We were the first of our generation born after the end of the Cold War, our parents the first to bring into this world children who would never know the fear of The Bomb. We grew up in a world in which Russia was not a threat, China was our economic ally, and the little nations left behind by the break-up of the USSR were too busy squabbling amongst themselves to bother with aiming the old Soviet warheads at the US.
As we grew, we were faced with our own boogeymen—religious extremists born of hatred of Western excess and privilege. We saw the first attack on US soil in sixty years, shattering the bubble of our assumed superiority and safety. “National Security” became the watchword of the decade, and we as citizens sacrificed much for this security. We were no longer invulnerable, as we’d been raised to believe. Children were taught to hide in dark corners should their school become a target, all the while laughing at the old reels from the 1950s and 1960s teaching children to hide under their desks from a nuclear bomb. We never saw the irony.
But through it all, we sat safely in our country, never once considering nuclear warfare. Those who possessed such weapons were our allies, and those who were not allies would never dare to use them, at least not against the US. We watched Iran’s nuclear program warily, and laughed at North Korea’s attempts. They were inept, or not unstable enough to be a real threat. We ignored them, for the most part.
We underestimated their ability, their instability, but most of all, we underestimated their hatred of us.
Atticus was up before sunrise, hurrying along the unsteady planks surrounding the river town of Casino to the water treatment facility. The facility was situated at the top of the town walls above the Mississippi River; raising the water from the river was hard work, but after wandering punks broke in and destroyed half the machinery early in the town's history, the residents decided the extra work was worth it if it would keep the facility from being a target.
But years had passed since the first survivors had settled along the river and erected the walls around Casino, and the waters of the Mississippi were clean again. After nearly a century of hiding within Casino's walls, the residents no longer needed the water treatment facility to guarantee their survival. With the freedom to wander without fear of death, people had begun leaving Casino to seek a better life on the road or in the fabled pre-Apocalypse cities. On this particular morning, the only remaining residents were Atticus Kane, Lazarus, who had maintained the water facility for twenty-five years, Luke and Diana Shaw, and Esther Proctor, who was called a spinster but was arguably married to the whiskey.
Lazarus was already at the facility, kicking at machinery at random and slowly puffing on a crooked joint. Laz was barely over fifty, yet he looked much older; he had always been a particularly scruffy dog, but the fur around his muzzle was now a wild mess, three of his teeth and one ear were missing, and his tail was bent in a horrific angle. He glanced up at Atticus, grunted, and meandered into the back office. After studying under Laz for twelve years, Atticus was familiar with the old dog's way of speaking-without-speaking. He wended through the rumbling machinery to the office.
Laz eyed his apprentice, still puffing on his joint. Atticus waited. Laz would talk when he wanted, and no sooner.
The old maintainer laid the joint, still smoking, in an ashtray and sighed. "Atticus," he said in a wheezy voice, "boy, I know ol' Casino is yer home, but I want you to listen to me now."
As we grew, we were faced with our own boogeymen—religious extremists born of hatred of Western excess and privilege. We saw the first attack on US soil in sixty years, shattering the bubble of our assumed superiority and safety. “National Security” became the watchword of the decade, and we as citizens sacrificed much for this security. We were no longer invulnerable, as we’d been raised to believe. Children were taught to hide in dark corners should their school become a target, all the while laughing at the old reels from the 1950s and 1960s teaching children to hide under their desks from a nuclear bomb. We never saw the irony.
But through it all, we sat safely in our country, never once considering nuclear warfare. Those who possessed such weapons were our allies, and those who were not allies would never dare to use them, at least not against the US. We watched Iran’s nuclear program warily, and laughed at North Korea’s attempts. They were inept, or not unstable enough to be a real threat. We ignored them, for the most part.
We underestimated their ability, their instability, but most of all, we underestimated their hatred of us.
Atticus was up before sunrise, hurrying along the unsteady planks surrounding the river town of Casino to the water treatment facility. The facility was situated at the top of the town walls above the Mississippi River; raising the water from the river was hard work, but after wandering punks broke in and destroyed half the machinery early in the town's history, the residents decided the extra work was worth it if it would keep the facility from being a target.
But years had passed since the first survivors had settled along the river and erected the walls around Casino, and the waters of the Mississippi were clean again. After nearly a century of hiding within Casino's walls, the residents no longer needed the water treatment facility to guarantee their survival. With the freedom to wander without fear of death, people had begun leaving Casino to seek a better life on the road or in the fabled pre-Apocalypse cities. On this particular morning, the only remaining residents were Atticus Kane, Lazarus, who had maintained the water facility for twenty-five years, Luke and Diana Shaw, and Esther Proctor, who was called a spinster but was arguably married to the whiskey.
Lazarus was already at the facility, kicking at machinery at random and slowly puffing on a crooked joint. Laz was barely over fifty, yet he looked much older; he had always been a particularly scruffy dog, but the fur around his muzzle was now a wild mess, three of his teeth and one ear were missing, and his tail was bent in a horrific angle. He glanced up at Atticus, grunted, and meandered into the back office. After studying under Laz for twelve years, Atticus was familiar with the old dog's way of speaking-without-speaking. He wended through the rumbling machinery to the office.
Laz eyed his apprentice, still puffing on his joint. Atticus waited. Laz would talk when he wanted, and no sooner.
The old maintainer laid the joint, still smoking, in an ashtray and sighed. "Atticus," he said in a wheezy voice, "boy, I know ol' Casino is yer home, but I want you to listen to me now."
