Saw this coming

My house is a mess.

The carpet, a nice pile the color of faded wheat, has a dark gray streak spreading from the front door and splitting towards the bedrooms and across the middle toward the dining room and kitchen. Piles of discarded paper fill two of the corners of the front room, the sum of records unnecessary for packing.

The sun is warm where it shines through the windows on the east side of the house, casting the air into stark chill. Its the chill of night in the pre-spring of the mid-temperate zone. The house never gets enough light to warm up inside, and the furnace hasn’t run since the gas was shut off several days ago.

I am making my last pass through the house. Making my goodbyes to the memories, and taking mental note of all that remains. Though I’ve accumulated two closets of clothes over the years, I’ve packed only six outfits that fit and are warm or cool as the weather may be. The rest hang in what will now be permanent neglect.

In the living room is my china closet, full of a lifetime of mementos. I’ve taken a few items which I hold most precious and which are most portable, but I’ve also packed the ceramic pegasus which my mother made for me as a Christmas gift when I was in high school. At more than a foot high and a wingspan nearly as wide, it’ll be a difficult cargo.

The other things I’ve grabbed are more portable: the fired-clay German Shepard mother and pup which I made in first grade; a metal relief “Holy Grail” letterpress block I had cut in college; a cartoonish whale “piggy-bank” of thick earthenware – a gift from my sister; a mushroom-shaped incense burner which used to be my brother’s; a green, plush monkey which is Trayce and I’s mascot; a resin paperweight of a snow-skier which I inherited from my father; and the small, rugged cross which was torched from the collapsed steel of the World Trade Center, a gift from a NYFD firefighter and friend.

The balance of the objects will collect dust, or maybe they will find a home elsewhere. Though it pains me, it matters not.

I’ve packed about a dozen of my favorite DVD’s, and two-dozen CDs. There are gaps on my bookshelves which used to hold my science-fiction annuals, all of my Donaldson novels, and several textbooks.

There are towels missing from my bathroom shelves. My overstock of soap, toothpaste, and other hygiene supplies is absent.

In my bedroom, I took the only alarm clock I’ve ever hated, even though it’s electric, because it makes the most annoying sound on Earth. My blanket and pillows are gone from the bed, and a drawer hangs open and empty of underwear and socks.

In the office, Rubbermaid rough-totes sit full of ashes of the papers they once held. My PC lies on its side, its access panel open and its hard drive gone. I did box up my monitor and wireless inkjet, and all of my software source CDs. Of course, I am bringing the Mac from the kitchen and my Powerbook. Also the UPS.

As I move through the dining room, I am careful to avoid the broken glass from the empty picture frames.

In the kitchen, I smile as I know all of my alcohol is safely stored. If it doesn’t become a medium of exchange, then at least it will be something to enjoy. The refrigerator is about half empty. The eggs, most of the condiments, the milk.. all this remains. But I have the hard cheeses, the Pepsi, the bacon. The gravy mixes are gone from the lazy-susan by the stove. So are the two stainless steel pots.

I weep inside knowing that I am not bringing what were my father’s Visions cookware.

The pantry is mostly empty. I had always lived with a preparedness mindset, and so most of my stores were ready for travel. I took the manual can opener and my favorite knives. I also took the few Longaberger which I owned — a basket is a basket!

I am chilled as I pass into the utility room. The door into the garage hangs open, my never having taken the time to fix the catch having caught up with me in time for nothing. This room is stripped of all the household tools I kept here. Also the detergent. Along the edge of the room, atop the cabinets on the wall, sit a Tonka fire-truck, cement-mixer, and a Winnebago. Toys from my youth. We finally part company.

The garage is no more a mess than before, but there are several open spots on the wire shelving where tubs of tools or equipment used to sit. Of the two bays, the door on this one is drawn up, and the bed of my pickup drawn near, full of containers and tarped.

Leaning on the driver’s fender is a friend. His posture is casual, but everything in his face is tense. Through sunglasses, he is staring north up my block. I know that he is looking at a street which looked very much like it did yesterday, but is in fact nothing like it was. A few houses are vacant already, like mine is about to be. Another neighbor, past the cross-street and on the other side, has been hurriedly packing this morning. He is loading a trailer behind his car, and his wife has been doing what she can to help while keeping their children quiet and calm. I admire his courage in a fatal way, very skeptical of his chance of success.

Maybe, if he ditches the trailer.

My friend turns at the sound of my stumbling through the debris underfoot. “Ready,” he asks? I nod and make my way to the driver’s door. With respect, he quietly lifts the assault rifle off the hood and walks around to the passenger door. He is familiar with my emotions, as we completed this process at his home the day before.

“They’re up on McAlister, maybe three blocks away. I can hear the tank tread. They’re moving slowly, but they are making progress.”

I understand his concern. The United States Police Force is being assisted by the military in enforcing the martial law. Since the southwestern states seceded from the Union, the President has begun enforcing several Executive Orders, and signed two new ones. In effect, everyone who does not already have the TASCET Registered ID implant are being arrested and interred.

The USPF are simply going from door to door.

As this is a major urban environment, they are not bothering with checkpoints or patrols. The cordon is simply spreading out from the Federal Building and the airbase. Soon the two will meet up and form a ribbon of expansion until they have completely canvased the city. I suspect similar is happening across the country, at least among the states still participating in the rebellion of the 14th Amendment. I can’t imagine what is happening in the seceded nation-states.

Fortunately, this is still a rural state, and even our county Sheriff has a problem with the new law. Too bad that he and his deputies didn’t listen when there was still time to do something about it. But right now, they are just staying out of the way. Out of the way of the USPF, and out of the way of those who are fleeing.

I take one last look at my house, and I remember the speech I gave at the dedication ceremony when I moved in. After my pastor had marked the frame of the living-room doorway with oil and prayed a blessing, I explained to my gathered friends that, “this is just a house. My home lies elsewhere. And I am just a visitor in this place; someday, I will be called away home”.

Then I climb into the cab, start the engine, and slowly pull into the street. At the intersection, I look both ways for traffic and see

none. Expect none.

We’ll head to my uncle’s in the corner of the state. To his ranch. I’m not sure where we’ll go next. Perhaps we’ll caravan to the state line, see if we can get into one of the southwestern states. Or we may just dig-in out at one of pastures on the land “up south”.

I’m just glad I saw this coming.