The Collapse CXXII: Driving

21 June 20XX +1

My Dear Lucilius:

Driving. When was the last time I drove anywhere? When was the last time I even rode in the back of a truck?

The truck itself was a model I remember not just from just long ago but longer ago, as the rust patches and crumpled body portions attested to, confirmed by the letters on the front that were from a line that ended long ago. The driver smiled a bit as we piled into the back; it might not be in best condition, but it something he had been able to keep running himself long after newer units became too complex or parts became unavailable.

We were a mixed lot as we piled in, a collection of 10 or so individuals of various ages and sexes (although to be fair, mostly male) with wildly different equipment loads. The 5 or 6 people already in the bed nodded to us as they moved back and we moved in, trying to align ourselves and our packs in a way that the next round of travel would be bearable, if not comfortable.

With a lurch, the truck starts up again.

It was lovely early Summer day here, the sort that in times past would have made for a fine ride to somewhere else or even just to sit under the eaves and read. Now we slowly drive down the road at as speed that in years past would have caused someone to honk at us and then speed on by. The wind speed is so slow that we could carry a conversation if we wanted to. No one does.

The road is, perhaps surprisingly, in good shape – although I have to keep reminding myself that it has only been a year since maintenance truly stopped. Like many things time has stretched out in ways that seem remarkable to me. A year ago I was likely complaining about how some things were unavailable. Now, they all are.

We pass through the next town – literally a ghost town of old buildings from 180 years ago – where we collect a pair of older men. We ease around the side of the truck again; it is getting rather full at this point. We then continue the two miles up the road to the next town, which was the former county seat once upon a time when there was such a thing as a county. To the right as we pull into town is a parking lot as with two other trucks present. We pull in and park, extricating ourselves with care from the bed.

Not having ridden in a truck bed is so many years is telling, at least on me. I slowly creak my way out; Young Xerxes gives me a hand down.

As we gathered around the trucks, the head count I can get is about 40. We are a motley crew with similar characteristics to when we first loaded up: a mix of older and younger men and women (weighted toward older men, interestingly), some with the full hunting gear and a few with body armor and one fellow wear a sporting blazer – I suppose if one goes to war, one should look one’s best.

An older man hops up on the back of the truck bed gate. For the sake of discussion I will call him The Colonel, although if had ever held rank he never mentioned it (Colonel, as you may recall, was traditionally the rank given to those during the 17-18^th centuries who raised their own regiments). The two noteworthy things about him were his beard, long enough to be tied off in a holding queue, and the hardness of his visage. Next to him was The Captain, whom except for being slightly shorter and younger was a mirror image.

He thanked us first as we gathered around, for the commitment to our friends and neighbors and being willing to offer up a defense – a defense, he said, meant hope and hope meant a future. He knew were were likely all not soldiers or even hunters – that got a chuckle, especially from Blazer Man – but spirit and a sound plan could overcome a great many things. He asked for two things: for us to follow orders and trust those in charge – tall orders, he admitted, given the circumstances of our assembling.

The plan – there was a plan – would be handled as it became necessary. The first part of the plan involved getting to the site. There was a road to the next town over of course, but it was well known and rather exposed and it was assumed it was being watched – and of course, any traffic now would attract attention.

There was another option, though…

Like the Spartans at Thermopylae, there was another path. For them, it was goat track around Mt. Kallidromos leading to a position behind the Spartan lines at the pass. For us, it was a forest service road that went to the east and then dropped back down about 10 miles out of town to a road in. A chance always existed of being noticed of course, but a chance that was a reasonable one in that it would allow us to arrive unnoticed. The plan was to take the service road over the hill to the road and then hike the remaining distance into town, where we would stay for the night before moving out.

At this, he and the Captain hopped down. They began separating individuals into groups: some they obviously already knew, some they addressed questions to. As the groups grew, it was clear that the separation was between those that had military experience or even hunting experience and those who did not. Young Xerxes got swept up into the first group; I was swept up into the second group, which was perhaps ironically all populated by older men who looked more like scholars than soldiers.

The Colonel nodded and hopped into a truck, the rest of us following into the trucks that brought us. With a rumble of internal combustion, we were off.

Your Obedient Servant, Seneca