The Drift

by C.J. Tudor

“In extreme situations, feeling like you are doing something makes a difference psychologically, even if it has no effect on the outcome.”

You’re either a good guy or you’re a survivor, someone had once told him. The earth is full of dead good guys.

Necessity might be the mother of invention, but it was also the father of fuck you.

Funny, how many terrible things were done for the “greater good.” Carter sometimes wondered at what point the balance tipped. When did the greater good become the fortunate few—and screw everyone else?

When did we stop being people that others wanted to touch and hug and become these revolting husks? Or was that what we always were? Lumps of meat given life by a flick of the sorcerer’s wand. Perhaps death didn’t take anything away. Perhaps it merely restored us to our natural state.

There would be a cure, or a vaccine, and humanity could get back to the normal business of consumption, war and destruction, carelessly fucking up the planet for future generations, while the rich took off to space on day trips and the poor begged for food. Normal.

An apocalypse doesn’t happen because of evil men, zombies or even a virus. It happens because of ordinary people. Because somewhere along the way we lost society, lost cohesion. We forgot to try to see the other side. Instead, we all bunkered down harder in our trenches, refusing to be moved, lobbing missiles at those who dared to challenge our myopic view. No good guys or bad guys. Just a bunch of scared motherfuckers trying to find their way home.

We don’t realize, any of us, how much our existence depends upon hope and purpose, the promise of a new day. Take that away and we’re just automatons, going through the motions until we wind down and die.