Forward March

It was moving day again, something I never look forward to. It's not just ripping everything up and traveling to a new city; it's the reasons behind it, and the realization that I would be a fool to try and stop it. We've set up safehouses all over the continent, and only we know which ones we're moving to... It's a perfect system. In theory.

There's 15 of us in this troupe, traversing the country and doing what we can where we can to try and improve things a bit. But we aren't the only troupe out there, so we have to look out for each other. We've never met another troupe, but we leave messages in the safehouses, signed by each of us. They do likewise. By my count, there's a little more than a dozen troupes, but lately communication has been getting more sparse. Then, we are spreading out more, too. Supplies are running low. Though we try to do what we can for the others, too; when we gather food and water, we make sure to leave some for the next weary travelers to take sanctuary in our hideaways. And they could be anything, really: high-rise apartments, minimalls, stockyards, warehouses... even churches, if we can shut things up well enough. It's a well-connected network of buildings spanning the known globe over... at least, the known modified globe. Since the bombs fell, and the satellites followed shortly, we're not sure if anything has survived on the other continents. Then again, we do our best to stay away from the coasts, too. Strange things happen near open water.

But like I was saying, it was moving day. We're on a rotating schedule, never staying more than 4 days in one place. The mutants and ghouls wise up pretty quick when there's fresh, unscorched meat to be had... heard a story once of a cadre that stayed a full week in one town, only to be staring point-blank down the maw of some particularly nasty dretches and skivs. I wouldn't have believed anybody to be so stupid until we happened across the town. San Pablo, the sign said. Ain't no Pablo I ever saw.

Breaking camp is the easy part, really. Siphon the gas there is to be had into the trucks and equalize their tanks, with three "steamers" with completely full tanks. Load the steamers with most of the food and provisions, load the people into the other four rollers with the rest of the equipment. You know, the water purifiers, Giger counters, extra ammo, generators, stuff for making camp outside if absolutely necessary. Three people to each steamer (one to drive, two to defend, one in the cab and one riding bitch while lashed to the tops), one driver to each roller, one gunner to lead and rear guard rollers. Wait for high noon and roll out. Generally we already had our positions planned out by the time we took, but this time we were a little disorganized leaving... and that almost got us killed.

See, all of us can drive, but only a few of us know how to keep the steamers running nice. Since driving steamer is so taxing, the four of them are on rotating schedules, with the one on rest making rear guard defense, arguably the most relaxing job on the trail. This week, Oiler was supposed to take rear guard, but there was some confusion. Bosun wanted it (as did the rest of the steamheads, truth be told), but it really was Oiler's turn. Didn't matter. Bosun wanted to fight for it. Took three people to break up the scuffle, me and Twitch running interference while Head shouted at both of them for being stupid... and he was right, but nobody wanted to hear it from Head. This only got Bosun more pissed off, and he ended up charging Head and knocking him pretty good across the noggin, making him swell up even more. I had to bandage the kid back up, and talk him down from a fight. All in all, Oiler still got rear guard, but we didn't get out of there until near sundown, which meant we had to shoot our way out of town. Had a couple shriekers needed to be picked off (I was riding the whip on top of our lead steamer), but they weren't much of a problem. The dretches coming out of the woodwork were worse, since they're fat and tend to kind of explode when you hit 'em, which gunks up the machines; Twitch got two, and Bosun ran another three over in the steamer. We didn't even get to Omaha until almost midday, which meant a whole morning wasted when we should've been set up and ready to search during the bright hours.

Stupid fucking time. At least we got here safe. As it stands, the troupe's just about ready to go on reconnoiter; let's see if the land of corn and honey has much left to offer instead of old, melted electronics and mutant bovines.

=Dr. Bones, Survivalist, 4 Years Post-Fall Log Completed, 3rd week of Summer, 3:48 PM

On The Nature of Distraction

It's strange how time seems to mean so little when you don't sleep. Supposedly, the body uses things like sleep to regulate our perception of an abstract, namely time. However, in this modern age of time-keeping pieces, sundials, and water clocks, that internalized system has become not only obsolete, but redundant.

I look at the clock on the computer. It says one thing, one thing which I could take as fact. However, the clock on my phone says a different, though similar thing. Do I take that as fact? Or how about the clock by my bed, reading an entirely different interpretation of time itself? Is that to be believed as correct? Or the clocks in the bathroom, one of which never changes, the other of which never stays consistent or still, the two in constant conflict?

Not that we can trust these external systems anyway. Even things which are considered givens, namely the day-night cycle, are inconsistent and improper as means of demarcating a concept: During the summer the time of light is longer than the time of dark, and vice-versa in the winter... but only in the north. And only sometimes. To the extremes, things normalize, with what essentially amounts to six months of light followed by six months of dark... months themselves only confusing matters more. And what of the equator, where day-night cycles are constant but there are no seasons to base other things off of, with the exception of a singular rainy season that lasts anywhere from one "week" to four "months" depending on the year and precipitation collection elsewhere, and the modification of various fronts of warm and cold air, not to mention global climate change?

My computer says 1:06 AM. My phone says 1:04 AM. The clock by the bed reads 1:29. The analog clock in the bathroom reads 6:00, while the digital clock flashes a steady 11:38 PM. Eventually these numbers will blur, and when the Witching Hour hits, it won't really matter anyway. The ghouls will come, their stinking breath and festering promises seeping through the cracks in the windows like an icy fog. Roiling and swelling and receding just as fast, they will pass, as they always do, though they ravage the streets of any poor sap that happens to be caught outside. The shutters will be down over the window, the locks secured, the lights on outside, though inside is only darkness.

And when you can't sleep, that darkness won't let you know you're failing in your singular Herculean task of human stability: sleep. If it weren't for the glow of this monitor reflecting off the pistol in my lap, I'd never be able to tell if I was awake or dreaming.

I never wanted to sleep to begin with; I just hope the dreaming is a few more hours away.

=Dr. Bones, Survivalist, 4 Years Post-Fall Log Completed, "1:10 AM"