“She’s the last of the V8 Interceptors.” – Mad Max
So, the only perfect car after the apocalypse is a V8 Interceptor, right? But what does insurance cost after the end of the world as we know it?
This is part five of a multipart series. The rest of them are here: (Civilization, The Iron Triangle, and You, Civilization After an EMP: TEOTWAWKI (Which is not a Hawaiian word), TEOTWAKI Part III: Get on your bikes and ride!, Internet Cats, TEOTWAWKI Part IV, and The Golden Horde)
EMP +2, 2PM, 60 miles from home.
I could hear the big V8 engine coming about a mile away.
And that was good, because I had no idea who was driving it. As much as I’d have loved to hitchhike home, I had the gut feeling that anyone putting that much gas into the engine had a purpose in mind that didn’t involve taking me home.
I broke for the ditch on my right, and the dubious cover of the small tree beyond – the only cover for 40 yards.
I was still wearing the camouflaged poncho – it was nearly uncomfortably warm, even on a 50°F day. But it had the benefit of not being orange. I got behind the tree, got low, and stayed still.
Forty seconds later a 1960’s era Camaro topped the small rise and blew past me on the road, loudly.
As the high pitch dopplered into a low pitch as it passed me and moved away I guessed that the owner had taken considerable liberty with the state laws that governed noise reduction – the car was loud, uncomfortably loud. And it didn’t slow down – whether or not it had seen me hiding behind the shrub. Where ever they were going, whatever they were doing, it didn’t involve me.
That was good.
After a minute, I got up, and started walking again, east, following the Camaro.
Walking is boring. Boring, boring, boring. Blaise Pascal, the mathematician, was also quite a philosopher – and in what was probably a pretty dismal day he wrote the following: “People distract themselves so they don’t have time to think about how wretched they are.” It’s not exactly what he said – he was French, but it’s close enough.
But the boredom was alternating with apprehension. My family was miles away, and I had no idea what was happening with them. The good news: they had been at home. If it weren’t winter, they would have slept through their alarms, since their alarms were all electronic, and most of them were hooked directly to the Internet, and none of that was coming back soon. But since it was winter, someone, probably my wife, had woken up when it got cold in our bedroom. And knew something was wrong.
They were smart, though, and I imagined that they would have figured out pretty soon that the lights were gone for good. At least I hoped they would. We had actually spent time talking about it, more as a thought experiment, a “what would you do if” conversation on the deck on the mild spring and fall evenings. My apprehension was like my apprehension about being on the road – my sons and wife would be fine, except for . . . other people. Like the people in the Camaro. Random people who had needs, desires, or bad blood.
Borehension? Apprehendom? Not sure there was a word for it. But I kept going, one foot in front of the other down the road.
The third emotion I felt was hunger.
I’m not sure that I’d ever really been hungry, in my entire life. I was only on the second day of this trip, and I hadn’t eaten. The emergency food rations in my backpack – 6000 calories – were five years old. I’d never rotated them. And they’d been kept in the trunk of my car on 110°F days during five summers.
What causes food to go bad? Heat, light, and age. My trunk had given them two out of three. When I opened the package, what wasn’t hard as a rock was rotten.
I threw it away before I got hungry so I wouldn’t be tempted to eat it. It was heavy, and it was useless.
I couldn’t remember when the last time I had gone a day without food. It was probably a few years ago. But there hadn’t been many of them. Now I was on my second day without food, and I had probably been burning 10,000 calories a day between biking, walking, and shivering at night in the cold.
But this part of the Midwest was nice for walking. It was flat, and the roads ran straight – unless there was a river, lake, or hill, the roads went due north and due south, and there was one nearly every mile. And I needed to head due East, so I kept going East.
And my feet hurt. I worried about getting blisters. If I had to finish this on foot, which looked likely at this point, blisters were my biggest enemy. Outside of people I didn’t know. Like the guys in the Camaro.
As I crested the next small rise I saw another farmhouse about a half mile off. The Camaro was there.
I stopped and sat down, off the road, back into the ditch to watch. No reason to highlight my silhouette against the ridgeline.
Two gunshots. Separated by about fifteen seconds.
A minute later, two people got walked out of the house and got into the Camaro®, and started it up with a load roar. They backed up, and then the tires threw out gravel as the driver gunned the engine, fishtailing as they straightened out the car onto the main road.
Headed straight back toward me. And I had no illusions. They were armed. And their intentions weren’t good.
And I was a witness.
Meanwhile, in the big city to the north . . .
Tim looked out and saw that three houses in the next block were on fire. He had gone to help, but all he could do was stand outside with neighbors that he’d never talked to as everything they owned burned. He’d thought about inviting them to his house, but, again, he didn’t know them. Maybe their next door neighbors would invite them in. Or maybe there was an empty house they could stay in, until things returned back to normal.
He and his wife, Arlene, had some firewood, and had kept the house warm that first night, but now the firewood was low. They mainly used the fireplace on Saturday nights, only. And that was for atmosphere.
Tim had walked the half mile to the supermarket, and saw that it was closed. But it wasn’t closed. The windows had been broken out, and walking through the sliding doors that had been permanently pulled open, and nothing but darkened chaos inside. Tim didn’t see a single item on the shelves, as far as he could see. Nothing. The store was empty.
Tim walked back home. Not a car on the streets. At his front door, he called out, “Arlene-ee, I’m home.” No answer.
His next door neighbor, who he had stood with as his house burned, came down the hall.
“Can I help you?”
### (Until Next Week)
I typed in “Cover, Concealment, and Camouflage” into my browser. What popped up? The first link was Crosman®, the BB and pellet gun manufacturer. On their page, they have copied the USMC Marine Rifle Squad Field Manual. I guess I love these guys now. Oh, who am I kidding. I already have a pellet pistol and rifle from them. Here’s their link (LINK).
Cover is what protects you from being shot, like a log, a tank, or hiding behind your mom – to be clear, not my mom, but your mom. Concealment is what protects you from being seen, like a log, a tree, a hill, or hiding behind your mom. And Camouflage is the use of manmade and natural material to avoid being seen, like incorporating brush to break up your outline, or using mud or charcoal to make sure your face doesn’t shine, or using camouflage clothing to blend in. Your mom is awful camouflage, since she can be seen from space, and everyone stares at her because she’s so big.
But when moving through territory where you’re a stranger, or, you just don’t want to be seen? Concealment and camouflage are critical. Except they won’t work for your mom – she couldn’t hide behind a hot air balloon. But your momma didn’t read Pascal.
Guess this was before Facebook®?
Pascal really did say something like the quote in the story. He really was quite a philosopher – his book, Pensees, published in 1670 (read it here for free), showed that even back then mankind had a tendency to want to distract themselves so that they didn’t have to think about their actions. “People distract themselves so they don’t have time to think about how wretched they are.” Yup. We do.
Back then? Books were the distractions. Then plays. Music. Radio. Television. Comic books. Video games. The Internet – Facebook®, Twitter©, SnapCat™, and MySpace®. Everyone’s still on Myspace®, right? And don’t forget work. Anything so you don’t have to think about yourself, the consequences of your actions, and if you’re doing the things that follow your values, or, if religious, the values of your religion.
Yeah, tough.
Now imagine being in the culture where we are surrounded by Weapons of Mass Distraction on a continual basis. And then they’re all gone – except for books and comics.
What will that do psychologically to the survivors? I mean, you’ve lost everything, but the biggest thing you’ve lost is the ability to forget yourself. I imagine depression and suicide will be pretty popular – people who will end themselves rather than confront themselves. I sure hope you all like that quote when I put it on Facebook® complete with a cat or a bikini girl sitting on a 1960’s Camaro©!
And, yup. A 1960’s era Camaro® has no systems to be impacted by an EMP.
Imagine, all of these things will work after an EMP.
Americans, for the most part, haven’t felt hunger since the Depression®. There isn’t a lot of evidence that many Americans died during the Depression™ due to hunger, but there were plenty of people that were hungry, but even then few people died due to malnutrition.
To clarify how pampered we are as a society: a day or two after Hurricane Katrina, my wife and I were watching the coverage of that unfolding tragedy. Someone on CNN® got on the air and said that PEOPLE WERE EATING PEOPLE IN THE SUPERDOME® DUE TO HUNGER. Now, like I’ve said before, it’s been a long time since I’ve been a day without food. But to go full cannibal after two or three days? What?
I mean, if I was really hungry . . . maybe . . .
NO!
NO ONE EATS SOMEONE AFTER THREE DAYS WITHOUT FOOD. NO ONE.
I mean, unless that was a normal thing for them from before.
But we are so very used to a normal flow of calories that it’s difficult for anyone to conceive of going a day without food. What about a week? Two weeks?
After an EMP that would certainly happen people will get hungry. And that’s not unusual during human history. During the Medieval times, what did the peasants do? Drink and party all winter? No. They huddled in cold houses under blankets after eating the bare minimum to survive the winter. They hardly did anything all winter long. Because they were peasants. And it sucked. And their wifi was really slow, too. But they didn’t get blisters. Just kidding, they got lots of blisters, because they were peasants.
Blisters are horrible, and can cause fatal infections if not properly treated. Thankfully our protagonist has extra socks, disinfectant, and Neosporin® if he gets a blister. But they will ruin his progress if they get too bad. But he can count on his neighbors to help, right?
Well, not necessarily. How well do you know your neighbors? I was sitting outside tonight making sure The Boy didn’t inadvertently crush himself as he changed the oil in the Wildermobile®. He was using jack stands under the front axle for the first time, and I wanted to make sure he didn’t mess up. Thankfully, I only had to offer two or three life-saving tips, and three or four car-saving tips.
What showed up while I watched him work?
A neighbor dog. A sweet terrier with a flowered collar and a Denver Broncos® bandana. Which of my neighbors liked the Broncos®? They’re not a team in favor, here. It wasn’t my new neighbors to the north. Maybe the new ones to the northeast? Sadly, even here in rural Upper South Midwestia, I don’t know my neighbors well enough. Modern life seems to be set up to separate us – we have little time between work and kid sports and kid clubs and everything else.
We’ll see what happens to Tim, but it’s not likely that he’ll be with us too long. He seems woefully unprepared. Like your mom.
