Getting shot fucking sucks. I’ve got a bruise the size and color of Idaho on my side, and it feels like a rib is cracked. If I hadn’t had the vest, I’d have been dead. Oleg said he’s going to the Navy Base to see who those guys were, but I can’t come. Screw that, there’s a great story here, and I’m going. I just have to convince them of this.

Theories are abundant about the events of yesterday, and so are the issues. The guys were definitely violent, and according to Oleg and the rest of the crew, new to the area. This leads to the first question. There were a number of people living in that neighborhood. Were they still there, killed, or did they move on after being pushed out? Any of these are possible. If they stayed, they probably had to pay some form of protection, probably had to give up quite a bit of what they had built up in terms of food and energy resources. That’s not a good thing for anyone to do. If they had left, Oleg thinks they would have passed by to warn the project. They were friendly with the community, and had reached out to them time and again. Leaving without a warning seemed out of character for that relationship. That left them dead, an option Oleg didn’t want to consider. There were five families in that neighborhood. Nobody would come in and just kill that many people, how could they?

Next issue was how far did the territory of this new group reach? The roads we would take to the Naval yards skirted that neighborhood, what if they sat on that road waiting to ambush travelers? Should we go further south around, or would that waste too much gas?

They would also have to work towards fortifying more now than on other projects which could extend the life support efforts. Less focus on the power network, less focus on the computers. More need for metal. Metal is heavy, hard to bring back to the facility. Needs more power, which means more focus on the biodiesel production. More scavenging, more exposure.

So they began planning the trip. And this is where I insisted I come.

“No.” Their reply. “You can barely hold yourself upright.”

I was laying down, I had to admit. I tried to sit up, and it was a slow and laborious process, but I got there, dammit.

“I’m going.”

“No. You aren’t well enough, and its up to us to risk ourselves. You’re our guest.”

“I’m a reporter, and I need to get the full story. I’ll be fine tomorrow.”

“You could have cracked ribs.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“She’ll be hard to move in an attack. We can’t do it.”

“I’m the only one here with survival training. You guys are just reading it from a book you found in the library.”

“We can’t.”

I’m summarizing a bit. There was more to the discussions, but when I got that out of them, well, their reply didn’t start with a no, so I must have been wearing them down.

“I’ve broken ribs and been training again in three days. They taught me how to deal with the pain. This is nothing.”

They looked around the room at each other.

“We’re going to have to build up our defenses, both here and on the vehicles before we go.”

“Two days. We’ll see how you are, Lori.”

So I’m going. No way I’m not. Time to help them prepare.

The Tidewater Recovery Project, as Oleg calls it, is staffed full time by about 20 people, but there are many more in the community it serves who offer physical support, be it in the form of food and material contributions or physical labor.

Oleg first took me to the machine shop, a combination of the machine and automotive shops from when the facility was an active college. Technical education was a mainstay of the junior college system for years, and this place was equipped. Computer control, new quality machines are everywhere, with enough supplies to build just about anything from scratch.

The head of the machine shop is Monica Ruiz, a younger woman with a thick Spanish accent and a lot of attitude. She had the wheel off of a small car and the brakes completely disassembled on the ground in front of her. She wore the dirtiest shirt you could imagine, the grease from the work she does evidently doesn’t wash out if you don’t have serious detergent.

“Bug’s almost ready.”

“Bug?” I asked.

“Old VW. Love them. There were millions of them out there, almost all with the same parts, fricking go-carts with doors. A little suspension tweak and they can actually handle the streets like an SUV without the shitty gas mileage.”

She showed me around some. She had three vehicles in the shop, an SUV that she had crudely armored, a motorcycle, actually a big road bike leaned on a kickstand, and a couple more sedans which looked in fair, unmodified condition were parked inside the space. One was parked on the lift, ready to be worked on. She also had a number of odd metallic things, almost looked like modern sculptures.

“Wind turbines. This design doesn’t get as affected by strong winds, not like a big windmill. We’ll line the roof with them, and hand enough power to supply our operation,” Oleg explained. “How are we doing on that project?”

“Get me some more alternators, and metal, I’ll get them done.”

“Our computer operations are nearing our power generation, and we’re only about a quarter up and running,” Oleg explained.

A solar array, broken by some traumatic event, sat in one corner.

“What about the array?”

“Soon as I finish the car, boss.”

“Was it damaged by the hurricane?” I asked.

“No. Marauders. Any new weapons?”

“I’m not a miracle worker. I’ve got some ideas, though. ”

Oleg nodded, and lingered for a minute before leading me out without saying much else. When we got into the hall, I had to stop him.

“Marauders?”

“We were perfectly prepared for the storm, but they struck as we were pulling things back out. I told you there were some rough spots out here.”

“Who are they?”

“We don’t know. We have fought them off pretty well up to this point, and they don’t seem to be interested in anything specifically. They’re just out causing trouble.”

There’s quite a bit more here to see, and far more than I can report in a day. More tomorrow or so.

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.

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

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.

From the desk of Soren Ragnvald, Editor In Chief

The incidents in Fresh Kills New York are frightening, and I am grateful to the survivors of the incidents there for the safety of our reporter, Lori Kim, while at the same time, I express my sincerest condolences to the survivors for their fallen. I am going to send Lori to a safer expedition while I attempt to negotiate a resolution with Conrad Blankenship. I’m certain something can be arranged. There is no need for these kinds of actions in our world. We all need to rebuild. Lori, I’ll send you someplace as safe as I can make it for your next assignments.

We are able to receive word from AJ Green of what had been the Coast Guard, but unfortunately, I have no network in that part of the world. The Caribbean and Haiti did not have enough of a market to justify an entry to cover it. At the time of the trouble, Nordlander Telecommunications had only a small foothold in New England. We are receiving his broadcasts via satellite, but have no boats or resources in place for rescue. We will monitor the situation and look to provide resources as we can.

Ithius Sinclair continues to find stories in the Bay area in California. This area in particular has fallen on desperate times. Food and resources are scarce, and the competition for survival has divided the survivors into clans. The area is one of the most anarchic, violent and dangerous I have current reports on, and there are many rumors of cannibalism. Large wildfires still burn unchecked in the hills, while other places are flooded with glacial melt. Still, there are patches of survivors clinging on and rebuilding, and order has some hope of returning to the area.

In the Phoenix area, Michaela Blackhorse is just coming on-line. The area struggles for water, and the populations from Central America and Mexico heading to more hospitable climates to the north can lead to significant clashes. At the same time, there is a new strain of West Nile Virus that is finding a foothold in the area that appears to be exceptionally strong and has new dangerous symptoms. There is little ability to develop medicines or vaccines anywhere, and so this could spread to the rest of the continent if it isn’t contained there soon.

The End of the World Times continues to provide coverage of survival niches in our post-apocalypse world. Our reporters are independent agents who work on your donations. Please help us support their coverage.

Fresh Kills, NY – The pains I have been feeling have been getting worse. I’m off site about a mile away, in the worker’s living spaces. I’m not as used to the toxic environment as they are, and their doctor said the toxins in the air were building up in my system. It will take a few days, and I’ll get back to normal, relatively. I’ve never had such wretched vomiting in my life. My abdomen is pulled from it, my throat is scratchy, and my skin is pale. I can only guess at how many pounds I’ve lost. They call it newbie syndrome with a chuckle. But I can keep food down now.

We’re north west of the land fill in what had been New Jersey. I saw the old state sing on the roads. Most of the time, the winds blow the gases away from here. The air really couldn’t get cleaner. Used to be in a city like this, there would be pollution, the environment would be horrible, now, no cars, no people. I know Jersey has a rep for, you know, smells, but that has largely gone away. No chemicals production, no cars, no new pollution. That’s what happens.

I’ve been helping prepare food for the men who are still at work on the landfill. No survivors have been pulled out, but they are optimistic. They have taken to pouring water through the air ducts to keep them hydrated, and they still report sounds they think are voices coming back up.

Yesterday, I was able to speak with Randy Cahill, the man leading the drill straight down faction of the workers. He says his work is proceeding. He has his equipment in place and has been drilling for two days. The work is slower going than he had anticipated. He said his shaft is 30 feet deep, and has had problems of the equipment falling out of level after issues of sinking. The structural integrity of the landfill was solid when it was closed, but the mining has upset the underlying integrity.

When the equipment moves out of level, it has to be re-set. He’s on his third attempt at a hole, and he feels he has now worked out the technical issues he has had. They also must turn the drill by hand, as there isn’t enough fuel to run it. They have rigged levers and the thing he describes sounds like a medieval mill, or torture device.

I asked him about what he thinks of the tunnel strategy. He laughed a little.

“What happens if the tunnel collapses? Those guy’s air supply is gone. All of that work is only going to unsettle more layers above them. No, we make a shaft, reinforce it on the way down. Nothing to interfere with their lifeline. And how far do they have to dig? Much further than us.”

I also asked him about their environment. He thinks with the constant fresh air being delivered to them, they should be in good shape. He has to believe they are.

He thanked me for helping them pump air, and then left.

There are people coming from the area to help with the efforts. Some won’t go close to the mine, but they bring food, provide whatever support they can. Others go up to the mine, spend an afternoon clearing in the tunnel, turning the drill, or pumping air. There’s been maybe 50-60 more people who came to help out already, and others trickle in. Word is traveling.

Something I’ve never seen before has popped up in at least three places in the community, graffiti carved saying “1,000 years to Rain”. Nobody seems to know what it means, but the people that I know from the mine say they’ve never seen it before this situation and new people started turning up.