Tagged: politics
An Excerpt
Dear Planet Earth,
For your perusal, an excerpt from A History of the Inheritors:
“The upworlder year of 1629 was a turning point in the ever-shifting truce between the layers. The humans developed the steam turbine, a technology that had already been in widespread use by the Inheritors for centuries.
“It appeared the upworlders were creating new tools at a more rapid rate than first predicted, and the possibility of true coexistence among all of the planet’s sentients seemed likely at long last. There were serious discussions among The Wise Ones contemplating whether or not upworlders had achieved a level of communal intellect worthy of the Inheritors’ recognition.
“All dreams of such a symbiosis quickly crumbled as humanity entered its so-called ‘Industrial Revolution’ 100 years later. They brazenly ignored the ill-effects of overusing steam and coal power on the upper crust. The environmental damage from their hasty, unnecessary innovations were drastic enough to be observed by even the most naive human, yet their unfiltered greed and arrogance blinded them to the inescapable truth that they were destroying the Earth beyond repair.
“The Inheritors, by contrast, carefully measured the changing states of the crust and mantle, taking great care to maintain the most prime of conditions — and prepared for the day when they could finally liberate the planet from its most dangerous parasites.”
Humans
Dear Planet Earth,
I was out of it for awhile here. I ended up puking and shitting all over the floor of my cell. Maybe man wasn’t meant to live in an underground room the size of a closet. Maybe they’re starting to poison me.
Whatever the perpetrator is, my weakened body and mind reminded me of another recent situation when life and death were not so much choices, but random destinations stemming from heated conversations. It was right after we caught sight of the drill south of LA (now this is what I call a segue).
Lieutenant Halston quickly stopped the car, turned it off, and got out. The rest of us exchanged some confused glances and then followed him. He kicked the front tire.
“Fuck!” he yelled. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!”
Private Karter leaned over the hood, resting his head on his arms as though he was about to go to sleep. “Something on your mind, man?”
“They’re dead! We’re dead. We’re all fucking dead.” He touched his temples and began to rub vigorously. “You guys wanna charge in there with no weapons and absolutely no clue if those old farts are even there and alive?”
I was about to mention that Rachel was just a little girl, but Maria protested first.
“And what’s our other option? Go back to the city? The library? That base that’s probably a pile of dust right now? Those ‘old farts’ are our friends. Humans. We can’t turn back without first seeing what’s there.”
“It can’t hurt to scout it out,” Linares added.
The lieutenant whispered back, “You don’t know that.”
“No. I don’t.”
So, we voted. And it was unanimous. And now I’m starting to remember that it felt a lot like a suicide pact.
Fear and Loathing in Los Angeles
Dear Planet Earth,
We were somewhere around Barstow on the edge of the desert when I had the unshakable feeling that our troubles with mole people had just begun.
Ha. I’ve been dying to use that line ever since I knew we’d be driving past infamous Barstow. You have to keep it light around here sometimes.
Anyways, we snuck out of the mall late last night (assuming that the mole men keep their guard down at night). Maria, Rachel, the soldiers, and I had been suggesting for awhile that we stay on the move in the general direction of Fort Kross. The old people were intent on continuing our Cinnabon camp out for as long as we could. It all came down to an anticlimactic vote that only left Randall grumbling. I don’t think Mr. Ozawa speaks English.
There’s been no sign of mole people or huge bats yet, but we’re not looking forward to whatever’s going to greet us in LA. It’s become apparent that they began the invasion by taking out all of our major cities first. I thought the west coast was relatively untouched by everything — last week changed all that.
Food Fight
Dear Planet Earth,
Major drama going on here right now. General Talpa’s in a meeting right now with some of the old ladies and “The Others,” and based on the amount of exclamations I can hear through the sound-proof walls that sound like “duck” and “glasshole,” I think they’re angry.
More and more people are suggesting we go on a raid for more supplies, but the general’s been firmly against it. I’m not one to call him a coward, but my fellow survivors aren’t as gentle. Talpa’s a big boy, I guess. He can take it, though I still feel a little responsible for putting up such a stink yesterday about the smaller rations.
This “conversation” has been raging for about an hour now. I’ll post about how this was all resolved (or postponed) soon.
The Campfire
Dear Planet Earth,
Against my better judgement, I took Dr. Eimer’s advice about integrating into my “tribe.” I invited myself to the cool kids’ table (composed of three gossipy old women and their 50 year younger counterparts) and tried think of any conversation topics that didn’t involve mole men, how mole men have killed everyone we love, and how we’ll all probably soon be killed by mole men.
It wasn’t easy. But the dialogue eventually turned to our favorite TV shows we’ll never be able to see again. Believe it or not, some of the old biddies actually used to watch Game of Thrones, and one of the girls and I repeated random jokes from Community to each other for about an hour. The tribe mentality really set in as I imagined our evolutionary ancestors gathered around a campfire, retelling stories to one another, creating a common culture.
I don’t know if I’m exactly off everyone’s shit list now, but it’s a start. Maybe tomorrow I’ll set up a karaoke bar.
Checking Out
Dear Planet Earth,
The political bickering is over. General Talpa and the doctors here came to an agreement.
The hospital staff will stay here with the patients who are still too ill to move. Hopefully, that doesn’t include me, and hopefully I won’t need to have an apple thrown at my leg to prove it. The troops and the rest of the able-bodied civilians, many of whom are now unofficially part of humanity’s most important resistance, will head out tomorrow and try to draw the attention away from the approaching force of mole people.
It’s a Hail Mary move if I ever saw one, but boy will I be glad to finally be out of here, fighting on the front lines instead of sitting in a smelly hospital bed with a target on my head. I just need Dr. Brooke to believe I can actually walk faster than a blindfolded Steven Hawking.
One Klick To Chaos
Dear Planet Earth,
The power’s finally back online. I know I promised to make a comprehensive timeline of all the crazy things that have been happening since October, but I swear I have a good excuse:
Roberts took this picture for me of the burning ambulance now decorating the front of our hospital-turned-battlefield. The mole people attacked early Monday morning, just as the rising sun was at its most inspiring and tranquil point.
There was only about a dozen of them, which is probably why we’re still alive. They started shooting their crazy guns at our unmanned tanks, and that screeching, piercing sound jolted me — and presumably every other human within five miles — out of peaceful slumber. The adrenaline got me out of bed and over the windowsill.
I could see our boys returning fire with their comparatively primitive rifles, and a few of them even made it to the tanks. The entire parking lot was a smoking, thundering haze within five minutes. The bastards finally retreated when they saw their battle was lost and we chased them back for about three klicks. (I learned today that a “klick” is a kilometer, and you have to wonder how our military came to adopt that without using the metric system.)
The hospital is missing some windows and — like I said — the power was out, but we somehow survived without any fatalities. Three soldiers have some serious injuries; luckily they were already living in a hospital.
The small scale of the attack has General Talpa convinced that this was only a group of scouts, and that we have to move everyone out right now before the full wave comes. The doctors are saying that’s impossible without sacrificing the lives of some patients, and now there’s some serious politics going on here.
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?”
Events Occur in Real Time
Dear Planet Earth,
I’m slowly but surely gathering more information about our latest guest on base here. Dr. Eimer let me know I was correct in assuming she’s one of the countless homeless mercenaries piling up outside the fences. He also told me that after hours of grueling “interrogation,” we know that her name is “Matha.” And that’s it.
I’m going to pretend to ignore the hours of Guantanamo Bay-like screaming I heard last night and say that this situation falls under the ticking clock scenario that can only be solved by God or Jack Bauer. I’m not going to contemplate the morality or politics of it. I’m not sure if there’s still even a government left to complain to if I wanted.
Outside, things are only getting more tense. More and more homeless people are coming everyday. They look hungry and ready for war, even if they all do look like they’re smiling.
Your Local News
Dear Planet Earth,
So, this was a pretty interesting news day, huh? On top of Steve Jobs dying, Chris Christie and Sarah Palin finally confirmed what they’d been saying all along. I’ve only been paying attention to politics for the past year or so, but I really have to say that it doesn’t look a whole lot different from the dramas playing out on TMZ (which explains a lot of the overlap).
The one piece of news that really stuck out to me and seemed to go under the rest of the press’s radar was presidential candidate Herman Cain’s comments about the protests on Wall Street. This guy wants to be president of the United States and he actually said these words: ”Don’t blame Wall Street. Don’t blame the big banks. If you don’t have a job and you’re not rich, blame yourself.” Well, that really got my (and I would hope, any rational and moral person’s) blood boiling.
This afternoon, I spent a good part of the day wandering the lower part of the Strip with some friends and, as usual, found a homeless man begging for money. He smelled awful and had a terrible gash on his knee completely uncovered. He was tan, tanner than any homeless person I’d seen before, and he was asking for just a dollar. A single dollar to turn his life around and get him the American dream he was promised.
Of course, I ignored him. My friends and I used a fake ID to buy beer and got drunk behind the Stratosphere. But I couldn’t get the image of the homeless guy out of my head. Two hours and three bottles later, all I could see was the guy’s rocking silhouette in front of a long line of neon lights and limousines. And am I any better than Herman Cain? Would Mr. Cain really tell this guy that he just needs to get his act together? Would Mr. Cain visit the tent cities across the country and preach to them to stop being so lazy?
I really don’t want this to turn into yet another political blog, but his comments really got to me tonight. On a lighter note, Russell Crowe’s going to be in the next Superman movie.
