Reboot

Bob Jameson was a retired farmer from New Zealand. Nice man, eager to help. He showed up with his wife Mabel and a group of ten people on a medium sized sailboat. They’d hurried out of the Philippines before it got too bad there.

Soothing, calm Merle Haggard voice. Sixty years old, large unkempt beard, ever-present baseball cap. Comfortable unhurried waddle that comes from having lived a good full life and the self-confidence that comes from being very good at something. Quick, witty, accommodating, but wouldn’t take any crap from anyone. Nice loud barking laugh. The kind of man who could face down a rebellious teenager and win him over with a joke. People liked him immediately, before he even said a word.

His wife Mabel was a strong barrel-shaped woman, capable and impatient. She had a

booming voice. You heard it all over the island when she let that loose. She used to be a schoolteacher so she quickly organized the kids that were already with us. Stern and authoritarian, but mushy inside.

Mable started with just a couple of hours teaching every morning, but soon got us

organized and we began our plans for a proper school. When kids didn’t show up, she’d go get them. You had to have a serious reason to avoid her classes.

She kept badgering us to build her a proper school. It was on the list of things to do. She made us move it up the list. I put Mack the Builder on it. He was afraid of Mable.

“Did you leave a lot of people in Idaho Bob?”

“Yes,” he said sadly. “I come from a large family.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I answered.

“No. No, actually it’s the best place to be in the US. They might have survived. No targets in Idaho. The wind comes from the west but the mountains protect that area. Seattle will have been hit, but it shouldn’t hurt people in Idaho. I hope not anyway.”

“Really? How do you know this?”

“I talked to one of those militia guys once in a bar, you know those guys who horde weapons and complain about the government all the time? Survivalists? He said one of the reasons they were there was because they’d have a good chance of surviving the apocalypse. At least they’d have a good chance of surviving the bombs. He was adamant about it. They research that stuff. Apparently there’s a bunch of those groups hiding out in the forests there. It’s what happens after he was worried about.”

“You mean after the bombs? The fallout?” I asked.

“Well the bombs are just the first wave aren’t they? Then you have possible second strikes, then the looters, gangs, famine, yes- the fallout, disease, the cold…”

“The cold?”

“If enough bombs explode, if many wildfires rage on uncontrollably for long periods of time, it shoots up tons of crap into the atmosphere and it blocks out the sun for a while. It would get colder and agriculture would be--- difficult.”

“Lucky we’re here then,” I said.

“It’s affecting us here too. Don’t you feel it? It’s a good three degrees colder than it should be.”

“Well yes, now that you mention it. It should be hotter this time of year. How long will it last?”

“No one really knows. Some say forever, some say a few months. It might cause a new ice age, the climate could shift a little or drastically, or the planet might adjust. We’ll just have to wait n see.”

“Do you want to go back?” I asked him.

“Home?” He paused a bit here; looked up at the sky. “Eventually. Maybe. I need to see it. Look fer my family. But the longer we stay here, the safer it will be for us when we go back.”

“What about food?” I asked. “How can they survive over there without agriculture?”

“I’ve been thinking about that. Some people will be ready. Like those militia guys. They’re set for a long time. But the problem is afterwards as I said. You’d have to plan to start farming again. They’d have to get going as soon as possible. Lotta people to feed but without the big machinery. Hydroponics in caves is the way to go I think, for now. Start as soon as possible, then move everything outside as soon as the sun comes out again and when it’s safe again, maybe after eight or nine months. Everyone will start having gardens again too. Go small at first I think,” he said. “Damn. Another wave of people will die when we get a cold winter or a bad drought. We’re back in the middle ages you know?” We were sitting near the Hall where Mabel was teaching a bunch of kids. Every few seconds, Bob would look over and watch his wife with obvious delight.

“Have you heard of Aquaponics? Symbiosis?”

“No.”

“Ok let’s take a walk, Robert. I’ve got a couple of people working on something that you have to see.” I brightened up at that.

“OK.” And he waved to Mabel and pointed north so she’d know where he was. She nodded sternly. I started walking. He followed. “It’s about closing waste loops, with physical waste and things like gases, carbon dioxide and oxygen all staying within the loop. So nothing is wasted to make food.”

“Sounds smart. No waste?”

“Nope.” I heard some noise before I saw them. People were talking excitedly. When we walked into a small clearing, I saw two men and two women working on what looked like an aquarium.

“Hi everyone.”

“Hello Robert.” They all stopped what they were doing and came to hug me or shake my hand.

“So Lyndsey, tell me what you’re doing here.” Lyndsey was a plumber. She was in charge.

“OK, let me show you. In this aquarium we put in some fish. We use the water to fill the tank above it here. That water is full of nutrients that will help growth.” He looked at Mack for confirmation and Mack smiled and took over.

“It’s a combination of aquaculture and hydroponics, or growing plants in water rather than soil. It capitalizes on the symbiotic products of each: the fish produce ammonia-based waste that is bio-filtered into fertilizer that the plants absorb, cleaning the water for the fish to reuse. Very simple system.”

“Sounds great. Should be taught to the kids in our school,” I added.

“Absolutely. I’ll discuss it with Mable.”

“What kind of lighting do you need?”

“Grow lights are different than most standard household lights, so they’re not so easy to find. But we have some already. Our German friends were growing marihuana in their hold. They’re designed to emit certain color spectrums that mimic natural sunlight. The plants use these color spectrums of light to conduct photosynthesis.”

“But you need power for hydroponics…” I said to him.

“Yes. I don’t know all the details, but yes, that could be a problem for people back home, but not an insurmountable one. Fuel will be in short supply I suppose. Can you burn wood if there’s fallout? Wouldn’t that throw up the radioactive material again? I don’t know. Water and wind power, solar. But I know nothing about that,” he said.

“Small power plants, in rivers,” I mused out loud.

“Sure, why not. The problem is that there must be millions of survivors all looking for food and there is no way to make enough. No gas to power big machines so we’re back to the ways of the 1600’s. And that means one farmer can’t put out enough to feed that many people and we’ll have to go back to a rural communal society. What if there isn’t enough? Will people start fighting again? Meat will be scarce so it will have to be managed. Imagine telling a hungry family that the life of their cow is more important than theirs. And it would be. Who’s gonna do the managing? Who’s gonna shoot the father of a family who killed his cow to feed his kids? Will it be the government? Is there a government? Or will these small groups take care of it themselves. Or will we simply destroy all animals? I think- I hope people will work together and start small communities and work together. It’s the only way. But I also think there will be abuses and terrible violence.”

“Maybe our allies will help. Those who haven’t been hit too hard,” I said.

“I don’t know if they’ll help. Would you? They’ll be blaming us for this mess. Our neighbors and other countries who were spared, they might choose to keep their food, especially if the nuclear winter affects them too.” He said. “I think we’ll be on our own over there. It’ll be difficult for a while. But I think we’ll git ’er back.” He smiled.

“We’ll see I guess. I want to go back too eventually,” I concluded.

“What about you, where are you from?” he continued.

I told him I was from Upstate New York. I’d been a translator. So, yes, I had family, but they’re gone, certainly. I didn’t want to talk about it. I tried, but the words didn’t come out and he didn’t push it. So we stopped talking as I turned away and pictured my sister, brother and my parents as I remembered them best, doing things they loved to do. My brother had been in the army and he’d done quite well for himself. I didn’t know what he did there, but he had moved up quickly. Special Forces. We didn’t keep in touch because we’d grown apart. Actually we had always been apart. We were completely different Eric and me. Black and white. But I cared for him deeply. My sister had been a taxi driver. She was tough and mean. Very smart. Quick wit. Didn’t want to be part of anything. She’d found her place with her books. She read all the time. She was one of those people who knew everything, but wasn’t motivated by much. Some people are too smart for their own good. I said good night to Bob and went to bed. He saw I was a bit sad and he gripped my shoulder and smiled in support before turning back towards Mabel. I’d only known these people for a few days, yet we were already very close.

In my sleep, I saw people burning. My family. My mother was screaming as she was pulled into a fire and I then I woke up to the sound of a monkey laughing. It was an insulting, teasing screech. It made me grumpy. But then the sight of a clean, crisp, post rain sunrise cheered me right up.

“What do we do when we have five or ten thousand people”? I asked Bob over coffee.

“Well I’m sure we could deal with it. But we have to be careful. We squish people together and then the trouble starts, I think,” he said. “People are nice and friendly when there’s plenty of food and space, but start squeezing them and take away their coffee and what you usually see isn’t pretty.”