The Dark Roads
For my lovely wife, Sue.
You’ve made every good thing possible.
In 2015 the winter was unseasonably warm. I remember it well enough to feel a pang of sentiment toward those days. Children were playing in the sunshine, bathing suits donned long after swimwear should have been traded for jeans and sweaters. We were all so happy that Jack Frost had forgotten us that year.
We didn't know any better, but it should have been our first hint that the world was going wrong. Five years later, when the crops were all burnt, and the sun wasn't drawn with a happy face on a child's illustration anymore, we would all have chance for regret.
The funny thing about the change in climate was the way everyone talked about it on the news. Some of the scientists thought that the temperatures were a good sign. They said that the ozone layer was repairing itself and would be as good as new by 2050 or 2060. They said that the warm weather was a temporary glitch that would right itself and that all of the bad things that had happened to the environment since mankind had started damaging the earth would reverse. They said that the greenhouse gases being contained by the ozone layer were the culprit behind our easy suntans in January.
Nobody contradicted any of it because scientists are supposed to be smart. Right.
There were all of these numbers and percentages ticking across the bottom of every news report between 2015 and 2017 showing how great everything was going with the proverbial blanket that protected us all from the sun's radiation. Christ. They even told us that if the layer was actually falling apart that the climate would be getting
colder.
Nobody had the sense enough to call bullshit until 2019 and by then it was way too late. Skin cancer rates were on the rise, had gone up like 400%, and we were all just sitting on our thumbs thinking that it would all turn around. Nature wouldn't dare try to burn us off of this rock. We were the supreme species. Everybody's air conditioning was running at full blast and kept us comfortable as long as we stayed in the house.
In 2020 things started speeding up. Direct sunlight started to get acutely harmful to your health if you were in it for more than an hour. We were becoming vampires, so fearful of the light of day that the streets were always empty until dusk when the cursed sun set on whatever side of the world it was broiling. Before long the power grid was suffering so badly during the afternoon hours that we started having brownouts on a daily basis.
I keep echoing it, but I can't seem to express it well enough to suit myself. We didn't know what was going on. None of us did. All we could do was wait for our governments and scientists to come up with something. We waited, but nothing came other than the usual warnings. Stay cool. Stay inside during the day. We're working on it.
I remember the last time I saw the sun. It was October of 2020, not long before I would meet the young men I'm going to tell you about. I lived north of the Canadian border where it used to seem like winter lasted nine months of the year. I was watching as the evil fireball rose into view. I know it doesn't really rise, but that's what it looked like then, like the sun was climbing to the heavens to preside over all of us, to kill as many of us as it possibly could. It got its share of victims by the end of things.
I only talk about all of this ancient history so that I can tell you about the men who saved my life. They saved so many of us that my own neck doesn't seem so grand in comparison, but trust me when I tell you that my life is the most valuable thing I have. I'm sure that your own means the same to you.
We live because of them, maybe not as their disciples or subjects, but I, at least, will play their apostle.
What they started here, in Alaska, has saved and renewed lives without number. That wasn't their intention from the start. They only wanted to survive, to exist beyond their twenty-second year, if possible. Luckily for me and so many others, they aspired to that goal.
There are startlingly few people left on the third planet from an insufferably deadly sun, but more of us are being made by the day. We have a shot at survival, even if it's a long one.
So, I'm going to tell you about them. I knew them as well as anyone outside of their own friendship could, so I have a little bit of insight. As with most stories, this one is a journey that begins with walking.
Sheridan, Wyoming
January 12, 2021
2:17 AM 99*F
Elvis was constantly wiping at his face with a grubby blue bandana, trying to keep up with the steady stream of sweat dripping from his hairline. Buddy, though usually a quiet and patient guy, had started giving him shit about it just after they'd commenced walking for the night and wasn't letting up. Richie had been trying to ignore the bickering between his two compatriots, but his own patience was wearing thin.
They were all shirtless and carrying their packs with dish towels folded beneath the straps to avoid chafing. Shirts would be a better buffer against the pack straps, but it was too fucking hot to even consider more than the barest of clothing.
Elvis had once started the night walking in the nude, but soon became embarrassed. Benny had still been around then and couldn't stop giggling at the way Elvis' equipment was swinging with his legs. Richie had tried not to laugh, but every time the guy took a step his equipment slapped against his thighs. It
was
pretty damned funny. Shorts were pulled on within the first hour.
Benny was long dead, along with most of the humor they could draw from their situation. Walking from full dark to just before dawn every night for the past six months was actually incredibly exhausting. It was also draining on the spirit to keep moving without any kind of change in scenery. There was road and road signage. There were houses. There was night.
They were always tired, cranky, and scared to death. None of those conditions were good for morale.
"Dude!" Buddy exclaimed, "Will you quit with that fucking rag?!? It's wetter than that pile of shit on your head. Can't even be doing anything for you anymore."
"Can't help it, Buddy. I hate the sweat on my face. Always have," Elvis said, looking down at the soft asphalt of the road.
Buddy pulled his coke bottle glasses off and grabbed his own bandana from a cargo pocket. He wiped sweat from the lenses roughly and started to put the cloth away again. He looked at it, his hand stopping close to his hip, and seemed to consider something.
"Hundred fucking degrees in the middle of the night. Fuck! I'm sorry man. Here."
Richie looked up from the road to see the next part of this exchange. Buddy gave Elvis the dry bandana he'd been cleaning his glasses with. Elvis took it as if it was the holy grail and promptly soaked it with his own sweat.
The look of supreme satisfaction on his face made Richie think of the way you looked when a cool breeze hit you on a normal hot day. If there
were
any cool breezes or normal hot days, they wouldn't be in this mess in the first place.
The thermometer he kept in his ruck sack hadn't shown less than 98 degrees above ground in the last three months, no matter where they walked. He didn't want to know what it showed when the sun was out.
"Fucking sun," Buddy muttered, through with aggravating Elvis for the time being.
"Couple more hours, guys," Richie said, "And we'll find some cool and have a little water."
Neither of his longtime friends had any comment on that. They'd stopped looking at anything other than the road. They were hurting.
He
was hurting.
The trees along the two-lane road they were pacing were all barren of leaves, their bark darkened and made brittle by the sun's rays, as was every plant they'd seen since October when going out during the day had become truly dangerous.
By November daylight had actually become life threatening. What had once caused a darkening of pigment on the skin over a period of hours now caused a blistering and painful burn in seconds. Minutes of exposure to the sun was fatal.
It was January now and though winter, whatever that meant to them now, was supposed to be in full swing, it was just getting hotter at night and scarier during the day. There wouldn't be any snow to worry about.
They'd started in Florida, one of the worst states to be in when winter time decides that leaving town seems like a good idea, and had steadily traveled north since June.
Richie almost laughed when he thought about being hot. Florida had seen record highs before any of the northern states had figured out that the shit was hitting the fan. Miami had been melting, actually fucking melting, when they'd taken to the road.
They'd stopped at a beach near Tampa to take a dip and cool off a little, thinking that the water there must be cooler than the piss water on the Atlantic coast. Elvis had suffered second degree burns on the ball of his left foot within seconds of stepping into the Gulf.
What had looked like waves crashing against the shore was actually the ripples of boiling water. Swimming was out of the question forever.
That had been their last daylight adventure, one begun only moments before dusk. After that, they waited for things to cool off after sunset. It usually took a few hours, but the heat dropped with the sun. That meant waiting from the very start of dawn until ten or eleven at night, holed up in whatever squat they were able to find.
They tried to sleep most of the time away, but it was never comfortable. No matter how far they could get underground, the temperature always stayed higher than eighty-five. Sleep is hard in that kind of heat.
They kept walking. Before long they were silent, conversation lagging and leaving each of the three men in his own mind.
***
It was close to five a.m. when they decided on a place to crash for the day.
They'd come upon an old farmhouse with a tornado cellar a mile or so behind them and chose to go back rather than hope for something better to show up.
Buddy and Elvis were clearing the rooms of the two-story structure, making sure no one was holed up inside, while Richie set to work picking the master lock on the outdoor entrance. If the two inside found a door to the cellar they wanted to be able to re-lock the one leading from the outside.
That was the main reason for picking the lock rather than busting it apart with a hammer. None of them liked the idea of someone barging in on them before they were ready to leave.
"No door inside," Buddy spoke up from behind Richie.
"Shhhh! I almost got it," Richie replied.
The tumblers on this one were sticky and he was close to resorting to just raking the pick across and hoping it would pop. He wasn't the best B&R guy in the world, but he was getting better. The lock was old and rusted, making things that much harder. For the hundredth time he reminded himself to look for some type of lubricating oil.
Richie put a bit more tension on the key slot, slipped the pick back a quarter of an inch and the lock popped open. He was slightly surprised, but very pleased.
"We're in," he said, pulling the lock out of the clasp and tugging hard on the warped wooden doors.
Elvis walked up, holstering his revolver, and helped to pull the cellar doors open. It only took a moment, but they were both exhausted by the end of it. Buddy had been covering them, holding his pistol at the ready, and waited until the shriek of the hinges hit his ears to holster it. They all walked the stairs quietly, each listening for any kind of movement, hoping to hear a rat.
Buddy and Richie got busy laying out camp while Elvis rummaged in his pack for a slingshot and a bag of ball bearings. This was the usual routine. Nobody spoke as they went about their chores, making sure not to spook anything that might be in the basement with them.
Buddy looked up from the sleeping bag he was rolling out when he heard the twang of the slingshot band. Elvis had found something and was getting ready to shoot. Still, they were quiet.
THWAK!
"Got you, sucker," Elvis whispered, tossing the dead body of a thin rat back over his shoulder.
THWAK! THWAK!
Twice more Elvis whispered. Twice more a rat was tossed close to the center of the room. He kept hunting, kept looking until he'd killed six of the bastardly thin things. Richie pulled the small sharp pocket knife from his pack and set to work dressing the rodents. Two apiece. They'd eat well today.
When the skinning was done Buddy took the small bodies to the top of the cellar stairway and dug a small hole. He laid their dinner into the hole and covered it, knowing that the day's heat would cook them without burning.
If he left the animals above ground, they'd be burnt to a char by the sunlight. They'd done that on the first day of December and had been sorely displeased by the lack of edible meat.
Buddy had come up with the idea of burying their kills and it had been a happy success. He did wonder, however, if that would change in the future. If he dug too shallow a hole, the rats were rubbery and hard to eat. Deeper holes countered the issue, but he could only dig so deep. It was getting hotter out.
Their water had already been pulled from the packs and set in the farthest and darkest corner of the room. They couldn't drink it until they allowed its heat to dissipate a bit. They always tried to find a lake or stream at the end of the night, after it had time to cool, but that wasn't always possible.
Finding clean water was becoming a problem, but there were still lakes that they could draw it from. There was no need to purify it, as it usually spent the day under boil. The taste wasn't great and the refreshment of a cool drink was a thing of the past, but at least they could stay hydrated. That was a major need.
"How hot you think it's gonna get, Richie?" Elvis asked, speaking above a whisper for the first time since they'd entered the cellar.
"Don't know, man. We aren't very deep in here, so it might get sweaty."
"Wish we coulda' found a mine. Don't you wish we coulda' found a mine, Buddy?"
Buddy, who had just closed the cellar doors, said nothing as he walked down the steps toward them. He simply nodded his agreement and began stripping his pants and shoes off.
They'd gotten past modesty under the light of a single lantern and were naked as soon as they were readied to sleep. Clothing was not conducive to these climates just lately.
"Tennessee was good for the mines, but that's the last we've found of them," Richie said.
"Gotta be more of them, right?" Elvis asked, hoping to be reassured, "Will you look at the map, Richie?"
It wasn't a bad idea. Richie opened his pack to search for the road atlas he'd picked up before they had left Miami. The plan was to head toward Alaska and hope for cooler nights. He'd done the math, Elvis watching with wide and hopeful eyes just as he was doing now, and figured it would take two hundred days. It was looking more like three-fifty at this point, due to the fact that they were losing strength earlier and earlier in the night, but it was still doable. Even if it took them four hundred, it was something to try for.
"We should be in Montana in a few nights," Richie told the others, "At least I think so. I didn't notice any signs tonight, but I'm pretty sure we're still on the right road. There are mines in Montana. Deep ones."
Elvis smiled in the lantern light, obviously remembering how cool it had felt so deep under the Tennessee dirt. They couldn't see any sunlight there at all and it had been quiet. The smell of damp that you'd expect in a mine wasn't there, the moisture in the dirt and clay having evaporated in the past months.
Every body of water they passed was getting shallower, disappearing into the atmosphere, so why wouldn't the dampness of the mines do the same? They hadn't really thought about it, were too comfortable in the depths of the earth to complain about anything, but Richie was worried. If the heat was growing exponentially, would the underground sanctuaries be any cooler than the cellar they were staying in? Could the constructs dry out to the point of collapse? If so, would they be safe going underground?
"Alaska," Buddy said with a sigh.
"Alaska," Elvis said with a smile.
"Yeah. Alaska," Richie said with fear in his heart.
***
"90 degrees," Richie answered Buddy.
He couldn’t see his friends in the darkness of the cellar, but could still make out the numbers on his thermometer. His night vision was getting better out of necessity, as was everyone's.
He laid his head back on the make shift pillow of his ruck. Elvis said nothing, only tried to suffer in silence as the day wore on.
Richie went over the facts silently, again. He wondered if anyone was left in Alaska, anyway. It wasn't important, not really, because they needed somewhere to go. They needed a purpose in order to survive the constant misery of the days and nights, so finding more people was at the bottom of his priority list.
Buddy was snoring. At least someone was getting some rest. Elvis might not sleep for the rest of the night. Richie knew that sleep would be impossible with Elvis tossing and turning.
He felt bad for the guy, as he always did when someone was restless. It meant that they were hurting in some fundamental way that his reassurances couldn't touch. It meant that his friend was in pain.
Twenty-two years old. They were all the same age, had grown up together. Benny, of course, had been one of them, but wasn't around to keep them company anymore.