“They were what?”
Pezzini explained that so-called democracy spread across the world because it yielded the most powerful nation states. Yet it was but a veneer. The ruling élites enforced a semi-military discipline in the great workplaces of the Public Era. There had to be compensations for the people, or they would not have tolerated being inhabitants of a country called Work. Sensible élites—most notably that of the old United States of America—observed that as workplaces got more productive, it actually made sense to give the workers more money. Indeed, it made sense to push workers into debt. The workers spent the loans on things that enhanced the wealth of the élite. There was something else, something much subtler. The people bought compensations like houses and motor cars that provided a sense of dignity in contrast to their actual status as indentured serfs. Houses and motor cars caused an immense scale of debt, death, over-crowding and pollution, yet few objected, so the system became self-reinforcing, endlessly expanding—and powerful, above all powerful, more powerful than any tyranny. The ‘democracies’ beat the fascists of Germany and Italy, the Japanese nationalists and later drove the communist Soviet Union to extinction.
Alas, endless expansion cannot go on forever. It turned out the expansion could go on for about a hundred and twenty years before the Public Era was up against existential threats: debt, death, over-crowding and pollution across the whole planet. Solving those problems meant obstructing the social contract of suburban houses, motor cars, foreign holidays and easy credit. It simply could not be done. It turned out the mobs ruled the élites just as the élites ruled the mobs. Hence oligarchical ochlocracy. The Public Era collapsed under its own weight of mutual stupidity.
Dusk was coming. It was time to stop these—distractions—and see about some food. They could not live on air and water. Lawrence stirred into action.
“That was all very interesting, Pezzini. Personally, I think a sneaky boot kicked away the last prop, although I don’t think the boot meant to wipe out civilization, that’s why guilt shut its mouth ever after. I would love to get Grandad Wilson Krossington up against a wall and twist his arm until he spilled the truth. However, he’s long gone with all the rest, so it shall not be.”
On his hands and knees, Lawrence explored across the island. Rotten logs would be his best bet. He came upon a flourishing colony of oyster mushrooms and gathered them in the pockets of his overalls. On a bit, he found a patch of blewit, or he hoped they were blewit, the light was not good. They smelled like blewit. Crawling down the far side towards some reeds he came upon Alexanders in abundance. Then there were dandelions, along with some worms he captured whilst digging out the tap roots. He took the harvest back to Pezzini and split it in half.
“Eat the worms, Pezzini. Food is life.”
Pezzini shut his eyes and ate the worms, his face such a grimace of disgust that Lawrence had to turn away stifling laughter.
It would be an exaggeration to say he now felt full, but he no longer had that aching emptiness in his belly. While there was still a little light, he explored the ruined shell of the house, on the look-out for any useful detritus. The place had been stripped long, long ago, probably before the estuary had formed. No wiring, pipes or other metal remained. Nothing wooden had survived, not even as rotten fragments He found a cracked porcelain sink, almost sunk from sight, a broken mug and a tasteless porcelain dog still pining for its owner.
Then as he was leaving, he noticed some odd marks on the bricks under a gap that had been a window. He stooped to look closer. When he straightened up, his face was paler and his eyes focused far away. It was better to say nothing to Pezzini about it. In the rotting brickwork, someone had scored with a knife: “Red Rob Gamma629 and Spinner Gamma153 late April 97 God be with all who find this and good luck”.
In crawling back down to their den, he froze. It was late dusk and fiendishly difficult to distinguish real movement from a bush swayed by a gust. He heard definite human noises; someone spat and someone else uttered a grunt. Lawrence sank lower, his head pounding and his eyes fixed, searching. A cleft in the branches gave him a good view of the nearby channel. A line of perhaps half a dozen thin figures walked across the mud, going upstream. They were not ultras as they were too slender and were not wearing helmets. That meant marsh people. They broke into a run. He could hear the splattering of their sandals on the wet clay. To his vast relief, the noise receded and faded under the whoosh of the breeze in the branches. He waited a few minutes before crawling on.
In the shadows under the thicker bushes above the beach, he could not find Pezzini. In the end, he called softly and a voice answered not a couple of metres off.
“You Okay Pezzini?”
“No. I am so cold. So tired.”
Lawrence felt Pezzini’s feet. They were colder than stones. He rubbed them furiously, telling Pezzini to wring out his socks as dry as he could and put his boots on.
Lawrence took Pezzini’s tube of water and worked away at the leather lace that sealed the end of it. Eventually he coaxed it loose enough to feel some water trickle out and pressed the end to his mouth and sucked. It was the first fresh water he had taken in a day. It tasted bitter from the leather. He wondered vaguely if it would poison them, as he sucked down about half
