Blade held the keys up. “These things certainly were complicated.”
“It’s my understanding that every aspect of prewar society was vastly more complicated and nerve-racking than any reasonable person would have a right to expect,” Plato commented. “I thank the Spirit daily I was not born in those times.”
“You’re happy where you’re at?” Blade had never broached this subject with Plato, and he was surprised Plato would make such a statement.
“Quite content actually,” Plato said.
“With all the hardships? The clouds? The mutates? Wouldn’t life have been easier before the Big Blast?”
“Easier?” Plato mused a minute. “Who ever said life should be easy?
Hardships might intimidate the average and cower the fearful, but they rightfully should inspire you to greater heights of spiritual awareness. Ever remember, Blade, life is a study in contrasts. How can any person claim to aspire to unselfishness if he or she isn’t constantly engaged in conflict with an ego clamoring for attention? How can anyone develop loyalty if he or she never faces temptation? How could we develop a love for truth if, by contrast, error and evil weren’t waiting to ensnare us? How could you appreciate the exquisite bliss of love if you hadn’t known the tormenting pain of loneliness?” Plato stared off at the sun, half hidden from view.
“Yes, life was easier before the Third World War. I could argue that this very ease was responsible for an atrophy of the human potential for growth. Ease promotes complacency, and complacency is deadly for society and the individual. I readily admit our lifestyle leaves something to be desired, but I prefer living in the here and now.”
“Never thought of it that way,” Blade said.
“You’d better hasten below,” Plato advised. “We want the SEAL up here before nightfall.”
“Right.” Plato watched Blade descend the ramp. The poor youth had so much to learn before he could assume the mantle of leadership.
Experience was the best teacher. If the Alpha Triad and Joshua survived the trip to the Twin Cities, they would return wiser and no worse off for the wear and tear.
The tip of the sun protruded above the horizon.
Not much light left. Plato resumed his reading of the manual.
The Family was still posted around the pit, waiting for the SEAL to emerge. Meals had been prepared and distributed among those waiting.
No one wanted to miss the greatest event in recent Family history. The entire Family was on hand, except for the Warriors guarding the perimeter of the Home.
Plato suddenly remembered the folder from the Founder. He had completely forgotten it in his haste to understand the functional operation of the SEAL. He placed the Operations Manual on the ground and picked up the other folder. On the cover, written in Carpenter’s own hand, were the words “To The Leader.”
Plato opened the manila folder and began reading:
“I feel peculiar writing a message to someone who will live decades after I am gone. To you, and to the rest of those left, I extend my love and my prayer for your continued safety and survival. This letter will be buried with the SEAL. I’ve hired a construction crew to bury the SEAL before any of those I’ve selected will arrive at the Home. I don’t want anyone to know about the SEAL. They might want to see if loved ones in New York or California survived, and I can’t allow that to happen. We must stay isolated if we’re to have any chance at all. It’s coming, and coming soon.
You can almost feel the fear in the air. All the talking in the world hasn’t helped. Mankind is about to commit the ultimate folly, self-obliteration. If it weren’t so pitiful, it would be humorous. Whoever you are, I want you to know I’ve done my best. Eventually, those left will need to find out what has happened, will have a need for reliable transportation. The SEAL is my gift to you. I’ve spared no expense in having it made, and if any vehicle can stand up to what’s coming, the SEAL can. Read the Operations Manual before you try to activate the SEAL. My scientists are confidently optimistic the SEAL will work when you need it. They don’t know my real reason for having it made, and they’d probably laugh if they did. I’ve insisted on a nearly indestructible vehicle, one that could still run ten years or one hundred years from now. They think I’m a harmless crank.
Maybe I am. I don’t know if this compound I’ve built, this Home for my loved ones, will still be standing after the missiles are launched and the bombs dropped. I might have wasted countless hours and millions of dollars for nothing, but deep inside something keeps telling me that it won’t be in vain. I don’t mind telling you, though, I’m tired. Weary in my soul. It’s taken a lot out of me, building the Home, stocking it, and, the worst part, deciding which of my family and friends would be invited here before the world goes mad. How do you pick thirty from all the people you know, all those you’ve met and loved and liked during a lifetime? It isn’t easy. I don’t know what else to say. I pray the SEAL will work for you.
There are so many questions, aspects I wonder about. How many men and women are alive? Have we grown and prospered? Did the Home provide the protection I hoped it would? Are you any more loving and considerate toward one another than my contemporaries are, or have you succumbed to this mass paranoia? Have I wasted my life? I wonder if I’ll ever know.
Whoever you are, relay my love. Remember me as one who gave it his best shot. I hope I wasn’t firing blanks. Kurt Carpenter.”
Plato straightened, his back sore. He realized he had bent over the yellowed paper to see better as the light decreased.
The sun was gone. Fires were being built around the entranceway. The air was cool, a strong breeze blowing in from the west.
Jenny approached him, carrying a blanket. “Here.” She handed it to him. “It’s starting to get nippy.”
Plato wrapped the blanket around his shoulders. “Thank you.”
“Anything important?” She pointed at the folders.
Plato nodded. “One contains the instructions for the SEAL. The other is a letter from the Founder.”
“Oh? What does it say?” she asked, her curiosity aroused.
“It tells me that, despite our reverence whenever we think of Kurt Carpenter, he was a human being with sentiments and shortcomings similar to our own. I suspect he went to his grave a torn man.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Look!” someone cried, and the Family was quickly clustered around the opening.
“It’s the SEAL!” Jenny clapped her hands together.
The front of the vehicle was slowly emerging from the entranceway, the firelight glinting off the tinted windows and body.
“Oh! It’s beautiful!” Jenny was hopping up and down to get a bitter glimpse over the heads of those nearest the pit.
Plato stood, with difficulty.
The SEAL was almost out, the men still pushing.
Plato heard a young child, perched on his father’s shoulders, squeal in alarm. “Will it eat me, daddy?” the boy inquired.
The SEAL stopped moving, the men, many of them, sprawling on the ground.
Blade came through the crowd and gave the keys to Plato. “It was incredibly heavy, even in Neutral,” he said, “took us a while to grasp we had to keep one hand on the steering wheel if we wanted it to go in a straight line. If that ramp were any longer, the SEAL would still be in hibernation.”
“You’ve done well.”
“What’s next?”
“A good rest,” Plato advised. “I’m going to sit by a fire and finish this manual. Tomorrow, hopefully, you can start. If it won’t function, we may have no recourse but to use some of the horses.”