The Last Colony

The day the government bailed out the auto industry, I was just a child napping in the backseat of my mother’s beat up sedan. With the fresh air passing through the open roof and the sun shining down on my eyelids, I was at peace. I remember hearing the passing hum of a bumble bee who nestled upon my hair and rested his wings for his midday flight. Sometimes I still dream about that moment, and I like to think back on it as a premonition. But when I do not dream, I exist in the darkness and wake up covered in the ashes and sand fluttering around after another passing sunset.

I find the murky light of the moon to be the best time to hunt for scraps. Most of my hunting is done when the sandstorms die down. Even back in the days when our technology was thriving, we never did learn to control the weather. I always have my gear folded neat and ready to go should the debris make its way into the air. My partner always recommends two layers under the coat, but it restricts my mobility. I hate running into other scavengers and not having full maneuverability just in case things get violent.

As I wipe away the crust and massage my eyes, I see my partner returning from another hunt.

“Fine night?” I ask.

“Fair,” he says. “Did I wake you?”

“Not hardly.”

The flaps of our tent waft in the dead winds.

I adjust my respirator and point towards the gray world.

“Do you mind?”

“Sure.”

He zips up the tent. I sit up.

“Thank you.”

He stares at me intently.

“You goin’ out tonight?”

“Yeah.”

“Wouldn’t recommend it.”

“Why not?”

“Clouds are buildin’ high. It’s gon’ rain tonight.”

“Jacket’s patched.”

“Since when?”

“Few days ago. I patched it.”

He huffs.

“You ain’t know nothing ‘bout no patch job ‘cept some duct-tape and cigarettes.”

He picks up my leather jacket, aged in wrinkles, scratches and dirt. The patch job looks half done, stitches uneven and random, but the cotton barely shows. It was a far better attempt than it should have been, so I am not worried about it. My partner shakes his head, smacking the fix.

“That ain’t gon’ stop the acid.”

“It’s not gonna rain.”

“Huh. Believe that if you want to.”

I reach under my mattress for my basin and begin to clean myself. I miss the days where I could lean into the nozzle and feel the water trickle down my face. That slow-motion and constant jet feeling, streaming on my skin, almost as if a wave from the ocean was challenging my nose to stay open and not drown.

With one hand I dip into the water and hold my breath while the other removes the mask. Now the challenge is to not breathe. The carbon in the air is as toxic to our lungs as whether we decide to keep breathing or not. Oxygen tanks have become our saving grace. I often wonder how I would fare at deep sea diving in the world of my childhood. But I always return to reality and remember I need to breathe.

As I put the ventilator over my mouth, I try to think back on a memory in which my cheeks and the bridge of my nose were not indented from the facemask. I come up empty. My partner returns to his mattress and opens a can of beans. The rusted blades of the can opener screech and he swears at the “damn fucker.”

Several agonizing twists later my partner arrives at his reward. He opens his mask, scoops the legumes into his mouth, puts the mask on and chews.

“Be your own man,” he snorts. “Just remember I told you, tonight’s a bad night.”

“Every night is a bad night. Only good nights left are the ones right around the corner. That way we pass them by, never to see them again.”

After struggling to rise from my mattress I gain the energy of an eternal god. I am not sure if it was the need to prove my partner wrong or if it was my drive to make it through one more shift, but I shimmied into my uniform and scarfed down my breakfast with a voracious craving for the hunt.

In the middle of the desert, I pass by the sign that reads, “Welcome to Oklahoma” and barely make out the remains of an eroded, “over the Excellence.” Under a graveyard of trees awaits a rusty friend.

My ATV is pretty-damn ironic when I think about it. We created the very machines that wiped out our existence. It did not happen through tall, chrome, gun-blazing robots. There was no A.I. program, and it was not a war erasing our countries. It was us versus nature, and Mother Nature pushed the button that made nuclear missiles look like toys.

The still gas ticker appears to be at half-capacity. I shuffle on my valiant steed and start the engine. She purrs a mumbled tune through the decrepit air and together we ride past the welcome sign and into the fog. The brown translucence casting over my goggles is a thrill. It keeps me alert, and on-edge, at all-times. At the very least, every drive is an adventure into the unknown.

I imagine a simpler life, the times of my ancestors and obstacles they faced in building a civilization. I see time pass like the fog, as their children screwed the ozone, created hotter summers, aided in deforestation, and watched the oceans rise. The first to die were the bees, then the flowers and trees. Only when the food supply started drying up did they begin implementing solutions. Scientists practiced cloning bees and watched as time ticked by. The farmers worked overtime to manually pollinate flowers. Politicians lied to keep the people in order, but everywhere the public was, so was panic. And my teenage years were spent learning how to adapt after the collapse.

By the time I pull over and empty what seems to be a year’s worth of urine stored in my bladder, I have arrived at the perfect spot for scavenging. I pull up my zipper and go check the gas tank. A tight call on fuel, but then again, it always was.

“Only a little while longer,” I think to myself.

Cruising through the dirt, I notice something strange about the ground. It is wet and smells like gasoline--that is a big problem. I check my oxygen tank and it has only moved a hair. Under the belly of my beast the wires are aligned perfectly. Above my head the stars and moon breakthrough a drift of clouds storing acid rain. But this wet patch is not acid rain. Someone made this intentionally, and I might be in danger.

Keeping a bent knee to the ground, I put the pieces together. Clearly the hunters were looking for someone to drive directly through the wet patch to make a trail easily enough to follow, possibly to rob. Or worse, a trap easy enough to run over and ignite in flames. The problem was man-made; the solution was simple.

I try to calm my nerves. Something about watching my whole world suffocate around me as I was struggling to understand myself really branded me. My motions are calm and collected, while my heart races, and my mind is triggered, blaring alarms.

With the engine turned off, I walk with my vehicle past a shelter hidden within the sandy veil. I hear silence as I creep in through the void. Just as I pass the hut, I hear an explosion in the distance. Behind me, a distant yellow hue glints in the darkness, and from the hut comes the sounds of whooping rallies and chants of thankful anticipation. The shadows of those who meant me harm run towards the accident and I escape with stuttering heaves of air.

Slowly I realize, “This trap wasn’t meant for me.”

Out of danger and in the security of the night I drove to the farmlands. I remember seeing shopping malls, laundromats, gas stations, and restaurants as a child, and wondering how a whole society gathered at marketplaces instead of living for the moment. I asked my parents before they passed if they would ever live in the jungle. My mother said it would be too uncivilized. Father told me nothing is more luxurious than work.

I begin searching the buildings for wires and scrap metals. Suddenly, the nature of honeybees makes sense to me. The conservation centers and greenhouses were the hives where our politicians and scientists acted as queen bees. Even after their destruction of the environment they could not find their humanity. Instead of allowing everyone space to live within the only source of fresh air left, and to rebuild the earth and all the life on it, they decided to expand that space for themselves. And our payment for fighting amongst ourselves for scraps? Just enough food, water, oxygen tanks, and provisions to keep us active, but not resistant.

We became the workers in a society that did not care whether we lived or died. The destruction of the Earth could not halt their greed. And so, every strand of headphones under the sofa, or snippet of lamp wire contributed to my survival. I searched every house and building until sunrise because our reality was based on a propaganda piece. My partner always calls it a hive mentality.

My bag is filling up with dust, which means I am also finding a lot of hidden treasures. With a pull like this I am tallying towards an extra tank of oxygen and half-portion of food. If my partner’s lucky enough during the hours of the beating sun, as I was during the cold and bitter night, we can buy him his own water and coast on half-portions for a month. Truth be told he was slacking on his end of our partnership because of his health wearing on him every day. Since I do not know how to help, I never say anything.

I tiptoe between abandoned apartment complexes, studying the lives that once occupied these spaces. Although my breathing steadies, I stay alert for bandits and killers in case someone tries to be slick and snag my stash. Sifting through the drawers of a stranger’s past life, I find pearl earrings, a heart-shaped locket, silver rings, and a bounty of treasures worth nothing to this society, forcing labor as a way of life. Still, I keep sifting through the rooms because I am not ready to give up.

In the final flat of the building, I slip into a backroom stocked with a workbench rundown by time and sweat. The variety of hammers, screwdrivers, ratchets, and tools that lived as a craftsman’s treasure chest seeped into my brain as the ecstasy of what they represent--security and food--making its way into my collection.

On the workbench I slide around papers and notice something so spectacular I abandon my work. I am in disbelief. My eyes begin to water as I lift my prize to my face. I hit the jackpot. Suddenly, the wealthy-the bureaucrats we created verdant buildings for, to safely watch us from-lost all their power. All their restructured skyscrapers and tall-window greenhouses mean nothing to me anymore. To most of the people living in the outskirts, they still believe we can live like them if we work hard enough.

I used to see them as manipulative monsters. But in this moment, I fall to my knees. In my hands, I hold the blueprints to the first model of artificial bees. For the first time in years, I see what the future could be; the people uniting, rebuilding the Earth. I still see me fighting, but now with a purpose. And for the first time in years, I believe in a better tomorrow.