Chapter 3 - Survivalists

Steamer was jolted back into the “present,” when he realized that he had reached the Survivalist patrolled Zone perimeter.

Survivalism is an undefinable social movement of individuals or groups called survivalists, doomsday preppers or preppers, which is comprised of old or new hippies, back to nature enthusiasts, White nationalists, Mansonites, armed militias, etc. etc. who proactively prepare for emergencies, such as natural disasters, black attack, and other disasters causing disruption to social order; that is, civil disorder, caused by political or economic crises. Preparations may anticipate short-term scenarios or long term, on scales ranging from personal adversity, to local disruption of services, to international or global catastrophe, to the continuation and enlargement of the Zebra murders, centered in San Francisco, wherein blacks randomly executed 173 Whites for being white. There is no bright line dividing general emergency preparedness from prepping in the form of survivalism as these concepts run a spectrum, but a qualitative distinction is often recognized whereby preppers/survivalists prepare especially extensively because they have higher estimations of the risk of catastrophes happening. Nonetheless, prepping can be as limited as preparing for a personal emergency; such as losing one's job, storm damage to one's home, or getting lost in wooded terrain, or it can be as extensive as a personal identity or collective identity with a devoted lifestyle, or it can entail camping out at the Zone’s perimeter, never entering the Zone itself, while keeping all others out of the forbidden area. It must be kept in mind that while saying this in simplicity, it ignores the complications, contradictions, and conundrums caused by FBI, CIA, and MOSSAD infiltration.

“Oh no,” he thought; “new hippies.” They’re exactly the kind of Survivalists Steamer would hate to meet on the way in; too colorful, too communal, too conventional, too counterfeit, too cribbed, too convinced they’re living out some frontier myth, and too evocative of a sixty year old notion they have no experience of; but the Zone doesn’t care about aesthetic contradictions, and neither does he. What matters is only, that they’re the ones who’ve appointed themselves the perimeter’s policing conscience.

Steamer spots them before they spot him. They’ve parked their painted bus sideways across the service road, a blockade disguised as a traveling commune. The colors are loud; sunbursts, spirals, smiley faces, but the posture is disciplined. They’re not drifters; they’re a self-invented militia with a folk festival skin and the right to concealed carry.

One sits on the bus’s hood, tapping a tambourine against his knee; not rhythmically, just to keep his nerves from showing. Another leans against the door with an accordion strapped to his chest like improvised armor. A woman with a flute watches the tree line, not the road. They’re all dressed like they’re auditioning for a documentary about a movement they never actually lived through.

When Steamer steps into view, the music stops. Not abruptly; just a slow, collective awareness that the Zone has been sent someone.

The one with the guitar speaks first. “You’re early,” he says, as if Steamer were expected.

Steamer doesn’t answer. He never gives them more than they need.

The tambourine guy stands, squinting at him. “You alone?”

Steamer nods once. It’s not confirmation; it’s a warning that further questions will be treated as interference.

The woman with the flute shifts her weight. “The Zone’s been ..... active today.”

“It’s always active,” Steamer says. “You just notice it more when you’re scared.”

That lands harder than he intends. They’re not cowards, but they’re believers; believers in the idea that the Zone is a living border that needs interpreters, gatekeepers, and witnesses. They think they’re protecting the world from it. Steamer knows they’re really protecting their own mythology.

The accordion man steps forward, trying to look authoritative. “We need to know why you’re going in.”

“No,” Steamer says. “You need to believe I have a reason.”

They don’t like that, but they accept it. They always do. His presence validates their purpose. If someone like him still walks the perimeter, then their vigil still matters.

The guitarist finally nods. “Fine. But move slow. The Zone’s listening.”

Steamer walks past them without another word. As he crosses the invisible threshold, he hears the tambourine resume; soft, tentative, like a ritual meant to keep the world from shifting under their feet.

They think they’re guarding the Zone.

Steamer knows the Zone is simply tolerating them. After all, they are quite innocuous.