EMERGENCE (9 page)

Leaving this journal here in shelter for benefit of archeologists; keep separate book on trip. Can consolidate on return; but if plans go awry, this account still available for Posterity.

Well, time to go: Unknown beckons.

But have never felt so small. Awfully big world waiting out there.

For me.

VOLUME II

Seeking

Hi again, Posterity. Happy to see me? Or just surprised? Wish could be happier to see you. Should be, of course, and perhaps one day will be again. But just now view prospect of commencing this record with less than enthusiasm.

Appreciably less: Present overdue status not question of mere sloth, inefficiency; delay is product of sober consideration, sound reasoning. Entirely deliberate: been stalling.

But before condemning dilatory scribe out of hand, please attend, one, all; explanation follows, to wit:

Scared. No, not shaking-in-boots scared, not blood-turns-to-cottage-cheese scared; more an ominous-disquiet scared, two shivers qualmier than knock-on-wood scared. Leery of tempting fate.

See: commensurate with tenacious optimism expected of journeyman-grade Pollyanna, intend this record (together with previous journal [Vol. I], plus all subsequent memoirs) for future study by, ultimate benefit of, future generations—if any—tended in respectful, unhurried fashion by historians, students, archeologists in suitably dignified setting: Smith-Foster Post-Armageddon Historical Library & Archives.

Fond aspirations envision
lots
of subsequent volumes, eventually amassing truly impressive collection covering very long time span; accumulated in orderly manner by Library courtesy of Yours Truly through regular donations, personal delivery. (Key words here are
regular
and
personal:
Want no gaps—and especially don't want final volume dropped off by unwashed, travel-weary, buckskin-clad, intrepid explorer-of-unknown, plucked from God-knows-where.)

Foregoing tidy scenario intrinsic to present emotional well-being; implying, as does, long-range goals; own demise postponed many, many years hence; arriving (if ever) long after achieving revered status as beloved silver-haired
old
counselor; authentic sage, oracle
senectutis causa,
expiring gracefully in own bed amidst tearful mob of properly devoted descendants, admirers.

However (follow logic closely now): Longer journal commencement deferred, longer am able to ignore alternate possibilities—perhaps even probabilities—that impending events may interrupt record midchapter. Even midsentence. Until begun, this volume cannot be last in series. (Cannot be discovered incomplete amongst own bones somewhere on depopulated planet.)

Which is uncomfortable notion at best. Much prefer waiting until events justify more positive outlook, reasonable expectation of survival, living Happily-Ever-After.

(Curious behavior, must admit, for certified genius.)

However, personal problems are no excuse to compromise record; responsible histographer must face darkest prospects squarely, do job. True, this journal meant for proper delivery to proper audience; and if such be assured, could be prepared as well after the fact, at leisure, as minor adjunct to activities comprising Happy Ending. But if not—assuming worst: found under grisly circumstances by fellow involuntary ragtag explorer—even he entitled to complete account, within limits imposed by conditions.

Not least of which: very real doubt typical Bold Wanderer able to decipher Pitman shorthand. But would
be
no record in longhand: So inefficient, agonizingly slow; results bulky, burdensome to carry.

Besides, not my problem: shorthand system identified on cover, together with author, subject matter. Texts available at any library (most should stand, protect contents for centuries). My notes clear, straightforward; without unusual briefs, nonstandard phrase linkages. Given time, motivation, legible to anyone.

And must demand
some
effort from Posterity (regardless of whom may consist). Being furnished, after all, valuable detailed information on End of World. Not available at every corner newsstand.

As may be.

Peter Bell, trustworthy, reliable, responsible (according to Tarzan File—along with brilliant, sensitive, witty, handsome). Distinctly not sort to ignore constantly ringing phone. Or 50 messages on answering machine. To say nothing of known damsel (distress or otherwise quite immaterial; evidence suggests ain't many of us). Would have returned call had been home, gotten message. Since didn't, wasn't.

Certainly. I knew that.

But human—pardon, mean
Homo post hominem
—psyche surely most perversely useless corner of entire mind. Unreasonable beastie, downright illogical. Makes no sense at all for naked-eye confirmation of months-ago deduced fact to precipitate funk.

Move-out deliberate, unhurried, thorough; signs unmistakable: Doors, windows neatly shut; closets emptied, personal effects removed; utilities switched off at fuse box. Obviously had business elsewhere, went; had ample time to. Nothing about absence to create ominous doubts, assumptions, speculations. Simply moved. Period.

Granting which, enigma remains: Candidia Maria Smith-Foster, superkid, prize intellect in or out of research project—coldly analytical, logical; rational, etc., etc.—agitatedly pacing through Peter Bell's empty house; repeatedly peeking into empty closets, endlessly ransacking empty drawers; playing back empty answering-machine tape over, over again; wringing hands, streaming tears, sniffling, blubbering—

For almost three solid hours . . . !

Disgraceful performance: Behaving like maiden forsaken at altar. Atavistic. No justification.

Terry endured in relative silence, occasionally moving from one shoulder to other, shifting weight, intermittently shrugging to settle feathers. Comments limited to single low whistle when we entered obviously vacant premises, occasional "How
'bout
that" as time passed. No doubt embarrassed for me.

Wait.
No
justification?

Correction, please: Atavistic, true, but partially justified. . . .

Justified.

Entirely justified.

Justi-damn-fied all to pieces!

Why
not
upset? Months of hopes, anticipations, expections; long, hard trip—for
nothing!
Nary a clue—not even faintest hint remains to suggest destination, whereabouts.

Some superman . . . ! Inconceivable could go off without leaving note—self-respecting five-year-old
human
would expect me on doorstep eventually (if alive), leave forwarding address.

But perhaps being too harsh. . . .  Should take comfort instead from apparent discovery that certain fundamental behavioral principles transcend interspecies gulf; continue unchanged, intact, eternal; intrinsic to new race as was old. Datum no doubt scientifically fascinating in own right; of great satisfaction to researcher. But frankly, until now never troubled head over whether new species might boast thoughtless, self-centered, imbecilic male
twits!

Oh, dear. Just look—ink hardly dry following wallow through well-intentioned (if debatable) solicitude for plight of hypothetical NonScheduled Reader (NSR) and already hip-deep in tirade comprehensible
only
to proper audience. So sorry; will try to do better. Really.

By now NSR probably wondering what
H. post hominem
might be. Or Tarzan File. Or perhaps who Peter Bell is. Or Teacher. Or Terry. Or (at very least) me.

All right. Fair questions; deserve straight answers. So shall endeavor to bear in mind possible audience other than intended: Fellow survivor, perhaps—but demonstratedly better at it—someone lacking vantage of orderly progression from Vol. I (left in shelter library beneath address on cover, Index No. 1.1.1). Viewed in that light, however reluctantly, introductions are in order:

Name: Candidia Maria Smith-Foster. (Note: Nothing "sinister" about "bar"; used here proudly to honor adoptive parents together with kin.) Born 11 years ago to Smiths; orphaned ten months later; adopted by Dr. and Mrs. Foster—Daddy and Momma. Been known as Candy since first breath.

Beyond that (briefly):
Homo post hominem
is new species; originating during great influenza pandemic of 1918-19 through viral recombination of unborns' genes; apparently immune to all "human" disease, plus smarter, stronger, faster, etc.; discovered accidentally by researchers headed by Teacher (next-door neighbor, genius), aided by Daddy, while hunting for clues identifying genius-level children as newborns; emerging to inherit Earth after
H. sapiens
eliminated selves in short, efficient bionuclear war. Tarzan File Teacher's record of said research; identifying, profiling, locating all known hominems. Peter Bell
H. post hominem
associated with Teacher's research project; closest of project hominems to own age; best prospect of lot for future soulmate, according to matchmaking Teacher in letter constituting Last Words. Terry is own adopted twin brother (full name Terry D. Foster—initial stands for Dactyll); identical but for mental retardation and being Hyacinthine Macaw. Am myself
Homo post hominem.
Rode out war in Daddy's marvelous shelter; now engaged in walkabout, searching for fellow survivors. Of which reader must be one.

There. Clear enough?

No? Complaints—from NSR? Too brief? More confused now than before explanation?

Some
nerve!
If reader truly nonscheduled, then writer almost certainly
dead
. . . !

Wait, please don't sulk; surely can't expect sympathy from corpse—should be grateful for simple courtesy. . . .  True, could repeat entire background each time begin new journal—of course, volumes soon rival Tarzan File's bulk even before commencing new entries. But then why bother writing Vol. 1 in first place? So shan't; have better things to do.

Now: Tarzan File lists names, addresses of all AA, known AB hominems. But specifically, Teacher referred me to Peter Bell—AA superkid, smart as me (intimated might be smarter; hurled gauntlet to prove him wrong). Had told him about me, too. Suggested I get in touch.

Now, current scope of interest in "future soulmate" limited to practical matters: food, shelter, protection, survival—short-term essential stuff;  deferring obvious racial continuity issue until puberty, completion of glandular development, make pertinent. (And probably unavoidable—have no valid basis to doubt will be just as tiresomely boy-crazy, once plumbing commences normal function, as next ingénue. But can
hope.)

However, long experience (relativistic expression, of course, considering modest life span thus far) amply justifies habit of equating Teacher's least hint with Revelation From On High. Certainly adequate incentive to make attempt. Phone system still functioning in many portions of country (according to aural evidence: Ring tone obtainable using most area codes, random numbers); so tried number listed in Tarzan File.

No luck. True, answering machine camped on line picked up phone, spouted message for me; but Peter never returned calls.

For two and a half months!

(Oversensitive soul might; by this time, ponder reciprocity of interest. Might even [given modest encouragement] contemplate feeling neglected, unattractive; launch into spate of mouthwash, deodorant changes; file teeth, fluff nails, polish hair, etc.)

Nonsense, of course. Endless possible explanations: Defective answering machine, talking but not recording; phone system itself finally disintegrating (not unreasonably: six months without maintenance—even in system based on hydroelectric power, with computerized call routing automatically diverting calls around trouble spots, time must come when trouble spots constitute
norm
, system collapses). Perhaps, too—certainly equally likely—Peter simply not home, for own good purposes. No more reason now to wallow in morbid speculation than during months since initial contact attempt frustrated.

Though, granted, too busy then to spare attention for proper moping. Not easy, in only two and a half months, to locate suitable farm convenient to Daddy's house (and shelter treasures beneath); catch up all chores necessary to improve chances that livestock, structures survive Wisconsin winter's ravages.

Nor did trip from Dairy State heartland to Peter's Cornell campus (New York State) residence provide much time to reflect unsettling possibilities, generally inequitable nature of life. Physical fragility of human civilization becoming evident after only six months' neglect: Road system in sorry state, getting rapidly worse. Trees down here, there; poles broken, lines draped elegantly in inconvenient places; surprising numbers of washed-out culverts, impassable bridges.

Four-wheel-drive Chevy van wonderfully capable, easy to drive—with lifts on pedals to accommodate own modest stature. High ground clearance, awesome traction make easy work of marginal terrain. Solved many blockages simply by driving around—through fences; across fields, small streams; up hill, down dale, etc.—but spent fully as much time on shanks' mare, cutting, prying, winching, digging, etc., as driving. (Educational travel mode: Really get "feel" for countryside—feel it under nails, in shoes, tangled in hair, 'embedded in clothing. . . .)

Well, journal commencement, however belated, yielding usual result: Hurt, rage, disappointment discharged on paper; blood pressure lowered, practical state of mind restored along with perspective: Crying over spilled milk null exercise; benefits neither spiller nor spillee.

Okay. So Peter Bell not here. Elsewhere. Gone. Now what?

Prime objective obviously unaffected; unchanged from very first day we stuck nose outside shelter following expiration of predicted maximum contagion factor after World Ended: Find
somebody else.

Somebody smarter, bigger, stronger; with broad shoulders, laughing eyes, windblown blond hair; font of wisdom concerning all aspects of establishing bright new civilizations for fun and profit. (Be nice, too, if knows location of Yellow Brick Road.)