Supplies, at great cost

January 14, 008
Black Rockalypse

“No snowflake in an avalanche ever feels responsible” - Voltaire

First we saw the narcs. 0utside the gate. Yep, it was the middle of the night, and they never got out of the giant Hummers the military was escorting them around in … but don’t forget, Gate and Perimeter staff possess heat-seeking radar and night vision goggles. I knew those assholes were narcs, even when they were pretending to be hippie idiot newbies helping the DPW clean up after Burning Man. I just knew it. So did a lot of others. Now it’s been proven.

The military tactic of creating dust storms with their helicopters has ceased to work since the rain-and-snow season began. Neener neener. And even though the Blackwater or Delta Force goons, or whoever they are, still employ a presence out here, they’d made it seem innocuous to the civilians out along the 447. Until a few days ago, when they fired aggressively, seemingly at nothing but a truck, and killed innocent people when the bullets ricocheted off the Not-Suits.

Quite a few folks have been loitering out in the desert — folks rightly interested in other dimensions and Not-Us aliens or whatever they are. As well as Burning Man attendees with no jobs, and friends (and frenemies) of ours who wish they’d been invited to transport under the Not-Dome along with us. SO many people … the military’s hands were momentarily tied. From inside here, it looked like the Jodie Foster alien movie Contact where NASA is about to fire up the spaceship and the crowds outside Cape Canaveral gather in a scene which quite resembles Burning Man on a Saturday.

Meanwhile, inside, we’ve been close to starving. I didn’t want to indicate how bad off we were, but even the rice and beans had run out. We were down to ketchup and spaghetti for dinner the night before the attack — just like when that one tweaker guy used to do the kitchen out on the ranch, back before planning meals and ordering supplies had become a desert art all its own.

sadly, they don’t carry kombucha, greenhouse glass, plywood, composting worms, water-testing kits, sanitary storage barrels, canning supplies, ammo… the list goes on…

We’ve known for a while that there’s another half-working computer out here: Hazmatt’s. He’s the only other person besides myself whose transmissions can fly out inter-dimensionally, even though he can’t receive messages either. He’s been sending lists of supplies we needed out into the ether, hoping the couple Org members who achingly chose not to come out here to this Not-Dome experiment (because of children or aging parents, mostly) would pick up Hazmatt’s emails and get stuff done for us and pay for it. We all sat here, energy and hope waning, watching our dinner plates dwindle down to nothing more than empty carbs and sauces, praying the transmissions were going through and that the money needed to pay for everything would be found and donated and raised and earned.

We especially needed medical supplies. Ours ran out — everything. Now we’ve got many of the antibiotics and medicines and vitamins and herbal supplements we literally can’t live without. Some babies are about to be born up in here, and now, the expectant mothers can finally rest easy because they and their offspring will be safe. (We’ve got a couple doula/midwives and doctors in the midst.) Two-thirds of us were ankled by that chem-trail monkeypox v.2.0. … I and many others almost topped out with a 106-degree fever and no antibiotics … stranded and shivering and sweating and bored to death, away from my computer in the infirmary, for two weeks straight.

Personally, I can’t stand the thought of taking antibiotics … but I never want to be thrown in a bathtub full of ice, outside when it’s snowing, ever again.

We still don’t have much fuel, apart from emergency rations they stowed inside the containers. We intuited that a big fuel shipment would spell disaster.

Few people know about the secret contingency plan the Burning Man Org has in place in case of governmental / National Guard invasion and/or false-flag disaster operations in which they might pretend to need to “save us from ourselves”. I suspect Danger Ranger was the one who thought of it … I can’t prove anything for sure, but Arwen and I have been picking up on this vibe that he’s some sort of Not-Us keeper. That he’s known about this stuff since he was a whole lot younger, way before co-founding the Cacophony Society and helping craft the whole Burning Ham thing into a cultural juggernaut. That maybe he’s the one who called for the map of the City to be shaped like a broken circle in the first place, because maybe someone (some Not-Us) hipped him to the whole 2012 scenario quite some time ago.

He doesn’t deny it, when I ask him about it. He only smiles that enigmatic smile and walks away.

…but even Nowhere has eyes

Anyway, the contingency plan is this: Improvise a game of “telephone” — a network of messages — where people within our freak-community and the local survivalist population are called to come out to bear witness to whatever infraction of our rights as Americans the government tries to implement. Simple as that.

In effect, this time, they were human shields. And they knew it. They knew the goons lingering around the desert were armed to the teeth. So they armed themselves, most of them. The civilians lined the 447 highway with their vehicles on one side and waited for our supply delivery. When it came, they got out of their RVs and buses and cars and trucks and stood with their guns on the opposite side of the road, sandwiching the mammoth double-container rig in between themselves and their vehicles.

Once the truck reached the gravel road descending onto the desert floor, they walked with it, on both sides of it, as it crawled to the stopping point at the edge of the gravel. The driver and his passenger got out of the rig, closed the doors, walked away from the truck … and after a time, the boys in the invisible Not-Suits opened the doors and climbed into the rig.

The shootout didn’t last long. At first nobody even knew who was shooting, or who to shoot back at. Then the military retreated post-haste after the truck disappeared into our dimension. Civilian casualties far outnumbered the injured military.

The weirdest thing was not being able to hear anything. We inside the Not-Dome couldn’t hear the machine guns; couldn’t hear the bazooka; couldn’t hear the helicopters. Thank goodness they missed the truck’s wheels by 2 inches and the RPG skidded away from the civilians and into the Not-Dome’s realm, where it “exploded” as nothing more than a rather cool sonic boom.

Obviously we’re keeping the truck and both the shipping containers. We needed a couple more containers, anyway, and we’ve got a tire machine, and Fraser’s already fixed the bullet holes in most of the tires. Now we’ll be using the truck to train everyone in here to drive a bigrig. Another skill you never know if you might need.

And now the military have gone. Or seemingly gone. So to all you reporters and camera crews arriving on the Black Rock Desert, all I have to say is, ask the other campers who still remain here to witness everything with us … and check the local hospitals and morgues. Maybe the forces against us have figured out ways to dispose of the bodies, erase histories, pay off families … I wouldn’t doubt it.

Tomorrow: More.

Also: Rest in peace, ye soldiers of the American people. Not the privately-contracted ones … the civilian ones who had our backs to the death. You will not have died in vain.

Last night we ate a steak dinner for the first time since October. It was heavy … so heavy.