Dystopia Chapter 1: We Coexist

We are uncaring tenants. Some would disagree. Of course, there are always the eternal optimists. Those who believe tomorrow all will change, we will revert to what appears to be their fiction. Mother Nature was unimpressed with humanity — or its desire to correct its own damage. She waits. All the while, we project an arrogant facade. Convinced we can correct any recent ecological, technological blunder. She is fully aware time is on Her side. She is unbeatable.

I exist, for now anyway, on-the-roof with rain pelting the tattered blue tarp that offers meager protection, sitting on a floor made of pallets while rainwater runs beneath, escaping through chiseled gaps at the bottom of a concrete block wall upon which I lean. On the pallet I sit, hoping the wind does not tear away my covering. Stacked in the far corner are branches, damp, representing our primary source of warmth. A tradable commodity. Around our on-the-roof community, several chimineas stand hissing as droplets of water freely enter the chimney, hitting its belly.

Everything is damp!

Rolled up for now, a tattered sleeping bag awaits in the dark, next to the chiminea to be shared with a warm body on cold winter nights. A valued possession, my guns, the clothes on my back, a book, and a few tattered photos.

Neighbors inhabit adjacent compartments. We exist not because of trust but a common interest in survival, a shared agenda. This de facto commune comprises nine spaces, small, separated by layers of gathered materials (clearly not soundproof), three chimineas, and an agreed-upon code of conduct. Below, in the building proper, other mini-communities exist, each needing to subsist for our mutual benefit. There is a fine-line drawn between wants and needs. Some have chosen the roof, perhaps claustrophobic, upon which to live, while others occupy what were once classrooms with teachers educating and enlightening future generations. No longer. Now we weigh our actions cautiously, with a watchful eye, we coexist. It does not always go well.

As a child, I heard stories of how a united people built a city with a tower that would reach to the heavens. This, to make a noble name for themselves, so that all know their greatness, they would forever rule. There are many versions where gods and Great Spirits saw this unity as a danger, that man would be capable of achieving anything and everything they so desired, even becoming like gods.

Lies, everyone!

The world fractured. Our community fractured, but for now within this compound we appear able to maintain a functional union with, for now, a common cause around which to immix for the moment.

Each Monday from somewhere, placed by someone, an empty gallon jar once holding 1000 Island Dressing would appear in the main building, placed like clockwork, filled with scraps of carefully folded paper. Neatly creased. The expectation was that each able-bodied member of our domain (everyone) would select a slip and accept without reservation the assigned duty identified for that week. Select by sunset. Completed as scheduled. That was the expectation.

I mumbled to no one in particular, “I’ll be back. Need to get my slip?” No response, as expected.

I crawled along a passageway toward the exit. Crawled because our on-the-roof home was at the highest point, five feet at the entrance, tapering to three. With pistol in hand, I carefully exit, looking left, then right. Safety first. Walked to the ladder leading down to the first floor, through what was now a storage space, to a multipurpose meeting room. Scattered chairs and tables littered the room with no recognizable pattern. Found the jar, selected a neatly folded slip, opened and read: station-1, tues and thurs, 2 a.m. to 6 a.m. My duty station, my commission, for the defense of our village. Everyone not in the building was an outsider, a threat.

We expect insiders to abide by the system, to do their part. Those who did not disappear. I did my part.

We sat on high ground in a deserted building, once a school. Posters with curled, torn edges and fading colors still displayed remnants of the past on the walls. A teacher’s desk, looted. Windows covered. Desk broken, destroyed, gone to rack and ruin.

To the west, we were back-to-back with another community and, for some unspoken reason, understood cooperation was better than conflict. Although always suspicious, we kept to ourselves while pretending to protect each other from a potential adversary. Trust was a fragile commodity. Outsiders.

To the south, beyond the wall, another group monitored their territory, hiding within a decaying apartment complex, windows boarded up, guards stationed for show on-the-roof, but lacking the capacity to confront anyone. They seemed to be self-destructive, and although we occasionally clashed, uninterested in a prolonged conflict. Surrounded on all four sides by adversaries, sought neutrality. More outsiders.

To the east, over the ridge separating us from an unpredictable enemy, lay acres of cactus, creating an impenetrable barrier. Add to that the venomous snakes, and other nasty reptiles, and critters of all kind making the desert their home. The eastern flank was secure.

To the north, identified as the red zone, a straightforward approach to our domain. This is where we find Station-1. Easy access to our crops, livestock, our water source, and our attackable vulnerability. This is not where one wants to spend time. This is my assignment, occasionally referred to as the dead zone. Many never returned to tell of their demise. This station represented the outer edge of our territory. As the sun sets, marauders challenge our vulnerabilities, testing our capacity to defend our realm.

Subdued, I walked by the mess hall to see what was available for breakfast, to see if our options were “upgraded.” Nope. Oatmeal and a hunk of bread. Some days, a slap of butter or a splat of jelly. Not today.

The only assignment more dangerous than Station-1 was the Scout Teams, traveling off-campus seeking tradable supplies. The problem was that the entire world shared the same nothingness. We were fortunate. We had land on which to grow and harvest a small crop, although never enough. Nightly raiders beyond our borders, foragers, a constant threat, thieves. Vigilance was everyone’s mantra. Dangers ever present. It had to be. The average lifespan… well, was not as long as in days gone by.

Heading back to home-base, observed never-changing routines that made every day look like the day before. So why would anyone proclaim we had it “good”? It was what it was; sufficient. The quality of life in reality is relative.

Needed to stop by the gunsmith to requisition ammo for my tour of duty. Max, working with limited materials, is at the back worktable, nodding acknowledgment while completing the current reload. He stands up with care. It seems being bent over is taking a toll on his back, queries, “Got your assignment slip?”

I handed him the slip. He mumbled, “Good luck.”

“Apparently not your day, although I hear for a price some would buy the assignment.”

“Got nothing to swap out,” I responded.

“How about a box of 30-06 150 grain Copper Point?”

“How about you take what I’ve got and just don’t miss!” Apparently, Max is not in a great mood.

Thinking to myself, be nice, or you will end up with a slingshot and a handful of rocks, currently stacked nearby. I kid you not. Some residents, quite capable of nailing small game foolish enough to skitter by in the early morning before everyone, man and beast, sought shelter from the scorching sun.

Back to the hut, on-the-roof, knock three times, and crawl back in. Hoping no one inside has a quick trigger finger.

The day drags on, cloudy, with more showers, while trying to sneak in a quick nap.

Awakened by chance, realized it’s time to move. A chill in the air. Listen for a moment to the breathing of restless residents. The full moon brightens the path to Station-1, rocky and lined with cactus.

Someone had assigned six to Station-1, three teams, three observers and three shooters. It was late and chilly as I made my way to the earthwork, a fancy name for a hole in the ground protected by a few rocks and chunks of concrete.

We have spaced ourselves around our exposed “foxhole,” guaranteeing a 270-degree view of the region. Trusting, hoping, acres of cacti and critters protected our backs. All appears quiet, which is what we all hope for. I am not acquainted with those assigned, other than in passing, and as brave as we appear, the question never asked is, would you pull the trigger? Could I pull the trigger? I asked no one, just assigned, and here we are, on guard. Apparently, the people in this community could kill someone who just showed up looking for food for themselves and probably their families. I didn’t know that, though. Desperation is a powerful motivator. We wait. Checking to be sure everyone was awake, alert, and focused on the assignment.

My observer notes movement. I hope to see some nocturnal creatures. The tension mounts. We wait for confirmation. Meanwhile, using the scope on my weapon, I seek to locate this “movement.” The air feels thick, my breathing feels constricted, as my heart pounds.

There they are… three individuals progressing along an adjacent stream, run-off because of a recent rain shower. My stomach tightened. I readied my rifle. Why would anyone think they could approach unnoticed? What were they thinking? Did they think the cover of night, or the intermittent showers, would save them? Which one dies? Pick one.

Rain started. So quiet, a gentle thrumming.

The other team members are scanning the approaches to our location, preventing a sneak attack on our position.

How about a warning shot?

“Go away, leave!” I shouted in my head.

The observer reported, “They are on the move.”

“Toward what?”

“Toward the garden.”

“They have stopped, and a group member may take aim at one of our sentries on the west side. I think you need to take the shot!”

I mutter, “Perhaps just watching through their scopes.”

“Take the damn shot!”

I imagine a family man seeking food. A wife, maybe children, family and/or friends. Today they drew the short straw. Three nameless men sent to find victuals. Young or old, I do not know; men or women, difficult to tell. I know nothing, three bodies.

Safety off. Finger on trigger. Inhale. Hold. Squeeze gently. Fire…

As if on cue, the rain flipped from a drizzle to a downpour, like a rogue cloud vented.

Twenty minutes passed while we waited in silence. Finally, the rain slowed, then returned to a drizzle. “What can you see? Bodies?”

“Nothing at all,” the observer said.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing at all.”

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