James and Lee: The Great Scare

Preface

How were we supposed to have known? We simply did what everyone else did. We listened to what everyone else listened to. We went along with what we thought everyone else was thinking. In the end, we were all deceived.

Hi there. My name is James, and I live with what is left of—what was once—American society. As of right now, the question is not about how we live, but rather, where we live. Where is that exactly? The answer is not that easy to accept. However, the story is simple enough. It all began when we started to value the life of nature more than the life of the human race. Back then, many would have said, To value the life of nature is the only true way to value human life. Now we know that never in the history of mankind have more absurd words ever been spoken.

From the walls of these underground tunnels, we, the descendants of the survivors, finally understand that the earth was created to support mankind and not the other way around. Too bad we discovered this reality much too late. How were we supposed to have known the earth would take care of itself? How were we supposed to have known the Great Scare was nothing more than a way for some to make a profit and others to take control? Finally, how were we to know our dependency on the government to completely provide for us would later require us to completely fend for ourselves? Like I said, we simply did what everyone else did. We listened to what everyone else listened to. We went along with what we thought everyone else was thinking.

Well, back to introductions. As I said, my name is James, and the funny little man standing behind me is Lee. He is of some

relation to me. My parents always insisted that he was my brother, but I have my serious doubts.

Lee, please say hi to our readers.

Hi!

Lee, I told you to say hi, you don’t have to wave. This is a book; they cannot see you.

Oh, on the contrary, James, through the use of vivid, visual word pictures, I’m quite certain they can all see my friendly, courteous, yet fully appropriate hand gesture. In fact, I’m even sure that a few of them are waving back.

You’re insane.

Oh, am I? Am I really? I’m not the one who built a time machine…

Shhh! Quiet, Lee! I had yet to reveal that information to the readers. It was supposed to be a surprise.

Well, it’s not now. Besides, it wasn’t a good surprise, if I may say so, which I just did. It is kind of…how shall I say—cliché-ish.

Cliché-ish? That’s not even a word!

Of course it’s a word! I just used it, didn’t I?

You really are a tiny little man. And it’s time for you to be quiet. I must get the audience up to speed with our current predicament.

Yes, sorry, James… Please proceed with the story, O Great All-Powerful Narrator… And for the audience, I am now waving good-bye.

Lovely. Now, where was I? Oh yes… You all probably would like to know about the time machine, am I right? Well, there really isn’t much to speak of. It’s like any other typical time machine one might find laying around after a global catastrophe. I crafted it out of the finest scrap material and salvaged technology that money could buy. It looks much like—

A big pile of junk!

Err… I was going to say a Toyota Prius.

Yes, that’s what I said…a big pile of junk.

Anyhow, Lee does have a point. It’s definitely not the prettiest thing to look at. But what it lacks in eye appeal, it makes up for in ingenuity. It took three years to build this masterpiece, and now here we are on the verge of greatness, ready to shake our fists in the face of time and laugh in the visage of space! In a few short minutes, my brother and I will embark on a journey back in time to correct the mistakes of the past—

Yes, yes, that’s good and all, but can we leave now? The natives are getting restless. They haven’t stopped pounding on that door since we barricaded ourselves in here.

Well, Lee, what do you expect? After all, we did steal their Sacred Napkin.

More reason for us to stop this chatting and leave this place…err…time…space… whatever!

Okay, okay, but all in good time. Before we leave, we seriously need to get the readers fully caught up with the events that led up to this glorious occasion.

Are you serious? We stole the Sacred Napkin! If that mob gets in here, they’re going to eat us and use the Sacred Napkin to wipe our blood from their chins!

Please, Lee, they’re not cannibals. Besides, that door will hold them off for a while. You must forgive my brother. Lee can be a little dramatic at times. Everything to him is a crisis: Oh me, oh my, I stubbed my toe! Oh no, I can’t find my razor! Oh, woe is me, I think people are trying to eat me! Seriously, Lee, you really need to learn to relax a little.

Yeah, sure…I’ll relax. But when those deranged lunatics break down that door, I’m making sure they see you as the appetizer.

Whatever skittles your skidattle. Now, where was I? Oh yes, you probably want to know about this business with the Sacred Napkin and the bloodthirsty mob that we stole it from. To get the big picture of our present situation, we need to go back to the events of yesterday morning.

A flashback?! We don’t have time for a flashback!

Sure we do. Besides, if we didn’t have a flashback, then this book would have ended by now. So, without trying to sound too evolutionary, it all started with a big bang…

Monday Morning

It was a typical morning on a typical day that just happened to be Monday. And like a typical Monday morning, I refused to open my eyes and join the world of the conscious. I’m not sure what it is about Mondays, but it really is a horrific way to start the work cycle. And while I don’t question God’s design of the seven-day week, I do truly wish He had skipped Monday and gone straight to Tuesday. But then again, perhaps we would all just end up hating Tuesday. So, with a grunt that captured the essence of my unwilling spirit, I awoke.

BANG!

The sound of the explosion ripped through our little hole in the ground like a fat man trying on his wife’s pants. Well, that’s assuming that the wife of the fat man were smaller than the fat man and that the pants were not actually spandex. But if the wife were in fact a great deal smaller than the fat man, and her pants were in fact a taut material and not stretchy, then the rip that would transpire from the fat man’s attempt to don them would be the same as the explosion that rocked through our home that Monday morning.

Jumping out of bed, I ran through our charming cave dwelling and, in the process, stubbed my foot on a small stalagmite that I could have sworn was not there the day before. (It truly is amazing how fast those things can grow when you don’t pay attention. However, as I always say, it is always better to stub one’s toe on a stalagmite than to step on one.)

Now with a bit of a limp and a possible broken toe, I continued my search into the cause of the explosion. I turned the corner to enter our second passageway when I abruptly and efficiently collided with a hanging stalactite. Stalactites and stalagmites are funny little things. Living underground, you get used to seeing them. To be honest, I hate them. And not for obvious reasons. Most people find them intrusive and frightening, always hanging around or sticking up from the ground like long jagged teeth that might swallow you up and chew your bones if they ever found you alone in a cave. Personally, none of that bothers me. A rock is a rock regardless of its shape. No, what truly bothers me is the constant dripping! All day! All night! Drip! Drip! Drip! For the love of peat moss, I would sell my brother for a day without the dripping! But alas, that’s life in the underground.

I must have blacked out for a minute because I found myself lying on the cave floor. Now, with a limp, a possibly broken toe, a throbbing migraine, a likely fractured skull, and most definitely bleeding from the forehead, I picked myself up and continued my investigation. Arriving in the den, I tried desperately to discern what I saw, a task made all the more difficult by the blood that was now pouring into my eyes. But there, on the floor of the den, lay Lee. He was motionless, except for his stuttering lips that repetitively and frantically mumbled some inaudible message. Black soot covered his face and hands. The charred remains of his clothes still smoldered. His left hand held what was now a twisted piece of metal, but what I was certain was once a picture frame. In his right hand, he held the handle of what I immediately recognized as my favorite hammer—or what used to be my favorite hammer. These clues were more than enough to tell me what had transpired, but it was the large hole in the wall and the permanent look of surprise on Lee’s face that confirmed my suspicions.

Magnesium deposit? I asked.

…, Lee confirmed.

It is one of the many quirks about living the subterranean life. You see, when you make your home out of caves, caverns, fissures, grottos, and other assorted holes in the ground, the structural stability of your home is entirely at the mercy of chance. When you first consider subterranean home ownership, you need to keep three things in mind: location, location, and mineral deposits. Quite literally, mineral deposits can make or break a home. The lucky ones are those who find a suitable and well-located dwelling, and only after moving in, find to their joyous surprise that veins of gold, silver, and other precious minerals run elegantly through the interior of their new home. Our cousin Sammy has an entire wall of iron pyrite, and though it isn’t gold, it looks fabulous. Then there are those who have the misfortune of discovering that their home is nothing more than a ticking time bomb—much like ours. My brother and I inherited our little abode from our parents after they were killed in a cave-in. And though we probably should have moved out years ago, we just could not help but stay in the hole in which we were born. (Even if the walls are lined with an absurd amount of magnesium.) Besides, it makes life a lot more exciting when you know that at any moment your home could explode into a ball of all-consuming flames with you trapped inside. Alas, that’s life in the underground.

So, there I was: limping, bruised, disoriented, and bleeding as I peered down at my ill-fated brother, who was still smoldering from what I assumed was his recent attempt to hang a picture on our wall. Lee coughed a small billow of grayish smoke and tried to stand on his feet.

ARE YOU OKAY? I asked loudly, presuming by the blood that was running out of his ears that he would have issues with hearing.

I THINK I BROKE YOUR HAMMER! Lee shouted back as he waved the dismembered tool in the air.

YES, I THINK YOU DID! I replied as I limped over to the kitchen, where we kept the first aid kit. Having found it and opened it, I placed my hand into its contents and scooped out a handful of dirt. Dirt—it is perhaps the greatest universal healing agent. In the aftermath of the Great Scare, most medical supplies were quickly depleted during the first couple decades of subterranean life. While many homemade remedies have emerged over the years, the most widely used medical treatment for all ailments is your average household sediment. Growing up in the caves, it was common to hear parents telling their injured or sick children to simply Rub some dirt on it! For example:

Mom, a child might say, I stepped on a stalagmite. I’m bleeding everywhere!

That’s okay, Billy, a mother would reply, just rub some dirt on it!

Or perhaps it would go like this:

Mommy, my stomach hurts! I think I ate a poisonous mushroom.

No problem, just rub some dirt on it!

Or maybe:

Dad, I hit a magnesium deposit with a hammer! I can’t find my arms!

Not to worry, son, just rub some dirt on it!

Though I must confess, over the years, I have become increasingly skeptical of the healing properties of dirt. But I must say, a little dirt-rub sure does make everything feel better. With that in mind, I proceeded to apply a generous amount of dirt to the open gash on my forehead. When I was finished rubbing the sediment into the wound, I took another handful from the first aid kit and offered it to my approaching brother. Lee wobbled over to me on unstable legs, walking as if his limbs were made from jelly. Arriving in the kitchen, he placed the twisted picture frame and the remnants of my hammer on the table. Then without saying a word, he took the dirt from my hand, and, after rubbing an equal portion into both ears, he seated himself and proceeded to rest his head next to the hammer.

I hate Mondays, he said.

Being the older brother, I knew it was my responsibility to maintain the family morale. Oh, come on. Mondays aren’t that bad, I lied. It represents the beginning of the week. Just imagine all the great opportunities that the next seven days could present us.

First of all, said Lee, raising his head off the table, Monday is not the beginning of the week—that’s Sunday. Second, what opportunities? There are no opportunities. We have been connected to the United Tunnels for seventy years, but still only a handful has ever ventured forth to see what the other towns have to offer. There is a whole brave subterranean world out there just waiting to be explored, but instead, we stay here—time after time, day after day, year after year—doing the same thing.

Yes, yes, but that ‘same thing’ is important, I argued. Someone has to fix all the problems in this town.

Lee stuck a pinky finger into one of his ears and proceeded to dig out some of the dirt. So, why does that have to be us? he asked.

Because we are the librarians of course, I said, stating the obvious. Everyone knows that it’s the librarians’ job to fix the problems with society.

And why is that again?

Because, we have read all the books. That means we have all the facts. People look to us to solve their little tribulations.

Right, said Lee as he repositioned his head back on the table, we have all the facts…

Now would probably be a good time to tell you a little more about us. Lee and I were born and raised in PeopleVille, one of the smallest towns in the U.T.A, or better known as the United Tunnels of America. It’s a nice town, situated 800 meters below what was once California. Well, at least that is what we’ve been told. We do not really know since the last direct survivor of the Great Scare died 247 years ago at the ripe old age of fifty-six. He was just a boy when his family went underground to escape the apocalypse. Together with a couple of other families, they dug the first tunnels that we now call PeopleVille.

By now you are probably wondering what this Great Scare nonsense is all about, am I right? Of course I am. I guess now is as good a time as any to fill you in. So, without any further ado—cue tacky, awkward, misplayed prologue now:

In the early twenty-first century, a prominent liberal politician captured the essence of American politics by saying, You never let a serious crisis go to waste. And what I mean by that is an opportunity to do things you think you could not do before. However, what Rahm Emanuel never admitted was what the government would do if there were no crisis to take advantage of. The answer? Create one. And that’s what they did.

It all started in the late twentieth century when we were introduced to the term "global