. That person no longer exists anywhere but in other people's minds.
And in ten years from now, I won't be the same person that I am now. The same is true for you."
He was processing what she had said, and at some level it made sense to him. But he thought something was missing. And he could not decide if it was missing because the world had changed so much, or that it was just a missing element he had not considered.
"But… why?"
She laughed heartily. "That may be a question for a priest, a pastor or rabbi. And it's not really in my wheelhouse. But those are two different questions, and while I think they are related, no one can answer that question. At least as far as I've ever seen."
He nodded as if he understood. "I asked my father once why something was beautiful. He was just looking at a sunset and said, 'Wow, that's a beautiful sky.' And I asked him why it was beautiful. At first he looked at me like I was an idiot. My dad did that a lot. Then he said, 'it just is.'
She laughed again. "You shouldn't read too much into him looking at you like you were an idiot. My parents default look to all of my brothers was the same look."
"I asked my grandpa the same question. He said it was because there was a lot of work that went in to it. He said it was to remind you that there was a God. I was confused, and he knew it. So he told me to think of the great works of art that were universally believed to be beautiful. They had a lot of detail in them. Detail means work. He said that's why sometimes you can look at a big factory, and see it as beautiful, because of all the work that goes into building it. And, everything man makes is beautiful if it requires a lot of work.
So he figured, the sunset, flowers, and other natural things that we think are beautiful must have taken a lot of work."
"It is logical." Linda answered.
"What should I read? Are there specific books in your library? Or are there classics that well rounded people read? I just want to get on a path, and figure out how long I can go by myself. And if I don't end up staying with my cousin Jimmy, where should I go? What kind of people should I look for? To associate myself with, is I guess what I mean."
"If I were asked that question twenty years ago, I could have given you a long list of books. Ten years ago, when I knew I was going to leave the world of academia, I would have given you a shorter list, of a completely different set of books. Today? I'd say you'll have to write your own story. But you are in the middle of a story, make no mistake. How the story ends is entirely up to you.
I can tell you that I would like nothing better than if you would stay with me. But I know it's a terrible idea for both of us. I'm old enough to be your mother, and I'm not really in that game, if I ever was. If you stayed here, I'd become content to mother you. I'd want to take care of you. That would ruin you. But I am happy I got to meet you. Most kids your age, and at twenty-five, you're still a kid in this world. But in the next couple of months, this world will be gone. And you'll be a man. And so will every other male older than probably thirteen."
"So you don't think we're going to get through this? You don't think the United States, or anywhere in the world will go back to the way it was?
"I know it won't." She answered. "There is no chance."
"How do you know?" He asked. He was pushing her, and he knew, that she knew it. He wanted a path to normalcy. With that, he could get another job. He would find another woman. He would have kids, and buy a house in the suburbs.
"Do you remember Hurricane Katrina?" She didn't give him a chance to answer. "Of course you don't, you were just a little kid back then.
When that Hurricane hit, I remember it changed my entire view of the world. Anyway, George W. Bush was president. I never liked him. When the people in New Orleans started really suffering, I joined the chorus of academia, politicians and even the media in blaming the president. And I was watching television. And I saw dead bodies laying on the side of the road. Much like we see today.
And I remember everyone was walking by the body. They were looking for food and shelter.
And I saw people getting rescued on the roofs of their houses. And I thought, 'What in the hell are they still doing in their homes?'
Everyone knew this was coming. But they didn't do anything to save themselves. So, they were herded like cattle into a sports stadium. And people blamed the President for everything bad that was happening.
Those people didn't do anything to help themselves, because they were used to someone else taking care of them. And if you're thinking that I have a streak of racism running through me, I probably do. Most people do. We've been a tribal species for a million years. But, most of those people weren't black. And it wasn't even just the poor people. The fat and happy white suburban men thought that someone would save them if it got too bad.
