{"id":893,"date":"2016-11-01T20:20:21","date_gmt":"2016-11-02T03:20:21","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/jamesfunfer.com\/?p=893"},"modified":"2016-11-01T20:20:21","modified_gmt":"2016-11-02T03:20:21","slug":"dooms-daughter-chapter-one","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/jamesfunfer.com\/?p=893","title":{"rendered":"Doom’s Daughter, Chapter One"},"content":{"rendered":"
\n
\n

\"dooms_daughter_cover_big-1\"<\/p>\n

I think it was a garden once. The wooden frame, like everything in this yard, is overgrown<\/span> with weeds and brambles. <\/span>I only found it by stumbling over the lumber with my boot, very nearly falling face-first into a patch of briar thorns. My machete will cut through a lot of things, but I don\u2019t have time to chop up old rose bushes<\/span> when there\u2019s a whole street of houses to go through<\/span>. The house is my primary concern, along with the possibility of fruits and vegetables in the back yard.<\/span><\/p>\n

<\/span>I hack a path through the weeds and <\/span>beechwood<\/span> saplings to trace the border of what I hope is a small box garden. <\/span>The house is to my right, two stories tall. There is a small glass enclosure attached; I think it might be a kind of greenhouse. It could be promising, but there\u2019s also a good chance that it\u2019s barren. The garden is more likely to yield hidden food.<\/span><\/p>\n

<\/span>The frame ends underneath a <\/span>crabapple<\/span> tree. Ordinarily such a find would be worth an hour of fruit picking, even if the fruit is tiny and tart, but although the Pacific winter is mild and damp, it\u2019s winter all the same. Any fruit the tree has borne this year has already been picked or is rotten upon the ground, just like the odd pear-shaped fruit at t<\/span>he other end of the yard, brown and soft<\/span> upon<\/span> the branch. I don\u2019t think it\u2019s a pear tree though \u2013 the ones that I\u2019ve seen, down south, are much bigger when they bear fruit of the same size.<\/span><\/p>\n

<\/span>I kneel down and begin sifting through damp weeds and lush grass, thankful for the thick gloves that protect me from rose thorns. <\/span>Beneath the hardy forest plants, I am rewarded. There are deep green leaves of various shapes, and the soil is still soft despite years of neglect. This rocky island ground, I have discovered, is usually unyielding.<\/span><\/p>\n

<\/span>I shrug out of my backpack and grab my trowel from its place in a side compartment. Then I set to work digging, looking for edible roots and stalks. After a few minutes, I have achieved a bit of success. There are small potatoes and a healthy amount of kale<\/span>. My mouth waters but I restrain myself. The kale will taste better cooked, perhaps with dried berries.<\/span><\/p>\n

<\/span>There is a sound in the brush behind me and I realize that I\u2019ve kept my guard down. I wheel around on my haunches and un-sling my rifle in a practiced motion. As I pop the safety off, I stare down the barrel into the placid black eyes of a doe. She munches on leaves, unafraid, though her ears are perked and alert. I am metres away.<\/span><\/p>\n

<\/span>I lower the gun. Meat has been plentiful; it\u2019s greens that I need. I don\u2019t have the time to deal with an entire deer carcass, anyway. I let her eat and turn my attention back to the garden. I hear her wander off after a few minutes, and I am again alone in the overgrown yard.<\/span><\/p>\n

<\/span>I gather as much as the garden will offer. Not enough to fill my backpack, but enough for at <\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
\n
\n

least a meal or two. <\/span>The interior of the house promises more unless it has already been <\/span>thoroughly scavenged, and though I will likely find no foodstuffs, there could be other interesting treasures within.<\/span><\/p>\n

<\/span>I check the sky. <\/span>Grey, dull, threatening to rain as always.<\/span> It\u2019s impossible to tell the position of the sun, and I haven\u2019t found the right parts to fix my watch yet. There are two more houses on the street to check. Still, there\u2019s enough light for me to decide that I don\u2019t need to hurry just yet.<\/span><\/p>\n

<\/span>The back entrance is a sliding door, glass long shattered. <\/span>The old pieces of glass crunch and pop underfoot, squishing deeper into the moss that has crept well into the carpet of the abode. The glass<\/span> was probably <\/span>broken by <\/span>the earthquake that rocked this area a few years back<\/span> rather than by looters<\/span>; many properties had been reduced to little more than ruins, and although some structures survived mainly intact, none were completely undamaged.<\/span><\/p>\n

<\/span>I keep my rifle at the ready and step through the threshold.<\/span><\/p>\n

<\/span>I quickly survey the walk-out basement and listen for movement. There haven\u2019t been any squatters in the area yet, but I\u2019m not about to let my guard down. There is a kitchen off to my left, cabinets left ajar and empty. Ahead is a living area, complete with computer desks, couch, television and bookshelves.<\/span><\/p>\n

<\/span>All useless, except for the bookshelves.<\/span> I approach with discretion, my eyes and gun barrel fixed on the dark hallway.<\/span> Nothing stirs. The house is still and silent as a crypt. It could very well be a tomb of sorts, though I have seen no remains yet.<\/span><\/p>\n

<\/span>The bookshelves have not been ransacked. It is rare for me to find a place where anything other than food, weapons and basic tools have been looted. I scan the shelves with a tenuous smirk, looking for anything that could pique my interest. It is mostly fiction. I\u2019ve been collecting enough stories to last me quite a while, and I don\u2019t have room on my own bookshelf. The only space I have available is for practical knowledge.<\/span><\/p>\n

<\/span>Astrophysics – interesting, but not useful. <\/span>Computer programming – boring and worthless to me right now.<\/span> <\/span>History \u2013 well, I\u2019ve had my fill of history for a while. I find n<\/span>o medical texts, no gardening books, nothing ab<\/span>out radios or chemistry or guns. I turn away from the bookshelf and head down the hallway. There are three doors \u2013 one on each side of me, and one straight ahead. All three are ajar.<\/span><\/p>\n

<\/span>The first door is the one on my right. Sure enough, it\u2019s a bedroom, and as expected, it\u2019s occupied. Bedrooms are usually where I find bodies.<\/span><\/p>\n

<\/span>To call them corpses, however, is being generous. Usually there\u2019s little remaining but bones. It\u2019s impossible to tell how this one died, but most of the skeletons that I find look as though they were curled up at the end. It suggests either fear or comfort in those final moments. I <\/span>suspect the former \u2013 The Doom was not kind to humanity. I was told that it was terrible in every way conceivable.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
\n
\n

<\/span>The room has little to offer me. The corpse<\/span> left behind a closet full of clothing for an adult male. The size looks like a good fit, but there is little of practical use that I don\u2019t already own. I check the dresser, delighted to find cargo pants in my waist size in the bottom drawer. I stuff them in my backpack.<\/span><\/p>\n

<\/span>The rest of the house has nothing that I need. <\/span>When I emerge from the front door, the clouds are drizzling. I zip up my hunting jacket and shiver. There are two more houses on the street, but I\u2019m cold and tired and hungry, and it\u2019s wet. I decide to head back home.<\/span><\/p>\n

<\/span>It\u2019s a long street, long and lonely in this forgotten part of the world that is slowly returning to the wild. Human habitation is being overtaken. Weeds are sprouting through the many cracks in the asphalt. The blackberry brambles to my right have become a fortress around a standing abode, and I am reminded of the old fairy tale of Sleeping Beauty. <\/span>With a sense of gloom, I tell myself sternly that the only things sleeping in that house are bugs and bones.<\/span><\/p>\n

<\/span>Fields that horses once paced are filled with shoulder-high grasses, where cougars hide and hunt the wild chickens and deer and dogs. Many of the poles once holding power lines have long fallen over, and the wires stretch across the road, innocuous.<\/span><\/p>\n

<\/span>I lower my rifle for a moment and shake out <\/span>some of the damp from my hair. It\u2019s growing past my eyebrows again. I don\u2019t like shaving my head in the winter, but I don\u2019t like how it gets in the way when it\u2019s long. I remind myself that it doesn\u2019t really matter what it looks like, so scissors will work fine.<\/span><\/p>\n

<\/span>Home is at the end of the street, hidden <\/span>behind overgrown hedges <\/span>in a gravel driveway.<\/span> As I approach, I make a low whistle, punctuated by a trill at the end.<\/span><\/p>\n

<\/span>I wait.<\/span><\/p>\n

<\/span>I hear a <\/span>quork<\/span> in reply \u2013 it sounds like a raven. I round the corner of the hedge. Home is right where I left it. The truck and RV appear to be just another part of the scenery. Abandoned vehicles are just as common as abandoned houses.<\/span><\/p>\n

<\/span>Atop the RV, a gaunt figure in a long brown duster sits and smokes a cigarette. His face is shrouded by long silver hair and a tangled mass of salt-and-pepper beard. Across his lap is a scoped rifle. He grins widely at me.<\/span><\/p>\n

<\/span>\u201cHello, daughter,\u201d he says in his rough timbre. \u201cDid you find anything interesting?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

<\/span>Father <\/span>perches like a sniper-scarecrow, scanning the street for signs of life or danger as I clamber into the RV, our mobile home and fortress. We\u2019d been using a tank for a while, but <\/span>that\u2019s another story. Mainly it wasn\u2019t very comfortable, nor did it have a lot of amenities. We sure didn\u2019t get bothered by scavengers when we were rolling, though.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
\n
\n

<\/span>To an untrained eye, our home would seem a mess: shelves overflowing with books and manuals, sketchbooks, journals. These are our lifeblood, our <\/span>connection to knowledge<\/span> long forgotten and lost to most. <\/span>First aid.<\/span> <\/span>Hydroponic farming.<\/span> <\/span>Engine repair.<\/span> <\/span>Chemistry, metallurgy<\/span>, mycology, electronics<\/span>.<\/span> A hunter\u2019s field guide. <\/span>Farmer\u2019s almanacs.<\/span> <\/span>Nautical maps.<\/span> <\/span>Digital data is kept separate (if at all): diskettes, CDs, USB data sticks. Most of the ones Father kept were taken from military or government buildings.<\/span><\/p>\n

Milk crates, each labelled, <\/span>are lashed to their cubbyholes<\/span> with bungee cords like security cordons. These <\/span>are overflowing but meticulously catalogued by Father: wires, nails, screws, <\/span>tape, string, gauze, cloth,<\/span> oil, ammo, batteries, <\/span>paper, <\/span>pencils<\/span>. Guns are kept in the safe, tools next to it, in what Father refers to as the \u2018cockpit\u2019. Food is kept in the kitchenette, but most of the space i<\/span>s dominated by heat lamps and potted vegetables<\/span>.<\/span><\/p>\n

Our survival gear<\/span> for lon<\/span>g forays in the deep wilderness<\/span> is kept in the truck bed, along with our supply of gasoline. My siphoning skills are such that I have finally forgotten <\/span>the taste of gas on my tongue<\/span>.<\/span><\/p>\n

Next to our beds is the \u2018media centre\u2019, which is predominantly a stacked AV system with an amp, tape deck, CD player, record player, speakers and computer. Sometimes I use an auxiliary jack or dock for an old cell phone or MP3 player we find, but once I download what I want onto the hard drive I usually leave these behind. If we took everything we scavenged with us we\u2019d have to have a whole caravan of campers.<\/span><\/p>\n

Father claims that by pre-Doom standards we \u2018bring everything but <\/span>the kitchen sink\u2019, an adage<\/span> that I still don\u2019t quite understand because we <\/span>have<\/span> a kitchen sink. Given how much there is to claim, how much is lying around, we travel <\/span>bare bones<\/span>.<\/span><\/p>\n

Father climbs in from the roof hatch and sets his rifle down on his bed, the only unclaimed, uncluttered space other than the floor.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYou didn\u2019t answer my question,\u201d he accuses. His tone is lighthearted; this is our first winter spent in a mild climate since I was a little girl, and it has kept him in high spirits.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIf I found anything good?\u201d<\/span> I lay my backpack down on my own bed and upend its contents, each wrapped in plastic (Forever-Cloth, Father calls it): <\/span>wild vegetables, cargo pants, <\/span>a<\/span> local trail guide.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s it?<\/span> No rare Rachmaninoff recordings, no floor safes? No sports cars we can take for a spin?<\/span>\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I shrug. \u201cThere was an empty gun case in one house. No signs of recent human tracks or habitation but based on what we\u2019ve seen around here so far I bet there\u2019s a local community somewhere. Supposedly this was good farmland at one point even though it\u2019s a rocky island. Maybe <\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
\n
\n

we should see if we can find<\/span> them and<\/span> do some trading.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Father makes a sour face and gathers the vegetables, placing them in the fridge. \u201cI don\u2019t know…\u201d he trails off. \u201cYou never <\/span>know <\/span>how the locals are going to react to strangers. Or <\/span>what they believe…or behave like<\/span>.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

This again, <\/span>I think.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cRemember Freetown?\u201d<\/span> he asks.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cOf course I do.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cNot so free, was it?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cUgh, <\/span>dad<\/span>.\u201d<\/span> I go to the bathroom to try on the cargo pants.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m jus<\/span>t saying that sometimes people can be more trouble than they\u2019re worth.\u201d I can hear him clearly through the door. Every scuff and squeak is audible inside the RV; nothing is secret. Don\u2019t even get me started on Father\u2019s snoring.<\/span><\/p>\n

The pants are a little big around the waist, but that\u2019s what belts are for. What matters is that the pants are durable, with lots of pockets.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI really don\u2019t relish the idea of running for my life firing a gun over my shoulder again,\u201d he continues.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThat happened once. You can\u2019t assume the worst of <\/span>every<\/span> group of people we might chance to encounter just because one town was under the thumb of a psychopath.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s kept me alive so far.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I open the bathroom door and glare at him. He\u2019s thumbing through the trail guide in a disinterested fashion.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIf you were so worried about your own safety you would have stayed <\/span>in <\/span>Novamerica<\/span>.\u201d I cross over to my bed and<\/span> start skimming<\/span> through <\/span>my <\/span>music albums.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cNice bunch of people,\u201d he muses, \u201cgreat to trade with, but their ideas about the future of the world…\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I grab a CD and smirk, popping it into the player.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cHave you ever considered the notion that I <\/span>like<\/span> meeting new people, dad?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWell you\u2019ll just have to deal with some loneliness,\u201d he counters. \u201cIf we went around saying hello to every post-Doom settlement we found, we\u2019d be dead seven times over already.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

\n
\n

\u201cSure.\u201d I press play and <\/span>Dragonforce<\/span> <\/span>starts blaring through the speakers. Father shoots me a baleful look; this is my latest tactic in shutting down conversations and it drives him completely crazy. If he gets to control <\/span>where <\/span>we go, I can at least be in charge of how many <\/span>bullshit<\/span> <\/span>reasons<\/span> I have to listen to.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWould you shut that off, please?\u201d he shouts. \u201cI wasn\u2019t done.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhat?\u201d I <\/span>say, even though <\/span>can hear him clearly. I accentuate my feigned deafness with some over-the-top air guitar. <\/span>Father used to join in<\/span> when I was younger, but around the time I discovered heavy met<\/span>al he seemed to have unveiled a strong <\/span>distaste for anything except classical music.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI said: shut it off. Someone could hear.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThere\u2019s nobody around for miles, dad,\u201d I insist as the music blares on.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201c<\/span>Regan<\/em>.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

When he calls me by my first name, I know he\u2019s serious, but I\u2019m too pissed off to want to listen. I crank it up.<\/span><\/p>\n

He doesn\u2019t shout again or say anything, but dashes over to the amp and shuts the whole system off, pressing a finger to his lips with his other hand.<\/span><\/p>\n

We have an intricate series of hand signals, he and I, and the gestures he makes with his free hand <\/span>cause<\/span> my pulse quicken.<\/span><\/p>\n

Noise.<\/span> <\/span>Outside.<\/span><\/em><\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

I think it was a garden once. The wooden frame, like everything in this yard, is overgrown with weeds and brambles. I only found it by stumbling over the lumber with my boot, very nearly falling face-first into a patch of briar thorns. My machete will cut through a lot of things, but I don\u2019t […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-893","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/jamesfunfer.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/893","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/jamesfunfer.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/jamesfunfer.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/jamesfunfer.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/jamesfunfer.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=893"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/jamesfunfer.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/893\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":897,"href":"https:\/\/jamesfunfer.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/893\/revisions\/897"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/jamesfunfer.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=893"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/jamesfunfer.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=893"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/jamesfunfer.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=893"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}