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We are apparently an uncaring tenant. Some likely would disagree. Of course, there are always those eternal optimists. Those believing tomorrow all will change, we will revert to what appears to be our fiction. Mother Nature clearly never impressed with humanity or our capacity to design the next brilliant innovation. 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. 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 for now, a sleeping bag awaits in the dark, next to the chiminea to be shared with a warm body on cold winter nights. A valued possession, that, my gun, one rifle, the clothes on my back, and a few tattered photos.
Neighbors inhabit adjacent compartments. We exist, not because of trust, rather 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 this building, other mini communities live, each needing to subsist for our mutual benefit. 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, 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 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 scrapes of carefully folded paper. Neatly creased. The expectation was 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 slopping down to three feet. 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 multi-purpose meeting room. The few remaining chairs and tables scattered 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, do your part. Those who did not disappeared. I did my part.
We sat on the high ground in a deserted building once a school. Remnants from the past still displayed on the walls, posters with edges curled, torn, and colors fading. 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 lack the capacity to confront anyone. They seemed to be self-destructive and although we occasionally clashed, their interest in a prolong conflict did not exist. Surrounded on all four sides by adversaries, sought neutrality. More outsiders.
To the east, over the ridge separating us from an unpredictable enemy, existed 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 east 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, our attackable vulnerability. Exposure. Susceptibility. 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 splat of jelly. Not today.
The only assignment more dangerous than station-1 were the Scout Teams, traveling off campus seeking trade-able supplies. Problem was, the entire world shared the same nothingness. We were fortunate. We had land upon 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 days gone by.
Heading back to home-base, observed never changing routines making every day looked like the day before. So why would anyone proclaim we had it “good”? It was what it was, sufficient. 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, nods 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 hand him the slip, he mumbles, “Good luck.”
“Apparently not your day, although I hear for a price some would buy the assignment.”
“Got nothing to swap out,” I respond.
“How about a box of 30-06 150 grain Copper Point?”
“How about you take what I 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 residences 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, cloudy, with more showers, meanwhile trying to sneak in a quick nap.
Someone had assigned six to station-1, three teams, three observers and three shooters. It was late, 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 “fox hole” 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. The unknown members of our community assuming those delegated as capable, willing to take the life of some uninvited guest seeking, subsentence, for them and likely their family. Desperation is a powerful motivator. We wait. Checking to be sure everyone was awake, alert, focused on the assignment.
My observer notes movement. I hope for some nocturnal critter. The tension mounts. We wait for a 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 a stream, run-off because of a recent rain shower. My stomach tightened. I ready 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.
A gentle rain started. So quiet, only 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 mumble, “maybe just observing through their scope.”
“Take the damn shot!”
I imagine a family man seeking food. A wife, maybe children, family and/or friends. Today they pulled 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 flips from a drizzle to a downpour, like a rogue cloud vented.
Twenty minutes passed, and finally the rain slowed and returned to a drizzle. “What can you see? Bodies?”
“Nothing at all,” the observer…… observed.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing at all.”
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