“Is that you, Lamar?” Professor Williams asked.
“It’s me. What’s up, Professor? You got pretty good night vision.”
“It’s the only biological function that hasn’t failed me yet in my old age. Beautiful evening, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “It is.”
I carefully felt my way along the handrail until I’d reached him. Even though my eyes had adjusted, I could barely see him until he puffed on his pipe. Then the soft glow illuminated his features. The professor looked tired.
“What brings you out tonight?” he asked. “Bad dreams?”
“No, I don’t dream. Just couldn’t sleep. Too hot. How about you?”
The professor chuckled. “I’ve always enjoyed a good pipe before bed. If I don’t get one, I can’t sleep worth a damn. But Tony’s compartment is right across the passageway from mine. If he smells the tobacco, then he’ll want to borrow some, and I’m afraid that my reserves are nearly depleted.”
“We’re running out of everything,” I said. “Guess we’ve got to hoard where we can. You know what I’m saying?”
“Yes,” he agreed. “Although it’s rather uncivilized, I suppose we do. I love my fellow man, but I love my tobacco more. Smacks of the old world, doesn’t it?”
I shrugged, staring out at the dark water. The horizon was just a shadow. The wind picked up speed and I shivered.
“What’s troubling you, Lamar? It’s not like you to be so laconic.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Just have a lot on my mind. Ever since… what happened to Tum and Hooper, I just can’t seem to get my head together.”
“How so?”
I paused, gripping the rail tighter. “Well, I mean… what’s the point, you know? Growing up, I didn’t have a real good life, but I fought to make it better. Same thing as an adult. Lost my job a few months back, but still, I fought hard to make things better again. Fought to survive. And then everything went to shit. Everyone I’ve met since then is doing the same thing. They’re all fighting to survive, even when the odds are against them. My neighbor, Alan—he and I used to talk about it at night, while we watched those things outside. Neither one of us had an answer, but we went on fighting anyway. Didn’t matter in the end. We went on a supply run and he got bit. I had to… I had to shoot him before he turned. When we made it to the ship, I thought maybe that would be the end of it for a while. But then Stephanie went. She knew she was dying. She must have. But she never said a word. She was still anxious to help. Eager to hold on. And Turn—even after he’d been exposed, he was fighting it. I don’t think he was even aware, but he was fighting it just the same. You could see it in his eyes. Hear it in his voice. Kept saying that he just wanted to rest a minute. Like he’d be okay again if he could just do that.”
The professor nodded. “The human spirit is indeed strong.”
“Sure it is. Survival instinct is a motherfucker. But why? I mean, you saw what happened back in Baltimore. What’s the point? Don’t you think that maybe we’re all just biding our time? The zombies have to outnumber us by now.”
“If they don’t, they soon will.”
“So then why don’t we give up? Seems like it would be easier. I’m fucking tired, Professor. And so are you. Don’t bullshit me. I can see it in your eyes. I feel like I just want to give up. So why can’t I?”
“Well, there are a lot of reasons why someone would continue to fight even when there’s no chance of success. For some it’s an individual choice; an aspect of one’s core belief system that says ‘I’m going down swinging.’ That’s especially prevalent in the past few generations, who were exposed to such iconography in cowboy films and Stallone movies. Others may fight because they’ve been culturally conditioned to never give up, to believe that there is some kind of inherent nobility in raging against an unbeatable foe. I don’t know you very well, Lamar, but from what you’ve told me about yourself and your childhood, and from what I’ve observed about your character, I’d say that second one applies to you.”
“Yeah, maybe. I guess that’s fair. My mother always taught me to be proud and never surrender.”
“I thought as much. And that is a very fine and noble lesson.”
“Doesn’t apply to everybody, though.”
“No, it doesn’t. Others may be motivated to keep fighting because they simply don’t know what else to do.”
“How about you, Professor? What keeps you going?”
“Me?” He laughed softly. “I think I’m like many others. I think we continue to fight because an element of our collective unconscious demands that we do so. Even at my age.”
“What’s a collective unconscious?”
“The collective unconscious is a theory—one I happen to agree with. Basically, it says that people all over the world share a set of unconscious memories that have been passed down through the generations ever since mankind learned to walk upright. These aren’t regular memories like when you remember your high school prom or your first kiss or where you were on the morning of September Eleventh, but rather, unconscious memories that are hardwired into the brains of everyone who’s ever lived. They act as a sort of blueprint, influencing human behavior and making people naturally respond to certain situations in certain ways. For example, you can go to any spot on the planet and people with whom you don’t share a culture or a language will automatically understand that your smile is a sign of happiness, or a frown, displeasure. These are universal signals. If you are crying, they’ll know that you are sad or in pain. Ask yourself, why is that? How can people of different cultures all around the world interpret certain things exactly the same way?”
“I don’t know.”
“Because we’ve all been hardwired by the collective unconscious to respond to those stimuli that way. Sometimes for good. Sometimes for bad.”
“You mean like these gay-bashers who could never explain to me why they felt the way they did?”
“That’s certainly a valid example,” the professor said. “I’m sure you’ve dealt with individuals who were against homosexuality but didn’t understand why. They probably masked their bigotry with religious or moral beliefs, but deep down inside, their collective unconscious told them that homosexuality threatened mankind’s ability to procreate. Thus, they were repelled without truly understanding why.”
The professor’s pipe went out. Cupping his hand, he tried to relight it, but the breeze was too strong. I placed my hands around it as well. Once he got it going again, he continued.
“It’s not just our responses that are influenced, either. It’s also our behaviors. You see, the collective unconscious programs a set of figures into our brains, just like you’d program a computer. Psychologists call these figures, or characters, archetypes.
They act as role models for human behavior. Some of the most important of these archetypes are the ‘king,’ the ‘trickster,’ and the ‘warrior.’”
“You mentioned those before,” I said, thinking back to when I’d met him in the ship’s galley.
“I did, indeed. This happens to be a favorite topic of mine. I always enjoyed debating it at social gatherings —I even hosted a party once just so we could discuss it over dinner. Sadly, most of my colleagues are dead now.”
He was silent for a moment, puffing on his pipe. He seemed lost in thought.
“Its because of these archetypes,” he continued, “that everyone shares certain common conceptions about people; for example, in every culture that has ever existed, certain attributes like courage, strength, and fortitude have been attached to the ideal image of the warrior. All human beings, at an unconscious level, know that the figure of the warrior is part of our human makeup, and as such, we recognize the certain attributes that make up the warrior. A soldier on the news. A basketball player in the playoffs. We respond to these. And like it or not, it’s our job to either succeed or fail at living up to those attributes. Do you see?”
“When we first met, you said I was an archetype.”
“You are, indeed. You’re living up to those attributes—embarking on a journey of self-discovery. Even as the world falls into ruin, Lamar, you are being reborn. That’s a classic story; one that appeals to all mankind. You are the hero.”
“I’ve got to be honest, Professor. I don’t feel like much of a hero right now. I couldn’t even shoot the crazy fucker who killed Turn.”
“You may not feel like a hero. And yet, you are. Basically, the hero is a universal archetype that embodies the
