Day 40, Baktun 14

Freezing rain in my neighborhood. Perhaps the end of the 13th Baktun wrought more changes that I thought. Regardless, the strange weather seems to have sparked an all out war. Driver-less, and perhaps more importantly with no real reason to park, the icy roads were a full-blown cataclysm for the Cars (though, honestly, would things have been any better with drivers?). In the confusion, the Guns elected to strike--it seems unlikely they were able to plan anything, more likely one saw the opportunity and chose to strike, even more likely one simply wanted to shoot. While the Guns were able to exploit the chaos early on and achieve a few small victories, they remain disorganized, and the Cars have rallied, even managing to recruit some city plows for salting. A stalemate is quickly replacing the precarious tension, with both sides dwindled only slightly. Can I find some way to keep this war hot enough that both factions truly damage each other? It seems unfair to exploit the confusion and bad luck of these new societies, yet at the same time, I have to do what I must to survive.

Day 32, Baktun 14

The saddest sort are those who thought they were prepared for any nebulous apocalypse, a misguided notion the past month has surely beaten out of any who have survived. They are well and truly lost. While the Cars trade for their slaves, the Guns simply wait for their former owners to line up, begging to serve. These poor souls seem unable to grasp the notion of an apocalypse in which their totems did not leave them masters of the new world, so they become willing slaves to them. I tracked a group, just today, to Westminster's old field house, where the Guns have established what I'm calling a Maintenance Pit. There, the enslaved clean, and clean, and clean, day and night. It is too well guarded, but even if I could liberate the Pit, where would its denizens go?

Day 25, Baktun 14

"Post-Maya," "Post-Maya," "Post-Maya." The phrase is all over these journals. But what does this phrase say? Obviously, it says the world has changed, but what does it say about me? What am I saying when I use it? It says I dwell on the past, that I cling to the old ways and old memories. Ridiculous. What if, tomorrow, we all woke up, our tools again docile, our society restored, things all back to "normal?" What then? Those men, who traded their prisoners to the Cars, would still have struck that awful exchange, and would wake up that day, and every day thereafter, having still made that awful exchange, and would never, could never, forget that. Even should the past magically return, it would not be the same. We, even we survivors (and I still believe they are out there) will have changed too much. Therefore, I will no longer write "Post-Maya." I will not let the past dominate my thoughts. Here, in this journal, I mark down that it is the 25th day of the 14th Baktun, the 14th era of this world. I am one of its people.

Archive: Day 17, PM

More than two weeks, no sign of other people. Until today. Seven were outside the Old Navy. In my exuberance, I nearly leapt from my vantage to greet some fellow survivors, but suspicion stayed my exuberance. Why were they simply waiting outside the Old Navy? While my mind worked over that question, the answer came, when a gang of Cars, led by an Escalade with a broken headlight, arrived. Three of the group handed over the remaining four to the gang--they were trading. The nature of their arrangement, how it was negotiated, why the Cars would accept these poor slaves, I could not say. I can say those people have been changed too much by our circumstance. They've survived nothing.

Archive: Day 13, PM

I think I missed New Year's, as if the Julian calendar still held any significance. But, I do count my blessings. Based on everything I've observed, I've remained unnoticed by either faction now ruling my old neighborhood, a testament to my caution. While both the Cars and the Guns continue to fight each other, I have seen some preparations made clearly meant to deal with surviving people. The hope that I am not alone is rekindled. For their part, the Cars seem increasingly well-organized, even unified, while the Guns fight each other as much as anyone. Perhaps I can pull a Yojimbo on these rivals.

Archive: Day Ten, PM

My narrow escape was simply a matter of timing. The Cars, led by the SUVs and Pickups, had insisted on staking out furniture and hardware stores as the homes of primary human needs. Meanwhile, the Guns were much more confused and haphazard, mostly focusing on places their former owners harped on being unable to bring them. Unfortunately, the Cars have smartened up, entrenching around the groceries. No matter, I have what I need for now, allowing me to continue my scouting. The tools seem inexorably drawn to the construction crane at the new TRAX station. Why? Honoring its towering awe? Worshipping, even? Though immobile, the crane is animated, swinging laconically back and forth, but I haven't been able to get close enough to examine it, or even hear its voice. Another mystery of many.

Archive: Day Eight, PM

Foolish, narrow escape. I got so enraptured scouting that basic provisioning slipped my mind. By the barest thread of chance, neither the Cars nor the Guns fully understand the needs of the human body, and both have been distracted vying with the other. When I arrived, the grocery was unguarded, and wide open. Within, it was hardly touched--perhaps I am alone. With only the cash registers impotently squawking taunts at me, I grabbed what I needed, and headed back for the doors. The parking lot was suddenly full of Cars. Had I been seen? Was I being watched? Was it simply bad timing? It must have been, for the back exit was unguarded, and I saw no patrols as I climbed through backyards to get away. Close. Too close. No more laziness.