The Collapse Letter XXV: Failing Commerce

17 August 20XX

My Dear Lucilius:

Our traffic has dwindled to almost nothing in the two weeks or so since my last shopping trip – in the past week, I have maybe seen six cars drive along the road that passes in front of my house.

Our little town, that had virtually no business in it, has almost none now. The RV park/bar is still open, but with no fuel and dwindling alcohol supplies there is little enough left to attract folk. Most of the RVs have left by now in search of fuel in towns farther away and I suspect the few remaining will follow – I have been counting them as I make my daily stroll around town to get out and stretch my legs. The campground I did my laundry at is still open as well, although even his supplies are dwindling as well.

Our post office/gas station has essentially become the post office and nothing else – the RVs leaving took the last of the fuel and it is unknown when, or even if, a replacement delivery will be made. The town gathers once a week now for mail delivery every Wednesday to parcel out the packages and letters that have been stored up (interestingly, junk mail still seems to make its way through. Good for kindling if nothing else).

By the end of the month, if not sooner, I suspect commerce will have completely died out here if nothing else changes.

The InterWeb suggests that the towns north and south of us still have supplies and are in business, but I suspect that everyone is holding out because of the risk of having no additional fuel – a round trip is not less than 50 miles to the nearest town of size and the need has to be balanced against the risk of wasting the fuel. I have been constructing a list of things that I think I will need to secure on one last trip; I keep trying to decide when I have reached the maximum amount of benefit of the trip versus the risk that things will start becoming depleted.

The quiet is amazing.

Without the traffic, the surrounding hills and even the town are almost dead quiet. One can hear the occasional shouts of children or the barking of dogs, or even the sound of cattle farther out. But really nothing else – human voices are kept low or inside and if people are playing music or the news, I surely cannot hear it.

I have lived through the time that men touched the stars; it seems that I will now live through the time that men scarcely hear or know their neighbors.

Your Obedient Servant, Seneca