Man's Fate

My survivalist neighbor, John, has been busy converting his nuclear fallout shelter into an emergency water tank. Apparently no longer afraid of fiery death falling from the skies, these days he's more concerned about drought and data centers consuming all his drinking water. 

Preternaturally paranoid, like most Doomsday preppers, John is disguising this new water tank as a backyard swimming pool. 'So no scavengers will drink my water,' he confided. 'Because they'll think it's full of chlorine and kids' urine like every other swimming pool,' 

To paraphrase Roosevelt, I guess he has nothing to fear but a post-apocalyptic Burt Lancaster doing laps and pontificating from the shallow end, while John tries to surreptitiously quench his thirst.

'What are you using for a source?' I asked him. 'Sparkling or still? 

'I'm tapping a natural aquifer that runs beneath the sidewalk ,' John replied. 'And probably add a hint of lemon or lime, depending on the availability of fresh produce, as I'm sure local fruit farmers will be impacted by the water shortages.'

Too much work for too little reward, as far as I'm concerned. Personally, I've been putting money aside every year to save up for my ticket on the Human Ark rocket-ship that takes mankind to Mars. Sure, I can only afford an economy seat, but I'm good with that. After all, who needs a china tea service and fancy cutlery if you're in suspended animation for however long the trip takes?

And we all know John's water tank will eventually fail. Remember when his jerry-built porch addition collapsed on that Amazon delivery guy? Even the zucchinis in his vegetable patch withered and died before harvest time, and his herb garden is already a virtual wasteland.

John's going to feel pretty stupid distilling and sterilizing his own urine when he gets the interstellar postcard from my Martian home. 'So much better relaxing on this red rock in outer space than fighting murderous gangs of thirst-crazed zombies on that burning desert we called Earth,' I'll write. 'Wish you were here.'

In truth, of course, I'll be glad that he isn't there. Fanatical lunatics like John will definitely not be welcome in the New New World. We shall be required to be ruthless if we discover a stowaway on our ship because we don't want a repeat of all man's madness that prompted us to leave in the first place.

All Along The Watchtower

Instead of a traditional welcome mat, Gerald's front door featured four big signs: Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted, Beware of the Dog, This Property Protected By Zonal Security, and No Soliciting, Police Take Notice. There was no sculpted pineapple perched over the threshold, nor any other example of whimsical greeting to indicate gracious hospitality could be found inside. It was more of a fortress than a home. The kind of place where the basement was converted into a nuclear fallout shelter instead of a man-cave. Chez paranoia with two and half baths.

With some justification, you might describe Gerald's house as the domestic equivalent of a surveillance state, with closed-circuit television recording every nook and cranny. Visitors couldn't even escape his electronic eye by stepping into the backyard, as there were cameras hidden in the shrubbery, listening devices surreptitiously attached to the sprinkler system, and motion detectors triggered by every blade of grass. His neighbors called Gerald's garden gate 'Checkpoint Charlie,' and the mailman pretended to be a clandestine courier from some foreign power, delivering secret documents and fake passports to a dead letter drop.

'You can never be too careful these days,' Gerald declared, allowing his head to be scanned by facial recognition software, a necessary protocol before the reinforced steel doors to his living room would swing open. 'Take a seat. Drink?'

'Pepsi for me, please,' I replied.

'Sorry, I don't keep commercial beverages in the house. It's impossible to track the liquid's route from point of origin to final destination. Anything could happen to it during the journey: contamination, increased toxicity, even dilution.'

'Okay, I just have whatever you're having, then.'

'I only imbibe my own recycled urine, although I do risk adding a splash of aromatic bitters if I'm in a festive mood.'

'A glass of water?'

'Certainly, although it might take a while.' Gerald informed me. 'You see, I draw all my water by hand from a climate-controlled artesian well plumbed in a secret location on my property. I don't trust tap or bottled water. Nobody in their right mind would.'

'Oh, well, don't bother if it's that's much trouble. I'm fine.'

'Oh good,' he said with a sigh of relief. 'I have a contractor coming round in an hour with a quote to install barbed wire coils on my perimeter fencing. There is a block party on this street at the weekend and I want to make adequate preparations for any and all eventualities.'

It was not easy for me to gain admittance to Gerald's inner sanctum. Applicants were required to undergo a comprehensive vetting procedure that included submitting a written essay on their reasons for visiting, providing three forms of photographic identification, and be personally vouched for by two unrelated individuals known and trusted by Gerald for a period of at least five years, preferably longer.

In my case, the three IDs had been forged by council elders, two of Gerald's closest friends were bribed to endorse my application, and the essay was written by AI. It was a risky strategy but had worked. I had been allowed to gallop over Gerald's drawbridge and breach his defenses. Now it was time to get down to business. 

'Your essay explained that you wanted to inquire about the Bouncy Prison on my lawn.' Gerald said, 'Well, it doesn't get much use because I have no children and other people's children are banned from the premises. But it's the same as a regulation Bouncy Castle except that you lock the kids in so they can't get out. I bought it on a whim in case the need should arise to incarcerate local brats while keeping them entertained until their parents arrive with the ransom money.'

'That is profoundly interesting. Thanks for giving me the lowdown.' I replied. 'But I do have one more question before I leave you to the barbed wire salesman. Have you heard the Good News of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ? This magazine The Watchtower has some really wonderful articles you might find particularly inspiring.'