The Last Virus

by Caleb Adams

  Agnes Day

  The Historian

  April 18th (15th Day of Dhul-Qa’dah)

  It is most interesting that in those early days of the Caliphate crusaders, we sniffed for their crude weapons at our transportation hubs and arenas, locked down our generating stations and high-risk chemical plants, surveilled telecommunication networks, and kept a vigilant eye on our busy streets and schoolyards. But the one threat that we had forgotten to prepare for was the most obvious of all threats—one that got its start more than 3500 years prior when sheep with tularemia were sent into enemy cities. It picked up again as wells, rivers and aqueducts were poisoned, corpses with bubonic plague were delivered via catapult over castle walls, and blankets used by smallpox patients were distributed to unsuspecting tribes. So, a worldwide coordinated attack utilizing a similar tactic of warfare should not have come to anyone’s surprise.

  It must have been like splitting the atom to them when they created it. It had to be a perfect pathogen, and it was. Perfect in the way that transmission through human contact was certain. Perfect in the way that in the soil it did not remain long. And perfect in the way livestock was unaffected. It was a silver bullet, targeting only the human immune system. Hemorrhaging occurred within the first hour, complete immobilization at the fourth, and certain death not more than two hours after that. More perfect, though, was that it had an antidote. The only way it could have been improved upon was if it had the means to discriminate between Muslims and the kafirs.

  Beware of the sword you kill your enemy with, for it is with the same sword that the children of your enemies will kill you. The squadrons of drones that flew that Christmas Day were a wondrous sight to us, as they must have been to all of the other cities that they flew over. As they came in low, you could see attached to some of those miniature planes a banner reading “PEACE ON EARTH.” A Christmas greeting from some company, I thought. Others must have thought a gesture of goodwill by a humanitarian organization. Still, more must not have given it any thought at all.

  Those drones flew not only over Chicago. They flew over Sydney, Tokyo, Seoul, Shanghai, Guangzhou, Ho Chi Minh City, Bangkok, Delhi, Mumbai, Sao Paulo. They flew over Moscow, Jerusalem, Johannesburg, Kinshasa, Berlin, Rome, Paris, London, New York, Lima, Toronto, Mexico City, and LA. Over all of those and then hundreds more. Network news, radio play, and social media fanned the flames. En masse to the breaking news, people left their Christmas mornings and Christmas nights to come into the streets to take witness of this glorious sight. As the payload of what everyone imagined to be snow fell from the skies, children stuck out their tongues, lovers twirled about and embraced, the old closed their eyes and unfurled their fingers to let the deadly pathogen gently come to rest upon their skin. Bewitching a sight was it to watch. As so it must have been for those inside the city of Troy when they opened their gates and in rolled a great wooden horse. Praise to those who remember the deceits of the past, death to those who do not.

  With swiftness, the offensives followed, backed by more pathogen-carrying drones. And by the end of the first month, civilization as known to those countries of a non-Muslim majority had, for the most part, ceased to exist. Governments went underground to regroup and search for an antidote. It was all useless by then, though, as the major cities had become immobilized, and once-mighty military bases became ghost towns. The Caliphate was already established and orders issued to begin the cleanup. They at first were overwhelmed with the task of removing the deceased. The lesser cities were burnt to the ground. The greater ones required much more care and ingenuity. Crematoriums operated twenty-four hours a day. Rotting corpses were transported by trains to the outskirts of these greater cities. Black smoke was the new canvas to the sky over the metropolises that once dimmed the stars with lights from their steel-and-glass monoliths.

  For two years following, fighting in the rural areas still continued. Where resistance was encountered from bands of paramilitary groups, it was met with uncompromising brutality and overwhelming force. They too were then vanquished.

  Within those countries where the pathogen had been spread from above, tens of millions of Muslims were unaffected. While they claimed that this was by the intervention of Allah, it was later ascertained it was by human design. For years they had been delivering food to their mosques infused with the antidote. The faithful ate unaware that they truly were being saved and retained for the Caliphate. Even nature must have been jealous. Even nature in all its complex wonder could not have been that selective.

  That was three years and four months ago. Tonight, as I write, it is the fifteenth day in the month of Dhul-Qa’dah. I am composing this from Sector 4, the largest of 5 autonomous sectors of the Alliance in the city of Ayla, which they the Caliphate have renamed, which once we called Chicago. We inhabit a system of freight tunnels, forty feet below the streets above. There are 47 miles of usable tunnels in a mostly rectangular grid right under what was the heart of Chicago and is now the heart of Ayla. The grid is just a little less than 4 square miles. There are access points to the city above, both from the sewers and also from the sub-basements of a few select buildings. From these points, we run reconnaissance and conduct our raids. We prick them when we can. We let them know there are still a few thorns left.

  I came here thirty months ago, five months after the freight tunnels of Sector 4 had been discovered. Before that, I was a slave in the Fawzan labor camp. When my middle-aged body had withered away under the toil of an 18 hour, seven-day-a-week workload, they were about to execute me. It was only by fortune that I was spared and reassigned to the Ministry of Labor. There, I became an accountant, an accountant of men. When I finally escaped, the slave labor force in the city of Ayla and its surrounding suburbs numbered exactly 137,353. That number I reduced by two to account for own my departure and that of a man called the General. He is the one who engineered our escape. He is the one with whom I credit my freedom.

  When the General and I arrived here, the freight tunnels were a disorganized sanctuary with less than 200 inhabitants. It was lit by dying cell phone flashlights, fed with stolen food from the brave that ventured above, and armed with knives and sharpened sticks. Human waste was piled into abandoned coal cars and rolled to remote areas. Bathing was not an option. Within a year, the General had organized the tunnels so that we were a fully independent city with a hydroponics lab, infirmary, school system, streets and sanitation group, records department, excavation team, and militia. Water and electricity we tapped into from pipes and cables that ran through the tunnels. Weapons we gathered in raids conducted during the night.

  Near the end of the first year of the General, we numbered over 1000 men, women, and children. The increase of 800 was due to our active recruitment of escaped slaves from the labor camps, and those who had somehow been able to avoid detection by the Caliphate. By the second year of the General, our zenith, we numbered nearly 1700. Now, as I write, we have been reduced to less than 1100. Soon though, we will be less than that. And then, within days I presume, most certainly eradicated as they have finally found our city.

  Yesterday I sealed the vault. After doing so, I sat cross-legged outside and bowed my head in thought. Oh, how at that moment did I feel like an Essene in a Qumran cave. And, as they must have, did I then begin to wonder whether the writings would ever be found. For surely, the earth holds within its womb many more writings than have been discovered. But if they are found, would it be a few years from now or perhaps five thousand years in time. And as I reflected upon the latter, what then would the world look like. Would our texts be like hieroglyphics to them? Would they doubt their authenticity? Would they believe anything of which I have seen? Could they even conceive that such mass destruction came from the human race?

  I am not of the courage to draw my own blood. It surely is a weakness, but then again, what historian wants to shorten the past. So, I will remain here in my quarters and await my fate. I have always understood empires rise and empires fall, gods
are created, and new ones take their stead. But never until this hour has it dawned upon me that fortunate those who are born neither at their beginnings nor at their ends. Oh, how I wish my death would just hurry, and then someone else could write about the past. Oh Anna, my sister, my dreams are terrifying and leave me hanging.

  To the one who happens upon this, I pray that the world you come from has by God’s grace healed its wounds and found peace. I pray that those above me have long ago consumed themselves with their own hatred. I pray that either mankind has abolished religion, or has united all of the gods we once worshipped. Ultimately, I pray that no longer have you the need to pray.

  Major Caleb Adams

  Thursday Morning

  Day 15 in the month of Dhu al-Qa’dah

  I have received a message from Sector 4. It stated that their location has been compromised after a Caliphate spy escaped. They are requesting we proceed expeditiously with the digging of the tunnel linking our sector with theirs. After placing our own troops on high alert, I ordered around-the-clock excavation teams to the site. In addition, I ordered that where we can, a doubling up of our quarters in anticipation of their evacuation. I also ordered our infirmary to begin preparation for the possibility of wounded. My response to General Danzig’s request has been composed, coded, and now in transit. My assessment is the same as his. We will need another ten days.

  Thursday Evening

  Day 15 in the month of Dhu al-Qa’dah

  A message from Sector 2 arrived at 1905. They acknowledged receipt of our transmission, wished us our best, and stated their prayers for Sector 4. They have also written of promising news from the Russians and Chinese. Their forces have met up in the city of Blagoveshchensk. Now, they hold that city along with the city of Heihe. It is the first major victory that we have heard of, and a significant one if indeed it is true. Unfortunately, it is of no relevance to the plight of Sector 4. We are still monitoring Caliphate troop positions and have not noticed any unusual activity. I would have expected an immediate response by the Caliphate. Perhaps they were in error, and it was not a spy. The General, though, does not seem like the type of man who would raise the alarm if he was not certain. I will therefore take him at his word that the days of Sector 4 are indeed numbered.

  Friday Morning

  Day 16 in the month of Dhu al-Qa’dah

  At 0400, I visited the excavation site. When one of the men fell from exhaustion, I took his place and continued digging for an entire 4-hour shift. The clay is intransigent. It does not easily separate from Mother Earth. Nine days I now firmly believe is optimistic. Ayla is still quiet. It is a good sign.

  Friday Evening

  Day 16 in the month of Dhu al-Qa’dah

  Good news has reached my ears. We have gained 5, perhaps 6 days. On our side, the tunnel suddenly opened up into an abandoned construction area. Our excavation team moved through it unimpeded for 2000 or so meters before encountering another wall of clay. This places us 3 days at best from Sector 4. I am now more hopeful than before, which does in itself begin to worry me. War is not hope. It is a certainty.

  Saturday Morning

  Day 17 in the month of Dhu al-Qa’dah

  Intelligence units in Ayla have now detected Caliphate troop activities above Sector 4. Due to this, I had no other option except to recall all units save one. I cannot deny that it is now quite evident they are preparing to enter.

  Saturday Evening

  Day 17 in the month of Dhu al-Qa’dah

  2115 hours. First Sergeant Markham has just left. Stethoscope monitoring of the tunnel has picked up the sounds of automatic gunfire and detonations of small explosives. It has left me with no doubt that the Caliphate has begun its operation. I ordered our teams to keep digging, though I am now considering rescinding that directive. The decision is weighing heavily upon me. We are still two days away, four if I consider that most likely Sector 4 has halted the excavation on their side. We will not reach them in time for an evacuation. And, as my responsibilities lie first with Sector 3, I must take into consideration that the closer our shovels and pickaxes get to Sector 4, the more likely it is that our sector will be compromised. I have begun to pray. We are all anxious. I myself cannot sleep for more than an hour at a time. My thoughts I cannot put to rest.

  Sunday Morning

  Day 18 in the month of Dhu al-Qa’dah

  There is no longer a need to monitor the sound by stethoscope. The reverberations of explosives and firing of automatic weapons can be heard from the excavation site. I have ordered the excavation teams to cease all further activity. We have stopped digging, approximately one and a half days away from Sector 4. I am both sick in body and sick in faith.

  Sunday Evening

  Day 18 in the month of Dhu al-Qa’dah

  The tunnel we have dug collapsed one hundred yards back from where we halted excavation. Two of the lead teams, which requested permission to remain at the front line, are now trapped or under the rubble. I should have been more adamant in my order for all excavation teams to pull back to Sector 3. Their fate weighs heavy upon me.

  Monday Morning

  Day 19 in the month of Dhu al-Qa’dah

  The rubble has been removed. None of those from the two excavation teams were found alive. It is a sad day, like most of our days.

  Monday Evening

  Day 19 in the month of Dhu al-Qa’dah

  I write now from the excavation site. Alone, of course. The wall of clay which separates us from Sector 4 is filled with rolled up pieces of paper stuck into the crevices. They are the writings of prayers and notes to loved ones from the teams that last dug here. I have read every one of them. I am sickened and I am distraught.

  Tuesday Morning

  Day 20 in the month of Dhu al-Qa’dah

  The fighting is the most furious I have heard. Sector 4 has held up for two and a half days. I do not expect a victory. There is nowhere for them to go as I have failed them.

  Wednesday Morning

  Day 21 in the month of Dhu al-Qa’dah

  The gunfire has slowed and has become erratic. It is reminding me of my daughter’s breaths as I held her dying hand. And as I was then, I am now, waiting for the silence to tell me that the suffering is over.

  Monday Morning

  Day 26 in the month of Dhu al-Qa’dah

  Cement trucks have been spotted at the site above Sector 4. I have no doubt they are going to entomb it. After the last truck has pulled away, I will order the excavation teams to begin digging again. I will abandon none of them. For each, a prayer I will have read over their body, and then there let them rest in eternity. It is not to say I do not hope for a few survivors. But I must be prepared for that in all likelihood, we will find none.

  Thursday Morning

  Day 29 in the month of Dhu al-Qa’dah

  It is irony that defines our lives. It is ironic that once we began digging again, another hole opened up and we entered Sector 4 only six hours later. If we had only known, what joy it would have been to save them all. What a glorious victory to write down for all of those to be born of us.

  I was the first to enter. The stench was immediately overwhelming, but it was nothing compared to the silence. There are three types of silence I have always believed. That which you hear when you are alone. That which surrounds you at the moment of triumph. And that which you hear when you are in the presence of death. It is the last one that speaks the loudest. It is the one that reverberates around your head and reminds you that someday you will also be dead.

  We had to walk only a hundred or so meters before we started meeting them. The fortunate ones had just been bullet-ridden or made unrecognizable by explosive ordnance. Others it was obvious to tell had suffered all along their way to heaven. They, the Caliphate, were not discriminate at all. The old and young met fates in the same manner. Heads were hacked from children just as they were hacked from the elderly. They spared none the pain. All the horrifying thoughts of death were engraved upon their
faces. With our blood, they wrote on our walls. With our girls and women, it could be seen they first had their way. Like the others, my sadness was quickly replaced with rage. Like the others, I wanted to go up there and exact a vengeance one thousandfold of that which we had seen.

  Twelve hours or so we spent in the tunnels of the apocalypse. The two priests had become exhausted. The volunteers had become exhausted. And I myself could no longer continue. I ordered a stop. I knew that we needed to let both our sorrows and anger rest. Tomorrow I said we will return and bless the rest of them.

  Thursday Evening

  Day 29 in the month of Dhu al-Qa’dah

  I admit I had been looking for him. Like one looks for a fallen king after a great battle. You are certain he has been slain, but you want to know whether the victors took him back as a prize, or they showed respect and left him where he fell. And if they had left him where he fell, you want to know how he met his end. You have scenes of preternatural bravery in your head. You have him as the last one standing. Hundreds of the enemy he has already laid to death. He is screaming that they can all go to hell. He is ready with his knife and his hands when the ammunition runs out. If you only had two hundred of him, Sector 4 would never have fallen, and Ayla would have been in dear peril.