Migration
Eclipse
by
Kevin Toal
Were it not for hunger, both
physical and mental, I would have remained underground for another
year. Unfortunately, working in unison, my appetites forced me to
surface far earlier than expected.
The food reprocessor had given me
trouble after the first month. Acting on its own private whims the
machine offered a selection of barely edible meals, as though
daring me to consume the offerings.
"The next time the world
ends," I vowed, "I'll splurge and get the 'Supreme Chef'
model." This became my pre-dinner prayer. Luckily, I had
enough tinned food to offer some respite from the sludgy messes
emanating from the reprocessor. However, being unable to replenish
my stock, these eventually ran out.
As to my mental state, it lusted
for information. When the radio and television signals stopped it
was like losing a limb. I had not realized how much a part of me
they were. The endless stream of news had been taken for granted.
Now, with only my DVD's and CD's for entertainment, I found myself
longing to hear something about the world I'd abandoned.
With my stomach complaining and my
brain crazily imagining all manner of scenarios, I stood at the
bunker's armoured door. My gaunt, pale face stared back at me,
reflected in the black screen of a dormant security monitor.
Even though I already knew the
outcome out of my actions, I switched the monitor on and saw only
static. The above-ground security cameras, rendered useless many
months ago by a would-be invader, served as a depressing reminder
of my isolation. Without further hesitation, I withdrew my pistol
and keyed the door combination. Then, stepping back a few paces so
that I'd remain in shadows, I watched as the door swung outwards.
I waited a moment or two before
creeping forward.
Instead of facing an immediate
vista of either terrible destruction or miraculous recovery, such
as I had often envisioned, I found myself staring at the rather
ordinary, and completely intact, entranceway to the bunker. This
consisted of concrete steps, inclined at a steep angle, leading
from the portal toward a rectangle of artificial luminescence at
the top. The unnatural light glittered off a whitewash of frost
coating the narrow staircase's stone walls, which did little to
alleviate the oppressive feel of the confined space.
Trepidation and curiosity mingled
as I remained at my sanctuary's threshold. The air, albeit
refreshing, chilled my lungs as I drew in several slow breaths.
After several months of enduring my own recycled exhalations it
was intoxicating to breathe without tasting my own stale odours.
The surface-level air filters had gone off-line at the same time
as the security cameras. I assumed that looters had attempted to
breach the system and it shut itself down in order to avoid
contamination of the bunker.
There had been no sounds, other
than the wind, in the few minutes I had been outside. This lack of
noise should have emboldened me to mount the stairs, but its
absence was far more terrifying. However, my stomach's primitive
urgings overrode any fear and I began my ascent.
As I reached the lip of the
entrance, I paused and took another icy gulp of air. From this
vantage point I could now make out the source of the illumination:
a grinning giant, nearly twenty stories tall, hung several
thousand feet over my head. Her mouth was open, revealing
brilliant white teeth, and her eyes sparkled with imitation
pleasure.
"Damned ad," I muttered.
Then I gave a short, humourless laugh. The ads were amaranthine.
They would probably even outlast the cockroaches.
"Get it over with," I
ordered, bounding up the few remaining steps with my pistol
leading the way.
Once more I was struck by a strange
sense of disappointment at the lack of drama surrounding me. The
old colonial style house, apart from a few cracked windows and a
back door off its hinges, appeared to be almost as I'd left it.
Even the scrubby brown grass and the dead bushes-the ones I kept
meaning to replace-looked the same peeking through the snow.
Off in the distance, I could see
neighbouring homes. These were often quaintly referred to as
'hobby farms' by real estate agents even though few of the
neighbours ever attempted to do more than grow tiny gardens; the
lack of fresh water making more ambitious projects impractical. A
couple of the homes had been torched or accidentally set ablaze.
Their burnt-out shells stood as silent markers to a past which
would likely never return.
A fresh gust of wind encouraged me
to stop further sight-seeing and get down to more important
business.
The next hour was spent in a
frustrating search through my house for anything that might be of
use. Apart from a spare battery pack for my thermal suit and old
bicycle, I found nothing of value; the looters had been most
thorough in my absence.
* * *
Leaving my home and cycling part
way-before a puncture curtailed that mode of transport-I
reluctantly headed for the city in search of tinned food, more
batteries, and additional weaponry.
As I neared my destination the
signs of devastation became more obvious. Suburban estates, once
the epitome of so many dreams, had become war zones. Bullet holes
riddled many of the few homes still left standing. Lawns that had
been meticulously landscaped and pampered, even during the water
shortages, were torn up by countless tire tracks. One track led to
the wreck of a mini-van which had slammed into the bay window of a
house. The remains of an arm, picked clean by scavengers, hung
limply from the driver's side window. It was clear that there had
been a pitched battle between homeowners and looters. From the
look of things, neither side won.
I continued past the vacant
properties and soon entered the city proper. It was a sight that
was both startling and awe-inspiring. One could quibble at my
choice of words in speaking of such a catastrophic event. Yet, if
I am to be honest, there is something about the sheer power needed
to destroy a city which demands respect. It's as though God made
one of His rare visitations in order to smite the Earth.
The idea of God delivering the
final blow did not seem too fantastic as I stared at the ruins.
The never-ending, false daylight illuminated the city in a
strange, eerie glow. Crumbling buildings, charred and fissured,
looked unreal in the unchanging luminosity. Rubble, comprised of
masonry, glass and twisted metal, filled the streets and blocked
off a number of possible paths into the downtown corridor. Each
blast of icy wind threatened to send another decrepit building
crashing earthward.
I picked my way through the debris,
careful not to tear my heated parka on the shards of metal and
glass. From underfoot came the crunching of fresh snow and the
occasional stomach-churning sound of bones snapping. No matter how
hard I tried, the sheer volume of skeletal remains meant that my
arctic boots could not avoid them all. I imagined that a riot or
mass catastrophe had claimed many lives at once. The only thing
that made it remotely bearable was the fact that the bone
fragments were, for the most part, unidentifiable. As long as
there remained a possibility of the bones being those of a rat,
cat or dog, I could continue onwards.
Finally, after many hours of
trudging through the dead city, I reached the faculty building
where I had taught Social Science. The ruined structure looked as
though it had been the recipient of a massive shelling. Large
sections of the outer walls were missing; exposing the charred
innards.
I stared at the building for a
moment, then, with a weary grunt, sat down on the curb.
"It's really over," I whispered. Confronted by the
destruction of something that had been a part of my life for
nearly two decades, the awful truth became clear.
* * *
I knew things were getting pretty
bad when a gaggle of leading scientists, their brains tied in
knots by promises of research grants, stepped forward to blame
migrating Monarch butterflies for the Earth's colder temperatures.
These wise men and women appeared on the network news, cable news
and community access channels to espouse this theory as well as to
debunk any others. Newspapers, e-zines, and cyber-mags carried
watered down versions, written in layman's terms, to explain how
the winged insects wrought havoc upon the environment.
"Of course," the
scientists proclaimed, "we are simply using the Monarch as
one example. There are many other migrating animals, birds for
example, who contribute to the overall effect."
A snappy name, 'Migration Eclipse,'
became the term applied to this phenomena. Oddly enough, the band
of geniuses failed to note the acronym for their wonderful
scapegoat: ME. Maybe, in some subconscious manner, they were
accepting responsibility after all.
"In the last century,"
they explained, as though reading from the same script,
"bovine flatulence caused the Earth's temperature to rise. We
called it the 'Greenhouse Effect.' The 'Greenhouse Effect' and the
'Migration Eclipse' are cyclical in nature; they come and they
go."
Often, with increasing frequency,
the media called upon these scientists to explain various
phenomena. It usually coincided with a catastrophe of some sort; a
loss of human life or the extinction of yet another species. Armed
with colorful illustrations showing beautiful Monarch butterflies
blocking out the Sun's rays the scientists revealed to the eager
public how the 'orange and black demons' brought forth terrible
destruction.
Occasionally, a lone dissenting
voice tried to argue with them.
"Animals have been migrating
for years," the voice of reason would state. "Shouldn't
this climate change have occurred earlier? Isn't it strange that
it's only happening now? Don't you think the Holo-Ads are
responsible?"
To which the scientists responded,
"The reason it is happening now is due to the fact that we
have eradicated the 'Greenhouse Effect.' Thanks to our efforts,
and those of the major corporations, greenhouse emissions are a
thing of the past. Genetically engineered grasses have eliminated
the destructive methane clouds which used to come from cattle.
Cows no longer flatulate."
"Yes, but what about the
factories and the cars?" the challenger asked.
"Hogwash! Compared to the
output from a herd of cattle, humans account for such a minuscule
amount. Besides, most cars are now clean burning." The
scientists always chose this moment to smile proudly.
"Except in the underdeveloped
regions of the world," came the retort.
"True. Yet another reason why
the corporations need to operate in these unfortunate countries.
Only then can we hope to raise their standard of living to the
point where everyone can drive non-polluting cars."
This was the point where the
anchorperson jumped in to advise both parties that time had run
out.
"Thank you for coming, it was
most informative," the anchor enthused. "Unfortunately,
we have to go to our next story. It seems that Pop Diva, Taylene,
is not the innocent she'd like us to think she is. We have an
exclusive interview with a man who filmed Taylene actually smoking
a nicotine-filled cigarette."
From the comfort of my living room,
I used to watch and snort with proud superiority as each sycophant
spewed their toxic lies.
Expecting the news agencies, in any
format, to run a story containing the truth about Holo-Ads was
like waiting for a politician to answer a yes or no question with
a simple yes or no.
Considering that the news agencies
were all owned by the major corporations and the major
corporations were the ones who paid exorbitant fees for the
airspace and equipment to run Holo-Ads, it was not in their
interest to run negative reports on their parent company's main
source of advertising.
Holo-Ads were huge in every sense
of the word. There were even rumours about the first Holo-Movie to
be sponsored by the Whimperbang Group of companies; it would have
had its North American debut last year. According to the hype, it
would've been large enough to cover the sky for nearly three
hundred miles. Whether or not such an immense canvas would be a
practical viewing format was beside the point.
There was little doubt, in my mind,
about there being egregious use of Whimperbang products throughout
the movie.
How they negotiated the rights to
use space already leased by other corporations was a question
likely answered with obscene amounts of cash.
Money solved everything. At least
that's what we were always told to believe.
Looking at the sky back then,
covered in gigantic ads created by powerful Holo-Casts, it made
sense to believe in the power of money. Evidence of wealth loomed
overhead everywhere. Giants smiled down and urged us to buy
whitening pills for our teeth. Enormous dogs and cats shamed us
into buying healthier pet-food, while robotic animals towered over
the skyline offering unconditional love. Fast cars sped across the
horizon making us feel impotent without one. Beautiful models
promised their bodies to those who bought the right brand of
two-ply toilet paper.
No matter where you looked, the
Holo-Ads floated in the air. Only in the sparsely populated
regions of the Earth could you escape the omnipresent
three-dimensional projections. I suspect the lack of potential
revenue dictated this decision rather than any perception that the
corporations had already gone too far.
With the sky constantly blocked by
the Holo-Ads, something had to happen.
It did.
At first it was the astronomers who
complained about the light pollution. To soothe them, the
corporations sent aloft a pair of orbiting telescopes to which the
astronomers were given access in exchange for endorsements.
Antarctica was made into a Holo-Ad free zone. The corporations
also struck deals with the International Space Agency to help
defray the costs of space exploration. At the same time, because
of their generosity, a host of orbital Holo-Casts were sent up
with the telescopes. Although some astronomers continued to gripe,
the public quickly lost interest in their plight.
Then airlines became leery of the
technology. Later generations of the Holo-Cast units produced
images of near perfect solidity. This worried the pilots who, even
though the planes basically flew themselves, wanted to be able to
see out of the cockpit window and not be confronted by inanely
grinning behemoths. Being unable to see familiar landmarks scared
the pilots who did not always trust in the infallibility of the
Nav-Comps. They demanded to have the Holo-Ads restricted to
non-flight paths otherwise they would go on strike.
The corporations were aghast. Such
a limitation to their advertising space would render most of the
sky out of bounds.
Rather than give in to the pilot's
demands, the wily executives resolved the dilemma by demonstrating
how AI controlled planes proved to be safer than ones flown by
humans. In the end, the pilots immediately admitted to being hasty
and quietly resumed their seats. Only the psychological need of
passengers to have a human in the cockpit saved their jobs.
Many groups formed based on
aesthetic platforms to fight the Holo-Ads. They claimed that Holo-Ads
besmirched the heavens and, therefore, ought to be outlawed. These
groups contained many famous actors and singers as well as
lesser-known writers, painters, sculptors and performance artists.
For years they lobbied for stricter regulations but always failed.
They could not fight the endless bankroll of their enemy. Nor
could they defeat the general public's love of Holo-Ads. They
failed to take into account the determination of the lowest common
denominator to be entertained.
Naturally, the environmentalists
spoke up. Their frightening predictions about the future terrified
the masses-for a few days. Unfortunately, when nothing immediate
happened, no cataclysm occurred, the environmentalist message
became a target of derision. That was when the corporate-funded
scientists marched out and trampled their 'Chicken Little'
colleagues.
Well, the sky did fall. In a manner
of speaking, that is.
The environmentalists were right,
as anyone whose head was not encased by gluteal muscles would
know.
Unfortunately, it was too late.
Even my own students failed to see the danger despite the fact
that I often tried desperately to explain it to them.
"Remember the theories about
the dinosaurs?" I used to ask during my lectures. "The
asteroid that hit the Earth and sent a blanket of dust into the
atmosphere?"
The students nodded; it was an
established theory. They'd seen it on the Education Channel in all
its computer generated glory.
"The Sun could not shine
through the murk. The Earth cooled, plants died, and the dinosaurs
became extinct." So far so good, I'd think. My audiences
could always follow this line of reasoning. In fact, the students
became most interested in my discourse whenever I spoke of
prehistoric beasts; dinosaurs have a magical appeal which makes
people want to listen.
"Well, we've created a
technological quilt, a patchwork of images so dense that the sun
cannot get through." Eyes glazed over at this point. Placing
the responsibility for mass destruction on a chunk of iron-nickel
from outer space was more palatable than accepting even a hint of
blame for one's own actions.
"The scientists said it's
Monarch migration," a drone would shout.
Damned Monarchs! They were like the
dinosaurs in terms of their mass appeal. A strange idea involving
animals attracts and holds the attention of otherwise blasé
listeners.
"We'd notice if something were
wrong," some of the students argued. "It would be all
over the media."
"Let me give you a concrete
example of the falsehood in that statement," I told them.
"When the Earth was threatened by greenhouse emissions there
were many who claimed it wasn't happening. They demanded proof.
Droughts and brush fires were on the increase. That wasn't
considered proof. Grain had to be shipped to places like Alberta
in order to keep cattle alive through long, dry summers. That
wasn't proof. Even when the Albertan farmers slaughtered their
horses by the thousands because there wasn't enough food to feed
them through the winter no one considered that to be proof.
Environmentalists insisted that this proved their point. However,
the Albertan government, rich on oil revenue, fought the
environmentalists with millions of dollars in scare-mongering
advertisements. They claimed that any change to the status quo
would impact the economy in extremely negative ways. The threat to
jobs became more ominous than a loss of the wheat fields.
"So please do not tell me
about Mankind's ability to see and react accordingly to a danger.
We're talking about a species that has destroyed life-giving rain
forests, damaged the protective atmosphere of the planet and
committed the most heinous acts of violence upon its own members
without consideration to the future.
"Yes, people should see what
is happening. As a matter-of-fact, I think they do see it. They
fail, however, to take the next logical step and see why it's
happening. It would require changing their way of life."
At this stage, surrounded by
zombies, I would stop my tirade and search for some trace of
understanding. Every now and then, like finding three correct
numbers on a state lottery ticket, a couple of faces met mine with
the same anger I felt. Enough people to give me the desire to
carry on. Sadly, not enough to make a difference.
"How many of you have
molar-phones?" I always asked.
About twenty percent of the class
raised their hands.
"Even though studies indicate
that molar-phone users have an increased likelihood of developing
mouth, throat and brain cancers you still see more and more people
getting the implants.
"Mankind has become too
complacent and too expectant. We expect to have whatever we want,
when we want it."
"Excuse me, Professor," I
recalled one of the female students saying. Her earnest expression
made me hope that I might have won a convert.
"Yes?" I asked.
"I wish you would refrain from
using the term, 'Mankind,'" she said. "It's a sexist,
outmoded term."
That, in a nutshell, was the
problem. Major issues were swamped by minor ones. Why concern
ourselves with the impending death of our planet when we can
eradicate offensive language?
Despite the facts, despite the
obvious evidence of our eyes, despite the signs, we continued
blithely along in the comfortable, anaesthetized state known as
'trust.' We trusted that the people we put into power could not
possibly place our lives in jeopardy.
We ignored centuries of history that proved the fallacy behind
such faith.
There were a few with the insight
to realize what we faced-a scant few-not enough to prevent what
happened.
The orbital Holo-Casts sped up the
process faster than any of us expected. The Amazon rain forest,
when it died, caused the greatest damage. Carbon dioxide levels
rose at a staggering rate but, without sunlight, the Greenhouse
Effect did not occur. Instead it got colder as we watched the
oxygen levels deplete. The blame could not be placed solely on the
corporations. They received their power from the masses. Only by
the general public's tacit approval could the disaster have
occurred.
That was over a year ago.
I went underground as soon as the
first riots began, hiding in a bomb shelter until most of my
fellow people slaughtered each other in their initial panic.
* * *
I've been in the city for a week
and haven't spoken to a single person. Occasionally there is a
glimpse of movement but whoever, or whatever, it is scurries off
before I can get a closer look. Perhaps, I tell myself, they are
too ashamed to show their faces. The destruction of a world is,
after all, a heavy burden.
I search the wasted city by the
light of a twenty-story advertisement for breath mints. The
orbital casters are still functioning perfectly even though there
is no one to change the ads; the corporation HQ's were all burned
down when people finally saw what was happening. CEOs were rounded
up and massacred, their empires smashed.
It's damned cold. I forget the last
time I found any wood to burn. Most of the buildings have already
been looted although there is still the occasional surprise. Last
week, I discovered a used bookstore that had escaped detection.
The shelves were crammed with hardcover and paperback formats of
this antiquated mode of communication. At first I wandered the
aisles looking at the spines, smiling sadly at familiar names.
Then, night fell and the
temperature dropped. My thermal suit battery was dead and I had
yet to find a replacement. There was no other option available to
me.
I regret burning the books. It took
nearly a week to exhaust the supply, and I tried to read as many
as I could before consigning them to the pyre. With each new
sacrifice I felt like I was destroying the final remnants of
humanity. As the pages blackened and curled, I wept for the loss.
When the books were all gone, I
wandered the streets once more, searching for more fuel.
That's how I came across this bank.
An explosion has torn a tremendous hole in the wall. There are a
couple of bodies lying near the hole. It's crazy, but I think they
were trying to blast their way into the vault. What did they
expect to do with the money? They can take some consolation in the
fact that the hole did penetrate the vault. Bills litter the
floor. There must be close to a million dollars here.
I shiver and watch my breath
dissipate. It feels colder in the vault than outside. My hand
reaches into my ski-pants pocket and touches a book of matches. I
look at the piles of money, kicking a small mound together with my
feet.
Money may not solve everything, I
decide. But it will keep me warm for a night.
