Decimation Nation (pt 2 fiction-post-N1H1)

Its been a while. Remember when I wrote “The Thirteenth” shortly after the vaccine plague?

The Spring came and went dully, and the Summer has been odd. I usually love Summer, was looking forward to losing myself in the mindless meditation of the Lake’s waters. I thought it would help heal my horror and loss. The weather has been unusually cool, too cool to really be in the water. I shouldn’t complain, for truly it has been perfect in ways. Cool nights, warm days, without being too hot. Perfect growing weather. But a lot of the seeds I saved didn’t germinate, and I have nowhere near enough food stored to survive a Michigan winter.

Its more than that, its more than the stores being all closed now, its more than the few vestiges of normalcy leaching away these past months. I can’t handle being alone anymore. I just can’t.

I need to find you. I need you like air to breathe.


This is like vengeance of the Gods. There is no way they had any idea that the aftermath of that fucking vaccine would be this. Even those in Washington who got the clean vaccine died, and many refusniks like me, who ended up catching the actual flu died from it unnecessarily. There were no doctors left to help them, no one to administer antibiotics or even a simple fluid IV. I seem to be immune.

I cannot handle a winter alone. I have been totally unable to find a single living being in more than two months now. Its not like I haven’t driven miles looking. Hell, once I figured out how to hot-wire, there are cars full of gas everywhere. Switching cars is easier than a bus transfer.

Jesus, what I would give just to hold a hand, lay my head on a lap and have fingers run through my hair, just hear the breathing of another human while I sleep. I swear, even snoring would be music right now. I want to give comfort, be comforted. I feel like I don’t even remember how to talk.

I know I can’t be the only one left.

I’m heading South.

I know its tipping at windmills, my own personal Quixotic fallacy to try this. Its as childish as believing horoscopes or thinking eating crackers blessed into flesh will save me. But this is my journey to Ixtlan and I have to make it.

I’m going to Georgia. I’m going to Georgia with the hope upon hope that you are too, that somehow, someone who happens to be left, will have happened to read about the Stonehenge, and will happen to think its a good idea too. Six months of solitary has made me crazy in the face of my own reason. My reason that tells me this is crazy.

But why not? Georgia will be warm, and I cannot stand the idea of not being outdoors all winter, not at least hearing the sounds of animals and birds. It may not end up another “I am Legend” or “Omega Man” story, but at least the adventure of going will distract me. And I won’t be alone in a silent house with the haunting memories. So, yeah, I’m making a road trip. I’m not even really packing. A post-modern world void of humans makes hunting and gathering simple, its like houses and cars are the new berries and fish. That reminds me, a can opener. Yeah, I’ll take one of those. My twelve string. My favorite comfy-cozies and a couple changes of clothes.

Its time to start a new world, old or not. The alternative of getting older and doing nothing is far worse. It may be a wasted effort, a rainbow chase, but it has to be the action that matters.

I feel something now. The moment I decided this I felt a strange sensation of rightness, a vibration in my gut, a draw and a yearning that makes my decision absolute.

I am leaving my beloved, beautiful Michigan. I’m coming to you, my Eve, my Adam, my tribe, my love, whoever you are.

I will find you.

I will find you….


    • Diane G on July 25, 2009 at 16:00

Comments have been disabled.