The first, and for some time the only, sign that the apocalypse has occurred came in the form of sharp tremors and caused the city of Norport to shake for about ten seconds. Joel Melakiss was sitting at his table, going over his papers, but he dropped the latest reports from his factory with the first tremor, stood up, and opened the door.
“What’s happening?” he asked his personal guard, who was standing in a parade rest in the corridor.
“I don’t know, Councilor. I thought it was an explosion at first, but…“
“Go find out.“
It didn’t feel like an explosion unless it was a major industrial accident. That would probably be very bad, as Joel had shares in a lot of industries in Norport. It would undoubtedly be terrible for the town as a whole. And what was bad for the city was bad for Joel.
When the guard came back a few minutes later and reported that it was only a weak earthquake, Joel felt relieved.
“Was there an eruption?” he asked. The windows of his office faced the sea, not the giant volcano that loomed over the town.
“No, sir, although the Mountain is smoking a lot more than usual. We can expect a heavy ashfall later.“
“Alright, resume your post.“
There were only a few recorded major eruptions of the Mountain in the history of Norport and the city was always fortunate to escape almost unscathed, but it used to be much smaller in those times. A major eruption and earthquake could easily destroy everything that Joel managed to gain in the last few years of the so-called interesting times.
Other Councilors and old residents complained about how the War broke everything, the same as their fathers and grandfathers grumbled after a rich source of oil was found in the swamps east of the town and brought a modern industry to a small fishing town. For most of its history, Norport was small and unimportant, far from everything, special only in the clouds of black ash that gave it its original name, Puerto Noir. The old-timers cherished the calm and usually a lazy way of life in Norport. While other worlds grew and fought with others and got destroyed by their competitors, Norport managed to avoid all that because it was a small town surviving mostly on fishing, limited coal mining, and, for those few who preferred adventurous and short life, on hunting huge dinosaurs infesting the giant swamps that made up most of the continent.
But where others grumbled, Joel and his father and grandfather before him thrived on the change and growth it brought.
The other Councilors laughed when they were asked for permission by a wealthy outworlder industrialist to start an oil drill in the swamp. They laughed, took the money offered, and expected that the giant monsters of the swamps will sooner or later chase the stupid outworlder away.
Not Joel’s grandfather. He sensed an opportunity even before the outworlders demonstrated their weapons to him.
True, the giant beasts of swamps didn’t like the idea of industrialization much. Probably even less than city Councilors. Or, in the case of giant herbivores, were too stupid to understand what was happening. But even those were stopped by cannons and machine guns protecting the oil drill.
And it would have been a waste to just let all that meat and skins rot, wouldn’t it?
Joel’s grandfather struck a deal with the outworlders and got quite rich in the process. Rich enough to buy into the oil drilling oil processing business. He sealed the alliance by arranging a marriage between his eldest son and the outworlders’ daughter.
The old-timers grumbled. It took some time, but Melakiss’ family growing wealth forced even the most conservative of them to accept the change and adapt to the new times.
Norport was still small and unimportant in the grand scheme of things, but it became a minor provider of oil to nearby worlds and slowly but constantly grew.
Until another sudden change occurred. The War.
A horror for those directly affected by it, an annoyance for the other Councilors and residents of the town, including families of former foreigners who were now citizens of Norport and had adopted much of its calm and lazy ways.
But for Joel, it was a great opportunity, although it required an insane amount of effort to stay on top of things. He finished the last report and realized that, for the first time in at least a month, he didn’t have anything time-critical to deal with. It felt weird.
But it made sense. The last week was surprisingly uneventful. A calm before the storm, maybe.
For a moment, Joel thought he might have a chance to spend some time working on his long-term goals. Or maybe even have a free evening with his wife and family.
There was a knock on his door, followed by a careful, “Sir? Do you have a moment?”
Joel turned to his secretary and masked his annoyance. “Yes. What is it?”
“Sir, some strange rumors are going around. The magic people say that something horrible happened.”
Joel frowned. He welcomed the change, but the magic people, as they were called by old residents, were only a huge annoyance.
“They tend to predict a catastrophe every time I talk with them. What is this time? They’re talking about the apocalypse again? Shattering of the worlds? Just because we had a minor earthquake?”
“Well… it’s not just them, sir. The rumors are running wild, but the commodore’s aide just called me and asked if we know something. Anything. He said that something weird has happened, but they’re not sure what.”
Joel wanted to sigh, but he was always careful to present himself as a leader with a positive outlook, even to his servants. The can-do attitude, as alliance officers called it.
“Ask around then if you can track any reasonable rumors. Call the science people, they might know something. And please call the commodore’s aide back and ask him if he has any additional information.” Joel thought for a moment and then added: „Tell him to send the commodore my regards and ask him if he would be free for a drink later. I can send my car to the port for him."
“Yes, sir.”
The magic. Joel didn’t believe much in it. For Norport inhabitants, it was mostly only weird stories from old, mythical times. Simple tricks with limited practical use, despite the claims of outworlders. There were a lot of people among the refugees who took magic for granted. Some even claimed to have some talents, but they looked more like frauds and charlatans to Joel. He asked them several times to show him some real magic and all he got were simple and useless tricks or excuses.
If magic were real and powerful, Joel would embrace it, the same as he embraced technology that brought him money. And money brought him power. The power was what mattered.
“The metaphysical reality of this world is exceptionally strong and stable,” an elderly scientist from one of the first groups of refugees tried to explain to Joel. “And the ash clouds and shade from that geologically improbable volcano range tend to block a lot of moonlight, further reducing the magical aura of this town. It’s very hard to do anything unnatural around here. The local reality doesn’t like it.”
“So you’re saying that magic is useless here? Impossible? That’s why we have no magicians and magic?” asked Joel.
“I didn’t say that. It’s just so much harder to do anything. Various minor talents are actually quite common, but anyone who’s used to everyday magic will hate it here and move away. I have been personally to dozens of worlds, Councilor. This is the world with the lowest magic level I’ve ever seen. Even heard of. I like it here,” smiled the old scientist, who soon became the lead engineer in one of Joel’s new factories.
The War brought so many opportunities, and Joel did his best to use as many as he could. Technically, each of the twelve Councilors was equal, but some were more equal than others. Joel knew that some people were talking about him as the first Councilor. He always made a scene when someone said that in his presence. He insisted that this was not how the town should work, but it felt great.
He allowed himself a brief moment of daydreaming. Norport used to be small and unimportant, but thanks to the War, it grew rapidly. One day it might become the biggest city-state all around. All it needed was just a few more opportunities. And a leader who wasn’t afraid to take a little risk.
Three Allied naval officers arrived about an hour later. Joel greeted them in his office and poured them heavily spiced rum made by his small distillery. He personally detested the stuff but knew that the sailors cherished it.
They all wore uniforms of their old navies. The alliance never had the time or resources to unify those, and most of the members expected to go about their own business as soon as the War ended. It was still strange to see them as allies, even after two years since the founding of the Alliance of the Worlds. The commodore, the senior officer stationed in Norport, was from the Kenheran Navy. His aide was from Caelon, a small archipelago nation that was Kenheran’s enemy at first, then ally. And Captain Vungsborn still proudly wore his Reich uniform, although the Reich, the arch-enemy of most of the factions at the start of the War, no longer existed.
In some ways, it was much easier to work with them when they were all enemies, when the War was just a large-scale clash of several worlds and empires that ended up in a three-sided war, with some of the smaller players moving between larger factions almost at will. The early stages of the War were waged almost entirely at sea, and diesel fuel became a scarce resource, quickly raising Norport’s importance to levels that no one in town, except Joel, expected.
Norport declared strict neutrality as a port open for all as soon as the War started. The city resisted any attempts to become part of one of the factions, selling oil, diesel, and food to any ship that entered the harbor. It was a time of many great opportunities for Joel. For one, he managed to force the city Council to agree on a huge expansion of the small town guard. It was needed, he explained, to keep safety in port with all those foreign soldiers who constantly fought among themselves. Most of the guard officers saw Joel as their boss, the only one who cared and paid a lot of money out of his pocket for their maintenance while other Councilors chaffed, argued, moaned, and hoped that the War and all those stupid outworlders would just leave them alone.
When the first refugees from war-torn worlds started to arrive, attracted by the neutrality and relative safety of Norport, it was Joel who did his best to help them, providing them with at least simple shelters and work in his quickly growing factories and other enterprises. He was careful enough to convince a few other families to follow in his footsteps by appealing to their greed. He didn’t want to gain too much power too quickly, as he was already playing a very complicated political game.
"They're pathetically grateful and willing to work for peanuts. You're stupid if you don't use this opportunity. We either use them as a workforce, or they'll become a burden on our necks," he explained.
He used the same careful manipulation on outworlder officers and envoys. "Norport is neutral," he said. "Our people are not willing to join anyone. They would revolt if one of us Councilors just suggested that. Your offer of building a huge refinery is generous, but that would require us to join you, and we would become targets for the Reich's submarine raids. How about we just build the refinery ourselves, with your entrepreneurs as investors?"
What helped him most in the long term was his honesty. "I'm doing it for my home," he said. "Like my colleagues, I would prefer you all to go away, but I realize that it's not going to happen, so I'm doing my best to keep Norport safe. And so far, that requires that we stay neutral. A safe haven for all."
He gained a reputation for being a skillful and surprisingly honest diplomat. Neutral Norport gained importance as a place where talks between envoys of warring factions could occur in relative safety. Some of the wealthy people who didn't want to be involved in the War started to see Norport as a place for investment or even relocation of their businesses.
When Joel got the first reports of a sudden ceasefire among all remaining factions, he felt sad. It seemed that the age of great opportunities was coming to an end. Then he was discreetly told by one of the Reich's captains the reason for the sudden end of hostilities.
There was a new enemy, horrible, inhuman, and clearly bent on destroying everything. It was attacking on all sides and growing in numbers with each town or city conquered, and the factions couldn’t afford to fight each other. They were even discussing a common alliance. Joel saw an opportunity and instantly suggested Norport as a place where the negotiations could take place.
It almost backfired on him.
"Well, gentlemen, so far I’ve heard only some strange rumors and I was hoping that you might tell me more," he said after the first drink to a group of former enemies, now fellow officers of the Alliance of the Worlds stationed in Norport, a city that managed, barely, to remain neutral so far.
"We don’t know anything concrete," grumbled the commodore. "But there must have been some serious event. The grand admiral is dead. He died a few minutes after we had that earthquake. And not just him. Several other important people died too."
"How can you know that, commodore? Magic?" frowned Joel. If the Alliance had a way to use radio signals across different worlds, it was a secret held from him.
"Essentially," said the commodore. "A coin of favor. I had a silver one from the grand admiral. It disappeared, and that means he must be dead. There have been a few more of them going around, from other top alliance people. Some of the others died too."
"So… That huge offensive you told me about. There must have been a battle?" asked Joel carefully. He didn’t know much about those coins, only that the really powerful beings were capable of creating them and gifting them to their minions. He was shown one once, but it looked like a simple trick. Just a silver coin, appearing and disappearing at will in the hand of a drunken officer.
"Possibly," hissed Captain Vungsborn. "We have a healer in the hospital. She used to be a priestess of Entropy before the war. She rejected her god, but she got a strong seizure the moment the earthquake started. When she woke up, she claimed that she felt her god… destroyed."
"And some of our navigators and other talented claim that there was a huge shift in the reality. Nobody knows what it means, Councilor. Could I get another shot, please?" asked the commodore.
"Of course." Joel poured another round and then he said truthfully: "I don’t know much about such things, gentlemen. This is probably a stupid question, but is there anything I can do to help?"
"Well… we’ve come here to warn you that we’re going to send two ships away, to find out what happened. This will reduce the protection of the town below the agreed limit, so some of the Councilors might grumble."
"Ah, I see. Do you really think it’s time for such a swift reaction? Sooner or later, another ship with refugees or a tanker will surely come with news."
"I’m afraid we have to do this, Councilor. Something bad happened. I can feel it in my bones," said the commodore.
Joel was sure that the officers were overreacting. He fully expected to see another ship in a day or two, with new propaganda stories about glorious victories and yet another legendary monster or hero joining the Alliance in a fight against the common enemy. Not another god, though, as he was told that the only two Elder Gods still in existence were already supporting the fight. He generally disbelieved all such stories. And some of the officers told him about the true state of the war. The Alliance was barely holding the invasion in check, and any genuine victories or reclamations of the occupied territory were exceptionally rare.
It was a situation that suited him so far because the importance of Norport slowly grew together with his personal power and reputation. And if the mysterious enemy somehow got to Norport, he had several contingency plans prepared. He would hate to use them, but he believed in being prepared.
But no ship came the next day. Or the day after. In old Norport, before the War, that would be normal. It was rare for more than one or two transworld ships to enter the harbor in a week. It was odd in new Norport, a town that could now claim to be a city as its population more than tripled in just a few years.
Joel was busy moving around, squashing rumors, and being positive all around. Most of the refugees saw him as their Counselor, the one who fought for their rights and attempted to persuade the rest of the Council to grant them citizenship. Normally, citizenship was granted after a year of residence, but the Council vote blocked that during the time of war. That was a hard one to arrange for Joel, and it was becoming harder and harder to keep.
He was visiting newly built resident houses close to the old port. It was shabby and quick work from the cheapest possible materials, but a lot better than the improvised huts where most of the refugees still lived. He praised the workers for their effort and received loud thanks, for it was he who paid for the materials and provided tools. A small investment with a potentially huge return.
When he was about to leave, he noticed a city guard officer running towards him. “Sir! Sir! You need to go to the island right now.”
The big island in the bay was leased to the Alliance as a base for their warships. Joel had to scream at some of the Councilors and pay huge bribes to others to get it passed. Even his allies in the Council resisted. Those idiots couldn’t understand that the Alliance needed Norport badly enough to be willing to take it over if they wouldn’t cooperate.
If he was needed on the island, it meant that something bad must have happened. A crisis. An opportunity.
“What’s going on?” he asked calmly.
“Dunno, sir. There’s a ship returning. We were told to find you as soon as possible and send you to the island. Those alliance people want you there.”
Joel ordered his driver to take him to the port. He was one of the few in the city who had a personal car. It was a good reminder of his status to everyone around, but Joel liked to say that it was to save time moving around the growing city… and sheepishly admit to some that this was one luxury he decided to burn some money on because he loves modern technology. “Maybe in time, everyone will be wealthy enough to own a car,” he said to others. Sometimes he drove himself, often faster than it was safe, and he always had a huge grin plastered on his face. It worked. Common people cheered him when he drove around, while other Councilors who imported their own cars were often sneered at.
A waiting powerboat took him directly to the alliance office on the island.
“Well, gentlemen? I was told you needed me.”
“It was the apocalypse,” said the commodore. He looked twenty years older than yesterday.
“I’m sorry?”
“That tremor. It was a sign of the apocalypse.”
“I don’t understand, commodore. What happened?”
“The submarine U57 is on the way back to the port, Councilor. It was one of the ships we sent to get information.”
“Already?”
The way between worlds usually took a few days, even for a very talented navigator. The ship had to first get far enough from shore to the ocean and then locate a correct current in the fabric of reality that would allow it to cross over to another world.
“She failed to find a way out, Councilor. They lost contact with the frigate Augustus on the first attempt. Their navigator says that the currents are absolutely unstable.”
“And he is a really good one,” said Vungsborn. “He’s a sensitive. He can navigate by feel alone, even without tables and instruments. He’s one of those who can find new ways. Now he says that… there are none.”
“How… how is that possible?”
“The apocalypse,” repeated the commodore. “That is what happened before. When the angels fought against demons. And before, when the Elder Gods destroyed themselves. Possibly before. When the apocalypse occurs, the connections between worlds are shaken. Sometimes destroyed completely.”
Joel was troubled by this because, for him, such things were just old outworlder legends and myths. But he vaguely remembered stories of how, in the distant past, suddenly no ships came for several years. No one paid any attention to it, as Norport was only a large fishing village in those times. But the first ship that came brought news of destruction and doom that nobody believed or cared about.
“All right, gentlemen. What is the worst-case scenario for us here in Norport?”
“We’re isolated from the rest of the world. Maybe for just a short time. We’ll send U57 to give it another try in a few days to see if the currents are stabilizing. But it might be for a long time. Maybe...forever. There are stories of worlds that got cut off completely for hundreds or even thousands of years.”
That sounded like great news to Joel.
“Alright. In that case, the only real big problem right now I see is food. We were dependent on imports even before the city grew so much. There’s still enough in granaries to go for a few months, but if the shipping stops... well, gentlemen, in that case, we can all look forward to meals that would consist mostly of dinosaur steaks and rum.”
One of the lower-ranking officers snickered. “That’s what we’re mostly fed on seas nowadays, anyway. Your cans that taste like chicken and a small rum ration.”
“And the vitamin supplements and biscuits. We have only a limited supply of these,” said the commodore. “But... you are right, councilor. The food will be our biggest problem in the long run if we stay isolated.”
“I frankly... can’t think of anything else that I would call critical. Except, of course, people isolated from their loved ones,” said Joel. “And there’s nothing we can do about that. But... even in the worst-case scenario, we’ll survive. Or am I missing something?”
“The spare parts, special equipment. Ammo. Gunpowder. You can’t hunt those giant lizards without some serious firepower.”
“We can make most of this, I think,” said Joel, furiously thinking and sorting out the best opportunities life just threw at him. “I’ll go inform the council, commodore, and I’ll set some of my people on looking at ways how we can get some bigger food production going on. We never really bothered because it’s just too hard to grow anything in the damn swamps, and we could always buy grain, but I’m sure we’ll find some ways to deal with it.”
“Well... you took it better than I thought, Councilor, but you always had that positive outlook on life,” said the commodore. “What will others think, though? The other Councilors, the city people.”
“I’m sorry to say this, commodore, but... I’m not sure about refugees, except those who already went native, as you’re calling it. But most of the old-timers... will be happy. I always told you that most of the city doesn’t want to deal with foreigners. They might see it as a fulfillment of their wish. They’ll probably celebrate. Until the grain runs out.”
As Joel predicted, most of the town took it as good news. Joel himself was almost ecstatic, though he looked somber and patiently explained to others that hard times would be coming.
It took several weeks before U57 returned from yet another expedition, and her navigator reported that the currents were stabilizing enough that he might, maybe, with a lot of luck, try crossing over and even back. The commodore didn’t want to risk it just yet.
After the next expedition over the ocean, U57’s navigator reported that the currents were calm now, although changed, some slightly, some completely. New charts would be needed.
Joel shared the enthusiasm of the allied officers, at least publicly. Personally, he felt annoyed.
Then a radio signal reported that another allied submarine emerged on the ocean currents and tried calling the port. It brought news, good and bad.
The War was won, but it was a Pyrrhic victory. Although the forces of the mysterious enemy were annihilated, the resulting destruction was incredible. Some worlds and many allied forces were completely destroyed.
The official word from the remains of the Alliance was that the Elder God Lord Entropy sacrificed himself and used all his power to destroy the invasion, as he saw no other way to stop them. He summoned storms of oblivion that devoured the invaders, but also what remained of the occupied worlds. In many places, storms crossed over the worlds and caused additional destruction, leaving terrible entropic beasts prowling the resulting apocalyptic wasteland.
Joel took the first opportunity he could find to ask Captain Vungsborn what it actually meant. He was cultivating Reich’s officers, as he had some plans for them for a long time. Vungsborn and a few others stationed in Norport already considered Joel their personal friend.
“Well, Joel... I think it’s way more complicated than they’re telling us.”
“In all the stories I’ve heard, Entropy was always the villain. He was supposed to cause some previous apocalypse, am I right? This redemption for his past deeds, as the Alliance calls it... seems weird. But I’m a provincial bumpkin who doesn’t know much about other worlds and their history. That’s why I’m asking you, Ernest.”
“Joel, I think they are lying, but it doesn’t matter. Everyone agrees that he’s kaput, and good riddance to him. But those storms, that’s bad business. It’s going to take years to clear out areas where it occurred... if someone bothers at all.”
Vungsborn had another drink and continued, “The other news I have, from the channels we Reich’s officers still keep, are, well... bad. For us, mostly. The Alliance has already splintered. The majority of the factions still have homes they can return to. They’re resolved to clear their worlds, rebuild the new civilization from the ashes of the old. But there are few, like us, who have nowhere to go. Reich was the villain that started the War, after all. Nobody wants us.”
“But I thought that you were those who revolted against Reich’s leadership, Ernest.”
Vungsborn grimaced and held out his glass for another drink. Joel poured him a generous shot of black rum. Vungsborn downed it in one gulp and shook his head.
“It doesn’t matter to most of them. Now, when they no longer need our submarines and our troops… all they see are former enemies. And you know that more than half of us are wehrwolves. Monsters.”
“Only by reputation,” objected Joel. “At least, that’s what you told me.”
Joel was very interested in wehrwolves from the start. There were a few true werewolves among outworlders working in the swamps, generally hairy and wild fellows who were supposed to be able to change their forms around the full moon, but their main strength came from the ability to heal any wounds quickly, even those that would have been fatal for a normal human. That was very useful in swamps filled with many ugly beasts. It was one of the few things called magical Joel ever saw that was at least a bit useful. He had several of the swamp wolves on his payroll, as hunters and for occasional special work.
But Reich’s wehrwolves were humans that survived the process developed by Reich’s scientists. It was supposed to turn them into super-soldiers… but the most noticeable change was that it made them ugly. Stronger and more resilient than humans, as town guard officers always confirmed after occasional bar fights, but mostly ugly.
“Sure, almost all of them are forced conscripts, not the original Wehrwolf Kommando, but…” Vungsborn shrugged. “We don’t know what to do. Maybe the admiral has some plans he hasn’t shared with captains just yet, but… There’s not enough of us to start our colony or try to reclaim one of the Reich’s original worlds. And we have almost no women. But there are too many of us to find a new home, not if we keep our promises and stick together. Most of us just expected to fight to the bitter end, anyway.”
“What about Norport?” asked Joel carefully.
Vungsborn narrowed his eyes at him.
“There’s no way we could support all the submarines you still have. Not now, not for some time. Some would have to be mothballed. Some of the bigger ones, those already converted for transporting, could easily pay for themselves as freighters, but I would love to have at least a few of the combat ones stationed here…”
“What for?” interrupted Vungsborn.
“You know me, Ernest. Always hope for the best, but prepare for the worst. We have one small modern destroyer and two old steam-powered frigates. Norport managed to stay independent because we were far away and unimportant, but that had changed. My colleagues might think that everything will go back to normal now, but that’s impossible. Sooner or later, someone might decide to come and take over. We would have problems keeping away a group of determined pirates.”
Vungsborn snorted. “Yeah, you’re essentially defenseless. When I was sent here for the first time in the early stages of the War, my report to the high command was that it would be extremely easy to take over the town… but it would be very costly to keep it. Not worth it. That’s one of the reasons I recommended silently supporting your neutrality for now.”
Joel smiled at him.
“Good old times,” he said. “But now... the situation has changed. I’ve been racking my brain ever since we had that first radio report, looking for some long-term solution.”
“And have you talked about that with your colleagues, the Councillors?” asked Vungsborn sourly.
“Only with a few of them. And I’ve mostly been trying to get their support on building at least one new warship of our own,” admitted Joel.
“With all due respect, Joel... to you personally, I mean... that is your biggest long-term problem. The Council. A bunch of conservative dinosaurs, every one of them claiming to be descended from the original twelve fisherman families who ended up here more than a thousand years ago. They see anyone who’s not here for at least a few generations as an annoying insect. I’ve heard how they’re talking about you, just because you have an outworlder mother, Joel. I’ve seen how the refugees are treated outside the town. A place where we would be pariahs from the start is not a place we would want to call home, even if we could trust the leadership to be capable of doing what needs to be done.”
“And that’s something that has to change,” said Joel. “I hadn’t dared to force the issue before, but I’m already pushing for a repeal of new laws against immigration. Some of the refugees will leave, but a lot of them will want to stay...”
“That’s not enough, Joel,” interrupted Vungsborn again. “I’m sure you’ll get them citizenship eventually, but that doesn’t mean that much in the end. They’ll be third-class citizens at best, anyway. You’re lucky, no... they, the other Councilors, are lucky that there hasn’t been some sort of uprising already. There would be, but a lot of the refugees and previous newcomers are looking up to you. They believe in your promises. If those who see you as their Councilor decide that you’ve failed them...”
“The city is a powder keg waiting to blow,” admitted Joel. “The council doesn’t see it that way. They just don’t understand that the majority of the city is now against them. They think their personal guards and the city guard would be more than enough to put down any attempts at insurrection, but they’re wrong. It would be a bloodbath, but...”
Joel sighed and drank his own rum. “I’m dancing on a thin wire over the abyss, Ernest. If I push the Council too much, they’ll see it as an attempt to usurp power. My own clan isn’t exactly happy with me. They stay behind me in public, they have to, but in private... they’re blaming me for using too many resources for the city and refugees. Resources that should have been used for the good of the clan. But if I don’t do enough for refugees... the worst-case scenario is they just start an insurrection... and proclaim me their leader. I’ve been carefully offered just that from several groups, you know.”
“Why don’t you take it, Joel? Why not become a king?”
“I don’t want to. I’d prefer a political solution without any bloodbath and destruction. It could easily break the city.”
“And you think adding us to the mix would help?”
“Regarding the possible external threats? Definitely. With the internal situation... If you would offer your services to the city, in exchange for, say, a Council seat of your own, it would open the way for additional later reforms. And with you in the harbor, any possible violent scenarios might be avoided, or at least limited.”
“Where would those reforms lead to? You surely have a plan or two. I know you well enough, Joel.”
“I’d like to get to a republic of sorts. A representative council, maybe bicameral, but the actual executive power would be in the hands of one elected person, a mayor, I guess.”
Vungsborn nodded. “That can be a good system if you set it up well. My homeland used to be a republic for a long time, and it worked until we got unlucky with our elected president.”
“Really? I hadn’t known that,” lied Joel.
They talked and drank for some time before Vungsborn excused himself. He promised Joel to pass the message to his admiral.
Weeks passed quickly, and Joel didn't get much chance to sleep or spend time with his family. He couldn't afford to, as the situation was very fluid, and some opportunities surfaced only for a moment before disappearing forever.
The ship traffic was still light, and the currents of the ocean had stabilized but changed, for better or worse, depending on one's point of view. Before the apocalypse, there were only a few solid and safe routes leading to Norport. Now, at least according to a few expeditions that U57 did before being sent away, there were dozens of worlds easily accessible from Norport.
It was a great opportunity, but also a security nightmare.
A few refugees had already left, but more arrived with wild stories of horror and destruction. Some of the new refugees were silent and passive, with dead eyes. Joel was told that these were victims of entropic fields that partially wiped their minds and memories. They seemed dumb and required special care, some of them even had to be ordered to eat, but mostly worked hard without any complaints. Joel was hoping to get more of them.
There were several additional official reports from the Alliance and some unofficial ones that didn't sound good. Vungsborn's claim that the Alliance was splintering was confirmed even by the official news. The harbor was mostly empty, and only a few low-ranking allied officers were keeping duty on the island, possibly just to hold the claim for later...or maybe they were forgotten by their superiors. All they had left were a few motorboats.
The political situation in the city still resembled a powder keg, with the fuse burning quickly.
Even Joel was starting to feel rather nervous and moved more and more resources to contingency plans.
Then the day came when the fire reached the keg, sooner than expected.
Joel was in a clandestine meeting in a small room in the cellar of the town hall with his biggest public enemies.
"Joel, my boy, we can't wait any longer," grumbled old George Karahorn, the eldest and the most conservative Councilman of them all. He was almost ninety, his face a mask of wrinkles and old scars, but he still ruled his big clan of fishermen and whalers with an iron fist and loud voice that he often used to shout at the rest of the council, especially at Joel, while shaking his iron fist. It was literally iron, courtesy of a too-close encounter with a kraken when George was still just a captain on one of the many boats of his family.
"He's right," added Bert Rossfield. He was called The Capitalist by refugees, and even old-timers agreed that this moniker fits him. He was known for pinching pennies until they squealed and begged for mercy. He usually kept silent on Council meetings, unless Joel tried to ask for more money for any of the projects that the city needed.
"I understand that you still hope for a result that won't cause violence and damage to property and lives. I agree with you, Joel, but I think we're past that. Not even if those mercenaries you said you might get shown up. I guess you still have no news from them?"
Joel shook his head. "Sadly, none. And no serious response from any other group I’ve managed to contact."
That was the truth. His last contact with Vungsborn was three weeks ago when the rest of Reich's sailors were recalled. Vungsborn called him on the island on the pretense of saying goodbye. There was a gray-haired woman who claimed to be an assistant to Admiral Doenigsburg, leader of the submarine fleet. Joel spent about an hour discussing various possibilities with her, but in the end, he was told that any decision had to take place in a conference that the admiral planned, and that he would be informed in two weeks at most.
"This is getting too dangerous for you personally, my boy. You're cutting it too close. I was already asked if I would support a vote against you, possibly for treason. They might even get enough votes. Hell, I would vote against you if I wasn't in this with you from the beginning," grumbled Karahorn.
"We've discussed that scenario," said Joel, although he wasn't exactly thrilled about it. That one was a bit too risky.
"No. That would be a needless complication. Face it, we would need a miracle to solve this without any violence. So we declare a state of emergency and the triumvirate. We crack down hard on all those radicals and potential troublemakers you've identified, Joel. We have our personal guards, the city guard, my fishermen, and your swampies. It should be more than enough."
"Barely," objected Rossfield. "Even with those mercenaries I've got on my payroll... if we're wrong about some of the families and they decide to fight, it will get bloody. But we need to act now. Any more delays will mean that we'll have to break even more eggs. And I would prefer starting with Arjenis and Boonogs. Leave refugees for the second strike."
"This is the part I really hate," complained Karahorn. "Little Ricky Arjeni... I used to take him on the sea when he was a wee boy. But there's no helping there. That man is as stubborn and dumb as a brick wall. At least in Arjenis’ case, we won't have to kill them all. Is your man in place, Joel?"
Joel nodded. He had a lot of reliable men and women, including two beings that weren’t exactly human, in various places. He was hoping for a miracle, but he was prepared for the worst-case scenario.
"Why the hell do they have to be so stupid and blind?" complained Karahon again.
The phone on the table started to ring. It had to be something really important; otherwise, Joel's secretary wouldn't dare to interrupt this meeting. He picked it up and listened for a moment.
"What's happening?!" demanded Karahon when he saw Joel's face. Joel raised his hand and made a hush gesture. He listened a bit more.
"Set the guards on alert. Contingency plan beta, don’t fight without orders. Same for the ships. I'll be there in a moment," he said, then he hung up the phone and stared at the other two councilors.
"Spit it out! What's going on?"
"A report from the watchtower on the Mountain," Joel said without any emotion. "There's a fleet of airships, at least two dozen, approaching the city. And smoke on the horizon, a lot of smoke, coming from surface ships. No answer on the radio."
"An invasion?" yelled Karahon. "Who?!"
"The airships have markings of the Alliance."
The Councilors didn’t get far. A group of masked men in fatigues, recognizable by their size and small submachine guns as members of wehrwolf commando units, emerged out of nowhere and quickly took over the town hall, herding the councilors to a meeting chamber.
They were greeted by a grey-haired, elderly-looking woman who explained what was happening.
It was the remains of the Alliance, those who no longer had homes they could return to. Military and political leaders, as well as legendary beings and sorcerers that Joel had always discounted as propaganda pieces.
They called themselves the Founders. The Founders of a new enlightened age of civilization and progress. And they chose Noport as their new home.
The annexation was quick, with only a few cases of restricted violence. Even the Boonogs limited themselves to quiet protests.
Joel got his bloodless miracle, but no matter how hard he looked, he just couldn’t find any really good-looking opportunities he could use.
The Councilors would keep their seats, for now, in a much-enlarged representative city Council, but any real power ended up in the Founders' hands. The resistance seemed futile, but Joel schemed and thought throughout the long proclamation of the new mayor, the grey-haired Megan. He was sure he would be able to find a good angle. A lot of what Megan was spouting sounded like nonsense to Joel. She proclaimed Norport a place where magic would be strictly controlled, essentially forbidden, and as a pledge that the Founders would uphold this law, they promised to use their own remaining power to help the city grow. The city had to grow quickly because, with the arrival of the Founders, it doubled in population overnight.
Joel felt that this might be a weakness he could use.
He felt less sure after he had a short audience with his new ruler.
"I'm sorry, Mister Melakiss, that there was no time to present you with our counter-offer. You said that your dream is for Norport to become a beacon of civilization, a big and wealthy city. We're here to do just that. It's up to you if you'll be part of it or not."
And before Joel could say anything, a human-like figure made from the whirling darkness presented him with a file. "You might be interested in finding out just how much we know about you, Mister Melakiss," said the bogeyman in a strange voice devoid of any emotion.
Joel looked over the first few pages. It looked like all of his misdeeds, both done and planned, were in the file. He didn't bother denying anything.
"If it's any consolation, Mr. Melakiss, we were considering Norport as a site for our possible base for some time. It wasn't your attempt to get wehrwolves as your enforcers that drew us here. Grand Inquisitor has been stationed here for over a year already," said Megan.
Joel waved the file and asked, "How?"
"Mostly magic, Mr. Melakiss," answered the darkness. "Not that showy stuff that one of our colleagues will be using tomorrow to awe the city, but magic nonetheless. Your one weakness is that you disbelieve it. The rest was standard intelligence work. It helped that most of the specialists you've recruited lately were my agents."
"I repeat, it's up to you what happens now, Mr. Melakiss," said the mayor. "For a self-proclaimed provincial bumpkin, you're excellent at what you do. I would prefer you in a Council seat. Feel free to use your considerable skills against other Councilors and for your personal gain. But if you try any of that shit on us Founders, you'll regret it. Is that understood?"
Joel managed to nod.
His mind was still numbed the next day when he was escorted, with the rest of the Councillors, to witness the start of a new age. He still expected some stupid trick designed to confuse the crowd.
The Alliance propaganda contained several stories about an ancient sorcerer, simply known as "The Mason," who had helped the allied forces in several battles by drawing gigantic stone fortifications from the ground with pure magic. However, Joel still couldn’t bring himself to believe in something like that.
They were standing close to an empty plaza on the edge of the old town that was used for occasional festivals. When the ground started to shake, Joel was sure it must be the Mountain. But instead, it was a burly man in an immaculate suit and wearing a cylinder hat who slowly raised his hands, and the earth responded.
Everyone, not just the Norport old-timers, stared, often slack-jawed, at a giant stone building that was slowly rising from the ground and reaching for the skies.
They were later informed that it was a new city hall to house the Founders and the new government. It was only a crude stone building, just walls, floors, stairs, and ceilings. Everything else would have to be done by normal labor, but it was a miracle.
It made Joel believe in magic.
We’ve never encountered anything like this xenomorph before.
The xenomorph was discovered aboard a damaged vessel of unknown design, found derelict at approximately 67.43299, 32.67142 (SG). Though damaged, the vessel was maintaining emergency power when discovered, which is how the xenomorph was found alive.
The xenomorph was sealed in some sort of stasis-chamber within anescape pod. A mechanical failure had prevented the pod from launching, resulting in the xenomorph being sustained by the main ship’s emergency power until we found it.
We do not know how long this was the case prior to our stumbling upon this find.
We transported the xenomorph to our own ship, RS-143, long-range research vessel. We are two years into our 10-year research mission into uncharted space. Dr. Campbell, from the first, objected to transporting the xenomorph aboard our own ship, citing the myriad dangers.
I overruled him.
The xenomorph is phenomenal, and I mean that literally.
We
have complete information on over a hundred sapient, space-faring
species, most of them allied with ourselves, and this xenomorph
exceeds them all. If one wanted to design the absolute perfect
physical specimen, one could do little better than the
xenomorph.
Vivisection is impossible given our current
facilities; the restricted-labs are rated for Level-3, yet the
research staff feels that is inadequate. We have to limit ourselves
to constrained sample recovery, physical observation, non-invasive
scans and algorithmic extrapolations.
I must admit, I share their reticence.
The xenomorph itself is deadly to life as we know it. It evolved, if it evolved, in an environment that current science says no life could have possibly evolved in. For point of fact, the xenomorph sheds dander that would cause anaphylaxis in any species known.
I must maintain my scientific distance.
In size the xenomorph is roughly galactic-standard (abbreviated as GS for the rest of this log) for sapient-life, -5% in length but, surprisingly, 50% over for mass. This disparity is due to unusual hypertrophy of its muscular tissue and the extreme density of its skeletal structure, with a full-body average of 4.1g/m2. These data-points and observed structural physiognomy indicate that the planet this xenomorph evolved on was a planet possessing gravity far above GS, perhaps as much as much as 30-50% higher.
The xenomorph is bilaterally symmetrical, with a nervous system centered upon a singular node in its singular bilateral extremity. Unless one were to destroy said node, algorithms say the xenomorph could continue to function for minutes, perhaps even hours, after what would otherwise be a debilitating blow to another sentient species.
At this point, I must remind myself that I must maintain scientific distance.
The xenomorph’s reproductive system, from what we can identify, is particularly robust. The xenomorph has what we have identified as external genitalia, and to say such was over-developed would be an understatement. Its external genitalia are twelve standard deviations beyond GS. I’d say it was grotesque, but I fear that would be a value judgment unbecoming of a scientist..
Scientific distance.
The xenomorph shows clear signs of predatory descent, possessing two eyes capable of binocular focus, distinct canines and incisors, opposable digits on its upper-limbs, and a brain-body mass ratio over 1.4. The latter suggest at least the possibility of tool-use and higher cognizance.
The xenomorph’s ability to maintain homeostasis is five standard deviations from GS. From what we can ascertain from computer simulations, it should be able to operate in temperatures from -10C to 50C for moderate periods of time with no protective equipment. It must be stated that the xenomorph’s tolerance for heat is higher than its tolerance for cold. Given adequate water intake, the xenomorph could likely operate in temperatures up to 37C for extended periods, or even indefinitely. This is owed to the xenomorph’s extremely efficient heat-dissipation system, as it dissipates heat across the entirety of its surface area through a system of liquid excretion, a system unique in galactic biology. This heat-dissipation system also allows the xenomorph to exert itself to lengths that no other known species, sapient or not, can match.
And that only scratches the surface of the xenomorph’s resilience.
Cells harvested from the xenomorph’s dermis can withstand radiation in excess of 200 rads with only superficial damage, the LD50 for practically every known species. Thicker sections composed of the dermis and subcutaneous tissue can absorb almost 300 rads before deterioration; extrapolating from this information we can conclude that the xenomorph’s LD50 is approximately 400 rads, with the LD100 measuring at least 1 krad.
From what we can see the xenomorph is superbly adapted to survive extreme environmental conditions, radiation,and circulatory shock far beyond anything else we’ve ever encountered.
The xenomorph is, without exaggeration, the perfect physical specimen.
It is the opinion of the research staff that, given everything we’ve been able to ascertain about the xenomorph’s biology, this specimen is part of a species genetically-engineered or biologically-enhanced for either combat or extreme environmental work. It must have been uplifted by some yet unknown civilization as a servitor species. In galactic history no planet with such an extreme environmental profile has ever given rise to sapient life. Dr. Campbell is the lone dissenting voice, arguing that there is no evidence of extrinsic genetic manipulation or biological enhancement, and that this xenomorph is entirely the result of natural selection for the singularly harsh environment of its homeworld.
I shudder to think of an entire planet of these monsters.
We can no longer keep the xenomorph restrained by chemical means.
We’ve used the entirety of our stores of sedatives, but the xenomorph has multiple organs specifically designed to filter toxins out of the bloodstream, plus its very cells demonstrate a remarkable propensity to narcotic resistance.Our stores were planned for for the entirety of our 10-year mission, but they were only capable of sedating the xenomorph for a total of 12 days. We’ve been reduced to forcing the xenomorph to ingest, via feeding tube, massive quantities of ethanol, as that is the only chemical we can synthesize faster than the xenomorph’s body can metabolize and excrete.
Disaster has struck.
At 1543 today, the xenomorph escaped containment. The details of the incident are as follows:
At 1530, Drs. Smith and Gold suited up and entered the restricted-lab through the airlock to perform approved tests on the xenomorph. Observing from the attached outer-lab were Drs. Miller, Tailor, Campbell, and Gold.
That proved to be a fatal mistake.
At 1534 testing commenced. The first two tests were completed successfully, and results were transmitted back to the outer-lab for recording and further review.
The third test began at 1539.
The third test was to be a recovery of a small amount of the xenomorph’s dermis and subcutaneous tissue for further experimentation. We had not performed such a specimen recovery since we had switched from narcotic to ethanol restraint of the xenomorph. This required one of the Drs. performing these tests to make physical contact with the xenomorph, and it was decided that Dr. Smith, being the older and more experienced, was to do so. As Chief Researcher, I will admit the fact that he was also the physically larger and stronger of the two played a part in the decision.
The proper decision would have been to not perform the test.
First incision was attempted, as previously stated, at 1539. The xenomorph responded violently. Either the xenomorph had only been feigning unconsciousness, or the pain of the incision roused it to consciousness. I cannot be sure from reviewing recordings of the incident.
There is, however, no doubt as to the results.
The xenomorph seized Dr. Smith with a single appendage, lifted him off the floor, and hurled him backwards with such force that, likely, Dr. Smith’s spinal-cord was crushed when he struck the wall.
Regardless of the cause, Dr. Smith was dead before he hit the ground.
The xenomorph then took several seconds removing the feeding tube we had inserted and all the monitoring leads. During all of this Dr. Gold stood paralyzed with fear. Had she immediately ran for the airlock and removed herself from the restricted-lab, the situation could have yet been salvaged.
She did not.
Meanwhile, in the outer-lab, chaos also reigned. Dr. Campbell immediately tried to enact sterilization procedures as soon as the xenomorph had seized Dr. Smith, as per protocol: the restricted-lab would be sealed and external shutters would be opened, exposing it to the vacuum of space. After the designated period of vacuum had been achieved the lab would be re-sealed, re-atmosphered, and the temperature raised to 121*C for a period of one hour. Until the sterilization procedure had been completed, there would be no way to access the restricted lab from the outer lab.
It was the proper thing to do, but also the wrong thing.
As soon as Dr. Campbell made his intentions clear Dr. Gold attacked him, preventing him from doing so. It took Drs. Miller and Tailor several moments to restrain Dr. Gold. As a husband myself, I cannot in good faith blame Dr. Gold.
His wife was still inside.
And that was all the time the xenomorph needed.
In the time it took Drs. Miller and Tailor to restrain Dr. Gold, the xenomorph had moved from the restricted-lab to the air-lock, impossibly fast for what we had thought was a largely incapacitated subject. After several moments of confusion the xenomorph attacked the clean-side door, succeeding in finding purchase and ripping it off its runners, exposing the outer lab to contamination. Dr. Campbell ran for the door separating the outer lab from the ship proper, Drs. Miller and Tailor released Dr. Gold, and Dr. Gold attacked the xenomorph.
All three died.
Dr. Gold attempted to wrestle the xenomorph, but such was folly; it halted him by his neck with a single appendage and crushed his windpipe with seeming disinterest. Drs. Miller and Tailor tried to flee for the door, but they were not properly suited against contamination.
Dr. Miller died far from the door, Dr. Tailor almost made it before he succumbed to anaphylaxis. Meanwhile, Dr. Campbell had not properly sealed the outer-lab. He had run for his own life and no one else’s
In doing so he had doomed the ship.
What was most surprising was the xenomorph’s interaction with the surviving Dr. Gold, which I must, for posterity, record. Our first conjecture had been that the xenomorph must have been a servitor species, a warrior species, bereft of intelligence (Dr. Campbell excepted, of course), but for several minutes it seemed to attempt to communicate with Dr. Gold within the restricted-lab. After a time the xenomorph forced Dr. Gold into the outer-lab.
It was then that she saw her husband.
Dr. Gold screamed and immediately tried to remove her helmet. The xenomorph attempted to stop her, for the record, but the very act sealed her fate. She died, same as Dr. Miller and Dr. Tailor.
The xenomorph was loose on the ship.
There was a discussion as to what was to be done.
Those in discussion were myself, Dr. Campbell, Dr.Walker, Captain Burgess, Chief Officer Grey, and Chief Engineer Light. Dr. Campbell advocated for the immediate destruction of the ship, either through intentionally overloading the engines or through scuttling. His argument was that the xenomorph’s interaction with Dr. Gold had proven it to be a sapient species, an exceedingly deadly one, and the only way to ensure the xenomorph did not gain control of the ship was its destruction. The deaths of all those aboard, including himself, was, in Dr. Campbell’s opinion, a necessary sacrifice.
Others disagreed.
Chief Officer Grey and Chief Engineer Light proposed using teams of armed crewmembers to sweep and clear the ship from navigation aft to engineering, welding all bulkheads shut. The hope was that the xenomorph could be constrained and finally contained by these efforts.
Captain Burgess and myself sided with Chief Officer Grey and Chief Engineer Light.
The xenomorph is far smarter than we gave it credit for.
It is not some dumb brute, barely sapient, as we had hoped. The xenomorph possesses an actual mind and cunning. After escaping the lab the xenomorph, perhaps realizing that Navigation would be stern and a far harder target, made its way aft towards Engineering. It must be noted that the derelict ship was laid out in the same way as our own.
The xenomorph made it to engineering within the one minute contamination alarm.
It was a slaughter.
Most died from exposure, but those that tried to fight fared little better. Few had military training, but the xenomorph tore through them. All told, the death toll stands at thirty-eight..
The xenomorph is a monster.
The xenomorph has somehow disabled the engines.
We are adrift in uncharted space. The only man who can perhaps fix this is Chief Engineer Light.
I do not relish Chief Engineer Light the decision before him.
Chief Engineer Light is dead.
He attempted to access engineering through the air-ducts, aided by Chief Officer Grey and eight crew with military experience armed with SP-5s from the armory.
I saw it on the video, and I will record it for posterity.
The xenomorph was a monster. It shrugged off shots that would have killed any being in Galactic knowledge. It killed Chief Engineer Light with its bare-hands, crushing his skull.
The other nine fared little better.
They may have been panicked, but they were trained. They fell back, they covered each other, they fought the xenomorph to their last breaths.
It mattered not.
Nothing they did could stop it, and the last chance for the ship died with Chief Engineer Light.
Dr. Campbell, who’s mental state has become unstable since the events in the outer-laborator, clawed at the walls in navigation, saying one thing over-and-over-again.
“It is our death.”
For the last two days the xenomorph has tried to gain entry to Navigation. The door has been welded shut but the xenomorph is employing what means it has at its disposal. At this point it seems the xenomorph has repurposed a core drill in attempts to drill through the door. Captain Burgess has overseen the destruction of all navigation equipment on the bridge, in hopes that if (when) the xenomorph gains entry it will find itself with an unsteerable ship.
I fear that we should have heeded Dr. Campbell at the very start.
THE PRECEDING WAS TRANSLATED FROM DATA FILES RETURNED TO THE CONFEDERATE TERRAN ALLIANCE BY STAFF SERGEANT JACOB KOWALSKI, MARINE CORP, PILOTING A SHIP OF UNKNOWN ORIGIN.
Said the dragon to the boy, "You and I both breath fire, I with flame and you with fable."
The boy ignored the dragon and pressed his quill to the parchment. The dragon flew to a nearby kingdom, destroying all that stood.
One hundred years passed before the dragon and boy met again, one ancient, the other ageless, but both astonished by their life's work.
"I did not believe you then," said the boy to the dragon, "you have taken their homes, possessions, and lands, but I have taken something much greater. I have their imaginations."
The dragon laughed and flew away, off to reign terror once more. The old man knew what awaited his rival, for he taught the people to use their imaginations, and they dreamed up a way to slay the dragon.
The rain pounded the broad leaves. Trillions of gallons fell forth and pelted all in it’s path. Through the jungle Oliver pushed aside the branches and tried to see through the wall of water.
“Am I even going the right way?” he asked.
“Yup,” replied Persephone over the communicator. “Just under a mile and you will be at the clearing.”
Oliver was dropped off yesterday at the edge of the dense jungles of the Yucatan Peninsula by the local guide, Yocute. The Paladins had received a message from a local minister who had forwarded cell phone footage to his deacon, the footage bounced through five more hands before it reached Melissa. The footage showed what looked like a ghoul in traditional Mayan dress.
Having never been to any Mayan ruins, Oliver jumped at the chance and volunteered to go investigate.
So far, the trip was less then enjoyable.
His outfit of a traditional full brimmed hat and overcoat could easily handle the rains and weather of Utah. It was ill suited for the torrent of wetness that penetrated his body. Everywhere was wet. His skin chaffed with each movement. Each breeze chilled his marrow. Of special concern were his Webley Fosbury custom revolvers. He had placed them in zip lock bags, but feared even the air-tight seal was no match for the deluge.
I am going to have so much rust I need to clean off.
Oliver pressed forward through the branches and leaves and prayed for respite from the water.
Dear father
If it be your will, end this storm.
I am here in your name for your glory and could use your aide
Glory to your name
Amen.
The monsoon did not abate.
Oliver continued on.
He finally reached a clearing and could see the ruins. Its weathered stone walls rose against the encroaching jungle, adorned with intricate carvings depicting long-forgotten stories. Moss and vines clung to the temple's surface, as if God wanted the jungle itself to reclaim what was now an unholy place.
At the base of stairs leading up the face of the temple, two figures accompanied by animals flanked the entrance. Oliver could not see them clearly through the curtain of wetness.
“Hello,” he called out. “I am looking for some people.”
The figures did not move. Oliver surmised they could not hear him over the reverberation of the rain. He moved closer. As he neared he saw the figures where clothed in traditional Mayan garb and had gray shriveled skin. The animals at their sides where Jaguars, their pelts missing patches with bone and sinew exposed.
The jaguars leaped and charged at Oliver.
Oliver reached for his guns and drew, he had forgotten about the plastic bags. His hands fumbled to ready the hammers through the plastic. He pre-saw the Jaguars leap and dove to roll out of their paths. He turned and had readied his revolvers, two shots rang out and both Jaguars dropped to stillness, matching holes in their skulls.
A spear embeds it self in the ground in front of Oliver as pain shot through his leg. The spear had sliced his calf. Oliver rolls to his back and sees the two Mayan dressed ghouls advancing. The far one throws his spear but his aim is off. Oliver fires twice from each revolver, the ghouls collapse to the ground with holes in their heads and chests.
“I found some ghouls,” said Oliver to the communicator. “This confirms demons are here.”
“What did they look like?” asked Persephone.
“Two were dressed in native clothing,” answered Oliver. “The other two where jaguars.”
“Oh cool,” said Persephone. “Get some photos if you can.”
“The missing people first,” returned Oliver. “Can you pull any data on this temple?”
“Sure thing,” said Persephone. “Give me a min.”
Oliver continued to the base of the temple, his boots squished with the encroaching water.
I miss my desert.
Oliver’s lamentations are interrupted by a woman screaming. He charged up the steps, his feet slipping on the wet mossy stone. Three times he has to catch himself as he climbed. He nears the top and see torch light flickering from the alter room.
“Ayuda,” cries a woman’s voice.
Oliver stepped into the chamber, his eyes widening as he took in the scene before him. The air was heavy with the acrid scent of blood, and the flickering torchlight cast eerie shadows on the walls, accentuating the ominous atmosphere. In the center of the chamber, he saw a large stone altar, adorned with intricate carvings that seemed to writhe and pulse with an otherworldly energy.
Three menacing demons stood around the altar, their grotesque forms towering over the captives who were bound and helpless. Two lifeless bodies lay discarded on the ground, their blood pooling beneath them, while the third captive trembled in fear, her eyes pleading for mercy.
The first demon towered over the others, its form a blend of human and animal features. Its skin was a sickly shade of gray, mottled and textured like decaying flesh. Sharp, jagged horns protruded from its forehead, curving backward and gleaming with a malevolent aura. Its eyes glowed with a fiery intensity, burning with a hunger for power and suffering. The demon's mouth stretched wide into a twisted grin, revealing rows of razor-sharp teeth that seemed to glisten with anticipation.
The second demon possessed a more ethereal presence, its form shimmering with an otherworldly glow. Its body was slender and sinewy, wrapped in tattered, shadow-like tendrils that slithered and twisted around its frame. Its face was an enigma, ever-shifting and morphing, with glowing red eyes that seemed to pierce through the darkness. The demon's hands ended in elongated, claw-like fingers, each tip serrated and razor-edged, ready to rend and tear.
The third demon stood slightly shorter than the others, but no less menacing. Its body was covered in a thick layer of black scales, reflecting the flickering torchlight with an oily sheen. Its limbs were sinewy and muscular, ending in clawed hands and feet that left deep gouges in the stone floor. Its face bore a twisted grin, filled with rows of serrated teeth that dripped with a viscous, black fluid. Glowing red eyes burned with a sadistic intelligence, watching the captives with an insatiable thirst for pain.
Together, the three demons exuded an aura of darkness and malevolence, their mere presence casting a shadow of fear and despair. Their forms were nightmarish amalgamations, a grotesque fusion of human and supernatural, embodying the darkest depths of ancient horrors.
The demons, their twisted features contorted with malice, raised their weapons high, ready to strike the final blow and complete their sacrificial ritual.
Oliver quickly recited Gerin’s prayer.
Lord, make me swift and true.
Guide my hands with yours.
Let your will be my aim.
Oliver drew his revolvers and they announced their presence. The first demon’s head exploded as a round found its mark. The second demon toppled as a wound in his back bursts out with black blood. The third demon spun when a round embedded into its shoulder.
The two surviving demons dove behind the alter, the stone structure shielding them from Oliver’s bullets.
“Can you move?” yelled Oliver to the woman.
Terror had grabbed her and she was frozen.
Blood from the demon that no longer had a head had splattered on the alter. Red, vile energy crackled off the masonry. The third sacrifice had been found, the ritual distorted with wretched demon blood.
The red energy swirled and formed into a vortex, pulling at all around it.
The two cowering demons where the closest to the vortex and were pulled in first. They screamed and howled as they spiraled into the portal.
The woman had been next, she started to slide across the alter. Oliver dove forward and grabbed her, pulling her back. The suction was too great and Oliver and the woman were lifted and sucked in.
Oliver awoke in the jungle. The rain had stopped. He checked his gear, his guns and Bible still in his belt.
What had happened?
He shook more clarity in his head when he heard the sound of a woman moaning. He followed the moans and found the woman he attempted to save from the ritual.
“Are you ok?” asked Oliver.
“Si,” she replied. “Creo que me rompí la pierna.”
“I am sorry,” said Oliver. “My Spanish is not so good. I wish Roland was here.”
Oliver looked around, “I do not see the temple. The jungle is much different. Where are we?”
The woman reached up to Oliver, “Ayuda me.”
Oliver, having understood helped her stand. She was favoring her leg and a dark purple bruise had formed on her calf.
“We need to find you help,” said Oliver. “Persephone,” he said into his communicator.. “Are you there?”
Only static replied.
“Must have broken when we fell,” he said to the woman who only looked up to him in confusion. “Let’s see if we can find some help.”
With the woman leaning on his shoulder they started to walk.
Oliver tried to remember the limited Spanish he picked up in his travels, “Mi nombre es Oliver.”
“Hola Oliver,” said the woman. “Mi nombre es Gabrielle.”
“Hola Gabrielle,” replied Oliver. “And that is about the last of my Spanish.”
“Que?” asked Gabrielle.
“Never mind,” smiled Oliver.
They continued through the leaves and trees, heading to what Oliver assumed was West, following the setting sun. He knew if nothing else he would reach a road eventually.
They neared a clearing and Oliver helped Gabrielle sit to rest on a fallen log.
“I am going to take a quick look,” said Oliver. “You rest for a minute.” He motioned with both hands to stay.
He pressed aside a large leaf and surveyed the valley. His mind froze with confusion.
Dinosaurs!
The river that formed the valley was a watering source for dozens of dinosaurs. Large four legged beasts with long necks trodded along. Small two legged ones with shirt arms skirted between the legs of the larger ones. A set of winged ones flew over the mountains in the distance. He watched in awe.
“The others are not going to believe this,” said Oliver.
As he surveyed the far mountains a flash of red caught his eye. Halfway up the mountain to the south and west he thought he could make out the same red of the portal that had pulled him here.
“It’s all I have to go on,” Oliver turned to Gabrielle. “You can’t make that trek with that leg.”
Oliver pulled his Wymiss dagger from his boot and went to work on the trees. He quickly made a make-shift gurney from vines and branches and helped Gabrielle onto it.
“It may not be a smooth ride,” Oliver quipped. “But we can move a little faster with this.” He settled down on one knee, looked her in the eye, and calmed his voice, “don’t scream. But there are dinosaurs.”
“Dinosaurio?” she said,
“Si,” replied Oliver. “Dinosaurios.”
He pulled the gurney to the clearing and let her peak through.
“Madre di Dios,” she said and crossed her chest.
“Amen,” replied Oliver. He pointed to the far mountain and the red glow. “I think that may be our way home.”
She followed his point and nodded.
Oliver pulls her into the clearing and they head towards the mountain. As he walks he takes stock of his situation.
I have forty-eight more rounds, my knife, and my Bible. I have no food or water. It will take us about two days to walk to and then climb up, to the portal. I have to risk going to the river and hunting for some food. Hopefully gunfire scares any threats.
He began to pull the gurney down the valley towards the river.
Most of the dinosaurs paid him no attention. He was nothing more then a strange monkey, no threat to these herbivores. Oliver tried to recall the books he read about dinosaurs.
I only need to worry about the big carnivores.
From what he could see, only herbivores and small scavengers inhabited this valley. He veered of his path and headed to a clearing along the river. He stops on the shore and pull his canteen off his belt. He kneels dips his canteen in, filling with the cool water. He takes a deep swig as the hydration relaxes his body. He dipped the canteen back in and then offers it to Gabrielle.
“Agua?”
“Gracias,” she replies and chugged the water, it splashed down the sides of her face.
Oliver pulls a few snack bars Issac had prepared for him and offers one to Gabrielle who takes it and chomps it down.
“It’s good to stay strong,” says Oliver. “We have far to go. What I wouldn’t give for a horse.” He turns to Gabrielle, “The river does not look to deep. I think the gurney will float and we can wade across.
Oliver secures his canteen and readies the gurney. He removed his belts and handed them to Gabrielle, “Keep these dry.”
He slowly pulls Gabrielle into the water, as he had guessed, it does float. The river is never deeper then his waist. Gabrielle holds his belts high as they cross. Oliver turns and pulls the gurney backwards to keep it level in the water.
Gabrielle screams and points. As they near the far beach a viscous looking two legged dinosaur glares over and eyes Oliver. Oliver stops and assesses the situation.
That looks like a meat eater.
Oliver turns to Gabrielle and whispers, “throw my guns to me.”
Gabrielle has frozen in fear.
Oliver turns to the dinosaur who is now slowly walking towards them in the water. It is taller than Oliver with a large mouth, sharp teeth, and a feathered tail. In waist deep water and no weapons Oliver doubts he would win this fight. In desperation he reached into his pocket in search of ideas and found hope. He pulled out one of Issac’s snack bars and unwrapped it. He offers the high protein snack in a gesture of offering. The dinosaur, who is now just out of biting range, sniffs as it inches forward. The creatures tongue reaches out and tests the snack. Not wishing to loose a finger, Oliver tosses the snack into the open mouth. The dinosaur munches and bites at the treat. Oliver quickly grabs another and unwraps it and offers again. The creature moves closer and gingerly takes the bar from Oliver’s hand.
“Easy girl,” says Oliver as he slowly presses an open hand on the dinosaurs snout. “Your not so bad huh? I think I met a horse like you once.”
Wild fantasy runs through Oliver’s mind. Could I mount this? Oliver pulls out another bar, opened it, and fed the dinosaur as he continued to pet it.
Oliver pulled Gabrielle to dry land and the dinosaur followed. Once he had the gurney on the beach the dinosaur nudged Oliver asking for more treats. Oliver fished one out of his pocket to find he only had three left.
Hopefully I can get us home before we starve.
Oliver opened the bar and offered it to his new friend. As it munched he pulled another out, with his left hand he continued to pet the creature as he worked around to its side. He slowly reached around the creature and lifted his right leg up and over its back. He slid on to the back and as his weight settled the dinosaur turned and looked back at him. Oliver pressed the snack bar into its mouth. It happily chewed as Oliver settled on the animal.
“This might work,” said Oliver. “Shall we go for a walk.”
Oliver squeezed his heels into the side of the creature and it took off in a trot.
“Easy boy,” said Oliver and held onto the sides.
Oliver rode the dinosaur a few laps to the tree line and back to Gabrielle before he found the rhythm he needed. He returned to Gabrielle who was wide eyed in wonder.
“I think I formed a bond,” said Oliver as he dismounted and per the dinosaur. “Hopefully he is fed for now.”
Oliver loosened some of the vines on the gurney and used them to make a reigns for his dinosaur who in his head he had named Rick. He fastened the gurney to Rick and stepped back to observe. He knew no one would believe him when he returned to tell the tale.
“Now we should make great time,” said Oliver as he mounted Rick. “Let’s go find that portal.”
They set off past the treeline slowly. To much speed caused the gurney to bounce and threaten to dump Gabrielle. They reached the base of the mountain and the portal was in clear view now. Oliver eyed a path up that he felt Rick and the gurney could make and started to guide it up.
The last of the sun's light pierced above the mountains and Oliver knew he only had an hour of daylight. He went to task making camp. Near a fallen log he made a circle of stones and a pyramid of twigs. He took a bullet from his belt and pressed the round against a rock, popping the bullet out. He poured the gunpowder onto the twigs and some on one of the stones. With another rock he struck the powder and in a flash the twigs were ablaze.
Oliver removed the gurney from Rick and helped Gabrielle sit on the log near the fire. The strange light had started to attract small animals. Oliver drew and fired on the nearest one. The rest ran at the sound.
Rick ran and grabbed the slain animal in its happy jaws and munched it down. Oliver spotted an animal on a branch and fired again. The animal fell to the ground. Rick again ran to the prize. This time he brought it back and dropped it at Oliver's feet.
Oliver petted Rick, "good boy Rick."
Rick ran to the tree line and lowered its head in a playful manner.
Oliver spotted another animal and fired. It fell to the ground and Rick fetched it and gulped it down.
Rick and Oliver played the game as the last of the sunlight faded.
Gabrielle and Oliver enjoyed a meal of campfire cooked dinosaur. They slept by the fire under the virgin sky. Before he slipped into sleep Oliver recited a prayer Gerin had taught him.
Sleep sweet within this room,
Whoe'er thou art,
And let not dreams of yesterday
Disturb thy heart,
Nor let tomorrow,
With its fear of coming ill.
Thy Maker is thy changeless friend;
His love surrounds thee still.
The stars are watching overhead,
Put out each earth-born light.
Sleep sweet, good night, good night.
Amen.
Oliver was up early the next day. The fire had died during the night and was peacefully smoldering. The rising sun cast a warm glow across the valley. Dinosaurs of all shapes and sizes were drinking the water of the azure blue water.
After enjoying the view for a moment he fastened the gurney to Rick and helped Gabrielle on. Her leg was more swollen and she was sweating with a fever.
"We need a doctor for that leg," he said.
Oliver mounted Rick and started up the mountain path.
Piloting a dinosaur up a steep mountain path pulling a handmade gurney carrying a wounded Mexican damsel was not an experience Oliver had dreamed of in his wildest fantasies.
The day passed slowly. Gabrielle's condition worsening with each hour.
Near midday, Oliver halted Rick.
"I think I heard something," he said as he dismounted. "Stay Rick."
Oliver peeked around the bend and saw the portal. It swirled and flashed with unholy energies. Flanking the portal were the two demons from the ceremony.
"...we ended up here," said the smaller one.
"We don't know where this will send us," said the ethereal one.
"Then what idea do you have? How do we get back?" asked the smaller one.
Oliver stepped around with his revolvers drawn, "how about a trip back to Hell." He fired from both revolvers and the demons fell to the ground dead.
Oliver returned to Rick and Gabrielle and guided Rick to the portal.
Gabrielle had deteriorated and was unresponsive.
Oliver loosened the gurney and vines off of Rick. He pulled the last snack bar from his pocket and offered it to Rick.
"This is where we part ways, friend," said Oliver as he pet Rick. "No place for dinosaurs in the 21st century."
Rick munched the bar happily.
Oliver lifted Gabrielle and helped her wrap her arms around his neck. He approached the portal and stopped when he saw Rick following.
"You need to stay," said Oliver. "Stay."
Rick moved closer.
Oliver shifted Gabrielle and drew a revolver. He fired into the trees and a creature fell to the ground. Rick took off to fetch.
"I put my faith in you lord," said Oliver as he stepped into the portal.
Rick had returned with his prize but Oliver, Gabrielle, and the portal were all gone.
The Complete Mini-Series
Daybreak. Moving during light hours was always dangerous. At night the Reds slept, or were too drunk to care. This couldn’t wait. Either I go now or my daughter dies.
I pull out our map. I have been crossing off buildings that we have scavenged from and marking what paths we can take with lots of cover. There is a pharmacy across the east river I have not checked yet. It was the closest thing I had to hope. I trace the path I would need to follow. Through the apartment complex on the newly named ‘Lennon Lane’. Then crawl through the attics of the business along 3rd street. Down to the sewers for four blocks and then get dumped out into the river. If I survive all of that I still need to swim across, in daylight, and not get shot. The pharmacy is two blocks past the river, two buildings down from a site the Reds have turned into a barracks.
I check my weapon, an American made Smith and Wesson 45 revolver. I only have two rounds left. Hopefully I won’t need to use it. Haven't seen 45 ammo in years. The Reds all use AKs an 9mm pistols. I have a few 9mm rounds but no gun for them.
I give my family, the two that have survived, one final look and crawl out from our hiding.
This has been our life for I think three years now. Not entirely sure. We take each day at a time.
The invasion was quick and non-violent. The Reds rolled in and more then half of our population welcomed them. I still remember the parades as they crucified the ‘opposition leaders’. My family was in disbelief. Once the Reds had taken control it wasn’t long before the food riots. They blamed people of the faith, people like my family.
I watched as my friends were executed if they did not renounce their beliefs.
I watched as our places of worship were burned and the people cheered.
Now the only way to get supplies is to swear fealty to the party and the leader, renouncing all other beliefs. That and scavenging.
In the ‘before times’ I was one of the ones that scoffed at ‘preppers.’ People who stockpiled food and ammo. Now, I wonder how they feel. Justified for being right? Or sad they were right? At his point it doesn’t matter.
I climb the windows up to the hole in the side of the adjoining building, into the apartments on Lennon Lane. As I move through the apartment complex, I am careful to avoid any creaky floorboards or loose tiles. The building has been abandoned for some time, and there are signs of scavenging everywhere. Broken glass litters the floor, and the walls are covered in graffiti.
I can hear the Reds outside shouting in their angry language. The sound of gunfire and my heart stops, my breathing stops, I freeze. I check my body for holes and find none, I breathe again. It was for someone else.
I make my way through the building and reach the stairwell. The stairs creak under my weight as I climb to the next level. As I reach the top, I hear a noise coming from one of the apartments. I draw my revolver and inch closer, ready for whatever might be waiting for me inside.
But it's just a rat. I let out a sigh of relief and prepare for the jump to the next building.
The jump is tricky. I can barely make it. If I miss I fall to hopefully my death. A broken leg and being captured is a far worse fate. The hole across the gap is barely big enough for me to dive through. I have to jump and lay flat to make it. I peek out and check for Reds. I listen for a minute. It seems clear.
I step back and sprint into the jump. I know I am off while in the air. My body makes it though the hole but my boots catch the edge. I slam down hard and bite my lips against a yelp.
I lay motionless. Did someone hear me?
I can hear my heart in my ears.
I force my breath to slow and calm myself. If someone heard, I’ll need to run.
I lie for nearly an hour until I am certain I am in the clear.
The business attics are cramped and dusty. I have to crawl on my belly to avoid being seen or heard. There are boxes and crates stacked haphazardly all around me, making it difficult to move quietly. Every time I shift my weight, I worry that the whole structure might come crashing down. I reach the end of the attics. Now I have to climb down a water spout and lift the sewer cover below.
A lite rain has started, not good. The spout will be slippery and the sewers will have fresh sludge down below. Hopefully the rain muffles my climb. As I work my way down I only loose my footing once. I hang by my hands and feel for a foothold. I make it to the alley and set to lift the manhole cover.
Another risky move. The metal cover is heavy and moving it quietly is always a strain. I ease off the cover and start to slide. It pinches my fingers against the street. I pull through the pain and ease the cover onto a pile of garbage. I peer down and am met with the familiar stench.
The sewers are the worst part. The smell is overpowering, and the darkness is total. I use my flashlight sparingly to find my way, careful not to slip on the slick, slimy floor. There are rats down here too, scurrying through the filth.
The walls are slick with moisture, and I can hear the sound of the rain runoff flooding in. I try not to think about what might be flushing down with it.
As I emerge from the sewers, I find myself at the edge of the riverbank, under the cover of a bridge. I can hear the sounds of Red patrols walking overhead, their boots thudding against the metal grating of the bridge.
I take a peek out from under the bridge and see the soldiers patrolling. The Reds are heavily armed and cruel. I can't afford to be seen by them.
I wait until the group has moved to the farside, they are chatty and undisciplined.
I slide down along the stone bank down into the water below. The cold water takes my breath away as I dive under and start swimming as fast as I can, trying to stay as close to the riverbed as possible to avoid being seen. The water is polluted and helps hide me. It also makes it hard to see and something in the water burns my eye. I only keep one open, can’t afford to be blind in both.
As I swim, I can hear the sound of the Reds walking back and forth on the bridge above me. My lungs demand air as I swim as quietly as I can, hoping they won't notice the disturbance in the water.
Finally, I make it past the bridge and into the shadow of the buildings on the other side. I slowly breach the water with my head enough to see the bridge. I pause for a moment and then climb up the bank and crouch behind a dumpster, catching my breath and listening for any sounds of pursuit.
I can hear the Reds shouting to each other, but they seem to be moving away from my location. I shake off the water and start to make my way towards the pharmacy , keeping to the shadows and staying out of sight.
The building is an old brick structure with boarded up windows and a rusted metal door. It looks like it has been abandoned for years.
I circle around to the back of the building, where there is a small alleyway. I peek around the corner and see a group of Reds patrolling the street in front of the pharmacy.
I wait for a moment, trying to come up with a plan. I know that I can't take them head-on, so I need to find another way inside. I notice a small window in the back of the building that has been smashed in. It looks like it could be big enough for me to climb through. The window is high, hopefully I can jump and reach.
I make my way over to the window and jump up and grab. My hand hits glass and pain shoots through my arm. I pull myself up, straining against the pain. I peek inside. The pharmacy is a mess. The shelves have been overturned, and there are empty pill bottles and medical supplies scattered everywhere. It looks like the place has been looted multiple times.
I climb through the window and land on the floor inside. I can hear the sound of my footsteps echoing through the empty building.
As I make my way towards the medicine aisle, I notice that the shelves are nearly empty. I feel a sense of despair starting to sink in. Was this all for nothing? Would I have to risk my life again to find what I need?
But then, as I turn the corner, I notice a door that leads to the back office. Maybe there would be something useful there.
I push open the door and my heart sinks at the sight. There's a body on the floor, the lifeless eyes staring up at me. It's clear that he's been dead for a while, and the room smells of decay.
But then I notice the supplies scattered around him. Antibiotics, bandages, and painkillers. It's as if he knew that he was dying and wanted to make sure that his supplies went to someone who needed them.
I quickly gather up what I can, stuffing the supplies into my bag. As I turn to leave, I take one last look at the body on the floor. I feel a sense of sadness, knowing that he had probably died alone and forgotten.
But then I remember my own family, and I know that I need to keep going. I turn and leave the office, determined to make it back to them.
I quickly bandage my injured hand with the supplies I found on the dead man's body, and take a dosage of the painkillers. The throbbing pain in my hand starts to dull, but I know that I can't stay here for long. I need to get back to my family and fast.
As I start to make my way towards the exit, I can't help but feel a nagging sense of doubt. What if there's more supplies in this building that I could use? I take a deep breath and make a decision. I'm going to search the rest of this place, no matter what.
I make my way up to the second floor and start to explore. Most of the rooms are empty or have been ransacked, but then I hear a soft snoring coming from a room at the end of the hallway. I approach slowly, trying to remain quiet.
As I push open the door, I see a Red sleeping on a cot. He's holding an AK and a 9mm pistol close to him. My heart races as I try to formulate a plan. If I can take his weapons and supplies, it could make all the difference for my family.
I remember seeing a bottle of chloroform on a a shelf, and an idea forms in my mind. I quietly return down below and find the bottle. I pour some into a bandage and make my way back up to the sleeping Red. I gently place the cloth on his nose and mouth and his snoring stops, he has fallen unconscious. I quickly take his weapons, ammo, and any other supplies I can find, including food rations and a small bottle of vodka.
I crawled out of the pharmacy, making sure to avoid being seen by the Reds on the street. With my newly acquired supplies and weapons, I felt a sense of relief and hope, knowing that my daughter's life was now in my hands.
I swam back across the river, my injured hand throbbing with new pain. I can almost see the germs swimming into the wounds. I climb back up the bank and into the sewers, back to the business district. As I climbed up the pipe to the business attics, I tried to move as quietly as possible, not wanting to draw attention to myself.
As I crawled through the attics, I made a misstep and lean on a rotted bored. I fall through the ceiling. The sound echoed through the building, and I knew I had made a grave mistake. I quickly got up and started running, hearing the sound of boots pounding on the ground and shouting behind me.
I turned around a corner and saw three Reds. They reached for their weapons. I had no choice but to fight. I raised the AK I had taken from the sleeping Red in the pharmacy, aimed at the nearest one, and pulled the trigger, the first red fell.
The sound was deafening. I kept firing and swept my aim, hitting another Red in the shoulder. The third one had taken cover, I knew I had to finish them off quickly before reinforcements arrived. I sprinted and fired at close range. His body folded over backwards.
I approached the first two Reds who were still alive, their breathing ragged and labored. I could see the fear in their eyes, and I knew that they knew they were about to die. I raised my weapon, and with a sense of determination, I pulled the trigger twice. The two Reds souls journeyed to hell.
I quickly gathered their weapons and any supplies they had on them, knowing that I couldn't afford to waste any time.
As I reached our home, my heart was racing. I was so close, but the anxiety inside of me kept growing. I could feel the sweat trickling down my forehead as I tried to keep moving forward. I reached the front door and fumbled with the lock, my hands shaking with fear and anticipation. It took me longer than I would have liked to get the right combination of knocks and pauses, but finally, I heard the distinct sound of the deadbolt unlocking from the other side.
My wife opened the door, and her face was a mixture of sadness and worry. My heart sank, and I knew that something was wrong. I immediately asked about our daughter, but before she could answer, she pulled me inside and locked the door behind us. I could tell from the look on her face that the news was not good.
She took my hand and led me to the bedroom, where our little girl lay motionless on the bed. My heart shattered into a million pieces as I saw her lying there, so still and lifeless. Tears welled up in my eyes, and I felt like I couldn't breathe. I had failed her. I had failed my family.
My wife told me that she had passed away only a few hours ago, and there was nothing anyone could do. She had been in so much pain and suffering that it was almost a relief to know that she was finally at peace. But still, the pain was unbearable, and I felt like I had lost a piece of myself.
I sat down on the edge of the bed and took my daughter's hand. It was so small and fragile, and yet it had brought so much joy and happiness into our lives. I knew that I would never forget her smile or the sound of her laughter. But the pain of losing her was almost too much to bear.
As I sat there with my wife, holding our daughter's hand, I knew that we had to keep going. We had to keep surviving, even though it seemed impossible. We had to keep moving forward, even though our hearts were broken. And most of all, we had to keep fighting, even though everything around us was trying to tear us apart.
I sit there in silence, staring at the ground. My mind races with thoughts of all that has happened, the loss of my daughter, the constant struggle for survival, and the anger I feel towards the Reds for what they have done to us.
And then, something inside me breaks. It's like a switch has been flipped, and a new realization comes over me. I have a newfound purpose, a new goal. I look at the weapons I've just acquired, and I know what I have to do.
I vow to become an agent of vengeance. To bring fear to the Reds, to make them regret what they've done to us. They may have taken everything from me, but I still have the strength and the will to fight back. I will give them no nights of rest, no moments of peace.
I know what I have to do, and I'm willing to do whatever it takes. I look at my wife, and I see the sadness in her eyes. Then I see fear join the sadness. She knows what I'm capable of, and she knows that I won't stop until justice is served.
I turn to her, and I speak with a newfound strength in my voice. "We will not be victims anymore," I say. "We will fight back. We will make them pay for what they've done."
She slowly nods, more tears forming on her face. "I know you will," she says.
My legs grew numb as I lay on this dusty floor. I force myself to stay awake. Laying still and breathing shallow makes consciousness elusive. I can’t fall asleep, I snore and snoring gives my hiding spot away.
I watch them trough a hole in a board. There are four of them, they have been drinking for hours and only one has fallen a sleep. How much more can they drink? I find myself willing them to pass out, I am running out of night.
When the last one is finally snoring, sprayed out on the floor, I wait a little longer. I let twenty more minutes pass and let them get fully involved.
I slide the boards I had loosened earlier to the side and ease down into the room. The familiar stench of body oder and stale alcohol surround me. I inch down to the one on the floor. The back of his neck is exposed. I know just where to press the knife in so he stays asleep forever. This is not my first time doing this. Since the death of my daughter I have lost track of how many Reds I have sent to eternal judgment.
I finish my work and am collecting their weapons and wears when a new sound rattles the windows. Magnificent light floods the streets below. I crouch next to the window and find the source of light and noise. A mechanation from history hovers above the buildings. A dirigible, visions of Nazi Germany flood my mind. The Reds are way past bad optics I suppose. A realization hits, this is here because of me. They think the angel of death has descended on the city and is reaping. I push down a smile, I can’t afford to get arrogant. I watch the bloated device float in defiance of all laws of science. The array of lights flooding the streets, exposing the broken city below.
My mind clicks, light. Light is my enemy. Darkness hides and helps. The dirigible brings light wich makes my mission far more difficult.
I have to take a long way home, avoiding the searchlights of the new sky decoration. As I crawl through long unused buildings and sewers my mind formulates an idea.
I have to bring down the dirigible.
This does more then re-blacken the night. It will be a morale blow to our enemy while also being a singular event the other resistance fighters can rally around.
I reach my home and my wife is asleep. I lay next to her and find myself to excited to rest. Plans and questions flood my mind. How do I bring it down? How can I get aboard?
My thoughts continue until the sun rises. Light leaks in through our broken and boarded window until it finds my wife’s face. Her beauty glows through the dirt and sadness. She has lost more then I have and shows greater strength each day.
I crawl out of bed and heat up some of the instant coffee I acquired recently. I select a ration from the pile. I can’t read the angry language so it is always a guess. Hotdogs and a red sauce. I set the coffee and food on a plate and prepare to enter the bedroom. I only wish I had a waiters costume to complete the scene.
I stop at the door. A costume. That’s an idea. I look enough like the Reds. I have plenty of access to the uniforms from the clean kills.I leave the food next to my wife and sit in silence as I watch her sleep.
That dusk i am out and crawling again. I have one planned target, recon on the dirigible. I need to learn how to gain access. I make my way to my favorite spot in the city, the remains of our old church. Most of the rectory and front area have burned. The bell tower survived and offers a view of the city that goes unobstructed for nearly a mile in all directions. Only the apartment highrise to the north is taller.
The bell tower is not an easy climb. The stairs for the first thirty feet burned with the rest. I have to climb torched wood and ashy hand holds until I reach the remains of the stars and can walk up the last hundred feet. The bell house atop the tower has become my base of operations. I store weapons and other acquired items here. The cramped living space my wife and I occupy can not house such treasures. I reach the top and find my partner, Brianna. She, like most children anymore, is an orphan who I found crawling through the same crawlspaces I frequent. She had been hiding for months after witnessing the Reds execute her parents. Now she lives up here and helps me recon.
“Hey boss,” she says as I pull myself up. “Can you believe that thing?” she points to the dirigible that dominates the northern sky.
“Hey,” I reply, “yeah I watch it pull in last night. What do you think?”
“I have never seen anything like it,” she says.
“It’s a problem,” I say. “We are going to watch it and see what we can learn. You up for a mission?”
She jumps to attention and salutes, “yes sir!”
“Tonight we watch and learn,” I say. “Tomorrow we get close.”
We spend the night observing the dirigible. It doesn’t move, it just hovers and shines lights on the surrounding city. A tether and a ladder attach the behemoth to the apartment building. The Reds must have set up a check-in on the top floor.
We meet again the next night with plan on moving closer. We need to see what the staff of the dirigible dress as. We have one problem. The near buildings are much shorter and offer little in ways of observing the top floor. We have to find a vantage point and wait for someone to climb the ladder.
We embarked on our journey through the city, venturing further north than we had in weeks. Every step we took was calculated, our senses heightened, as we weaved through the labyrinthine streets, alleys, and decaying buildings. The tension in the air was palpable, as if the city itself held its breath, anticipating our every move.
The dirigible's searchlights continued to slice through the darkness, making our task of remaining unseen even more challenging. We had to be agile and adaptable, navigating through shadowy corners and narrow passageways, always on high alert for any sign of the Reds.
There were several close calls along the way—moments that made our hearts race and our muscles tense with apprehension. We would freeze in our tracks, hidden in alcoves or behind crumbling walls, as squads of Reds patrolled dangerously close. Their footsteps echoed in the desolate streets, and the faint glow of their flashlights cut through the darkness like menacing eyes.
We held our breath, praying that the darkness and our silence would shield us from their scrutiny. The moments stretched into eternity as they passed by, oblivious to our presence. Each near encounter served as a stark reminder of the constant danger we faced, the ever-present threat of discovery and capture.
At times, we were forced to backtrack, taking longer routes or finding alternate paths to avoid heavily guarded areas. We moved like shadows, our movements fluid and deliberate. We learned to blend into the backdrop of destruction and decay, becoming one with the desolate cityscape.
The nights were treacherous, filled with uncertainty and the constant risk of confrontation. We relied on our heightened instincts and the unspoken trust between Brianna and me. We communicated through subtle gestures and glances, our actions synchronized as if we were bound by an invisible thread.
There were moments when the Reds seemed to be closing in on us, their patrols growing more frequent and their presence more pervasive. We found ourselves crouched in abandoned buildings, hidden beneath debris, waiting for the opportune time to move again.
After several nights of stealthy exploration, we discovered a derelict building that provided an unobstructed view of the ladder. Its crumbling walls and broken windows offered the perfect cover for our surveillance. From this hidden perch, we could observe the comings and goings of the Reds, studying their routines and search for that singular detail that could be key in our mission.
From our hidden vantage point, we spent three consecutive days meticulously observing the access ladder that anchored the dirigible. With unwavering focus, we studied the patterns of activity, noting the frequency and timing of the operators' movements. It was a tedious and demanding task, but we knew that these vital details would be the key to our success.
As we watched, patterns began to emerge, slowly revealing the routine of the dirigible's operators. We noticed a consistent shift change every six hours, accompanied by a brief period of reduced activity. This window of opportunity became our focus—an opening we could exploit to advance our plan.
But it wasn't just the timing that we observed. We also paid close attention to the uniform worn by the operators. Through keen observation, we discerned that they wore a distinct, specialized uniform, different from the standard Reds' attire. It was marked by a logo—a symbol we hadn't encountered before, crossed arrows fronted by an unblinking eye.
One of the operators was close enough in size and stature to me for the uniform to fit. We named him ‘Bob’ and waited for him each night. On the fourth night we caught a break, we could see Bob walkin the streets after his shift.
We followed, creeping through the city's streets, our every move shrouded in the secrecy of the night. Our eyes were locked on the prize ahead—Bob and his uniform. The wind whispered secrets in our ears, guiding us through the shadows as we closed in on our mark.
With the stealth of a seasoned hunter, we mirrored the operator's steps, our senses attuned to the rhythm of the city. The streets held their breath, as if aware of the cat-and-mouse game being played in its darkened corners. We were the cunning foxes, closing in on our elusive prey.
Through winding alleys and forgotten passages, we tracked the Bob's trail, our instincts sharpened by months of navigating the underbelly of the city. Each step brought us closer to toppling the oppressive regime that had cast its dark cloud over our people.
Bob moved with purpose, his presence a symbol of the regime's grip on the city. But we moved like phantoms, our very existence hidden in the folds of the night. We were the rebels, the voices of dissent that refused to be silenced.
Finally, Bob reached his destination—a run-down apartment building, a stronghold of secrets. We watched from the shadows, our hearts pounding with anticipation. It was time to make our move, to claim what was rightfully ours.
With a deft hand, Brianna picked the lock, the tumblers yielding to our touch. The door swung open, revealing a world cloaked in darkness and intrigue. We stepped inside, our senses heightened, every creak of the floorboards echoing through the stillness of the night.
As the door swung open, I slipped into Bob's dimly lit kitchen, my senses heightened, aware of the imminent danger that awaited. There, in the flickering shadows, stood Bob, welding a knife with an unsettling glimmer in his eyes. Before I could fully comprehend the situation, he lunged at me with a ferocity fueled by desperation.
In a graceful dance of survival, we engaged in a deadly one-on-one confrontation. Bob's knife sliced through the air with lethal intent, its sharp blade aiming to pierce my defenses. I moved with agility and precision, my body an instrument of calculated response. Sidestepping his initial assault, I countered with a swift, well-placed strike, while pulling my knife from my boot.
Our struggle unfolded in a symphony of martial prowess, the rhythm of our clash resonating through the kitchen. The metallic clash of our weapons filled the air as we maneuvered and countered, each movement a testament to our honed skills. I remained focused, my mind attuned to every subtle shift in Bob's stance, anticipating his every move.
We circled each other, our eyes locked in a deadly duel. With quick footwork and deft parries, I evaded Bob's relentless attacks, turning his aggression against him.
Bob fought with unwavering determination, his movements fueled by a mix of fear and desperation. But I remained calm and composed, channeling my training and experience into precise strikes and calculated defense. Our bodies moved as extensions of our will, each motion fluid and purposeful.
The struggle intensified, both of us fully committed to the fight. We exchanged a flurry of blows, each strike landing with less prescions as our bodies tired. The room became a battlefield, the air charged with a blend of adrenaline and the clash of steel. It was a contest of skill, where every action held consequences.
And then, seizing an opening, I unleashed a decisive strike. My empty hand connected with resounding force, sending Bob stumbling backward, his grip on the knife loosening. Sensing the opportunity, I pressed my advantage, swiftly moving to incapacitate him. Bob threw his knife and I ducked as it nearly struck my head. I weaved back in and rose in an uppercut directly into Bob’s chin.
As Bob fell to the floor, unconscious, I exhaled a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. The immediate threat had been neutralized, but my triumph was overshadowed by the grim reality that unfolded before me. My gaze shifted to Brianna, who had silently suffered in the chaos of the fight.
My heart sank as I saw the trail of crimson staining her clothing, the thrown knife embedded in her chest. Panic surged through me as I rushed to her side, cradling her delicate form. The gravity of the situation weighed heavily on my shoulders as I assessed the severity of her injury.
With trembling hands, I applied pressure to the wound, desperately trying to stem the flow of blood. Time seemed to blur as I fought against the inevitable, my thoughts consumed by the urgency of the situation. But despite my efforts, the life slowly ebbed from Brianna's fragile frame, slipping away like a wisp of smoke.
I turned to Bob. I stemmed my anger as I removed his uniform. Once he was naked i drove my knife into his temple. One more Red off to judgment.
I scavenged the apartment for any useful items and loaded my bag. I carried Brianna away from this and returned to our church. In the darkness of the next night I burred her in the grounds.
I returned three days later to our observation post. I had Bob’s uniform and identification. With trepidation in my heart, I reluctantly donned Bob's uniform, concealing my true identity beneath the facade of an enemy operative. The fabric clung to my body, a stark reminder of the dangerous game I was about to play. As I made my way towards the dilapidated apartment building that served as the base of operations for the dirigible, a sense of unease settled within me.
The building stood as a crumbling relic of better days, its once grand architecture marred by neglect and decay. Broken windows stared back at me like empty eyes, whispering tales of forgotten glory. It was a stark contrast to the opulence I had expected, but perhaps that worked in my favor, a shroud of disguise amidst the ruins.
Each step I took towards the entrance was laden with tension, as if the very air around me crackled with anticipation. The guards, positioned at various checkpoints, scrutinized those who passed, their watchful gazes lingering on each face. I held my breath, praying that my disguise would shield me from their prying eyes, that they would not recognize the face of a man they considered an enemy.
As I approached the first checkpoint, my heart pounded in my chest, threatening to give away the ruse. I averted my gaze, trying to blend into the throng of workers and operatives bustling about, each with their own purpose and agenda. The guards glanced at me, their eyes scanning my uniform, and I held my breath, hoping against hope that they would see nothing amiss.
Miraculously, I passed through the first obstacle unscathed, my heart beginning to regain its rhythm. But the tension remained, a persistent companion as I weaved my way through the labyrinthine corridors of the decaying building. Each encounter with a guard brought a fresh wave of anxiety, the fear of exposure clawing at the back of my mind.
The building itself seemed to conspire against me, its worn-out floors creaking under my footsteps, its peeling wallpaper whispering secrets of the past. I moved with calculated steps, like a shadow in the night, always mindful of my surroundings. The tiniest misstep could spell disaster, unraveling the delicate thread of my masquerade.
As I approached the final checkpoint, the stakes grew higher. The guards stood with an air of authority, their eyes sharp and attentive. I fought to maintain composure, my mind a whirlwind of thoughts, desperately hoping that my disguise would hold true, that my true identity would remain concealed.
Time seemed to slow as I passed through the last hurdle, the guards' gazes glancing off me like water off a duck's back. Relief washed over me as I passed through the final checkpoint, my heart pounding in my chest. I continued down the hall until Ifound myself in an unexpected room. It was a hidden cache, a treasure trove of weapons concealed within the dilapidated walls. The tension in the air escalated as I beheld the array of deadly armaments, each one capable of turning the tide of battle.
Amongst the cache, my eyes widened with both awe and trepidation as they settled upon a pair of rocket propelled grenade launchers. These formidable weapons, capable of unleashing destruction upon the enemy, held the potential to be the turning point in my mission. The weight of their power hung heavy in the air, both a blessing and a burden.
Caution became my ally as I approached the weapons, their sleek design gleaming in the dim light. I carefully inspected them, feeling their cold metal against my fingertips, the promise of their explosive might echoing through my thoughts. It was a double-edged sword, for while they offered a means to strike fear into the hearts of my adversaries, their presence would undoubtedly draw unwanted attention.
A plan formed in my head, I only needed on more item. I found it in a cabinet, rope. I put my plan into motion.
I took the rocket propelled grenade launchers in hand, feeling their weight and power. I slunk through the hallways and found an abandoned room with a broken out window. With a calculated precision, I secured the rope firmly to the furnace, ensuring it would bear my weight when the time came. The plan was set, the daring gambit that would put everything on the line.
Heart racing with a mix of excitement and apprehension, I approached the window, gazing out and up at the looming presence of the dirigible. It floated in the night sky, its illuminated form casting an eerie glow over the surrounding landscape. The time had come to strike back, to unleash chaos upon those who sought to oppress and control.
With the rocket propelled grenade launchers slung over my shoulders, I took a deep breath to steady my nerves. This was a high-stakes game, a daring act of defiance that required both skill and nerve. As I gripped the weapons tightly, my mind focused on the task at hand, envisioning the precise trajectory needed to strike the dirigible's vulnerable points.
Summoning my resolve, I leaned backwards out the window and aimed both rocket propelled grenade launchers towards the sky, eyes locked on the distant target. I steadied myself, finding solace in the tension that coursed through my veins. And then, with a controlled squeeze of the triggers, the grenades propelled from the launchers, hurtling towards their intended mark.
The explosion tore through the night, a deafening roar that echoed through the desolate cityscape. Flames erupted from the dirigible, its once steady course now faltering under the assault. But there was no time to revel in the victory, for the mission was far from over.
A another thunderous explosion filled the air, flames engulfing the dirigible as it plummeted towards the ground below. Chaos erupted, a cacophony of noise and destruction that served as a testament to our defiance. But amidst the chaos, my attention turned to the rope tied securely to the fixture, beckoning me to safety.
Taking a final glance at the smoldering wreckage of the dirigible, I leaned all the way out the window ledge, adrenaline coursing through my veins. Gripping the rope tightly, I propelled myself into the void, descending the side of the building with a controlled descent.
As I descended, the tension in my muscles eased, replaced by a surge of exhilaration. The cityscape passed in a blur as I made my escape, my body moving with practiced ease. The ground rushed up to meet me, and with a final burst of strength, I landed firmly on the pavement below, the echoes of my triumph reverberating through the night.
The chaos served as cover. My uniform a cloak of invisibility. I was just another Red fleeing the destruction. Returning to my vantage point, I sought solace in the aftermath of destruction I had unleashed upon the dirigible. The behemoth had crashed down through the apartment building, crushing several stories. A sense of grim satisfaction washed over me as I surveyed the scene before me. The once-proud vessel and Red stronghold now lay in ruins, engulfed in billowing smoke and licking flames. Dozen more red sent to final judgment.
I leaned against the remnants of a crumbling wall, taking in the sight of chaos and devastation. The night sky was illuminated by the flickering glow of the fire, casting an eerie ambiance over the desolate surroundings. It was a symphony of destruction, a testament to the power of resistance and the price of freedom.
A bittersweet smile tugged at the corners of my lips as I reflected on the significance of this moment. The oppressors had been dealt a blow, their symbol of control reduced to a smoldering heap of wreckage. The air crackled with an electric energy, a potent reminder that even in the darkest of times, a glimmer of hope could ignite a flame of revolution.
As I stood there, absorbing the aftermath, a sense of renewed purpose washed over me. The battles may be far from over, but in this moment, I had struck a blow against the forces that sought to suppress us. It was a small victory, but it carried with it the seeds of change, fueling the fire of resistance that burned within those in the city that could see.
I closed my eyes, allowing the cool night breeze to wash over me, carrying with it the whispers of freedom. I though of Brianna. One more gone to soon in this world so full of hate.
With a resolute determination, I turned away from the scene, leaving the wreckage behind me. The path ahead was still uncertain, fraught with danger and sacrifice. But as I ventured forth, I carried with me the knowledge that the flames of rebellion had been ignited, and they would burn bright until the day freedom reigned once more.
And so, with my head held high and my heart aflame, I moved forward, ready to face whatever challenges lay in my path. The destruction I had caused was but a testament to the strength of our collective will. We would not be silenced, we would not be defeated. The fight for justice and liberty would continue, fueled by the flickering embers of hope.
Each step burned more than the last, the biting cold gnawing at my feet with merciless intensity. The boots I had "acquired" from a Red soldier offered little protection against the freezing temperatures and the snow that had seeped into them. The icy wetness had settled in my socks, finding its way to my very nerves and sending waves of pain up my spine..
It had been six long and arduous months since the blimp incident. In the immediate aftermath, there was a surge of violence as the people rallied, emboldened by the glorious explosion and awe inspiring wreckage. Under the leadership of a now defected Red Colonel, rebels fought back against the occupying force with something they did not have before, coordination. For a brief moment, it seemed as though the tides were turning in our favor.
Our triumph was short-lived. The Reds swiftly regrouped and retaliated with a ruthless display of force. They moved in like an unstoppable juggernaut, unleashing their tanks and planes to quash any semblance of rebellion. Buildings suspected of harboring rebels were reduced to rubble without hesitation.
As the winter settled upon the land, nature joined the fight against the Reds. The occupying force found itself ill-prepared to contend with the harsh realities of the season. Their supply lines faltered, stretched thin over the vast expanse they sought to control. The biting cold and unforgiving snow hindered their progress, sapping their resources and weakening their resolve.
With each passing day, the Reds faced a growing dilemma shared by all occupying forces throughout history – they had underestimated the power of nature. The shortages became increasingly dire as food supplies dwindled, and desperation swept through their ranks. Desertions soared as soldiers abandoned their posts in search of sustenance for themselves and their loved ones.
And so, I, too, had to adapt. As the Reds' pillaging extended beyond the city's limits, I ventured into the woods to forage and hunt for survival. The very same woods that once served as a picturesque backdrop for family holidays now became my refuge and my battlefield.
Despite the hardships, there was a quiet beauty in the snow-covered landscape. The white mantle glistened under the pale winter sun, adorning the trees and the forest floor like a delicate tapestry. Silence hung in the air, broken only by the soft crunching of snow beneath my feet, a rhythmic cadence in this frozen symphony.
As I moved cautiously through a thick cluster of trees, a sudden movement caught my eye. A massive shape emerged from the shadows, its hulking form unmistakable. It was a bear, its fur thick and lustrous, its eyes focused on me and a snarl escaped its bared teeth. My heart raced, and a primal fear gripped me as I realized I stood face-to-face with one of nature's most formidable creatures.
Instinctively, I froze, not daring to make any sudden movements. I slowly raised the stolen AK and readied to fend for my lif. The bear stood its ground, observing me with a steady gaze. The tension hung thick in the air as we both assessed each other, trying to decipher the intentions of the other. It was a standoff between predator and prey, survival instinct pulsating through our veins.
But then, as if by some divine intervention, I caught a glimpse of movement behind the bear. A small cub emerged from the undergrowth, its eyes wide and innocent, unaware of the danger that loomed nearby. The bear's attention shifted from me to its cub, and its body language softened, its defensive stance relaxing.
In that moment, a wave of understanding washed over me. The bear and I shared a common goal – the search for sustenance in this unforgiving winter. The desperation for food was etched on both our faces, and I realized that the bear, like me, was simply trying to survive.
I kept my eye and AK trained on the bear, I lowered the nad on the AK’s barrel and reached into my backpack and withdrew a pair of racoons I had managed to shoot earlier. I had never had racoon meat and did not feel it woul db a loss. I hoped bear liked it. I carefully tossed the racoons to the bear’s fet. The bear's eyes locked with mine, assessing my intentions, and then its gazed shifted to the offering. Sniffing the bodies It tentatively took the food, its powerful jaws gingerly grasping the offering.
As the bear and I shared that moment, a silent pact was formed. We had both been thrust into a world consumed by conflict, where survival meant venturing into unfamiliar territories. Our paths had crossed, not as adversaries but as fellow creatures struggling to navigate the chaos.
With the bear and its cub satisfied, they turned and disappeared into the snowy wilderness, leaving me with a renewed sense of awe and respect for the power and resilience of nature. In that encounter, I had glimpsed a different side of the war-ravaged world – a fragile connection that reminded me of the shared struggles and the innate goodness that still existed amidst the chaos.
Moving away from the direction the bears went, I continued my journey deeper into the snow and cold.
As I walked deeper into the wilderness, leaving the bear and its cub behind, a sense of unease settled upon me. The landscape grew eerily silent, and a foreboding presence lingered in the air. In the distance, a shape began to materialize through the haze. It was unmistakable—an imposing Red tank, its steel hull gleaming with an air of menace.
The tank appeared abandoned, its metal exterior weathered by time and the harsh elements. Yet, there was a certain air of readiness about it, as if it could still roar to life with a surge of power.
Curiosity and exhaustion battled within me. The prospect of finding refuge for the night, shielded from the biting cold and treacherous terrain, enticed me. I cautiously circled the tank, studying its exterior for any signs of damage or hidden dangers. Its tracks were intact, and the machine guns mounted on its turret remained untouched.
As I closed the distance, a thought crossed my mind. Testing the tank's response seemed like a prudent move before seeking refuge within its metallic confines. I bent down and picked up a handful of stones from the snowy ground, each pebble feeling cold and solid in my grip. With a hint of trepidation, I aimed and tossed the stones, one after the other, towards the tank's hull.
The stones bounced off the tank's metal surface, creating faint clinks and thuds in the silent air. For a moment, nothing happened, and I questioned whether my actions had been in vain. But then, to my surprise, a low, metallic groan emanated from within the tank. It was as if the dormant machine had stirred, responding to the disturbance.
My heart skipped a beat as I considered the implications of this unexpected response. Could it be that the tank still held some semblance of life? Was there a possibility that it could be brought back to operational status? The prospect filled my mind with a mix of excitement and caution. If I could restore the tank's functionality, it would not only provide refuge for the night but also grant me a formidable advantage in the war-torn landscape.
Driven by curiosity and the faint glimmer of hope, I approached the tank's open hatch. The interior revealed a dimly lit cabin, displaying the signs of neglect and time. Snow-covered control panels and faded buttons adorned the dashboard.
Though the tank appeared to be abandoned, a flicker of possibility remained. I began to examine the controls and instruments, my hands tracing the faded markings and my fingers hovering over the buttons, almost hesitating to awaken the slumbering machine. As I deliberated, a surge of determination washed over me. I would attempt to revive this mechanical behemoth, to harness its power and turn it into a refuge that would keep me safe through the night.
After more time then I could afford to spare I gave up on reviving the tank. None of the buttons and switches responded to my repeated efforts. The sun was setting and the deathly cold of the night approached. I closed hatch, it’s clang echoed across the landscape scaring birds from their pirch.I do not what had caused the noise before. Perhaps it was the last moan of a dying battery.
I flicked on my flashlight, casting a warm glow that illuminated the dim interior. Setting up my small cooking station, I prepared a simple meal, the aroma of the beans mingling with the scent of metal and machinery. The heat radiated from the camp stove, gradually thawing the cold that had seeped into my bones. It was a small comfort amidst the harsh realities of survival.
As I sat there, huddled in the commander's chair, I contemplated the tank's potential. Though my attempts to revive its systems had failed, the thought of utilizing it as a waypoint, a safe house and a storage space for my wood expeditions, crossed my mind. The tank's formidable size could provide a sense of security and stability in this tumultuous world, a place where I could regroup and plan for the challenges that lay ahead.
With my meal finished, I settled in for the night, finding some respite in the worn upholstery of the commander's chair. The familiar creaking sound accompanied my movements as I adjusted myself, making myself as comfortable as possible within the limited space. As exhaustion washed over me, the tank became a temporary refuge from the harsh realities of war and survival.
The gentle dripping of melting snow within the tank's interior created a soothing, rhythmic melody, lulling me into a restless sleep. Dreams of a time before the conflict, of peaceful moments with my wife, mingled with the present realities, creating a bittersweet tapestry within my mind.
As the morning light began to cast its gentle glow on the snowy landscape, I was roused from my winter slumber by a faint sound in the distance. At first, it was barely discernible, a mere whisper carried by the wind. But as I listened intently, my senses sharpened, and I recognized the distinct sound of approaching footsteps, accompanied by angry voices.
My heart skipped a beat, and adrenaline surged through my veins as I realized that the sounds might belong to a group of Reds. They were getting closer, their presence an imminent threat to my safety and solitude. Quickly, I gathered my belongings, stashing them away in my worn backpack, my mind racing with thoughts of escape and evasion.
I peered out of one of the tank's port holes, scanning the surroundings for any sign of the approaching Reds. In the distance, I spotted them, a small group moving with purpose, their military uniforms contrasting starkly against the white expanse of snow. Had the followed my trail in the snow?
I watched the group of four Reds draw nearer. Their worn-out uniforms and haggard appearance spoke volumes about the hardships they had endured. They seemed disheveled, their faces etched with fatigue and disillusionment. As they approached the tank, their actions caught me off guard. They hurled stones at the tank's exterior and spat on the Red crest, displaying an unmistakable disdain for their former allegiance.
A glimmer of hope flickered within me. Could these be deserters? Was it possible that they had grown weary of the relentless conflict? With caution and a tinge of desperation, I contemplated the idea of reaching out to them, of forging a connection born out of shared suffering.
Summoning the courage to take a chance, I raised my voice from inside the tank, hoping it would carry across the distance. "I am peaceful," I called out, my voice trembling with uncertainty. "Are you deserters?"
The group paused, their eyes scanning the surroundings, searching for the source of the voice. A moment of tense silence hung in the air, as they swept their weapons. They spoke to each other in their angry language Then, one of them, a tall gray eyed soldier, stepped forward.
"Yes," he replied, his voice weary but tinged with a glimmer of relief. "We are deserters."
“You speak my language?” I asked.
“Some,” the gray eyed one said. “Come out so we can see you.”
“Put your guns down first.” I said.
The gray eyed one and a dark haired one talked back and forth then they all slowly put their AKs in the snow.
“Ok,” gray eyes said. “Now your turn.”
I opened the hatch slowly and raised my rifle butt first out and placed it on the tank. I showed my hands and carefully exposed my head.
“Hello,” I said.
“Hello,” said gray eyes. “Who are you?”
“Just a man looking for food,” I said. “Who are you?”
“We are going,” gray eyes said. “No more food in the city.”
“I have food,” I said and pointed to bag. “May I?”
The dark haired one said something to gray eyes who spoke back.
“Slowly,” said gray eyes.
I reached back and pulled out four Red ration cans and tossed them to the feet of the red. The memory of my encounter with the bears flowing through my mind.
The dark haired man grabbed the four cans and handed one each to his companions. They greedily tear odd the lids and eat the contents.
“Thank you,” said gray eyes between bites.
“May I come down?” I ask.
Gray eyes waves me down.
I strap my rifle to my back and slide down the tank. These Reds do not seem a threat. More pathetic then dangerous.
“Where are you going?” I ask.
“To his house,” gray eyes points to the dark skinned short man. “They have a farm and food. You want to come?”
The offer strikes me. Kindness from a Red? I ponder this. Food sounds good.
“I can’t,” I say. “But thank you. I have family still in the city.”
Gray eyes looks at dark hair and they talk back and forth. Dark hair turns to the other two and says some words. They pull out magazines for the AKs and offer them to me.
“For me?” I ask.
“For the food,” says gray eyes.
“These bullets might be used to kill your comrades,” I say.
Gray eyes spits on the ground, “If they want to stay and fight they can die before starving. We go away and find food.”
I take the magazines and put them in my bag, “thank you.”
“Go,” says gray eyes. “Care for your family, we go look for ours.” He offers his hand.
I accept and return the shake. Dark hair nods to me and the other two wave as they continue past the tank.
With a mixture of gratitude and curiosity, I watched as the deserters moved past the tank, their weary forms disappearing into the distance. The encounter had been unexpected, and their act of kindness and shared struggle had left a lasting impression on me.
As I stood there, contemplating my next move, I couldn't help but feel a sense of duty toward these deserters. They were searching for food and survival, just like me and the bears. And just like the the bears they were only a threat when forced. More would abandon the Reds and each day would bring us closer to an end to the struggle that was still years away from ending.
The first, and for some time the only, sign that the apocalypse has occurred came in the form of sharp tremors and caused the city of Norport to shake for about ten seconds. Joel Melakiss was sitting at his table, going over his papers, but he dropped the latest reports from his factory with the first tremor, stood up, and opened the door.
“What’s happening?” he asked his personal guard, who was standing in a parade rest in the corridor.
“I don’t know, Councilor. I thought it was an explosion at first, but…“
“Go find out.“
It didn’t feel like an explosion unless it was a major industrial accident. That would probably be very bad, as Joel had shares in a lot of industries in Norport. It would undoubtedly be terrible for the town as a whole. And what was bad for the city was bad for Joel.
When the guard came back a few minutes later and reported that it was only a weak earthquake, Joel felt relieved.
“Was there an eruption?” he asked. The windows of his office faced the sea, not the giant volcano that loomed over the town.
“No, sir, although the Mountain is smoking a lot more than usual. We can expect a heavy ashfall later.“
“Alright, resume your post.“
There were only a few recorded major eruptions of the Mountain in the history of Norport and the city was always fortunate to escape almost unscathed, but it used to be much smaller in those times. A major eruption and earthquake could easily destroy everything that Joel managed to gain in the last few years of the so-called interesting times.
Other Councilors and old residents complained about how the War broke everything, the same as their fathers and grandfathers grumbled after a rich source of oil was found in the swamps east of the town and brought a modern industry to a small fishing town. For most of its history, Norport was small and unimportant, far from everything, special only in the clouds of black ash that gave it its original name, Puerto Noir. The old-timers cherished the calm and usually a lazy way of life in Norport. While other worlds grew and fought with others and got destroyed by their competitors, Norport managed to avoid all that because it was a small town surviving mostly on fishing, limited coal mining, and, for those few who preferred adventurous and short life, on hunting huge dinosaurs infesting the giant swamps that made up most of the continent.
But where others grumbled, Joel and his father and grandfather before him thrived on the change and growth it brought.
The other Councilors laughed when they were asked for permission by a wealthy outworlder industrialist to start an oil drill in the swamp. They laughed, took the money offered, and expected that the giant monsters of the swamps will sooner or later chase the stupid outworlder away.
Not Joel’s grandfather. He sensed an opportunity even before the outworlders demonstrated their weapons to him.
True, the giant beasts of swamps didn’t like the idea of industrialization much. Probably even less than city Councilors. Or, in the case of giant herbivores, were too stupid to understand what was happening. But even those were stopped by cannons and machine guns protecting the oil drill.
And it would have been a waste to just let all that meat and skins rot, wouldn’t it?
Joel’s grandfather struck a deal with the outworlders and got quite rich in the process. Rich enough to buy into the oil drilling oil processing business. He sealed the alliance by arranging a marriage between his eldest son and the outworlders’ daughter.
The old-timers grumbled. It took some time, but Melakiss’ family growing wealth forced even the most conservative of them to accept the change and adapt to the new times.
Norport was still small and unimportant in the grand scheme of things, but it became a minor provider of oil to nearby worlds and slowly but constantly grew.
Until another sudden change occurred. The War.
A horror for those directly affected by it, an annoyance for the other Councilors and residents of the town, including families of former foreigners who were now citizens of Norport and had adopted much of its calm and lazy ways.
But for Joel, it was a great opportunity, although it required an insane amount of effort to stay on top of things. He finished the last report and realized that, for the first time in at least a month, he didn’t have anything time-critical to deal with. It felt weird.
But it made sense. The last week was surprisingly uneventful. A calm before the storm, maybe.
For a moment, Joel thought he might have a chance to spend some time working on his long-term goals. Or maybe even have a free evening with his wife and family.
There was a knock on his door, followed by a careful, “Sir? Do you have a moment?”
Joel turned to his secretary and masked his annoyance. “Yes. What is it?”
“Sir, some strange rumors are going around. The magic people say that something horrible happened.”
Joel frowned. He welcomed the change, but the magic people, as they were called by old residents, were only a huge annoyance.
“They tend to predict a catastrophe every time I talk with them. What is this time? They’re talking about the apocalypse again? Shattering of the worlds? Just because we had a minor earthquake?”
“Well… it’s not just them, sir. The rumors are running wild, but the commodore’s aide just called me and asked if we know something. Anything. He said that something weird has happened, but they’re not sure what.”
Joel wanted to sigh, but he was always careful to present himself as a leader with a positive outlook, even to his servants. The can-do attitude, as alliance officers called it.
“Ask around then if you can track any reasonable rumors. Call the science people, they might know something. And please call the commodore’s aide back and ask him if he has any additional information.” Joel thought for a moment and then added: „Tell him to send the commodore my regards and ask him if he would be free for a drink later. I can send my car to the port for him."
“Yes, sir.”
The magic. Joel didn’t believe much in it. For Norport inhabitants, it was mostly only weird stories from old, mythical times. Simple tricks with limited practical use, despite the claims of outworlders. There were a lot of people among the refugees who took magic for granted. Some even claimed to have some talents, but they looked more like frauds and charlatans to Joel. He asked them several times to show him some real magic and all he got were simple and useless tricks or excuses.
If magic were real and powerful, Joel would embrace it, the same as he embraced technology that brought him money. And money brought him power. The power was what mattered.
“The metaphysical reality of this world is exceptionally strong and stable,” an elderly scientist from one of the first groups of refugees tried to explain to Joel. “And the ash clouds and shade from that geologically improbable volcano range tend to block a lot of moonlight, further reducing the magical aura of this town. It’s very hard to do anything unnatural around here. The local reality doesn’t like it.”
“So you’re saying that magic is useless here? Impossible? That’s why we have no magicians and magic?” asked Joel.
“I didn’t say that. It’s just so much harder to do anything. Various minor talents are actually quite common, but anyone who’s used to everyday magic will hate it here and move away. I have been personally to dozens of worlds, Councilor. This is the world with the lowest magic level I’ve ever seen. Even heard of. I like it here,” smiled the old scientist, who soon became the lead engineer in one of Joel’s new factories.
The War brought so many opportunities, and Joel did his best to use as many as he could. Technically, each of the twelve Councilors was equal, but some were more equal than others. Joel knew that some people were talking about him as the first Councilor. He always made a scene when someone said that in his presence. He insisted that this was not how the town should work, but it felt great.
He allowed himself a brief moment of daydreaming. Norport used to be small and unimportant, but thanks to the War, it grew rapidly. One day it might become the biggest city-state all around. All it needed was just a few more opportunities. And a leader who wasn’t afraid to take a little risk.
Three Allied naval officers arrived about an hour later. Joel greeted them in his office and poured them heavily spiced rum made by his small distillery. He personally detested the stuff but knew that the sailors cherished it.
They all wore uniforms of their old navies. The alliance never had the time or resources to unify those, and most of the members expected to go about their own business as soon as the War ended. It was still strange to see them as allies, even after two years since the founding of the Alliance of the Worlds. The commodore, the senior officer stationed in Norport, was from the Kenheran Navy. His aide was from Caelon, a small archipelago nation that was Kenheran’s enemy at first, then ally. And Captain Vungsborn still proudly wore his Reich uniform, although the Reich, the arch-enemy of most of the factions at the start of the War, no longer existed.
In some ways, it was much easier to work with them when they were all enemies, when the War was just a large-scale clash of several worlds and empires that ended up in a three-sided war, with some of the smaller players moving between larger factions almost at will. The early stages of the War were waged almost entirely at sea, and diesel fuel became a scarce resource, quickly raising Norport’s importance to levels that no one in town, except Joel, expected.
Norport declared strict neutrality as a port open for all as soon as the War started. The city resisted any attempts to become part of one of the factions, selling oil, diesel, and food to any ship that entered the harbor. It was a time of many great opportunities for Joel. For one, he managed to force the city Council to agree on a huge expansion of the small town guard. It was needed, he explained, to keep safety in port with all those foreign soldiers who constantly fought among themselves. Most of the guard officers saw Joel as their boss, the only one who cared and paid a lot of money out of his pocket for their maintenance while other Councilors chaffed, argued, moaned, and hoped that the War and all those stupid outworlders would just leave them alone.
When the first refugees from war-torn worlds started to arrive, attracted by the neutrality and relative safety of Norport, it was Joel who did his best to help them, providing them with at least simple shelters and work in his quickly growing factories and other enterprises. He was careful enough to convince a few other families to follow in his footsteps by appealing to their greed. He didn’t want to gain too much power too quickly, as he was already playing a very complicated political game.
"They're pathetically grateful and willing to work for peanuts. You're stupid if you don't use this opportunity. We either use them as a workforce, or they'll become a burden on our necks," he explained.
He used the same careful manipulation on outworlder officers and envoys. "Norport is neutral," he said. "Our people are not willing to join anyone. They would revolt if one of us Councilors just suggested that. Your offer of building a huge refinery is generous, but that would require us to join you, and we would become targets for the Reich's submarine raids. How about we just build the refinery ourselves, with your entrepreneurs as investors?"
What helped him most in the long term was his honesty. "I'm doing it for my home," he said. "Like my colleagues, I would prefer you all to go away, but I realize that it's not going to happen, so I'm doing my best to keep Norport safe. And so far, that requires that we stay neutral. A safe haven for all."
He gained a reputation for being a skillful and surprisingly honest diplomat. Neutral Norport gained importance as a place where talks between envoys of warring factions could occur in relative safety. Some of the wealthy people who didn't want to be involved in the War started to see Norport as a place for investment or even relocation of their businesses.
When Joel got the first reports of a sudden ceasefire among all remaining factions, he felt sad. It seemed that the age of great opportunities was coming to an end. Then he was discreetly told by one of the Reich's captains the reason for the sudden end of hostilities.
There was a new enemy, horrible, inhuman, and clearly bent on destroying everything. It was attacking on all sides and growing in numbers with each town or city conquered, and the factions couldn’t afford to fight each other. They were even discussing a common alliance. Joel saw an opportunity and instantly suggested Norport as a place where the negotiations could take place.
It almost backfired on him.
"Well, gentlemen, so far I’ve heard only some strange rumors and I was hoping that you might tell me more," he said after the first drink to a group of former enemies, now fellow officers of the Alliance of the Worlds stationed in Norport, a city that managed, barely, to remain neutral so far.
"We don’t know anything concrete," grumbled the commodore. "But there must have been some serious event. The grand admiral is dead. He died a few minutes after we had that earthquake. And not just him. Several other important people died too."
"How can you know that, commodore? Magic?" frowned Joel. If the Alliance had a way to use radio signals across different worlds, it was a secret held from him.
"Essentially," said the commodore. "A coin of favor. I had a silver one from the grand admiral. It disappeared, and that means he must be dead. There have been a few more of them going around, from other top alliance people. Some of the others died too."
"So… That huge offensive you told me about. There must have been a battle?" asked Joel carefully. He didn’t know much about those coins, only that the really powerful beings were capable of creating them and gifting them to their minions. He was shown one once, but it looked like a simple trick. Just a silver coin, appearing and disappearing at will in the hand of a drunken officer.
"Possibly," hissed Captain Vungsborn. "We have a healer in the hospital. She used to be a priestess of Entropy before the war. She rejected her god, but she got a strong seizure the moment the earthquake started. When she woke up, she claimed that she felt her god… destroyed."
"And some of our navigators and other talented claim that there was a huge shift in the reality. Nobody knows what it means, Councilor. Could I get another shot, please?" asked the commodore.
"Of course." Joel poured another round and then he said truthfully: "I don’t know much about such things, gentlemen. This is probably a stupid question, but is there anything I can do to help?"
"Well… we’ve come here to warn you that we’re going to send two ships away, to find out what happened. This will reduce the protection of the town below the agreed limit, so some of the Councilors might grumble."
"Ah, I see. Do you really think it’s time for such a swift reaction? Sooner or later, another ship with refugees or a tanker will surely come with news."
"I’m afraid we have to do this, Councilor. Something bad happened. I can feel it in my bones," said the commodore.
Joel was sure that the officers were overreacting. He fully expected to see another ship in a day or two, with new propaganda stories about glorious victories and yet another legendary monster or hero joining the Alliance in a fight against the common enemy. Not another god, though, as he was told that the only two Elder Gods still in existence were already supporting the fight. He generally disbelieved all such stories. And some of the officers told him about the true state of the war. The Alliance was barely holding the invasion in check, and any genuine victories or reclamations of the occupied territory were exceptionally rare.
It was a situation that suited him so far because the importance of Norport slowly grew together with his personal power and reputation. And if the mysterious enemy somehow got to Norport, he had several contingency plans prepared. He would hate to use them, but he believed in being prepared.
But no ship came the next day. Or the day after. In old Norport, before the War, that would be normal. It was rare for more than one or two transworld ships to enter the harbor in a week. It was odd in new Norport, a town that could now claim to be a city as its population more than tripled in just a few years.
Joel was busy moving around, squashing rumors, and being positive all around. Most of the refugees saw him as their Counselor, the one who fought for their rights and attempted to persuade the rest of the Council to grant them citizenship. Normally, citizenship was granted after a year of residence, but the Council vote blocked that during the time of war. That was a hard one to arrange for Joel, and it was becoming harder and harder to keep.
He was visiting newly built resident houses close to the old port. It was shabby and quick work from the cheapest possible materials, but a lot better than the improvised huts where most of the refugees still lived. He praised the workers for their effort and received loud thanks, for it was he who paid for the materials and provided tools. A small investment with a potentially huge return.
When he was about to leave, he noticed a city guard officer running towards him. “Sir! Sir! You need to go to the island right now.”
The big island in the bay was leased to the Alliance as a base for their warships. Joel had to scream at some of the Councilors and pay huge bribes to others to get it passed. Even his allies in the Council resisted. Those idiots couldn’t understand that the Alliance needed Norport badly enough to be willing to take it over if they wouldn’t cooperate.
If he was needed on the island, it meant that something bad must have happened. A crisis. An opportunity.
“What’s going on?” he asked calmly.
“Dunno, sir. There’s a ship returning. We were told to find you as soon as possible and send you to the island. Those alliance people want you there.”
Joel ordered his driver to take him to the port. He was one of the few in the city who had a personal car. It was a good reminder of his status to everyone around, but Joel liked to say that it was to save time moving around the growing city… and sheepishly admit to some that this was one luxury he decided to burn some money on because he loves modern technology. “Maybe in time, everyone will be wealthy enough to own a car,” he said to others. Sometimes he drove himself, often faster than it was safe, and he always had a huge grin plastered on his face. It worked. Common people cheered him when he drove around, while other Councilors who imported their own cars were often sneered at.
A waiting powerboat took him directly to the alliance office on the island.
“Well, gentlemen? I was told you needed me.”
“It was the apocalypse,” said the commodore. He looked twenty years older than yesterday.
“I’m sorry?”
“That tremor. It was a sign of the apocalypse.”
“I don’t understand, commodore. What happened?”
“The submarine U57 is on the way back to the port, Councilor. It was one of the ships we sent to get information.”
“Already?”
The way between worlds usually took a few days, even for a very talented navigator. The ship had to first get far enough from shore to the ocean and then locate a correct current in the fabric of reality that would allow it to cross over to another world.
“She failed to find a way out, Councilor. They lost contact with the frigate Augustus on the first attempt. Their navigator says that the currents are absolutely unstable.”
“And he is a really good one,” said Vungsborn. “He’s a sensitive. He can navigate by feel alone, even without tables and instruments. He’s one of those who can find new ways. Now he says that… there are none.”
“How… how is that possible?”
“The apocalypse,” repeated the commodore. “That is what happened before. When the angels fought against demons. And before, when the Elder Gods destroyed themselves. Possibly before. When the apocalypse occurs, the connections between worlds are shaken. Sometimes destroyed completely.”
Joel was troubled by this because, for him, such things were just old outworlder legends and myths. But he vaguely remembered stories of how, in the distant past, suddenly no ships came for several years. No one paid any attention to it, as Norport was only a large fishing village in those times. But the first ship that came brought news of destruction and doom that nobody believed or cared about.
“All right, gentlemen. What is the worst-case scenario for us here in Norport?”
“We’re isolated from the rest of the world. Maybe for just a short time. We’ll send U57 to give it another try in a few days to see if the currents are stabilizing. But it might be for a long time. Maybe...forever. There are stories of worlds that got cut off completely for hundreds or even thousands of years.”
That sounded like great news to Joel.
“Alright. In that case, the only real big problem right now I see is food. We were dependent on imports even before the city grew so much. There’s still enough in granaries to go for a few months, but if the shipping stops... well, gentlemen, in that case, we can all look forward to meals that would consist mostly of dinosaur steaks and rum.”
One of the lower-ranking officers snickered. “That’s what we’re mostly fed on seas nowadays, anyway. Your cans that taste like chicken and a small rum ration.”
“And the vitamin supplements and biscuits. We have only a limited supply of these,” said the commodore. “But... you are right, councilor. The food will be our biggest problem in the long run if we stay isolated.”
“I frankly... can’t think of anything else that I would call critical. Except, of course, people isolated from their loved ones,” said Joel. “And there’s nothing we can do about that. But... even in the worst-case scenario, we’ll survive. Or am I missing something?”
“The spare parts, special equipment. Ammo. Gunpowder. You can’t hunt those giant lizards without some serious firepower.”
“We can make most of this, I think,” said Joel, furiously thinking and sorting out the best opportunities life just threw at him. “I’ll go inform the council, commodore, and I’ll set some of my people on looking at ways how we can get some bigger food production going on. We never really bothered because it’s just too hard to grow anything in the damn swamps, and we could always buy grain, but I’m sure we’ll find some ways to deal with it.”
“Well... you took it better than I thought, Councilor, but you always had that positive outlook on life,” said the commodore. “What will others think, though? The other Councilors, the city people.”
“I’m sorry to say this, commodore, but... I’m not sure about refugees, except those who already went native, as you’re calling it. But most of the old-timers... will be happy. I always told you that most of the city doesn’t want to deal with foreigners. They might see it as a fulfillment of their wish. They’ll probably celebrate. Until the grain runs out.”
As Joel predicted, most of the town took it as good news. Joel himself was almost ecstatic, though he looked somber and patiently explained to others that hard times would be coming.
It took several weeks before U57 returned from yet another expedition, and her navigator reported that the currents were stabilizing enough that he might, maybe, with a lot of luck, try crossing over and even back. The commodore didn’t want to risk it just yet.
After the next expedition over the ocean, U57’s navigator reported that the currents were calm now, although changed, some slightly, some completely. New charts would be needed.
Joel shared the enthusiasm of the allied officers, at least publicly. Personally, he felt annoyed.
Then a radio signal reported that another allied submarine emerged on the ocean currents and tried calling the port. It brought news, good and bad.
The War was won, but it was a Pyrrhic victory. Although the forces of the mysterious enemy were annihilated, the resulting destruction was incredible. Some worlds and many allied forces were completely destroyed.
The official word from the remains of the Alliance was that the Elder God Lord Entropy sacrificed himself and used all his power to destroy the invasion, as he saw no other way to stop them. He summoned storms of oblivion that devoured the invaders, but also what remained of the occupied worlds. In many places, storms crossed over the worlds and caused additional destruction, leaving terrible entropic beasts prowling the resulting apocalyptic wasteland.
Joel took the first opportunity he could find to ask Captain Vungsborn what it actually meant. He was cultivating Reich’s officers, as he had some plans for them for a long time. Vungsborn and a few others stationed in Norport already considered Joel their personal friend.
“Well, Joel... I think it’s way more complicated than they’re telling us.”
“In all the stories I’ve heard, Entropy was always the villain. He was supposed to cause some previous apocalypse, am I right? This redemption for his past deeds, as the Alliance calls it... seems weird. But I’m a provincial bumpkin who doesn’t know much about other worlds and their history. That’s why I’m asking you, Ernest.”
“Joel, I think they are lying, but it doesn’t matter. Everyone agrees that he’s kaput, and good riddance to him. But those storms, that’s bad business. It’s going to take years to clear out areas where it occurred... if someone bothers at all.”
Vungsborn had another drink and continued, “The other news I have, from the channels we Reich’s officers still keep, are, well... bad. For us, mostly. The Alliance has already splintered. The majority of the factions still have homes they can return to. They’re resolved to clear their worlds, rebuild the new civilization from the ashes of the old. But there are few, like us, who have nowhere to go. Reich was the villain that started the War, after all. Nobody wants us.”
“But I thought that you were those who revolted against Reich’s leadership, Ernest.”
Vungsborn grimaced and held out his glass for another drink. Joel poured him a generous shot of black rum. Vungsborn downed it in one gulp and shook his head.
“It doesn’t matter to most of them. Now, when they no longer need our submarines and our troops… all they see are former enemies. And you know that more than half of us are wehrwolves. Monsters.”
“Only by reputation,” objected Joel. “At least, that’s what you told me.”
Joel was very interested in wehrwolves from the start. There were a few true werewolves among outworlders working in the swamps, generally hairy and wild fellows who were supposed to be able to change their forms around the full moon, but their main strength came from the ability to heal any wounds quickly, even those that would have been fatal for a normal human. That was very useful in swamps filled with many ugly beasts. It was one of the few things called magical Joel ever saw that was at least a bit useful. He had several of the swamp wolves on his payroll, as hunters and for occasional special work.
But Reich’s wehrwolves were humans that survived the process developed by Reich’s scientists. It was supposed to turn them into super-soldiers… but the most noticeable change was that it made them ugly. Stronger and more resilient than humans, as town guard officers always confirmed after occasional bar fights, but mostly ugly.
“Sure, almost all of them are forced conscripts, not the original Wehrwolf Kommando, but…” Vungsborn shrugged. “We don’t know what to do. Maybe the admiral has some plans he hasn’t shared with captains just yet, but… There’s not enough of us to start our colony or try to reclaim one of the Reich’s original worlds. And we have almost no women. But there are too many of us to find a new home, not if we keep our promises and stick together. Most of us just expected to fight to the bitter end, anyway.”
“What about Norport?” asked Joel carefully.
Vungsborn narrowed his eyes at him.
“There’s no way we could support all the submarines you still have. Not now, not for some time. Some would have to be mothballed. Some of the bigger ones, those already converted for transporting, could easily pay for themselves as freighters, but I would love to have at least a few of the combat ones stationed here…”
“What for?” interrupted Vungsborn.
“You know me, Ernest. Always hope for the best, but prepare for the worst. We have one small modern destroyer and two old steam-powered frigates. Norport managed to stay independent because we were far away and unimportant, but that had changed. My colleagues might think that everything will go back to normal now, but that’s impossible. Sooner or later, someone might decide to come and take over. We would have problems keeping away a group of determined pirates.”
Vungsborn snorted. “Yeah, you’re essentially defenseless. When I was sent here for the first time in the early stages of the War, my report to the high command was that it would be extremely easy to take over the town… but it would be very costly to keep it. Not worth it. That’s one of the reasons I recommended silently supporting your neutrality for now.”
Joel smiled at him.
“Good old times,” he said. “But now... the situation has changed. I’ve been racking my brain ever since we had that first radio report, looking for some long-term solution.”
“And have you talked about that with your colleagues, the Councillors?” asked Vungsborn sourly.
“Only with a few of them. And I’ve mostly been trying to get their support on building at least one new warship of our own,” admitted Joel.
“With all due respect, Joel... to you personally, I mean... that is your biggest long-term problem. The Council. A bunch of conservative dinosaurs, every one of them claiming to be descended from the original twelve fisherman families who ended up here more than a thousand years ago. They see anyone who’s not here for at least a few generations as an annoying insect. I’ve heard how they’re talking about you, just because you have an outworlder mother, Joel. I’ve seen how the refugees are treated outside the town. A place where we would be pariahs from the start is not a place we would want to call home, even if we could trust the leadership to be capable of doing what needs to be done.”
“And that’s something that has to change,” said Joel. “I hadn’t dared to force the issue before, but I’m already pushing for a repeal of new laws against immigration. Some of the refugees will leave, but a lot of them will want to stay...”
“That’s not enough, Joel,” interrupted Vungsborn again. “I’m sure you’ll get them citizenship eventually, but that doesn’t mean that much in the end. They’ll be third-class citizens at best, anyway. You’re lucky, no... they, the other Councilors, are lucky that there hasn’t been some sort of uprising already. There would be, but a lot of the refugees and previous newcomers are looking up to you. They believe in your promises. If those who see you as their Councilor decide that you’ve failed them...”
“The city is a powder keg waiting to blow,” admitted Joel. “The council doesn’t see it that way. They just don’t understand that the majority of the city is now against them. They think their personal guards and the city guard would be more than enough to put down any attempts at insurrection, but they’re wrong. It would be a bloodbath, but...”
Joel sighed and drank his own rum. “I’m dancing on a thin wire over the abyss, Ernest. If I push the Council too much, they’ll see it as an attempt to usurp power. My own clan isn’t exactly happy with me. They stay behind me in public, they have to, but in private... they’re blaming me for using too many resources for the city and refugees. Resources that should have been used for the good of the clan. But if I don’t do enough for refugees... the worst-case scenario is they just start an insurrection... and proclaim me their leader. I’ve been carefully offered just that from several groups, you know.”
“Why don’t you take it, Joel? Why not become a king?”
“I don’t want to. I’d prefer a political solution without any bloodbath and destruction. It could easily break the city.”
“And you think adding us to the mix would help?”
“Regarding the possible external threats? Definitely. With the internal situation... If you would offer your services to the city, in exchange for, say, a Council seat of your own, it would open the way for additional later reforms. And with you in the harbor, any possible violent scenarios might be avoided, or at least limited.”
“Where would those reforms lead to? You surely have a plan or two. I know you well enough, Joel.”
“I’d like to get to a republic of sorts. A representative council, maybe bicameral, but the actual executive power would be in the hands of one elected person, a mayor, I guess.”
Vungsborn nodded. “That can be a good system if you set it up well. My homeland used to be a republic for a long time, and it worked until we got unlucky with our elected president.”
“Really? I hadn’t known that,” lied Joel.
They talked and drank for some time before Vungsborn excused himself. He promised Joel to pass the message to his admiral.
Weeks passed quickly, and Joel didn't get much chance to sleep or spend time with his family. He couldn't afford to, as the situation was very fluid, and some opportunities surfaced only for a moment before disappearing forever.
The ship traffic was still light, and the currents of the ocean had stabilized but changed, for better or worse, depending on one's point of view. Before the apocalypse, there were only a few solid and safe routes leading to Norport. Now, at least according to a few expeditions that U57 did before being sent away, there were dozens of worlds easily accessible from Norport.
It was a great opportunity, but also a security nightmare.
A few refugees had already left, but more arrived with wild stories of horror and destruction. Some of the new refugees were silent and passive, with dead eyes. Joel was told that these were victims of entropic fields that partially wiped their minds and memories. They seemed dumb and required special care, some of them even had to be ordered to eat, but mostly worked hard without any complaints. Joel was hoping to get more of them.
There were several additional official reports from the Alliance and some unofficial ones that didn't sound good. Vungsborn's claim that the Alliance was splintering was confirmed even by the official news. The harbor was mostly empty, and only a few low-ranking allied officers were keeping duty on the island, possibly just to hold the claim for later...or maybe they were forgotten by their superiors. All they had left were a few motorboats.
The political situation in the city still resembled a powder keg, with the fuse burning quickly.
Even Joel was starting to feel rather nervous and moved more and more resources to contingency plans.
Then the day came when the fire reached the keg, sooner than expected.
Joel was in a clandestine meeting in a small room in the cellar of the town hall with his biggest public enemies.
"Joel, my boy, we can't wait any longer," grumbled old George Karahorn, the eldest and the most conservative Councilman of them all. He was almost ninety, his face a mask of wrinkles and old scars, but he still ruled his big clan of fishermen and whalers with an iron fist and loud voice that he often used to shout at the rest of the council, especially at Joel, while shaking his iron fist. It was literally iron, courtesy of a too-close encounter with a kraken when George was still just a captain on one of the many boats of his family.
"He's right," added Bert Rossfield. He was called The Capitalist by refugees, and even old-timers agreed that this moniker fits him. He was known for pinching pennies until they squealed and begged for mercy. He usually kept silent on Council meetings, unless Joel tried to ask for more money for any of the projects that the city needed.
"I understand that you still hope for a result that won't cause violence and damage to property and lives. I agree with you, Joel, but I think we're past that. Not even if those mercenaries you said you might get shown up. I guess you still have no news from them?"
Joel shook his head. "Sadly, none. And no serious response from any other group I’ve managed to contact."
That was the truth. His last contact with Vungsborn was three weeks ago when the rest of Reich's sailors were recalled. Vungsborn called him on the island on the pretense of saying goodbye. There was a gray-haired woman who claimed to be an assistant to Admiral Doenigsburg, leader of the submarine fleet. Joel spent about an hour discussing various possibilities with her, but in the end, he was told that any decision had to take place in a conference that the admiral planned, and that he would be informed in two weeks at most.
"This is getting too dangerous for you personally, my boy. You're cutting it too close. I was already asked if I would support a vote against you, possibly for treason. They might even get enough votes. Hell, I would vote against you if I wasn't in this with you from the beginning," grumbled Karahorn.
"We've discussed that scenario," said Joel, although he wasn't exactly thrilled about it. That one was a bit too risky.
"No. That would be a needless complication. Face it, we would need a miracle to solve this without any violence. So we declare a state of emergency and the triumvirate. We crack down hard on all those radicals and potential troublemakers you've identified, Joel. We have our personal guards, the city guard, my fishermen, and your swampies. It should be more than enough."
"Barely," objected Rossfield. "Even with those mercenaries I've got on my payroll... if we're wrong about some of the families and they decide to fight, it will get bloody. But we need to act now. Any more delays will mean that we'll have to break even more eggs. And I would prefer starting with Arjenis and Boonogs. Leave refugees for the second strike."
"This is the part I really hate," complained Karahorn. "Little Ricky Arjeni... I used to take him on the sea when he was a wee boy. But there's no helping there. That man is as stubborn and dumb as a brick wall. At least in Arjenis’ case, we won't have to kill them all. Is your man in place, Joel?"
Joel nodded. He had a lot of reliable men and women, including two beings that weren’t exactly human, in various places. He was hoping for a miracle, but he was prepared for the worst-case scenario.
"Why the hell do they have to be so stupid and blind?" complained Karahon again.
The phone on the table started to ring. It had to be something really important; otherwise, Joel's secretary wouldn't dare to interrupt this meeting. He picked it up and listened for a moment.
"What's happening?!" demanded Karahon when he saw Joel's face. Joel raised his hand and made a hush gesture. He listened a bit more.
"Set the guards on alert. Contingency plan beta, don’t fight without orders. Same for the ships. I'll be there in a moment," he said, then he hung up the phone and stared at the other two councilors.
"Spit it out! What's going on?"
"A report from the watchtower on the Mountain," Joel said without any emotion. "There's a fleet of airships, at least two dozen, approaching the city. And smoke on the horizon, a lot of smoke, coming from surface ships. No answer on the radio."
"An invasion?" yelled Karahon. "Who?!"
"The airships have markings of the Alliance."
The Councilors didn’t get far. A group of masked men in fatigues, recognizable by their size and small submachine guns as members of wehrwolf commando units, emerged out of nowhere and quickly took over the town hall, herding the councilors to a meeting chamber.
They were greeted by a grey-haired, elderly-looking woman who explained what was happening.
It was the remains of the Alliance, those who no longer had homes they could return to. Military and political leaders, as well as legendary beings and sorcerers that Joel had always discounted as propaganda pieces.
They called themselves the Founders. The Founders of a new enlightened age of civilization and progress. And they chose Noport as their new home.
The annexation was quick, with only a few cases of restricted violence. Even the Boonogs limited themselves to quiet protests.
Joel got his bloodless miracle, but no matter how hard he looked, he just couldn’t find any really good-looking opportunities he could use.
The Councilors would keep their seats, for now, in a much-enlarged representative city Council, but any real power ended up in the Founders' hands. The resistance seemed futile, but Joel schemed and thought throughout the long proclamation of the new mayor, the grey-haired Megan. He was sure he would be able to find a good angle. A lot of what Megan was spouting sounded like nonsense to Joel. She proclaimed Norport a place where magic would be strictly controlled, essentially forbidden, and as a pledge that the Founders would uphold this law, they promised to use their own remaining power to help the city grow. The city had to grow quickly because, with the arrival of the Founders, it doubled in population overnight.
Joel felt that this might be a weakness he could use.
He felt less sure after he had a short audience with his new ruler.
"I'm sorry, Mister Melakiss, that there was no time to present you with our counter-offer. You said that your dream is for Norport to become a beacon of civilization, a big and wealthy city. We're here to do just that. It's up to you if you'll be part of it or not."
And before Joel could say anything, a human-like figure made from the whirling darkness presented him with a file. "You might be interested in finding out just how much we know about you, Mister Melakiss," said the bogeyman in a strange voice devoid of any emotion.
Joel looked over the first few pages. It looked like all of his misdeeds, both done and planned, were in the file. He didn't bother denying anything.
"If it's any consolation, Mr. Melakiss, we were considering Norport as a site for our possible base for some time. It wasn't your attempt to get wehrwolves as your enforcers that drew us here. Grand Inquisitor has been stationed here for over a year already," said Megan.
Joel waved the file and asked, "How?"
"Mostly magic, Mr. Melakiss," answered the darkness. "Not that showy stuff that one of our colleagues will be using tomorrow to awe the city, but magic nonetheless. Your one weakness is that you disbelieve it. The rest was standard intelligence work. It helped that most of the specialists you've recruited lately were my agents."
"I repeat, it's up to you what happens now, Mr. Melakiss," said the mayor. "For a self-proclaimed provincial bumpkin, you're excellent at what you do. I would prefer you in a Council seat. Feel free to use your considerable skills against other Councilors and for your personal gain. But if you try any of that shit on us Founders, you'll regret it. Is that understood?"
Joel managed to nod.
His mind was still numbed the next day when he was escorted, with the rest of the Councillors, to witness the start of a new age. He still expected some stupid trick designed to confuse the crowd.
The Alliance propaganda contained several stories about an ancient sorcerer, simply known as "The Mason," who had helped the allied forces in several battles by drawing gigantic stone fortifications from the ground with pure magic. However, Joel still couldn’t bring himself to believe in something like that.
They were standing close to an empty plaza on the edge of the old town that was used for occasional festivals. When the ground started to shake, Joel was sure it must be the Mountain. But instead, it was a burly man in an immaculate suit and wearing a cylinder hat who slowly raised his hands, and the earth responded.
Everyone, not just the Norport old-timers, stared, often slack-jawed, at a giant stone building that was slowly rising from the ground and reaching for the skies.
They were later informed that it was a new city hall to house the Founders and the new government. It was only a crude stone building, just walls, floors, stairs, and ceilings. Everything else would have to be done by normal labor, but it was a miracle.
It made Joel believe in magic.
We’ve never encountered anything like this xenomorph before.
The xenomorph was discovered aboard a damaged vessel of unknown design, found derelict at approximately 67.43299, 32.67142 (SG). Though damaged, the vessel was maintaining emergency power when discovered, which is how the xenomorph was found alive.
The xenomorph was sealed in some sort of stasis-chamber within anescape pod. A mechanical failure had prevented the pod from launching, resulting in the xenomorph being sustained by the main ship’s emergency power until we found it.
We do not know how long this was the case prior to our stumbling upon this find.
We transported the xenomorph to our own ship, RS-143, long-range research vessel. We are two years into our 10-year research mission into uncharted space. Dr. Campbell, from the first, objected to transporting the xenomorph aboard our own ship, citing the myriad dangers.
I overruled him.
The xenomorph is phenomenal, and I mean that literally.
We
have complete information on over a hundred sapient, space-faring
species, most of them allied with ourselves, and this xenomorph
exceeds them all. If one wanted to design the absolute perfect
physical specimen, one could do little better than the
xenomorph.
Vivisection is impossible given our current
facilities; the restricted-labs are rated for Level-3, yet the
research staff feels that is inadequate. We have to limit ourselves
to constrained sample recovery, physical observation, non-invasive
scans and algorithmic extrapolations.
I must admit, I share their reticence.
The xenomorph itself is deadly to life as we know it. It evolved, if it evolved, in an environment that current science says no life could have possibly evolved in. For point of fact, the xenomorph sheds dander that would cause anaphylaxis in any species known.
I must maintain my scientific distance.
In size the xenomorph is roughly galactic-standard (abbreviated as GS for the rest of this log) for sapient-life, -5% in length but, surprisingly, 50% over for mass. This disparity is due to unusual hypertrophy of its muscular tissue and the extreme density of its skeletal structure, with a full-body average of 4.1g/m2. These data-points and observed structural physiognomy indicate that the planet this xenomorph evolved on was a planet possessing gravity far above GS, perhaps as much as much as 30-50% higher.
The xenomorph is bilaterally symmetrical, with a nervous system centered upon a singular node in its singular bilateral extremity. Unless one were to destroy said node, algorithms say the xenomorph could continue to function for minutes, perhaps even hours, after what would otherwise be a debilitating blow to another sentient species.
At this point, I must remind myself that I must maintain scientific distance.
The xenomorph’s reproductive system, from what we can identify, is particularly robust. The xenomorph has what we have identified as external genitalia, and to say such was over-developed would be an understatement. Its external genitalia are twelve standard deviations beyond GS. I’d say it was grotesque, but I fear that would be a value judgment unbecoming of a scientist..
Scientific distance.
The xenomorph shows clear signs of predatory descent, possessing two eyes capable of binocular focus, distinct canines and incisors, opposable digits on its upper-limbs, and a brain-body mass ratio over 1.4. The latter suggest at least the possibility of tool-use and higher cognizance.
The xenomorph’s ability to maintain homeostasis is five standard deviations from GS. From what we can ascertain from computer simulations, it should be able to operate in temperatures from -10C to 50C for moderate periods of time with no protective equipment. It must be stated that the xenomorph’s tolerance for heat is higher than its tolerance for cold. Given adequate water intake, the xenomorph could likely operate in temperatures up to 37C for extended periods, or even indefinitely. This is owed to the xenomorph’s extremely efficient heat-dissipation system, as it dissipates heat across the entirety of its surface area through a system of liquid excretion, a system unique in galactic biology. This heat-dissipation system also allows the xenomorph to exert itself to lengths that no other known species, sapient or not, can match.
And that only scratches the surface of the xenomorph’s resilience.
Cells harvested from the xenomorph’s dermis can withstand radiation in excess of 200 rads with only superficial damage, the LD50 for practically every known species. Thicker sections composed of the dermis and subcutaneous tissue can absorb almost 300 rads before deterioration; extrapolating from this information we can conclude that the xenomorph’s LD50 is approximately 400 rads, with the LD100 measuring at least 1 krad.
From what we can see the xenomorph is superbly adapted to survive extreme environmental conditions, radiation,and circulatory shock far beyond anything else we’ve ever encountered.
The xenomorph is, without exaggeration, the perfect physical specimen.
It is the opinion of the research staff that, given everything we’ve been able to ascertain about the xenomorph’s biology, this specimen is part of a species genetically-engineered or biologically-enhanced for either combat or extreme environmental work. It must have been uplifted by some yet unknown civilization as a servitor species. In galactic history no planet with such an extreme environmental profile has ever given rise to sapient life. Dr. Campbell is the lone dissenting voice, arguing that there is no evidence of extrinsic genetic manipulation or biological enhancement, and that this xenomorph is entirely the result of natural selection for the singularly harsh environment of its homeworld.
I shudder to think of an entire planet of these monsters.
We can no longer keep the xenomorph restrained by chemical means.
We’ve used the entirety of our stores of sedatives, but the xenomorph has multiple organs specifically designed to filter toxins out of the bloodstream, plus its very cells demonstrate a remarkable propensity to narcotic resistance.Our stores were planned for for the entirety of our 10-year mission, but they were only capable of sedating the xenomorph for a total of 12 days. We’ve been reduced to forcing the xenomorph to ingest, via feeding tube, massive quantities of ethanol, as that is the only chemical we can synthesize faster than the xenomorph’s body can metabolize and excrete.
Disaster has struck.
At 1543 today, the xenomorph escaped containment. The details of the incident are as follows:
At 1530, Drs. Smith and Gold suited up and entered the restricted-lab through the airlock to perform approved tests on the xenomorph. Observing from the attached outer-lab were Drs. Miller, Tailor, Campbell, and Gold.
That proved to be a fatal mistake.
At 1534 testing commenced. The first two tests were completed successfully, and results were transmitted back to the outer-lab for recording and further review.
The third test began at 1539.
The third test was to be a recovery of a small amount of the xenomorph’s dermis and subcutaneous tissue for further experimentation. We had not performed such a specimen recovery since we had switched from narcotic to ethanol restraint of the xenomorph. This required one of the Drs. performing these tests to make physical contact with the xenomorph, and it was decided that Dr. Smith, being the older and more experienced, was to do so. As Chief Researcher, I will admit the fact that he was also the physically larger and stronger of the two played a part in the decision.
The proper decision would have been to not perform the test.
First incision was attempted, as previously stated, at 1539. The xenomorph responded violently. Either the xenomorph had only been feigning unconsciousness, or the pain of the incision roused it to consciousness. I cannot be sure from reviewing recordings of the incident.
There is, however, no doubt as to the results.
The xenomorph seized Dr. Smith with a single appendage, lifted him off the floor, and hurled him backwards with such force that, likely, Dr. Smith’s spinal-cord was crushed when he struck the wall.
Regardless of the cause, Dr. Smith was dead before he hit the ground.
The xenomorph then took several seconds removing the feeding tube we had inserted and all the monitoring leads. During all of this Dr. Gold stood paralyzed with fear. Had she immediately ran for the airlock and removed herself from the restricted-lab, the situation could have yet been salvaged.
She did not.
Meanwhile, in the outer-lab, chaos also reigned. Dr. Campbell immediately tried to enact sterilization procedures as soon as the xenomorph had seized Dr. Smith, as per protocol: the restricted-lab would be sealed and external shutters would be opened, exposing it to the vacuum of space. After the designated period of vacuum had been achieved the lab would be re-sealed, re-atmosphered, and the temperature raised to 121*C for a period of one hour. Until the sterilization procedure had been completed, there would be no way to access the restricted lab from the outer lab.
It was the proper thing to do, but also the wrong thing.
As soon as Dr. Campbell made his intentions clear Dr. Gold attacked him, preventing him from doing so. It took Drs. Miller and Tailor several moments to restrain Dr. Gold. As a husband myself, I cannot in good faith blame Dr. Gold.
His wife was still inside.
And that was all the time the xenomorph needed.
In the time it took Drs. Miller and Tailor to restrain Dr. Gold, the xenomorph had moved from the restricted-lab to the air-lock, impossibly fast for what we had thought was a largely incapacitated subject. After several moments of confusion the xenomorph attacked the clean-side door, succeeding in finding purchase and ripping it off its runners, exposing the outer lab to contamination. Dr. Campbell ran for the door separating the outer lab from the ship proper, Drs. Miller and Tailor released Dr. Gold, and Dr. Gold attacked the xenomorph.
All three died.
Dr. Gold attempted to wrestle the xenomorph, but such was folly; it halted him by his neck with a single appendage and crushed his windpipe with seeming disinterest. Drs. Miller and Tailor tried to flee for the door, but they were not properly suited against contamination.
Dr. Miller died far from the door, Dr. Tailor almost made it before he succumbed to anaphylaxis. Meanwhile, Dr. Campbell had not properly sealed the outer-lab. He had run for his own life and no one else’s
In doing so he had doomed the ship.
What was most surprising was the xenomorph’s interaction with the surviving Dr. Gold, which I must, for posterity, record. Our first conjecture had been that the xenomorph must have been a servitor species, a warrior species, bereft of intelligence (Dr. Campbell excepted, of course), but for several minutes it seemed to attempt to communicate with Dr. Gold within the restricted-lab. After a time the xenomorph forced Dr. Gold into the outer-lab.
It was then that she saw her husband.
Dr. Gold screamed and immediately tried to remove her helmet. The xenomorph attempted to stop her, for the record, but the very act sealed her fate. She died, same as Dr. Miller and Dr. Tailor.
The xenomorph was loose on the ship.
There was a discussion as to what was to be done.
Those in discussion were myself, Dr. Campbell, Dr.Walker, Captain Burgess, Chief Officer Grey, and Chief Engineer Light. Dr. Campbell advocated for the immediate destruction of the ship, either through intentionally overloading the engines or through scuttling. His argument was that the xenomorph’s interaction with Dr. Gold had proven it to be a sapient species, an exceedingly deadly one, and the only way to ensure the xenomorph did not gain control of the ship was its destruction. The deaths of all those aboard, including himself, was, in Dr. Campbell’s opinion, a necessary sacrifice.
Others disagreed.
Chief Officer Grey and Chief Engineer Light proposed using teams of armed crewmembers to sweep and clear the ship from navigation aft to engineering, welding all bulkheads shut. The hope was that the xenomorph could be constrained and finally contained by these efforts.
Captain Burgess and myself sided with Chief Officer Grey and Chief Engineer Light.
The xenomorph is far smarter than we gave it credit for.
It is not some dumb brute, barely sapient, as we had hoped. The xenomorph possesses an actual mind and cunning. After escaping the lab the xenomorph, perhaps realizing that Navigation would be stern and a far harder target, made its way aft towards Engineering. It must be noted that the derelict ship was laid out in the same way as our own.
The xenomorph made it to engineering within the one minute contamination alarm.
It was a slaughter.
Most died from exposure, but those that tried to fight fared little better. Few had military training, but the xenomorph tore through them. All told, the death toll stands at thirty-eight..
The xenomorph is a monster.
The xenomorph has somehow disabled the engines.
We are adrift in uncharted space. The only man who can perhaps fix this is Chief Engineer Light.
I do not relish Chief Engineer Light the decision before him.
Chief Engineer Light is dead.
He attempted to access engineering through the air-ducts, aided by Chief Officer Grey and eight crew with military experience armed with SP-5s from the armory.
I saw it on the video, and I will record it for posterity.
The xenomorph was a monster. It shrugged off shots that would have killed any being in Galactic knowledge. It killed Chief Engineer Light with its bare-hands, crushing his skull.
The other nine fared little better.
They may have been panicked, but they were trained. They fell back, they covered each other, they fought the xenomorph to their last breaths.
It mattered not.
Nothing they did could stop it, and the last chance for the ship died with Chief Engineer Light.
Dr. Campbell, who’s mental state has become unstable since the events in the outer-laborator, clawed at the walls in navigation, saying one thing over-and-over-again.
“It is our death.”
For the last two days the xenomorph has tried to gain entry to Navigation. The door has been welded shut but the xenomorph is employing what means it has at its disposal. At this point it seems the xenomorph has repurposed a core drill in attempts to drill through the door. Captain Burgess has overseen the destruction of all navigation equipment on the bridge, in hopes that if (when) the xenomorph gains entry it will find itself with an unsteerable ship.
I fear that we should have heeded Dr. Campbell at the very start.
THE PRECEDING WAS TRANSLATED FROM DATA FILES RETURNED TO THE CONFEDERATE TERRAN ALLIANCE BY STAFF SERGEANT JACOB KOWALSKI, MARINE CORP, PILOTING A SHIP OF UNKNOWN ORIGIN.