The Survivalist

This is actually more of the opening, to a potentially much longer story. And, written at about the same time as "Nature's Friend"; which is also pending completion.

     He sat waiting by the edge of the lake. The sun was beginning to set, and it had been a long day. But, in his life, all of the days seemed to be long. Far too long, in fact. Sometimes, he wondered if it was all worthwhile. The location of this lake, was somewhere in New England. He had always liked this region, mainly due to the beautiful scenery.

    During his life, this man had spent time in many different areas, throughout the U.S.A. and beyond. New York, Texas and Pittsburgh were amongst his favourite places. He was also familiar with parts of Paris and London, which somehow did not seem so far away. At least, not any more. In his younger years, foreign travel was usually out of necessity.

   It now felt as if you could get just about anywhere in the world, almost in the twinkling of an eye, so to speak. "Such is the power of technology", he said to himself, half in jest. Indeed, he feared that technology could bring about his capture, or even worse. Scientific innovation was also responsible for his very existence, in a way. And, that was something which he deeply resented.

     In appearance, he did not cut a striking figure. Pale, thin and with short hair. His name was simply John. Only on paperwork, did he ever have to bother with a second name. And, as for his real name? Well, he no longer knew nor cared. Names were for "real" people, not mere creatures like himself.

     To some, his physique appeared slightly odd. However, it did not prevent him from living or enjoying himself in any way. A few woman claimed, that he had the most attractive blue eyes. He did not deny these claims, knowing that compliments about his appearance were few and far between. How did he earn a living, you might wonder?

     John would do just about anything to get by in life, so long as the effort applied was met with a suitable monetary return. Officially, his IQ rating was 121. Certainly not exceptional, by any stretch of the imagination. Nor, of course, was that in any way below the norm. That passing thought reminded him, how he viewed most people as "norms".

     One of the faults in John, was that he was partly psychopathic. Thus, making friends or forming lasting relationships was usually out of the question. He was manipulative, risk-taking and failed to look ahead. However, he certainly thought about the futures of various societies. If only, he could turn that insight towards his own behaviour?

     John would sometimes have nightmares, during the night. Memories from the past, as well as what might take place in the future. These days, most of his thoughts were dark. His resentment for life, seemed to intensify by the day. What use was earning money, spending it and returning home; without the joy of friendship, laughter and love.

     Furthermore, the location of his home was never a real certainty. It just depended on his current source of revenue, the weather and how restless he happened to be feeling. But, those feelings were nothing in comparison with the nightmares of his bitter creation. That was what he was, a "creation". Nothing more and nothing less.

     Even whilst dreaming, John felt that resentment and feelings of hatred towards his makers. There were others like him, but none so adept at surviving alone. Some were more psychopathic in nature than others, with his condition being close to a necessity for the bestial life which he now led.

     One particular nightmare played over and over, during his troubled nights alone in the dark. It was safer to be cloaked in the shroud of darkness, than allow any light to give away his presence in a community. After all, he was a "wanted man", in many different parts of the country. Even the FBI, were never too far away from his trail.

     But such fears fell into insignificance, in comparison to his repeated nightmare. It usually began in the same sort of way, with very little variation. There would be a blinding light, presumably from the sun. Shouting, screams and crying would usually accompany this glare. Curiously, such sensations did not disturb him in everyday life.

     Once his eyes had adjusted to the rude light, John could make out the madness all around. Or, was it what some regarded as "organised chaos"?. Either way, it always felt hellish in the extreme. There were men in white coats (mostly middle-aged), children, women and men of all ages with tortured expressions on their faces!

     The poor wretches looked weak and diseased, reagrdless of age or gender. Only the men in white coats (presumably they were doctors), seemed to behave with any dignity or decorum. "Quite ironic", thought John to himself, in view of what they were actually trying to achieve. And that objective, was the creation of perfect human beings.

      It was only years after his life at the camp, or "KZ", as some called it, that John could remember many of the relevant details. Clearly, he could remember a few infamous names, such as Dr. Miklos Nyiszli and Mengele. Today, plenty is known about their insane experiments on helpless human beings. But, in John's nightmare realm, reality and fantasy combined.

     Indeed, upon waking, he was never able to remember which details of his nightmare had any significance in reality. Let alone, the unspeakable nature of his barbaric creation. Basically, he had little doubt that some poor woman had been injected with a cocktail of man-made chemicals. From her womb it was, that John emerged into the jungle of human existence.

     Perhaps, understandably, his early years were even more of a blur than young adulthood. Had he really spent an entire childhood in the KZ? And what of his unwilling Mother, and those who had formulated the chemicals of his creation? Whatever gaps remained in his memory, John could never forget those bitter screams, shouts and the crying.

     Back at the lake, John crouched miserably, alone with his sullen thoughts. It haunted his waking hours, from time to time, whenever elements of his nightmare managed to creep in. Almost like an infection, those dark and feral images would flicker in his tortured mind. An infection of the mind, for which he could foresee no cure.

     After all, he had no medical insurance or even a true identity. There was no family member or friend to hand, who would be willing to nurse John back to an acceptable level of sanity. Yet, it would be such a shame to leave this place, without recording some of his findings. Morosely, he reached for the dictaphone and luger at his side.

     John breathed more rapidly, and even started to sweat a little. What did he fear, apart from the inevitability of his own demise? Were there feelings of guilt or shame? Anger, perhaps, with those inhuman sadists who had created him and tortured so many to death? With a trembling finger, he pressed the record button and started to speak.

     John's words felt almost loud to him, alone as he was by that solitary lake. He was sure now, that his life had not been worthwhile. After all, he had achieved nothing, other than the dubious pleasure of satisfying his most basic of needs. And, even that was not always guaranteed from one day to another. The rule of law was never far away, and always too close for comfort.

     Into his dictaphone, John conveyed the thoughts and judgements of one who had experienced so much of human history. Stalin's Russia, Hitler's Germany, the relatively free societies of America and England. He made it quite clear, that humanity still had a lot to learn. Mankind had learned the hard way, that socialism and dictatorships led to disaster.

    The alternative way? Yes, freedom to live, learn and look ahead, for the individual, friends and family members. A free market for products and services of all kinds had been perfect, according to what John had witnessed. But, in his dark and tortured mind, it could not last. Nor would people ever accept him, as one of their own. So, why should he carry on?

     With one final look at the setting sun, and the gentle ripples on the lake, John raised the luger to the side of his skull. He could still feel the beads of sweat, as they formed and dripped from his forehead. There were a few muscular temours, and his mouth was dry. Almost as parched as the creative potential of mankind, to formulate a successful future.

     Even as he squeezed the trigger, a flicker of hope occurred. But, only for a few seconds. And, after that? The sweet tranquility of nothingness, like a deep and empty well, one which carried the echo of that deafening final gunshot. If he had lived for just another few seconds, John would probably have realised the irony. His left hand went limp, dropping the dictaphone, tape and all, into the lake. It would be lost, possibly forever. Just like the pertinent thoughts, which he had tried to record for human posterity.....

Author's Note

Should I continue, building upon this story? Comments and reviews, are welcome. I also accept "read requests", on this site.

Reviews

[SR Urie]

Hello T.
Interesting write. Your character has bewildered me. He seems like some sort of quasi mass-murdering vampire in remission, trying to make amends to the history of his actions by reliving his memories that won't come to him with any clarity. His creators, monsters that fathered him as the monster he is in an official kind of way, do not remain nameless but do not remain blameless either, at least in John's eyes. Unfortunately those monsters in their white uniforms are as real and hideous as any of the other twisted characters in John's nightmares. For as well travelled as he is John's life ends as it seems to have begun, in solitude and by the will of evil progressive science. You've ended in a very tragic way, John's thoughts and regrets and hopes for humanity slipping from his hand and plunging into the waters of the lake where the dictaphone and John's last words will probably never be found to explain his horrific existance. A very different kind of text, but again an interesting and entertaining read.

If I may, sir; I have to gripe about your overuse of commas. Using them too much makes the rythym of your text choppy and difficult to follow in some places. Plus I suggest that you re-read you text again as in a few places your sentences seem a tad out of order. Still, a great work of fiction. I look forward to reading more of your work. BZ

[Nik Dendera]

Nice ending.

Reads really well, with the exception of a few jagged lines-"His name was simply John, by the way." I'd cut the by the way. I see what you're doing (the idea of a narrative that actually speaks to the reader) and it would work if the rest stuck to that. It kind of fades in and out of that.

But hey, that aside, some good storytelling. A good plot that I haven't seen on here before (and knowing you, I can see where it came from). There is the possibility of expanding this into something bigger, but of course, this is up to you. But I'd think about that...