As I approached the compound, I found a chain link fence surrounding what once had been a parking lot, and which now was a field of concrete obstructions and defensive berms surrounded by a barbed wire fence. There was one obvious gate with extra reinforcements and since I was both friendly and expected, I approached without hesitation. A video screen in the wall next to me in the entrance started up, but then died. It tried to work a couple more times, but never did. Then a hand-held spotlight began to make its way out towards me, spilliting time between blinding me and shining on the ground. For the last twenty feet or so, it never left me, except when the guy carrying it almost tripped.

“Who are you?” he said. He was a little guy, a little older, with a long fine beard and a shock of curly hair lining the sides of his head. He wore a rubber apron and walked with a slight limp.

“I’m from the Times. Soren sent me. I’m supposed to talk to Oleg.”

He sniffed a little bit, seemed a little indignant about me. Then he took out a handheld walkie talkie. He tried to call to home base for a minute, but it wasn’t working either. He squeezed the hand pump for about a minute, then tried again. Nothing.

“Hang on.”

Then he turned and walked back just like he came out. After ten minutes, he came back with a fairly large guy with thick glasses and a big smile across his face.

“Ms. Kim! I’m delighted to have you here.”

They opened the gate and allowed me into the compound. I drove my bike behind him into the main compound at a slow walk’s pace. He led me along a path that seemed arbitrary until we got closer to the compaound and he mentioned the defense mechanisms they had in place prevented a more direct route.

He opened a garage door on the lower levels of the main building and asked me to park, and from there  we went up to the top floors into what had been classrooms and now were workshops.

“We’ve been trying to reach you.”

I pulled out my phone.

“It’s dead. Waterlogged.”

He frowned a little, took it and had it opened in seconds.

“We’re glad you made it. There’s some rough parts around here.”

I didn’t have any trouble. They must not be rough enough to brave the storm. I don’t know why I felt the need to act tough, but I did.

He wheeled his way across the room to a shelf and grabbed a part from one of the many bins and then wheeled back to his soldering gun. Then again. He repeated a few times, and at least once, cracked open an old cell phone.

“Still, you got here.”

“So what do you do here?”

“We’re rebuilding. I’ll give you the nickel tour tomorrow.”

Then he put the halves of my phone together and tossed it back to me.

“Should work now. I’ll show you to your room.”

I tried to push him to show me more, but he wasn’t having any of it.

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.

I’m in a large building in Virginia Beach. Used to be a community college, but now no one occupies it. There’s the remnants of an Atlantic Hurricane trailing off to the north of us. My phone became waterlogged and inoperable about a week ago in the rain, and I’ve been unable to communicate.

With no national weather service, no disaster relief agencies, there’s no way to predict what the weather will do. I just rolls in over you, levels towns and moves back out to sea. I don’t know if there’s anybody to name storms anymore, so I named this one Professor Lanegan. He was my martial arts instructor, and this storm hit almost as hard as he did.

First time I saw Hurricane Lanegan, it was a gray mist on the horizon. Obviously a storm, but who knew how bad it would be? I tried to gauge my estimated time to my destination, and thought I could make it. I didn’t know it was just the leading front of something much larger. The sky turned darker and darker, and the wind kicked up tremendously. It was practically impossible to make forward progress, and I was in the middle of nowhere. I was 30 miles from any semblance of a town, and then I couldn’t tell how far because I had to dodge the signs as they ripped from the ground.

I found shelter in the grammar school in a small town. Grammar schools are almost always brick buildings with cinder block insides, and so they are safe as you can get. They were designed as community shelters for storms and nuclear attacks, and that kind of thinking definitely saved my life. Drove the bike right up the steps and into the main entry. There were two families in the building. They saw me pulling up, and opened the door, just as a large tree blew down over the steps.

Times like this, you don’t really think about some of the standard survival instincts. The strangers are never aggressive towards the outsider, you don’t worry about resources. You’re all just happy to be alive.

I moved the bike into a hallway, shut it down and took stock of my situation. I was soaked through, and likely so was everything in the bike. I pulled my phone out of my jacket pocket, and it dripped. I opened it up, pulled out the battery and shook it out. Not much else I could do.

The two families stared at me in wonder. One was a mother, maybe 35, two kids, a boy and girl probably seven and nine, and a grandfather, I guessed. The other was a young couple, could have still been teenagers, and an infant.

“Thanks for opening the doors,” I said.  They looked almost as afraid of me as they were of the storm, at least until

I shared some of the canned goods I had, and we weathered the storm for two days. The roof of the gymnasium caved in, or partly tore off. Could have been a tornado. Some debris broke windows in several of the classrooms. We kept to the inner halls and the offices, the most protected areas.  Seemed like there was hardly any time for conversation as something was happening around us almost always. Windows breaking, trees being uprooted.

And then the storm lifted.

The outside was brown, all the trees had been stripped of their leaves, the streets and lawns were mud. My phone still didn’t work, and hasn’t since.

After the ordeal, We simply parted ways, having shared another disaster.

From that point, I chased the coattails of the storm, and I mean chased. I wanted to get to safety fast, especially with no phone to provide backup. In a disaster like this, with no communication, you could just disappear and I wasn’t going to let a little rain slow me down on that. Finally pulled into Tidewater Community College at dusk and in the rain. Headed straight for the only light in the place. Got my bike into the building, and finally got some rest.

Heading south. The weather is getting wetter, more humid as I do. I’m through Maryland, but I’m still unsure of my destination. I’m trusting Soren, though. He is giving me directions, but I don’t know where he’s leading specifically.

I bypassed D.C. I got some stories of what is happening there. The land is slowly turning back to a swamp. It’s still a center for patriotism. People still go there as delegates, usually self-appointed, assuming their need for order will translate into a rebuilt America. D.C. still thinks it is America, that if it is operating, we’ll all get through this.

Then reality hits, as if all of this wasn’t reality enough. Remember Katrina? Red tape caused thousands of people to live on their own in what was basically a small version of the world now and it all went to hell. Same thing is still happening. I don’t know how many people, all with delusions of grandeur, trying to remake the world with no authority or ability to execute. I think they’re STILL arguing a health care bill there, unaware of what’s happened to the rest of the world. I’ll stop in on the way back. August was always the worst month there, a time of typhoid, west nile and flu. With the shift of the seasons, August is now two months long, of sweltering ugliness. Then it slams into hurricane season.

The kudzu around here is out of control. There have been three places where I had to pull out my machete to clear the road, and one where it took down a tree across the road. Had to backtrack across an overpass to get around that one. Kudzu will take over the south before long, hopelessly and forever.

I have a feeling that bad weather is on the way, the rise in humidity is cranking higher. Hope where I’m going is nearby.

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.

On the open road – Soren has come through with his assignment and I am en route. Looks like I’m heading south along the coast, but I only have coordinates to get to. He says he will have someone meet me.

I have packed up camp, and begun the journey with food for several days. I’ll be keeping my location secret on the journey for obvious reasons.

My first stop was a gas station. When you need some, it’s good to have several tanks worth on the bike. The pumps never work, no power, but I have the tools to open the underground tanks, and have fashioned a cup to dip in. Don’t know how long the gas will last in these final holdover places. It isn’t like there’s tankers bringing it in anymore. My cup is basically that, a metal dipper that I can attach to a pole to get at the bottom of the tank. Takes forever to get enough out from scraping the bottom of the tank to fill the gas cans, but you get it when you can, and as much as possible no matter how long it may take. I got lucky. Second gas station I stopped at had a tank with a reasonable stock left. Also found some motor oil, and a box of Skittles. Had one pack just for nostalgia, but I’m saving the rest for trading.

My assignment is simple, get to where I’m going, which Soren says is one of his internet restoration projects, and hang around to cover it for a week or two. I think this is more of a vanity assignment for him, but I’ll take it. If that means I don’t have to worry about explosions or Blankenship’s little private hitmen.

Given the time constraints, I’ll be sticking to the freeways. Can be more dangerous, but what isn’t dangerous these days? You just keep going and get the heck away from them when you want to pull off for a break.

-later-

Uneventful drive so far. Evening is coming and I pulled off for dinner. Found a small encampment near where I pulled off, actually and traded two cans of oil for some fresh food. The nice thing about being small and female is I’m not a threat. I thought my credentials would play off well for me in situations like this. Being a reporter means I’m not a threat. So far, most of the people I’ve encountered this way haven’t even heard of the times, and think I’m joking.

One of the campers was named Belinda Ackerman, nee Smith. She looked like if all this hadn’t happened, she’d have been a model, striking eyes, with a tall slender build, but she had a look of being worn and tired. She’d been married, but both her husband and a son had passed of the Flying Pig Flu epidemics of 2010 and 2011. We called it the Flying Pig Flu because it was a hybrid of the Swine Flu and the bird flu, and from the deaths it caused, it really did feel like the end of the world.

She worked in advertising before her son, had a comfortable life. When her son got the flu in the first round, it was days in the hospital before he died. It was uncontrollable, the symptoms overwhelmed his young immune system. The next year, the flu had us figured out, and even the healthy were in danger. When her husband began throwing up, they went straight to the hospital. The staff was overwhelmed with a virus as widespread and contagious. They turned him away, and so did two other emergency rooms. The ability of the health care system was never up to such an onslaught of patients. He died at home despite her best efforts. Why she never got it was a mystery to her, her immune system had never been what she would consider great. It just passed her by.

Eventually she took up with a group that seemed like compassionate people, and she’s been surviving with them ever since. She likens what they do to living like cavemen, hunting and gathering, but they’ll settle soon, start farming, make a community again. That’s their plan. I shared a pack of the Skittles with her.

There were many stories like this that are being lost now. I hope to keep a record of them as I go.

We ate by a campfire, sharing food and stories for the night. In morning I’ll continue on.

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

Okay, I hope this is working. I don’t have much time, so I’ll get out as much of an update as I can with a bit of backlog on what’s been happening around here.

Those still here in Phoenix are having troubles getting the electricity to work properly. Solar power isn’t working well due to the volcanic eruptions from Mount Rainier a while back. The ash cloud has affected the normally beautiful Arizona sunset and it looks rather gloomy these days with a reddish haze. Rolling blackouts can last for days, which doesn’t help for charging my phone and laptop to bring you this information. As it is now, I have about half battery power, but it’s the connection I’m more concerned about. As long as the phone connection holds out, I’m good, since I have to use my phone to plug into the laptop for internet access.

The damage California took on in the earthquakes has affected us as well with any transformer that feeds Phoenix. Micro-bursts have increased during this monsoon season, causing more damage to transformers and power lines with not enough people to work on them, and I’m pretty certain I saw a tornado the other day moving across the Salt River Reservation. It’s not the first one I’ve seen, but that’s just a bit too close for my taste. Where I’m staying isn’t far from that rez and we had to hide in the bathtub with a mattress pulled over us. There are no warning sirens for this area, so if we don’t happen to see the tornado, we’re out of luck. My cousin’s house on the rez was completely destroyed by the most recent one. They’re staying with mom and me now.

Partially due to the blackouts, water is scarce now within the city, and what I do manage to find outdoors has become septic. Perfect breeding ground for mosquitoes, which carry a new strain of the West Nile Virus—the one that has people walking like the dead around here. It’s rather creepy and has my imagination resorting to all those zombie movies I watched as a kid. The heat doesn’t help the situation, as it makes them even more lethargic, and the monsoon clouds seem to hold the heat in as well as the moisture, bringing humidity levels to an all time high for the area. The virus is much more contagious than before, and with what’s left of the CDC focusing on the new flu strains that have mutated beyond comprehension, amongst many other new diseases that have popped up, they haven’t had time to keep up with WNV.

I’ve taken to the nearby desert surrounding what is left of the Phoenix area to hunt barrel cactus for clean water. Unfortunately, I must contend with the wildlife for this, so I always carry my 30/30 rifle with me in case a mountain lion decides I’d make a tasty meal, since food is scarce for them, too. My cousin Daniel comes with me on these ventures because it’s not safe to travel alone anymore. Mountain lion has a very interesting taste to it, by the way, and I’m quite glad my father took us hunting when we were younger. It’s difficult to preserve any perishable food, so anything killed needs to be eaten soon or dried. When we kill something that size, we share it with anyone else who might be still around. There are a couple of families left in the neighborhood, but they’re getting ready to leave, too.

When I woke up for my morning run, the power was out again. The run is something I still do, even though the world is in a bleak state of affairs and my sneakers are falling apart. It is a custom of mine that I can’t let go. Besides, the rattlesnakes are less of a worry at dawn because they’ve fed. Daniel and I run toward the sunrise and when we stop, we take in the sun as it peaks the horizon, waving our hands toward us to bring us its strength and energy. Thus begins our day, with a spiritual connection to the universe. It’s the only way I can remain sane in this chaos. I’m not so sure about Daniel, but the man is a rock.

Here’s a picture:

On our way back, I cut into a barrel cactus and soak a bandana with the water while Daniel keeps watch. Then I transfer the water to my canteen. It’s a bit tedious, but it’s the only way to get fresh water, and it’s hardly enough for all of us so we do it as often as we can until we’re ready to leave.

Hard to believe that only three years ago, I sat on my back porch doing homework, studying geologic disasters. I never thought I’d see so many happen in such a short amount of time.

The city is no longer habitable, and I’ve run into some people who are heading north, coming up from South America and Mexico. Most of them have expressed going to Canada. My goal is to find a place with clean water and a lack of mosquitoes. Somewhere my mother will be safe. I’ve heard about a camp up north around Montezuma’s Well, which makes sense because I know there is a natural spring there.

So that’s where I’m heading. I’ll be on the road for a bit and will report back when I get the chance to…

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.

Camping out for so long is not what I wanted to be doing in this job. It’s boring and far harder to do than you’d think. Coleman stoves don’t carry very well, at least the propane tanks don’t, and they are getting scarce these days anyway. So I hunt. If I only catch little things, birds, squirrel, raccoon, I have to hunt every day. I carry a solar oven for meat about this size. It works well in our summers if the sun is strong, and attracts a lot less attention without a smoke plume. If I catch a larger animal, a deer maybe, I clean and butcher it as quickly as possible, and cook it over a fire. This will attract locals, and I’m only glad to share and trade with a stranger if they’re friendly. I usually will take some of their stories down for inclusion, and I’ll be posting some of them on slow news days.

It is very strange to hunt in the suburbs. It feels like playing cowboys and indians as a kid. You don’t hunt through trees so much, but around corners, under porches, you listen for packs of wild dogs, your ammunition doesn’t have caps and suction cups, there’s no Nerf involved.

Other than food, camping is boring. You aren’t trying to escape the job for the weekend, and so you don’t think too much about activities. It gets very stressful, because you’re always looking for danger, human or animal. There were always wild animals in this area. At the height of human population, there were the more typical animals, small birds, hawks and eagles, squirrels, possum, up to deer. Now you have household pets as well, packs of feral dogs, stray cats are common. But there are other animals that weren’t here when people were. I see foxes very often. (more animals) Coyotes were coming back, a nuisance species, really, and now are common to see. Wolves came back very strong, and there’s been some breeding between the populations, making coywolves. There are also big cats. I’ve seen lynx on a couple occasions, bobcat, and I even think I saw a large black cat, panther maybe? Some of these came from exotic pet populations, some from zoos. There were always rumors of some of these in the wild, but you never gave them any credibility before all this.

Most dangerous, though, are bears. Black bears are indigenous to the area, and humans just chased them out a couple hundred years ago. They came back now and occupy the suburbs. With lawns at a summer high since it isn’t like people are mowing them, you can be within 20 feet of an animal even of that size without seeing even a hint of their presence. If you scare one, and it decides to attack, it’s done. You won’t outrun them, you may get lucky if you have a handgun (I’m carrying one now, all the time, just in case Blankenship’s men find me), or really lucky if you have a good combat knife (I have one of those, too, now strapped at the ready on my thigh). But with those, you’ll only get one chance, and the odds are not good you’ll hit what you need to. So you carry some bells. They make noise that tells bears where you are. They’ll avoid you. You bury feces. You spread your scent around. You finish your food and discard remnants far from camp.

Soren says he is sending word on where to go soon. We’ll see what he brings me.