Under The Stars: The Makings Of A Fantasy
By: Shark Starwind
Edited by: Bryon McDonald
____________________________________
As I step outside into the crisp, nightly air I breathe deep the smells of a land I will soon leave behind. I exhale and a small cloud of steam is quick to remind me of what was once my home, and what is now my destination. The water particles disperse into the air becoming invisible as they become a part of it. Much like my breath, the hopes for our civilization had dissolved once we realized the truth and were forced to eventually calm down into a more quiet world order. This was always the way things were to be.
In much the same manner as the water particles and the hopes of our society, many personal dreams also vanished, or became mere fables like the novels of yesteryear. As much as I could have fallen into the depression led on by my own desires for space and interstellar travel being crushed under the weight and reality of the world's new situation, instead I found myself barely holding back a sense of joy and excitement. What is now of the world around me lacks the overwhelming sense of greed and corruption and the stench of lives lived only in a shell, fragmented and forgotten. I can feel the clean in the air. When I inhale the energy I nigh feel as though a bird has become a part of me in some way. I feel a stronger sense of freedom, not only of movement, but of thought and being.
All of that's not to say that what happened was entirely beneficial to human society, that is. Many people have been hurt, and even more have ceased living. At this point in time I could safely say that the sheer number of casualties brought on by the series of events following 'the collapse' far out-weigh any good that may have come as a result, but I feel as though such a view may be subject to change in the coming times. In the grand scheme of things, all of the devastation could lead us to a brighter day.
Upon realizing I had allowed my thoughts to get the better of me, I turn to take one last look at what had become of my shelter during the majority of the apocalyptic events that had happened around me. On the table in my lounge I see the once indispensable Kerosene lantern that lit my way on so many of my hiking trips. Coincidentally, one of the earliest uses of Earth's oil would also serve as a farewell to it all.
A brief moment of reminiscing later I turn my back on the relic and head towards a new future.
The time between the first dry well and the complete collapse of modern society was brief enough to surprise even I. Despite my seemingly eternal pessimism towards the masses around me, I admit I was caught off guard by the pace of events over the past five months or so. I wonder if my childhood and teenage years somehow set me up to be prepared for the end of the world as we knew it. Filled with action and adventure movies, stories, and video games, my early life generated a lust for adventure that quickly grew stronger when I came into my twenties. When the time came that I needed to survive in a world abruptly without oil, I found living a bit easier than most.
As soon as news got out that some of the oil wells in the Middle East began to dry up, the price of gas skyrocketed. Shortly thereafter the U.S. was cut off from foreign oil. As to be expected, the U.S. and Chinese economy were hit first and hardest. The U.S. tapped into its reserves and began new drilling projects but it was already too late. The price of fresh food began to rise. It was at this point I began preparing for what I knew was the inevitable.
Having spent much time in my life hiking and camping far from any sign of civilization, I considered myself somewhat an expert on non-perishable foods. When the oil-based economy began its rapid downward spiral I purchased the two most valuable, portable, and plentiful foods I knew of. Spam and energy bars both came in small, sealed packages and could provide seemingly endless amounts of energy when needed, and the former was always overstocked and mostly forgotten about. Food would soon become scarce and I would be ready.
After the government tapped into the reserves it was only one, maybe two weeks when they realized just how quickly supply was dwindling. People were flocking to the gas stations to fill up milk jugs with gasoline and ignoring the unprecedented prices of fuel as they continued to drive the massive SUV's that were so popular in this country. The huge numbers of people buying and ordering whatever hybrid or electric cars they could find were doing nothing to help the world's situation because of just how much petroleum it took to make the damned things.
Always having been a passionate advocate for the use of bicycles, I laughed at the lazy as they tried so desperately to keep their cars moving. Instead of buying extra gas I simply took a trip to the local bike shop for a tune-up and a spare set of inner tubes. My faithful steed would take me thousands of miles further than any car ever would now. With that little errand complete, and already having enough food for a year, I sat back and watched, waited.
About a week and a half later, public distribution of major petroleum products stopped cold. The American government was not alone in the action of saving and using what little oil there was left for keeping the basic necessities running. Gas disappeared from the stations, flights were grounded, and Vaseline could no longer be found on the drug-store shelves. Almost everything came to a halt.
Up until this point I was still attending school and there was still some food in the grocery stores. I still had cell phone service and my apartment was always a significant relief from the oppressive heat of Phoenix as the humming air-conditioner signaled that I still had electricity. All the same I could see that these utilities wouldn't last. The loss of the Western world's most important commodity was too sudden and too abrupt. And now there was no more school as the instructors and many students simply had no means to attend.
About a month after the schools closed, the electricity was turned off. The entire Valley of the Sun was now in an indefinite blackout. It took all of twenty-four hours for the major highways to clog up with thousands of people fleeing the valley in search for more fertile land. Most headed west towards California with what was left of the gas they had bottled up over a month ago, while others went north out of the state. The remainder—indeed the largest part of the city's population—were stranded with no way out. The few who would brave the hike through the hundreds of miles of desert that surrounded the city in every direction and the mountains beyond were only those who already had experience surviving in such conditions.
I began preparing for anything that might come my way. I walked to the nearest hardware store for some basic survival tools. The store was dark and mostly empty. I was fortunate that so many stores were still operating with some cash flow even with so few employees and no electricity. When I saw, however, that the person who was supposed to be acting as a cashier was simply letting what few customers they had walk out with the desired goods, I realized that the situation was far worse than I suspected. No one cared anymore. With that in mind, the list of things I could possibly need was thoroughly shortened and I walked out with naught but a crowbar and a decent supply of fire-starters.
Over the next three months the electricity had been going on and off erratically, and there were frequent riots in the inner city. The violence slowly spread to the outskirts where I lived and I eventually found myself on the defensive. I was unnerved by the fact that law was failing; too many people seemed intent on killing each other for food. I was alone. I was one man with a crowbar and a sword in a world filled with guns—a classic video game scenario I was forced to experience. Night after night I listened to desperate individuals fire off what would be the last bullets they would ever get to use as I made brief conversation with one of the feral cats that had made a home of my now door-less apartment (some wannabe looters had knocked it down).
Then one day the water stopped flowing. For two days I lived off the water I had stored for just such an occasion. After the those two days, I knew that it would never flow in this valley again. That day the Valley of the Sun became the Valley of the Damned. The amount of death that would follow the end of water would be unimaginable. There wouldn't be enough trucks filled with bottles to keep everyone alive. It was time for me to leave.
Two years ago I made an agreement with a very dear friend of mine that we would meet up at a specific location back up north should the world, as we knew it, come to an end. Back when the crisis was first beginning, I called him up one last time and told him that, if everything continued to spiral down the drain the way it was doing so already, I would begin my trek in six months. I find it odd that such a plan would ever come to fruition.
With my rucksack full of my usual outdoor survival gear I descend the steps of my apartment towards the ground where I mount my trusty bicycle. Not having had any electricity for several weeks, I don’t need any time for my eyes to adjust to the moonlight. A quick survey of my immediate area reveals no threat in the form of bandits or looters so I ride off into the night as I have so many times before, but this time with no intention of ever returning. At this hour before dawn the outskirts that I have called home these last couple years are completely deserted, allowing me a trouble-free ride as I head north out of the valley.
There is little that I can expect to see over the coming months. I have a three thousand-mile ride on this bike over what will probably span two or three months depending on my pace. In a way, I'm not sure it will be entirely unpleasant, at least to my spirit, because I feel as if I'm living the ultimate fantasy: I'm a lone wolf, traveling far and wide to face unknown dangers and wonders. It will be an adventure much akin to those I played in games, saw in movies, and read in books throughout my entire life.
* * *
And indeed it has been such a journey thus far. If my memory serves me as well as it usually does, I'd say I'm about six weeks from the day I left the Valley of the Sun. After a while, once the days started blending together, I realized just how dependent even I was on technology before The Fall. Computers and cell phones were rendered fairly useless early on, when the power to make them run cut out, and completely useless when the service ended. It was naive to think that such corporate mechanisms as the service companies could stay afloat amidst a nearly total lack of income from their customers. When all of that convenience ended I continued using the calendar I always had in order to keep track of the days and months. When I hit the road and no longer had that calendar, I had to use the Moon's 28-day cycle, a skill that I had developed early on in my teenage years using the sun.
After these six weeks I have made more progress than I originally thought I would. Now less than a day's ride away from the point where I had agreed to meet my friend six months ago, I stop at a stream near the side of the road for a drink. I have grown accustomed to living on the road, as I have several times before. The minimalistic means of survival leaves more room for one's own personal fulfillment. Looking back, the journey wasn't as difficult as I expected, but, at the same time, not as difficult as I was secretly hoping for.
The first days of biking were mostly unhindered except for the two massive and almost unbearably steep hill climbs I needed to accomplish to reach the flat ground of the Colorado Plateau. Instead of staying on the now empty interstate I made my way through Sedona, and thought about how lucky I was to see such a beautiful and estranged place again. I was taken aback by how few people I saw there. It wasn't until a scraggly looking couple hollered from a distance to wish me well that I recalled exactly what the majority of the city's population was like. I realized that whoever was left in the area were likely to be off living on the rocks, where they felt more energized, or hunting for any of the (rather large) population of animals in the area.
Less than a day later I had finally climbed the grueling hill up to Flagstaff and the Colorado plateau. From there it would be easy going all the way to Colorado where I would begin the gradual descent all the way home. With the largest physical challenge over, I decided to pick a remote spot at the base of the nearby mountain to rest for a couple of days. The air was thinner up there and I didn't want to strain myself too much.
I was setting up camp in a grove of pine trees when I heard a gunshot and the voice of someone screaming, or at least yelling with great authority. For an instant I thought I had found myself caught as the underdog in a conflict with a crazy, violent person, but I just as quickly learned otherwise. As I shot my gaze in the direction of the commotion I saw a man with a heavy-looking bag running in my direction. He was running flat out, dodging rocks and fallen trees. I thought for a moment as to whether or not I wanted to become a part of this conflict. On the one hand I could help a man fleeing a rogue bandit, or on the other hand I could be helping apprehend a lone thief. With as little time as I was given to make such a decision, as if I even had a choice NOT to decide, I acted.
Just as the man ran past me I tossed a small branch that I had grabbed as an impromptu tool. The branch caught between his legs and, already being off balance with the bag in his arms, he fell hard to the rocky ground. He cursed in pain—or frustration—as he tried to regain himself, but the other man was very quickly upon him. Some more cursing and threatening ensued but the incident was over rather quickly. As it turned out, my latter assumption was correct.
The man who was in pursuit when I became involved turned out to be a small ranch owner. He had gone out for a hunt to acquire some venison for himself when, upon letting his attention wander from his fresh catch, the single thief had ambushed him. He expressed his gratitude for my small intervention and headed off in the direction from which he came. Not more than twenty paces away he paused and turned back to me. With only a slightly kinder demeanor than earlier, he offered me food and shelter for the night. I declined as politely as I knew how, expressing my appreciation for the gesture. He insisted that, should I stay there in the woods, I would likely be raided by more than one of the bandits with which he just dealt. After some brief consideration I silently agreed to the thought and gathered my things.
It wasn't far back to his home—maybe two miles. He cooked up half of the deer meat over an open fire in his yard and poured the both of us a cup of whiskey he had made. He told me about the organized group of bandits that prowled the woods east of the mountains there. He had been raided by them a number of times and still held his home and his small herd of cattle, but his son had fallen victim to their violence. We discussed the loss of all order in society. There was no more law in the lesser-populated areas, and everyone had to fend for himself or herself. He had no news of what was happening in the government. He commented on seeing an airliner fly far above every now and then, but other than that there was little sign of organized rule. The world, or at least the United States, he ventured to say, had fallen into abject anarchy.
The next morning came with a chill in the air and snow falling from the sky. I wrapped myself in my travel cloak as I set up a small fire outside for hot water. It came to my mind in that moment that this was a wonderful time to be alive if one could only envision it as such. Silence. No birds, no crickets, no coyotes, no people, no cars, no planes; nothing but the indescribable sound of snowflakes landing on other snowflakes could be heard. Just then my host observed exactly what I had been thinking. After consuming a small breakfast consisting of the same meat from yesterday, I said my farewell and he bid me Godspeed.
As I pedaled off into the snow I could have sworn I heard him humming the melody from that old song, "Rooster."
Traveling through Colorado and the Midwest was a bit more uplifting. I saw that people had begun forming small, sustainable farming communities. As spring was in season, people from all walks of life could be seen planting and preparing crops for the growing season. All the work was being done by hand or with the help of horses. Most of the large fields that once grew only one species of plant were now divided into a variety of smaller, more manageable crops and what was once the farmer’s house and yard became a small village. All along the roads, and especially at the crossroads, there were camps of an almost Gypsy-like nature. Never did I see the use of the giant farming machinery once so common in America's Bread Basket. That people had already grouped together so seamlessly, overcoming the differences between them, was a very hopeful sight. It meant that humanity wasn't doomed into another total dark age.
I avoided passing through any large cities, and I believe this was a key factor in how little trouble I encountered on my journey. Once my food ran out I found it relatively easy to hunt for whatever sustenance I needed. I was officially a hunter-gatherer of the modern era. At some point I came to realize this and found entertaining the mental occupation of thinking about the new world order and where it might lead us all.
Tonight I will make my way north to the top of a bluff in the southern part of what was Minnesota. There I will secure a safe camp and wait for my friend to arrive. Being as early as I am, I will make it as comfortable as a home since I expect I should be waiting some time. As helpful as it is to plan ahead, however, I need to focus on where I am tonight. The air is slightly cool and quite humid now. The forest around me is just beginning to fill out—much more lush and green than the woods I’ve encountered thus far. The crickets are chirping loudly and the fireflies have just woken up, fluttering in the blackness. I have greatly enjoyed my journey so far, and I have nothing but excitement for what may lay ahead in not only the near, but also the distant future. With that, there is one truth that holds above all else in times like these: that our lives, and the worlds we live in, are exactly what we choose to make of them.
