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.