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lockout
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This is just a lil' Fallout somethin' I've been working on (for what seems like forever). Stay tuned for future updates...maybe.
Foreword_________________________________________________________
(Or Backward, Whatever Your Preference)
Exit the workplace, then hit the road and pray you aren’t mauled by traffic on the way home. Arrive at the humble abode, ease in and have a seat, then kick back and relax while a certain silver platter spins madly in the disc tray. Jack up the volume, then left-click once and voila!...you’re there; knockin off bad guys and ramblin down unexplored corridors while the workaday doldrums get lost in your hard drive.
Sound familiar? It does, if computer gaming is your pastime of choice. Even if it isn’t, everyone needs a between-time escape, some off-the-track detour that makes punching the time clock seem worthwhile. All of us do the “play-after-work” thing in our own ways, and everybody should. But with a lifetime’s worth of choices available to us leisure-happy masses during our off-hours, what in the world would possess anyone to write a story about a game?
It does seem a bit strange, and...hmm...the notion of being “possessed” is a little dark and sinister (not to mention outlandish and a decent lead-in).
It’s perfect...let’s run with it.
All right, how about this? If a major lack of social life isn’t involved here, then what about something even more far-fetched? How does being “other-directed”, in a spirit-world sense, sound to you? You know, call in the exorcist? A real possession, and all that?
Saaay! Now there’s an interesting (if remote) possibility, one that’s worth a second look.
If poltergeists are indeed filling the cargo holds of these artisans, then it would be fairly safe to assume that their various identities and motives remain shrouded in mystery (poltergeists, not artisans). But just for the sake of amusement (and as a real nifty tool for introduction), let’s assume that these specters are having their way with these people, then uncap the looking glass for quick backward glance at the last quarter-century. Come on, we’ll crack open the history book and then flip back through a few pages while we’re at it.
Who knows? Maybe we’ll see why these buggardly apparitions are so hearty and enduring.
If they really are, at all.
Twenty-five years is a long stretch of time for any disembodied spirit to hang out at a solitary location with such single-minded dedication, yet this congregation of so-called phantoms has done exactly that (and with a dogged persistence that borders the fantastic). But what actually lies within all of this preoccupation, this burning need to expand on existing fiction? Are hobgoblins the cause of this immersion?
Methinks not, as from the casual, horse-and-buggy-like era of pen, paper, and dice, to the frenetic pace in the overclocked frame rates of today, a rather elusive phenomenon was there at every turn throughout the rush – Great games are what make this written snatch of entertainment oh, so tangible. Not your run-of-the-mill fodder: great games; that’s the spark. Don’t believe it? Take a look around: no mind-bending chants or satanic verses here, just a little pixel enhanced external motivation, feeding a desire that comes from within.
Let’s see some spectral body try to top that.
Despite a dizzying onslaught of twenty-first century gadgetry (brought to us by those conjurers of technology in the sometimes-mystic kingdom of computing), an impressive tally of game-related yarns are still cranked out every day, the “old-fashioned” way, through passionate outpourings of words, not pictures. Set into motion by the works of others, these “visions in hard copy” are launched from an ample assortment of word processors (a minor concession to the times), and arrive at Web sites from all points around the globe; set free to roam the Internet by a slew of gaming enthusiasts.
This vintage tour bus has been the preferred mode of travel for thousands of individuals over the years, and gives nary an indication of slowing down in the foreseeable future. But why all this intrigue? Why this trip and not some other? Combined, these gamers-turned-writers boast a multitude of diverse interests...yet at one point, for some reason, each heard the bus door whoosh open as they hopped on board and grabbed a seat, snared by a tantalizing attraction that lay somewhere around a blind curve on a scarcely seen road, the only necessity being, to travel the route to its end. Paranormal influences? Nope. Nah. Uh-uh. Sorry, but no way. Given the evidence, one might have to believe in there being something more to all of it.
Or, to whatever is behind it. And there is something more. Quite a bit more, in fact.
Literature, theater, fine arts, music, movies...and games? Yes...games. Listen, whenever a scintillating image on the outside coaxes someone’s noggin to seek a fresh viewpoint on the inside, then where it comes from doesn’t matter one bit. Only the inspiration does – and it waits for each of us. Just close your eyes and see the dream, then follow it to wherever it leads. Go anywhere your heart desires, anywhere you choose to be. Go everywhere if you like – any time, any place, all in a domain so vast and varied that destinations and encounters are forever unlimited. Suspend the mundane whenever it suits you: just schedule a departure between your ears, then board the ramp to where it all begins.
Luxurious seating is always available, reserved by Imagination – the wings of fancy, in mind. Itinerary and flight path are provided courtesy of Curiousity and Desire, those daredevil pilots that invite us to somewhere inside our heads, then tell us to create exotic, intricate locations out of nothing...
And then drop in for a visit.
All this, without ever once leaving familiar sights behind. Amazing, but not overly surprising when the sources come charging into the spotlight. Interestingly, the lion’s share of these “stories about stories” seem to come from those whose passions run to role playing – hmmm – from spirited rogues and vagabonds who take delight in venturing to exotic waypoints, existing beyond the linear framework of what most of the rest of us call “reality”. Careening and reckless they may be, but these other-world nomads certainly are a good-hearted lot, as shown by all who cared enough to sit down at journey’s end and then regale their adventures on paper for us mere mortals to review. Blustery b.s. aside, each should be thanked for their efforts, for taking the time to print all those imaginary tickets that enabled others to board the bus for a first-class passage to any number of entertaining voyages.
As a late pick up for the SenicCruiser, I’ve watched the highway markers blip past, while reading a fair number of these works, and not once did I fail to enjoy the stack of alternative game world slants offered in the pages of every one. Yet, because of their heritage, my annoying little “Why?” guy (I’m sure we all have one) kept nagging at me about the reason (or reasons) for their existence.
I finally gave the notion some thought (just to shut him up). Discounting any ghost theories, I imagined that no small part of the motivation behind those jaunts of fancy would depend largely upon the game being written of, and on the internal clockwork of certain “can’t-let-it-go” types who didn’t want the adventure to end. How true these things are, as it turned out, when one person discovered that, for him, it all comes back to a single, most important ingredient – the story. It is the heart of every game, and well-conceived ones are something to be savored, for the great ones provide that nerve-grinding snip of anticipation that keeps us on edge whenever we forget about where we really are, whenever we open an on-screen door in another world, and then strut headlong into the unknown (“What the hell are those things…and how the hell do I get outta here?”). Heroes of fantasy are born when great tales encourage us to sacrifice ourselves to a greater requirement (“I don’t have to eat right now: leave me alone...I gotta to find out why those mugs in the Hub wanna blow me away for no reason.”). Exceptional tales will create that kind of chivalry (and do), the kind that allows us to ignore those rumblings in our bellies, until we realize that it’s half-past three in the morning, our eyelids are at half-mast, and that we’re going to have to come up with yet another set of half-assed excuses for why we’re going to be late for work...again.
To suspend disbelief is why so many of us play, especially in the arenas of role playing. Unfortunately, too many of our junkets are winding up in the breakdown lane these days, while tomorrow’s search for A-1 transportation grows increasingly harder to locate. At the risk of soapboxing, as ever-faster CPUs, acceleration and graphics continue to dominate as the darlings of the gaming world, it seems to me as though scant consideration is being allotted for the element of human involvement in too many of these uninspired flash packs. There are exceptions, of course, but the supercharged fables in these rare prizes from corporate gaming gods arrive all too infrequently, needlessly delayed by glitzy sensationalism – by indecision over which “latest-and-greatest” engine to implement, or by how much splash is enough.
Wonderful, isn’t it? True; businesses are formed for the purpose of generating revenue – and to be profitable while they do so – but whatever became of using the basics to achieve that goal? In this person’s opinion, stunning visuals and dazzling eye candy in current-day RPGs are not only excessive (and expensive), they’re secondary to what really matters. Let the corporate masses say what they will, but when it comes to role playing, outstanding story lines are more than adequate compensation for middling graphics. The story is the game, period – it’s what makes for either a memorable gaming experience or a bad investment.
As proof, at the time of this writing, nearly four years have passed since its release, yet Fallout remains both a classic and a much-needed breath of fresh air. The graphics were never anyone’s award nominee, but its tale is the rare trophy (and a superb model for how to get it right). Cue the Inkspots’ Maybe, and then the prime stuff begins. From Ron Perlman’s haunting narrative at its introduction and the unfurling of its world map, to the defeat of the Master and the bittersweet flavor of its conclusion, this piece of plastic continually unearthed the best of the fictional jewels: feeling. This game’s ability to evoke emotion, to stimulate a sense of being there throughout every part of the adventure, was (and is) truly captivating. The sensation of being involved, of having accomplished something, was real...and that ain’t all bad, especially for something that came out of a box.
And, inside that box was a large dose of “silver platter syndrome”. If only I’d known: ain’t love grand? I was immediately hooked by Fallout’s replayability and the rest, as they say, is history. Today, lounging in the sleepless, ever-suffering world of the terminally addicted, the game’s delightful story line and character interaction has yet to release its hold on me. Hopefully, it never will, but the drive always seems to read the last cluster, then the story comes to an end...and I don’t want it to. Which is, I suppose, the “Why?” behind all of what follows. Throw a “How” in with that while I’m on the subject, as in gaining a better understanding of how creations such as this come about.
And, of why they are so necessary.
‘Nuf said. If you’ve made it this far, then congratulations! You’re an official survivor of the sales pitch and...hey!...you might even be thinking about taking this contraption out for a test drive. If you decide to, I thank you, reader, most , for taking the time to go for a spin.
It’s all about story, you see – about finding smooth rides to all those unforgettable places that transcend the ordinary. Decent transportation helps, and since I finally figured out how to get the wheels on this baby, I think it’s been running pretty darn good. It might belch and backfire once in a while, but it should get you there and back without a hitch.
Go ahead; hop in and get comfy, then hang a right at the next page, and go straight ahead for as long as you like. You won’t find much in the way of landmarks – it’s mostly hardpan, hard cases, and hard luck but don’t worry – it’s out there. You can’t miss it. Just follow whatever signs you might see, and you’ll be there before you know it.
What happens after that is up to you.
Welcome to the Wasteland...I hope you enjoy the tale.
FALLOUT: The Marshall Plan
Part One: Past Is Present
We’re all held captive
Out from the sun
A sun that shines on only some
We the meek are all in one
I cry out to God
Seeking only his decision
Gabriel stands and confirms
I’ve created my own prison
– Creed
Stay out of the sun
It only burns my skin
Sky full of poison
And the atmosphere’s too thin
Bless the sun, the rain no more
River running like an open sore
Black wind falling to the ocean floor
And the red tide washes ashore
– Rush
The dogs of war won’t negotiate
The dogs of war won’t capitulate
They will take and you will give
And you must die so that they may live
You can knock on any door
But wherever you go, you know they’ve been there before
Winners can lose and things can get strained
But whatever you change, you know the dogs remain
– Pink Floyd
1~One~1
Autumn And Everything After
“And these atomic bombs which science burst upon the world that night were strange even to the men who used them.”
– H.G. Wells, The World Set Free, 1914
“We can sum it up in one sentence: Our technical civilization has just reached its greatest level of savagery...We will have to choose, in the more or less near future, between collective suicide and the intelligent use of our scientific conquests.”
– Albert Camus, 1945
“Behind the black portent of the new atomic age lies a hope which, seized upon with faith, can work out a salvation. If we fail, then we have damned every man to be the slave of fear. Let us not deceive ourselves: we must elect world peace or world destruction.”
– Bernard Baruch, 1946
“Through the release of atomic energy, our generation has brought into the world, the most revolutionary force since prehistoric man’s discovery of fire. This basic force of the universe cannot be fitted into the outmoded concept of narrow nationalisms. For there is no secret and there is no defense; there is no possibility of control, except through the aroused understanding and insistence of the peoples of the world. We scientists recognize our inescapable responsibility to carry to our fellow citzens an understanding of atomic energy and its implication for society. In this lies our only security and our only hope – We believe that an informed citizenry will act for life and not for death.”
– Albert Einstein, 1947
“...There are plenty of problems in the world, many of them interconnected. But there is no problem which compares with this central, universal problem of saving the human race from extinction.”
– John Foster Dulles, 1952
“...In Geneva, ministers of the Baghdad Conference announced earlier this afternoon, that Middle Eastern nations Iran, Iraq, Kuwait, Saudi Arabia, and South American delegate Venezuela have formed the Organization of the Petroleum Exporting Countries, or OPEC, an intragoverning body created to coordinate and unify petroleum production and pricing policies among its member nations...”
– David Brinkley, The Huntley-Brinkley Report, 1960
“It would be our policy to use nuclear weapons, wherever we felt it necessary to protect our forces and achieve our objectives.”
– U.S. Secretary of Defense Robert S. McNamara, 1961
“Gasoline rationing and car pooling are our only recourse to the 5 million barrel-a-day lashing being administered to pro-Israel nations during the Yom Kippur War...Syria and Egypt are not members of OPEC, yet the cartel supports their aggression by clubbing the rest of the world for daring to be on the wrong side of an external matter. This embargo is an ideological tantrum, enforced by geo-political clout, which raises the question: ‘What happens if (or when) one of OPEC’s own becomes involved in a similar altercation?’”
– New York Times Editorial, 1974
“Petroleum prices worldwide will fluctuate with degrees of predictability, but there are no accurate means of measuring the future cost of the Iranian uprising, or of its subsequent strife with Iraq.”
– Ahmed Yamani, Oil Minister of Saudi Arabia, 1981
“U.S. defense policies ensure our preparedness to respond to and, if necessary, successfully fight either a conventional or nuclear war.”
– From the FY 1983 Budget of the United States Government
“The Iraq/Kuwait dispute is an Arab matter, not one that affects the United States.”
– April Glaspie, U.S. Ambassador to Iraq, 1990
“Nuclear deterrence doesn’t work outside of the Russian-U.S. context; Saddam Hussein showed that.”
– General Charles Horner, Commander, U.S. Space Command, 1994
“Anyone who considers using a weapon of mass destruction against the United States or its allies must first consider the consequences...We would not specify in advance what our response would be, but it would be both overwhelming and devastating.”
– U.S. Secretary of Defense William Perry, 1996
“...It’s important that people realize that renewable energy sources are where we need to be headed...We have the capability of building a first-rate, fail-safe nuclear power plant, and we can solve the waste disposal problem...Our children and grandchildren are going to be mad at us for burning all this oil. It took the earth 500 million years to create the stuff we’re burning in two hundred…”
– John D. Edwards, Professor, University of Colorado, 1998
“...Allied air forces from the United States and Great Britain have begun an attack against defined military targets in Iraq...”
– White House Press Release, 1998
“...Seven years after Presidents Bush and Yeltsin agreed to reduce deployed ballistic missile warheads by about 60 percent, implementation of the START II treaty may still be many years away. This means that the United States and Russia are each likely to keep an extra 1,000 missile warheads on alert, ready to launch within minutes if space or ground-based sensors report an incoming missile attack...”
– Frank von Hippel and Bruce Blair, from the Washington Post, 2000
“...Non-OPEC participants Norway and Mexico have joined with Algeria, Iran, and Kuwait in urging the cartel to extend its 14-month long production cuts. In reaction to the announcement, Tuesday’s quotes for spot market crude reached their highest levels since the end of Operation Desert Storm, in 1991...Consumers can expect pump prices to top two dollars per gallon before the Fourth of July weekend...”
– International Wire Services, 2000
“...With joint approval assured, today, Yuri Rogov, chairman of the Defense Committee of the State Duma, announced that a third, unlimited extension of paraliament bill 10226 will be renewed, so that Russia may continue to maintain its nuclear parity with the West, regardless of the country’s present or future economic condition. Chairman Rogov also announced that increases amounting to 600% in the production of Russia’s Topol-O ballistic missile would commence immediately, with passage of the bill...”
– Microsoft/Intel World News Tonight, 2016
“...the United States currently imports over 70% of its oil, creating insurmountable, $300 billion dollar domestic deficits, a fraction of the $4.2 trillion dollar worldwide contribution that will pour into ever-worsening climates abroad by year’s end. Oil revenues in the Persian Gulf have ballooned 1,700% during the last decade-and-a-half, adding more and more fuel to an already volatile Middle East turf war fought by seventeen egotistical kingpins and their street-wise dealers. The collision course is set while a petroleum-hooked world remains oblivious, content to wallow through 89 million barrels’ worth of addiction every day...”
– Atlantic Monthly, 2027
“In the wake of last month’s near-disastrous confrontation between India and Pakistan, the United States House and Senate have unamiously appoved final funding for the U.S. National Disaster Shelter Program. Numerous White House sources have indicated that the contract for this immense government project will be awarded to the Vault-Tec Corporation, headquartered in Racine, California. The company has announced that expects to begin construction on a series of underground survival “Vaults” across the U.S. by the end of April.”
– Reuters International News Services, 2039
“...The Gulf is gone...Everything is gone. Those bastards have sentenced every one of us.”
– Excerpt from USAF cockpit recording of Lt. Cmdr. Gary Rossington’s arial overview of the Persian Gulf, 2053
“...Robert Davies, director of Great Britain’s Chapelcross reactor complex, has confirmed reports that 2.6 tonnes of weapons grade plutonium and more than 3,000 kilograms of tritium at the facility are unaccounted for. British intelligence is approaching the incident as a theft, and production schedules at Chapelcross are expected to increase, while the investigation continues...”
– Microsoft World News Tonight, 2054
“In confronting the grave and far-reaching implications stemming from the recent and regrettable collapse of OPEC, we, the unified whole, have reached a decision. In the spirit of worldwide cooperation, I am most pleased to announce that, by a vote of 184 to 2, Resolution 23614; the Emergency Energy Act, has been approved. Pending validation by the appropriate signatories, any and all research hindrances or restrictions imposed on all non-nuclear sovereignties, as defined by the Nuclear Non-Proliferation Treaty of 1968, are hereby rescinded…”
– Rahib Shamir, Secretary-General, United Nations, 2055
“...Visitors all along Big Pine Road were dazzled earlier in the week by Vault-Tec’s lofty unveiling of Vault 13, California’s freshest contemporary survival haven. Located in the scenic mountain regions northwest of Vault 12, this newest addition to the National Disaster Shelter Program features every available luxury and safety innovation, affording lavish comfort to its inhabitants, as well as endless stocks of pure water, should the need ever arise. Officials in attendance from the government’s Department of Water and Power quickly defused any concerns about area water tables being easily contaminated in the event of nuclear war, pointing out that the Vault’s approved water purification system is rated to work for over 250,000 hours, with no significant loss of output. At the close of the tour, the concensus was that prospective Vault Dwellers should have nothing to fear...”
– Entertainment Weekly, 2063
“...Amid vehement claims of wrongdoing by rival China, Department of Energy Secretary Ethan Burnham announced minutes ago that following more than a year of failed attempts, offshore drilling crews from the United States have successfully gained access to the world’s lone remaining crude oil deposit. Updates on this breaking achievement will follow as they become available...”
– Galaxy News Network, 2073
“...The Amsterdam Summit is dead – six weeks of heated debate surrounding the disposition of oil supplies under U.S. control ended abruptly today, when President Morris declared that the world’s sole remaining petroleum reserve will be used exclusively by the United States. Ignoring threats of sanctions, the President further stated that the U.S. would not sell or trade any of its oil to outside interests. Then he walked out of the negotiations...”
– Galaxy News Network, 2074
“Citing concerns that yesterday’s Chinese naval exercises were ‘Unacceptably close to our strategic oil reserves’, today President Morris ordered the U.S. Navy Pacific Fleet to begin full ready status watch patrols at the location of the Poseidon 1 oil derrick...”
– Galaxy News Network, 2076
“...Joint U.S. military forces are nearing the capital city of Beijing on this; the thirteenth day since China’s invasion of Alaska. Enhanced satellite imagery indicates large scale troop movement and increased activity near Xuanhua and Luoning, China’s two largest ballistic missile sites. The State Department has confirmed reports that no acknowledgement of this morning’s ultimatum demanding China’s unconditional surrender has been received...”
– Galaxy News Network, October 22, 2077
2~Two~2
Of Steel And Shadows
I am an honorable man, he told himself.
Again.
Or so he wanted, needed, simply had to, at this darkest, most agonizing crux of his life; believe. For he knew there was little else to believe in, and to deny himself this single thread of reason would be to release an already tenuous grip on his sanity, then sink deeper into the maddening abyss of the last seventeen days.
No, I will not allow it, he thought. The fiber of himself, his resolve...his conscience...had been pushed to their limits. But I am an officer, he told himself once again, sitting in solitude, surrounded by walls in the bareness of his quarters, alone in the dawn of this early morning, his personal effects stowed and waiting by the door.
“And waiting,” he said tensely, the urgency pressing him as his fingers pressed the keys. It was waiting for him, outside these walls; waiting for him to lead, as he had led his own, after the truth within these same maddening walls was revealed, before his ledger begun by a sense of decency became the tarnished log of a leader-turned-confessor.
To him, it seemed almost another lifetime ago, as his fingers stopped, poised over the keys, the lines of worry on his face reflected by the even lines of green in the com screen before him. The absolute worst disaster that could have befallen any of them was waiting overhead, yet that one ominous color frightened him more deeply than he had ever been in his life, and now his eyes went to the steel exit door, as if seeing what lay beyond it. His scarred duffel bag sat below the control panel, and now he averted his eyes and looked at it instead, remembering the flat mahogany box and the ribbons and citations, and medals that sat inside it.
“A career of honor,” he said soberly, softly, looking back at the screen, remembering what could never be undone, searching himself for the words that would somehow put paid to this, when a low thump thrummed in the vent shaft overhead, a deep, toneless resonance, more felt than heard.
His eyes went automatically to the grille, as the fear settled onto him, a watery crawling that slid across his skin and deep into his bones even as the sound faded. Trembling lightly, he stared at the grille for a long moment, then his fingers began to move. Fear could be harnessed and controlled. He was a soldier, and this is what a soldier did if he wanted to live another day. This is what they did, and this he would do...and still; it seemed that the horrors of every atrocity he had ever known in the machinations of war could be recalled in that one unfeeling tone, as he ended the madness – and the journal – with a final line.
All has been said, he thought, rising slowly from his chair. And done. Yesterday was behind them, and now the others were waiting for someone to lead. It was time to leave. He glanced at the terminal as it flickered and darkened, his own mind clouded by uncertainty and doubt. Their choices had been reduced to few, and he wondered again if they had chosen well from what little remained. Had they chosen well in him?
This he could not speak to. Only the days and months that lay ahead could decide: he would let time be his earthly judge. But there would be no staying here – that much he knew. And no returning, he saw, as the overheads flickered once...twice and then resumed their steady, incandescent glow.
Shuddering inwardly, he walked to the door and grabbed his duffel. He jabbed at the exit button, standing silent as the door drew up, awash in his thoughts of the journey ahead – of tomorrow, and what may lay beyond it, comforted only in knowing that however bleak that day might be, it would be there. For sixty-six of them and their loved ones, at least.
It was a start, something to cling to.
“I will,” he vowed, as then, perhaps out of habit, his fingers located a blue switchplate by the door. The room fell into shadows as the lights winked out, then barely seen shapes grew indefinable as the heavy steel door drew down and closed, cutting off the metallic ring of footsteps moving briskly down the vacant corridor. Across the stilled room, the com terminal sat, its display a wavering, glossy jade sheen in the darkness. A stack of data printouts riffled softly on a nearby bunk, their paper edges lifting and turning as purified air pushed quietly through the vent, fanning the letters “FEV” along the bunk in bright spinning reds, while another battering thump thrummed inside the air shaft. The screen flickered briefly, sending still green ripples across its print-streaked metal table. The data printouts swayed gently in the breeze, and now they began to tilt and slide off the blanket, wafting onto the floor while a low, steady pounding began, a frenzied banging, muffled only by distance as, moving closer, the vivid screen colors seemed to shift and move, as if directed by unspoken commands. Closer now; the table beginning to vibrate, as the savage hammering grew louder, the colors elongating, while a parade rest of green scattered over a tarmac of black...
And closer, as a sharp formation snapped to attention, awaiting inspection in orderly, uniform lines.
10 OCT 2077 – 19:26
I, Roger C. Maxson, Captain, U.S. Army Special Forces, Serial Number 072389, have started this log because the expected has occurred. China invaded Alaska earlier today, and all of our reports indicate that the UN Security Council ignored the attack.
According to intelligence reports received here thus far, St. Lawrence island was overrun and captured at the onset. The island has been secured and is being used for prestaging and deployment for multiple Chinese inland offensives along two hundred miles of coastline between Norton Sound and Hooper Bay. Nome and Teller are presently under attack, although no further details are available at this time.
Alakanuk and Holy Cross have been overwhelmed: both cities are currently under Chinese occupation, and there are reports of heavy civilian casualties.
Countermeasures were under way before the first details began arriving here. President Morris ordered Alaskan Air Command to dispatch every available F-128 from the 409th Tactical at Golina, to shore up the early resistance. They have the Chinese bottled up tight on both flanks, but all they’re really doing up there, is buying time. STRATCOM is maintaining its coordinates lock on all inbound enemy vessels, and there is positive confirmation of inadequate Chinese air support. It is a large fleet; eighty-eight craft in all – and two flattops – unbelievable. Without proper carrier cover, there’s no reason for our forces to hurry, just secure a defensive position and then wait it out for a few hours – the real party won’t start until the B-5s and C-140s arrive from Minot and Whiteman.
What a five star cluster fuck this has turned into. Only a fool would believe that this situation holds any prospects for recovery. Something has to give, and the alternatives don’t look good for any of us. Whatever is going down will likely happen after the bombers and support troops are in position to the north, and if all goes for the worst, I’d like for people to know what really happened here, at Mariposa.
The beginning is usually the best place to start, and with so much of the world’s structure dependent on petroleum for so long, there is little doubt in my mind that the discovery of the world’s last known crude oil reserve was the cannonshot that started the final slide on this unstoppable avalanche.
Worldwide oil reserves were nearing depletion when that monumental find came in May of 2071 in international waters, about 175 miles west-southwest of San Francisco. The deposit rested beneath more than eleven thousand feet of Pacific Ocean, and while drilling operations to that kind of depth had never been attempted, the reserve’s location meant that anyone was free to try. With administrations worldwide laboring under constant threat of revolution, reliable oil supplies were seen as the only solution to a deepening crisis. There was scant opposition to that view, and more important, because of the reserve’s whereabouts, whichever country could be first to draw from it, would, by international statute, be granted exclusive rights to it.
Given those facts, and with the critical state of world affairs, a frenzied contest began. By November of the following year, China had moved well ahead of the pack by applying a radically new quad-tier stepping design during the construction of an offshore platform called the Dong Feng. The engineering behind it was superb – the platform was stable as hell, and gave them a considerable advantage over our static, five-point Poseidon 1 rig. They were months in the lead and were on the verge of tapping the reserve, until certain options were exercised elsewhere.
During the next month, several untimely mishaps took place aboard the Dong Feng, an “ill-starred” sequence that allowed the United States to overtake China in the race. On January 11th, 2073, Poseidon 1 became the first drilling operation to draw from the last known reservoir of crude oil. Under rights granted by international maritime law, the reserve became the property of the United States of America. By means fair or foul, we owned it, although the issue was far from settled.
Three days later, at the request of Chinese President Chueng Xin, the UN General Assembly convened for an emergency session. Xin is well-known as a puritanical hardliner, a forceful and dominating personality who has been the absolute ruler of his country for more than three decades. He is accustomed to having his way in whatever he sees as fit, a fact that became dangerously clear with his opening remarks.
The conference was broadcast live over GNN, and I do not believe I have ever seen anyone so enraged as Xin was that day. He was so simply furious that I thought he might rip the podium apart before he finished addressing the Council. Xin raged on for about twenty minutes, and the wrath in his voice was enough to make a lot of bureaucratic types at home very uncomfortable.
He flatly accused the U.S. of sabotaging the Dong Feng, and said that he had definitive proof to back it up. Whatever it was he supposedly had, no one on this end knew anything about. He might have been bluffing, or there might have been a couple of loose ends, somewhere. Either way made no difference to Xin. He demanded that an international panel be appointed to investigate his allegations. Then he stormed out of the UN building with no further comment.
Oh, was he ever pissed. That was a bad sign, and we knew that it would probably lead to some form of retaliation. Xin didn’t disappoint a soul, and over the course of the next two months, China became very active in advanced biological weapons research. Through our operatives, the Department of Defense obtained several loose reports on the existence of three strains of genetically altered antigens – including a third generation aflatoxin with a staggeringly high absorption rate at low saturation levels. The data was frightening, to say the least, but nothing could be proved – we had the intelligence logs; we just didn’t have anything to show to anyone. The situation was at an impasse, so we tried slowing their research down by stonewalling, through diplomatic channels. Months were spent filing one inquiry grievance after another with UNSCOM, while Chinese officials routinely issued statement after statement, denying any involvement. The stalemate continued until August, then someone near Mianyang accidently broke a seal on a small vial that left more than 60,000 dead, after they did.
While the loss of life was saddening, the incident was the kind of convincing evidence we needed to be able to act, and while the Geneva Council was considering taking formal action, we already were. On September 15th, 2073 the PanImmunity Virion Project, or PVP, was officially designated to begin operations at the West Tech Research Facility – 18 miles east-southeast of Alpine, California, should anyone care to see for themselves. That program was established with the intent of exploring and then developing an effective means of countering the new viral agents, but what began with one set of ideas has concluded with another entirely different set. All of what orginated from a single irradiated virus fragment there has since found its way here – which is why I need to stop lamenting the past, and get to what has to be said.
These disclosures are classified and self-incriminating but at this juncture, disobeying orders and issues of treason don’t really matter. I realize that China’s involvement with bio-weapons makes finding a defense against them paramount, but what they have been doing here has nothing to do with developing any sort of countermeasure. This goes far beyond that – it is unthinkable; unconscionable, and goes a long way toward explaining why this addition to the base was ramrodded through Appropriations just over a year ago.
Those DOD assholes wanted seclusion. Well, they got it...and a hell of a lot more. What has been happening here, is a continuation of the Forced Evolutionary Virus Project, a revolting malignancy, born of the PVP. Never again, though. Not here, anyway. Notoriety is the last thing these people want, but they’ll have more of it than they could ever hope to cover up. I have secured access to the base mainframe, and most of the project files are now at my disposal. This is what we have uncovered, and seen, for ourselves.
All of this started moving in 2075 when, after nearly a year of selective testing, several unforeseen side affects began to surface with the PVP. Without going into the clinical aspects, West Tech had already isolated a virus that left its host cell with a quad-helix DNA structure. These new cells were virtually immune to bacterial and viral agents – that was the goal, but the flatworms and mice they used in testing weren’t merely impervious to disease. More than half of those subjects began showing abnormal growth rates along with substantial increases in brain activity, all of which resulted in further testing.
Those developments were significant, but everyone was just as informed about the increases in aggressive behavior that matched the size gains in the more intelligent lab subjects, like dogs and raccoons. It was a constant problem, serious enough to have caused two security breaches when several of the animals could not be kept restrained during the test procedures. The brass knew every damned detail about it, but they felt that moving forward was worth the risk. Within a month, the DOD had moved a fresh research team on-site at West Tech, to secure and oversee the operation. It was renamed the FEV, for Forced Evolutionary Virus, and since I seem to be in the mood for naming names, Major Cecil R. Barnett is the project’s leader, a position he has run riot over for the last two years.
I shouldn’t blame him but I can’t seem to help it. The directives didn’t come from him – I know he was following orders but damn it all, Barnett’s the impetus behind what’s gone down since January of this year. Someone has to take the fall whenever it goes bad, and in my book, Major Barnett’s the man. He’s the flag-waver who campaigned so fucking hard for funding of this facility, and he’s the son of a bitch who ordered the transfer of all FEV research from West Tech to this hellhole after it was built.
I say, let him answer for it. With any luck, he will.
Nine months of ultra-tight security and too damn many closed-door operations have passed since then, and Major Barnett certainly has been busy – him, the so-called “advisory team” that arrived with him, and the personnel under his command, that is. They have been very busy.
And quiet. Until now.
Our orders were to secure and hold the first two levels, keep our mouths shut, and stay the hell off any floor that didn’t have a “1” or a “2” splashed on the walls. All of the men in our detatchment have prior experience in low-profile operations, so there was nothing unusual about the protocol. No one saw our orders as anything other than SOP, but the activity we have seen during our time here has more than made up for it. It’s been frantic, nearly ‘round the clock – the pace didn’t fit. There’s been too much wrongness in what we have observed, for lack of a better description – and most of it deals with the noncoms.
They were coming in via special envoy, seven to ten at a time, on the first of every month. None of the staff here would answer even the most casual question about any of the new arrivals. They acted like those men and women didn’t exist but none of us forgot them – short-term enlistees, low-to-moderate rank; each was nondescript in every sense of the word. Every one of them rode the elevators down to Three, and none have been seen since.
Whatever was happening below, they were soldiers first, just like the men above. All of us were sick of the tight-lipped bullshit and so, this morning, we talked it over...and to a man, we agreed that we’d had our fill of it. We needed a diversion, so Dalhman and Lockhart staged a fight that created enough of one to give Ino a chance to slip into engineering, and then reroute one of the surveillance cables from Three, to One.
Ino made the switch with no sweat, then he panned one of the cameras and had a good look at what all the secrecy is about – and we finally discovered what those scientist bastards are up to.
The word got around fast – then all hell broke loose when everyone found out that the white coats have been testing the FEV on people. Our command was privy to it all along, but Colonel Spindel would have to have known – that’s just standard procedure. We know he isn’t accountable but apparently he doesn’t see it that way. He’s locked himself in his office and seems to be having some sort of breakdown. I tried to talk to him, but all he did was holler about it not being his fault. I guess he couldn’t deal with the rest of us finding out about it.
The colonel wasn’t going to be of any help, so we took matters into our own hands. We detained every scientist on the top floors, then seven of us went down to Three to see for ourselves. The colonel is the only one of us with authorization but gaining clearance was simple enough – Lawson disarmed the security traps at the entrance, then he bypassed the door locks and we walked in.
The researchers were surprised by the interruption, but no more so than we were. I am a career military man, and a combat veteran who has been damned fortunate in surviving three tours in the Middle East; two in the Sudan, and one around the remains of Iraq. At thirty-six, learning to cope with the sight of human atrocities is something I thought I had done. But there is no immunity – you never get used to it, you just find ways of living with it. I thought myself prepared for what Ino had described, but when I actually saw them, I wanted to cry.
And then vomit. I nearly did both.
Enormous, mutated bipeds are the product of this alleged “research”. There are eight of them – two cadavers in various states of dissection, the others; very much alive and isolated behind containment fields in six maximum security observation rooms. Eckert...Wagner...Valdez...Hansen...Grossman...Marsh: their ID labels differ in last name, but now, their first names are all the same: “Subject”.
How Command could knowingly, willingly approve this type of horror, is beyond me. These were men and women, for God’s sake. They were human beings, but whatever they are now, thank God we still have power. If any of them had escaped, that would have been it for the rest of us.
According to the research files, the ones here range from nine to ten feet in height, and weigh from six to seven hundred pounds each. I believe it – they are heavily muscled, almost beyond credence. Their sheer bulk is astonishing. Arms, legs, hands, feet, head – every visible inch of them is a massively overdeveloped torso that is slabbed with layers of twisted muscle and horribly disfigured, as if the changes they underwent were sudden and violent. Each of their skins are rippled and stretched, and covered with a patchy, greenish-gray coloring. Most of their hair has fallen out, and wide gaps between their rotting teeth can be seen, when the folds of skin above their mouths lift into a leering half-grin; a simpletons’s smile, except for the vicious cruelty in their eyes.
These things could have been human. Once they may have been, but not anymore. There appears to be little humanity left in them, if any, and they seem intent on killing whatever comes within reach – whatever the personal sacrifice. The containment fields are triple sheathed by Reintek core plasma. They are impenetrable and extremely painful to come in contact with, but none of the creatures seemed to notice – they just kept slamming into them without a sound, over and over, trying to break through, trying to get to us.
We stood beneath them for several moments, watching their silent stares, and realizing we were on the wrong end of a total mismatch: it was intimidating. Several of us wondered what they were thinking – or if they could at all – but we all saw enough to know that there was no way this was going to continue.
We ended it – at gunpoint. Every whitecoat was escorted from the level, then three of us went down to FacControl, on Four. While no more of the creatures were there, we found a large anti-contamination room at the north end of the floor that was nearly as daunting.
The four vats we found inside are filled with a greenish-blue liquid – all of them are labeled “Batch 11-111”, the most recent pure-strain version of the FEV. I cannot begin to guess how many gallons of that crap is down there, although now, I have to believe that as many as ninety lives are somewhere inside those containers.
There will be no more. It’s over.
Our current situation is this – every passage to Level Three and below has been sealed off, and anyone even remotely involved with this project has been placed under arrest. Sentries have been posted by the elevator, armed with flamethrowers and plasma rifles, the best weapons we have: they are to kill anything that even thinks about coming up from below.
The “research” has ceased, and even though we hold control, this place is unraveling at the seams. The men are screaming for blood...they’re looking to me for answers, and I’m not sure of what to do. Someone has to do something, though, before this place sinks into an anarchistic bloodbath.
12 OCT 2077 – 18:08
Holy Cross and Alakanuk have been liberated with minimal casualties. The Chinese forces are currently being driven hard toward Norton Sound, while Nome and Teller were resecured without opposition. This is good to hear, but as the U.S. offensive began its shift toward St. Lawrence island, the intense combat has unleashed a floodgate of escalating hostilities.
The new Israeli regime blockaded the Red Sea earlier today, and have engaged in a full-scale mainland assault on Egypt. We have also received confirmation that last week’s massive Soviet troop movement has centralized along Russia’s southern border. They are believed to be preparing for a counteroffensive, aimed at the Chinese occupation of Mongolia and Kazakhstan. This is unconfirmed, as all Soviet ambassadors are unavailable: they have been ordered back to Moscow. Worse still, India and Pakistan have closed their borders. Both nations have declared a state of marshall law, and all diplomatic channels have been severed.
Not good. Not good at all.
Every time we get a report from higher up, things here get worse. Colonel Spindel has refused to leave his room; he continues to be reclusive and withdrawn, and will not to talk to anyone. With leadership in absentia, this place is about to go into full mutiny with all the chaos that entails.
Events are going in a very bad direction, as if I need to be reminded.
We all know about what’s gone down with the FEV Project, and its results have set none too well with any of us. The men are livid, and some of them wanted to handle things in their own way. Lambert was going to execute one of the scientists, earlier today – Remco, I think that’s his name. All of us are close to the edge: I understood how Lambert felt at the moment, but killing that bastard wasn’t going change anything.
It took a lot of doing, but I was finally able to talk him and a couple others out of it. With the situation at least temporarily defused, I suggested that we interrogate the reseachers to find out what their orders are.
Fortunately, everyone agreed, at least for the time being. We’ll start tomorrow.
13 OCT 2077 – 20:39
Norway, Sweden, Finland, and Ukraine – thirty years ago, they might have had nine or ten reactors between them, but all are on full strategic alert while the Bering Strait runs red this night. Russia has engaged China along the Mongolian border, and India has since issued first-strike notification. Everything around us is crumbling...
And I killed a man today.
I was interrogating chief scientist Anderson this morning, and it...just happened, that’s all. He was giving me the full details of their inhuman experiments, going on about gene sequencing and wracking convulsions from the men who died screaming, when their toys didn’t work. He said that his orders came from the government but I didn’t buy it. He started screaming at me about how he was following orders...about how he was a military man, like me...
And I just shot him.
I tell myself it was to keep him from causing a full mutiny among the men, but I’m not so sure.
15 OCT 2077 – 18:21
Five days of worsening turmoil, and throughout it Colonel Spindel refused leave his room. I tried again to speak with him through the door this morning...I tried, but he seemed to have completely lost touch with reality. He kept mumbling something about “Glory and Forever”, and wouldn’t say anything else.
We were concerned about his well-being when several of us broke down the door, just in time to watch him blow his head off. Right before he pulled the trigger, he said he was sorry.
So am I.
18 OCT 2077 – 22:16
As deeply disturbing as it is to realize, by killing the egghead, I seem to have confirmed my position as leader of the men: they follow me without question now. We have to reestablish a valid command structure, but the DOD has yet to acknowledge any of our calls for assistance. Our updates have become intermittent, and are sketchy when they do arrive. Because of this, my orders are to maintain a communications blackout to force a response...and to continue questioning the scientists and researchers. It sounds so tidy, so orderly and civil. I can call it questioning or cross examination, but in truth, the interrogations invariably end up being executions.
Shellman held out the longest...not that it made any difference. Her arguments about her orders were a bit too specific to be completely made up, but the end result was the same. That leaves Remco and VonFelden...and no real explanations.
I don’t bother lying to myself anymore about the reasons for the executions. There isn’t any point.
I’m getting a bad feeling about how all of this is going to end up.
20 OCT 2077 – 09:52
It has been two days since we gagged the comlink. I don’t know why command failed to send someone here after we stopped responding to their check in transmissions. It doesn’t make sense...or maybe it makes too much sense. Either way, they’ll come now. I finally replied to the outside world, and declared ourselves seceded from the union.
They’ll come. They remember Jefferson Davis...what will history say about me?
22 OCT 2077 – 07:01
What the hell’s going on outside? This is a priority operation, one that is now under hostile control. We shut down the comlink then finally declare ourselves to be in full desertion from the Army, no longer under the government’s command, and what happens?
Nothing. No troops or ultimatums. No reports, no updates.
Nothing.
Something bad is coming down.
23 OCT 2077 – 10:39
I can’t believe those stupid bastards finally did it. Damn them! We were right in the middle of trying to pry the real story out of VonFelden, when the floor on Two started shaking about an hour ago...now we’ve completely lost contact with everything.
Damn them! Damn them all to hell! They finally let the bombs fly.
Now what? Where do we go from here? And is there anything left to go to? The comlink is down, and not knowing the extent of the exchanges makes it difficult to say. I can only guess, but I have a feeling that the Alpine site was hit hard. I don’t know if this is just a hunch...or perhaps I am only wishing it was. This may sound cruel, but part of me hopes that West Tech was obliterated, and with damned good reason.
Four years ago, the developmental research departments at West Tech were granted unlimited funding. They have operated covertly – and with considerable assistance – since that time, and have created a wealth of advanced and unreleased technology. I’m certainly not opposed to it but there are limits...and were it not for a machine, I don’t believe that any of us here would be where we are today.
Zax’s ability to reason is well beyond that of any human – its intelligence could well be immeasurable, and the irony is, humans created it. Like everyone else, it was just “following orders”, but that damned machine is what cracked the DNA code sequences that made the FEV a reality. From what I’ve seen of its capabilities, there is no way of estimating what else that thing has learned. Or will.
It is an exercise in poor judgment, one that needs to forgotten, if at all possible. Leave it alone, is what I say. If it’s so intelligent, maybe it can find a way to dig itself out of four floors of rubble.
I hope not. Let it rot, then maybe, someday; we can start over.
If there is anything to start over with. It seems inconceivable that we haven’t been targeted, although I am sure that someone will make up for that oversight...soon. Luckily, the day before yesterday, we moved our families from the base civilian quarters, to inside the facility. We are safe for the moment, although we still don’t know how bad everything is, or if any fallout has reached this area.
25 OCT 2077 – 21:40
Sgt. Platner volunteered to go outside today to take specific readings of the atmosphere, which presented me with another difficult decision to make. There is a lack of adequate decontamination equipment here, and if Platner were to be exposed to any radiation, there would have been no choice – he would have been exiled.
Perhaps Phil was merely tired of waiting, as the rest of us are – but I admired his courage, nonetheless. Since we all were issued Power Armor for this assignment, I felt that the radiation threat was minimal, so I approved it.
The airwaves remain silent tonight as, aided by the prevailing south winds, our good fortune continues. I only wish the same could be said for the surrounding area. It seems the radiation has not spread to our elevated position, and this seems to be the only good news. Sgt. Platner...Phil...ventured a short ways past the main gate after he finished with the readings. When he reported back, he said that the sky is soot-filled and ashen; he told us that the heat is intense, and that the devastation appears total.
The central base is gone. Nothing but drifting columns of blackish-gray smoke in all directions, around and below us. Phil said that San Jose is a huge, flaming mass on the western horizon, and that he saw steam billowing off the San Luis Reservior. Those coodinates are 50 and 25 clicks from our position. Dear God, is it really that bad? Did they unleash everything on everyone? And is it over yet?
We don’t know – the comlines are down. Nobody here knows anything. I still can’t believe we haven’t been hit, but we need to clear out of here before we are, or before we lose power. That would be just as bad.
I’d love to blow this place straight to hell when we leave, but the self-destruct codes remain locked out. I haven’t been able to decypher any of them. Colonel Spindel knew them...it’s too late for that, and I don’t know if we have the time to spare.
We have to go.
26 OCT 2077 – 09:51
I briefed the men on my decision. They agreed to it, and then I convinced them that we should bury the scientists. I know it’s the decent thing to do, but I’m still not sure why I felt that we should...perhaps it was to ease my conscience. Sometimes the truth won’t be seen, even when it sits in front of you. I finally started to believe their stories only when the last one was dying.
My God, what have I become?
27 OCT 2077 – 06:16
We are leaving this godforsaken place today, and none too soon. After a short meeting in TacOps last night, it was agreed that we will try for the old government bunker near Lost Hills. I have included the following, which is a duplicate of the orders and protocol that are to be maintained:
EMERGENY EVACUATION NOTICE
By my authority, as commanding officer following the untimely death of Colonel Robert Spindel, the entire base security team will assemble and then be deployed to the deactivated Lost Hills munitions bunker, east of Delano, CA. Families of officers and enlisted men are included in this directive. Unless otherwise directed from a proper representative of the War Department, the following orders will stand as written:
OPERATIVE 1:
All military security personnel and their families without exception are to vacate Annex D of the Mariposa Military Installation by no later than 0700 hours on 27 Oct 2077. All personnel will travel under command by predetermined route. No leaves will be granted.
OPERATIVE 2:
All remaining civilian personnel are strongly urged to evacuate the installation and seek appropriate shelter, pending orders from their legal command structure.
OPERATIVE 3:
All equipment deemed necessary for the safe transfer of base military personnel is to be drawn immediately from stores. Proper authorization will follow, time permitting.
OPERATIVE 4:
All codes of military justice will be enforced without prejudice on all military and civilian personnel acting in joint military operations.
OPERATIVE 5:
Until such time as consistent, and authorized, communication can be established with the War Department, these orders will have precendence over any previously established orders.
Signed,
Roger C. Maxson
Captain, United States Army Special Forces, S/N 072389
26 Oct 2077
In closing, I can only say that we do not know what or how much had been claimed – and regardless, it cannot be changed. For better or worse, all is done. I will be leading the exodus, and hopefully, one day our new home will be a safer, saner place. Somewhere has to be.
I’m leaving this log behind to be buried when this place goes in the next exchange. I never want to see it ever again, but who knows? Maybe someone will find it, someday. Perhaps they can make some sense of it...
And God help them if they ever find what else is here.
END FILE
The screen went blank an unknown time later, a glassy white pinpoint, drawn in on itself, while a burnt out generator shunt popped and sizzled in the dimness below, spraying the maintenance room with a bluish-white halo of sparks. The corridor lights flickered and then dimmed out as thick, gray ozone drifted into the ceiling vents, then a faint chunk echoed down the halls while banks of emergency lighting bloomed, casting flat white pools onto the floors. Com terminals snapped off and motion cameras stared sightlessly, as security and surveillance circuits surrendered to the power failure, then a hundred sharp, metallic clicks resounded throughout the complex as locks unlocked automatically…
Doors drew up...doors swung in...barriers faded, as restraints dissolved – to the rising howl of enraged screams, a cascading roar above the heavy, methodical thump of lumbering footsteps.
The containment fields contained no more. And not all of the captives were as dimwitted as they seemed. There were tools and parts for repairs...
And there was time.
3~Three~3
Another Day
At the close of this late November day, a day that the citizens of a dead nation once celebrated as a holiday of thanks shared with family and friends, two shabbily dressed men were seated by a small campfire at the corner of Curry St. and Valley Bvld., south of the bombed out ruins that was once called Tehachapi.
It was the twenty-fifth, Thanksgiving Day, but there were no dreams of turkey and dressing or thoughts of pumpkin pie, while their scant meals of salt-cured Brahma and stale iguana were eaten quietly along side the desolate, trash-littered streets. The war had come and gone long before either of the men’s time on earth had begun. Neither of them knew much about the comforts that had vanished in the other time, and for both this seemed not to matter. In the California of today, it was enough to be alive when another day was done.
This one was, and now, the night was full and dark, as they sat and talked, the air heavy with the sharp, acrid scent of burnt drywall and scrap pine two-by-fours, the hazy smoke drifting slowly overhead, straying north and west toward the San Joaquin Valley. Then the wind rose in a dry gust from the south, pushing the flames higher, the embers flaring fiercely as old timber popped and snapped, crackling needless warmth for a muscular, black-haired youth named Lonnie Edwards. He leaned against a rear wheel well of a rust-pitted pickup truck and then stretched out away from the heat. The fire was getting to be too much for him, but he could overlook it for company’s sake. Lonnie undid a couple of shirt buttons and thought he’d come across some pretty smart company, while he opened his collar some and listened to Caldwell, a dog-tired and woefully thin traveler who had, since supper, been inching ever nearer to the fire.
“Don’t mean to getcha down but there ain’t a real good chance of findin her, you know,” Caldwell was saying in a tired, asthmatic wheeze. His breath was coming in struggling gasps, but his tone held no hint of discouragement. It was simply the truth. “You been lookin for how long now?”
“Ten days, I guess,” Lonnie shrugged. “Maybe eleven.” He wasn’t really sure...the last week or so had been a little blurry since he left El Centro. His folks had gone there to trade with the black marketeers while he’d stayed behind to keep things running on their dust bowl farm in Barton, a little settlement, seven, eight miles north of the lump that had been La Rumorosa.
It was hard times in Barton, but that was normal. As far as he knew, it was like that pretty much everywhere since the end of the war. A person could still get by if they could find water, but it just wasn’t all that easy to track down anymore. Everyone had to have it though, and most of theirs came from Laugna Salada, when it wasn’t being a sinkhole twenty miles south. That was about the only place around to find a halfway decent pool that wasn’t all lit up with the glowing sickness, and between droughts and hot spots, and Death Claws, it was a damn miracle anyone could make it there and back. Or make it all.
But they had though, Lonnie mused, nursing several head of Brahmin and two fields of withering crops with high-priced help from the black market. A bunch of heartless bast
Foreword_________________________________________________________
(Or Backward, Whatever Your Preference)
Exit the workplace, then hit the road and pray you aren’t mauled by traffic on the way home. Arrive at the humble abode, ease in and have a seat, then kick back and relax while a certain silver platter spins madly in the disc tray. Jack up the volume, then left-click once and voila!...you’re there; knockin off bad guys and ramblin down unexplored corridors while the workaday doldrums get lost in your hard drive.
Sound familiar? It does, if computer gaming is your pastime of choice. Even if it isn’t, everyone needs a between-time escape, some off-the-track detour that makes punching the time clock seem worthwhile. All of us do the “play-after-work” thing in our own ways, and everybody should. But with a lifetime’s worth of choices available to us leisure-happy masses during our off-hours, what in the world would possess anyone to write a story about a game?
It does seem a bit strange, and...hmm...the notion of being “possessed” is a little dark and sinister (not to mention outlandish and a decent lead-in).
It’s perfect...let’s run with it.
All right, how about this? If a major lack of social life isn’t involved here, then what about something even more far-fetched? How does being “other-directed”, in a spirit-world sense, sound to you? You know, call in the exorcist? A real possession, and all that?
Saaay! Now there’s an interesting (if remote) possibility, one that’s worth a second look.
If poltergeists are indeed filling the cargo holds of these artisans, then it would be fairly safe to assume that their various identities and motives remain shrouded in mystery (poltergeists, not artisans). But just for the sake of amusement (and as a real nifty tool for introduction), let’s assume that these specters are having their way with these people, then uncap the looking glass for quick backward glance at the last quarter-century. Come on, we’ll crack open the history book and then flip back through a few pages while we’re at it.
Who knows? Maybe we’ll see why these buggardly apparitions are so hearty and enduring.
If they really are, at all.
Twenty-five years is a long stretch of time for any disembodied spirit to hang out at a solitary location with such single-minded dedication, yet this congregation of so-called phantoms has done exactly that (and with a dogged persistence that borders the fantastic). But what actually lies within all of this preoccupation, this burning need to expand on existing fiction? Are hobgoblins the cause of this immersion?
Methinks not, as from the casual, horse-and-buggy-like era of pen, paper, and dice, to the frenetic pace in the overclocked frame rates of today, a rather elusive phenomenon was there at every turn throughout the rush – Great games are what make this written snatch of entertainment oh, so tangible. Not your run-of-the-mill fodder: great games; that’s the spark. Don’t believe it? Take a look around: no mind-bending chants or satanic verses here, just a little pixel enhanced external motivation, feeding a desire that comes from within.
Let’s see some spectral body try to top that.
Despite a dizzying onslaught of twenty-first century gadgetry (brought to us by those conjurers of technology in the sometimes-mystic kingdom of computing), an impressive tally of game-related yarns are still cranked out every day, the “old-fashioned” way, through passionate outpourings of words, not pictures. Set into motion by the works of others, these “visions in hard copy” are launched from an ample assortment of word processors (a minor concession to the times), and arrive at Web sites from all points around the globe; set free to roam the Internet by a slew of gaming enthusiasts.
This vintage tour bus has been the preferred mode of travel for thousands of individuals over the years, and gives nary an indication of slowing down in the foreseeable future. But why all this intrigue? Why this trip and not some other? Combined, these gamers-turned-writers boast a multitude of diverse interests...yet at one point, for some reason, each heard the bus door whoosh open as they hopped on board and grabbed a seat, snared by a tantalizing attraction that lay somewhere around a blind curve on a scarcely seen road, the only necessity being, to travel the route to its end. Paranormal influences? Nope. Nah. Uh-uh. Sorry, but no way. Given the evidence, one might have to believe in there being something more to all of it.
Or, to whatever is behind it. And there is something more. Quite a bit more, in fact.
Literature, theater, fine arts, music, movies...and games? Yes...games. Listen, whenever a scintillating image on the outside coaxes someone’s noggin to seek a fresh viewpoint on the inside, then where it comes from doesn’t matter one bit. Only the inspiration does – and it waits for each of us. Just close your eyes and see the dream, then follow it to wherever it leads. Go anywhere your heart desires, anywhere you choose to be. Go everywhere if you like – any time, any place, all in a domain so vast and varied that destinations and encounters are forever unlimited. Suspend the mundane whenever it suits you: just schedule a departure between your ears, then board the ramp to where it all begins.
Luxurious seating is always available, reserved by Imagination – the wings of fancy, in mind. Itinerary and flight path are provided courtesy of Curiousity and Desire, those daredevil pilots that invite us to somewhere inside our heads, then tell us to create exotic, intricate locations out of nothing...
And then drop in for a visit.
All this, without ever once leaving familiar sights behind. Amazing, but not overly surprising when the sources come charging into the spotlight. Interestingly, the lion’s share of these “stories about stories” seem to come from those whose passions run to role playing – hmmm – from spirited rogues and vagabonds who take delight in venturing to exotic waypoints, existing beyond the linear framework of what most of the rest of us call “reality”. Careening and reckless they may be, but these other-world nomads certainly are a good-hearted lot, as shown by all who cared enough to sit down at journey’s end and then regale their adventures on paper for us mere mortals to review. Blustery b.s. aside, each should be thanked for their efforts, for taking the time to print all those imaginary tickets that enabled others to board the bus for a first-class passage to any number of entertaining voyages.
As a late pick up for the SenicCruiser, I’ve watched the highway markers blip past, while reading a fair number of these works, and not once did I fail to enjoy the stack of alternative game world slants offered in the pages of every one. Yet, because of their heritage, my annoying little “Why?” guy (I’m sure we all have one) kept nagging at me about the reason (or reasons) for their existence.
I finally gave the notion some thought (just to shut him up). Discounting any ghost theories, I imagined that no small part of the motivation behind those jaunts of fancy would depend largely upon the game being written of, and on the internal clockwork of certain “can’t-let-it-go” types who didn’t want the adventure to end. How true these things are, as it turned out, when one person discovered that, for him, it all comes back to a single, most important ingredient – the story. It is the heart of every game, and well-conceived ones are something to be savored, for the great ones provide that nerve-grinding snip of anticipation that keeps us on edge whenever we forget about where we really are, whenever we open an on-screen door in another world, and then strut headlong into the unknown (“What the hell are those things…and how the hell do I get outta here?”). Heroes of fantasy are born when great tales encourage us to sacrifice ourselves to a greater requirement (“I don’t have to eat right now: leave me alone...I gotta to find out why those mugs in the Hub wanna blow me away for no reason.”). Exceptional tales will create that kind of chivalry (and do), the kind that allows us to ignore those rumblings in our bellies, until we realize that it’s half-past three in the morning, our eyelids are at half-mast, and that we’re going to have to come up with yet another set of half-assed excuses for why we’re going to be late for work...again.
To suspend disbelief is why so many of us play, especially in the arenas of role playing. Unfortunately, too many of our junkets are winding up in the breakdown lane these days, while tomorrow’s search for A-1 transportation grows increasingly harder to locate. At the risk of soapboxing, as ever-faster CPUs, acceleration and graphics continue to dominate as the darlings of the gaming world, it seems to me as though scant consideration is being allotted for the element of human involvement in too many of these uninspired flash packs. There are exceptions, of course, but the supercharged fables in these rare prizes from corporate gaming gods arrive all too infrequently, needlessly delayed by glitzy sensationalism – by indecision over which “latest-and-greatest” engine to implement, or by how much splash is enough.
Wonderful, isn’t it? True; businesses are formed for the purpose of generating revenue – and to be profitable while they do so – but whatever became of using the basics to achieve that goal? In this person’s opinion, stunning visuals and dazzling eye candy in current-day RPGs are not only excessive (and expensive), they’re secondary to what really matters. Let the corporate masses say what they will, but when it comes to role playing, outstanding story lines are more than adequate compensation for middling graphics. The story is the game, period – it’s what makes for either a memorable gaming experience or a bad investment.
As proof, at the time of this writing, nearly four years have passed since its release, yet Fallout remains both a classic and a much-needed breath of fresh air. The graphics were never anyone’s award nominee, but its tale is the rare trophy (and a superb model for how to get it right). Cue the Inkspots’ Maybe, and then the prime stuff begins. From Ron Perlman’s haunting narrative at its introduction and the unfurling of its world map, to the defeat of the Master and the bittersweet flavor of its conclusion, this piece of plastic continually unearthed the best of the fictional jewels: feeling. This game’s ability to evoke emotion, to stimulate a sense of being there throughout every part of the adventure, was (and is) truly captivating. The sensation of being involved, of having accomplished something, was real...and that ain’t all bad, especially for something that came out of a box.
And, inside that box was a large dose of “silver platter syndrome”. If only I’d known: ain’t love grand? I was immediately hooked by Fallout’s replayability and the rest, as they say, is history. Today, lounging in the sleepless, ever-suffering world of the terminally addicted, the game’s delightful story line and character interaction has yet to release its hold on me. Hopefully, it never will, but the drive always seems to read the last cluster, then the story comes to an end...and I don’t want it to. Which is, I suppose, the “Why?” behind all of what follows. Throw a “How” in with that while I’m on the subject, as in gaining a better understanding of how creations such as this come about.
And, of why they are so necessary.
‘Nuf said. If you’ve made it this far, then congratulations! You’re an official survivor of the sales pitch and...hey!...you might even be thinking about taking this contraption out for a test drive. If you decide to, I thank you, reader, most , for taking the time to go for a spin.
It’s all about story, you see – about finding smooth rides to all those unforgettable places that transcend the ordinary. Decent transportation helps, and since I finally figured out how to get the wheels on this baby, I think it’s been running pretty darn good. It might belch and backfire once in a while, but it should get you there and back without a hitch.
Go ahead; hop in and get comfy, then hang a right at the next page, and go straight ahead for as long as you like. You won’t find much in the way of landmarks – it’s mostly hardpan, hard cases, and hard luck but don’t worry – it’s out there. You can’t miss it. Just follow whatever signs you might see, and you’ll be there before you know it.
What happens after that is up to you.
Welcome to the Wasteland...I hope you enjoy the tale.
FALLOUT: The Marshall Plan
Part One: Past Is Present
We’re all held captive
Out from the sun
A sun that shines on only some
We the meek are all in one
I cry out to God
Seeking only his decision
Gabriel stands and confirms
I’ve created my own prison
– Creed
Stay out of the sun
It only burns my skin
Sky full of poison
And the atmosphere’s too thin
Bless the sun, the rain no more
River running like an open sore
Black wind falling to the ocean floor
And the red tide washes ashore
– Rush
The dogs of war won’t negotiate
The dogs of war won’t capitulate
They will take and you will give
And you must die so that they may live
You can knock on any door
But wherever you go, you know they’ve been there before
Winners can lose and things can get strained
But whatever you change, you know the dogs remain
– Pink Floyd
1~One~1
Autumn And Everything After
“And these atomic bombs which science burst upon the world that night were strange even to the men who used them.”
– H.G. Wells, The World Set Free, 1914
“We can sum it up in one sentence: Our technical civilization has just reached its greatest level of savagery...We will have to choose, in the more or less near future, between collective suicide and the intelligent use of our scientific conquests.”
– Albert Camus, 1945
“Behind the black portent of the new atomic age lies a hope which, seized upon with faith, can work out a salvation. If we fail, then we have damned every man to be the slave of fear. Let us not deceive ourselves: we must elect world peace or world destruction.”
– Bernard Baruch, 1946
“Through the release of atomic energy, our generation has brought into the world, the most revolutionary force since prehistoric man’s discovery of fire. This basic force of the universe cannot be fitted into the outmoded concept of narrow nationalisms. For there is no secret and there is no defense; there is no possibility of control, except through the aroused understanding and insistence of the peoples of the world. We scientists recognize our inescapable responsibility to carry to our fellow citzens an understanding of atomic energy and its implication for society. In this lies our only security and our only hope – We believe that an informed citizenry will act for life and not for death.”
– Albert Einstein, 1947
“...There are plenty of problems in the world, many of them interconnected. But there is no problem which compares with this central, universal problem of saving the human race from extinction.”
– John Foster Dulles, 1952
“...In Geneva, ministers of the Baghdad Conference announced earlier this afternoon, that Middle Eastern nations Iran, Iraq, Kuwait, Saudi Arabia, and South American delegate Venezuela have formed the Organization of the Petroleum Exporting Countries, or OPEC, an intragoverning body created to coordinate and unify petroleum production and pricing policies among its member nations...”
– David Brinkley, The Huntley-Brinkley Report, 1960
“It would be our policy to use nuclear weapons, wherever we felt it necessary to protect our forces and achieve our objectives.”
– U.S. Secretary of Defense Robert S. McNamara, 1961
“Gasoline rationing and car pooling are our only recourse to the 5 million barrel-a-day lashing being administered to pro-Israel nations during the Yom Kippur War...Syria and Egypt are not members of OPEC, yet the cartel supports their aggression by clubbing the rest of the world for daring to be on the wrong side of an external matter. This embargo is an ideological tantrum, enforced by geo-political clout, which raises the question: ‘What happens if (or when) one of OPEC’s own becomes involved in a similar altercation?’”
– New York Times Editorial, 1974
“Petroleum prices worldwide will fluctuate with degrees of predictability, but there are no accurate means of measuring the future cost of the Iranian uprising, or of its subsequent strife with Iraq.”
– Ahmed Yamani, Oil Minister of Saudi Arabia, 1981
“U.S. defense policies ensure our preparedness to respond to and, if necessary, successfully fight either a conventional or nuclear war.”
– From the FY 1983 Budget of the United States Government
“The Iraq/Kuwait dispute is an Arab matter, not one that affects the United States.”
– April Glaspie, U.S. Ambassador to Iraq, 1990
“Nuclear deterrence doesn’t work outside of the Russian-U.S. context; Saddam Hussein showed that.”
– General Charles Horner, Commander, U.S. Space Command, 1994
“Anyone who considers using a weapon of mass destruction against the United States or its allies must first consider the consequences...We would not specify in advance what our response would be, but it would be both overwhelming and devastating.”
– U.S. Secretary of Defense William Perry, 1996
“...It’s important that people realize that renewable energy sources are where we need to be headed...We have the capability of building a first-rate, fail-safe nuclear power plant, and we can solve the waste disposal problem...Our children and grandchildren are going to be mad at us for burning all this oil. It took the earth 500 million years to create the stuff we’re burning in two hundred…”
– John D. Edwards, Professor, University of Colorado, 1998
“...Allied air forces from the United States and Great Britain have begun an attack against defined military targets in Iraq...”
– White House Press Release, 1998
“...Seven years after Presidents Bush and Yeltsin agreed to reduce deployed ballistic missile warheads by about 60 percent, implementation of the START II treaty may still be many years away. This means that the United States and Russia are each likely to keep an extra 1,000 missile warheads on alert, ready to launch within minutes if space or ground-based sensors report an incoming missile attack...”
– Frank von Hippel and Bruce Blair, from the Washington Post, 2000
“...Non-OPEC participants Norway and Mexico have joined with Algeria, Iran, and Kuwait in urging the cartel to extend its 14-month long production cuts. In reaction to the announcement, Tuesday’s quotes for spot market crude reached their highest levels since the end of Operation Desert Storm, in 1991...Consumers can expect pump prices to top two dollars per gallon before the Fourth of July weekend...”
– International Wire Services, 2000
“...With joint approval assured, today, Yuri Rogov, chairman of the Defense Committee of the State Duma, announced that a third, unlimited extension of paraliament bill 10226 will be renewed, so that Russia may continue to maintain its nuclear parity with the West, regardless of the country’s present or future economic condition. Chairman Rogov also announced that increases amounting to 600% in the production of Russia’s Topol-O ballistic missile would commence immediately, with passage of the bill...”
– Microsoft/Intel World News Tonight, 2016
“...the United States currently imports over 70% of its oil, creating insurmountable, $300 billion dollar domestic deficits, a fraction of the $4.2 trillion dollar worldwide contribution that will pour into ever-worsening climates abroad by year’s end. Oil revenues in the Persian Gulf have ballooned 1,700% during the last decade-and-a-half, adding more and more fuel to an already volatile Middle East turf war fought by seventeen egotistical kingpins and their street-wise dealers. The collision course is set while a petroleum-hooked world remains oblivious, content to wallow through 89 million barrels’ worth of addiction every day...”
– Atlantic Monthly, 2027
“In the wake of last month’s near-disastrous confrontation between India and Pakistan, the United States House and Senate have unamiously appoved final funding for the U.S. National Disaster Shelter Program. Numerous White House sources have indicated that the contract for this immense government project will be awarded to the Vault-Tec Corporation, headquartered in Racine, California. The company has announced that expects to begin construction on a series of underground survival “Vaults” across the U.S. by the end of April.”
– Reuters International News Services, 2039
“...The Gulf is gone...Everything is gone. Those bastards have sentenced every one of us.”
– Excerpt from USAF cockpit recording of Lt. Cmdr. Gary Rossington’s arial overview of the Persian Gulf, 2053
“...Robert Davies, director of Great Britain’s Chapelcross reactor complex, has confirmed reports that 2.6 tonnes of weapons grade plutonium and more than 3,000 kilograms of tritium at the facility are unaccounted for. British intelligence is approaching the incident as a theft, and production schedules at Chapelcross are expected to increase, while the investigation continues...”
– Microsoft World News Tonight, 2054
“In confronting the grave and far-reaching implications stemming from the recent and regrettable collapse of OPEC, we, the unified whole, have reached a decision. In the spirit of worldwide cooperation, I am most pleased to announce that, by a vote of 184 to 2, Resolution 23614; the Emergency Energy Act, has been approved. Pending validation by the appropriate signatories, any and all research hindrances or restrictions imposed on all non-nuclear sovereignties, as defined by the Nuclear Non-Proliferation Treaty of 1968, are hereby rescinded…”
– Rahib Shamir, Secretary-General, United Nations, 2055
“...Visitors all along Big Pine Road were dazzled earlier in the week by Vault-Tec’s lofty unveiling of Vault 13, California’s freshest contemporary survival haven. Located in the scenic mountain regions northwest of Vault 12, this newest addition to the National Disaster Shelter Program features every available luxury and safety innovation, affording lavish comfort to its inhabitants, as well as endless stocks of pure water, should the need ever arise. Officials in attendance from the government’s Department of Water and Power quickly defused any concerns about area water tables being easily contaminated in the event of nuclear war, pointing out that the Vault’s approved water purification system is rated to work for over 250,000 hours, with no significant loss of output. At the close of the tour, the concensus was that prospective Vault Dwellers should have nothing to fear...”
– Entertainment Weekly, 2063
“...Amid vehement claims of wrongdoing by rival China, Department of Energy Secretary Ethan Burnham announced minutes ago that following more than a year of failed attempts, offshore drilling crews from the United States have successfully gained access to the world’s lone remaining crude oil deposit. Updates on this breaking achievement will follow as they become available...”
– Galaxy News Network, 2073
“...The Amsterdam Summit is dead – six weeks of heated debate surrounding the disposition of oil supplies under U.S. control ended abruptly today, when President Morris declared that the world’s sole remaining petroleum reserve will be used exclusively by the United States. Ignoring threats of sanctions, the President further stated that the U.S. would not sell or trade any of its oil to outside interests. Then he walked out of the negotiations...”
– Galaxy News Network, 2074
“Citing concerns that yesterday’s Chinese naval exercises were ‘Unacceptably close to our strategic oil reserves’, today President Morris ordered the U.S. Navy Pacific Fleet to begin full ready status watch patrols at the location of the Poseidon 1 oil derrick...”
– Galaxy News Network, 2076
“...Joint U.S. military forces are nearing the capital city of Beijing on this; the thirteenth day since China’s invasion of Alaska. Enhanced satellite imagery indicates large scale troop movement and increased activity near Xuanhua and Luoning, China’s two largest ballistic missile sites. The State Department has confirmed reports that no acknowledgement of this morning’s ultimatum demanding China’s unconditional surrender has been received...”
– Galaxy News Network, October 22, 2077
2~Two~2
Of Steel And Shadows
I am an honorable man, he told himself.
Again.
Or so he wanted, needed, simply had to, at this darkest, most agonizing crux of his life; believe. For he knew there was little else to believe in, and to deny himself this single thread of reason would be to release an already tenuous grip on his sanity, then sink deeper into the maddening abyss of the last seventeen days.
No, I will not allow it, he thought. The fiber of himself, his resolve...his conscience...had been pushed to their limits. But I am an officer, he told himself once again, sitting in solitude, surrounded by walls in the bareness of his quarters, alone in the dawn of this early morning, his personal effects stowed and waiting by the door.
“And waiting,” he said tensely, the urgency pressing him as his fingers pressed the keys. It was waiting for him, outside these walls; waiting for him to lead, as he had led his own, after the truth within these same maddening walls was revealed, before his ledger begun by a sense of decency became the tarnished log of a leader-turned-confessor.
To him, it seemed almost another lifetime ago, as his fingers stopped, poised over the keys, the lines of worry on his face reflected by the even lines of green in the com screen before him. The absolute worst disaster that could have befallen any of them was waiting overhead, yet that one ominous color frightened him more deeply than he had ever been in his life, and now his eyes went to the steel exit door, as if seeing what lay beyond it. His scarred duffel bag sat below the control panel, and now he averted his eyes and looked at it instead, remembering the flat mahogany box and the ribbons and citations, and medals that sat inside it.
“A career of honor,” he said soberly, softly, looking back at the screen, remembering what could never be undone, searching himself for the words that would somehow put paid to this, when a low thump thrummed in the vent shaft overhead, a deep, toneless resonance, more felt than heard.
His eyes went automatically to the grille, as the fear settled onto him, a watery crawling that slid across his skin and deep into his bones even as the sound faded. Trembling lightly, he stared at the grille for a long moment, then his fingers began to move. Fear could be harnessed and controlled. He was a soldier, and this is what a soldier did if he wanted to live another day. This is what they did, and this he would do...and still; it seemed that the horrors of every atrocity he had ever known in the machinations of war could be recalled in that one unfeeling tone, as he ended the madness – and the journal – with a final line.
All has been said, he thought, rising slowly from his chair. And done. Yesterday was behind them, and now the others were waiting for someone to lead. It was time to leave. He glanced at the terminal as it flickered and darkened, his own mind clouded by uncertainty and doubt. Their choices had been reduced to few, and he wondered again if they had chosen well from what little remained. Had they chosen well in him?
This he could not speak to. Only the days and months that lay ahead could decide: he would let time be his earthly judge. But there would be no staying here – that much he knew. And no returning, he saw, as the overheads flickered once...twice and then resumed their steady, incandescent glow.
Shuddering inwardly, he walked to the door and grabbed his duffel. He jabbed at the exit button, standing silent as the door drew up, awash in his thoughts of the journey ahead – of tomorrow, and what may lay beyond it, comforted only in knowing that however bleak that day might be, it would be there. For sixty-six of them and their loved ones, at least.
It was a start, something to cling to.
“I will,” he vowed, as then, perhaps out of habit, his fingers located a blue switchplate by the door. The room fell into shadows as the lights winked out, then barely seen shapes grew indefinable as the heavy steel door drew down and closed, cutting off the metallic ring of footsteps moving briskly down the vacant corridor. Across the stilled room, the com terminal sat, its display a wavering, glossy jade sheen in the darkness. A stack of data printouts riffled softly on a nearby bunk, their paper edges lifting and turning as purified air pushed quietly through the vent, fanning the letters “FEV” along the bunk in bright spinning reds, while another battering thump thrummed inside the air shaft. The screen flickered briefly, sending still green ripples across its print-streaked metal table. The data printouts swayed gently in the breeze, and now they began to tilt and slide off the blanket, wafting onto the floor while a low, steady pounding began, a frenzied banging, muffled only by distance as, moving closer, the vivid screen colors seemed to shift and move, as if directed by unspoken commands. Closer now; the table beginning to vibrate, as the savage hammering grew louder, the colors elongating, while a parade rest of green scattered over a tarmac of black...
And closer, as a sharp formation snapped to attention, awaiting inspection in orderly, uniform lines.
10 OCT 2077 – 19:26
I, Roger C. Maxson, Captain, U.S. Army Special Forces, Serial Number 072389, have started this log because the expected has occurred. China invaded Alaska earlier today, and all of our reports indicate that the UN Security Council ignored the attack.
According to intelligence reports received here thus far, St. Lawrence island was overrun and captured at the onset. The island has been secured and is being used for prestaging and deployment for multiple Chinese inland offensives along two hundred miles of coastline between Norton Sound and Hooper Bay. Nome and Teller are presently under attack, although no further details are available at this time.
Alakanuk and Holy Cross have been overwhelmed: both cities are currently under Chinese occupation, and there are reports of heavy civilian casualties.
Countermeasures were under way before the first details began arriving here. President Morris ordered Alaskan Air Command to dispatch every available F-128 from the 409th Tactical at Golina, to shore up the early resistance. They have the Chinese bottled up tight on both flanks, but all they’re really doing up there, is buying time. STRATCOM is maintaining its coordinates lock on all inbound enemy vessels, and there is positive confirmation of inadequate Chinese air support. It is a large fleet; eighty-eight craft in all – and two flattops – unbelievable. Without proper carrier cover, there’s no reason for our forces to hurry, just secure a defensive position and then wait it out for a few hours – the real party won’t start until the B-5s and C-140s arrive from Minot and Whiteman.
What a five star cluster fuck this has turned into. Only a fool would believe that this situation holds any prospects for recovery. Something has to give, and the alternatives don’t look good for any of us. Whatever is going down will likely happen after the bombers and support troops are in position to the north, and if all goes for the worst, I’d like for people to know what really happened here, at Mariposa.
The beginning is usually the best place to start, and with so much of the world’s structure dependent on petroleum for so long, there is little doubt in my mind that the discovery of the world’s last known crude oil reserve was the cannonshot that started the final slide on this unstoppable avalanche.
Worldwide oil reserves were nearing depletion when that monumental find came in May of 2071 in international waters, about 175 miles west-southwest of San Francisco. The deposit rested beneath more than eleven thousand feet of Pacific Ocean, and while drilling operations to that kind of depth had never been attempted, the reserve’s location meant that anyone was free to try. With administrations worldwide laboring under constant threat of revolution, reliable oil supplies were seen as the only solution to a deepening crisis. There was scant opposition to that view, and more important, because of the reserve’s whereabouts, whichever country could be first to draw from it, would, by international statute, be granted exclusive rights to it.
Given those facts, and with the critical state of world affairs, a frenzied contest began. By November of the following year, China had moved well ahead of the pack by applying a radically new quad-tier stepping design during the construction of an offshore platform called the Dong Feng. The engineering behind it was superb – the platform was stable as hell, and gave them a considerable advantage over our static, five-point Poseidon 1 rig. They were months in the lead and were on the verge of tapping the reserve, until certain options were exercised elsewhere.
During the next month, several untimely mishaps took place aboard the Dong Feng, an “ill-starred” sequence that allowed the United States to overtake China in the race. On January 11th, 2073, Poseidon 1 became the first drilling operation to draw from the last known reservoir of crude oil. Under rights granted by international maritime law, the reserve became the property of the United States of America. By means fair or foul, we owned it, although the issue was far from settled.
Three days later, at the request of Chinese President Chueng Xin, the UN General Assembly convened for an emergency session. Xin is well-known as a puritanical hardliner, a forceful and dominating personality who has been the absolute ruler of his country for more than three decades. He is accustomed to having his way in whatever he sees as fit, a fact that became dangerously clear with his opening remarks.
The conference was broadcast live over GNN, and I do not believe I have ever seen anyone so enraged as Xin was that day. He was so simply furious that I thought he might rip the podium apart before he finished addressing the Council. Xin raged on for about twenty minutes, and the wrath in his voice was enough to make a lot of bureaucratic types at home very uncomfortable.
He flatly accused the U.S. of sabotaging the Dong Feng, and said that he had definitive proof to back it up. Whatever it was he supposedly had, no one on this end knew anything about. He might have been bluffing, or there might have been a couple of loose ends, somewhere. Either way made no difference to Xin. He demanded that an international panel be appointed to investigate his allegations. Then he stormed out of the UN building with no further comment.
Oh, was he ever pissed. That was a bad sign, and we knew that it would probably lead to some form of retaliation. Xin didn’t disappoint a soul, and over the course of the next two months, China became very active in advanced biological weapons research. Through our operatives, the Department of Defense obtained several loose reports on the existence of three strains of genetically altered antigens – including a third generation aflatoxin with a staggeringly high absorption rate at low saturation levels. The data was frightening, to say the least, but nothing could be proved – we had the intelligence logs; we just didn’t have anything to show to anyone. The situation was at an impasse, so we tried slowing their research down by stonewalling, through diplomatic channels. Months were spent filing one inquiry grievance after another with UNSCOM, while Chinese officials routinely issued statement after statement, denying any involvement. The stalemate continued until August, then someone near Mianyang accidently broke a seal on a small vial that left more than 60,000 dead, after they did.
While the loss of life was saddening, the incident was the kind of convincing evidence we needed to be able to act, and while the Geneva Council was considering taking formal action, we already were. On September 15th, 2073 the PanImmunity Virion Project, or PVP, was officially designated to begin operations at the West Tech Research Facility – 18 miles east-southeast of Alpine, California, should anyone care to see for themselves. That program was established with the intent of exploring and then developing an effective means of countering the new viral agents, but what began with one set of ideas has concluded with another entirely different set. All of what orginated from a single irradiated virus fragment there has since found its way here – which is why I need to stop lamenting the past, and get to what has to be said.
These disclosures are classified and self-incriminating but at this juncture, disobeying orders and issues of treason don’t really matter. I realize that China’s involvement with bio-weapons makes finding a defense against them paramount, but what they have been doing here has nothing to do with developing any sort of countermeasure. This goes far beyond that – it is unthinkable; unconscionable, and goes a long way toward explaining why this addition to the base was ramrodded through Appropriations just over a year ago.
Those DOD assholes wanted seclusion. Well, they got it...and a hell of a lot more. What has been happening here, is a continuation of the Forced Evolutionary Virus Project, a revolting malignancy, born of the PVP. Never again, though. Not here, anyway. Notoriety is the last thing these people want, but they’ll have more of it than they could ever hope to cover up. I have secured access to the base mainframe, and most of the project files are now at my disposal. This is what we have uncovered, and seen, for ourselves.
All of this started moving in 2075 when, after nearly a year of selective testing, several unforeseen side affects began to surface with the PVP. Without going into the clinical aspects, West Tech had already isolated a virus that left its host cell with a quad-helix DNA structure. These new cells were virtually immune to bacterial and viral agents – that was the goal, but the flatworms and mice they used in testing weren’t merely impervious to disease. More than half of those subjects began showing abnormal growth rates along with substantial increases in brain activity, all of which resulted in further testing.
Those developments were significant, but everyone was just as informed about the increases in aggressive behavior that matched the size gains in the more intelligent lab subjects, like dogs and raccoons. It was a constant problem, serious enough to have caused two security breaches when several of the animals could not be kept restrained during the test procedures. The brass knew every damned detail about it, but they felt that moving forward was worth the risk. Within a month, the DOD had moved a fresh research team on-site at West Tech, to secure and oversee the operation. It was renamed the FEV, for Forced Evolutionary Virus, and since I seem to be in the mood for naming names, Major Cecil R. Barnett is the project’s leader, a position he has run riot over for the last two years.
I shouldn’t blame him but I can’t seem to help it. The directives didn’t come from him – I know he was following orders but damn it all, Barnett’s the impetus behind what’s gone down since January of this year. Someone has to take the fall whenever it goes bad, and in my book, Major Barnett’s the man. He’s the flag-waver who campaigned so fucking hard for funding of this facility, and he’s the son of a bitch who ordered the transfer of all FEV research from West Tech to this hellhole after it was built.
I say, let him answer for it. With any luck, he will.
Nine months of ultra-tight security and too damn many closed-door operations have passed since then, and Major Barnett certainly has been busy – him, the so-called “advisory team” that arrived with him, and the personnel under his command, that is. They have been very busy.
And quiet. Until now.
Our orders were to secure and hold the first two levels, keep our mouths shut, and stay the hell off any floor that didn’t have a “1” or a “2” splashed on the walls. All of the men in our detatchment have prior experience in low-profile operations, so there was nothing unusual about the protocol. No one saw our orders as anything other than SOP, but the activity we have seen during our time here has more than made up for it. It’s been frantic, nearly ‘round the clock – the pace didn’t fit. There’s been too much wrongness in what we have observed, for lack of a better description – and most of it deals with the noncoms.
They were coming in via special envoy, seven to ten at a time, on the first of every month. None of the staff here would answer even the most casual question about any of the new arrivals. They acted like those men and women didn’t exist but none of us forgot them – short-term enlistees, low-to-moderate rank; each was nondescript in every sense of the word. Every one of them rode the elevators down to Three, and none have been seen since.
Whatever was happening below, they were soldiers first, just like the men above. All of us were sick of the tight-lipped bullshit and so, this morning, we talked it over...and to a man, we agreed that we’d had our fill of it. We needed a diversion, so Dalhman and Lockhart staged a fight that created enough of one to give Ino a chance to slip into engineering, and then reroute one of the surveillance cables from Three, to One.
Ino made the switch with no sweat, then he panned one of the cameras and had a good look at what all the secrecy is about – and we finally discovered what those scientist bastards are up to.
The word got around fast – then all hell broke loose when everyone found out that the white coats have been testing the FEV on people. Our command was privy to it all along, but Colonel Spindel would have to have known – that’s just standard procedure. We know he isn’t accountable but apparently he doesn’t see it that way. He’s locked himself in his office and seems to be having some sort of breakdown. I tried to talk to him, but all he did was holler about it not being his fault. I guess he couldn’t deal with the rest of us finding out about it.
The colonel wasn’t going to be of any help, so we took matters into our own hands. We detained every scientist on the top floors, then seven of us went down to Three to see for ourselves. The colonel is the only one of us with authorization but gaining clearance was simple enough – Lawson disarmed the security traps at the entrance, then he bypassed the door locks and we walked in.
The researchers were surprised by the interruption, but no more so than we were. I am a career military man, and a combat veteran who has been damned fortunate in surviving three tours in the Middle East; two in the Sudan, and one around the remains of Iraq. At thirty-six, learning to cope with the sight of human atrocities is something I thought I had done. But there is no immunity – you never get used to it, you just find ways of living with it. I thought myself prepared for what Ino had described, but when I actually saw them, I wanted to cry.
And then vomit. I nearly did both.
Enormous, mutated bipeds are the product of this alleged “research”. There are eight of them – two cadavers in various states of dissection, the others; very much alive and isolated behind containment fields in six maximum security observation rooms. Eckert...Wagner...Valdez...Hansen...Grossman...Marsh: their ID labels differ in last name, but now, their first names are all the same: “Subject”.
How Command could knowingly, willingly approve this type of horror, is beyond me. These were men and women, for God’s sake. They were human beings, but whatever they are now, thank God we still have power. If any of them had escaped, that would have been it for the rest of us.
According to the research files, the ones here range from nine to ten feet in height, and weigh from six to seven hundred pounds each. I believe it – they are heavily muscled, almost beyond credence. Their sheer bulk is astonishing. Arms, legs, hands, feet, head – every visible inch of them is a massively overdeveloped torso that is slabbed with layers of twisted muscle and horribly disfigured, as if the changes they underwent were sudden and violent. Each of their skins are rippled and stretched, and covered with a patchy, greenish-gray coloring. Most of their hair has fallen out, and wide gaps between their rotting teeth can be seen, when the folds of skin above their mouths lift into a leering half-grin; a simpletons’s smile, except for the vicious cruelty in their eyes.
These things could have been human. Once they may have been, but not anymore. There appears to be little humanity left in them, if any, and they seem intent on killing whatever comes within reach – whatever the personal sacrifice. The containment fields are triple sheathed by Reintek core plasma. They are impenetrable and extremely painful to come in contact with, but none of the creatures seemed to notice – they just kept slamming into them without a sound, over and over, trying to break through, trying to get to us.
We stood beneath them for several moments, watching their silent stares, and realizing we were on the wrong end of a total mismatch: it was intimidating. Several of us wondered what they were thinking – or if they could at all – but we all saw enough to know that there was no way this was going to continue.
We ended it – at gunpoint. Every whitecoat was escorted from the level, then three of us went down to FacControl, on Four. While no more of the creatures were there, we found a large anti-contamination room at the north end of the floor that was nearly as daunting.
The four vats we found inside are filled with a greenish-blue liquid – all of them are labeled “Batch 11-111”, the most recent pure-strain version of the FEV. I cannot begin to guess how many gallons of that crap is down there, although now, I have to believe that as many as ninety lives are somewhere inside those containers.
There will be no more. It’s over.
Our current situation is this – every passage to Level Three and below has been sealed off, and anyone even remotely involved with this project has been placed under arrest. Sentries have been posted by the elevator, armed with flamethrowers and plasma rifles, the best weapons we have: they are to kill anything that even thinks about coming up from below.
The “research” has ceased, and even though we hold control, this place is unraveling at the seams. The men are screaming for blood...they’re looking to me for answers, and I’m not sure of what to do. Someone has to do something, though, before this place sinks into an anarchistic bloodbath.
12 OCT 2077 – 18:08
Holy Cross and Alakanuk have been liberated with minimal casualties. The Chinese forces are currently being driven hard toward Norton Sound, while Nome and Teller were resecured without opposition. This is good to hear, but as the U.S. offensive began its shift toward St. Lawrence island, the intense combat has unleashed a floodgate of escalating hostilities.
The new Israeli regime blockaded the Red Sea earlier today, and have engaged in a full-scale mainland assault on Egypt. We have also received confirmation that last week’s massive Soviet troop movement has centralized along Russia’s southern border. They are believed to be preparing for a counteroffensive, aimed at the Chinese occupation of Mongolia and Kazakhstan. This is unconfirmed, as all Soviet ambassadors are unavailable: they have been ordered back to Moscow. Worse still, India and Pakistan have closed their borders. Both nations have declared a state of marshall law, and all diplomatic channels have been severed.
Not good. Not good at all.
Every time we get a report from higher up, things here get worse. Colonel Spindel has refused to leave his room; he continues to be reclusive and withdrawn, and will not to talk to anyone. With leadership in absentia, this place is about to go into full mutiny with all the chaos that entails.
Events are going in a very bad direction, as if I need to be reminded.
We all know about what’s gone down with the FEV Project, and its results have set none too well with any of us. The men are livid, and some of them wanted to handle things in their own way. Lambert was going to execute one of the scientists, earlier today – Remco, I think that’s his name. All of us are close to the edge: I understood how Lambert felt at the moment, but killing that bastard wasn’t going change anything.
It took a lot of doing, but I was finally able to talk him and a couple others out of it. With the situation at least temporarily defused, I suggested that we interrogate the reseachers to find out what their orders are.
Fortunately, everyone agreed, at least for the time being. We’ll start tomorrow.
13 OCT 2077 – 20:39
Norway, Sweden, Finland, and Ukraine – thirty years ago, they might have had nine or ten reactors between them, but all are on full strategic alert while the Bering Strait runs red this night. Russia has engaged China along the Mongolian border, and India has since issued first-strike notification. Everything around us is crumbling...
And I killed a man today.
I was interrogating chief scientist Anderson this morning, and it...just happened, that’s all. He was giving me the full details of their inhuman experiments, going on about gene sequencing and wracking convulsions from the men who died screaming, when their toys didn’t work. He said that his orders came from the government but I didn’t buy it. He started screaming at me about how he was following orders...about how he was a military man, like me...
And I just shot him.
I tell myself it was to keep him from causing a full mutiny among the men, but I’m not so sure.
15 OCT 2077 – 18:21
Five days of worsening turmoil, and throughout it Colonel Spindel refused leave his room. I tried again to speak with him through the door this morning...I tried, but he seemed to have completely lost touch with reality. He kept mumbling something about “Glory and Forever”, and wouldn’t say anything else.
We were concerned about his well-being when several of us broke down the door, just in time to watch him blow his head off. Right before he pulled the trigger, he said he was sorry.
So am I.
18 OCT 2077 – 22:16
As deeply disturbing as it is to realize, by killing the egghead, I seem to have confirmed my position as leader of the men: they follow me without question now. We have to reestablish a valid command structure, but the DOD has yet to acknowledge any of our calls for assistance. Our updates have become intermittent, and are sketchy when they do arrive. Because of this, my orders are to maintain a communications blackout to force a response...and to continue questioning the scientists and researchers. It sounds so tidy, so orderly and civil. I can call it questioning or cross examination, but in truth, the interrogations invariably end up being executions.
Shellman held out the longest...not that it made any difference. Her arguments about her orders were a bit too specific to be completely made up, but the end result was the same. That leaves Remco and VonFelden...and no real explanations.
I don’t bother lying to myself anymore about the reasons for the executions. There isn’t any point.
I’m getting a bad feeling about how all of this is going to end up.
20 OCT 2077 – 09:52
It has been two days since we gagged the comlink. I don’t know why command failed to send someone here after we stopped responding to their check in transmissions. It doesn’t make sense...or maybe it makes too much sense. Either way, they’ll come now. I finally replied to the outside world, and declared ourselves seceded from the union.
They’ll come. They remember Jefferson Davis...what will history say about me?
22 OCT 2077 – 07:01
What the hell’s going on outside? This is a priority operation, one that is now under hostile control. We shut down the comlink then finally declare ourselves to be in full desertion from the Army, no longer under the government’s command, and what happens?
Nothing. No troops or ultimatums. No reports, no updates.
Nothing.
Something bad is coming down.
23 OCT 2077 – 10:39
I can’t believe those stupid bastards finally did it. Damn them! We were right in the middle of trying to pry the real story out of VonFelden, when the floor on Two started shaking about an hour ago...now we’ve completely lost contact with everything.
Damn them! Damn them all to hell! They finally let the bombs fly.
Now what? Where do we go from here? And is there anything left to go to? The comlink is down, and not knowing the extent of the exchanges makes it difficult to say. I can only guess, but I have a feeling that the Alpine site was hit hard. I don’t know if this is just a hunch...or perhaps I am only wishing it was. This may sound cruel, but part of me hopes that West Tech was obliterated, and with damned good reason.
Four years ago, the developmental research departments at West Tech were granted unlimited funding. They have operated covertly – and with considerable assistance – since that time, and have created a wealth of advanced and unreleased technology. I’m certainly not opposed to it but there are limits...and were it not for a machine, I don’t believe that any of us here would be where we are today.
Zax’s ability to reason is well beyond that of any human – its intelligence could well be immeasurable, and the irony is, humans created it. Like everyone else, it was just “following orders”, but that damned machine is what cracked the DNA code sequences that made the FEV a reality. From what I’ve seen of its capabilities, there is no way of estimating what else that thing has learned. Or will.
It is an exercise in poor judgment, one that needs to forgotten, if at all possible. Leave it alone, is what I say. If it’s so intelligent, maybe it can find a way to dig itself out of four floors of rubble.
I hope not. Let it rot, then maybe, someday; we can start over.
If there is anything to start over with. It seems inconceivable that we haven’t been targeted, although I am sure that someone will make up for that oversight...soon. Luckily, the day before yesterday, we moved our families from the base civilian quarters, to inside the facility. We are safe for the moment, although we still don’t know how bad everything is, or if any fallout has reached this area.
25 OCT 2077 – 21:40
Sgt. Platner volunteered to go outside today to take specific readings of the atmosphere, which presented me with another difficult decision to make. There is a lack of adequate decontamination equipment here, and if Platner were to be exposed to any radiation, there would have been no choice – he would have been exiled.
Perhaps Phil was merely tired of waiting, as the rest of us are – but I admired his courage, nonetheless. Since we all were issued Power Armor for this assignment, I felt that the radiation threat was minimal, so I approved it.
The airwaves remain silent tonight as, aided by the prevailing south winds, our good fortune continues. I only wish the same could be said for the surrounding area. It seems the radiation has not spread to our elevated position, and this seems to be the only good news. Sgt. Platner...Phil...ventured a short ways past the main gate after he finished with the readings. When he reported back, he said that the sky is soot-filled and ashen; he told us that the heat is intense, and that the devastation appears total.
The central base is gone. Nothing but drifting columns of blackish-gray smoke in all directions, around and below us. Phil said that San Jose is a huge, flaming mass on the western horizon, and that he saw steam billowing off the San Luis Reservior. Those coodinates are 50 and 25 clicks from our position. Dear God, is it really that bad? Did they unleash everything on everyone? And is it over yet?
We don’t know – the comlines are down. Nobody here knows anything. I still can’t believe we haven’t been hit, but we need to clear out of here before we are, or before we lose power. That would be just as bad.
I’d love to blow this place straight to hell when we leave, but the self-destruct codes remain locked out. I haven’t been able to decypher any of them. Colonel Spindel knew them...it’s too late for that, and I don’t know if we have the time to spare.
We have to go.
26 OCT 2077 – 09:51
I briefed the men on my decision. They agreed to it, and then I convinced them that we should bury the scientists. I know it’s the decent thing to do, but I’m still not sure why I felt that we should...perhaps it was to ease my conscience. Sometimes the truth won’t be seen, even when it sits in front of you. I finally started to believe their stories only when the last one was dying.
My God, what have I become?
27 OCT 2077 – 06:16
We are leaving this godforsaken place today, and none too soon. After a short meeting in TacOps last night, it was agreed that we will try for the old government bunker near Lost Hills. I have included the following, which is a duplicate of the orders and protocol that are to be maintained:
EMERGENY EVACUATION NOTICE
By my authority, as commanding officer following the untimely death of Colonel Robert Spindel, the entire base security team will assemble and then be deployed to the deactivated Lost Hills munitions bunker, east of Delano, CA. Families of officers and enlisted men are included in this directive. Unless otherwise directed from a proper representative of the War Department, the following orders will stand as written:
OPERATIVE 1:
All military security personnel and their families without exception are to vacate Annex D of the Mariposa Military Installation by no later than 0700 hours on 27 Oct 2077. All personnel will travel under command by predetermined route. No leaves will be granted.
OPERATIVE 2:
All remaining civilian personnel are strongly urged to evacuate the installation and seek appropriate shelter, pending orders from their legal command structure.
OPERATIVE 3:
All equipment deemed necessary for the safe transfer of base military personnel is to be drawn immediately from stores. Proper authorization will follow, time permitting.
OPERATIVE 4:
All codes of military justice will be enforced without prejudice on all military and civilian personnel acting in joint military operations.
OPERATIVE 5:
Until such time as consistent, and authorized, communication can be established with the War Department, these orders will have precendence over any previously established orders.
Signed,
Roger C. Maxson
Captain, United States Army Special Forces, S/N 072389
26 Oct 2077
In closing, I can only say that we do not know what or how much had been claimed – and regardless, it cannot be changed. For better or worse, all is done. I will be leading the exodus, and hopefully, one day our new home will be a safer, saner place. Somewhere has to be.
I’m leaving this log behind to be buried when this place goes in the next exchange. I never want to see it ever again, but who knows? Maybe someone will find it, someday. Perhaps they can make some sense of it...
And God help them if they ever find what else is here.
END FILE
The screen went blank an unknown time later, a glassy white pinpoint, drawn in on itself, while a burnt out generator shunt popped and sizzled in the dimness below, spraying the maintenance room with a bluish-white halo of sparks. The corridor lights flickered and then dimmed out as thick, gray ozone drifted into the ceiling vents, then a faint chunk echoed down the halls while banks of emergency lighting bloomed, casting flat white pools onto the floors. Com terminals snapped off and motion cameras stared sightlessly, as security and surveillance circuits surrendered to the power failure, then a hundred sharp, metallic clicks resounded throughout the complex as locks unlocked automatically…
Doors drew up...doors swung in...barriers faded, as restraints dissolved – to the rising howl of enraged screams, a cascading roar above the heavy, methodical thump of lumbering footsteps.
The containment fields contained no more. And not all of the captives were as dimwitted as they seemed. There were tools and parts for repairs...
And there was time.
3~Three~3
Another Day
At the close of this late November day, a day that the citizens of a dead nation once celebrated as a holiday of thanks shared with family and friends, two shabbily dressed men were seated by a small campfire at the corner of Curry St. and Valley Bvld., south of the bombed out ruins that was once called Tehachapi.
It was the twenty-fifth, Thanksgiving Day, but there were no dreams of turkey and dressing or thoughts of pumpkin pie, while their scant meals of salt-cured Brahma and stale iguana were eaten quietly along side the desolate, trash-littered streets. The war had come and gone long before either of the men’s time on earth had begun. Neither of them knew much about the comforts that had vanished in the other time, and for both this seemed not to matter. In the California of today, it was enough to be alive when another day was done.
This one was, and now, the night was full and dark, as they sat and talked, the air heavy with the sharp, acrid scent of burnt drywall and scrap pine two-by-fours, the hazy smoke drifting slowly overhead, straying north and west toward the San Joaquin Valley. Then the wind rose in a dry gust from the south, pushing the flames higher, the embers flaring fiercely as old timber popped and snapped, crackling needless warmth for a muscular, black-haired youth named Lonnie Edwards. He leaned against a rear wheel well of a rust-pitted pickup truck and then stretched out away from the heat. The fire was getting to be too much for him, but he could overlook it for company’s sake. Lonnie undid a couple of shirt buttons and thought he’d come across some pretty smart company, while he opened his collar some and listened to Caldwell, a dog-tired and woefully thin traveler who had, since supper, been inching ever nearer to the fire.
“Don’t mean to getcha down but there ain’t a real good chance of findin her, you know,” Caldwell was saying in a tired, asthmatic wheeze. His breath was coming in struggling gasps, but his tone held no hint of discouragement. It was simply the truth. “You been lookin for how long now?”
“Ten days, I guess,” Lonnie shrugged. “Maybe eleven.” He wasn’t really sure...the last week or so had been a little blurry since he left El Centro. His folks had gone there to trade with the black marketeers while he’d stayed behind to keep things running on their dust bowl farm in Barton, a little settlement, seven, eight miles north of the lump that had been La Rumorosa.
It was hard times in Barton, but that was normal. As far as he knew, it was like that pretty much everywhere since the end of the war. A person could still get by if they could find water, but it just wasn’t all that easy to track down anymore. Everyone had to have it though, and most of theirs came from Laugna Salada, when it wasn’t being a sinkhole twenty miles south. That was about the only place around to find a halfway decent pool that wasn’t all lit up with the glowing sickness, and between droughts and hot spots, and Death Claws, it was a damn miracle anyone could make it there and back. Or make it all.
But they had though, Lonnie mused, nursing several head of Brahmin and two fields of withering crops with high-priced help from the black market. A bunch of heartless bast