Tagged: life
Miracles/Stories
Dear Planet Earth,
Sometimes all you need in life is some fried chicken and someone to call you “friend.” I was lucky enough to have both yesterday.
Karter, Maria, and I had a nice talk all through the night about the miracle that we’re all still here. It was a dark hotel room and a mostly dark conversation, though I am happy to report that they are very much an “item” now. They told me about the horrors they were put through in the labor camp. They worked sun up to sun down, building those strange towers with all the pipes — Karter thought they were some sort of power generators because of the heat they gave off.
At night, they all slept together in a large underground cavern. They could feel the red, glowing eyes of the mole people watching them as they slept on the rocky earth, and those same eyes greeted them as they awoke each morning. They carried rifles as big and alien as those towers.
Maria told me a story about a small child who slept near her each night and always cried about food or his mother. His whimpering grew softer and softer each night until one day, he wasn’t there. She didn’t have to ask what happened to him.
There were more stories — stories about the starvation, the beatings, the executions — but we tried not to focus on that. We tried to focus on the miracle. We justified our feelings of regret, shame, and loss by affirming our shared experiences as humans, allies, and above all, friends.
And then we went down to the kitchen and scored some fried chicken.
Negative Light
Dear Planet Earth,
Well, here I am. It’s anybody’s guess as to how long. They‘re telling me to write, to tell my story, busy myself and the rest of the world with the cold, hard facts to prove that they’ll get each and every one of us eventually.
I resisted at first, spat in their faces. I pretended to be the tough guy for two long days, but what does it really matter now? If I’m dead, I’m dead, and it won’t change anything to anyone if I retell what happened or not. I’m doing this now to be remembered. I’ve realized now that’s what’s been driving me from the very beginning. All I’ve ever wanted was for people to recognize my existence, be it in a positive or a negative light. And I don’t care if that sounds selfish now. I don’t care about humility, or pride, or any other quality I once thought made us human. I only care about being remembered.
I’m going to take my time with this. God knows they are. They keep saying it’ll be at least a week before “The Big Guy” comes. I’m trying to ignore the little voice in the back of my mind that might understand what that means.
It all started the day after I killed Jennifer Lopez. I couldn’t find my netbook in the morning. Halston, Linares, and Karter sat me down with the most serious faces. They asked if I knew where all the weapons had gone, if I heard the truck leaving last night. I sat open-mouthed, thinking a hundred different thoughts at once. Then Maria barged in and said they were gone. Mrs. Bing, Mr. Ozawa, Randall, Rachel. They were all gone.
Civil Tribal Warfare
Dear Planet Earth,
My conversations with Dr. Eimer have become increasingly less depressing over the past couple weeks. That all changed today as he went on and on about how I’m in a tribe now and that I have to put my own needs behind the needs of my tribe.
It was my own damn fault for telling him how isolated I feel from everyone else. Of course, he already knew about the graffiti fiasco and the laptop affair, so just admitting that it got to me was enough for him to diagnose me with “introverted tendencies.”
I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to think about anything besides killing mole men. And isn’t my refusal to examine my own feelings the highest form of sacrifice I can make for my “tribe”?
Probably not.
Seventeen
Dear Planet Earth,
I don’t know what’s going on. Nobody seems to have it together right now. We camped out in the desert last night; the those of us who weren’t sobbing about the loss of our friends or former normal lives spent the twilight hours crouched over the enormous hole left the by ginormous metal snake drill.
I was one of the sobbers. We lost seventeen. Seventeen people, seventeen fellow humans who just days ago were considered “survivors,” a word used to show great strength over horrific obstacles. Today, they are “victims,” a dead word for dead people that only serves to stress the impact of their finality.
I only knew three of them, all soldiers. Chambers. Seka. Jameson. Even typing their names feels as impersonal as reciting dog tags. They’re memories now, and nothing more.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!
In Insomnia
Dear Planet Earth,
I haven’t slept in over 24 hours. Despite everything you’ve heard, it is not easy to fall asleep in a roomful of snoring, smelly soldiers, children, and grandmas. It sounds like a circus here now at Gary Goldberg’s Discount Cars with everyone moving large crates from one place to another or complaining how the large crate they need isn’t right in front of them.
I was able to finally catch up with Dr. Eimer last night. He seemed to be avoiding me ever since the mole men emerged from the drill and I wasn’t shy about telling him.
“Long time no see, doc.”
I found him leaning against the dealership building, staring at the infinite stars above. If I smoked, this would be the cinematic moment when I coolly pulled out a cigarette, and right before lighting it, offered one to my old friend.
“Yeah. Scott. Long time.” He gave me a quick glance, then just as quickly resumed investigating the night sky. We stayed like that for several minutes.
“So. . .” Like many of our past conversations, I assumed this one would soon devolve into him recounting a traumatic memory and end with us both drinking his whiskey in a tent somewhere.
“You’re a smart boy, Scott.” I’m glad someone’s noticed. “I think I was a smart boy, too, when I was your age. Now . . . I’m just a foolish old man with some pieces of paper to show everyone how smart he is.”
This is when he would take a long drag on the cigarette I gave him.
“I said things to you that day — when they attacked — things no old man should ever admit. I still feel, I’m still afraid of dying. I’m sorry, Scott.”
I patted his shoulder. We didn’t drink any whiskey.
Void
Dear Planet Earth,
I changed the layout of the blog, and after turning over on my right side, watching static on the TV, and counting all the water stains in the ceiling, the only thing left to do today is to write about something.
I’m in a lull here, a stagnant void that could easily make me forget that the mole people are out there, intent on killing me and the rest of humanity. I need to keep my brain active. I need to use this time for something more productive than just scoring free drugs and waging war on orphan children. It would be good to lay out the facts, to remind me and anyone else willing to listen what the hell has happened to the world we once knew.
I’m working on a timeline now of everything that’s led to this moment. I’m going to need a minute or two.
Painine
Dear Planet Earth,
Pain. Blinding, striking, unrelenting pain. It consumes me, taunts me without words, chews on me without teeth.
I’ve heard of pain like this. I’ve heard my grandfather complain of such a feeling in his hands. It followed him all the way into death, forming an image in my mind of an unearthly malady beyond simple arthritis. I feel like that old man. I feel like ten old men.
They gave me drugs — morphine or codeine or some other “ine” — the first few days here at the hospital, but then the supplies became scarce and they decided a kid like me — practically a man — with a single bullet wound didn’t need that much painkiller. So, now I’m the painkiller. And I’m losing.
They left me with 50 cc of painine and the possibility of never walking again. I sound bitter, like an old man, but I don’t know how else to feel. I was shot in the leg by a mole man. I was shot in the leg by a mole man and I can’t think of anything but the tingling, tormenting fire in every inch of my body.
The End of the Beginning of the End
Dear Planet Earth,
It’s happening. Whatever all this was — the earthquakes, the media blackout, the kidnapping — it’s all led to this moment.
The drill’s starting to open and the seismic vibrations have erupted into an audible high-pitched whine. The homeless mercenaries, presumably with Martha among them, are cheering, shaking their weapons and signs. A couple of soldiers have already deserted, and I’d have been tempted to go with them if I didn’t have a personal investment to see this through to the end. I also wasn’t invited.
I found Dr. Eimer in the base’s makeshift chapel just now. He was on his knees, hands clasped together in the direction of two pieces of plywood shaped like a cross. I walked to his side as silently as I could.
“Hey,” I said.
“Hey, Scott.”
I contemplated kneeling next to him and quickly sorted out the awkward events that might follow, but he interrupted my thoughts before I could do anything.
“They’re not supposed to have any specific religious symbols on bases embroiled with foreign enemies.”
“Oh, yeah?” I said. I didn’t really want to get into a political discussion with my friend as the world was literally crumbling around us.
“But if this isn’t a church, God can’t blame me for drinking here.”
He flashed me a sheepish smile and I took note of the empty whiskey bottle between his legs.
“When my wife died . . . I found her buried under the remains of our kitchen. When my wife died, I asked myself over and over, ‘Why, why, why?’ to no one in particular.” He touched the corner of his eye. “I stopped believing in God before I was even your age. It felt . . . right. But it doesn’t make anything any easier.”
I helped him up and we stumbled back together to the last bachelor pad we’ll ever have. He’s snoring right now, in between random sobs of “Why, why, why?”
Apocalypse Now, Please
Dear Planet Earth,
You’d think the tension and fear of the entire world coming to an end would put a fire under my feet to actually go out and do something. You’d be wrong.
I’ve just felt lazy for the past couple of days. As strange as it may seem, I’ve completely adjusted to life on an always-alert military base and entered a static mindset that can only be described as boredom. I’ve been tempted on more than one occasion to go outside the tent here and scream at the mocking, silent drill, “Just do something already!”
Unfortunately, I have more self-restraint than that.
The one thing I am planning is to find General Talpa and see if he can spare some guys to help me find Diana and give her a proper burial. It could open a huge can of worms and put more suspicion on me than I need (it was pretty nice of them to ignore the fact that I arrived here covered in someone else’s blood), but at least something would change around here.
We Are the World
Dear Planet Earth,
If this blogging thing doesn’t work out as a life-long (now estimated to be two more weeks) career, I may look into becoming a professional freeloader.
Today at Fort Doomsday, an old guy with no eyebrows caught me trying to steal some power for my netbook and phone. I tried to pretend I was just another soldier, but he saw right through it and laughed. He invited me back to his tent for drinks.
Now, I’m not stupid. I’ve seen enough Dateline specials about the Neverland Ranch to know you’re not supposed to go to dark secluded places with strangers to get drunk. But there was something in his eyes, something stern but paternal, that told me I could trust this guy. That sounds really stupid and Dateliney now that I see it written down.
Whatever. It turns out, he’s actually a very cool guy. Dr. Eimer is the head of the civilian consultants here. He’s also the only civilian consultant. When I tried to press him further and find out exactly what he does, he laughed.
“I’m a historian,” he said.
He poured me another glass of whiskey and asked what I do. It was strong stuff — my first alcoholic drink that I couldn’t associate a TV commercial with.
“I guess I’m a historian, too.”
That made him laugh again, but the conversation took a much darker turn soon after when he told me about how his wife died during the earthquakes. I told him about Diana, which started our sharing of condolences and philosophies of life, death, and the universe. I think we may have tried to drunk dial the Pentagon at one point.
To make a long story short, I’m keeping him company in exchange for food, showers, and whiskey. Even MJ never offered whiskey.
