David Palmer: Emergence

But open door, step out onto porch — illusion fades. Popular fallacy attends mystique of small towns: Everyone knows are “quiet.” Not so; plenty of noise, but right kind — comfortable, unnoticed.

Until gone.

Silence is shock. Is wrong, but takes whole minutes to analyze why wrong; identify anomalous sensation, missing input.

Strain ears for hint of familiar sound: Should be faint miasma of voices, traffic sounds drifting up from direction of Main Street; chatter, squeals, laughter from schoolyard. Too, is truly small town; farmlands close at hand: Should hear tractors chugging in fields, stock calling from pastures. Should catch frequent hollow mutter as distant semi snores down highway past town; occasional, barely perceptible rumble from jet, visible only as fleecy tracing against indigo sky. Should be all manner of familiar sounds.

But as well could be heart of North Woods; sounds reaching ear limited to insect noises, bird calls, wind sighing through leaves.

Visual illusion fades quickly, too. Knee-deep grass flourishes where had been immaculately groomed yards; straggly new growth bewhiskers hedges; softening previously mathematically exact outlines. Houses up, down street show first signs of neglect: isolated broken windows, doors standing open, missing shingles. Partially uprooted tree leans on Potters’ house, cracking mortar; crushing eaves, sagging roof. Street itself blocked by car abandoned at crazy angle; tire flat, rear window broken, driver’s door hanging open. Closer inspection shows Swensens’ pretty yellow-brick Cape Cod nothing but fire-gutted shell; roof mostly gone, few panes of glass remain, dirty smudge marks above half-consumed doors, windows; nearby trees singed.

And the smell…! Had not spent last three months sealed in own atmosphere, doubt could have remained in vicinity. Still strong enough outside to dislodge breakfast within moments of first encounter. And did. Happily, human constitution can learn to tolerate almost anything if must. By time returned to shelter, stench faded from forefront of consciousness — had other problems more pressing:

Learned what knee-deep lawns conceal. Three months’ exposure to Wisconsin summer does little to enhance cosmetic aspects of Nature’s embalming methods: Sun, rain, insects, birds, probably dogs too, have disposed of bulk of soft tissues. What remains is skeletons (mostly scattered, incomplete, partially covered by semicured meat, some clothing). Doubtless would have mummified completely by now in dry climate, but Wisconsin summers aren’t. At best, results unappealing; at worst (first stumbled over in own front yard), dreadful shock.

Yes, I know; should have anticipated. Possibly did, in distant, nonpersonally-involved sort of way — but didn’t expect to find three bodies within ten feet of own front door! Didn’t expect to confront dead neighbors within three minutes after left burrow. Didn’t expect so many! Thought most would be respectably tucked away indoors, perhaps in bed. That’s where I’d be. I think.

Well, lived through initial shock, continued foray. Was not systematic exploration; just wandered streets, let feet carry us at random. Didn’t seem to matter; same conditions everywhere. Peeked into houses, stores, cars; knocked on doors, hollered a lot.

Wasn’t until noticed twin digging in claws, flapping wings, protesting audibly, that realized was running blindly, screaming for somebody — anybody!

Stopped then, streaming tears, trembling, panting (must have run some distance); made desperate attempt to regain semblance of control. Dropped where stood, landed in Lotus. Channeled thoughts into relaxation of body, achievement of physical serenity; hoped psyche would heed good example.

Did — sort of. Worked well enough, at least, to permit deliberate progress back to shelter, deliberate closing door, deliberate descent of stairs, deliberate placing of Terry on stand — all before threw screaming fit.

Discharged lots of tension in process, amused Terry hugely. By end of performance fink sibling was emulating noises. Ended hysteria in laughter. Backward, true, but effective.

Recovered enough to make previous journal entry. Granted, present (therapeutic) entries beyond capacity at that point; but after spent balance of day licking wounds, night’s rest, was fit enough to make present update, discharge residual pain onto paper.

Amazing stuff, therapy: Still not exactly looking forward to going outside again; but seem to have absorbed trauma of dead-body/deserted-city shock, adjusted to prospect of facing again. Forewarned, should be able to go about affairs, function effectively in spite of surroundings.

Which brings up entirely relevant question: Exactly what are my affairs, functions…? Now that am out, what to do? Where to go? What to do when get there? Why bother go at all?

Okay, fair questions. Obviously prime objective is find Somebody Else. Preferably somebody knowing awful lot about Civilizations, Founding Maintenance Of — to say nothing of where to find next meal when supplies run out.

Certainly other survivors. Somewhere. So must put together reasonable plan of action based on logical extension of available data. Sounds good — uh, except, what is available data?

Available data: Everybody exposed to flash, to air at time of flash, to anybody else exposed to flash or air exposed to flash or to anybody exposed to anybody, etc., either at time of flash or during subsequent month, anywhere on planet, is dead. Period.

Shucks. Had me worried; thought for moment I had problem. Ought be plenty survivors; modern civilization replete with airtight refuges: nuclear submarines, hyperbaric chambers, spacelabs, jet transports, “clean assembly” facilities, many others (not to forget early-model VW beetles, so long as windows closed). Ought be many survivors of flash, initial contagion phase.

But — loaded question — how many knew enough; stayed tight throughout required month? Or got lucky; couldn’t get out too soon despite best efforts? Or, with best of intentions, had supplies, air for duration? Or survived emotional ravages; resisted impulse to open window, take big, deliberate breath?

Could employ magnet to find needle in haystack; easy by comparison. Real problem is: Is needle in there at all?

Well, never mind; leave for subconscious to mull. Good track record heretofore; probably come up with solution, given time.

Other, more immediate problems confronting: For one, must think about homestead. Can’t spend balance of years living underground. Unhealthy; leads to pallor. Besides, doubt is good for psyche; too many ghosts.

Where — no problem for short term; can live just about anywhere warm, dry. Adequate food supplies available in shelter, stores, home pantries, etc.; same with clothing, sundry necessities. Can scavenge for years if so inclined.

However, assuming residential exclusivity continues (and must take pessimistic view when planning), must eventually produce own food, necessities; become self-sufficient. Question is: Should start now or wait; hope won’t prove necessary?

Not truly difficult decision: Longer delayed, more difficult transition becomes. Livestock factor alone demands prompt attention. Doubtless was big die-off over summer. Too stupid to break out of farms, pastures, search for water, feed, most perished — “domestic” synonym for “dependent.” And even of survivors, doubt one in thousand makes it through winter unaided. Means if plan to farm, must round up beginning inventory before weather changes. Also means must have food, water, physical accommodations ready for inductees beforehand.

Means must have farm.

However, logic dictates commandeering farm relatively nearby. Too much of value in shelter; must maintain reasonable access. Availability of tools, books, etc., beneficial in coming project: provisioning, repairing fences, overhauling well pumps, etc.