The Doomsday Chronicles (The Future Chronicles)

by Samuel Peralta

  Near what felt like the heart of the nameless mountain, he came to the first turn in the network. He counted five new tunnels, with footprints leading down each of them. This was where ancient miners had discovered ore. The realization hurt Scout near his heart, and he wondered how many of them ever got paid for their work.

  Scout pulled Murray's map from the back pocket of his jeans. Murray had noted that he needed to look up at this point. “Find air shaft," the map said.

  Sweeping his light through the dark of the ceiling, he located the tight cavity. The air shaft was tucked between two boulders, and he congratulated himself before scrambling up a rock-fall into the passage.

  Scout took his time, backtracking several times to be sure that he was following the correct route, stopping to take deep breaths of the stuffy tunnel air. He reminded himself to remain calm and focused as images of rock shifting and tunnel collapsing flashed before his mind's eye.

  The tighter the passages became, the more unnerved he felt. His imagination and anxiety rattled his guts. Scout was nearing the end of what was marked on the map when he encountered moist tunnel dirt. He had gradually stooped more and more as the ceiling sloped down toward the floor. Soon he was on his back, shimmying through mud, and then a steady trickle of bone-chilling water, the passage only inches from his chest. He had hooked his backpack onto his left foot and was attempting to pull the frame behind him when it caught on a narrow spot in the squeeze. He tried to kick it free, using both feet to move it around, but he could not see past his own gut to see what was in the way. Eventually, he gave up, unhooked his boot from the frame of the pack, and shimmied on, only inches ahead of his building panic.

  He crouched in the damp cold of the air shaft. His clothes were saturated, although the wool shirt seemed to be holding some of his body's heat close to him. His creeping dread climaxed when he pulled the map from his pants pocket, his hands shaking and his teeth chattering uncontrollably.

  The cheap paper of the children's menu was sodden. The folds of the map had fused together. Worse still, he couldn't manipulate the paper while holding the flashlight together. He dropped the flashlight, and instantly the darkness of the tunnel enveloped him. Scout sat in the cold and dark. The pieces of the flashlight had scattered in the rivulet of water. The darkness was complete. It devoured what remained of his little flame of hope. Keening, he hugged his knees.

  When Scout had run out of tears and resigned himself to the fate he imagined was only some moments away, he stopped and listened to the water. “So much water in these hills,” he mused.

  He had stopped shivering. The stream trickled and tinkled over the stones, and he faced the sound with his eyes and ears wide open. Much to his surprise, he noticed something reflecting off the uneven surface of the water. In disbelief, he looked again. It was light. The faintest of glimmers shone from somewhere beyond the point where the low roof of the tunnel obscured a rise in the floor. He began to crawl.

  * * *

  Cameramen are never supposed to interrupt their broadcasters. This is a hard and fast rule of the trade, and Kline knew it, but he could not help himself. When a dirty and wet figure emerged from the hole they were using as a backdrop for this Canadian Broadcast interview, his spare hand came up, momentarily obscuring the shot, blocking out the image of RCMP Sergeant Major Santiago. This effectively stopped the interview. Thus, Craig Kline had fully expected no less than a reprimand when he and the rest of the crew had returned to the station.

  The footage that came immediately afterwards might just land him a Peabody, he mused while sipping a craft beer from the stool next to the station chief.

  "You got that right, Kline. When your hand came into the frame, I started drawing up your papers, but then that Santiago guy jumps through his own ass and starts running toward the fellow that just came out of that damned hole."

  "Yes, sir, he must have seen what I was pointing at," Kline interrupted.

  "Shut up, son. Let me finish. It's your footage, but I'm station chief. I get to tell the story." He'd had a few too many, Kline supposed, but he judiciously remained silent and allowed his boss to continue, for the benefit of the brunette serving the beer. "So then, Kline here starts running right along with the Mountie!”

  Kline flexed his arms, showing the brunette all the work he had been doing at CrossFit. She smiled at Kline, perfectly transmitting her tolerance, and returned her gaze to the station manager, who had continued the tale.

  "The Mountie then tackles this guy, lays him out flat, and Kline is there, hovering over the pair of them with the big broadcast light shining down. Everyone is silent, Stephanie isn't anywhere close to the camera, and no one back at the studio can think of anything to ask.

  "The camo-Mounties show up, and soon enough, a pair of them are trucking that illegal off to a paddy wagon. The guy is asking 'Did I make it? Is this Canada?' the whole way, and Kline just picks up the interview like he hadn't run half a kilometer with a big heavy camera, sound, and lighting. Our beefcake of a camera guy starts talking to the sergeant major like it's nothing.”

  "Well, you know Stephanie fell," interjects Kline. "That was not the best place to be wearing heels."

  "Yeah, but you got the good bits. All that blood and gore was fine, but when a Mountie starts telling a CBC camera guy he just apprehended a notorious coyote, news broadcast ratings instantly shoot through the roof. And that had to be the guy, did you see the wad of cash they pulled from his shirt pocket? You couldn't have made it better if you rehearsed it, my boy," finished the station chief. "That's Peabody pudding, for sure. Come on, let me buy you another round."

  The brunette behind the bar didn't wait for them to order. With a wry grin, she poured a couple more pints and set them down on the table. She brushed her raven dark hair out of her eyes, then replaced her elbows on the granite slab and asked Kline, “I guess the Boucher Coalition now has someone to pin all those illegal deaths on, huh?”

  Kline nodded. “Very little of that made it into the broadcast. The Mountie censors told us we couldn’t shoot it, but it was horrible. Must have been fifty dead people there, some of them long dead.”

  “So do you think that guy was really a coyote?”

  Surprised, Kline turned to her and said, "Me? What do I think?"

  She nodded her head, compelling his response.

  Kline paused a moment in silent contemplation, then responded to her question with another.

  “Does it matter?”

  He lifted his beer and sucked at the foam.

  A Word from Matthew Alan Thyer

  My contribution to The Doomsday Chronicles is the product of my concern for all those people who live precariously close to the edge. It’s a personal conviction that we should never blame victims.

  When I feel hopeless—especially when that hopelessness is the product of knowing how inconsequential and small I am in the context of the universe—I usually turn to books for solace or inspiration. The seed for this story came to me after I read a quote from Marjane Satrapi.

  “The world is not divided between East and West. You are American, I am Iranian, we don’t know each other, but we talk, and we understand each other perfectly. The difference between you and your government is much bigger than the difference between you and me. And the difference between me and my government is much bigger than the difference between me and you. And our governments are very much the same.”

  The difference between us is so small—some might say merely “geographical” and I think they’d be correct—that it may not bear mentioning.

  Writing “GOAT”, I wanted to break down this barrier. I wanted to transport you, the reader, into a future where everything built is taken. I wanted to construct a time in which every gamble comes up a loss. Then, when there is nothing left, when all options have fled, I wanted you to understand how it is that you’ve been blamed for these circumstances.

  My desire is that “GOAT” entertains, that Scout’s story involves you and makes
you want to read more, but there is also the parallel ambition that it makes you think. Question your assumptions, build bridges.

  http://feetforbrains.com/

  Remembering Hannah

  by K. J. Colt

  Day 1

  Wednesday, April 27th. Morning

  PLANNING, DISCIPLINE, AND EXECUTION: the keys to a successful life. That’s how I pulled myself out of poverty and graduated to upper middle-class living. I’m a rags-to-riches story. White kid, with alcoholic father and mentally unstable mother, who betters himself into a pro-social protégé. It’s got a ring to it, right? The media loves a happy ending. Reinforce the meritocracy. Work harder than John Smith and that’ll buy you love and acceptance.

  Bullshit. Only through the unconditional and genuine love of another person can we heal, and for me that person was Hannah. We met through work thirty-one years ago. She was twenty-two, tall, black hair with Monroe curves and sapphire eyes, the personal assistant to my boss. In her presence, my cocky executive façade shriveled into a bumbling freshman mess. Then, in her arms, the nervous freshman became a man. Sexual, giving, and vulnerable.

  A year later, we married, and the following thirty years were a perpetual honeymoon. Then six months ago, without warning, she died.

  Tears well up in my eyes as I think about it. The shock was the worst part. See, Hannah ran marathons, lived on salad, never touched alcohol, and meditated twice a day. The universe doesn’t care about what happens to us. It throws its punches and we absorb the impact.

  I’m entering old age alone, and it’s the most frightening and confronting reality I’ve ever faced.

  It’s 7:15am. Another day. The unwashed pillow beside me is empty of Hannah’s alabaster face. I grab at my chest, trying to restrain the sobbing that bubbles up like acid.

  Gloomily, I inspect my last dose of medications on the bedside table. Blood pressure, arthritis, stomach, Xanax—I’m high-strung—and now the Citalopram.

  Thanks to Hannah, everything in me feels unstable.

  Antidepressants hadn’t been available in my day. But a few Vietnam vets—friends of mine who’d fought in the war and ended up as emotionally unstable as nitroglycerine—had shot themselves. Citalopram would’ve helped them. The medication had reached saturation point a few days ago—it takes a few weeks. The clawing, gnashing pit of sorrow that sat at the base of my oesophagus had finally strangled itself into a fuzzy hum. Like a demon’s murmur.

  I tip out the pills, push them around my hand, organizing them by color, size, and shape, and take them one by one. Xanax first—it erodes the paranoia I have about medication side effects. I’m suspicious of drugs. The Citalopram can make you crazy. Shit. What if you can be calm and crazy?

  My heart meds come before my arthritis pills. How am I going to get more Xanax now that the entire USA has been ordered to stay indoors thanks to the deadly virus that’s sweeping the nation? If the doctors had given me a proper supply in the first place, I wouldn’t have this problem. They’re greedy bastards, want you dependent on them. Money for pills. Money for check-ups. I can’t believe how much we pay these overeducated assholes to feel normal. No Xanax means intense panic attacks; I’ve been having them since Hannah died. I’ll need more, so will others—hell, the nation is in panic, and all 322 million of us can’t stay inside forever.

  I switch on the radio. Remember, discipline and routine go hand in hand. Wake up, take meds, listen to radio.

  Radio Host: Several hundred million people have contracted the Memo virus so far, with three thousand dead to date.

  Guest: And in America, it’s spreading north through the state of New York as we speak. Containment is proving ineffective, but we’ll know more in the next few days.

  Radio Host: Doctor Yalho, given the virus’s ability to jump species, is it likely we’ll contain it?

  Doctor Yalho: We’re doing everything we can. The world’s leading pharmacologists are working on a vaccine and a cure. I believe it’s only a matter of time.

  Heat prickles on my cheeks as my blood pressure rises. But what if it’s not blood pressure, but a fever? What if I’m already sick?

  “You can do this, Bill,” I say to calm myself, which seems to work. “You can remain in control of the situation.”

  To distract myself, I pick up a picture frame from the bedside table and touch Hannah’s smiling face, remembering the good times. I’m in the picture too; we’re on one of our first dates, sharing a drink, looking attractive—practically a soda advert. Hannah was wearing her favorite red lipstick that smelled of strawberry and often ended up all over my skin and clothes.

  At first, I didn’t mind. Then when her lipstick ruined a $300 silk shirt, we had our first domestic argument. Then came the make-up sex. After that, I was the housekeeper. I did the mowing, swept the floors, polished the cutlery, and cleaned the cars. What was she doing during those times? Hobbies. Painting. Knitting. Jigsaw puzzles. Our house was a graveyard where hobbies went to die. I’d give each half-finished project a few weeks, then dispose of it. Grief turned those gripes into fond memories.

  I tune back in to the radio voices.

  Radio Host: There’s no chance of water supplies being infected, then?

  Doctor Yalho: Tap water remains drinkable for now. Stay hydrated. The main reasons flus are passed on is a lack of hygiene, both in the carrier and in the recipient. It’s spreading because basic hygiene procedures just aren’t being followed.

  “Duh,” I say.

  Speaking of hygiene, the bed is starting to reek. It’s been months since I used underarm spray or cologne; I always wash with unscented soap to avoid masking the last of Hannah’s odor lingering on the sheets. It’s all I have left of her apart from her unfinished projects.

  Radio Host: You hear that, folks? Stay indoors. Leave your pets outside—or kill them like I did—wash your hands, don’t touch your face, wear masks, ration your food.

  Doctor Yalho: If you’re in a quarantine area, listen to whoever is in charge. Wear your hazmat suits if you’ve received one. The army can resupply you with medicines and food. Don’t answer your door to anyone but the authorities.

  Since our street was barricaded two weeks ago, the soldiers haven’t come to our door. Great help they’ve been, and there’s no way I’m going outside. In fact, the only gift they gave us was a notice saying, Stay inside or we’ll relocate you.

  No argument here. The soldiers are potential carriers of the virus anyway.

  The notice had been blue—pastel blue, like a calm summer sky, or like Hannah’s lips the day I found her dead.

  Citalopram. Don’t be blue, be you.

  Unlike Citalopram, Hannah was irreplaceable. She wasn’t an appliance with a factory warranty or a midnight TV shopper’s deal with a money-back guarantee.

  My therapist labelled my love for her as co-dependent, and that’s why I can’t let go. Professionals are paid to convince their patients to be independent, to never rely on others. Modern society disdains neediness, and yet, without my money my therapist would be homeless. Cue the never-ending hypocrisy of society.

  That same therapist also said that staying in our house was making me sick. That sickness she spoke of seems less serious in light of the Memo virus that might very well turn the entire world’s population into comatose citizens.

  Radio Host: Doctor, has anyone survived the virus yet?

  Doctor Yalho: Survived? The brain is attacked. The first cause of death is usually dehydration because the brain can’t remember how to find water. The kidneys shut down. Then there’s bacterial infections caused by untreated wounds acquired during episodes of confusion and disorientation. This is why brain diseases are so insidious. The brain is like a hard drive, and we all know that when hard drives fail, there’s a good chance you’ll lose all the important data.

  Radio Host: What is the last stage?

  Doctor Yalho: Vegetation. Brain is gone. Body still functions. Catatonia sets in before then. Catatonia is usually caused by
encephalitis, schizophrenia, strokes, and autoimmune disorders. In the Memo virus’s case, however, the catatonia cannot be treated.

  Get up! my brain screams at me. I never get enough time with the radio. I never let myself just be. The house needs disinfecting. The traps need checking. What if the generator’s fuel is out?

  I sit up in bed so abruptly it’s like snakes are nipping at my toes under the blankets. I hate snakes. And neurons. They’re a firing, frazzled frenzy today.

  Annoying alliteration doesn’t stop me from peering through my pale yellow blinds to the street below. Gray rectangular pavers at violent 70-degree angles create the patterns that always make me stare. Blankly.

  Blankly.

  Ash trees—not gray like ash, not dead like burned corpses—are named after spears. Cherry trees are there, too, with the ash trees. They’re not properly spaced apart. You can tell, and it’s irritating. Threes would be good. Three feet apart. Three different types of trees.

  Three is a balanced number. Can’t they get it right?

  Just one more minute of radio.

  Radio Host: What was Europe’s major failing in dealing with this virus?

  Doctor Yalho: Blaming Europe is unhelpful. The virus infected a lot of people in a short time. It looks like it spread quickly between people waiting to receive the Pope’s speech in Italy. After that event, it took two days for the forgetfulness of each sufferer to alarm their loved ones. By then, pets, family members, strangers—all infected.

  Radio Host: And what are the first signs to watch out for?

  Doctor Yalho: We are starting to distribute tests that look for antibodies in the blood. Fever comes first. Then, just like in Alzheimer’s sufferers, a person with this virus will see their memory decline; it only takes a day for the first signs to set in. The second and third days will see confusion and disorientation set in. Names are forgotten, dates, loved ones. The person won’t recognize contexts…can’t remember names or dates. Soon, everyone will be a stranger. They’ll be socially inappropriate, forget to eat, dress themselves, or take showers…