Chapter 11
I felt warmth on my forehead, soothing beads of water trickled down my face, some pooling in my eyes; causing me to blink. My eyes felt sore and heavy, waking from a deep sleep, even the blinking of eyelids felt rusty and uncoordinated. The warmth on my forehead moved around, a warm cloth stroking an aching head. My eyes opened like little slits, vision blurred through the water. My entire body was aching—painful and rigid, every little twitch an act of excruciating labour. I moaned loudly, like a baby in the middle of the night, insecure and unaware of his surroundings. I grabbed at the arm that stroked my forehead.
“Take it easy, my friend,” the voice said.
I relaxed my grip. The light filtered in, burning my eyes. Focus returned gradually as I concentrated on the figure in front of me, a familiar figure, the bald dark man who had been in the market, the one in the bar, the one who had been gazing at me so intently. His face was soothing to look at, big brown eyes, intelligent with a hint of concern, of caring; not like many of the dull eyed brutes that I had encountered in the city.
“Lie down, my friend, lie down.” The man was holding my shoulders. I didn't even realize I was trying to sit up. “You’re in no condition to start jumping around right now; believe me, it’s for your own good. You have to relax.”
“Who are you?”
“My name is Samuel. You're safe.”
I lay back again, trusting in my keeper. I glanced around at my surroundings. It was a comfortable looking room. There were shelves of old-style paper books everywhere, or at least that was all I could see from my limited vantage point. I was on a comfortable sofa, and in front of me was a desk with paper. I looked around again, noticing there were no windows. Off to one side, near the farthest wall filled with books, was a staircase leading up to the ceiling; leading up to a trap door, a trap door through the ceiling of the large room. No windows, just the warm glow of artificial light.
“Welcome to my humble abode,” Samuel said, laughing. “It’s nothing terribly extravagant, but it suits my purposes.”
"Where are we?"
"Safe--you can be assured of that."
It was enough. I drifted off again, sleep not just coming easily, but falling on me with weight too cumbersome to fight.
**
I smelt the fresh bread and it awoke a ravenous hunger in me, the pangs gripping my stomach as soon as the wonderful odour entered my system. I ate quickly, deciding to slow down for fear of choking to death. I heard a loud squeaking and the trap door in the ceiling of the room opened. Samuel came walking down. He was an older man. He had the dark skin and facial features that I was starting to see were common-place on Earth. At first, these types of people looked so odd--but I was getting used to it. He was average height and a little overweight, but looked strong from a lifetime of physical activity.
“Well, you’re awake, that’s good,” he said.
“Yeah, I feel much better.”
“I didn’t get your name.”
“It’s Tyler Jonz.”
“Well Tyler Jonz,” he said, sitting down in a chair beside me, “it’s good to meet you.”
“Where are my comrades, the people I was with when the explosion happened? What was that explosion? Were you there?”
He laughed. “A lot of questions. Let me try and enlighten you, as much as I can. First of all, you have to understand that you are looking for something here that doesn’t exist.”
“What is that?”
“Order—you are looking for order. You want me to give you answers as to what exactly is happening here, but there is no order—it is anarchy.”
“My friends, do you know what happened to my friends?”
“I’m not sure. There was so much going on. You were firing at the truck. It was Big Simon’s pride and joy, that hulking all-wheel drive vehicle he could trudge around town--the bastard's main tool for terrorizing and controlling people,"
Samuel winced, clenching his fist in a tight ball in front of his face.
"He'd send his cronies far and wide to make sure there was enough fuel to run it. Those idiots! What a waste of valuable resources. We need any fuel we find to power more essential engines in things like generators.
Samuel suddenly dropped his fist and looked at me as if he'd forgotten I was there.
"I’m sorry, your friends, yes, I’m pretty sure they’re safe. You caught the blast more than anyone. You were all firing at Big Simon’s truck. You must have hit the gas tank, or maybe the fool had explosives in the truck. The explosion was so big; and you caught the brunt of it. The others were blown aside, but you flew in the air. The truck, of course, was destroyed, but there were others, behind the truck. You were lying in the middle of the road. I had to drag you out of there. You were out cold. Your friends were still fighting when I left. The girl, she screamed at me to get you the hell out of there. They looked to be doing pretty well--in the fight.”
“Against Big Simon?”
Samuel laughed. “Yes, you’ll have no more battles with Big Simon. He was the only one who would be driving that truck—no more Big Simon—there’s no doubt about that. His men, they kept fighting; like chickens with their heads cut off. I think they were stunned after the explosion. Your friends, they looked much better organized. Around here, the fighting is usually not so well organized--there's plenty of it though.”
Samuel looked distracted again, gazing down at his feet. Then he looked up at me again.
"Are you REALLY from the space station Tyler Jonz?"
“Yes, I really am, I really am."
"Don't take this the wrong way, but you seem too, too--" Samuel scratched his head, searching for the word, "compassionate."
I laughed and winced. My body hurt.
"I don't know why you'd say that. You talk about anarchy. Wouldn't you like us to bring some order--some civility?"
"Civility?! Really?! Who do you think brought the anarchy Tyler?"
"Terrorists. Terrorists and ruthless people."
"Well Tyler, you've given yourself a white cowboy hat--haven't you? Don't be so quick until you really understand what your government's been doing."
"I don't know what you--well maybe I do--now. It’s difficult for me to fathom what this type of life is like,” I said. “I have lived my entire existence in a sterile, ordered environment. On one hand, you could say that it is infinitely better, but on the other hand--"
“On the other hand, what?”
I tried to sit up again and fell back down in pain. Resigned to a lying position, I looked up at the ceiling, earthen and covered with wood.
"You built this place yourself Samuel?"
"It shows doesn't it," he laughed again. "Not really me--years before--but it's safe, underground. Not very pretty I guess--but you could walk right by it and wouldn't even see it."
"That's a big advantage?"
"Absolutely--Big Simon and his goons aren't the only dangerous people in this city."
"It's soo different," I said.
"You'd know better than me Tyler--but I could only imagine what type of life you've lived."
“I haven't really lived anything. It's like my whole life, all our lives in the space station, have been in a giant contained experiment, a very controlled environment; where every contingency and variable is carefully planned out. Anything that happens spontaneously is the subject of the experiment. As if there would be a panel of distinguished scientists observing, taking notes; maybe to learn something useful to help real people, with real lives, like you.”
Samuel thought about that for a second, and then chuckled. “The thought of anyone really interested in helping the people of this God-forsaken planet is quite amusing really. But really, you really are from the space station?”
“I don't know how to prove it to you, but--yes, I really am.”
“It doesn’t seem quite real. I knew the second I saw you and your friends that it was possible. On a clear night, you can see the space station in the sky. The space ships pass across the sky, with their red, green, and white lights shining. Travelers have told us that the space ships arrive on Earth at a domed station. We watch the transit in awe. Many stories and fables are told about you and your society. The few curious people left on Earth who make an effort to understand our surroundings, like myself, know you exist, but everyone wonders about who you really are. The space station and its residents have taken on an almost god-like persona—to many here on Earth—it is more of a devil-like persona. Many vagabonds and travelers who wander into town with a stolen or found weapon have claimed to be from the domed city or space station, just to provoke or intimidate, but you do look different. I could see it in your eyes.”
“What do you mean?”
“The way you looked at everything in this hell-hole. You could see the true shock on your faces. You could tell it truly was all new to you. Everyone, even the out-of-towners, they have a look of worn desperation on their faces. I have traveled and met many strangers on this planet, people from far away, but there is no salvation here on Earth, everywhere is in ruins, at least as far as I can tell. The strangers, the travelers, they can try and pretend, pretend they're different, but you can see it in their eyes. You, you and your friends, I really thought you were different--but it's just so hard to believe.”
“Is that why you followed us?”
“Yes, that's why.”
“What is your interest in us?”
He started to speak, and then paused, but then composed himself to say, “In the middle of this cruel desert of oppression and lawlessness, I’m trying to keep the flame of history, science, the truth, alive. I am like one of the Celtic monks of the dark ages. Fanatical forces ruled the world during the darkest times in medieval Europe, trying to stamp out the flame, trying to keep people mired in ignorance, using religion as an excuse to stamp out the dangers of literature, of science, of independent thought. Now we have warlords, they had the same back then, coming from barbarian tribes, coming from remnants of once powerful empires; ruthless megalomaniacs striving to conquer and control. During these dark times, isolated on their island, away from the hostilities of the mainland, the Celtic monks worked quietly, timidly, away from the powers that ruled and oppressed, under the guise of religious salvation. They maintained and translated the works of the ancient Greeks, the writings of history; they kept the flame alive through the dark ages. It is essential.”
“What is Europe?”
Samuel laughed. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t laugh. I guess your life really has been isolated. I have so many questions too. I can see that your life experience has kept you quite apart from Earth and its history. The point I was trying to make, in a most roundabout way, was how essential it is to keep the flame alive, the flame of knowledge, of history, of humanity’s story.”
“Why is it essential?” I asked.
“Why essential! Because the world will not stay like this! Reason, rationality, order—it will return! And we need to know our story.”
“Why?”
“Because… because those who do not learn from history are condemned to repeat it.”
“I don't really know what--how that's gonna help?” I said.
"Look at the state of the world above,” Samuel said, waving his arms over his head. “You see the dark chapter the story of man is at right now? You see what our ignorance and hatred has brought us? Don’t you think we have to analyze, to learn from these mistakes?”
“Yeah, I’m sure you’re right; but I'm confused--there's a lot I don't know. I’m starting to realize that now.”
“You know nothing—nothing?” Samuel said.
“They don’t teach much about the past in the space station. We know about the terrorist attacks that killed everyone… but… but it's beginning to sound like just a story, so I guess I don’t know anything.”
“You must tell me Tyler,” Samuel said, grabbing my wrist suddenly. “You must tell me everything about the space station, about the life up there. It is completely foreign to me. I am continuing the work of my mother, and her father before her. I am trying to keep the flame alive. What you know is so important. Its pages that are missing. Do you understand?”
“I am so confused Samuel. I thought I knew what was happening in this world, but now, I see people suffering. It was not supposed to be like this… innocent people suffering. These bombs—where do they come from?”
He let go of my wrist, backing up.
“Where do you think they come from?”
“I guess the terrorists? You call them holy warriors, I guess them?”
“Is that what you really think? Do they have the technology, or the organization? The holy warriors are the same as Big Simon, just with a little bit more hypocrisy. You just don’t get it, do you? You poor, innocent soldier.”
“I don’t get what?”
“It is you, your government, your military; it is the only way, the only answer.”
“That’s ridiculous!” I said, rising painfully to an upright position. “Maybe there are other powers on the Earth, sophisticated terrorists who could wage such a war.”
“I thought your government told you the whole world is in ruins; that all that is left are primitive terrorists—to be eradicated,” he said. “Why, oh why, would they send you here?”
“We are,” I said, “we are here to penetrate into the terrorists’ network, to help eradicate them.”
“The terrorist network?” Samuel laughed. “There is no network, no structure. Sure, we've tried to build. I’ve been alive through several of the bombing campaigns, thanks to my solid bomb shelter here, and every time we build anything, it's torn down again. Any time we manage to plant seeds of some sort of societal order, the bombs come again.” He held my shoulders, looking at me. “I want you to wake up. I saw you helping people out there. I know you have a heart. I saw you react. I knew you could be reached. I have taken a great chance with you, but I need your knowledge. There is so much you don’t know, don’t realize, but what you do know is a missing piece to the puzzle. Please Tyler, I need your help. I know you're young, easily influenced, but you can’t deny what you see with your eyes. There are innocent people out there. I need your story to keep the flame alive.”
I tried to turn over, away from him, but it was painful to even try.
“Look,” Samuel said, “I’m sorry to be so adamant. You’re a young man, part of a system, this world, this situation, is not your creation.”
There was a long silence.
“No, you’re right, I said, "I have to wake up. I'll tell you what I know about my life and society, but first, help me to try and understand. How did you end up here, holed up in this bunker?”
“I will tell you Tyler. I'm sorry. I should leave you time to heal, but I'm so anxious. I can see you're anxious too. We can help each other—to understand. Where should I start?" Samuel rubbed his bald head as if stimulating it into action.
"I guess you have to go back two generations. You have to go back to my grandfather’s day, before the great apocalypse, before 2084. My grandfather was working with an illegal organization called Amnesty International. First of all, you have to understand the world as it was. The burgeoning science of telecommunications became more and more tightly influenced and controlled by governments and business interests. International trade brought countries closer and closer together."
Samuel began to walk around me, waving his arms passionately.
"Soon, the divisions of countries became a nuisance to the few most powerful corporations. Countries were merged on a regular basis, freeing up trade routes, reducing cumbersome duties and separate domestic and foreign trading policies, until there were only a few countries left in the world. Sometime after the middle of the 21st century, there was a great international referendum, and the world government was created. This was all done under the guise of democracy, but the fact is, if you control the media, you can control democratic elections. The masses were easily appeased; just reassure them that everything is all right. Tell them what they want to hear."
"My head is killing me Samuel," I sat up, rubbing my forehead, "where did your family fit it to this?"
“My grandfather lived in this world; this world eaten up and controlled by the few, the most powerful—and he fought the good fight—to keep the flame alive. Together with his compatriots, they fought against the tyranny that kept the world down, but it was no use. My grandfather, same as my mother and myself, are strong proponents of non-violence. What is the point of violent struggle against the biggest, strongest bullies in the world? You're attacking their strongest point, victory is impossible. In the 20th century, great civil rights leaders like Mohandas Gandhi and Martin Luther King proved that irrefutably. Unfortunately, there were many others that did not have the same peaceful approach to revolution. Throughout many walks of life, from diverse ethnic backgrounds, terrorists --as they were called-- sprung out of the woodwork—fighting fire with fire. The world was becoming a very unsafe place. There were always bombs going off in the major urban centers. It was a fearful time. It was easy for the World Government to point to these violent extremists, their horrific actions; and then vilify everyone with an agenda against the government—peaceful or not. Ironically, these terrorists did more to solidify the World Government’s hold on power than anything else. These terrorists were playing right into the tyrants’ hands, attacking their strongest point—and common people were the ones paying the price."
He sat down in his chair, slumping; his speech less passionate.
"In my opinion, both sides of these violent confrontations were cut from the same mould. They need each other to survive, to thrive in their world of lust and anger. It's the people in the middle who really suffered--are suffering--people who wanted a peaceful, just society for all—like my grandfather."
Samuel got up again; this time walking over beside me--staring at me intently.
"But my grandfather was not a pie-eyed optimist. He could see things weren't going well. It was he who created this shelter, and in it, he created databases of as much of world history, literature, art, and science as he could amass. He also kept his own journal. His personal account of what was going on. He was alive on that fateful day in 2084 when the cataclysmic nuclear attacks devastated society as we knew it. He had already taken to living in the shelter with his wife and two kids. It was a terrible way to raise a family, a terrible way to live; but what choice did he have? The only solace he had was knowing he was keeping the flame of knowledge, of the truth, alive. It was this legacy that he passed on to my mother, and now to me. But I have no family, no one to leave this legacy to; and I wonder what the importance of it is now. I wonder if man will ever come out of this dark age.”
Samuel sighed and walked over to his desk, looking at the primitive computer boxes he had stored beside them.
“These databases, they contain as much of human history as three generations of my family have been able to amass; but for what? What've I really done? I report on the never-ending cycle of bombs, fights between warlords, and the amalgamation of religious beliefs into one all-consuming hatred of the domed city, of the shuttles coming from the space station. You, my dear friend Tyler, have become the Great Satan. You, and all your World Government brethren have become the unifying factor for all the fundamentalist crackpots, at least in this corner of the Earth. These religious terrorists, they corrupt young, desperate, angry kids. They send them off to attack your dome, to be murdered. This is your great threat. I think more than anything, this fascination, this obsession with these misguided fanatics, is more to distract you from your government’s real goal.”
“Distract us from what goal?”
“I don’t know. I am here in my hole, trying to decipher whatever I can. Sometimes I think I’m weak, just a coward. I shelter myself, apart from the real world, keeping my journal; all the time hoping that someone else does something to improve the world. And then I can give my report—hand in my homework. Do you think what I’m doing is worthwhile?”
“I don’t know how to answer. It's all coming too fast. I don't know what to believe any more.”
Samuel looked at me carefully and nodded in agreement. I think he understood what I meant, had sympathy for my struggle. I had to ask him:
“Your skin, your face, is that natural? Or because of the nuclear fallout?”
He was a little shocked, but then quite amused.
“You’ve never seen anyone like me, a black man?”
“Black? You’re not black, more of a light brown.”
He laughed.
“Yes, I suppose you're right. There are no ‘light brown’ people on the space station?”
“No, everyone is of the Caucasian race. I see many different types of people here on Earth. It doesn’t make sense. We were taught that Caucasians were the only race with the genetic makeup to survive the nuclear fallout.”
“There are only whites, or as you so biologically-correctly call them—Caucasians on the space station?”
“Yes.”
Samuel sighed, waiting several moments before finally saying, “It's the Nazis and the Holocaust, Pol Pot and the Khmer Rouge, the same horrible story all over again, but on an even grander scale.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Just think about this Tyler. You've been taught that only your race survived the nuclear attacks of 2084, but you can see for yourself that that's not the truth. Why do you think that is?”
With a great effort, I raised myself up.
"Take it easy Tyler."
"I'm okay, I'm okay."
I walked over to where he was sitting and told him:
“It IS very important what you do.”
“Do you really think so?”
“If we ever want to learn from history, if we ever want to evolve—yes, it is.”
“Then you must tell me everything you can about your life.”
**
“Just a minute,” Samuel said, closing the trapdoor and covering it with vegetation. Samuel went behind a bush and opened another trap door. I looked in. There was an engine humming.
“That’s my generator, very efficient,” he said. “It's my greatest chore to get fuel for this engine. I turn it off as often as I can. We need to conserve power. Who knows when people will stop finding gas? It's why I work hard to transfer all my work to paper, just in case. I don’t want everything I do to be based on a resource which could disappear any day.”
He went down a ladder, to the hole where the engine was stored. I looked down at him just as he shut it down. He stroked the engine like a child.
“I must find my friends,” I called down to Samuel. He looked up at me and said:
“I will take you to where they were when I dragged you away. It's not that close, I have to say. You don’t remember how long it was.”
Samuel came up the ladder and closed the trap door again. He went behind some more bushes and came out with a leg-powered vehicle with a trailer on it.
“This is my bike,” Samuel said. “You get to ride in the back.”
I looked at the crude trailer, made up of a box-like cage. It did not look very comfortable. Samuel saw the way I looked at the trailer and said, laughing, “You didn’t complain on the way down here.”
"Maybe it wasn't the explosion? Maybe it was the ride in your trailer that has my body so racked up?"
"Seriously doubt THAT!" he said, laughing.
We went out on the road, if you could call it that. It was more like a clearing along the riverbank. We bounced along this byway, heading in the direction of a rickety old bridge that crossed the river. It looked only in slightly better shape than the completely unusable bridge I had seen on the other side of the city. When we made it to the foot of the bridge, he stopped and smiled at me.
“Yes, we have to cross it. It's safer than a boat. The current is very strong.”