Tagged: politics


Dear Planet Earth,

The troops are getting restless. General Talpa told me so this morning.

“The troops are getting restless.”

The new propaganda posters around the city are starting to make everyone a little tense. People are accusing one another of stealing their stuff, of being sleeper agents for the mole men. To top it all off, the general is getting hounded everyday to cede the decision making process over to an elected body.

He leaned closer to me over the picnic table and laughed, telling me he almost missed the good ol’ days — meaning two weeks ago — when our enemies were really enemies, when the only thing we had to worry about was surviving to the next day.

I understand the feeling. Despite the constant bombardments of helplessness and sorrow, there was a sense of excitement battling the mole people on a daily basis, a feeling of unrivaled accomplishment in taking down a foe that, by all accounts, should have had no trouble squashing me like a bug.

“I’d take that battlefield, Scott. I’d take that battlefield any day over this, this. . . ,” he crinkled his forehead to think of the word, “politics.”

The sun had fully risen at this point, illuminating the mess hall and marking a fulfilling conclusion to our conversation. I offered him some of my hash browns as we watched the peaceful chaos engulf New Seattle on all sides.


Humanity or Tyranny

Dear Planet Earth,

We’re expanding our borders. We’re fortifying and refortifying, putting up defenses in the remains of overturned school buses, dusty coffee houses, and scorched dog parks. We’re spray painting messages on cars at the edge of the city that read “BRING IT ON” and “HUMANITY OR TYRANNY.” We’re calling this ever-growing enclave of liberty New Seattle.

There’s talk of making a flag or a new form of currency. Some people want to have an election to counter the military’s possibly overbearing influence.

Again, I feel like I’m a part of something bigger than myself. I’m more than just a 21st century teenager with more luck than skill. I’m more than just a dystopic survivor who can count his victories on one hand. I — like the hundreds of other dedicated individuals working beside me — am a human, one of the most durable and resilient creatures to ever walk this planet.

Mole people, bring it on.

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.”


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.