They are preppers, but not the type people think of. They did have places of safety, yes. They did have a way to defend themselves, hunt, fish, and all the usual equipment, though instead of firearms they had crossbows and regular bows. And instead of tons of expensive fishing equipment, it was basic rods and reels, fishing lines, hooks, bobbers and sinkers, no expensive lures, nothing like that.
They did have some dried and canned foodstuffs, things that could be eaten and swapped out over time, but they also kept things such as heirloom seeds. They gathered books on pre-industrial cooking and preserving techniques, took classes on first aid and medical care, practiced woodland survival, water purification techniques, survival in arctic-like conditions, how to find supplies even in the food deserts that were so often seen in larger cities. Weaving, stitching, making cloth, how to make blankets and clothing out of that cloth, how to spin flax, cotton, and various types of wool into thread and yarn, and so forth. All in the name of survival.
They knew things were starting to go bad. They saw it in how their country was falling apart. In how people were turning on each other. They tried to warn people, they offered to teach people how to prepare as well. They tried to advise on supplies, what would be useful, what would not, and were rebuffed time and again. Then things got worse, just as they predicted, just as they'd warned. People began to go crazy, stealing from each other, raiding stores, stockpiling stupid things, and again, they offered to teach, to help with food crops, they were again, rebuffed despite begging people to reconsider their habits.
Then came the day those same crowds were banging at the door of their shelter demanding, not asking, to be helped. A part of their heart said "I offered before when it could've mattered, why should I care?" But the rest of their heart, as they reached for the radio to answer the crowds outside, spoke as well. "Because they're people too." -- DaniAndShali
So many Preppers claim that they would do anything to ensure the survival of their core group. Live in forts, live in bunkers, carry arms at all times, fight to the death for every square inch, eat rats, eat cockroaches... you know all the claims. As I watched the world fall apart, as I watched my country fall apart, so many of them were not prepared to do the things that would have ensured the most survival and maybe even a rebuilding of a better society. They refused, in essence, to care about anyone else but themselves.
When asked to carry guns, when asked to fight, when asked to murder the Other, so many raise their hand. When asked to wear a piece of fabric over their nose and mouth, when asked to keep a distance from another person, when asked to buy only what was necessary, they freak out and act like it's the worst thing in the world. The difference I have found, is that in the fantasy, they are asked to kill. In the reality, they have been asked to be kind[1]. Therein lies the rot.
I'm not a Prepper in the traditional sense. Yes, I coupon. Yes, I hoard a bunch of non-perishable supplies. Yes, I grow my own food and make my own preserves and spend time learning all the survival skills you wouldn't think you'd need. Yes, I have a bunker, and yes, there are rooms dedicated to hydroponic crops. That said, I'm more Punk than the average Prepper. And for that, I have to explain what Punk is.
Punk is, at its core, rebellion. Fighting against oppressive order with rage against the machine of industry. Fighting against conformity with leather and spikes and weird hair. Fighting against fascism with everything to hand, even if it is only a raised finger in contempt. I rebelled against the inevitable collapse of society as we know it by trying to lay some cornerstones of the next iteration. Wanton violence is not necessarily Punk. Choosing how you fight and what you fight is.
I fought collapse. Preserving what art I could for art's sake in the most secure part of my bunker. Preserving knowledge however I could. Preserving food and supplies, because -dur- Prepping... it's in the definition. Having enough to make it through the crisis is baked into the DNA of the whole philosophy. And yet, because I was Punk, I also tried to prevent the collapse.
I tried to warn them. I tried to tell them it was all going to shit. You know what they did? They got more guns, they got more violent, they got more aggressive.
In an atmosphere like that, the most Punk thing you can do is choose kindness.
When the end came, as it was doomed to do, I spent a month in my shelter, eating my preserves and watching the news as the world descended into madness. Those with all the guns ended up shooting each other and hundreds of innocent victims. Once they spent all their bullets and realised you can't eat violence, they turned against the Preppers, who saw this coming.
Most of the Preppers were the violent type who were more careful with their ammo.
Of course, they came for me. They wanted food. They wanted everything. They wanted safety, in the end. They were desperate and angry and jealous.
I made a point of locking all my doors and hiding the keys. I knew more about defending myself without the weapons they had, because of course you prepare for that. I came out unarmed, in pants and a shirt, looking as harmless as a Punk could look in the circumstances.
"Before you lot start swinging, listen," I said. "I got no reason to lie to you about anything. The world's ending because of lies, and I never wanted it to." A lot of the survivors were familiar faces. A lot of other familiar faces were missing. "Those who remember me know I'm not fond of lying or liars." The familiar faces nodded. "If you take what I got in my vaults and eat it, you'll maybe have enough for a month or two. Especially if you gorge yourselves. If you let me teach you, if you let me lead, I can help you all make it through the next winter. It's not going to be easy, it's not going to be fun, and it's not going to be anything like the last six months."
They did the math. Those who knew me knew I didn't play around. They knew I'd been working on my bunker for literal years and had invented many of my own security systems.
"We have guns," said one of the ones who didn't know me.
"Got bullets?" I said. It was a safe bet that they didn't. "Got any idea where I'd conceal the means to get into my vaults?"
I won the stare-down. They knew they were in the valley between the rock and the hard place. The weapons lowered and they became a little more ready to listen. "All right," said the spokesperson. "What are your conditions?"
"This isn't my way or the highway. This is my way or you die slowly because you were idiots. Right?" I waited for the murmur of agreement. "For all of us to make it, we have to care about everyone, because we need everyone. Two months' of cached food isn't going to help. We're all going to work. Who knows how to hunt?" A smattering of hands. "With bow and arrows or spears?" Most of the hands went down. I knew it. "I can show you."
Someone in the crowd, someone who still clung to their bat scattered with nails, said, "I'm a vegan?"
The bat was stained with blood. "You kill anyone with that thing?"
She said, "Yeah?"
"You spill blood, you ain't vegan no more. But if it suits you, you can help with the gathering. How much experience have you got with forage?"
"Uuuhhhmmm..." Oh yeah. This was an urban vegan. So distant from her source of nutrition that she had no idea where it came from.
"I can get you a booklet about the stuff in the area that's safe to eat. Same with everyone. Crops take a year to grow, more if you have to condition the soil to grow things better. We need to hunt and forage and live on slim rations for at least two years to make it out the other side alive. We're going to need every pair of hands we can get, not just for getting food. We need hands to make clothes, hands to make tools, hands to create shelters that'll withstand the weather. Everyone alive and helping is someone who's helping you stay alive. We help each other or we die apart."
There were enough of them to just make it. We needed more, but that could be solved in time. There were enough gung-ho raider types who were likely running out of fuel about now. I'd get them in the fold.
None of them liked it. None of them would for some time. As I said before, killing was the easy fantasy. Kindness is the harsh reality.
Nobody likes harsh reality.
Nevertheless, they were desperate enough to accept reality and my terms. Desperation always makes people turn Punk. It always does. It's why the lower classes tend to gravitate to its philosophy. They were desperate enough to turn Punk.
Our fight is against the tides of time. Our battle is with winter and starvation. We're rebelling against aggression.
Are you in?
[1] Taken liberally from this Tumblr post with many great thanks to the originators. Truth comes to us in many ways, and it is up to us to listen when it arrives.
[Image (c) Can Stock Photo / dolgachov]
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