A Beautiful Apocalypse

Praise:

A Beautiful Apocalypse is a splendid presentation of Integral ideas in a novel form—a highly readable, engaging, and altogether fun novel. Give it a little time and see if you don’t agree….

Ken Wilber—An Integral Vision

You have a magnum opus here. You have done an amazing job of embracing the integral STORY.

Marilyn Hamilton, PhD—Integral City

Jordan Allen is a force of nature—passionately, dynamically, creatively alive. To encounter his fierce multidimensional caring intelligence is to be given a tangible reason to be hopeful for our future.

Terry Patten—Integral Life Practice

Truly an evocative, gripping tale of loss, triumph, success and wonder. With a rapid tempo and electrifying stakes, this story sheds light on the very real opportunity that we all face: grow up and wake up, or die. Read it for fun or read it for personal growth — just read it!

Willow Dea—Igniting Brilliance

Terrific work! This is a gift to the integral community and beyond. The spiral really comes alive with such rich examples and story lines.

Adam Leonard—Integral Life Practice

Proceeds at the pace of a roller coaster video game and shows how enlightenment can emerge from the wildest and grimmest situations! May be just what you need to prepare for the future; may be just what you need to inspire you to build a much better one!

Elisabet Sahtouris—Evolution Biologist & Futurist

This is a book that attempts to express one of the most complex and important theories of existence, into a gripping and elegant story. It is a joy to read and a beautiful way to share my passion for knowledge with others in an exciting and accessible way.

Sean Wilkinson—Co-founder, Circling Europe

Copyright 2015 Jordan Myska Allen

ISBN: 978-0-9967375-1-7

Smashwords Edition

Table of Contents

1: Infrared

2: Magenta

3: Red

4: Amber

5: Orange

6: Green

7: Teal

8: Turquoise

Crash Course in the Integral Vision

Kendo’s Glossary

Kendo’s Recommendations:

Acknowledgements

1

Infrared

"We made a pact. You promised."

Johnson’s eyes blurred. He sat mute in a grocery store parking lot strewn with carcasses, holding his dying brother’s head in his lap. His jaw trembled; his nose ran. He shook his head, wanting to shut out the world. This had to be a nightmare. None of this was real, it couldn’t be. He’d wake up and find out that his brother was safe, that they never had to make that awful commitment to each other.

Please, Johnson, just do it. We both know I don’t have much time.

He’d wake up and laugh at the whole ridiculous idea. Ha! Abel would chuckle and tease him like he always had, then he’d think of some clever prank they could pull on their friends that night, or some funny video on the web that might cheer him up.

Instead, Johnson’s brother grabbed his collar and yanked him close. You promised! His eyes widened and he swallowed hard. Don’t make me do it myself, he whispered.

Johnson tightened his grip around his pistol. It still felt awkward and unfamiliar in his hands, despite a couple of weeks of everyday use. He thought it would weigh more, but with each shot he fired the strange thing seemed to get lighter. Even now, on the brink of the heaviest shot he’d ever take, he’d almost forgotten it was there.

Johnson stroked Abel’s cheek, wiped away the tear that had trickled from his brother’s eye as he let his own fall freely. I won’t make you do it. We promised each other. He took a deep breath and put the barrel of the gun to his brother’s temple.

What the fuck? Sophie’s garbled yelp caught Johnson by surprise, as did her strength. She tackled him and tried to wrestle the gun from his grimy hands. The noises coming from her mouth did not seem to be actual words. She must have heard the screams and come looking for them.

Johnson struggled to push Sophie off of him. She was fighting with the fury of a mother who’d lost her only child.

Sophie, stop! I’ve been bitten! Abel screamed from his prone position on the black asphalt. Let him do this. I don’t want to hurt you.

Johnson felt Sophie’s muscles go slack. Tears dribbled down her face. She crawled to her lover, her best friend, her confidant and partner, and ran her fingers through his hair.

I’m so sorry, baby. I’m so sorry I couldn’t save you. You know I fucking love you, right?

Abel grinned. Johnson guessed he was looking for a way to make fun of this situation. That was the way Abel operated. No occasion was too formal for a practical joke, no funeral too serious for a laugh.

Instead, Abel pulled Sophie’s face down to his and kissed her. I love you, too. Then he motioned for Johnson. There was nothing left to say and only one more thing to do.

Sophie backed up, sobbing. Johnson wanted to tell her to look away, but the words stuck in his throat. Maybe it was better if she watched.

Her helpless moan evolved into a caustic wail of frustration that bounced from ruined house to ruined house, echoing up and down the steep hill of the old Austin neighborhood. On top of feelings of disappointment and self-hatred, Hermes was afraid now, her cry having been so loud it could have woken the dead. She was afraid she would soon join them.

She scanned the street: oak limbs stabbing through collapsed roofs, hill country weeds conquering the tawny skeletons of St. Augustine grass, an upturned couch growing mildew on the curb. She never should have come into this city, where predators hunted in packs so thick she couldn’t tell if the queasiness in her stomach was the feeling of being watched or the unearthed depths of nostalgia and regret. Perhaps she felt literal worms digging away in her gut. Whatever it was, she was probably going to die in this carcass of a city.

Her house, the two-story limestone home she had come to check on, looked just as decrepit as all the rest. Its front door hung off of its hinges like a broken jaw and rotten boards obscured the busted windows. It was this miserable confirmation of her suspicions that had triggered her involuntary scream. She waited, gun ready. Still nothing moved.

Should she go inside? She’d come all this way, after all. Maybe she’d find some clues?

Clues. Yeah, right. You’re looking for bodies.

She put the thought out of her mind. She needed to know before she could move on. But as she crossed the street, a shout broke the ragged calm: Sorry, you’ve got to put that gun down.

Put my gun down? Not a chance! Hermes shouted back. She swiveled back and forth, aiming her gun at the empty residences. Their once-vibrant paints were now peeling and pink, like sunburned caskets.

No response from her invisible heckler. I don’t know who you are, but this gun is the only thing keeping me alive, Hermes called. She shuffled backwards, careful to avoid the broken glass underfoot. Black asphalt, hot sun—

A single bullet shattered the dripping silence and the rearview mirror of the wrecked sedan ten feet to her right—either a warning, or terrible aim. Hermes instinctively ducked behind the rusty Volkswagen van to her left. Every sinew in her weary body flared, prepared to bolt.

Freeze, bitch! A girl’s voice this time. So there were at least two of them.

From the direction of the voices she guessed the shooters were two houses up the hill on the left. That would leave about a hundred meters between them—perhaps far enough to escape unscathed. She glanced at the closest house; she could dart into its halfway exposed garage and escape out the back. She had always relished racing, but these days the stakes were much higher. If she had a hot meal for every time speed equaled survival…

If you’re a decent human being, came the man’s voice, we’re not going to hurt you. It’s just that we can’t trust you yet, so you’re going to have to put the gun down.

Likely story. What was that bullet for, then? She scrambled toward the house, gun in hand. Three, four, five feet, staying low. She was in the driveway. She was getting close to the house. They didn’t fire. She had made it!

Then a grim-faced man with curly hair stepped out from the darkness of the garage, his hairy hands grasping a Remington 870 police-issue shotgun. Hermes leveled her AR15 at the man’s chest, catching her finger a hair short of the trigger. At three meters apart they’d entered a standoff; if either fired they’d both be dead in half a second. They stared each other down, Hermes melting in the pulsing sun, her challenger frozen in the garage’s dark shadow.

What am I doing? What difference does it make? A part of her didn’t feel like fighting; for a moment she didn’t care if she lived or died. Then the gunman spoke.

One more chance to live, lady. His voice was more gravelly than the one who’d been shouting down at Hermes from the rooftops.

Hermes sized up her foe. Flat nose, curly hair, skinny but not emaciated. The man didn’t look grungy like most survivors; his tight-fitting purple shirt had some orange line drawing of a dinosaur in a hot-air balloon—the kind of thing you would’ve seen a college kid wearing at the local coffee shop. He actually looked young enough to have just graduated college himself.

But his appearance didn’t change the fact that Hermes was trapped. That the man’s two friends would bear down on her at any moment. But if they hadn’t shot her already, it must have been because they wanted her alive. Were they going to eat her? Rape her? Torture her? Use her as bait?

I’m going to count to three, her opponent said. Hermes’ arms trembled slightly and her stomach tightened. If you haven’t put the gun down by the time I get to three, I’m going to have to kill you. It’s your own fault for not following directions. Got that? It’s your own damn fault if I have to pull this trigger.

Shit, Hermes muttered.

Ephraim, don’t kill her, you fucking prick!

The female shriek came from behind Hermes. She was much closer now. The young man’s shoulders slumped and his gaze softened at the shrill squeak, a hint of weariness flickering behind the determination in his eyes.

Hermes turned her head to see the source of obscene protest. A girl, also in her mid-twenties, rushed to her assailant’s side, bringing with her a faint scent of peppermint. She wore a bright, polka-dotted dress that clung to her skin in the hot summer sun. Even though she was pointing a Glock 9mm at her head, Hermes found herself turned on. Angel of death. Her odds of survival had just split in half.

And what do you suggest we do, Sophie? the man called Ephraim said.

See if we can use her, she responded, eyeing Hermes.

Yeah, and how well did that work out for you last time?

Shut up. That was different.

Hermes was still aiming at her adversary’s chest. The shotgun-wielding Ephraim mirrored her stance, scowling.

A second man with straight brown hair and a boyishly handsome face trotted into the driveway. He wore nothing more than a shabby pair of jean shorts, revealing the tanned body of a natural athlete. The toned muscles of his back, shoulders, and triceps shined lightly in the midday sun. His scent wasn’t pleasant like the girl’s. The salty hint of sweat was fresh. Chill guys, he said, stopping directly in the line of fire between Ephraim and Hermes. No one needs to kill anyone.

What the fuck is happening? Hermes thought. It was clear they didn’t want to kill her—they’d all said as much—yet friendly strangers didn’t survive long in this kind of world. Plus she still couldn’t shake the eerie feeling that they were all being watched. She’d had it since she crossed north of the river.

She wanted to be left alone to continue her quest. She wanted to mourn her ex, Marie, who had been as smart as her Nobel Prize winning namesake. She’d been struggling a bit lately. She so badly wanted to make a positive impact, to rebuild the infrastructure that would prevent these treacherous showdowns. She wanted to feel connected. She wanted the fighting to stop. Instead, there were two gaping black gun barrels pointed at her skull.

We’re all going to put our guns down, okay? the shirtless man said. We’ll just have a little chat. In case of an attack you’ve got your axe. How’s that? Ooh, that rhymed. He smiled at himself as he holstered his gun—also a Glock—and wielded a sharp-edged shovel instead.

I don’t like this, Johnson, Ephraim growled.

You can do as much damage with that bat as you can with a shotgun. Let’s turn down the heat a little, yeah? Nobody wants to die today.

The girl switched from her handgun to a katana. Hermes looked back at Ephraim, locked eyes, and reached for the ice axe strapped to her backpack. Ephraim reflected her movement, twitch for twitch, unsheathing a bat from his waist. Together they lowered their barrels, loosened their grips, and finally let their guns dangle from their shoulder straps.

The other man—Johnson?—whistled in relief. Well dudes, I’m glad that’s over. Who are you, and what are you doing here?

Hermes took a deep breath to steady her nerves. Adrenaline had been flooding her throbbing body and with its ebbing she felt shaky. She was aware that her eyes were darting to and fro, scanning for more danger, but she made no effort to control them.

I know this sounds naive, Hermes said, heart still pounding, but I’m going to rebuild civilization.

Ephraim snorted; Hermes ignored him. In order to do this I need to restart the Internet. I need to get Google’s servers up and running in California. And if you don’t mind, I’d like to leave you in peace to continue my quest.

What? Are you serious? Ephraim’s bat clanked against the concrete, echoing in the afternoon silence. He leaned on it like a walking stick.

Hermes drew in a deep breath and slowly let it out. Intense pain rattled her with each breath. She’d pushed herself too hard in the past few days. She’d let herself get too excited about the foolish possibility of seeing Marie, ignoring the knee she blew out snowboarding a decade earlier. Not to mention she’d eaten like shit the past few days. Not that she had much choice, but she could have gone slower. Pop tarts, peanut butter on stale tortillas, canned pasta and gas station Little Debbie snacks were not enough for a woman walking nearly thirty kilometers a day. She noted the fire in her knee and the cramp in her belly, exploring the sensations with a momentary curiosity. Then she accepted them. She’d tend to them later; more important matters had to be dealt with first.

How else are we going to fix this mess? Hermes was uncertain if she was posing a rhetorical question. She went on, The potential for transformation is enormous, and there’s no one else to do it. My friend Kendo set out to accomplish this goal almost a year ago, but I haven’t heard from him since. There was a silence. It didn’t take much to imagine he had died along the way. Now it’s up to me to continue his mission.

I’m sorry about your friend, Sophie said. That fucking sucks.

How can you just restart the Internet? Ephraim scoffed. Google is one company amongst thousands. Millions, probably. Hell, it’s just one website.

Hermes nodded. You’re right. And to be honest, I don’t know exactly how to get it back online, but I have some ideas. What I do know is that the Internet is an incredibly powerful tool, a distributed intelligence network with individual nodes still running around the world—a few computer programmers with generators or solar panels, connecting via satellite, especially in remote outposts like Antarctica and northern Canada. But without the threads connecting them, it’s effectively useless.

She waited, but the trio remained silent. Slight frowns indicated their skepticism. She felt the tightness of her muscles and consciously let them relax with her released breath. We’ve got all these little villages with very few roads linking them. For example, imagine you wanted to go from Spain to Portugal, but the only way to travel was through Russia, and the pavement on Russia’s mountain passes had eroded.

What does Google have to do with that? Ephraim asked.

Hermes noticed she was feeling more at ease, more connected with them now that they were listening. Even so, there was an anxiety she couldn’t breathe away. Her life was at stake. She could think of no way out except to continue. I believe that Google—with all of its free, cloud-based services and search links—is our best chance of connecting what’s left and using that stored intelligence to rebuild. Their Wi-Fi balloons are still up there transmitting signals, powered by solar panels. Google’s like a convoy of trucks filled with road-building supplies, so we can pave a highway as we navigate down it.

And you know how to do this? Johnson asked. You’re a programmer, or an engineer or something?

I know how to code and build networks, but that guy I mentioned, Kendo, he had the real vision.

That’s quite the goddamn vision, Sophie said.

That’s quite a load of bullshit, Ephraim snapped. You still haven’t answered why you’re in Austin, or why we should trust you, he said, inching his way closer to Hermes.

Fuck you, Hermes said, feeling less fearful. "How do I know I can trust you? How do I know I’m going to make it out of this predicament alive?" Hermes tightened her grip on the ice axe, thinking of how she’d like to give this guy a nice beating. Out here in the open she could get a good swing in, instead of having to use it like a quarterstaff. In fact, she might be able to get in a one-handed swing with her right while pulling her gun out with her left. That’d take care of two of them—but what would she do about the third?

You’re not in much of a position to talk, Ephraim said.

It’s okay, Ephraim, Johnson said. She’s got a point and we have the upper hand. Trust has got to start somewhere. He let the shovel rest on his left shoulder, motioning with his hands for Ephraim to relax. Ephraim didn’t.

I’m Johnson, and these are my two best friends, Sophie and Ephraim. Ephraim and I have known each other since we were four—what is that, twenty years ago?—and Sophie, we’ve been friends for five or six years now. We’ve got a safe place just up the street, Johnson said, gesturing up the hill, and we manage to make ends meet. He grinned. Whoo, I’m on fire today, give me a beat.

Was this guy crazy? Hermes regretted the part of her escape plan that involved killing this smooth-talking Texan, but she regretted coming into the city even more. She’d avoided populous areas for over six months, trekking through the vast deserts of Zacatecas—in what used to be Central Mexico—and cold mountains of Sierra Madre Oriental. She’d purposely chosen the least populated areas, hiding at the first sign of other survivors. She had no choice: she’d watched one group of survivors slaughter a mother and daughter to keep them from getting too close to the walled compound, and she’d seen a pair of lovers fight to death over a roasted field rat. She knew that there were good people out there, but she couldn’t risk finding out who they were. She couldn’t get caught up in a crowd that made a bunch of noise and attracted attention. If she didn’t survive, who else would pursue her goal? Then again, sometimes she just couldn’t find it in herself to care.

Yet sometimes she got so gut-wrenchingly lonely that this sense of purpose, tinged with a bit of self-righteousness, was the only thing that kept her from taking her own life. Truth be told, she was miserable. But for all this misery, this quest kept her walking when her mouth was swollen with tiny, hair-like cactus needles, and when she hallucinated after polishing off a whole bottle of Monte Alban Mescal. It kept her heading north after the Rio Grande had triggered an old memory of camping in Big Bend National Park with Marie.

She remembered lying next to her, the scent of the dirt and grass and juniper berries that perfumed her fingers as they traced her jawline. She could still feel the sweat between the palms of their hands and the rush of vertigo from dangling their feet off the edge of the twenty-five hundred foot South Rim cliff face. The summer monsoons and desert sunsets spoke to her. A smile crept over her as she thought about how she had wowed Marie with her knowledge. She had an uncanny ability to integrate the insights of Eastern and Western philosophy, science and religion, economics and social justice, and demonstrate the utility of such integration in her personal life. It was this kind of thinking that had brought her in contact with Kendo, and inspired her present quest.

She had wept remembering that night, shivering, wet, and tired on the cruel banks of the Rio Grande. She had wept from utter loneliness, that type of sadness that makes a tough woman long for her mother’s embrace. The tears and sadness rolled over her like a Texas thunderstorm. How many people would die before society rebuilt the necessary infrastructure? She needed to take advantage of the physical systems already in place before nature reclaimed them, from buildings and roads to fiber optic cable networks. Would they even make it, as a species? And what about herself? Sometimes she grew tired thinking about others. She wanted to just retreat from the world altogether, dissolve with her tears into the soil.

That night on the border, six hundred kilometers downstream from some of her happiest memories, she changed course a bit and resolved to find Marie. The struggle inside her was only growing stronger. What sense did it make to save the human race but deny her own humanity? So, with an utter disregard for the practical and a deep sense of trust in her gut, she’d altered her course and headed for Austin.

That brought her to her present predicament: how would she escape? Different situations called for different solutions. Instead of being defensive and cautious, she’d open up to these three, tell them about Marie. Marie obviously wasn’t here, so what did she have to lose? They seemed like decent people, and she didn’t have many other options. Sure, they’d threatened to kill her, but they were only trying to survive. Most everyone she’d seen in her travels seemed focused solely on survival. None seemed to embrace the opportunity for growth like she did. That was why the onus was on her to rebuild society. Plus she was exhausted and didn’t want to blow out her knee in an ill-timed escape.

I’m Hermes. Like I said, I’m trying to get Google running again to connect the disconnected pieces of our world. Integration will provide us the perspective we need to keep from falling back into the dark ages. I usually avoid big cities, partly because I don’t want to run into situations like this, but I have a special bond with Austin. Seven years ago I was getting my Master’s degree—in computer science, actually—at the University of Texas and I met a girl. She saw the tight creases of Sophie’s face soften, which surprised her. After earning my degree I took a job in Mexico City; she stayed behind to pursue her Ph.D. We ended things amicably and she started dating someone else. I always feigned support but I never really got over her. I guess the helpless romantic in me had to come check and see if she was still alive. I know, it’s stupid, but her family used to live in that house next door. She pointed to her house, little more than a weathered tombstone now. A few months ago I crossed the border near Laredo and couldn’t stop thinking about finding her. I knew it was dangerous, suicidal even. I don’t know about you, but I realized that a life without love isn’t worth living. Judging by the pickle I’m in, she laughed at herself and raised an eyebrow, I’m not so sure it’s worth dying for, either.

Sophie scabbarded her sword and walked toward Hermes with her hand outstretched. Hermes’s instincts kicked in and she raised her axe. Johnson stepped forward, putting himself within striking distance.

Hermes saw Sophie’s lip quivering. She cocked her head to the side in a split-second of indecision. Some voice in her head screamed at her. What are you doing! This is your only chance to escape. It’s your life at stake! Too often it was true. Yet today she ignored that voice. Why? Why here, why now?

She had heard in Ephraim’s bitter regret, and Johnson’s eager laughter, that they were not murderers. She could see in Sophie’s scrunched up face and sniffling button nose that her story had touched her. All she wanted was to shake her hand. She was surprised, so surprised that she let go of the axe and carefully extended an open palm to meet hers. She clutched it, looked into her eyes, and rushed in for a hug.

Ephraim was only seconds behind her. He tore Hermes away from her embrace. She hit the ground hard, finding herself facedown on the cracked cement with a knee in her back and a shovel to her neck.

A face full of ice water was a rude awakening. Where was she? She managed to blink open her eyes through the frigid water.

Hermes was sitting in a padded office chair, her feet resting on a walnut wood floor. Westward-facing windows overlooked a charming river valley dotted with houses, and the sun glinting off the water’s surface suggested it was late afternoon. She noticed that she didn’t feel anything as she surveyed the eerily serene landscape. Or maybe it was a certain apathy setting in. She couldn’t care. A wave of cynicism began to overcome her usually steadfast optimism. She shouldn’t have let her guard down. Look where it had gotten her—bound to an old wooden chair in a dusty room.

She blinked again and focused on the people surrounding her—the trio from earlier.

Are you all right, Hermes? I swear I didn’t want to tie you up, but…

A crash from the eastern side of the house interrupted Sophie. All three of her captors drew their guns, and Hermes craned her neck to see behind her. She was in an upscale kitchen with openings on two sides—a dining area on her right and a hallway in front. Sophie sprang to the corner where the kitchen and dining room met and Johnson ran to the hallway. Ephraim shoved his face too close to Hermes, who recoiled from the smell of his breath.

Who else is with you? he demanded.

No one.

Don’t lie to me, you fucking bitch. This is our house and our lives.

Fuck you. Hermes’ disdain for Ephraim grew with every exchange they had.

Shut up, both of you, Johnson whispered, surprising Hermes. The friendly puppy bared his teeth.

Another clatter sounded from the room next to them. Johnson disappeared around the corner. After a glare, Ephraim huffed and ran to cover his friend’s position.

With no one guarding her, Hermes started playing with the bindings on her hands. She confirmed yet again that these people were not killers. They didn’t know how to tie a person up and they hadn’t checked Hermes for other weapons—she still had a hunting knife strapped to her work boot. It took her only a few seconds to loosen the threads to the point where she could slip out the knife and start sawing. She scanned the room, noticing five spare guns lying on the marble countertops. Apparently these people were well supplied, paranoid of intrusion, and didn’t normally entertain guests. Of course, Hermes would expect nothing less after a zombie apocalypse.

Johnson emerged from around the corner shaking his head just as the knife sliced through the last filament of rope. Fortunately, the marble counter island in the middle of the kitchen obscured Hermes’ hands from view. There’s a dirty footprint, but no sign of zombies. Stay alert, I don’t think we’re alone in here.

Be fucking careful, Johnson, Sophie hissed, but he’d already disappeared in the other direction.

Ephraim reentered the room, and frowned at Hermes, who exhaled slowly to control her anxiety as she tried to appear innocent.

Sophie was peering into the dining room.

What do you think? Ephraim whispered to her. You got anything?

She didn’t move her eyes. Maybe it’s a family of raccoons looking for food and shelter.

Yeah. Right. Ephraim turned back to the hallway where Johnson had disappeared.

Hermes seized the moment to finish hers escape. Goosebumps dotted the flesh of her arms as she let the rope slide to the floor. She shivered again and wished they hadn’t woken her with ice-cold water. She noted the location of the closest gun. She had to figure out how to avoid getting shot when she snagged it. Ahh, fuck it, she thought, if it comes down to it, I’d rather be shot than bitten. At least she had her knife.

Help! Johnson cried. Something crashed into a wall. Another jarring boom reverberated throughout the house.

Sophie rushed to her friend’s aid. Indecision contorted Ephraim’s face for half a moment. Then with a roar he let Hermes go unattended, vanishing in the direction of the commotion.

Hermes leapt up from the chair and almost lost her balance on the slick tile. She steadied herself and grabbed the nearest gun. As soon as she picked it up she recognized the weight and shape of her own rifle. Thank God, she’d be able to shoot accurately.

This was her chance. She’d flee through the backdoor and jump straight into the river below the house. The water would cover her tracks. Tomorrow, or maybe in a couple of days, she could circle back around and look for clues about Marie when she knew the lay of the land. No, she corrected herself, I can’t risk it again. I need to get out of town. I saw enough of her house to know the truth. She’s gone.

She ran from room to room, finding only closets, bathrooms, storage. Where was the damn exit? Finally she risked the door closest to the sounds of struggle. The garage! She threw one last farewell glance toward the symphony of grunts and shouts, but her own reflection in a hallway mirror gave her pause. She looked startled and gaunt, like a hunted deer. Her face was scarred and her wrinkled skin sagged slightly; her once jet-black hair had started to grey.

Suddenly she realized that no shots had been fired. She knew they had ammo, so something must have been wrong. She felt a tug to go and help them, but the rational voice in her head howled. You idiot! They tricked you into captivity! You’re only considering helping them because you’re afraid you won’t be able to complete your mission. You’re already second-guessing yourself.

Of course, the voice was right. She needed to go on with the quest. She stepped into the garage. It was dark and clean. A hybrid Toyota Highlander took up most of it. Lawn tools dangled from hooks on the ceiling and a hodgepodge of toolboxes and shelves lined the walls. A few beams of sunlight trickled in between the cracks of boarded up windows. Hermes could see a faint poster-sized photograph hanging to the left of the workbench: a laughing child emerging from the top of a spiral playground slide. He was dressed in striped overalls and a trucker’s hat. Behind him was a proud dad; slightly out of focus in the background workers in construction vests were paving a road with cement from a mixing truck.

Hermes paused to scrutinize the photo. The proud dad resembled a slightly older Johnson. She realized with a start that Johnson was the child in the photo.

Hermes remembered the tone of Johnson’s voice when he first said, Sorry to Hermes, who was admittedly a total stranger invading their territory. She remembered the foul-mouthed Sophie’s hug, and the genuine look of awe on her face when she told her how she came looking for Marie. She remembered Ephraim’s loyalty and determination to protect his friends. Wouldn’t she have responded to them in the exact same way they’d responded to her, if she were in their place? Wasn’t she doing that now? If she were in their shoes, wouldn’t she want them to help her? Deep down, wasn’t that what she was hoping for, why she came to Austin in the first place—to find a companion, some support on this ludicrous journey?

God help me.

She turned around and raced back into the house, running straight for the groans and screams.

When Hermes entered the room, a woman was snarling and swinging a mace at Sophie. She was almost naked, wearing only tattered rags, her hair a nest of dreadlocks. Hundreds of books littered the floor. Johnson was picking himself up from a broken coffee table in the corner, splintered and bleeding all over. Another mangy human was straddling Ephraim on the beige carpet, plunging a butcher knife towards his chest.

Hermes didn’t have time to think. Her fingers acted for her. She observed the bullet’s imperceptible arc from gun-chamber to man-skull in slow motion, detached from the outcome but fully immersed in the experience, as in a deep meditation. She saw it emerge from the other side of the barbarian’s face—coated in meaty gristle, she saw it shatter a window. She turned to the woman with the mace, but Johnson was already tackling her and Hermes didn’t have a clean shot.

Johnson and the woman hit the ground with a thump. He struggled to contain her, but she wriggled out of his grasp and dove through the broken window.

Hermes and Sophie both fired precious ammo at her but missed—they were used to shooting brainless zombies, not evasive humans. The woman landed in a soft garden bed one story below the house and sprinted into the woods. Sophie aimed for the trees but the attacker was already out of range.

Piece of shit! Ephraim shoved the dead man’s body off him and spat on it.

Is everyone all right? Johnson asked.

Fucking fantastic, Sophie said. What about you? Jesus, you took a beating.

I’m fine. Just a few scratches and bruises. Johnson’s denim shorts were stained with blood. He limped to help Ephraim off the ground.

Those fuckers! Ephraim screamed and kicked the lifeless body. He shook, clenching and unclenching his fists.

Johnson nodded. Don’t we have enough to worry about without killing each other?

Hermes remained quiet. The cavernous living room looked like the aftermath of a college Halloween party. She hated barbarians—the humans who had lost all sense of culture and propriety, who cared only for their own survival. Though she couldn’t help but think how much simpler life would be if she was only concerned with herself. Selfish bastards.

Johnson looked Hermes up and down. Thanks for helping. I think we owe you our lives.

The others turned to her as if noticing her for the first time. Sophie nodded. Ephraim set his jaw.

How’d you get out of your bindings? And why didn’t you just leave us to die? he asked.

Hermes’ empathy with the trio was fading. She could understand why they’d tied her up, but she was still a little pissed. She shrugged and held up her knife. You’ve been around zombies too long; you don’t give people enough credit.

Sophie sighed and surveyed the room. That much is fucking clear.

The street-facing windows had been barricaded with remnants of heavy wooden furniture. Swanky leather couches had been pushed against the walls, and a giant map of the city hung in the space set aside for a flat-screen. Minus the broken coffee table, scattered books, and bleeding corpse, the place had a certain Hobbit-hole charm.

Ephraim looked at Hermes’ hunting knife, then bent down and pried the butcher knife from his dead attacker’s hands. Um, thanks for that. I mean, even though I had this asshole right where I wanted him. He forced a laugh.

Hermes still didn’t care much for Ephraim.

What the hell do we do now? Sophie asked.

Get this body out of here, wash the blood off the carpet, and clean ourselves up. How many towels do we have? We can use old clothes if we have to. Johnson started picking up the broken pieces of the coffee table.

You’re not thinking about sticking around here, are you? Hermes asked.

Johnson stopped. What else would we do?

You’d leave. Find a new spot to hide out.

The trio looked at one another quizzically. Sophie motioned for Hermes to come closer, and peered out through the broken window. I don’t think you understand how much sweat and blood we’ve poured into this place. Check out these gardens. See that? She pointed to a metal pipe-and-handle contraption. That’s a pump for drawing water from the lake. We’ve even got composting toilets.

Hermes walked over to the broken window and surveyed the yard below. The whole house sat on a steep hill with sprawling gardens. She recognized peppers, tomatoes, and the citrus scent of lime trees. There seemed to be a variety of fruits, vegetables, tubers, and herbs thriving in their sun-drenched mountainside backyard. Hoses of different sizes and colors snaked through the twenty or thirty raised beds. Some slithered off the edge of a cliff above the river-lake, while others spiraled up toward the house. She whistled. It is impressive what you’ve done here.

Thanks. Sophie beamed. So you see why we’re not fucking leaving.

Hermes rubbed her hand on the old steel pump, which felt sturdy and cold to the touch. I understand why you’d want to stay, but that woman who just got away, how do you know she won’t come back? Especially after she’s seen what you just showed me. How do you know there aren’t more where those two came from? What if there’s a whole army of them? Those two were outnumbered and almost got the best of you.

Ephraim pointed at Hermes. How do we know you didn’t bring them with you?

Because I shot the one that was trying to kill you, Hermes replied.

Well, how come they never found us before you came along?

Hermes thought back to the feeling of being watched that had followed her since entering the city. That sense of being stared at had finally dissipated. Maybe they were following me, or maybe they’ve been waiting for the best time to attack. Honestly, I’m not interested in who’s to blame here. But if you’re intent on finding fault, go for it; it’s not worth my time.

Hmm, Ephraim harrumphed.

It makes the most sense to travel as a group, Hermes said. So if y’all want to come along you’re more than welcome. Although I could do without your attitude, Ephraim.

What makes you so sure you can succeed? Ephraim asked. It seems like a suicide mission to go that far. We have no idea what we’re up against.

You’re right. Maybe we can’t succeed. But the way I see it, life’s a death sentence as it is. And I’m not interested in merely surviving, waiting out my sentence and hoping things will change. I’ve already traveled 1700 kilometers—almost halfway from where I started. It’s a brave new world. What has kept me going all this time is being able to see things a little differently. This perspective has allowed me to better connect with people and work with them in approaching complex scenarios.

Ephraim frowned. You think a theory will save you from zombies?

Sometimes zombies, sometimes other humans, sometimes myself. The theory won’t save me, just as this gun didn’t save you. But I’ll bet you’re glad I had my gun—a weapon of greater capacity—instead of my bat. This theory gives you more capacity, and whether or not you use that capacity is up to you. My buddy Kendo taught it to me, but like any type of learning, it’s a practice. Hermes tugged a faded teal notebook from her backpack. Repeated readings had stained the edges with dirt and grime. A detailed diagram of a multicolored spiral decorated the front cover, its original brightness dulled by finger grease. He wrote all of it down in this journal.

I don’t quite follow you. What does it actually talk about? Johnson, in contrast to Ephraim’s skepticism, spoke with respectful curiosity. He limped over to Hermes.

Trembling, Hermes handed him the book. The evolution of the human species over time. The development of a human being from a crying baby into a laughing saint.

Johnson flipped open the cover and flicked through the pages. A strange topic for times like these.

I can hardly count the times it has kept me from disaster. It may seem crazy, but developing our conscious awareness is probably the most important thing our species can do to survive. It’s more important now than ever.

Ephraim threw his hands up in the air. This is madness. We’ve got to choose between zombies on the road or barbarians in here, and we’re discussing philosophy next to a dead body bleeding all over our goddamn living room carpet.

Sophie leaned forward, little beads of sweat gathering on her delicate eyebrows. This woman arrived just in time to save your life, Ephraim. Does the Universe need to slap you in the face any harder? I’d pay attention, if I were you. At least hear her out.

Ephraim rolled his dark eyes. So do you see a message in the Universe killing about ninety-nine percent of the human population and resurrecting them as flesh-eating zombies?

If you don’t want to come along, that’s fine, Hermes interjected, but y’all certainly can’t stay here.

Johnson put his hands on his hips. Hermes could almost see the gears cranking in his head before he spoke. We could hide somewhere else for a couple days, somewhere nearby. We can wait them out and move back in when they realize we’re gone and they can’t get their revenge.

Hermes shook her head. These people don’t want revenge. They want to survive. They don’t think long-term, and they don’t care about respect, which is necessary for wanting revenge. Think about it: they hardly even wear clothes. This is the type of thinking I’m talking about. She shook the weathered book in her hand. "Theory defines what you can see; it can open your eyes and it can blind you. Right now you’re not seeing the threat on your lives because you’re applying the way you’d see the world in their situation, instead of the way they see things."

If all they care about is survival, why would they come back at all? And if they’re so stupid, how come they followed you, and how come they survived this long when much smarter people didn’t? Ephraim asked.

Hermes shook her head again. "They’d come back because of survival. They’d come back because of everything you just showed me—the food, guns, and water. They wouldn’t think twice about killing for all that. That’s why Johnson’s idea simply won’t work. If they come back and find you gone, they’ll make this place their own. And they’re certainly not stupid; the kind of development I’m talking about is distinct from cognitive intelligence. We might be able to formulate logical arguments and talk about pie-in-the-sky philosophical ideas more fluently than they can, but they are likely far more advanced in the art of survival than you and me. It is a grave mistake to equate cognitive intelligence with values. Just like it’s a mistake to assume a genius will be a good lover, or a rock star will have good people skills, or a brilliant politician will be ethical."

Johnson nodded. "I hate barbarians," he said, looking around the wrecked room. He shivered and looked at his friends, who nodded with unspoken understanding. Hermes could see the pain in his eyes. But then he shrugged and his gritted teeth lifted into a goofy smile.

The emotional shift happened too fast, and Hermes guessed that Johnson was uncomfortable with negative feelings like anger. Hermes pitied the guy, who probably didn’t even realize how much this avoidance motivated him. She predicted that Johnson would want to go on the journey. She had met guys like Johnson before—always busy, always wanting to try everything and to include everyone. They could be a little impenetrable, until she realized how much their enthusiasm covered a fundamental internal struggle to avoid pain and boredom. How’s that working for ya these days, eh? Still, that sort of fun-loving attitude would make for a good travel companion.

Johnson brushed an untamed lock of brown hair from his forehead and took a deep breath. So, who’s up for an adventure?

While Sophie and Hermes readied supplies for their evacuation, Johnson and Ephraim rolled the corpse into a sheet and hauled it outside. They dragged it through thick trees for a few hundred yards, a distance they deemed far enough to keep them safe from anything that would want to dig up the body for the night, but close enough to get back to the house if the burial went awry. At one point a cedar branch caught hold of the sheet corner and the dead man’s arm flopped out.

This guy doesn’t deserve a grave, Ephraim complained. We should burn him, or dump him in the river.

We’re still drinking that water until we leave, and we don’t want to attract zombies with the fire, Johnson said, thrusting the digging shovel at Ephraim.

He dug while Johnson kept watch. Do we even know that fire attracts them? he asked, stepping away from the grave to take watch.

Are you willing to take the risk to find out? Johnson retorted as he started digging.

They traded back and forth, digging, grunting and sweating. When they’d gotten a couple feet deep, Ephraim stopped and turned to Johnson. We’re not going to California.

Johnson took a deep breath. Jackass. You’re going to order me around? For such old friends with so many positive memories, he couldn’t believe how differently they viewed the world. He rammed his shovel into a piece of limestone that was obstructing his progress, hoping to break it apart. You’re entitled to your opinion.

It’s not an opinion.

The rock was bigger than he expected. The shovel barely chipped off a sliver. He knew he should dig around it, loosen up dirt on the sides, but he kept pounding at it instead. What is it then? Fact?

It’s dumb. The whole thing is dumb, and it’s doomed to fail. Rebooting the Google servers will be damn near impossible. We don’t know anything about computers or engineering! I barely finished high school and you majored in Philosophy. Even if we do succeed, the only revolutionary change from the Internet will be the invention of zombie porn.

Thunk. Thunk. The rock didn’t yield. You could have said the same thing about any of the great human accomplishments. Steam engines, the printing press, the concept of zero. You could have said the same thing about our survival. Johnson stomped the shovel with both feet. He was aching. Getting thrown into that coffee table had bruised muscles he hadn’t even known about, but he was going to break this damn rock.

You have way too much faith in our abilities, Ephraim went on. It’s been two years since zombies began wreaking havoc, and we’ve hardly even gotten our little three-person hideaway straightened out. Now we have to start the whole thing over again. Ephraim snorted. To Johnson it was the noise that defined him. We still haven’t worked out power for one building. How are we going to restart the whole World Wide Web?

Are you kidding? The ring of metal against stone punctuated Johnson’s outburst. We’re talking about kick-starting the Internet, the collective intelligence of humanity! If we can tap into it, there’s no telling what we can accomplish.

"If we can tap into it. That’s the problem, ‘if.’ Step one: Get to California. Piece of cake. We’re in Texas. How many miles is it from here to the Googleplex? Two thousand? How many stalled cars junking up the highways? How do we find gas? Where will we sleep? How many zombies will be chasing us the whole way there? For all we know, there could be giant herds, armies of literally millions of zombies. There could be all sorts of shit out there after the fall of civilization—leaking nuclear warheads, lions escaped from zoos or who knows what else from lab experiments, dams that flooded over."

Johnson stopped shoveling to swat a mosquito on the back of his neck. You’re missing the point. You can’t solve a problem by thinking about everything that’s wrong; you have to focus on the solution. Once we get Google back online, people across the country can plot out which roads are blocked and which are open, where major packs of zombies are, and where other survivors stay for safe traveling. We’ll be sharing what works and what doesn’t. Everyone will be better off. We’ll facilitate the growth of a world we actually want to live in, instead of a screwed up place where everyone’s barely staying alive.

Ephraim flung his arms in the air. Welcome to the fantasy world of Johnson. Seatbelts are not required because nothing bad ever happens. You’re either crazy, a megalomaniac, or both.

Sometimes Johnson appreciated Ephraim’s willingness to share his opinions; sometimes his sarcasm was funny. Not now. Whether or not I’m a megalomaniac doesn’t change the truth of what I’m saying.

The truth? You’re talking about a future that doesn’t exist yet. We’re taking a huge personal risk to benefit a bunch of bitches we don’t know. Bitches like Hermes. Ephraim jabbed a finger back up to the house.

Exactly. If not us, then who? No one else is doing it, that’s for sure.

The sun had started its daily descent, but the heat was still relentless. Ephraim mopped up the sweat dripping from his flat nose. That other guy who tried is dead already. If we went on this trip, I’d be fucked. Mark my words. Even if we survived, I’d end up with some horrible mutation. I’d probably return an amputee. I know it.

Finally, Johnson cracked the limestone. He set down the shovel and dug the pieces out with his hands. His spine straightened with satisfaction.

The plan is so silly, and so brilliant! Cell phones can still access the web through satellites, but there’s nothing for them to access down here. If just one major host could go back online, it would bring survivors together. Just think about it. Google hosted email, wiki pages, YouTube, books, chats; we’ll find almost everything we need to restart society in their electronic archives. Hermes said it right; those servers were the webbing that connected independent neurons into a worldwide neural net. The result is much greater capacity than any one could achieve alone.

Ephraim smirked. We bear the brunt of the risk for the sake of a bunch of strangers who might be jacking off in mountain caves in Kosovo.

What else are we going to do? Our raids aren’t getting any easier. We’re just going to sit here fighting off barbarians and eating vegetables for fifty years? Constantly living in fear?

Yeah, you’re right, Sophie and I are a couple bumps on a log. We’ll probably all die of boredom if we stick around. Is anything ever enough for you?

You heard Hermes. We don’t really have a choice.

Ephraim raised his eyebrows and gestured toward the house. Here comes your savior now. Johnson turned and saw Hermes striding towards them in the waning light.

"I think she was your savior."

I’ll admit that it was a good shot.

You guys need any help? Hermes called out. Johnson shook his head and looked back at Ephraim.

"What about the good stuff? Do you want to have sex again? Do you want to play soccer again? You—I mean we—are already getting cabin fever. After ten years of watching the same old movies and rehashing the same old arguments, we’d look back at this decision with bitter regret. If we live that long."

Ephraim’s expression remained stony as Hermes joined them. Why can’t we leave in ten years, if we get to that point?

The thought of staying confined to this solitary house for ten years seems truly fulfilling, Hermes said with a wry grin. She picked up Ephraim’s shovel and started digging. You have to go somewhere. What sort of meaning would existence have if yours were limited to defending this house in order to survive? Chances are the three of you will be forced from here by zombies, barbarians, or unforeseen natural disasters. Might as well leave on your own terms, and, while you’re at it, why not try to benefit the world at large?

After a few moments of the shuss of moving dirt she calmly spoke again. Besides, in ten years our chances of success will be astronomically smaller.

How do you figure? Ephraim exhaled a sharp breath to knock the sweat from his nose.

Without proper care and maintenance, the power grids, technology, and buildings housing the servers will deteriorate at accelerating rates. Every day means more rats chewing through wires, more storms destroying power lines, more people losing hope and dying around the globe. After a few more years, we will likely have to start from scratch, and our impact will be greatly diminished. She flipped her hair behind her shoulders. "There’s no denying the risk. Kendo left over a year ago on a journey that almost certainly killed him. But I believe living a life that is so self-serving as to