My wife told me she had called the two gardeners we use to come by today, to do some yard work. My reply was, are you crazy? We are sheltering in place. I have plans to survive this thing.
Even if, though, being already half through my seventies I am the last one here, no food is available, the government and all responsible authority has disintegrated, and utter chaos reigns for those of us left. I asked her, how could we know where those two gardeners have been the last weeks?
The story of contagion is vile. In 1826 Mary Shelley wrote “Farewell to the giant powers of man,” in ”The Last Man,” her book. The book was set in the 21st century. It was about a disease that had ravaged the world. It imagined the extinction of the human race by way of a human pandemic.
In 1722 England Daniel Defoe wrote that the government is keen to contain public panic of the then current black plague, by suppressing the publication of books. Reading was evidently going to breed panic. One in five Londoners died anyway.
Edgar Allen Poe wrote about the Red Death in 1842. Jack London wrote “The Scarlet Plague” in 1912, a pandemic that wiped out nearly everyone, “the high and the low, the powerful and the powerless.“ That plague came in 2013. A lone survivor lived alone in an old hotel at Yosemite, living off canned food until he emerges in 2073. Albert Camus, Stephen King, others I am sure, all observed the incapacity of man to understand suffering they cannot see.
There are five words to remember. You may otherwise contract the most serious strain of the virus, which can result in death by suffocation. They are, “Don’t panic, wash your hands.” Ok, make that seven: “A lot.” Your chances improve if you get a milder infection. Don’t count on it.