Tomorrow We Rise (The Killing Sands Book 2)

by Daniel P. Wilde

  “So, they’re still producing some form of E-rase, and still injecting people?” I asked, incredulous. “Can’t they contact everyone and tell them to stop?”

  “Well, thankfully, they’ve changed their mind. They immediately stopped production,” John said. “They also allowed Yurgi to review their research and formulas to look for errors. And Yurgi found the error and fixed it. But they can’t contact everybody . . .”

  “You mean that all the people out there now with doses of the vaccination are still injecting people without any idea what’s going to happen?” Shift asked, interrupting John. “And there isn’t any way to contact them and get them to stop?”

  “Not really,” Mike replied. “The original groups from the bunker had standard-issue MEHDs, like us. And we’ve been informed that some of the original vaccinees maintained contact with the original vaccinators. But the third and fourth line of vaccinees didn’t maintain much contact with anyone, especially since they never even met the first line of vaccinators from the bunker. And now, the first and second wave aren’t communicating with the bunker either because they’ve all gone nuts. Toronto couldn’t figure out why everybody stopped talking. Now they know. Once the people started going crazy, they stopped reporting in—obviously.”

  “So none of these people have, or had any idea what they were doing and no new vaccinees have any idea what fate awaits them either?” I asked.

  “That’s right. The new vaccinees wouldn’t likely even know who to contact, if they were inclined to do so. And Toronto doesn’t have records of who receives the vaccinations, so they can’t initiate contact either.”

  Unlike our Toronto fellows, we previously determined that it would be better to have the inoculations come from our own hands, rather than having those we inject continue on with vaccinations. At the time we first learned of Toronto’s decision to allow others to vaccinate, I thought that we may have been wrong, and that they made a better decision. Under other circumstances, with a proper vaccination, I still believe that Toronto made a better decision. Now, however, it’s clear that if Toronto had followed our protocol, presumably, the first persons inoculated—those from the testing center itself—would likely have ceased vaccination attempts when they began to “dehumanize”, or whatever it is that’s happening to them.

  Instead, people they injected have injected others, and they have injected others, and so forth, continuing the process. Hopefully, they will all run out of the vaccine soon and will have no way of receiving any more. Mike has been unable to get an accurate count of people who have received the problematic vaccine, but his estimates, based upon the ongoing tracking at the center, is over 350 people.

  “Does Toronto still have anybody in their bunker who was vaccinated with the original stuff?” Shift asked, astutely.

  “No,” John replied. “At first, they held some people back, like we did. But after three days, everyone who had been vaccinated was sent out. So they don’t have anybody in-house to study. They corrected the formula and have it right now, so, unless they can capture one of the wild ones, there’s nothing to study.”

  “Wow. That sucks,” Street said.

  Yurgi said that testing facilities all over the world are now re-screening their samples and looking for variations that may have inadvertently occurred. So far, no center has announced any problems. Perhaps it’s only Toronto’s vaccine that was developed improperly.

  Unfortunately, although many other centers have sent out people with vaccinations, no center is having as much luck finding survivors as ourselves and Toronto. Dr. Shevchuk theorizes that the cold climate of Canada and the northern United States throughout the winter may have slowed the progress of the disease enough to save more lives than other places.

  Additionally, based upon the United States’ history with Russia and Cuba during the Cold War, it seems possible that more bunkers may have been built by government agencies and individual citizens in the United States than anywhere else on Earth. If that’s true, and I don’t know whether it is, that could explain why there have been more reported survivors here than elsewhere. Perhaps people hid out in bunkers and only resurfaced when hearing of vaccination activities nearby.

  In a sad twist of fate, however, the vaccines from Toronto have reached more people than the vaccines from all other centers worldwide combined. Our personal efforts have amounted to about 230 vaccinations, many of which have not survived. All other groups, worldwide, are reporting a combined 76 vaccinations, apart from those initially vaccinated within the bunkers. And of those 76, only 42 have survived.

  Toronto, however, according to Mike’s estimate, has vaccinated at least 350 people as a result of the manner in which they have conducted the vaccinations. Only 21 of them are known to have died within hours or days of the vaccination. The rest of the people are believed to be out and about, ignorantly turning what’s left of our human population into super-human, man-eating monsters.

  June 17, 5:41 AM—La Malbaie—Shift

  “Shift, wake up!” Anta hissed at me. I was already awake. How could I sleep through such noise?

  “Where is she?” Angel asked. “It sounds like it’s coming through the walls, from every side.”

  “I’ll go see,” Street said, as he jumped off the old rickety couch he’d been sleeping on. Having found no large tourist hotel in the town of La Malbaie, we spent the night in a rundown motel, right on the main highway through town. We moved two beds from one room into the adjoining room which already had a bed and a couch. We were scared. Sleeping in the same room was comforting, albeit a little cramped. Anta even took one of the pictures off the wall before climbing into her bed. It depicted a young, pretty, blond girl—a teenager probably—in an orange sundress, walking through a park. It was very nice. Anta said it was too much like what we’d seen in Baie-Comeau. Nobody argued.

  The scream continued for only a few seconds until it sounded as though it was right upon us. Street, having arrived at the window, slowly lifted the curtain and peeked out. He waved us over. Arriving at the window with the others, I peeked out into the early morning light.

  Seven bald-headed, half naked—or in some cases, completely naked—people were tearing at the flesh of a clothed, haired, writhing woman—a living woman—not more than 20 meters from our door! Based upon the fact that she was fully-dressed, not wearing sunglasses at night, that she had a full head of hair, and that she was being attacked, I presumed that she had not been inoculated with Toronto’s vaccine, nor ours. Previously, we had made a baseless assumption that the sub-humans only ate the flesh of the dead, but we were clearly wrong. Street has dubbed the sub-humans the “Skins” because of their bald heads.

  “We’ve got to help her!” Anta said, with desperation in her voice. I held her back as she proceeded toward the door.

  “That’s a very bad idea Anta,” I said, as calmly as I could, even though inside, I was far from calm.

  “Just look at them,” Angel said. She watched the ghastly sight with a look in her eye that I couldn’t define. Perhaps the fear has dissipated. I don’t think she was happy to see the woman being devoured, but she must have been excited to see the Skins again.

  “She looks like the girl from the picture Anta took down last night,” Street whispered in my ear. “Maybe she’s the hotel owner’s kid.”

  Although I thought he might be right, I didn’t say so out loud. I simply nodded.

  The tearing and gorging lasted only a couple of minutes; then the group dispersed, traveling different directions in small groups, dark red blood dripping from their chins. One of the women wore a scarf, which was matted with the blood of her victim. That was the only item of clothing on her body.

  A revolting scene laid before us as the Skins departed. Blood, bones and torn clothing littered the ground. They had devoured her flesh, leaving only her red-stained bones behind. I fought the urge to vomit. The others looked to be in a similarly-uncomfortable state as they stared at the remnants of the grisly sce
ne outside our door.

  A few minutes later, after the sun lightened the sky further, we crept outside to the body—or what was left of it. As it had appeared from the window, she had been nearly-completely consumed. The cement around her was stained with the dark red remains of the feast. It appeared that some of the poor woman’s bones were missing, probably eaten by the ferocious horde. Many other bones were broken, as if bitten in half. An acrid smell lingered in the air, but not the smell of death. It was something else.

  As before, there was no sign of the Skins. In each of the three instances where we’ve seen them, it’s been dark outside. That may just be a coincidence.

  We’re preparing to leave, scared and depressed at the prospects of the future. Our journey today will take us through Quebec and back up the southern coast of the Gulf of St. Lawrence. Mike reports that a town called Amqui, almost directly south of Baie-Comeau, but on the south side of the Gulf, has 31 living, by current reports. We hope to reach there by this afternoon.

  While the route through Quebec is approximately 430 miles, the only other route—a ferry crossing just northeast of here which would have saved nearly 80 miles—is impassible. The ferry, according to Mike’s research last night, was sunk by radicals several months ago when international travel was banned. Of course, in the Fluxor, traveling 430 miles will be easy, assuming no restrictions or problems along the way.

  June 17, 9:10 PM—Amqui—Shift

  We’re in Amqui. There were no living people here eagerly awaiting our arrival this afternoon. Mike had made contact with a small group of people this morning. They knew we were on our way. But based upon what we’ve seen of the activities of the Skins, if there are any survivors here, they may be in hiding—or worse.

  Mike has continued to track the movements of the Skins, whenever possible, and doesn’t believe there are any here, or anywhere within 300 miles of here. But admittedly, his tracking of the Skins is much more difficult than the tracking of humans. We’ll spend the day tomorrow looking more closely for the living. We plan to stay here another night or two as well, just in case the living turn up.

  June 19, 2093—Shift

  “Street,” I called out quietly. “Street.” Louder this time. Anta woke up and threw a pillow at Street. She missed, but her poorly-aimed throw landed with a thud on Angel’s face. Her loud squawk woke up Street.

  “Quiet everyone,” I said. “Listen.”

  There was a quiet tapping on the door to our motel room. It sounded like the pecking of a wood-pecker from a distance, but was clearly on our door. Nighttime interruptions were occurring more frequently. We needed sleep.

  We were sleeping, or trying to sleep at least, in a small, well-kept, one-story motel in the middle of town. Across the street was a small café with red and white checkered picnic tables outside. Like most other buildings in Amqui, the motel itself was nothing fancy. But unlike our last few nights, the room we occupied here was large and spacious. All four beds, three of which we’d dragged in from nearby rooms, fit comfortably.

  Disturbed and alarmed at the knocking on the door, for obvious reasons, I quietly crept to the window. I wasn’t sure what I would see. I cautiously peeked out the lower left corner of the curtained window. In my view, to my horror, was a mob of at least 20 Skins, but probably more. My gasp of surprise brought the others quickly to my side.

  Each of the Skins outside was standing straight and tall, facing toward the closed door of our motel room. They appeared to be captivated by the proceedings, their heads steady and bodies still. Some were completely naked, which was repulsive under the circumstances. But most wore some clothing. The sparse clothing, however, was ragged and torn in many instances. None that I could see wore shoes or footwear of any kind. Nearly all of the people, save a few of the women, appeared completely hairless—at least on their heads. In the darkness, it was difficult to see the finer hair of their arms, legs and faces. Some of them had thin patches of hair standing out in gross and stark contrast to the remaining baldness illuminated by a nearby streetlamp. All but three sets of eyes, at least that I could see, were covered by sunglasses or goggles of some kind or another.

  “How could this happen?” I asked myself aloud.

  “How could what happen?” Anta whispered anxiously as she sidled up next to me. “Ouch!”

  “What?” I asked.

  “I just cut my finger on the window ledge, no biggie,” she replied as she stuck her finger in her mouth to suck at the blood that had already begun to form on the tip of her finger.

  I turned away from Anta and looked back toward the window. “Look.” I lifted the corner of the curtain for Anta to take a peek.

  Anta looked carefully at me, then turned and ducked down to peer through the window. Instantly, she gulped aloud, like a cartoon character, and then backed away. Street and Angel took turns as well, each exhibiting audible surprise at what they saw.

  Mike had been confident that there was no “Skin” activity anywhere near us. A conference with Mike tonight before bed revealed that the Skins had been, by his best estimate, more than 200 miles from Amqui. Mike was clearly wrong.

  In any event, the quiet tapping on the door, along with a soft rumbling of human voices, continued for several more moments as we considered and discussed our plan of action, or our escape. We had an ample store of guns and ammunition, which we had procured a few days ago after our terrifying night in Baie-Comeau. Unfortunately, most of the items in that vast store were in the rear of the Fluxor, entirely oblivious to our desperate need of them.

  We did have, fortunately, six early twenty-first century model handguns between us, each with fully loaded magazines.

  “We might have to shoot our way out of here,” Street suggested, almost excitedly.

  “We can’t shoot them,” Anta said, disgusted. “They’re humans.”

  “No they’re not,” Street argued, without offering any supporting evidence.

  “Anta,” I said, “they may be human, at least in some way; but if they want to do to us what they did to the others, they’re not human enough to worry much about.”

  “That’s right,” Street added. “I don’t want them sticking their raggedy mouths on my body. I’m not food. None of us will be if I have anything to say about it.”

  Street’s boldness and energy was contagious. I started feeling a bit of a desire to shoot our way out as well. I couldn’t read Angel’s thoughts or feelings, but Anta looked like she was coming around.

  After a brief conversation, weighing the options, we still had not decided how to proceed. While none of us actually considered them anything but human, the degree of human-ness was debated for a few minutes more. Ultimately, with heavy hearts, it was finally agreed that, whether human or not, it was probable that our only chance of survival was to fight; even if that meant killing the Skins.

  We were working on a plan when the constant knocking finally stopped.

  “Are they leaving?” I asked Angel as she bent down to peek out the window.

  “No. I think they’re talking to each other.”

  “Can you hear what they’re saying?” Street asked.

  “No.”

  We took turns looking out the window, curious about their appearance and about what they might do next. Maybe they would leave. Maybe they thought we had left, although that seemed doubtful.

  Then, a gentle, soothing voice called out, “Helllooo in there.” It was an eerie voice, but clearly human, with a strong southern accent.

  The deep baritone voice hailed us again, “Hello, can you folks hear me?”

  “Yes,” I replied, although I wasn’t sure it was the right thing to do. In fact, Anta and Street both eyed me contemptuously, but didn’t speak.

  The man responded in such a calm manner, with such assurance, that, had we not seen the Skins in action, he could have easily talked us out of hiding. “Folks, my name is Cain. I just wanna talk. I can’t seem to find any help for my sick friends. Perhaps you have meds that ca
n help us out.”

  Obviously, we weren’t going to open that door. It must be that simple language and earnest plea that lured the girl in La Malbaie out into the open. It seemed so easy to do, and I wanted to help. Of course, I knew, as did the others, that this plea for help was not what it seemed.

  How could people who seemed more like wild animals, maintain the language? Every zombie movie ever made—and this really was beginning to feel like a zombie movie—depicted creatures that couldn’t really think and that certainly couldn’t speak. To hear the Skins, or at least this one—Cain—talk, was mystifying. Plus, the rest of them had ceased their grumblings and were, at least outwardly, displaying intelligence that definitely never existed in the movies. This seemed to confirm my thought that, perhaps, they weren’t really that different from us.

  According to Mike, the Skins move very quickly and are physically powerful, but there are drugs on the market, including prescription drugs, that can alter a human body in that way. Still, their partial or full nakedness, especially for the women, was unusual.

  And, of course, the cannibalism was difficult to explain.

  Still, they seemed so much like us. Of course, we’ve only seen the Skins at night, and they’re always wearing sunglasses. We’ve seen them move, and they lurch a bit while moving slowly. Mike says that when moving quickly, their motions are fluid. Standing still, here, on our doorstep, they look perfectly normal physically, albeit without hair or clothes. They’re still human—there’s no doubt about that.

  My grandmother once discussed with me an old proverb that went something like, “desperate times call for desperate measures.” On that occasion, my grandmother had been referring to her use of some bizarre herb in a family recipe that called for something entirely different, which she didn’t have. To my grandmother, the saying may have been merely a quip, but the proverb took on a more sinister meaning in my head three days ago. These are certainly desperate times—although food is not scarce—so why eat another human. Clearly, while retaining most of their humanistic character traits, Toronto’s version of E-rase seems to have affected the way the Skins think and act and may have actually altered their muscle or body structures.