ARC: Essence by Lisa Ann O'Kane

from repeating his mistakes.”
    She pointed to a cluster of wooden buildings on our right. “These are the stables. We aren’t permitted to drive – except during orientation tours, recruiting missions and hunting trips. Our cars always break down, and we have to keep replacing them, so everyone gets around by walking, horse-riding or cycling.”
    Nodding toward a series of pens, she added, “We keep our horses, sheep, goats, chicken and geese over there. Most other livestock are too resource-intensive, so we don’t eat too much meat. We usually only harvest our chickens and geese, and we mostly use our sheep and goats for wool and milk.”
    The stables faded from sight, and then we were looping around Curry Village again. We drove past a series of high-tech-looking dams and a few rows of metal storage tanks. “Merced River, and there’s the hydroelectric dams and solar panels,” she said. “Rex was an investment genius back in LA. He made enough money outright to get this place started, but we have to live simply to continue being sustainable.”
    She paused. “Coming up on our right, do you see those little rows of corn? Got those in at the end of March. There’s also cucumbers, potatoes, wheat, pumpkins, watermelons, beans… We have a few greenhouses behind Curry Village, so we can grow stuff over winter, too.”
    We passed the far side of the Ahwahnee Meadow, and then we were twisting through the moss-covered remains of what, at one time, must have been a wooden community. Today, its peeling roofs and planks were collapsed into splinters, and they hung half-framed by their foundations.
    “Yosemite Village,” she said, and a note of sadness crept into her voice. “This place was the heart of Yosemite forty years ago.”
    I surveyed the destruction in front of me, the slow decomposition and moldering of what once must have been a thriving community of tourists and adventurers. The ruins felt heavy, like the headstones in a graveyard, and I tried to imagine what the scene must have looked like.
    Kadence seemed to read my mind. As she pointed to a massive waterfall churning to our right – Yosemite Falls, apparently – she smiled and said, “We have some vintage photographs in one of the sitting rooms in the Ahwahnee. You really ought to check those out sometime. Totally put this place into perspective.”
    We passed the falls and pulled through the ruins of another cluster of buildings. “This was Yosemite Lodge,” she said, encompassing more broken-down structures with a sweep of her hand. “Another hotel back in the park’s heyday. And do you see that high wall behind the remains of the Lodge? That’s Camp Four.”
    The stone wall seemed to encircle a tree-filled encampment of some sort, but it was impossible to tell from this distance. “What’s Camp Four?”
    “The only place in the entire Valley you aren’t allowed to go. Rex keeps emergency food rations, medicines and survival gear there in case we have another earthquake.”
    She paused. “Keeps kerosene and gasoline there, too. We use new trucks for trips to the city, supply runs, things like that. But we rely on older, gas-dependent vehicles to get around out here. Gas is almost impossible to get in this part of the state, so Rex keeps storage tanks inside, and Daniel drains our vehicles every night.” She shrugged. “Makes sense, I guess. He wants to keep order, in case anything weird ever happens out here.”
    Camp Four’s high walls and foreboding entrance troubled me. “Has anyone ever been inside?”
    “Not that I know of. A few kids tried to break in a few years ago – wanted to steal some gas and joyride up to Tuolumne Meadows. Rex caught them, and he was so pissed he nearly kicked them out of the Community.” She shrugged. “He’s a pretty relaxed leader overall, but there are two places in this park that are sacred to him: Camp Four and Tuolumne Meadows. He has a low tolerance for people who don’t respect