PROPHESY: Hiding in the Shadows

It was dark, but fortunately for us, the moon was full, and there wasn't a cloud in the sky. Lucky considering where we live, one of the wettest places in what is left of the U.S. There must have been twenty of us in the building, but we didn't lie to ourselves:  this was no protection. No roof, no doors, not even glass in the windows. If the Taken found us, we'd be as good as Taken ourselves. They were everywhere, and the tension was just on the verge of pouring into the dark woods.

It finally broke when a lady and a little girl broke through the bushes. Apparently, they had found a way down to the beach, a drainage that was partially overgrown, despite it's recent installation. Such is life in the Alaskan rainforest.

We all took off, single file, quietly as we could, though for my own part, I was certain that everyone could heat my fearful heart beating out of my head. Once we got to the beach, the mission was clear: follow it south to the depot, and hope to God there was a van or a bus or something we could cram into. We needed to get away from the outbreak.

The Taken, or specifically, whatever caused them to be so, were vicious. The disease, whether it was vital or bacterial, nobody knew, spread quickly. The result was a being devoid of individuality, a being who could seemingly wordlessly "think their thoughts" into the mind of all the others. I know, it sounds crazy, but once one knows where you are, they all know. And then they all come looking for you. They want to take you.

We got to the depot, and hints of first light was staying to peek over the mountain. Morris, a guy I met in a bar and hadn't seen for years, challenged us. Apparently, they tried to take him, too.

Gently, I assured him we were on his side, still free, and he, in turn, told me he had a surprise for me. He led us to a small garage way up on a gravel hill. A both stained to slide the giant door open. A cloud of must flooded my nose, but the sight if one of my oldest and dearest friends almost erased any fear of death.

Morris had come through. He had found and rescued the BattleWagon.

CHRONICLES/THOUGHTS: About Violence

As you probably know by know, on July 20th, a few days ago, there was a terrible tragedy that happened in my home state of Colorado.  A man walked into a movie theater and opened fire, killing 12 people and wounding 58 more.  Many questions have come up since then, concerns that gun control laws aren't strict enough, or the converse, that not enough people are carrying firearms for self defense.  I've had conversations about whether or not the death penalty should be considered for the suspect, or if he'll be considered some degree of insane and locked in a rubber room for years without a trial, as is the case with the man who wounded Congresswoman Gabrielle Giffords and killed, what was it, nine other people?

Then, there's the reaction.  You see some of the most uplifting things in times like this.  You see the President of the United States speaking at a memorial service.  You see professional athletes and entertainers visiting the surviving wounded and the grieving loved ones.  You see communities and and arts communities with otherwise little in common banding together to diagnose and digest what exactly just happened to all of them, together, without discrimination or judgement.

Unfortunately, there's a bad apple that ruins it for everyone.  I understand this bad apple, but I don't necessarily agree with it, and here's where I share my thoughts.

Earlier today, while perusing some of the standard news blogs and social networking sites, I came across a picture of the suspect's head PhotoShopped onto one of those targets that marksmen use, the ones that look like people.  And while I can't help by sympathize and even mostly agree with the idea that, had someone in that theater had a legal concealed weapon that they went through a permit process to receive, there may have been less death, that short time has passed.  The instant of whether or not they were able to protect themselves has passed.  It's over.  It's done.  We grieve.  And with that, there's a celebration of sorts in calling for the suspect's death.  Not a death in terms of justice as far as the system is designed to accommodate, but a death in the slightly-better-than-the-suspect's-mindset-in-the-first-place-but-not-really terms.  In other words, those who seek revenge instead of justice are no better than those who committed the crime in the first place.  Yes, this guy, if proven to be so, was a bastard.  Does he deserve to die for what he did?  I defer to the court and the jury's judgement in that case.  However, will his death be one I celebrate?  I don't think so.  I think it's a cold and dark place people go to when they decide that anyone's death is worth celebrating.  I'm not referring to those people who celebrate the lives of their loved ones when they pass away.  I'm referring to the people who are so consumed by hatred, anger, and fear that they almost find a joy in seeing others suffer.

Don't be that person.  Raise the bar for yourself if you haven't already.  Death for death's sake is a horrible thing, and when, despite everything you may have lost, you stoop to that level, the level that's only marginally above how these things get started in the first place.