Cardinal Sin – 3

In the refuge of the forest, my little friend was my only regular company. It had been eight years since I’d associated with other people. I was already a bit of an introvert—but the onset of the blight and the heart-breaking loss of my wife to that horrible, yet indifferent pandemic only amplified that misanthropy. My remaining time in what was left of civilization was spent preparing for the day the townspeople’s initial spirit of cooperation frayed into chaos. That happened barely two years after the collapse—as the stillbirths continued, the adult fatalities surged again, supplies dwindled, and connections with other towns and cities ceased.

On the first night of widespread violence, I quietly left with what I had hoarded–enough food, seeds, tools, and weaponry to establish and maintain a remote forest camp for decades. Or so I had thought.

No townspeople endured that final barbaric gasp of human cruelty. Or perhaps the blight took the few that did. Either way, what made me think I was immune—that the effects of that adaptable, species-jumping virus would never reach into the forest?

Hubris?

No. I knew what the blight had done to people, animals, crops, and natural environments on other continents in the pandemic’s formative days and weeks—before worldwide communications had completely collapsed.

Denial?

Maybe. But, more likely, it was just the establishment and maintenance of my routines. My head space was fully occupied with keeping my camp, crops—my life—going day to day. I didn’t have the mental energy to waste on thinking about another resurgence of the blight—until the deer began dying.

***

[Stay tuned for the next installment of “Cardinal Sin”]