Who am I? I suppose I should start there. My name is Jullio, someone once told me it's a Spanish or Mexican name. I wouldn't know. I was abandoned at birth at the Bridgeport firestation. At least that's what it read in my case file when I stole a peak as a teen. My last name is Forrest, because the agency worker was sick of using Doe and Smith as last names for unknown cases. I grew up in Bridgeport in a series of foster and group homes. My last placement wasn't to bad. My first impression of the woman who ran the group home was that she was a completely crazy hippie, right down to her name Apricot Moonbeam. Then I got to know her and the rules, and realized that I'd gotten one of the luckiest placements for a kid about to age out of foster care. Not only could I stay if I wanted to, but if I could pull my grades up to a 2.0 gpa she would help me apply to universities. There was a catch. That didn't surprise me, I was used to things having a price to pay. Her price, even though I wanted a sports program I had to apply to horticulture programs. Given the dense foliage on the tiny concrete patio that she called an exercise in urban permaculture I didn't find her stipulation surprising. What did surprise me was the acceptance letter to Starlight Shores newly formed horticulture program. It even came with a one year scholarship. I never made it to Starlight Shores or the university. The bus I was on broke down, which wasn't to bad, even though we were in the middle of nowhere. A few passengers got rentals, others got train tickets. By the end of the day it was just the driver, an older couple who were retired core medics, and myself waiting for the replacement bus. The driver had the news on, I was only half listening as I thumbed through my acceptance paperwork for the millionth time. Suddenly the radio started breaking up and then went dead. The driver was asking the station attendee a question when the teen turned and started vomiting uncontrollably. The couple rushed to the teen and then told me to get out, as the driver was trying to wipe puke from his arm. I stared as the door was blocked from the inside. I could see through the window as the old man was frantically punching codes into what looked like a radio relic from the last global war. I don't know how long I stood in the minuscule shade of the sign pole before chaos broke loose. I call it chaos because it all happened so fast, that I didn't have a chance to process what was happening as it happened. The area around the station filled up with helicopters, tanks, and large trucks filled with personnel. I found myself rushed into an enclosed truck by people encased in hazmat suits. Once inside the truck they shoved me into an even smaller empty glass container and had me strip. I watched in horror as not only my clothes and acceptance paperwork were burned but the entire station was burned to the ground after someone made hand motions indicating no survivors. I lost track of time, but eventually I was allowed out the chamber and given some clothes to wear. One of the commanders decided I wasn't worth drafting. Maybe it was he kept yelling at me to get out of stuff, or to stay away from buildings as we drove through Lucky Palms. The upshot was that I was confined to a coastal valley with several other households that had escaped the contagion. After a fashion we were lucky, we were naturally immune. To my frustration I couldn't get the doctor to say why or what caused the contagion in the first place. The other piece of good luck was that the area had already been laid out for a suburb development and there was a small stash of supplies available to throw together 30 rough buildings to accommodate everyone. When they got around to assigning me accommodations I asked if I could have my own place. I was hoping for a spot near what everyone was calling the park. The commander in charge had other ideas and stuck me on the hill just above town. I didn't complain that my shelter was only one floor, because one of the grunts gave me a wink and used the last of the raw material to add a room under the main living quarters. Down the road from me behind the main set of shelters is a junkyard. The building used to be fully enclosed, but some of the boards were pulled to make the cover for the park. The park really isn't much to speak of. I'd been excited to see the soccer ball but it vanished before the end of the first week. If the dartboard hadn't been glued to the brick it probably would have vanished too. I tried to make friends the first few days, but everyone was still in shock. The few people who weren't in shock just grunted in response. Those who did more than grunt only gave last names and monosyllabic answers. It quickly became clear that no one was inclined to trust anyone else just yet, let alone some green behind the ears kid whom the head of military had labeled a trouble maker. Thing is I've never been a trouble maker, according to the coaches naturally athletic; all the teachers say charismatic; according to Betty Sue from 6th grade a great kisser, according to all my foster parents, except Ms. Moonbeam, a total slob; and the parade of caseworkers have also said brave. So being labeled a trouble maker was a new experience. Some of the new people were for a lack of a better word rather odd. While Howell had seemed nice at first, she suddenly transformed and started attacking the chairs. Giving a wide berth seemed like a really good option. The first couple of days I was lost for what to do. The early and swift onset of winter which closed the passes didn't help. The military commander order the troops to halt the comm's and utility setup and pull out. At least they'd partially finished the one tower, but it couldn't handle a lot of calls so call times had to rationed. I was assigned Monday's and Thursdays. I found one of the privates who had been nice to me a few times and asked if I could go with. "Uh-uh, trust me Jullio you don't want to come with us. Being here in this town for the last week has been a vacation for us. They'll leave a few guards at the pass, but the rest of us are headed for Roaring Heights, and rumor is we might have to burn the whole city down. Sarge is taking bets on the number of survivors. This place is going to need people who can lead, and people who can think and learn. I'm going to leave you with my fishing pole and a couple of composition books. You mentioned being headed for a horticulture program before so why don't you use what you already know to establish what is and isn't safe for folks around here." I thanked him for the fishing pole and notebooks. I didn't have the heart to tell him that I knew nothing about science let alone horticulture. At the same time I felt like maybe I did know something, there'd been that one foster dad who'd always watched fishing. The scientist who'd gotten to go on an arctic expedition, why I'd had to move, who'd always pointed out things to look for in the dead of winter to tell if plants or animals would be back. Then there was Ms. Apricot Moonbeam who'd always picked up stray seeds and bits of plant to try to grow. It took a few hours but I caught the hang of how to handle the rod and line. By keeping a sharp eye as I walked back to my shelter I found a few seeds I recognized. I even spotted some odd mushrooms and seeds that were unfamiliar.
After a bit of work I had two decent sized tarps with dirt piled on top to use as garden beds. Outside would probably be better, but with the turn of weather it was better to plant inside.
4 Comments
Addy
5/1/2020 04:22:19 pm
Interesting start for Julio. Looking forward to reading more.
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Mama Dragon
5/1/2020 05:56:50 pm
Thank you Addy
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Mama Dragon
5/2/2020 04:46:38 pm
thank you
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Founder - Jullio Forrest
Generation 3 - Cassandra
Generation 4 - Deborah
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