― Margaret Atwood
Root Cellar Storage
Human evolution enabled us to escape the cave, so why go back in?
But that's what millions are doing, cocooning in separate virtual realities, some even denying the veracity of the world outside, or remaking it just to suit their solipsistic whims.
My musings might seem abstruse but they're really quite the opposite.
Fact is, I resent having to evade the cabal's totalitarian regime by hiding in a cave.
I understand why Frank sees this as a viable alternative and a logical way to elude capture, but turning ourselves into cave dwellers cowering underground is repugnant to me and goes against the grain of my being.
Mind you, being forced to crawl on all fours because a demon's oppressing you, can be equally humiliating.
Uh, yeah...
So, need I allude to a familiar saw and state the obvious? Sure, why not?
Resistance is futile.
We're down in the root cellar crawling around on all fours exploring the cavern. I guess I've been sighing my displeasure, to put it mildly. I think Frank is at the end of his patience.
"I know this is hard for you, Zach, but it's the only way we can keep ourselves safe until the world body takes action against the cartel."
"I get that, Frank and I appreciate what you're doing—I just feel so damn powerless. I guess it's a guy thing rebelling against anything that makes you feel impotent.”
“When it comes to fighting demons, you can’t do it in your own power. Up until now, Breton and I have had your back, but the time has come when you have to confront them yourself—and you have to know your authority.”
“Yeah well, kicking pigs out of the parlour has never been my strong suit.”
Frank grinned. He reminded me of Breton. “Well, we’ll see when that time comes.”
It’s weird in the cavern. The part immediately below the house resembles a dungeon but we’ve turned it into a cold room with jars of preserves and dry goods lining the shelves.
But the further back into the cave we go, it narrows and we can’t seem to locate the origin of the draught we feel. It’s strong enough to blow out a candle so there has to be an opening.
“Thank God,” Frank exclaims, “Found it!”
He points to a section of the cave covered in a green scum. “See this, Zach? It’s cave moss. It only grows near cave openings—that other stuff is algae. The presence of moss tells me there’s an opening here.”
I’m in awe of Frank’s curious learning. He really does remind me of Breton— a slightly younger version. Breton’s in his seventies—Frank and Helen in their sixties.
“Hand me that sledge hammer, we brought.” He indicates the long handled, heavy steel hammer I carried with us hoping to widen an opening.
I give him the hammer and move back a few feet. He doesn’t hesitate, but swings it in a mighty arc and breaks through a dirt and rock embankment of some kind.
He peers through the hole and shouts back. “It’s located right by a small stream that’s mostly underground. It explains why this part of the cavern floods in the spring rains.”
“Can you widen the gap?”
He swings the hammer and makes an opening the size of the trap door back in the shed.
“Don’t want to widen it any further. We need to go outside now and locate the entrance and cover it with shrubbery.”
I affectionately slap him on the back. “Good work, Frank. At least now we have an escape hatch if the root cellar is discovered.”
I'm relieved somewhat but don't voice my deepest fears.
I'm afraid the patrols know more about us than we think and may have been already surveilling us.
If that's the case, it's only a matter of when, not if, they come to arrest us.