The Last Virus

by Caleb Adams

  “Much more terrible. Everywhere they take me the tunnels are filled with rotting flesh. Everywhere I see none are taking breath. Please, I need to return to sleep. There are more dreams waiting for me. They would not be pleased if I did not show.”

  The next morning I was in line for food. Both in front of and behind me, I hear people talking of the priest who had hanged himself.

  перверзія

  For the last three days, the voices in our room were with us day and night. They were not loud, but more like as if someone had left radio on in other room and we can only hear little loudness. I did not remember eating. I did not remember sleeping. I only remembered sitting there and waiting for something to happen. Then, while I was watching her and her baby sleep, the candles shot up and they were like torches and suddenly the girl sat up.

  “They are in our tunnels.”

  “This is end, is it not?” I say.

  “Yes,” she say.

  “And I am going to die. Yes, this right?”

  “Two more nights will first pass.”

  “Do you know how I die?”

  “Of course. Do you want me to tell you?”

  “No,” I say. No one want to know how they die.

  “We must go,” she then say. And after standing, she pick up baby out of case for weapon and make walk to door. “Mariela.”

  “Yes?” I say.

  “It was never good luck or bad luck. You were chosen.”

  Є багато брехні, але лише одна правда

  One night has gone by. I write now by the little light of my lantern. The sounds going through tunnels remind me of way I feel when I was twelve and hear footsteps of my uncle nearing my room and waiting for door handle to turn but hoping somehow it will not open. I am weak. I am sick inside, and I am wishing I had never been born.

  I have read all I have written before. It cannot be truth. The girl and her baby are of my imagination, brought to life from my wishes. She is me in a younger time, and baby is the child I was to have given birth to. Of course, how strange my mind plays trick when it wants to believe otherwise. And do not we always save best lies for ourselves? So, I will write one last final lie. I will write all escape from here. Child, baby, and old whore.

  Sean & Aidan

  Letter #1

  Hey Sean, what’s going on? A lot of people writing down here lately, so I thought I’d give it a try. I don’t know if it’s a therapeutic thing for them, or they’re just doing it for the sake of posterity, which would be the worst damn reason to write because it’s not like the Caliphate is going to archive our last days in some compendium. I guess it gives me something to do after returning from teaching these kids here and then playing daycare dad. Never should have mentioned I taught elementary. It’s an easy gig though compared to the others, so I should probably just thank my lucky stars. I could be digging the tunnels or literally shoveling shit with the Department of Streets and San. Anyway, I’m not sure how it works where you’re at. I mean, if I write instead of talking to you in my head, will you be able to see what’s on the page? Whatever, fuck it, I’m just going to go with this writing thing for a while. I suppose you’ll figure it out when you see the pen in my hand.

  So, I broke up with that chick I had been talking to you about. Just wasn’t working, and she really wasn’t my type anyway. Not that beggars can be choosers down here, but I guess I do want something a little more meaningful. It was just fuck and run for the both of us. Yeah, you heard that right, I blew out of a relationship because there was too much screwing and not enough commitment. Damn, how things change, huh? I’m going to blame this one on you. All those things you used to say about how I was always letting the good girls go to chase the train wrecks are starting to reoccupy my head. Man, now that I think about it, how I miss our talks. Just you and me and a case of beer. Never really needed much more.—Aidan

  Letter #2

  It’s a day before Christmas Eve. The people down here go all out for this. You should see it. Well, I guess you probably can see it. Anyway, it’s like a contest. Every tunnel’s got something different. We’ve got crafted reindeer and snowmen, trees made of stacked suitcases, and wreaths of real branches and leaves brought back by soldiers from raids. One tunnel even had Christmas lights strung up on the water pipes, and another had a complete nativity scene. God knows where they got that stuff from. I had my kids decorate the classroom with paper-ringed garlands, snowflakes, and angels. They were totally into it, and to tell you the truth, it was pretty cool to see their faces. All just like little elves. Damn, last night I was remembering the time we set our clock for one in the morning and waited for Santa Claus to come. What, we were seven, I think. Remember, we made those name tags because we weren’t sure if Santa would be able to tell us apart, and we were afraid we would get each other’s gifts.

  Oh, I probably should have started out with this one. I’m making a career move. Gave my notice, and in a week I start basic training. I just couldn’t keep teaching those kids. Every time I came back to my quarters, I kept thinking about you and how I was doing nothing at all to avenge that last day. Yeah, I know you’re pissed right now. But fuck it, it’s done. So, you’re just going to have to live with my decision. Well, you know what I mean by “live with” it.—Aidan

  Letter #3

  Sorry I haven’t written in a while, but basic training was a bitch, and I barely had enough strength to drag my ass back to my quarters to lay it down. But I graduated this morning, and now I’m officially a private in the United States Marine Corps of Sector 4. Can’t wait to get up there. Everyone’s going in my crosshairs. I don’t care.—Aidan

  Letter #4

  I’m a little messed up right now. And not in the way I would like to be. Last night, after a run-through of a mission we got coming up, I was walking back to my quarters and heard this really faint voice singing. Normally you hear stuff like that all the time down here, so you don’t pay much attention. As I got closer though, I started to realize it was a kid’s voice singing that song mom used to sing to us when we were little. You know that one: “You Are My Sunshine.”

  Anyway, I followed it along until I got to the quarters where it was coming from. It was a boy, Sean. One from my class. No older than five. He was just sitting there with his mother’s head in his lap. When he finally realized I was there, he put a finger to his lips so I wouldn’t say anything. I actually thought it was kind of cute that a kid would do something like that, so I decided to sit down for a bit and keep him company. Jesus Christ, Sean, I popped up about ten seconds later because after looking at her closer, I realized she was dead.

  After a while, after he finally stopped singing, I took him to the infirmary for the nurses there to tend to him. What’s killing me is that I should have brought him to my quarters. I could have looked after him. But instead, I just dropped him off. I don’t know what to make of the whole thing. Is it just how messed up things are down here, or is it just how messed up and inconsiderate I’ve gotten? Trust me. You were the lucky one, bro. This isn’t a life for the living. It really fucking isn’t.—Aidan

  Letter #5

  Hope you’ve got some time. This one’s going to be a little longer than the last four. Yesterday we went on a special ops mission. Seven of us ventured twenty-five miles or so from Sector 4 by way of the Deep Tunnel project. It emptied us into the Thornton Quarry. There’s a highway that runs over it, and we were on an ambush looking for small military convoys. The sergeant spaced us out about 50 feet apart in these woods overlooking a section of that highway that was a little farther down. Damn, it was just so nice to be outside again. That air tasted so good, and the scenery was great. Kind of reminded me a little of when mom and dad used to take us on those skiing trips. It was fucking cold, though, and there was about a foot of snow on the ground. The sky was one slate of gray, which was actually a relief because I don’t think my eyes could have been able to deal with a full winter sun. Everyone else had su
nglasses on. You’d think they’d be standard issue to recruits.

  For the first three hours, we were just lying there freezing our asses off. I don’t think I counted more than twenty vehicles. No military. Just families. Maybe it was some holiday on their calendar. Who knows? I don’t keep up on that stuff as I should. You know, when you’re staring at the same thing for that length of time you start to drift, and it’s not always good. I was thinking about the little boy singing to his dead mother, and I was thinking about watching you take your last breaths. Both thoughts made me just want to waste somebody. That’s probably when we heard a distant honking of horns. Five cars I counted as I moved my scope down the highway. When they came into range, I locked my scope onto the lead vehicle. There were two kids in the back, laughing and bouncing around. Upfront I could see the father bumping that horn with the palm of his hand, and his wife with a big smile on her face. It was like they didn’t have a care in the world. Like this was their new home, and they belonged here.

  I told the sergeant afterward that some squirrel had come out of nowhere and startled the hell out of me. Nowhere near the truth. I put that front tire in the crosshairs and fired. The car swerved right off the road and into a ditch. As the other vehicles stopped, and people started piling out, one of them pointed up to our position. We really had no choice then. I mean one call from one of their cell phones to the right person, and we’d have a Caliphate unit up on our ass in no time. So all of us just unloaded on them.

  Twenty-two, Sean. That’s how many we wasted. I know this because the sergeant sent me down to make sure they were all dead. Now, this is the part that’s going to haunt me for the rest of my goddamn life. A kid, maybe fifteen, I think, opened the door and stumbled out. He was bleeding from his forehead, but nothing life-threatening as far as I could tell. Immediately he locked his hands over his head and started walking towards me. I told him to stay right where the hell he was. In English, of course, since how was I to know the damn Arabic phrase for “Get down on your knees.” Listen, I gotta go. I’ll write you later.—Aidan

  Letter #6

  Sitting in my quarters at the moment. Our unit’s out on a raid up in Ayla. My ass, here, because I caught a suspension. Sergeant was a hair from making that permanent. Fuck was he pissed. Can’t really blame him. Not only was I responsible for the killing of twenty-two innocents, but I also put the whole unit in jeopardy. I think the conversation went something like this.

  “What the fuck were you doing out there, Private?”

  “I told you, Sergeant, a squirrel ran right over my weapon, and I accidentally hit the trigger.”

  “Oh, bullshit, Private. I know you purposely fired on that vehicle. I asked around. I know all about what they did to your brother in the labor camp.”

  “I swear, sir.”

  “Yeah, you swear all right. Goddammit, those families didn’t deserve to die, Private. They were just caught up in the same fucked-up universe we are. Jesus Christ, Private, that makes us no better than them.”

  “Yes, sir. I know that, sir.”

  “No, you don’t know that yet. You haven’t seen enough killing on both sides of the field to understand it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And just to let you know, the only thing keeping me from sending your ass back to that daycare center is because I can’t seem to come up with a good enough story to tell the General without him canning my own ass. Right now, the only thing he knows is that we went out, didn’t spot any targets, and came right back.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Don’t thank me, Private. I did it for myself. But if you ever pull even something close to that shit again, I’m going to let the men handle it themselves.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I kind of felt like I was being chewed out by dad again. Except now, I’m old enough to understand that I did mess things up. I swear, Sean, I’d do anything to have the moment back. Okay, I gotta put down this pen and get my head together. Talk to ya soon.—Aidan

  Letter #7

  Went up into Ayla for the first time since the invasion. Yeah, I know, you’re going to say the labor camp we were in was considered a part of Ayla. May have been, but it certainly wasn’t the Chicago we knew. I mean, we were some thirty miles west of the downtown area. Anyway, all the street names are now in Arabic. The few churches we passed had their crosses taken down and their bell towers converted to minarets. Didn’t see any livestock on the streets but I’ve been told there’s an area near the Grand Market that’s teeming with them. The one thing that does strike you when you’re up here is the smell. Chicago never really had a specific one. But this place sure in the fuck does. Can’t pinpoint it exactly. Might be from the cooking that settles onto the streets. I don’t know, but it’s definitely a smell that makes you feel the loss and permanence. You know, it’s when that scent on something you once loved changes is when you realize it’s moved on and you’re no longer a part of the equation.

  So, back to where I was going to begin. The plan was for the seven of us to hit a small police station. Intel said that at night there would only be two there. Went pretty much as diagrammed at first. I walked into the station. The Arab sitting there behind the desk realized that while I may be dressed as a Caliphate soldier, my big Irish head isn’t making a lot of sense, even with the beard. And as he reached for his gun, I lunged over the desk and put my knife right through his neck. Unfortunately, I couldn’t pull the damn thing out. So, I had to spend more time than I wanted trying to dislodge it from his spinal cord or whatever the hell it was caught on. It was my only knife, and I certainly didn’t want to leave it behind as a souvenir.

  Anyway, I finally got the knife out and then called in the others. They spread out through the building and started collecting whatever they could find. I stayed back by the door and kept watch. Everything’s still going well. The guys are dragging out crates of RPG-7s, ammo boxes, Kalashnikovs. It was like it was Christmas Eve, and we had just hit the rich kid’s house. Oh yeah, the second guy wasn’t even there. So I’m thinking this is great. Even better than planned. I mean, we’re all giving each other the thumbs up and smiling like school kids.

  Now I’m not sure why it didn’t dawn on me that the reason there weren’t two there is because maybe the other one had stepped out for a moment to have a cigarette or something. But it didn’t. Didn’t click at all until he returned. The first shot he got off went right past my head. The second one, though, grazed my leg. That’s when I unloaded six rounds into his chest. One stupid move because I should have only hit him once. Now we got eight bullets ringing in the air instead of three, to go along with all those “Allahu Akbars” the dude was yelling before heading off to his seventy-two virgins.

  Everyone stuffed whatever they could into their backpacks, and we headed out the rear exit into an alley. We walked that for about two blocks. Not a damn sound to be heard, and I’m thinking we got out by the skin of our teeth. I don’t have that thought in my head for more than a few seconds when a 4x4 with Caliphate regulars rolled by the street we were getting ready to cross. The sergeant motioned us down, and we waited for about ten minutes before moving out again. Maybe we should have waited eleven minutes, maybe eight minutes. You think about that after the fact. All those what-ifs. Doesn’t matter, I guess. We headed out when we headed out, and that was when all hell broke loose.

  Two 4x4s now, one from the north and one from the south. We barely got a few rounds off before the gunners manning the truck bed mounts started lighting us up. Dropped two of us immediately. Now it’s the five of us. And I guess while we could’ve just cut and run, there was no way after losing two of our men. So, we started unloading on them. It was just insane. The noise, the smoke, the confusion, the endless stream of bullets being fired your way. And then, it was over. Just like that. Total silence. Just want to add that the thing about fighting the Caliphate regulars is that while they’re fanatics, they fight like a bunch of assholes. They all hopped out of those 4x
4s and started running toward us firing their weapons. I’m not sure if they think Allah’s got some kind of force field protecting them, but it didn’t take long to lay them all down.

  The initial plan was to take one of those 4x4s and ride it out of there so we could bring back the bodies. Wasn’t in the stars though. Both 4x4s were disabled, and then we started to hear the voices of another Caliphate unit. Before we took off, the sergeant had us hide the men in garbage cans. None of us wanted to do it, but really there was no other choice. About thirty minutes later, we were all back in Sector 4. The sergeant debriefed us, and after he left, a couple of the men started huffing a can of vapors. Can’t really blame them. I mean after going through a mission like that you need something, anything, just to push that adrenaline out of your system.—Aidan

  Letter #8

  Our unit had dinner with the General this afternoon. The sergeant told us before we got there it was a pretty big deal. Said he had never heard of a unit being invited like that, and we should think of it as an invite to the White House. We were hooded and then led to the command center. From what I was told, very few down here have unescorted access. The location is on a need-to-know basis. Now I’m not messing with you, the place is one-fourth surveillance station, one-fourth weapons depot, one-fourth library and den, and one-fourth music studio. Yeah, I wrote that last one correctly. There’s a small stage set up with guitars, drums, and amps. Unbelievable, huh? The sergeant told us the General plays a kick-ass guitar.

  We got served rabbit stew with two bottles of Yamazaki 12. The General cooked it himself. Wasn’t half bad to tell you the truth. Before we ate, he led us in prayer for the two men we lost. After that, he didn’t say a word throughout the entire meal. The guy’s a motherfucker, Sean. Probably sixty-some years old, but still built like a tank. Tatted up pretty good, too. Had a full sleeve on one arm with some of the wickedest tats you’ve ever seen. Definitely not someone you’d ever want to cross, or even speak out of turn. He’d probably eat right through you before finally snapping off your neck. Kind of reminded me of our football coach, minus the tats of course. After we finished, he brought out an apple pie for dessert. It was all pretty fucking surreal to tell you the truth.