As the last of the light faded, I trekked back to sprawling estate, feeling every part the squatter in this high-end playhouse. The plushness of the cinema room had lost its appeal, replaced by a bland taste of someone else’s luxury. The films lined up were all artsy types, nothing that could hold my attention even on a good day. Made me miss the straightforward action movies where you didn't need to think much, just watch stuff blow up for a couple hours.
Deciding against cleaning the dust off the decaying solar panels and checking the backup generators felt like too much effort for little reward. A part of me didn’t care anymore about being plunged into darkness; it somewhat matched the dim view I held of everything happening outside and in. Sometimes, it felt like the world outside was mirroring my own personal apocalypse.
My gaze shifted to the fleet of cars stashed in the garage. The shiny Ferraris and Lamborghinis sat gathering dust, alongside one matte black G-Wagon. A couple of Tesla's also stood there, whispering the high-tech tales of their past road glories. My old Jeep, parked beside them, was a stark contrast, scuffed and well-worn but with a history of reliable service despite looking like every rough mile it had driven.
Rick mentioning how those Tesla's could power the house in a pinch. The idea of conneting one up to light the whole mansion up was tempting, yet stepping into that steamy garage felt as appealing as a dip in a volcano. I reasoned with myself to maybe give it a shot once the sun dropped and the air cooled down a bit. I remembered those parties Rick threw, how he bragged about never losing power even when the rest of LA went dark during the heatwaves. Guess all those gadgets and gizmos were good for something after all.
The isolation was starting to eat at me, not just the idle luxury but the silence. The kind of quiet that weighs on you, making hours feel like days. Maybe tonight I’d try to wrangle one of those Teslas into giving us some light. Maybe it would push away some of the shadows inside as well as out.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
Despite the lack of air conditioning, the house managed to maintain a surprisingly cool temperature, thanks largely to an innovative super reflective paint that coated its exterior and cleverly positioned solar panels that somehow optimized shade over the building throughout the sweltering day. I've faced my share of unbearable heat, whether wading through the thick, sticky air of Louisiana swamps, swatting away the relentless mosquitoes in some lush, dense jungle, or trudging through the relentless, scorching sands of vast deserts. Compared to those extremes, this warm 85-degree weather felt like a mild inconvenience at best.
Sitting with my back comfortably nestled into a deep-cushioned armchair, I found myself a few Scotches deep, comfortably buzzed. Good stuff, making it dangerously easy to keep pouring another glass. In this slightly tipsy, reflective state, my mind wandered, compelled to revisit the thoughts often scrawled in my Doom Day (DD) journal. It was a compulsion, fueled by a smoldering frustration, to express and document just how truly screwed LA was, along with pretty much any major city teetering on the edge of the Pacific.
The journal pages were crammed with scribbles capturing the chaos—thoughts tumbled out, messy and raw, often intermingled with sketches of things I've seen, or more accurately, survived. Flipping through the pages, my handwriting looped and slanted inconsistently, a visual testament to the tremors—literal and metaphorical—that had been shaking the city to its core. As I scribbled down more thoughts. Each word I penned was a release, a small act of defiance against the seemingly insurmountable challenges that lay ahead. I was no poet, and certainly not a scholar, but this rough collection of observations and experiences was my unfiltered reality carved into paper—my token of resistance and a raw draft of history, perhaps one day to be told.
