Transition Village Columbia
by Mike Robertson
Norman walked into the grocery store at 5 a.m. He was alone. He walked the entire store. There was no food. He had waited that late because of the men with guns who had been by the door earlier. No food. No water either. He was past being hungry but his thirst was a continual ache and a weakness that seemed to start in his joints and spread through his body to his head. His tongue was a thick useless pad in his mouth; his eyes blurry. He climbed up boxes to look in the bins in the back. Empty as he knew they would be. On then a few blocks over to the bridge over the river. Too polluted to drink, he’d been told but no matter. He’d drink from it anyway if he had to. No choice. First he would risk entering the Neighborhood that bordered it on the other side. Word was they had food and good water. Rumor was that it was dangerous to go there. Burnt out cars blocking all streets into it suggested as much. Still.
Armed men at the roadblock entrance. Norman approached with his hands up. “Are you alone?” one man asked. “Yes. Just me. Can you give me some food? I can work.”
To his surprise, they led him to the rear of a building facing the street. A steel door unlatched and he was taken to a room on the second floor. A woman carrying a pistol sat him in a chair in the middle of an empty room, then left. Hours later it seemed to him, a man finally came in. “Tell me about yourself,” he said. “Everything. Where you’re from and what it’s like there.”
The man asked many questions until Norman had repeated most of his story over and over. He didn’t seem angry or dangerous. Just curious and thorough. Finally the woman returned and whispered to the man. “Okay, come with me,” the man said then, and led Norman up another floor to a room with long tables with bins of food. Fresh bread and salad and steamed vegetables. and fresh water. It was the first good food Norman had seen in weeks. “Eat. Then go to that room over there,” pointing to another door at the end. “Take my advice. Don’t eat too much all at once. You’ll be able to get more.”
The man and the woman were there, along with an older man. “Norman, this is Philip. He runs this intake center. Lacy and I have asked him to consider accepting you as a resident.”
“Uh, that’s good. Good. Thanks.”
“Norman,” said Philip, “sit down. Let’s talk. I know Walt and Lacy have screened you, and our street team seems to think you may be what you say you are — a lone walk-in. I know it’s been a long afternoon for you here but at least you’ve been fed, am I right?”
“Yes. Thanks for that.” Then, after a pause, “I don’t mind. I don’t mind anything. I guess I can understand your caution.”
“Right. We’ve had a couple of instances of marauders and one of them was led by a fellow who posed as a walk-in while his companions positioned themselves for an ambush. We were lucky. None of our people were killed. The attackers were not as fortunate.” Philip watched Norman closely for any reaction. There was none.
“Tell me your story. This is the last time, I promise. Then Walt will take you over to the community center and issue you a change of clothes. Are your shoes okay? Good. Then we’ll find you a bed and assign you to a work team.” Walt listened closely for any inconsistencies as Norman repeated the story he’d already told.
Norman came from a suburb of the city. Lines at the gas stations had been growing longer for at least a week before he tried to fill his SUV. By then, the pumps were mostly closed and what little gasoline was left was being hoarded by the station owners. Something similar was happening at the convenience stores, and then the grocery stores. For some reason, the shelves were not being restocked as they usually were. “We’re not getting deliveries,” the store owner told him when he demanded an explanation. “They say the price of fuel is just too high to get it here, and so the price of food has gone up so much I can’t afford it.”
Like his neighbors, like everyone in the city, Norman had believed this breakdown in delivery of food and fuel must be temporary, that the government would fix it, that all would return to normal soon. They would just have to weather it. His family had enough food for a week or more; surely it wouldn’t take that long to restore things to normal. Finally, Normal decided he might have to drive out into the countryside, or to another town, to find food. That night he talked himself into “borrowing” some gas from some neighbor’s car. “It’s the only way,” he told his wife. “I’ll return it to them as soon as things go back to normal.” He left on foot carrying a ten-gallon gas can.
When he returned, he found the door to his house broken open and all food and his wife and infant daughter gone. Desperate now, Norman hunted for them for weeks, trying to find food as he went. Except for a few houses guarded by gaunt looking men carrying rifles, the whole city and surrounding neighborhoods were deserted. Electricity was out everywhere. Water no longer flowed. He found certain areas of the city were armed camps.
He’d heard stories about an area near the inner city prepared for the collapse though. Self-reliant and resilient, it was organized to produce its own food and power. With nowhere else to go, no one to take him in or help him, Norman had to find it. It was that or die.
When Norman finished his story, Philip made some notes on a sheet of paper and handed it to Walt. He rose. “All right, I appreciate your patience Norman. We do have to be careful who we accept into our community. So far it looks like you’re a good candidate. I’m not sure you have a lot of skills to contribute, but if you work hard and get along with your neighbors here, you’ll be okay. You’re not a prisoner here in any sense. You can leave at any time. But while you’re here, you’ll learn the culture of our community and you’ll pull your weight. Your team leaders will be watching you closely for the first few months. Whether you’ll be allowed to stay depends on how well you contribute and integrate.” He extended his hand. “Welcome to Transition Village Columbia.”
