The road stretched before Steve like a normal-length ribbon, slate gray and the width of two cars plus the lines and the shoulders, which themselves varied in size and called into question the decision-making process behind the creation of what were once vital through-ways of human life. The schnauzer’s head rested on the base of the window, its tongue lolling down on the seat. A spreading patch of wetness expanded in all directions and Steve tried to bothered more by the spread of his own blood across the upholstery and failed. Fortunately for the comfort of the schnauzer Steve had to drive with his right arm, his left useless for anything other than bothering him with its pain.
They’d made it to cruising speed, which was good, but unfortunately so had the go-cart, which trailed behind them like an angry, single-minded wasp. Steve, for one, counted it as fortunate that they hadn’t been shot at yet but that was as far as he was willing to concede to the situation, since he didn’t know why or whether it was possible for the denizens of said go-cart to reverse the situation. But everyone’s status remained in limbo, good enough to be carrying on with as they motored along between the trees. The situation was, Steve thought, untenable.
His problem, as he saw it and was right about, was that a go-cart carries many of the same features and benefits that a truck does, especially once stripped of any sort of speed-governing device and attacked with aplomb by a skilled mechanic. Knowing something of militias, or at least their perception, from the time back when he was a restauranteur or a bank clerk, he suspected at least one of their number fell into that category and therefore, he reasoned, his plan for ditching them needed some degree of true panache if he wanted to ditch them before they figured out where he lived. He considered his options.
We believe, to a degree, in maps. We suspect you do as well- in their informative power and directional guidance, of course, but we consider their veracity to be potentially suspect. Think of the earth, the round ball (we will, for a moment, dismiss the crazies, with an acknowledgement that doing so is at our own peril and comes with some significant risks) you live on and contribute to upon the ceasing of electricity through your neurons. Show us a practical, spherical map. We thought not.
The challenges inherent are not lost on us. Where would you put a map which conforms to the requirements of geological space constraints? How would you carry it? The rise in digitalization strikes one as a compromise but for a second assume some catastrophic loss of access. Could you make it to the grocery store?
Now, you embrace the concepts of a map, flawed as they may be, because they do the thing they offer to do. So do we. But it begs the question, when and where are the hammers going to fall that must in order to punish users for centuries of disinclination to challenge their flawed presentational ideal? When, exactly, will the ferryman be paid for their hubris? We don’t know, but we do understand that to look at a map and trust what you see is normal, and that it’s also going to bite you. For all you know, it’s already bitten us.
Steve, having once been a forest ranger or motorcycle mechanic or tattoo artist, found it much more freeing to think he knew where he was going, and, blessed with a sense of direction some might call preposterous, it usually worked out for him. Considering this, and seeing a side road that led off into the woods, he veered sharply and, having grabbed the schnauzer’s collar with one hand, held on for dear life with the other as the truck creaked to the side like a dying whale and shot off down the pseudo-paved improvisory escape route. When he was once again on four wheels and breathing, he checked the rear-view mirror. All happy, bearded face and fangs. Pivoting, he checked the side view mirror, to see if it would give him that little half-glimpse they give of what’s behind, which is especially useful during moves and has led to the collision of more than a small number of over-reliant people. The go-cart had followed.
One of the things, he reasoned, that he was always going to lose was the battle of agility with the frankensteined children’s toy behind him. It did not surprise him that they had followed, and with aplomb, seeming to have gained ground during the screeching careen onto this odd forest digression. But he also reasoned that among the battles he might win were those of durability and recovery. Steve slammed on the brakes.
He heard the tailgate slam up and lock into place, for which he was grateful given the presence of a live animal in the heretofore unclosed truck bed, and then closed his eyes and braced himself for collision by doing his best to relax every muscle in his body. He heard the go-cart skid, the tires doing their best to impede their parent’s progress and clearly failing in the short term. He heard two men shout, fearful, inarticulate, and with a doppler effect that made Steve deeply uncomfortable. Then he felt the impact, the screeching shove that made the truck shudder and slide forward in spite of his foot on the brake.
He opened his eyes and did not see the deep eternal black of infinity, the red of blood, or a single halo, blue elephant, or virgin. Nodding and reasoning that it was as likely he was still alive as not, he turned to see if the schnauzer was with him in whatever reality he had come out in on the other side of his invited collision, received a sloppy, sandpaper lick across his face, and slammed on the gas.
The forest road continued for a while, gravel and dirt alternating with pavement. Periodically Steve checked the rear view mirror, but the go-cart didn’t return. After a few minutes, hitting cruising speed a few times but mostly traveling at catch-me speed since he didn’t want them to unexpectedly and accidentally follow him, he decided that whatever had been the result of the crash a functioning go-cart was not it and began consulting his nose for the best way to get back on his homeward track. Soreness crept into his body, particularly his neck and his torn, bloody shoulder, and the thought of a bath and bed became the sole driver of his energies as he ambled homeward.
We think you’ll agree that Steve handled this well enough. He certainly kept his cool in a situation one might not have expected a former gas station attendant or late-night Motel 6 concierge to have done. Assuming, with some level of security inherent within, that you’ve never been in a high speed chase we can tell you with some satisfied certainty that they are not typically low-stress affairs. Steve has come through with aplomb, which is probably connected in some small way to the simple fact that he survived at all, notwithstanding, obviously, the initial round of luck that anyone who wants even a chance at post-apocalyptic success must be privy to. He survived, in short, because these kinds of stresses became, at some point, normal, and therefore did not shut his brain down the way going to a gelato shop on a second date might previously have done.
Unfortunately, those same stressors and adaptations must necessarily have applied to the opponents from whom he wished to escape: that group of former unicorn CEOs or hobos from the lower Midwest who had rallied together and formed what must be acknowledged as a safer group and attempted a re-do of society on their own terms.
And as Steve pulled out onto the road that would, through a series of connections not immediately apparent to those without a true nose for direction, led him home, the battered drone dodged, dipped, ducked, dove, and dodged after him with its camera intermittently transmitting his location, before running out of battery on the east side of town and crashing with aplomb into the sales kiosk of a magazine stand. It never occurred to either one of them that the world might soon be drowning in a fire set by a spark somewhere deep within the bowels of the machine.
