Davis Aurini - As I Walk These Broken Roads

Eventually they made it down to the lower levels. The tunnels were still intact. A soft, keening wail filled the air. Their electric light gazed endlessly into the darkness. They were several stories below the surface now, in the city’s calcified bowels.

They hopped down to the tracks and started walking.

One by one they reached the different stations. Many were blocked, but some were still passable. One exited at a street-level intersection, blocked by rubble on all four sides. In it they found an overturned delivery truck carrying water filters, a few of which they stored in Wentworth’s duffle. Another opened up into the City Hall plaza. They walked through the paved area, examining the statues and monuments. The streets surrounding it were a mess of broken down vehicles and collapsed buildings. They walked towards City Hall itself. It was built of glass and steel, and somehow the glass had survived the years, dirty though it was. Looking in they saw the silhouettes of people outlined in black against the walls. A shudder went down Wentworth’s spine as he realized they were the shadows of those who’d been standing there when the bomb hit, burnt into the walls with radiation. They left the building and kept exploring.

The last exit they checked took both of their shoulders to lever open. They stepped through the doors, and climbed up the rubble covering the steps. When they reached the street level there was nowhere to go, only a small area where walking was possible. Something caught Wentworth’s eye. High up, on an uncollapsed building, were the blue and yellow colours of a faded billboard. It depicted three bright faces above a corporate logo; a dark haired woman, reposing in a bath; an old man smiling happily; a child laughing. Had anyone believed it back then, he wondered?

By this time evening had arrived a slight drizzle had started up. They decided to retreat back to the shelter of the subway tunnels. They got a fire going and Wentworth shot a rat. They debated whether or not to eat it at first because it was albino and hairless, but the Datapad picked up no traces of radiation so they agreed to cut out the fatty bits where poisons would have accumulated and cook up the rest. Wentworth watched the spit, while flipping through one of his news magazines. Raxx, meanwhile, practised dry-firing his new shotgun. He already had the drills memorized; he was now balancing a coin on the front sight while trying to pull the trigger gently enough not to upset it.

The afternoon had been exhausting. Aside from the water filters, they’d come across nothing of value. Even the magazines Wentworth had picked up were short sighted and deluded; there was little insight to be garnered. Just a deep sense of irony.

It really was a graveyard. What was left was no more useful than the dates written on tombstones; without a context, it was meaningless.

The rat seemed to be finished so Wentworth gave a shout to Raxx. The meat was tough but nourishing. He’d flavoured it with some spices they’d brought with them, and it was better than any rations. A pigeon might have been tastier, but their weapons were too high calibre for the tiny birds, and besides, it was raining outside. They ate in silence, sitting in a tiny alcove along the subway track, while the flames flickered in time to the wind currents flowing down the tunnel. Their dark and greasy surroundings only emphasized their gloomy feelings.

Raxx spoke after chewing the meat off his last bone and throwing it in the fire. “It makes you wonder, what’s the point? I mean, here we are in the city and it’s never gonna be what it was. Everything’s broken and the people who could’ve fixed it are long dead. So why do we bother?”

Wentworth pulled a flask out of his pocket and handed it over to him. “You’re thinking about Blackstock, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, that and my uncle,” he said, taking a swig.

Wentworth accepted the flask back and took a swig of his own. “These conversations always go better with a bit of alcohol lubricating things,” he said, lighting a cigarette. The distant rain shower was just barely audible while closer at hand there was the echo of water dripping somewhere in the tunnel. “Part of the reason you’re asking me is because you know, with my history, that I can’t say ‘your family,’ or some other bullshit—‘your community,’ ‘your girlfriend,’ ‘your little malformed child,’ or whatever.”

“I figure you’ll give me an honest answer. Saying any of that stuff, well, that’s just avoiding the question. Family and community can only matter if something else matters.”

Wentworth grunted out a laugh. “Yeah, those answers are philosophical suicide. Well… I don’t know Raxx. I wonder about that sometimes, why I’m still wandering around like some derelict. I don’t really know. But… maybe this is bullshit… or maybe not, but I think it’s more interesting being alive than dead — and dead’ll come soon enough, anyway, I figure. Besides, I figure I ought to do something about the shitheads of this world. If I can. Sometimes I can. Maybe…”

He lapsed into silence and took another swig from the flask.

“At least the whiskey here is good.”

Raxx barked a dry laugh. Then another. Wentworth grunted in response. This elicited another laugh out of Raxx, and slowly it grew until they were both having a good chuckle. Neither of them said anything more, retreating into their own thoughts. They continued to pass the flask back and forth while the fire burned low.

Finally, as Raxx was thinking about getting out his sleeping mat, Wentworth spoke. “So I finished that book you gave me.”

“ Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance ?”

“Yeah.”

“What did you think?”

“Well, at first I didn’t think too much, thought it was just a bunch of mystical nonsense. But then he starts talking about real world problems. So I read it again. Now I’m reading it a third time — I’m halfway through it but I think I know what he’s getting at. You know how he talks about the Classical and Romantic approaches to knowledge? At first I thought he meant the scientific and mystical approaches, before I figured out the context.

“He says the Classical approach is exemplified by things like manuals, blueprints, and design sketches — all the boring analytical stuff that comes along with tech. You can see why I’d mistake Classical for science — but science isn’t that. Science is a hell of a lot more than that. That’s where the Romantic comes in. For Romantic he talks about his friend who appreciates the motorcycle in its final stage, as a beautiful machine, a ticket to freedom, but doesn’t want to understand the underlying principles. His friend wants a magic carpet, not a motorcycle. That’s why I mistook Romantic for Mystic — but it’s not that. See, why does a Mechanic build a motorcycle in the first place? It’s because he’s building a Romantic ideal. The author’s friend can only see the Romantic, and completely misses the Classical underpinnings.

“But the Romantic isn’t just prettiness, it isn’t just merely aesthetic — and aesthetics don’t equate to useless. That’s why he mentions the incompetent mechanics. The guys who just read the manuals, put in their time, and don’t care about the end result — to them it’s just a paycheque.”

“The technicians.”

“Yeah, the technicians. Just like his friend is only living in the Romantic world, the technicians are only living in the Classical world. Not only are their lives empty, they’re also incompetent. Because they’re not looking at the bike as a whole, because they’re not caring about it, they end up screwing it up worse than it was in the first place.

“The whole idea behind machines is that we can understand them, we can figure out what makes them work, and design them to do what we want them to do. We use our understanding to make ourselves greater.”