I remember getting a chemical suit on, checking the air, then strapping a Kevlar vest over that. I couldn’t use the door May was at, she could have ran in or given herself away in joy or fear or whatever. I don’t pretend to understand the mind of a child that’s been through what she has. I couldn’t risk it.

So I suited up, made sure my Beretta M9 was loaded, and went to the rear hatch. It opened without issue and the airlock was clear. I let the air cycle before setting foot outside. The outer hatch sealed behind me with a clunk and a hiss. It’d only open with the code I had set upon my arrival.

A quick scan and I was out from the overhang. Soft ground sluiced under my boots, sucking at the heels. It looked so bleak. So colorless and bland. The sky an empty gray. Like it was forever caught before a storm. My own breathing rang in my ears through the mask.

Someone screamed and I turned to see one of the scavengers run at me with a piece of heavy looking wood. Three shots rang out. Right in the ten ring. Hostile down. He groaned and spat blood as I resumed my search. It wasn’t too far to the other hatch. I hadn’t even wondered why there was already someone here.

Something hit the back of my head.

Darkness.

I woke up hog tied. My vest was gone as was my gun. I managed to glance around without too much movement. We were somewhere dryer. Possibly on top of the bunker itself. There were three figures sitting by a fire nearby. The sun’s down. I must have been out all day and into the next. What did he HIT me with?

I can hear them now.

“You idiot. You weren’t supposed to brain him. Now we can’t get in there,” One of them admonished.

The other responds, probably the one that hit me, “Yeah but he shot Brian! Killed him right there!”

“The moron ran at him with a piece of wood. Didn’t I explain we needed to lure him out and get the drop?” the leader, presumably, explains.

The last is a big one, not a lot of meat, just a tall build. He speaks, “Doesn’t matter. Brian was dick. Tastes fuckin’ terrible, too. We got the guy.”

A little shadow walked up to the three and sat next to the leader. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get inside, Daddy.”

May. She sat down and took of a piece of the meat roasting over the fire. The leader patted her on the head and said, “That’s okay, little petal. You got him out, at least. Isn’t your fault he’s got only a little soul.”

I’m not sure whether to be sick or angry. I tried to move my hands but a pain in my skull forced a moan out. Of course they heard it and of course they walked over to me.

“Hey, soldier. I didn’t think we’d get you out of there without actually killing my little petal. Smart of you to close that vault. Too bad, though, because you’re gonna tell me how to open it.”

Well…shit.

Tolstoy.  Descartes.  Boeing.  Names that used to have meaning, and here, in Santa Cruz, have been adopted with new meanings.  I have no doubt that the mountain folk have an idea what Boeing was, or who Tolstoy and Descartes were, but they have disconnected themselves from history to become this new breed of man.

One can see, with each passing moment, with each inevitable confrontation, the makings of a new human tribal culture.  I am attempting to be an outside observer, but strangely part of me has begun to adopt the figuration of the self that makes up the remaining factions of Santa Cruz.  The mountain folk, however, remain an enigma.  What has driven them to cannibalism and extremist insanity?  They seemed to have no purpose.  No note was given during the recent attacks, no indication that they had any demands.  What do they want, if anything?

I recall, here, a movie, one not too far removed from the world of today, but somehow relevant here.  It was called The Dark Knight—by no means a perfect film, nor, at the time, conceived as one of the most important films of recent decades.  Based on the Batman comic books, probably now burned to ashes or buried somewhere in some long-dead social introvert’s closet, this film introduced us to the ultimate of terrifying enemies:  the human who wishes only to create chaos, and for no other purpose.  If the people here remembered that film, and some of them must have seen it, then perhaps they have already made the connection I see now.  The Joker, that seminal, wicked version of man, has been multiplied by harsh circumstances.  They roam the mountains, streams, and what remains of the forests, with no logical direction except the most basic of impulses:  the drives to create havoc and sustenance.

Or maybe they are zombies.  Would that seem more fitting?  I am not an anthropologist and can only consider the mountain folk from an uneducated position.  In doing so, I think we come closer to an understanding of humanity in chaos.  We can see what we are already so close to becoming–nostalgia for a past we can hardly remember.

Only a few nights from the first incident and the people here, the ones who live off the land and refuse to resort to the unethical means of survival, are considering whether the lives they have fashioned for themselves in former-Santa Cruz are worth fighting for, worth saving.

“We can only save so much of our humanity,” one woman told me, “before whatever is left is not worth much at all.”  The mountain folk have lost that—their humanity.  The question seems to be:  how much of our humanity can we lose before we descend into chaos?  A philosophical question, for sure, but one we have to consider as we fight off this end of the world time.

I will see that loss of humanity face to face soon.  The mountain folk are coming again.  This time, the people here will be ready.

The Santa Cruz area is no longer safe.  Something has upset the balance, set things moving in directions unexpected and unwanted.  The people here are leaving in droves, the good ones, anyway.  Those that have decided to stay behind, including me and what remains of my crew, are suffering the consequences of too many years without order.  Logic does not work with the mountain folk; they have no interest in such things.

The dominance of anarchic subcultures is remarkable.  How swift we have de-evolved culturally.  We’ve shed our comforts in exchange for brute force and emotionless survival.  By we, I mean them, the mountain folk, the regular citizens of the Santa Cruz area—never mind that I am already talking in the guise of nationalist ideals.  Citizens?  “Inhabitants” is more appropriate.

Unfortunate as all this has become, the work I am doing is necessary.  We must understand this to grasp the worldwide situation.  To say so much of the environment, but to ignore these people, is to warrant the continued collapse of what little remains of order in the last vestiges of Western civilization.  The dream is all but dead, clinging to the last thread of flesh; it has already died here.

Philosophy aside, there will be a burial tonight.  Thirty-seven are dead, more than I had reported the other night.  The numbers are dwindling and already the locals on what used to be beach front property are gearing for a civil war.  With half their stores gone, it is hardly unfair for them to take to the most violent of ways.  Some are suggesting a counterattack.

To think that I had intended to report these people as a different kind of social de-evolution, a quasi-violent mob of likeminded individuals quite literally operating on a stiff hierarchy.  That hierarchy is collapsing, because, of the thirty-seven, twelve were in the upper echelons.  You might call them lords, if such a title could ever exist.  Their voices commanded a respect that I was only beginning to understand.  Now they are gone.  I feel nothing, because I had no connection to them.  Arriving here felt so much like what Columbus must have experienced when he ad his crew first met the Native Americans.  They are curious, but disconnected from the world that I know—a privileged world that only knows the old ways and yet must move beyond the destitution of mere survival.

I expect when this civil war erupts, I will have much to say.  But, for now, it is a waiting game.  Above me lingers the future shrouded in darkness.  Poetics serve only to dampen the sensation created here.

Some years ago, a nameless man once said:  “In action we forget who we are, but in sleep we remember the old as if it were forever present; we remember ourselves when dreams know no bounds.”  Think of it what you will.  I know that in my waking days I see mankind remembering a past we had only recently forgotten.  It makes savages of honorable men.  This is the world we live in.

Not much to report here…haven’t gotten the field scanner working, and despite the abundance of digital cameras we have, no one thought they would be uploading any of their pictures while they were here (no cords). The least I could do for everyone out there is show how we set up the camp, or show everyone some of my beautiful artwork. I draw on the back of empty medical forms when I’m bored…which is often.

Actually it’s been pretty boring for all of us. The weather’s been unusually nice for the middle of hurricane season, and we haven’t fired a bullet in the past week. The first few days here, Sombras were abundantly pouring over the hillside about two every hour or so. They were easy enough to take down. When one was by itself, I’d send two men out with a shovel. We drag and bury them separately on the far side of camp. Voodoo, Catholic, Unitarian, I couldn’t care less, but I’m not going to forget that these people used to be people, and they deserve some recognition of that.

It has been nice to get to know the three medical officers and the locals that are now part of our small community. Soto’s done his best to train everyone in practical gun safety. I’d hate to get shot by my own people. Again. I’ll save that story for another time.

Several of us have actually taken to swimming in the lake on our off-shifts. It’s just for something to do, but there’s something pleasant about going for a swim every day.

Camp is as set up as it’s going to get. I’m out of things for us to build in our free time. We have a mess hall that could fit all eighteen of us in it, and two small huts with three beds in each of them. We’re using half of the plane for storage, and the other half for the Doc to do some lab work.

With the eighteen of us, we all take four hour shifts in groups of three doing something relatively productive. We built three glorified ‘towers’ about fifteen feet tall around camp with enough room for three people in the nests, which means there are always at least nine of us on watch duty. Two sets eye the northeast and southeast perimeters, while the third set eyes the western front.

It’s usually all quiet on the western front.

I’m going to be leading an expeditionary squad around the lake tomorrow. I would have left sooner, purely out of boredom, but Dr. Samuel insisted he tag along, and he just finished up his analysis on some of the ‘blood work’ he was doing in the plane. Doc said it would be a good idea to bring those of us that didn’t fell much of the effects of the viruses we were exposed to in the storm. He could have just said “Green, it’s going to be you, me, and Amanda going…doctor’s orders”, but I’m pretty sure he wanted me to figure that one out on my own. Wasn’t that nice of him?

The other medical officer, Dr. Richards is going to stay behind with Jack to keep the camp running smoothly. There are only six of us Military folk, and three of us are disappearing over the hilltops. Rick is going to continue working on the rest of the lab work while we’re away. We call Dr. Richards ‘Rick’ even though his first name’s Oliver…not sure how that got started.

I’m leaving this equipment in the hands of Rick and Jack. If they feel the need to get the word out about anything, I’ve given them a crash course on connecting this thing. The trick is to type it all up and wait for a good time to send it out.

We leave Camp Calloway at 0700. We should be back in five days time. It’s just a reconnaissance mission…what could possibly go wrong?

Semper Paratus

An apology must be made for my absence.  There was a raid several weeks ago.  We’re not sure who was behind it, but fifteen people were killed, including a small boy named Jeremy.  I was going to say something about him before the raid, but it seems an obituary would be more fitting.  The only bit of mercy the raiders gave his mother was a swift death, otherwise she might have spent the rest of her life alone, barren from age and the lack of medical care in these parts.

None of my men were killed, but one was shot and the other kidnapped.  I suspect he won’t live long, not if the raiders were cannibals.  They’ve become bold as of late, apparently.  A short food supply might have forced them into entering the city, or maybe they aren’t satisfied scrounging along the edges and want to test the strength of the locals here.  The city folk failed that test and some of them believe the raiders will be back again soon.  I’m not waiting for them.  We’re building up some defensive structures and sending armed men on patrol.  When I say we, I mean the people in charge.  I have nothing to do with their decisions.  I’m an outsider, destined to observe like a weird museum creature.

I’ll have more to say soon.  Right now communications are limited and this is the first time I’ve been able to access the networks.  I suspect there will be much more to say soon.

To all those out there struggling to survive in this God forsaken world:  stay safe.

I finally got this damn thing working. My name is Lt. Commander AJ Green. We performed an emergency landing in the Dominican Republic twelve weeks ago in response to a distress call that sounded like a medical outbreak. I was very wrong.

We were flying in an HC-144A from Clearwater, FL to the old Coast Guard Station in Borinquen, Puerto Rico. This was during the brief period of time when the governments were still trying to gain control over the situation. Vaccines were being shipped to combat a virus that was mutating out of control, supplies were being shipped away like candy. We were to transport aid, vaccines, and supplies that were needed to continue the treatment of influenza victims in the Caribbean for the next month.

Lt. Jack Solomon and I were assigned two additional crewmen to manage the handling of  medical personnel and supplies.

Ensigns Amanda Briggs and Robert Calloway joined us in the cockpit after strapping in the fourteen relief personnel into the cargo hold with the hummer, the vaccines, all of the electrical equipment that needed replacing on base, and enough emergency rations for a small village to live happily for a few months.

About 30 minutes from our destination, we heard a very unique call for help. Someone on one of the islands we were passing had locked himself in the control room of a military outpost in Haiti. He was screaming (in broken English throughout broken static). The strangest thing I recall hearing was that his father was trying to kill him. Somewhere in there he mentioned his father’s funeral being several weeks ago.

We radioed back and decided that this could have been some new strain of disease in the outbreak that the doctors needed to attend to before it got out of control. We changed course and decided we were going to try to land at the old Cibao Airport in Santiago.

We landed at what was the start of the first of at least three hurricanes that plowed over the airbase. We taxied into the only roofed service hangar and did the only thing we could do in a hurricane. We waited.

A week went by of solid storms. We did our best to keep the hangar doors closed at all times, but mostly we stayed in the plane. The occasional bashing on the outside of the hangar was easier to ignore in the cockpit. The hangar had a bathroom, and the eighteen of us waited out the storms. Apparently the rest of the island wasn’t so lucky.

When we emerged from the hangar, piles of debris were everywhere. Over the course of the next two weeks, half of the island came down with some strange strain of the disease. One of the doctors on board tried to explain it to me, but all I got from the conversation was that it wasn’t swine flu, and it was blown here from another island thanks to the hurricane. Mosquitoes, maybe?

Five of our medical personnel died that week from it. Another eight (including Lt. Soloman and Ensign Calloway) were on death’s doorstep for about a week before a few of them died. Calloway, Jack, and another one of the doctors eventually pulled through, but the other five didn’t make it.  Ensign Briggs and I, with the help of Dr. Gerald Samuel (the only other person in good health), buried the dead outside the airport limits behind the hangar. We really wanted to get out of there, but Calloway and Jack weren’t exactly making a speedy recovery and the doctor didn’t want them to be moved at all. During his copious amounts of free time, Samuel was able to determine that all of the victims had mosquito bites. Very peculiar.

I took one of the luggage go-carts out of the hangar with Amanda, and we drove through the airport looking for a fuel pump or a tanker truck. I didn’t know where we were going next, but I sure as hell wanted a full tank of gas when we left.

That’s when I first saw them. Coming in from the other side of the airport, a small mob of about a dozen locals was shuffling their way towards us. Briggs wanted to speak with them, but I couldn’t help but feel like something was off about them. There was nothing wrong with how they looked, aside from being locals. It’s just that they didn’t move like they were supposed to. It seemed…inhuman…the way they swayed and staggered about while they approached us. It was almost as if they’d forgotten how to walk. I saw a tanker truck and decided we’d make for that instead. Briggs and I ditched the cart and hopped into the truck. There was some debris in the passenger seat (someone left their windows open), but we took off across the tarmac anyways.

We ran into another problem outside the hangar. Those doctors we buried the week before…they were limping around the corner to greet us. Covered in mud, staggering the same way our pursuers were giving chase they were all converging in on us at the hangar.

That was probably not the best time for Robert to come out to investigate the strange knocking noises he was hearing on the hangar walls.  They were on him and dragged him behind the hangar before we had a chance to do anything. I couldn’t see what they were doing to Robert, but no one came out from behind the hangar for quite some time. We capitalized on this window of opportunity to open up the hangar, get the tanker in, and lock it back up before any of them had a chance to come back.

We started fueling and were trying to figure out a destination to get the hell out of there. Briggs suggested Puerto Rico, our original destination. Samuel suggested warning Haiti that there was some sort of epidemic on the island and to close the border. I really should stop listening to doctors.

We managed to get out of there without a scratch.  Apparently they aren’t too bright….didn’t think to use the door in the back of the hangar…they just kept banging on the walls until they saw we were leaving.

As I was setting the plane up for departure, that’s when I saw the rest of them. A giant mob of hundreds…possibly even a thousand or more…feebly approaching from the terminal. The odd thing was, as we were leaving the ground, I swear I saw the shape of a man on top of the control tower, beckoning them in our general direction. I had absolutely no idea what was going on at the time.  Now I know I should have shot the bastard where he stood. Or at least knocked him off the tower.

Damn it…the clouds are rolling in, and I have to get this equipment under some cover before it gets rained on.  I’ll explain more when I can, but I don’t have an awful amount of free time while we’re dealing with these border attacks. There always seem to be more of them after a storm…

Semper Paratus.

The End of the World Times and its reporters operates solely on your donations.

I met a man named Nex Anhelo today.  His name means “death breather,” but the way he carries himself suggests to me that he is not the man his name implies.  It seems that here, in the swamplands of Fleshtown, a name makes the man; who you are perceived to be centers on your name.  Ithius, apparently, is a strong name here, but Nex tells me it will only get me so far.  I’ll have to earn passage into the inner portions of the city, to the banished spaces, and even to the darker portions of the Santa Cruz Mountains.  I’m still learning what that will take.

I’m not alone here, thankfully.  It would be suicide to be here alone.  I’ve had to call up a few favors through my father’s old business.  You could say I have an entourage, but these people only have my safety in mind.  There are two:  Erin and Bruce.  The latter has been here before.  He told me the other day that he fled the area after the big quake in January, the one that split the mountains right through where Highway 17 wound its way from San Jose to Santa Cruz.  You’d have to see the split to believe it.  It cannot compete with the Grand Canyon, but it has a demonic look to it:  gnarled brambles, spiked rock, and ash run-offs from the fires.  Fires still rage out in the deep mountains–old brush and overdue forests torn down by the heat, poor weather, and lightning storms.  Those are parts of the mountains where most people never go; it’s too dangerous.  If Mother Nature doesn’t get you, the mountain folk will.  I’d rather Mother Nature took my life, if I were to die out here.

In any case, Nex tells me that there have been rumors of the mountain folk moving downhill into what is left of the city.  I haven’t seen them, but Nex knew they had been about when a few farmers stumbled into Mission Quarter yesterday in rough shape.  The farmers had been raided by an enormous party of cannibals–at least fifty men and women, but probably more.  What was once a farming community of a hundred people had been reduced to a dozen or so people.  The rest?  Nex didn’t ask.  But you can guess where most of them have ended up.

I’ll end this with a word of advice given to me by Nex’s son, Vita:  ”When the trees shift and you hear unfamiliar voices in the dark; run.  An unfamiliar voice is a demon in the night.”  Poetic, sure, but out here and in these times, it couldn’t be any more true.  Santa Cruz is no place to be when the sun sets.

The Santa Cruz Mountains are surprisingly lush this time of year, even considering all that has happened. You’d think, given the massive earthquakes that brought San Francisco and much of Santa Cruz to its knees, the flooding of much of the coastal areas, and resurgence of tribal cultures in the area, thriving redwood forests would be the last thing to find a haven here. But if you have an armed escort, you can escape, find a nice grassy knoll tucked away somewhere, surrounded by trees, fuzzy ferns, and banana slugs: a refuge from the things happening below along what is left of Highway 17.

You can’t stay out at night here, though. It turns into a bad post-apocalyptic movie, a mixture of Rhona Mitra and George Romero. Cannibals and territorial “natives,” if that’s what you can call them. But who am I to judge? Who are we all to judge the ways humans cope with disaster? These people have been through things I cannot imagine. Flash floods, raging fires, earthquakes, massive landslides, cruel winters, the list can go on.

I’m from the Northern Block, where Montana used to be. We had storms, sure, but these people, folks we used to know as hippies and Santa Cruzians, have seen some of the worst conditions imaginable. And they have largely been incapable of leaving, not with the blockades along the San Jose Front or the swampy sinkhole that is now San Francisco to the north.

This whole area made up Santa Cruz County and used to be part of California, back when States and Unions meant something. Now? I don’t know what it is. They call this place Reverb City, after the constant fluctuations of earthquakes, and Fleshtown, for various reasons. Before long, the Santa Cruz Mountains may succumb to fires and logging. But that may be some years from now.

There’s a lot to be learned here about how things have turned out—the rules, the culture, the people. We’ll see how long I can last before the locals and the conditions force me to skip town.

–Ithius Sinclair

Posted. 06-20-2012

Where to begin on these last few days? I’m alive, and I hope that matters to someone. I’m safe and at my destination, doing a little recovering while in their hospitality. Haven’t met with Conrad Blankenship yet, but I’m assured he will be available when I’m ready.

As far as where I’ve been, the story starts near the entrance of the Ted Williams tunnel. The area swarmed with people, a greater concentration of people than I’d seen since leaving school at least. I went down towards them, and they welcomed me.

I told them who I was, and flashed my press credentials, which got them very excited. Turns out they’d turned the tunnels of I-90 into mushroom farms, and this is how they made their lives. The mushrooms were traded locally, and supplied a large part of their diet. They also accounted for how they got most of their goods. They offered me a dish of Marinated Barbecued mushrooms and a Shiitake Hazelnut Pate for which I gladly traded the t-shirts I’d found the day before. These people know mushroom dishes, and these were amazing. It almost felt like we were back on our feet again, and we’d made the culinary experience a central part of our civilization. They were this good.

They then offered to give me a tour of the farms and the tunnels. The mushrooms were grown on large tables, a lane across in width and four feet across, with a few inches of soil. My tour guide told me how they’d carried in the soil by hand, and find compost wherever they can. He told me that the low lights and high humidity make for great growing conditions and even in winter, they can close off the fronts of the tunnels and keep the temperature ideal.

Got a good distance in before I noticed there were a lot more people behind me than there had been a few moments ago. The one who had been leading me stopped talking as I turned around, he’d been saying something about how many varieties they grow and how many pounds of each, and his list of varieties stopped. That’s when I knew I was in trouble.

He took this moment to explain how desperately they lacked meat. I saw the look in his eyes, a look that said he was looking at lunch.

I jumped up on one of the tables, managed to avoid his grip as he grabbed for my feet and jumped over the the next lane. There were some doors across the way, so I headed there. The rest of them were quickly gaining on me. When I dropped off the tables at the other end, I had a few steps to get going and then I hit the door hard as I could. Nothing doing. It was locked, or maybe corroded shut. It was metal either way and i’d need three of me to break it down.

So Plan B, I pulled out the buck knife I’d found earlier. This caused most of the group to slow down, but the first to reach me was too close to stop. I stabbed fast, and the person screamed, jumping away. The commotion gave me just a second to break through. A hand grabbed my shirt, but I stabbed down hard and nicked a wrist. Slipped through the hand of that one, put my shoulder down, and put it into the groin of another, dropping him to the floor. This allowed me to get away from this group.

I charged to the entrance to the tunnel, maybe 150 yards off, but there was another group at the mouth of the tunnel, waiting. There was also sunlight. Going under the tables to hide would only slow me down and get me caught and cooked, so I screamed and charged, knife out, hoping for the best.

The person I ran into lost his footing and fell, I put the knife in his leg for good measure, but as he rolled away, I lost my grip on it, and there were hands on me. I turned and twisted, but then more hands got a hold of me, ripping my shirt. Kicked one in the nose, know I broke it too, but there wasn’t much hope of escape on my own.

That is until I heard a voice calling at them to stop. They turned, but didn’t comply. Then a large man came over, and ripped their hands off me. Then he pulled me behind him. He had a .45 in his hand, and a rifle slung over his shoulder. He backed me out of the tunnel.

What he said struck me as odd.

“She’s too valuable.”

“She’s valuable as food,” the tour guide called back.

“You aren’t human.” my rescuer replied, then he walked away. He was obviously respected by the mushroom farmers, otherwise they would have given chase.

So, if you happen to be near the Ted Williams Tunnel, by all means trade for some mushrooms, you’ll be hard pressed to find better, but don’t take the tour.

I stayed with my rescuer until I felt safe. Then we stopped for a minute and I calmed down, taking the opportunity to thank my rescuer.

“What’s your name?” I asked him.

“Pickman,” He said. One word. Succinct.

I’ll have to stop here. Some people are here for me. Meal time. Pickman is another story. I’ll upload tomorrow.

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