David Palmer - Emergence

Together we watched early-afternoon cumulonimbus form up, mount into towering thunderheads, roil and churn, finally develop lightning flickers in gloom at bases, arch dark shafts of rain downward to western horizon; watched until fading light brought realization how long had sat there. Brighter stars already visible in east.

Reviewed condition with mounting surprise: eyes dry, pain gone from throat, heart; blackness hovering over soul mere memory. Apparently had transcendentalized without conscious intent, resolved residual grief. All that remained was sweet sadness when contemplated Daddy, Momma, Teacher; were gone along with everything, everybody else, leaving only memories. Suddenly realized was grateful being permitted to keep those.

Cautiously moved exploratory muscle, first in hours. Terry twitched, fretted; then woke, set up justifiable protest over starved condition. Arose, shifted twin to shoulder; went inside, downstairs.

Picked up Tarzan File, Teacher’s letter, went back to Daddy’s house. Fed birdbrain, self; settled down, skimmed File’s contents.

Presently concluded Teacher correct (profound shock, that): Peter Bell doubtless best prospective soulmate of lot. Very smart, very interested, very conscious; educational credits to date sound like spoof (nobody that young could have learned that much, except, uh… perhaps me — okay); very strong, quick; very advanced in study of Art (Eighth Degree!); plus (in words of Teacher): “Delightfully unconcerned about his own accomplishments; interested primarily in what he will do next.” And, “… possessed of a wry sense of humor.” Sounds like my kind of guy. Hope turns out can stand him.

Sat for long moments working up nerve. Then picked up phone, deliberately dialed area code, number. Got stranded after a few moments’ clicking, hissing when relay somewhere Out There stuck. Tried again; hit busy circuit (distinct from busy number; difference audible — also caused by sticky relay). Tried again, muttering in beard. Stranded again. Tried again. Failed again.

“That’s bad!” offered Terry enthusiastically, bobbing head cheerfully.

Took deep breath, said very bad word, tried again.

Got ring tone! Once, twice, three times; then: “Click. Hello, is that you, Candy? Sure took you long enough. This is Peter Bell. I can’t come to the phone right now; I’m outside taking care of the stock. But I’ve set up this telephone-answering machine to guard my back. It’s got an alarm on it that’ll let me know you’ve called so I can check the tape.

“When you hear the tone at the end of my message, give me your phone number if you’re not at home — don’t forget the area code if it’s different from your home — and I’ll call you back the moment I get back and find your message. Boy, am I glad you’re all right.”

“Beep!”

Caught agape by recording. Barely managed regroupment in time to stutter out would be home; add if not, would be at farm, give number before machine hung up, dial tone resumed.

Repeated bad word. Added frills tailored specifically for answering machine.

Did dishes, put away. Refilled twin’s food dish, changed water; moved stand into study, placed next to desk, within convenient head-scratching range.

Settled into Daddy’s big chair, opened journal, brought record up-to-date. Have done so. Now up-to-date. Current. Completely. Nothing further to enter. So haven’t entered anything else. For quite a while.

Midnight. Might as well read a book.

Stupid phone.

Awoke to would-be rooster’s salute to dawn’s early light. Found self standing unsteadily in middle of study, blinking sleep from eyes, listening to echoes die away. Glared at twin; received smug snicker in return.

Took several moments to establish location, circumstances leading to night spent in chair with clothes on. When succeeded, opened mouth, then didn’t bother — realized bad word wouldn’t help; no longer offered relief adequate to situation.

Casual approach had worn out about one A. M. — by which time had read possibly ten pages (of which couldn’t remember single word). Featherhead snored on stand; nothing within reach to disassemble, had lost interest.

Yawning prodigiously myself by time abandoned pretense, grabbed phone, dialed number.

Got through first try. But was busy!

Repeated attempt at five-minute intervals for two hours or until fell asleep — whichever came first.

Have just tried line again. Still busy. Better go make breakfast.

Contact problem no longer funny. In two months since last entry have averaged five tries daily. Result: Either (usually) busy signal or transistorized moron spouts same message. One possible explanation (among many): Recorded message mentions no dates; could have been recorded day after Armageddon, yesterday — anytime.

Not that am languishing, sitting wringing hands by phone, however; have been busy. Completed move to farm; padded supply reserves; shored weaknesses; collected additional livestock, poultry. Have electrified fences, augmented where appeared marginally dogproof; trucked in additional grain (learned to drive semi, re-re-re-replete with 16-speed transmission — truly sorry about grain company’s gatepost, but was in way; should have been moved long ago); located, trucked in two automatic diesel generators, connected through clever relay system so first comes on line (self-starting) if power fails, second kicks in if first quits. So far has worked every time tested, just as book said.

Have accumulated adequate fuel for operation: Brought in four tankers brim full of diesel (6,000 gallons each); rigged up interconnecting hose system guaranteeing gravity feed to generators — whichever needs, gets. At eight gallons hourly (maximum load), should provide over four months’ operation if needed. (However, farm rapidly taking on aspect of truck lot. Must think about disposing of empties soon; otherwise won’t be able to walk through yard.)

Overkill preparations not result of paranoia. Attempting to make place secure in absence; improve odds of finding habitable, viable farm on return, even if sortie takes longer than expected. Which could; is over 900 miles (straight-line) to File’s address on Peter Bell. And he’s only first on AA list; others scattered all over.

Have attempted to cover all bets, both home and for self on trip. Chose vehicle with care: four-wheel-drive Chevy van. Huge snow tires bulge from fenders on all four corners, provide six inches extra ground clearance, awesome traction. Front bumper mounts electric winch probably capable of hoisting vehicle bodily up sheer cliff. Interior has bed, potty, sink, stove, sundry cabinets — and exterior boasts dreadful baroque murals on sides.

Though might appear was built specifically to fill own needs (except for murals — and need for buildups on pedals), was beloved toy of town banker. When not pinching pennies, frittered time away boonies-crawling in endless quest for inaccessible, impassable terrain. Bragged hadn’t found any. Hope so; bodes well for own venture.

Personal necessities, effects aboard. Include: ample food, water for self, Terry; bedding, clothing, toiletries; diverse tools, including ax, bolt cutters, etc.; spares for van; siphon, pump, hose for securing gas; small, very nasty armory, including police chief’s sawed-off riot gun, two magnum revolvers, M-16 with numerous clips and scope… Not expecting trouble, but incline toward theory that probably won’t rain if carry umbrella.

Leaving this journal here in shelter for benefit of archeologists; keep separate book on trip. Can consolidate on return; but if plans go awry, this account still available for Posterity.

Well, time to go: Unknown beckons.