Foolish Phantoms: A Post-Apocalyptic Epic (The Book of Tribulation: Volume 1)

by Sam Clark

  She announced her finish with a flourish of her hand that seemed to wave away the possibility of further discussion. She leaned back in her chair, feeling rather satisfied with herself‌—‌so much so that she didn’t even bite her cheek to suppress her natural smile.

  James, however, was no longer smiling. “Two points. First, what was done was a nuclear holocaust. Hundreds of millions of people, maybe billions, instantly vaporized by nuclear warheads, and they were the lucky ones. They did not have to live through what likely came next. The complete breakdown of society, a war of all against all. A real-life state of nature, not an imagined one like those found in Hobbes or Locke. Killing your fellow man just to live one more day, only for someone else to come slit your throat while you slept.” James drew his hand violently across his own neck in a slashing gesture. It was so out of character that Czarina flinched slightly.

  “Of course,” James continued, “this whole life-and-death struggle would, I suspect, turn out to be entirely pointless. There would not be nearly enough food and clean water left to sustain those who lived through the initial onslaught, at least not in any large settlement. Dysentery alone would likely account for a death toll in the hundreds of millions globally.

  “For those who did manage to, somehow, live through all that, the likely reward: a slow, painful death from cancer, owing to the radiation. So while focusing on what is might have brought preservation in the sixteenth century, it brought nothing but ruin in the twenty-first.”

  James took a breath, and before he could resume, she interjected, “Do you think there are any people left‌—‌besides us, I mean?”

  James opened his mouth to speak but then paused, as if deciding whether to accept her proposed digression. “It is… difficult to say. Einstein used to think there would be enough people and books left over after a nuclear war that humanity could bounce back, in time. Then, as he got older and bombs got bigger, he grew more skeptical, thinking a nuclear war would likely spell the end.

  “There used to be some seven and half billion people on earth. I have no doubt this number has been drastically reduced. If I had to guess, I would suspect there are a few hundred million people left, and as you can see from your surroundings, plenty of books survived.”

  While she had, at first, simply been trying to distract James, she was truly interested. He had never really talked about this before. History lessons had always stopped at the closing of the bunker doors. “Do you think they live underground like us?”

  “While I am sure there are some other poor souls who live in underground bunkers, I suspect it is a relatively small percentage of the remaining population. Most of the survivors would be from places that were not directly bombed. I suspect large portions of Africa and Latin America were spared, although I cannot be certain. None of those states were particularly relevant in global affairs, at least in terms of traditional security issues. However, many African states were dependent upon the West for aid, and it is likely that many infectious diseases‌—‌Ebola, for instance‌—‌may have run rampant throughout the continent in the wake of a nuclear war. Even on the continents that were directly involved, it is likely that more sparsely populated areas were not directly impacted by the bombings. Of course, they would have been affected by the destruction of the electrical grid, and the lack of access to treated water.”

  James took his glasses off and set them on the desk while rubbing his eyes with his other hand. “Hell, it’s unlikely this area would have been directly targeted. Maybe a few of the military installations, but they would have been targeted with smaller yield bombs. Otherwise, what is there to blow up in South Dakota? Wall Drug?” James smiled, and his eyes got a far-off look for just a second, like he was looking back in time, then he continued. “However, there’s no telling what sort of effects the fallout would have had and how widespread they would have been. We do know from the compound’s surface sensors that background radiation levels in our immediate environs are elevated to dangerous levels, but not necessarily so high as to preclude the possibility of human habitation. Some places are no doubt much worse in this regard, while some are better. There are certainly still areas with clean water. We know that, as our own water source is uncontaminated‌—‌well, after filtration, at least. We also know temperatures in this area are a bit cooler than they used to be, but only a few degrees on average. A mild nuclear winter, if you will‌—‌not an ideal solution to global warming, but a solution nonetheless, I suppose.

  “Eventually, people will rediscover all the skills that let them survive in the pre-industrial world, and if they haven’t already, they will grow tired of the indiscriminate violence and form themselves into collectives for protection. Of course, that won’t end the violence. It will just transform it, to collectives fighting one another for access to resources, or because they don’t like the way the other group prays, thus beginning the whole damned cycle over again‌—‌unless, by some miracle, we learn our lesson and come up with a way to live peaceably with one another. So you see, girl, it all comes back to philosophy.”

  “So why don’t we leave the bunker, go out and find other sur—”

  “Czarina, we are never leaving this bunker. And not just because the bunker’s environmental systems suggest there are still unsafe levels of radiation present in the air, either.”

  The force with which James crushed the possibility of leaving the bunker hit her like a fist. The air suddenly felt hot and thick in her lungs. All the book piles seemed a lot higher and a lot closer. She took a deep steadying breath. You will not do this in front of James. You are fine. You knew it was impossible.

  After taking a few more deep breaths to make sure her voice was steady, she asked, “Why not?”

  “This brings me to my second point, Czarina. You are every bit as much an idealist as I am. The only difference is, your idealism is dangerous. It is dangerous because it is not suitable for your current reality, whereas idly speculating on philosophy is a perfectly appropriate pastime for a man of my age. You sit dreaming of leading armies and ruling nations, but you will never leave this bunker.”

  To punctuate his statement James slapped a hand down on the desk. This time her grandfather’s unexpected action had no effect. She was still as a stone.

  “Every six months,” James continued, “I sit in that meeting where we decide whether to leave, and every six months, stay wins. The vote is not even close, Czarina. Stay wins by a landslide. Thirty or thirty-five years ago, it was close, but that was at a time when most of the community had lived outside the bunker. They remembered what life used to be like. Then your great-grandfather died, and militia leadership started to gradually shift toward those who were too young to remember the outside world. The votes started to tilt more and more toward stay.”

  Some of the edge that had crept into James’s voice subsided as he continued. “Most people here do not know any other kind of life. They were born in this bunker, they will live their whole lives in this bunker, and they will die in this bunker. That is their reality, and they all recognize it and accept it. It is also your reality, but you refuse to deal with what is and instead focus on what you wish was.” He gestured toward the picture of Napoleon hanging on the wall.

  “I will be honest, Czarina. I still vote to leave every time, and I used to want to leave. Not anymore, though. I only vote to leave because I know it will never happen.

  “Do you know why we stay? I mean, we could have left any time we wanted. We have radiation suits, weapons, anything you could possibly need to at least go look around. The reason we stay is because living in this bunker is not terrible. Even compared to the world before World War Three, it is pretty good. We are safe. There is plenty to eat. It tastes like shit, but still. I get to spend time with my grandchildren, and I get plenty of reading done.

  “Even as far as militias go, this one is not so bad. For instance, it is not overtly racist. Of course, everybody is white, and the most Jewish thing down here is m
y ‘mensch’ coffee mug.” James paused for a second, a smile creeping onto his face, accentuating the wrinkles around his mouth and eyes as it did.

  “Do not tell anybody I said living in this bunker is not awful. I have a reputation to maintain.”

  For the second time in as many minutes, she was totally defeated.

  At that moment, she heard the door opening. There was no mystery about who it was. Isabella always came back to the room during the brief afternoon recess cadets were afforded.

  “Hey, guys, whatcha doing?” Isabella said in a sing-song voice.

  She walked over to the board and began looking it over, her shoulder-length brown hair falling to cover her heart-shaped face. As she did, she began to absentmindedly play with her necklace, which consisted of five South Dakota commemorative quarters on a piece of twine.

  James’s grin faltered. At least there was a victory there for Czarina, even if it was a cheap one.

  “I’m losing at chess, again,” Czarina said. Much to her disgust, there was a slight tremor of anger in her voice that she couldn’t excise as she continued. “What were you doing with Steve today?”

  “Eating, dummy.”

  “How long has this been going on?” Czarina demanded.

  “I don’t know. A couple of days, maybe a week. You’d know if you ever got out of bed, Rina.”

  “You shouldn’t be hanging around him.”

  “Steve’s nice.”

  “No, he’s not, Izzy.”

  “Well, he’s nice to me.”

  “That’s because he wants something from you.”

  Isabella rolled her eyes.

  “Look, I don’t think you should sit with him anymore.”

  “I don’t recall asking for your opinion, Rina, and besides, it’s just breakfast.”

  Czarina turned to James, expecting some support. James knew what Steve had done to her. How dangerous he could be.

  James shrugged his shoulders slightly and said, “Let it go, girl. It’s best to let these things run their course.”

  She couldn’t believe it. What were they thinking? No, that was the problem. Clearly, neither one of them was thinking at all. Fine. It’s like James says, you can lead a person to knowledge, but you cannot make them learn. Czarina pushed her chair back from the desk and stood. “I’m going for a run.”

  As she moved to leave, James laid a hand on her arm. “Czarina—”

  “It’s fine,” she said, brushing past James and making for the door.

  EIGHT

  Location: Edward Falls

  Date: 5-1-61

  It was nearly the perfect spring evening. A pleasant breeze blew in through the bank of open windows on the western-facing wall, bringing with it a sweet floral aroma, which Preston inhaled deeply. The view from those windows was exquisite. The sky was a kaleidoscope of pinks, purples, oranges, and reds. A sliver of yellow sun peeked over the vibrant greens of a copse of black walnut trees off in the distance.

  As he moved away from the windows and toward the sitting area, he caught the barest hint of citrus on the air. But it didn’t come from any fruit. It came from Kathy’s neck, and smelled all the better for it. Sadly, the intoxicating, subtle fragrance of Kathy was quickly overpowered by the acrid odor of burning oil as a servant began lighting the lamps for the evening.

  However, he could still enjoy the view of Kathy, which was every bit as exquisite as what he saw from the window. She wore her raven hair up this evening in an elaborate series of twists and braids, which accentuated her long, elegant neck. Her exquisite scarlet sundress served to draw the eye to her shapely arms. He took a moment to watch those muscles dance as Kathy worked her knitting needles, humming softly to herself. She was working on some new winter clothes for Roger. With effort, he ripped his eyes away when she set aside her work to take a sip of iced tea.

  He took up his glass of whiskey, a pre-apocalyptic vintage far superior to any of the swill being produced now, then turned back to the windows. He took a moment to watch the last visages of daylight filter through the glass and highlight the whiskey's deep amber color. After taking a small sip, he smiled as a liquor-induced warmth blossomed throughout his mouth and down the back of his throat.

  He walked over to the antique roll-top desk where Roger sat, diligently working through a set of arithmetic problems Preston had given him. Preston watched as Roger’s pencil moved across the page with a faint scratching sound. He took another small taste of whiskey and felt its gentle warmth begin to reach his chest.

  And the best part of the evening was that Edison was nowhere to be found. No doubt training until it became too dark to see.

  Preston returned to the sitting area and took a seat across from Kathy. As he did so, he let out a contented sigh. Kathy looked at him over her knitting with her too-blue eyes and smiled at him. The warmth blooming in his chest now had nothing to do with the whiskey. He smiled back.

  Nearly perfect. As happy as he was, he had to struggle to keep the seed of rage in his stomach from growing. The struggle was never ending. It all should have been his. He was the first-born son. He should have married Kathy to bring the family new lands. He should have been drinking his whiskey, watching his son doing lessons. Rhodes Manor should have been his home. Edward Falls should have been his city. But it wasn’t. He was just a glorified houseguest.

  As Kathy’s eyes returned to her work, the smile fell off Preston’s face. He set his whiskey glass down on a black-walnut side table and then got up and walked back over to his nephew to check on his progress again. He needed a distraction. When he got to the desk he tussled Roger’s dark hair, trying to recapture the fantasy.

  After looking over Roger’s work for a moment, Preston said, “Very good, son. However, you made a rather careless mistake on the third problem. You have to remember to check your work.”

  Roger set the pencil down and glanced up at him with eyes like his mother’s.

  “Why do I have to learn math? I hate it. My dad doesn’t do math. He’s a famous warrior. And I’m gonna be one too.”

  “That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t learn math, Roger. And it’s ‘going to,’ not ‘gonna.’”

  “But why do I have to, when Dad never did?”

  “Because,” Preston said, “someday Rhodes Manor and Edward Falls will be yours. And you’ll need to know math to take care of them. As lord you’ll be expected to keep track of how many bushels of grain the tenants have paid. To know what a fair price for that grain is, in the markets of Maize City. To keep track of the family’s herds. To know how much money you have on hand to maintain the house. And on and on. How will you do any of it if you don’t know math?”

  “If my wife would join me in the bedroom, we could make Roger a little brother to do it for him. It’s worked well for me.”

  Preston turned to see his brother standing behind Kathy’s wingback chair, grinning as if he’d actually said something clever. Edison came around and kissed her neck. Kathy playfully swatted him on the arm and said, “Stop,” in a tone that clearly conveyed she’d be just fine if he carried on exactly as he was.

  When Edison finally did stop, he said, “How’s that sound, son? A little brother to do all this boring number stuff?”

  “It sounds good to me, Dad.”

  Preston smiled thinly at his brother. “That’s one way.” But then how will you know if your ‘little brother’ is robbing you blind?

  “Then it’s settled,” Edison said with a mischievous smile. “We’ll get started immediately.” He bent down and scooped Kathy up as if she weighed no more than a grain of rice and started walking from the room.

  “Behave yourself,” she squealed. “We have company, and I’ve more knitting to do. Winter’s always right around the corner.”

  “You know we’re rich, right? We can just pay somebody to do that,” Edison said still holding Kathy with the greatest of ease.

  “I like doing it, so why should I pay someone else? Now set me down,” Kathy said, pattin
g Edison affectionately on his chest, “before you make your brother uncomfortable.”

  “Oh, fine. You’re no fun at all,” Edison said, returning Kathy to the wingback. He then went and got himself a glass from the bar and filled it to the brim with whiskey. “And tell me, brother,” he said, “how much longer shall we have the pleasure of your company? Don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing I enjoy more than having you in my house, drinking my whiskey, but you make the missus modest.” Edison punctuated the statement with a wink.

  Preston tried to determine if Edison had placed undue emphasis on the word ‘my.’ And what did that wink mean? Was Edison hinting he knew he’d stolen Preston’s birthright? Or was it all just in Preston’s head?

  “I’m sure you’re eager to return to your lands,” Edison continued. “I hear Gann Valley still needs a bit of work. What’s the population these days? Ten? Eleven? I’m sure you’ll have it rivaling Rap City in no time.”

  Edison laughed at his own joke and then took a deep drink from his glass, sucking down nearly half its contents. “And how is Oglala these days? Have the Tribals let you visit yet?”

  “You know I haven’t been,” Preston responded evenly, refusing to give Edison the satisfaction of upsetting him.

  “Well, if you ever decide to leave my house and go for a visit, do be careful. I would hate for you to end up with a Tribal arrow in your back like Lord Brian.”

  “I appreciate your concern,” Preston said. Of course, Preston wasn’t the least bit concerned, since he was the ultimate cause of Lord Brian’s death, not the Tribal Nations.