I could hear children playing as I got closer to the property. I approached the home on foot. A car would raise too much suspicion, since police and politicians were the only ones with access to limited petroleum. Of course, a knock on the door would also send panic through the household, but this could be quelled more quickly with a calm demeanor.
The humble, rammed earth dwelling provided ultimate shelter: it heated up slowly during the day and released that heat during the evening, virtually eliminating the need for air conditioning or heating—two things nearly unavailable now. The roof was sloped sheet metal set up in such a way that any rainfall would be channeled directly into the storm drains and ported into large barrels for boiling. The earth was dry, and there was little evidence of life, save for the sounds of laughter inside—sounds I was unused to hearing in the city.
When I traveled by foot I had to travel lightly. I carried one small Airweight snubnose .38 Special revolver, because, while difficult to fire at times, it was the easiest to conceal under scant dress. I never anticipated violence, but when families had to protect children, anything was possible.
As I neared the house, I noticed that the small windows in the front were dark and painted with a heat-resistant resin. I carefully approached the door, minding any traps that might have been in place to warn of hungry animals or trespassers. The three stairs leading up were so old and dry that it seemed any weight would collapse them. I took them one at a time, and they complained bitterly. The sounds inside the house silenced. I could hear slow footsteps approaching the door. Unsure of what to expect, I reached for my weapon. The door opened an inch, and a tiny face peered out through the crack, the one eye taking me in as if I were a predator.
“Hello,” I said gently. The child’s eye widened. “Are your parents home?” I was unused to seeing children with enough energy to answer a door. Oxygen was distributed so infrequently that children were often the last to see its benefits. Perhaps my appearance was disarming enough that the child realized there was no danger. After all, a woman in her forties, dressed carefully and with clean fingernails, was generally no threat. I hadn’t been scouring the earth for much needed resources—my hands showed no sign of hard labor. I was just a white woman traveling alone, with no visible weaponry. The door opened slowly, and a woman about my age stood, a look of surprise and curiosity on her face, with two more young children behind her.
“Can I help you?” the woman asked me in disbelief. I couldn’t help but notice her cheeks. They were flushed as if she’d been part of the merrymaking I could hear from the road. She looked…healthy. Happy, even. As did the children. I hadn’t seen a case like this in some time. Her hair was shiny and looked clean, and all four of them were dressed in clothing that had to have come from the city, as there were no telltale signs of them having made the items themselves—no ragged edges or unsightly seams. I quickly assessed that they had more oxygen than most, but the trouble was ascertaining where it had come from.
“Hello,” I said again. “I’m sorry to bother you, and you must be surprised to see someone out in these parts. I’m traveling across the country to see my brother, who is quite ill, and I could not help but notice your home just off the road. I was hoping to rest and possibly have some water, if you can spare any. May I come in?”
There was no reason for this woman to let me into her home. She had children to protect, after all. She could see, however, that I, too, was healthy. I had enough energy to make the trek up the dirt road, and I looked fed. She was not facing a thief or a mongrel—nor did I look like someone who would take her children from her. The door opened a bit wider, and I took that to mean that I could enter.
The inside of the home was cleaner than one might expect from looking at the outside. There were few toys and less furniture. It was dark, and it felt cool compared to the extraordinary heat that daylight tendered. Unbelievably, there was a small animal in the corner, and I looked at the woman in surprise. “He was feral,” she said, knowing what I had seen. “He was looking for shelter and water, and the kids brought him in. He’s no trouble, really, so we let him stay on.” The animal was no bigger than a small dog, which I hadn’t seen in years. But it was hairless—likely the reason the heat and cold were devastating to its existence. I was guessing it could be a large sewer rat, but that wasn’t the reason for my visit.
I followed the woman, with her children at her heels, through a series of small chambers, clearly constructed to protect against the extreme elements.
“How long have you lived here?” I inquired.
“Long enough,” she sighed. “It’s quiet in these parts. One day runs into the next.”
“Is it just you and the kids?” I wondered.
My questions seemed to make her uneasy, because at that, she stopped and turned to search my face for the first time. “Why are you here?” she asked quietly.
I never did like this part of the job. I wanted to tell her why I was there and not drag out the inevitable, but that’s not how we were trained to work. I had to get close enough to the source to be certain.
“I’ve come a long way. I’m just tired,” I explained casually.
She seemed to accept my answer.
“I have fresh water,” she said matter-of-factly.
I tried not to act surprised. “That’s wonderful. Thank you.”
The children watched in astonishment as their mother poured a glass of clean water for the stranger.
“This is delicious,” I breathed, letting the cool, clean fluid fill my mouth. “Is it rainfall?”
“Yes. We store it in barrels and boil it for drinking. Sometimes, we bathe with it,” she added. In the city, there was so much looting on the streets that any collected rainfall was stolen if it wasn’t monitored day and night. Some didn’t even boil it—they just used what they could find, regardless of toxicity.
The room that we sat in wasn’t much larger than any other room, and there were no personal effects anywhere. No pictures on the walls, no drawings from the children. No television and no radio. It was amazing that these children had not gone stir crazy.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Pam Kallan,” I replied. “What’s yours?”
“I’m Joan. Weaver. And my kids are Claire, Megan, and Aubrey.” She pointed to them as she said their names. They looked like her: mousy hair with small features—both feminine and unassuming. I wondered how much her husband had to do with their genetic distribution. As if reading my mind, she said quietly, “My husband passed about a year ago.”
By now, I was used to death and families struggling for every meal, every breath…but I couldn’t be callous in the face of this generous woman and her children. “I’m sorry,” I said. “That must be very difficult for you…and with three young children, no less.” I wanted to get right to the heart of the matter and ask her how she did it. How she fed, clothed, and bathed these children on her own. How they had flushed faces and energy that enabled them to play. But if I moved too quickly, I would frighten them and not learn a thing. I would leave knowing nothing.
Joan nodded—just once—and then she looked down at her hands in silence. The children looked to their mother and then to me. They were taught not to trust.
“I’m so lonely here, Pam,” she said quietly.
I nodded this time. “Yes, I can imagine. You have the girls, of course, but it has to be difficult with no one nearby…no neighbors or sounds of life outside of your property line.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “Are you hungry?” She met my eyes now and seemed genuinely interested in having me stay at her table.
“A bit,” I admitted, “but I certainly can’t ask you for a meal. This water is greatly appreciated.”
“I have some food,” she conceded. That much was clear. Neither she nor the children were emaciated, like most. They had a look that announced they ate at least one square meal a day.
“Well, I would very much appreciate that Joan, thank you,” I managed, smiling at all four of them. The children were relieved at this, knowing that a meal was on its way and that the stranger was no threat to their safety. Their mother would never offer food and water to someone who could hurt them.
As Joan went about putting together some dried meat and a grain that could clearly survive the wild temperatures, I asked if I might use a restroom. The room grew quiet. I could sense that there was a problem. Joan stood very still, seemingly considering her response.
“We have a hole out back that we use for urine, and we save excrement to use as fertilizer. I’m sure you understand,” she said, making it more of a question than a statement of fact. I understood all too well. Plumbing was something that had fallen by the wayside decades before. What concerned me was her hesitation around this very normal occurrence.
“Not a problem at all. Can you point me in the right direction?” I asked calmly, assuring her with my voice and slow movement that I meant no harm.
“It’s just out back.” She waved, one eye still on the dried meat in front of her. And at that, she turned her full attention back to the meal she’d so graciously offered to fix for me. Claire offered to show me the way. We walked through several smaller chambers—presumably bedrooms, though there were no beds. We came to a closed door. “It’s through there,” she pointed. Then she scurried back to the safety of her mother’s leg. This could be a set up, of course. A windowless door that presumably led to an outhouse of sorts could be a trap leading to sure death. I’d heard of this happening to other undercovers—the ones that somehow made it out alive to tell the tale.
I cautiously opened the door and caught my breath. It was more than I’d ever anticipated. Trees, dozens of them, were packed tightly into an enclosed greenhouse of sorts. They were potted so that they could be sold or moved in a hurry. I took a step into the space and could instantly breathe more evenly. The air was intoxicating. It was so clean. I had never seen anything like this. I’d never even heard of something this well constructed. I marveled at the quiet beauty, breathing in air unlike that which any oxygen chamber could ever provide. And the smell was so earthy…or what I imagined the earth smelled like decades ago, before the temperatures climbed and made it impossible to live without breathing in dust.
I heard a small sound behind me and turned to see the frightened faces of Joan and the three girls.
“Please don’t turn us in,” Joan pleaded quietly. The children wept in fear.
“But how did you manage this? I asked incredulously. “You have at least four dozen trees in here—all of them producing oxygen rich enough to sustain at least fifty people. What are you doing with all these trees, Joan?”
“I—I,” she stammered, and then took a moment. “I am planning for the future,” she managed, more calmly.
“But how?” I questioned. “There are people dying everywhere due to lack of oxygen, no water, and no food. How can you be planning for a future that won’t even exist? There are rules in place for a reason. One tree per family, Joan.” I turned back to the forest in front of me.
“My husband. He created this.” She looked around and then down at her frightened children. “I found him much like how you found us. I was alone, I was hungry, and I was not going to live much longer on my own. He took me in, and the rest,” she said with a small wave of her hand, “is history.”
I continued to drink in the majesty of this greenhouse—a green unlike anything I’d ever seen or known.
“It’s beautiful,” I said.
“I know,” she agreed. “Sometimes, when we have little food and the rainfall is scarce, I will trade a tree for these things so that we may live. It’s difficult—I can’t let people know where we are, or we face mass thievery. I have a couple of contacts through my late husband, and when I need food or water, I send word for them to come. It’s how we’ve stayed alive.”
I could see this woman had spent years protecting herself, and now her children, from harm—even death. How then, could I take it all away? It was so much easier when I was met with anger and violence. Then I could rationalize that others deserved the resources more than the hateful thieves. But in this case, my heart went out to this lonely woman and her ordinary children.
“Joan,” I said softly, “it is my duty to report you to the proper authorities.” I revealed a small badge that still symbolized freedom to some but to others was more imprisoning than the depleted world we lived in. She gasped, and the children sobbed more loudly now. I had come into their home, where just moments before, laughter had echoed through the empty chambers, and I’d turned it into fear and desperation.
“It’s possible that because your husband was responsible for the deception and you were a casualty of his carelessness, they may be lenient with you…but I can’t promise anything.” I said hollowly.
Her eyes were filled with a fear and sadness that I had seen many times before, and because I’m human, and I actually do feel pity, I told her I was sorry. I hated to leave this room, because it was truly the best I’d felt…ever. But I had to get back to file my report. I turned again to the forest that I’d only dreamed of—and then the room suddenly went black.
Claire turned to her mother, shovel in hand, wide-eyed in terror at what she’d done to the stranger. Joan just nodded.
