Reboot

It was only a twenty-minute drive to Cottage Grove. When we got there, we did indeed see a covered bridge, but sandbags and barbed wire blocked entrance to it. The Italians didn’t seem bothered though, so we weren’t either. We parked near it and got out, hands in front, palms out like Tony and Rudy were doing.

“Hellooooo…Luke?” screamed Rudy. “It’s Rudy and Tony from Veneta.”

“Heyyy, how’s it goin’ Tony? Who are your friends?” That voice came from behind the sandbags. We didn’t see who it was.

“Visitors. Friends. They’d like to visit your town for a couple of hours and then we’ll go back to Veneta.”

“Sounds good. Welcome.” And out popped a young man, maybe eighteen years old.

Freckled, red hair, skinny, big smile. “My name’s Luke,” he repeated unnecessarily. “Please follow me.”

And he led us around the wall through a hidden door and out onto the rest of the bridge that led into the town. From there we walked. Luke told us that we were free to wander around, and if we wanted to stay longer, we’d have to check in. So no worries.

“No need for more stringent controls?” I asked.

“Not anymore,” he answered. “Welcome, and enjoy your visit. You’ll find that our folks are friendly and inviting.”

“Great,” I said. “Thank you, Luke.” And we started walking. Luke stayed behind. We heard him use a radio. Past the bridge, after about two hundred meters, we saw a few houses where people were working on their gardens, kids playing ball in the streets. They waved at us and smiled.

We were joined by two men and a woman a bit further down the road. The woman was clearly in charge. She was in the middle and the two men were a step behind. She looked like Queen Elisabeth. Short and a bit round, wearing a skirt and vest made of that same heavy sofa material that looks so uncomfortable, yet favored by older women; maybe crepe? Whatever it is, it looked as uncomfortable as the sound “crepe.” She had the same regal look on her face as the Queen too. Unflinchingly serious. Not necessarily mean, but I supposed it could go either way.

“Hello,” she said in a high voice. “Welcome.” And she went right in with: “Are you gentlemen responsible for that radio transmission that just hit us a little while ago?”

“Yes, mam. I am,” I said holding out my hand. “My name’s Robert Morgan. These are my friends William, Dutch, Tony and Rudy.

“Come with me please. Convince me,” she said almost threateningly. As we walked, she explained that she was in charge. Mrs. Anna Rather was a mayor of sorts, though she’d never called herself that, she explained that people simply trusted her and she gravitated to a position of leadership by being more detail oriented than anyone else. I suspected that if the city had survived, it was because of her.

“How did you survive? I asked.

“Probably similarly to Veneta.” She looked at Rudy and Tony. They nodded jaws clenched. “There was an onslaught of desperate people looking for help, we turned them down, they all died, we survived.” She stopped and looked at me, daring me to complain. I didn’t. I understood. I’d already thought about it when considering Veneta’s situation. What can you do? You have a hundred people depending on you for survival, a thousand others want in but if you let them in, everyone dies. I didn’t want to think about how it was handled. There may have been a creative way to help, but I couldn’t think of any. I’m sure the people of Eugene thought they could handle it. They failed.

So I stared back at her grimly, knowingly and walked on.

“I know Mooney,” she said. “I had the displeasure of meeting him once at a business conference. He was at the head of FEMA then. I remember his smile. Like a pale, pasty, sweaty vulture smiling after a car crash. I have no problem believing your story. I wasn’t surprised when I heard your message. But I’ll need to see everything of course anyway, to make sure. And when I’m satisfied, I’ll rebroadcast and I’ll call my friends and tell them to do the same. Are you ok with that Mr. Morgan?” I smiled. I decided I liked her. No nonsense and tough. “Of course.” So we ended up in her office, she looked over everything and was satisfied.

“Thank you, Robert.” I’m afraid you’ll have some tumultuous times ahead, but there’s no going around it. Is there anything I can do for you?”

“A tour of your town would be nice. Some information. I’d really like to know what it was like in those first few months…” I said. “What was it like after the bombs? How have you adapted?”

“I never talk about it,” she answered. “But ok, just this once. Let’s go for a walk.”

Rudy and Tony went off to visit a friend who also worked a garage to discuss parts and technical problems while we went for a tour of the town with Mrs. Rather. She came alone, seeing no need for protection from us. William and Dutch followed behind us.

As we walked, she’d point out various projects like ultra efficient gardens, greenhouses and energy producing systems. There was no money. “No need for it,” she said.

“We make enough food for everyone, energy too. Once you have that, everyone works together for the other necessities. Some people make clothes, others make chairs, some take care of older people, others teach our children. Everyone finds something to do. Why would we need money? Money caused this mess. It enslaved people. Remember the great depressions? Do you think poor people caused depressions?”

I thought about that for a while as we walked on silently for a bit. We used to go to school to learn a trade, get a job so we could get money to be able to eat and sleep. Most people didn’t go to school to “learn,” to “progress,” to benefit society or humankind. We didn’t go to school to evolve. We went to school to carve out a little niche for ourselves, quiet, subservient, asleep, similar and assimilated. Money controlled us, defined us, enslaved us, created a caste system where some favored few dictated our path towards the lowest common denominator and there was very little ordinary folk could do about it. Hell we even believed in it. We thought life was like a lottery where your time might come up, where you might get lucky and jump up a couple of levels, find an oil patch in your backyard or invent the newest popular toy. Money led to power, power is addictive, and craving more and the paranoia that comes from fear of losing it caused the war. The masses were like fish swimming up river chasing an elusive worm held aloft, always just out of reach by a smiling ogre sitting on a throne, enjoying the show.

Maybe we could do better this time around.

“Don’t you think it will come? Don’t you think people will need money at some point?” I asked.

“Possibly. But maybe we can think about its uses more carefully. We have to come up with a way to escape the abuses that come with it. Lending and borrowing for example. That’s just another form of gambling. We bought into it. Again and again. It’s a disease, a control mechanism. How many economic catastrophes did we have to go through because of bad banking from greedy fat cats on top?”

“Might be difficult to convince others to follow your lead.”

“It will be, but we’ve already started discussing it, and it’s going well. Mayor Stevens is with me for example. Other mayors as well.”

“Your gardens are impressive,” I said. I wanted to change the subject because this was a heavy load of information that I’d have to digest later on.

“We’ve put some thought into using less space to grow more food. Never had to do that before, we had so much land to harvest, we didn’t need to think about it. But the fact is, you can be very efficient if you want to be. We think vertical instead of horizontal. Lots of space up there.” She pointed up. “Less waste.”

“What about the jobs no one wants to do like garbage pick up or waste management? Funeral services?” asked Dutch. “Dentists.” She laughed. “We take turns. Or do it in groups. A shitty job is more fun when ten people do it together. Mind you, this works because we’re small. I’ve often thought how I’d work this out if I had a million people in my town. Tricky. Small is beautiful, let me tell ya. All this is new. We need practice. We have an engineer here. A man who worked for Google before. A robotics expert. He says he can do wonders for us, so we’re looking into that. Apparently, Google was on the verge of many breakthroughs in robotics just before the war. We’re looking at rebooting a factory nearby maybe to create ’bots to help us do the crappy jobs. His name is John Schneider. You’ll meet him soon.”

“What about reward? How do you reward people? Seems to me that it’s going to be difficult to motivate people who like fancy luxury cars and penthouse apts..”

“Well that’s what we’ve been talking about so much. How indeed. The fact is that we have to learn from our mistakes. Just because greed is a normal human trait doesn’t mean we have to base our economy on it. We can’t just jump back on the merry go ’round. People with power have a tendency to abuse it. So find another carrot. If we look back far enough, you can point a serious finger at two turning points that led to the war; to all wars actually: agriculture and banks.”

“Well banks I can see I suppose. They’re basically money making tools aren’t they. And they’re for the few who understand it. Keep it complex enough so that only the chosen few can use it properly and you’ve set yourself up. But agriculture? How do you mean?” I asked.

“Agriculture led to borders, land grabs and power struggles and even sex discrimination. Inevitably to endless wars. Our entire history is about wars to mark our territory, to protect it, or to kill our neighbor because he had more food, more stuff. We even have pretty colored flags you know? Colors? Like gangs.”

“Sex discrimination?”

“Women in ancient Mesopotamia had previously been in charge of the fields and gardens where cereals were grown. With the advent of the plough, however, farming became the work of men.”

“How do you know this stuff?” I asked her.

“I was an archeologist before. I specialized in women and economics in pre-history.”

“And now you’re a mayor of a small social experiment.” I smiled. She did too. “I just roll with it, dude.”

“Ok. So how do we do it differently this time around? I asked her.

“Be self-sufficient. Find other motivation than the material. Find reward from improving yourself and your community, learn to find your passions early in life, lead a good happy life by improving others’ lives. Learn, learn, learn. You know… basic stuff, really.”

“Sounds easy when you say it like that, but isn’t that changing human nature? Some of us are built to compete.”

“Actually, very few of us have these “hoarder genes”. The idea is not to ignore our impulses, but to find other outlets for them, other carrots and especially to respect all types of people. Why should one type of person –the greedy asshole- have more carrots? Some people worked hard all their lives without getting a break, while others got lucky. I’m not saying we shouldn’t compete. On the contrary. But to compete with the sole aim of gathering more stuff than your neighbor is silly.”

“Ok. It works?”

“So far. When people have a vision or they want to try something, we listen and we discuss and we make room for their project. People who need to compete will find others who want to also. The secret is to keep things small and to find an outlet for all types of people.. I think if someone needs even more, it’s just unhealthy. It’s actuality a mental illness. I once read something that hit me pretty hard. It said: <Those in power do not have the right traits and motivations to be there.> Makes sense doesn’t it? Explains Mooney down to a tee. A person looking for power often does it for the wrong reasons. People had forgotten what it was like to be a ‘public servant’. The word ‘servant’ is in there for a reason. It’s the same when one person has too much financial power. What’s that person going to do with that power? Help his fellow man? Not usually. Find ways to keep it at any cost and make the pile bigger is what they mostly did. That’s also a lesson learned from the past. Power corrupts. That’s always been true. Remember inheritances? People should never get a free pass in life. It’s not fair. Everyone should have the same chances to reach their dreams.”

She took a breath, but I could tell she had more to say.

“No one’s ever tried this before so it might fail. But that’s how we should look at it, a social experiment, not an attack on a way of life. A fluid, constantly changing system that should not be controlled by any one group.”

“Any crime? People here who didn’t fit or belong?” asked William.

“Nope. I found that when everyone has a place and something to do, something they care about, and when they don’t have to worry about making money, there is no need for unsocial behavior. We have teenagers of course, so there will be the occasional flare up, but nothing unexpected. There were only two hard cases. Two men. One violent, and one mentally unstable. The violent one hurt a child, a girl (she looked at me as if to say: Understand?) and that was enough for me. He was shot.” She looked at me and paused, daring me to question her decision again. I understood. It was rough, but probably led to the same outcome as the boy I exiled. She got a blank stare back from me. So she went on.

“The mentally ill person is non violent and we rotate taking care of him.”

“What’s wrong with him?” I asked.

“Delusional, talks to himself, scares people, probably schizophrenic. Harmless, but annoying. Type o’ guy who used to be omnipresent, walking around any town center touretting at everyone and everything.

“Sounds like Dutch,” said William. Dutch smacked him on the shoulder.

“So we try to deal with it as best we can,” she continued. “He belongs under professional care, we don’t have that, so what can I do. I’m not tossing him out just because he’s annoying. I’d have to exile half my family if we followed that path.” She smiled. “No. Exile is serious. Not a gavel to swing too quickly.”

“What happened to people who were exiled,” I asked.

“We don’t know. But it can’t be good. You survived in groups or you didn’t. A person alone out there could not have found food. No way. I suppose there is a small chance that they could have found sanctuary somewhere, but look at Eugene and all the other towns around here. They were simply overrun. So, you know, I’m not looking through pink glasses here. It was pretty much a death sentence. But since they had a small chance, it made everyone concerned feel a bit better. I’ll tell you a story. I heard this from a wanderer.” We sat down. She got comfortable, so I gathered that it would be a long one. She started:

“The Bart family survived the war by being obsessive. They worked a small farm east of Los Angeles and were right in the path of very heavy fallout. There was no hope for anyone living in that area. But Roger Bart wasn’t like everyone else. The stubborn, strong, very silent type; he was a hard man of few words, but he felt he was blessed with a will to fight unequaled among his peers. He was a diehard, off-the-grid survivalist. It was much more than a hobby for him. He was one of those people who had seen a nuclear war as inevitable and made it a priority to still be around afterwards. A modern day Noah, but with less baggage.

People who said they’d rather go with the bombs were pussies. Real men would survive to rebuild and lead. He didn’t talk much with his neighbors because he saw them as already dead. Useless people. His family was everything to him. He was rough, but he didn’t care if his kids hated him. He’d smack sense into them. That was his job. Prepare them for a shifty future no matter how they felt about him. Tough love. He came from Russian stock. Farmers who lived in some of the most difficult land on Earth. He had short-cropped hair (efficient he thought) and always wore the same jeans overalls and white t-shirt.

He’d only talk to his nearest neighbor when it was absolutely necessary. For example, if he needed some medicine for his kids, or a tool to fix one of his machines, but even then, only reluctantly; or when his neighbor came to him for help. Then he’d help, but he wouldn’t talk much. He’d help fix a flat tire while munching on a piece of grass. When the neighbor thanked him, Roger would mumble “mmmhmmm”, and shake the man’s hand without smiling. You could count on Roger, he was solid, but don’t expect him to bake you a cake.

When the bombs dropped, he was ready. He took his family below, locked the heavy door that would lock them up in his shelter, and they started their new life living in the ground.

It took them only forty-five minutes.

They had rehearsed moving down there speedily, over and over again; like a fire drill. You know?” I nodded.

“His basement was reinforced and full of enough food to last at least a year. He had enough weapons to ward off a small army and he even had tunnels built that connected his basement to the greenhouse where they grew tomatoes, lemons and other fruits and veggies. They had a chemical toilet that made dirt that could be used in his gardens and a store room full of every possible kind of food and toys.

He had three boys, all teens, Joe 12, Richard 13 and Marc 16 years old. All good looking and strong.

He kept them busy with projects like digging other tunnels. He wanted to reach the barn for example. They listened to the radio regularly. The President would tell them when it would be safe to come out, but a year was a safe bet. That was the outside time limit he’d planned for.

Digging wasn’t absolutely necessary, but his kids had to be kept busy or else they’d

go nuts. They had to exercise and PlayStation wasn’t cutting it. He knew their biggest threat at this point was cabin fever. So there was a strict regimen of work and study. The only laughter came from Roger’s wife, Mama Bart, who was the polar opposite of the males in the family. Fun and outgoing. She sang all the time to herself. When she did, the boys smiled. Not Roger though.

They had a belt system that led to a small window at the end of a narrow tunnel that was protected by plastic strips to carry out the dirt and garbage without getting contaminated. They took turns digging. His wife cooked and cleaned and fussed over schoolwork. Her job description was clear. The boys had been home schooled before anyway, so that routine was already carved in stone.

Every day he’d crawl through the tunnel to the greenhouse to check on his crop. He loved it there, of course they all did, it was the only way to get sunlight. But for him it was the soil, the quiet, the smell. He loved getting his hands dirty, feeling the life in the wet earth, pruning, managing the stubborn roots so they use the available space efficiently. His plants were his babies. He fed them and watered them and took great care to make sure they got enough, but not too much light. He would look at each fruit or vegetable lovingly and carefully as if they were the last ones on earth. He’d pat them down to make sure there were no bugs or worms, and when they were ripe, they’d have a feast. A big slice of fresh tomato with some fresh lemon juice and a salad was a delicacy that was to be savored after weeks of eating canned tuna or beans. Mama Bart made a big deal out of it. She made those occasions special by making everyone dress for dinner. She kept traditions going. She kept saying that just because they lived in a cave didn’t mean they were savages. They prayed together before every meal.

He made sure to collect seeds and store them knowing they might be very important when they came back out. He inspected every corner of his garden, looking for mold or bugs. Though he hadn’t seen as many insects as before, there were still plenty. He didn’t use insecticides. That just seemed wrong. He was like a fireman with his fire trucks, endlessly cleaning and working his little garden.

Everyone had laughed at him. Wasting time and effort on this bomb shelter. All that money. He thought he’d have the last laugh though.

It was a difficult life, but under his iron control, they quickly got comfortable with a routine and patiently waited until they could come out and start the hard work of getting the ground ready for farming again.

That routine is what got them all killed.

For the last couple of days of their lives, wanderers had been watching them coming out of the tunnel and into the greenhouse.

One day, when Roger was studying a ripe tomato in his hand and smiling, his gun on the ground next to him, he heard a noise, like a small whistle. He turned around to investigate and got shot in the face.

When his youngest popped his head out of the tunnel like they knew he would, he got shot too.

The wanderers destroyed the greenhouse and took all the food.

They smoked out and then killed the rest of the family and took over the basement. They lived there for a while and then they all died from radiation poisoning.

There was still some food left when they stopped breathing,” she finished.

“My god.”

“Yeah.”

We were silent for a while.

“How was Eugene, Mrs. Rather?” I asked knowingly.

“What, at the end?” she asked. I nodded and she composed herself before moving on.

“Desperation, death, chaos. People were civil at first. But when the food ran out and disease set in, it was horrific. Panic. They came to us by the hundreds, sick and hungry, screaming to get in, offering up their children…” She choked up at that. “We had to ignore them. Sometimes we had to shoot them when they became a threat. There were so many. Our walls were buckling. We’d hear their cries at night. I still hear them. The cries slowly became quieter until they died down. Then we had to go out and burn the dead. The smell….”

At that she stopped for a bit. “What would you have done?”

She didn’t wait for my answer.

“We survived. But my soul is gone. I deal with it by convincing myself there was no other way and by looking at our children. It was war. Other people in other towns who weren’t so tough are no longer there. Like Eugene.”

“Must be very difficult. I’m very sorry.” I put my hand on Mrs. Rather’s shoulder.

“But look at what you’ve accomplished here.” I said. “It’s a new beginning and it

should be cherished. It’s a second chance. And if it makes you feel any better, I can’t think of anything else you could have done. I did the same thing, in fact”.

She gave me a weary smile, her shoulders slumped a little as if a bit of stress lifted off of them. I think she appreciated it more coming from an outsider who didn’t owe her anything. It was a free touch. A little spark.

“Have you heard about the other towns like yours who’ve survived?” I asked.

“We’ve sent out feelers and there are a few. We’ve started talking. Sometimes we trade if there is something we need or they need. I’ll give you a list before you leave. I’m sure you’ll want to visit them too.”

She seemed to know what I should do before I did. I still wasn’t quite sure which direction we’d take after our message was sent out. We hadn’t planned that far ahead... But East, of course. Had to be East.

“I feel I need to warn you that by rebroadcasting our message, you might be putting yourself in harm’s way,” I said.

“Not if everyone does it. And I’ll make sure it goes out fast.”

“OK. I agree with you actually. If the new government went around shutting radio stations down, it wouldn’t look very good for them, would it. No I think they’ll probably try their own media campaign, followed by some sort of direct involvement.” At that, I looked at William and he nodded back.

Tony and Rudy caught up to us during our walk. They were out of breath, all excited.

“What’s up?” I asked.

“We’ve organized a race.” They smiled.

“Just now? Just like that?” asked Dutch.

“Well, no. We’ve been discussing it for a while now, but we just met with our friends here and, well, it’s done. We’ll have it in Eugene. Well, that is if you agree Ms. Rather. No one there so we can use up the entire town just for a racetrack. The plan is to have it start at the arena and invite everyone from everywhere.”

“Oh, that is a fantastic idea,” I said.

Ms. Rather nodded. “I don’t see why not. It’ll be good for fostering good will with other towns. In fact, I should’ve thought of it before. Good job boys.”

Dutch brightened up. “Hey William, best car?”

“Oo, no contest, I like that car in Road Warrior. That black one with the supercharger on it. All the booby traps.”

“Yeah, good one. I like James Bond’s Aston Martin in Goldfinger.”

“Damn, that’s a really good one too. You can’t possibly beat that Robert?

“Chitty Chitty Bang Bang,” I said.

William and Dutch looked at each other with unsure, questioning, wavering

expressions on their faces, followed by inevitable capitulation and moody shaking of heads. “Damn it. Two points to Robert.”