American Recovery Page 2

  Elegant but simple. I would never have thought of it. Will? He's the man. Coming up with a workable solution that gives us greatly expanded water storage (although not immune to evaporation, of course) as well as a new defensive measure.

  Part of what makes Will the guy he is is the fact that he doesn't see how he's a rare breed. Confident but humble, creative, driven, intelligent, and loyal to an almost suicidal degree. And he came by this morning just to hang out and share ideas, to get my opinion on his solution. I spent a long time defending Will when he was still being punished for the things he did to keep New Haven safe. I watched him evolve and grow on our trip across the continent. In some ways he hardly seems like the same man anymore. He thinks in bigger terms, on longer scales, and wraps his brain around problems that would drive lesser men (*ahem, ahem*) crazy.

  But he didn't have to stop being who he was to meet those challenges. Will grew beyond his limitations. The old him is still there. He still loves to read and tell ghost stories. If we ever have time, he's eager to start another D&D campaign. At the risk of sounding even more gushy than I already do, I'm proud of him. I'm proud of all he has endured, at his strength, and for keeping to who he is no matter what assaults him. I couldn't have more pride at being able to call him friend.

  Now...if I could just figure out a nice way to get him off my couch. He has been playing with my cats for the last half hour and doesn't seem willing to leave. I mean, he does run New Haven. I'm sure he has important work to do...

  Wednesday, September 5, 2012

  The Usual Suspects

  Posted by Josh Guess

  Well. One certainty in life after The Fall, especially around these parts, is that nothing is ever certain. Just when you think your assumptions are valid and that events will unfold in a generally predictable fashion, fate decides to keep you on your toes with a hard slap to the back of the head.

  My friends are making an (incredibly obvious) effort to visit me each day. I don't get reports the way I used to, at least not as they happen. I'm supposed to be the historian, but I'm also still kind of fragile. The idea between them, I would guess, is for them to gauge my reaction to what they might say based on how we interact when they come by. If I seem okay, even happy, they will share things with me. Maybe disturbing things. If I'm in a dark mood or scattered, they shoot the shit with me and give me hugs.

  Except this morning it was Patrick, and he isn't a hugger. Which I've always seen as a damn shame, because the guy is built like a Kodiak Bear. It's like god designed a hugging machine in human form, but in a twist of whimsy decided to make that machine fear the intimacy of belly-to-belly human contact.

  Anyway, Pat can't keep things from me. Mostly because I'll poke the living hell out of his ribs until he cries uncle. There have been alarm bells off and on for most of the last day, and at first I wasn't worried because I didn't hear anyone chatting about the attacks. I figured they were small probing deals that were testing our new defenses. Our assault teams are working overtime trying to drop the level of undead in the county, but they just keep on coming from the west in a steady stream.

  After the third separate attack, I began to suspect that my not hearing anything about the attacks was a little too perfect. I mentioned that to Pat, and immediately remembered why he never plays poker with me. He has the ability to lie of a spastic three-year-old. He tried to hedge when I asked him about the attacks and whether I was being kept out of the loop.

  In his defense, I had to leave a couple quarter-sized bruises on his side before he sang. I won't deny a small thrill of pride that I didn't take any wounds of my own. Granted, he's only got the one hand, but that fucker can nub you to death with it if you aren't wily in quasi-serious combat.

  See, we thought the Exiles would hit us after a period of time, that they'd smash us with mortars or sniper fire or some other ungodly destructive thing we can't really plan for. And, hey--they still might. It's a great big infinite future out there.

  But those attacks weren't just the undead. There were Exiles peppered throughout. No one is sure how they managed to trick the New Breed into not recognizing them as humans, given how smart the New Breed are, but we know they were there. The evidence was easy to see in the morning light: they've cut or badly damaged some of the steel cable and salvaged power lines that form the makeshift barrier outside the newest expansion. Subtle work, and it might have been missed had they not become greedy and actually cut all the way through some of the lines. Weakening them might have been enough to screw us over without us catching on.

  Pat really didn't want to tell me, but I'm glad he did. Not because the news makes me particularly happy (it doesn't) but because I'm glad to know how I can handle bad news on a normal day (not feeling strongly happy or sad) without spiraling downward.

  I'm pretty much just pissed off. It's an old familiar feeling, like a comfortable winter coat finally pulled out of a closet and thrown on in a chill.

  I'm not a part of policy making any more, so there isn't a lot I can do with that anger, but I'm happy to have it. Gabby calls it a defense mechanism. I'm okay with that. I feel a little bad that I got mad in front of Patrick, because he suddenly remembered a pile of work to be done next door at his little smithy and politely excused himself. Maybe he thought I was going to start with the poking again. Can't hold that against him. In rage mode, I tend to be overly physical...

  So, yeah. Pat was right to leave. I was totally gonna try to wrestle with him to blow off some steam. Now, all I have is time to think while Jess is working. I'll try not to stew too much over the peace being broken. Seems like it usually is, anyway. If it isn't zombies, it's human beings. If it isn't people living or dead, then it's the weather. Or a disease. Or hunger. All the usual suspects.

  Now there's a pleasant thought.

  Friday, September 7, 2012

  Homemaker

  Posted by Josh Guess

  There haven't been any new developments with the Exile situation since my last post. Just throwing that out there, because I'm trying to move away from spending my time and effort on speculation and worrying. It's oddly freeing not to be a gear in the decision machine anymore. It gives me the opportunity to talk about what I want to talk about.

  My wife is awesome. Most of you know that.

  Jess and I have always had a strange relationship. When we started dating, I had just come out of a long relationship that involved a lot of responsibility on my part. I had no intention to see anyone seriously or exclusively. I wanted to have fun.

  Turns out I got to have fun while I was building a serious thing with Jess. At first, honestly, we were just a couple. We weren't friends. Hell, we didn't even know each other that well. As time went by, we began to realize how well our broken edges fit together. Where I was strong--the everyday things like managing money and planning for the future--she was inexperienced. Where I was insecure, like worrying about offending her or talking about a girl I saw that I thought was hot, she was an entirely different species. The things that upset most people in a relationship such as discussing old flames or checking out sexy members of the opposite sex, didn't bother her a bit. It took her years to develop even a small amount of jealousy.

  And yeah, we became best friends. On the big things we always came to easy agreement. The small stuff usually works itself out. The only serious arguments we ever get in are nearly always opinion-based and centered around pop culture. She has never seen the original Star Wars trilogy. I would be lying to you if I didn't admit that when we said our vows, that fact wasn't on my mind.

  The strange and wonderful thing about Jess that stands out over all other aspects of her personality is her ability to adapt. She has never shirked from hard work, and that attitude has served her well since The Fall. She hated guns, but saw the necessity in learning how to use them once the zombie plague broke out. She cried at the thought of killing animals for any reason, even for food, but she sighted down her rifle through the tears and fired with barely a tre
mor when the time came.

  She has bloomed in many ways since the world ended. Her nearly pathological shyness has receded into mere discomfort around strangers. She has a self-confidence that still shocks me every time I think of how she used to be. This morning, on her way to work in our self-contained farm, she walked up behind me as I scrubbed the few dishes we use and slapped me on the ass.

  She called me her "little woman", like I was some 1950s-era housewife.

  Jess just isn't that kind of person. Or wasn't. Her sense of humor flows through different channels. She caught me off guard and at first I was too dumbfounded to react. When her face fell, I ended up laughing. I knew she was joking but the poor thing seriously thought I was offended.

  The truth is, even though I've been at home more on a daily basis since The Fall than any time before it, I've never kept up with my end of the 'shared workload' deal. Historically I've been very lazy about doing housework and seeing that things are in order. I'm a sort of human tornado that way.

  Since leaving the clinic and being allowed at home by myself, I have nothing but free time most days. I get bored, and I've read every book in the house many times over the years. So I started cleaning and organizing, and the crazy thing is that I like it. My house is neat for the first time in ages, our stockpiles of random supplies easily accessible. Apparently we possess no less than three sets of barbecue tongs, and I haven't finished going through all the boxes of junk yet.

  I feel like I'm reaching a better place. Or at least walking the path toward it. I'm not allowed to participate in New Haven's defense, and I've come to terms with that reality, temporary though it is. I don't have a "real" job to do, other than this blog and collating the reams of data and information I've gathered over the last few years as I've struggled to help run this place. That comprehensive document will take months to complete and then need constant updating, but I've got the rest of my life to do it. So, no rush.

  Other than those things, I don't have much going on. That's why I feel such a sense of satisfaction from working on the house (planning on doing some big work, actually, like maybe adding a room or something) and doing the work Jess will be too tired to mess with. I'm almost at peace with myself at the moment, because being unable to do much of value outside my home, I've put forth my best effort to do all I can of value within it.

  There's a valuable lesson in there about knowing limitations and if you can't safely push them, taking satisfaction from a job well done. I could be wrong; might be that I'm just trying to make myself feel better. All I know for sure is that the smile on her face when she sees the tidy house waiting for her at the end of the day makes my heart thump hard against my chest, like an old cartoon. I see approval and love in her face, and as much as I dearly care for all my friends and appreciate all they've done...

  Nothing else compares to the feeling she gives me. Nothing in the world.

  Saturday, September 8, 2012

  God's Hand

  Posted by Josh Guess

  There are too many ways we can get our expectations up. Luckily for New Haven I'm not talking about the lack of attacks from the Exiles turning into a full-on assault. We've been down that road, and no one here has any realistic belief that we can find peace in the short term.

  Unluckily for me, I'm talking about my own expectations. I guess I've had too many good days of late, days where I don't feel like some angry god is reaching down and shoving their hand against my brain and heart. I've still had minor bouts of dark moods and jangling nerves, but overall my outlook has been good. I've even been keeping up with my jogging in the morning, which was a test of mettle today. Rain, and sixty degrees.

  About halfway through my run I had a panic attack. I was brought back home on a golf cart because I couldn't uncurl myself from the tiny ball I crunched into after the attack. I didn't want to see the staring faces. Shame and embarrassment kept me almost immobile.

  I used to be one of those people who sneered at the idea of panic attacks. I always thought it was kind of stupid to be freaking out for no reason, becoming irrational and incoherent, totally incapable of dealing with the world. My arrogance was strongly bolstered by the body control techniques I learned in martial arts and in my firefighting classes. You can't control your tiniest movements and breathing without strong mental control as well.

  I've been having them for a while now. The first one hit me not long after I started experimenting on the zombie captives. They grew in frequency and severity, and let me tell you: panic attacks are nothing to fuck with. The sense of pervasive, overwhelming fear that hits me, as if the entire universe suddenly bends and pushes on my body, is enough to make me feel like a huge douche for panning this condition in the first place. The reason more people don't have sympathy for people who suffer through them--aside from not having the experience themselves--is because words and description can't begin to explain how powerless you are in the grip of the attack.

  This was a few hours ago, and I'm still feeling the aftershocks of it. I remember reading some of Jim Butcher's Dresden Files a while back (before and after The Fall, they're my go-to rereads) and being fascinated by the idea that everything a wizard sees in their special Wizard's Sight is indelible and fresh in their memory forever.

  The good as well as the bad. And Butcher made the point that enough bad things that you can instantly recall can drive you nuts. That's how I feel right now, as I think about the fist of panic that drove me to the ground today. I feel like I'm right back in that moment all over again. It isn't as powerful, but my hands get a tremor while I type if I don't distract myself.

  While Jess was petting my hair and mumbling softly to me shortly after, a herd of zombies attacked in a tight formation, nearly two hundred of them. I heard the bells and thanked my lucky stars that Gabrielle had more insight and common sense than me. I thought I was ready to at least defend against the undead. I was so fucking wrong that the light from being right will take a thousand years to reach me. If I'd had that panic attack on the wall, which is likely since one of the triggers is large groups of people--one of my biggest stress factors--then I could have died. Worse, I could have cost someone else their own life.

  I said before that life isn't preset and simple, and that's true. You don't heal from injuries either physical or mental to become exactly who you were before. You change each time, constantly evolving into a newer you. The problem for me right now (aside from being a selfish dick and writing all about my own problems instead of, say, the zombie attack) is that there's no guarantee the person you become is someone you want to be.

  Sunday, September 9, 2012

  Gun Therapy

  Posted by Josh Guess

  Yesterday afternoon, Steve came by. At first I thought he was going to treat me with kid gloves the way most of my other friends have, but that wasn't the case. He had an idea for some tough love to help me deal with the fact that I can't deal with stress the way I used to.

  Which is ironic and pretty funny since Steve is easily the most compassionate and loving person I know. I mean, he's the least likely badass you could ever meet. I've mentioned more than once that with his soft voice, calm demeanor and almost comically nerdy personality, no one would expect him to be as dangerous as he is. Surprisingly tough, too. He lost an eye and just kept on going like it wasn't a thing.

  Instead of sitting in my living room, commiserating on how hard the simplest tasks can be for me, he cut through the bullshit small-talk pretty quick. Steve brought a little bag with him, and he opened it up to show me what was inside: two handguns. I knew them at first glance very intimately, as both of them were my own weapons. It had been so long since I lent them out to Steve and Courtney, before their big trip across the country quite a while back, that I had almost forgotten about them.

  The older of the two was my first gun, a Smith & Wesson .40 caliber. It was the gun I learned to shoot with, the one I had before The Fall came about. The other, a Glock 23, is also a .40 caliber. I've never be
en the kind of person to shy away from weapons, especially my own. I've fired thousands of rounds, killed many zombies (and, unfortunately, living things) and never felt the slightest bit of dread at seeing a gun, knife, sword, spear, or whatever.

  But I recoiled just looking at those simple tools. I knew in my head that's what they were, just objects in space that needed a mind to give them purpose. Maybe it's precisely because I've used them so often over the last few years, but I couldn't look at my weapons without shuddering.

  As you can guess, Steve wasn't going to take no for an answer. He zipped the bag up and made me come with him to the wall. We toured the sections ravaged by the zombie attacks yesterday, which are becoming overwhelming. He showed me the piles of undead being burned in the aftermath, and explained how hard-pressed our assault teams are. Fall is approaching, and winter after that. The undead are coming here not just from Louisville but from the south as well in increasing numbers. They can smell living people here from miles away, and they're hungry.

  He took me by the clinic and made me look at the people injured in yesterday's attacks. I saw the bodies of the slain.

  Then we went to the vacant lot hemmed in by heavy fencing near the clinic. It's a familiar place to me; I did some terrible experiments there. We sat outside the lot and talked, and I told Steve how sorry I was. I told him how I knew I was letting people down, and all the other awful things that come into the minds of people like me when bad things happen.

  He slapped me on the back of the head. Hard.

  Then he told me in no uncertain terms that it wasn't my fault and that only an ego the size of a school bus would cause me to think that. He didn't show me all the fallout and damage to make me feel guilty or responsible. He showed me because no one else thought I could handle the reality of the situation. He showed me because he knew I needed to be confronted with stress and fear if I'm ever to overcome it.

  That's also why he handed me my Glock, pushed me through the gate and into the lot, and came in behind me. Three captive zombies were there, new breed. They huddled together in the corner, tearing at the ropes tied to their legs. My hand shook as I watched the fibers shred and disintegrate under their fingers. I tried to slow my breathing, get control.