David Palmer: Emergence

Where Daddy went. Hope was quick, clean.

Plague another question entirely. Daddy’s opinion holds infection self-curing. No known strain in arsenals of either side capable of more than month’s survival outside proper culture media; i.e., living human tissue (shudder to contemplate where, how media obtained for experiments leading to conclusion). Odds very poor such available longer than two, three days after initial attack; therefore should be only another week before is safe to venture outside, see what remains of world.

However, wording “should be” erodes confidence in prediction; implies incomplete data, guesswork — gamble. Considering stake involved is own highly regarded life, placing absolute reliance on stated maximum contagion parameters not entirely shrewd policy.

So shan’t. Now that can get out whenever wish, no longer have such pressing need to; claustrophobic tendencies gone. Shelter quite cozy (considering): Dry, warm, plumbing, furniture; great food (brilliantly prepared), safe water; good company, stimulating conversation (“Hello, baby! What’cha doin’? You’re so bad! Icky pooh! ” ); plus endless supply of knowledge. Delay amidst such luxury seems small price for improved odds. So will invest extra two months as insurance.

Figure arbitrary; based on theory that treble safety factor was good enough for NASA, should be good enough for me. (Of course theory includes words “should be” again, but must draw line somewhere.)

And can get out when ready. Easy: Just throw proper switches. All spelled out in detailed manual on shelter’s systems, operation. Nothing to it. Just pick up book, read. After finding. After learning exists in first place. (Daddy could have reduced first three weeks’ trauma had bothered to mention, point out where kept — on other hand, had learned how to get out prior to absorbing details on attack, doubtless be dead now.)

Makes fascinating reading. Shelter eloquent testimonial to wisdom of designer. Foresight, engineering brilliance embodied in every detail. Plus appalling amount of money, shameless level of political clout. Further I got into manual, more impressed became. Is NORAD headquarters miniaturized, improved: hermetically sealed; air, water, wastes recycled; elaborate communications equipment; sophisticated sensory complex for radiation, electronics, detection, seismology, medicine. Power furnished by nuclear device about size of Volkswagen — classified, of course (talk about clout?). Don’t know if works; supposed to come on automatically when municipal current fails. But according to instruments, am still running on outside power.

Let’s see — nope; seems to be about everything for now. Will update journal as breathtaking developments transpire.

Hi. One-month mark today. Breathless developments to date:

1. Found stock of powdered milk: awful. Okay in soup, chocolate, cooking, etc., but alone tastes boiled.

2. Discovered unplugged phone in hitherto-unnoticed cabinet. Also found jack. Plugged in, found system still working. Amused self by ringing phones about country — random area codes, numbers. But no answers, of course; and presently noticed tears streaming down face. Decided not emotionally healthy practice. Discontinued.

3. Employed carpentry tools, pieces of existing makeshift accommodation to fabricate proper stand for brother. Promptly demonstrated gratitude by chewing through perch (which had not bothered for whole month!). Replaced with thick, hardwood sledge handle; sneered, dared him try again. Thereby gained temporary victory: Fiend immediately resumed game but achieving little progress. Wish had stands from upstairs in house. Are three, all eleven years old — still undamaged (of course, perches consist of hard-cured, smooth-cast concrete — detail possibly relevant to longevity).

Guess that’s it for now. Watch this space for further stirring details.

Two months — hard to believe not millennia. Einstein correct: Time is relative. Hope doesn’t get more so; probably stop altogether. Have wondered occasionally if already hasn’t.

Not to imply boredom. Gracious, how could be bored amidst unremitting pressure from giddy round of social activities? For instance, just threw gala party to celebrate passing of second month. Was smash, high point of entombment, sensation of sepulchral social schedule. Went all out — even invited Terry (desperately relieved to find invitee able to squeeze event into already busy whirl of commitments).

First-class event: Made cake, fried chicken thighs; broiled small steak; even found ice cream. All turned out well. Preferred steak, cake myself; honored guest chose ice cream (to eyebrows), chicken bones (splits shafts, devours marrow — possibly favoritest treat of all). No noisemakers in inventory (gross oversight), but assemblage combined efforts to compensate. At peak of revelry birdbrain completed chewing through perch. Was standing on end at time, of course; accepted downfall with pride, air of righteous triumph. Then waddled purposefully in direction of nearest chair leg. Had to move fast to dissuade.

Replaced perch.

Also have read one-hundred and four microfilmed books, regular volumes. Am possibly world’s foremost living authority on everything.

As if matters.

Later.

Ever wanted something so bad could almost taste, needed so long seemed life’s main ambition? Finally got — wished hadn’t?

You guessed: three months up — finally!

Went upstairs, outside. Stayed maybe two hours. Wandered old haunts: familiar neighborhood, Main Street shopping area, Quarry Lake Park, school, Y, etc.

Should have quit sooner; would, had understood nature of penalty accruing. By time got back was already too late; trembling all over, tears running down face. Scabs all scraped from wounds; worms awake, gnawing soul. In parlance of contemporaries-past, was bad trip.

However, conditions outside are fact of life, something must face. Must overcome reaction unless intend to spend balance of years simulating well-read mole. Nature works slowly, methods unaesthetic; tidying up takes years. Inescapable; must accept as is; develop blind spot, immunity. Meanwhile will just have to cope best I can with resulting trauma each time crops up until quits cropping.

Well, coping ought be no problem. Catharsis worked before, should again. But wish were some other way. No fun; hurts almost as much second time around. But works — and already learned cannot function with psyche tied in knots. So time to quit stalling. “Sooner started, sooner done; sooner outside, having fun.” — Anon. (Understandably.)

Only just can’t right now. Not in mood; still hurting too bad from initial trauma. Guess I’ll go read some more. Or pound something together with hammer.

Or apart.

Later.

Okay. Feel no better yet, but feel less bad. Is time got on with therapy.

Suspect current problems complicated by déjà vu . Still retain vivid mental picture of body of Momma Foster minutes after pronounced dead. Bore physical resemblance to warm, wise, vital woman whose limitless interests, avid curiosity, ready wonderment, hearty enjoyment of existence had so enriched early years.

But body not person — person gone. Resemblance only underscored absence.

So too with village: Look quick, see no difference. Bears resemblance to contentedly industrious, unassuming small farm town of happy childhood. Same tall, spreading trees shade same narrow streets; well-kept, comfortably ageless old homes. Old-fashioned streetlights line Main Street’s storefront downtown business district, unchanged for 50 years, fronting on classic village square. Hundred-year-old township building centered in square amidst collection of heroic statues, World War One mementos, playground equipment; brightly painted, elevated gazebo for public speakers. Look other direction down street, see own ivy-covered, red-brick school at far end, just across from Y. Next door, Teacher’s house looks bright, friendly, inviting as ever in summer-afternoon sunshine.