The Decline

by Jessulat, Christopher

  The Decline

  a novel

  Christopher Jessulat

  prologue

  The mid-morning sunlight pierced the haggard canopy, bringing with it the vague promise of a warmth not known for months. While New Brunswick is known for its tendency towards harsh winters, this year the season had been unusually long and hellishly persistent – stubbornly refusing to yield to the warmth of spring. Record snowfall had punished much of the province, and it lingered in a pervasive cold that rivaled even its traditionally deepest months. While it was true the days were lengthening, there was little to show for it beneath the tree cover.

  The leaves overhead whispered gently, resisting little as they shivered from the light moan of a chill breeze, as if the forest itself were yawning wide and trying to shake off the morning frost. In this particular stretch of the boreal forest, the usual dominance of the Canadian evergreen was conspicuously absent – birch, poplar and sugar maple grew in thick copses about the gently sloping terrain. It seemed as if the trees had capitalized on some brief moment, long ago, to seize their territory amidst the abdication of the typical monoculture imposed by the domestic lumber industry.

  Perhaps it reflected what could have been had man and commerce never disturbed her.

  Since time immemorial, the eastern forest had played host to a varied, vibrant ecology. Now, however, she felt ruined. No songbirds can be heard greeting the morning from their perches, and no signs of life reveal themselves on the canvas of snow and spotted earth. In simple truth, aside from the hardwood dotting the landscape, the forest could easily be described as barren. A mere shadow of its former glory, and a scathing testament to the world as we left it; pockmarked and scarred with industry and monuments to our own excess and achievement – a surface, still beautiful to regard, but boasting an underbelly that is empty and soulless.

  Despite the slowly gathering strength of a now long overdue spring, the snow clung steadfastly where it lay. It was far from the picturesque and pristine white associated with fresh snowfall. This snow was dirty, full of grime and yielded only sporadically to afford spots of dank earth a chance to be seen and feel either shade or sunlight. The Maritime snow had come hard and early last year, and had doggedly remained throughout the preceding winter months; having trapped beneath it the shed leaves and scabbed branches of yesteryear, it partially preserved them in winter’s mausoleum. Now, the smell of damp earth and fetid leaves overwhelmed the scent of the budding hardwood, which lent the forest overall a sickly-sweet cadence; still familiar, though somehow completely foreign, like a flicker of recognition hastily buried beneath the weight of dementia.

  A particular downed maple, its flesh brown and graying from enduring several seasons of rain, frost and thaw, lay strewn across the path. The wood and once protective bark offered little objection to the deliberate stabs and incisions of a modest fixed-blade hunting knife, being driven into it and shifted gently so as to carefully pry open the innermost layers. The desiccated wood crumbled under the assault, preferring instead to surrender and fragment, piece by failing piece. Perhaps it bargained with the assailant, desperately pleading to sacrifice a portion of its holdings to retain the rest, somehow affording itself a grim pact to continue along its own slow path to ultimate decay.

  The knife came down measuredly, repeatedly, albeit with no particular rhythm, working the wood from about the midpoint of the trunk downwards towards the fulcrum of the break. The dull thud of the blade’s tip probing the fallen maple was the only sound beyond the meandering breeze. He was looking for something, anything that could constitute wealth in this world within the depths of that trunk. As each small segment of wood fell away, the wound was scrutinized for any signs of movement, any subtle scurrying that would betray the presence of insects or some other protein-rich food. In truth, he had been looking for signs of carpenter ants – at least, insofar as he knew, what were commonly called carpenter ants – but the simple fact was he had no idea whether or not such fare could be found given the recent climate.

  A thin, grim smile crept its way across his chapped lips as the most recent section of the tree’s flesh peeled away to reveal the presence of a handful of small, white grubs. Their bodies writhed, visibly uncomfortable at being exposed to daylight and the open air, bared to the elements for the first and final time.

  A meager meal, but a meal nonetheless.

  Chapter 1

  The outbreak was both sudden and ferocious, and is now measured by the weeks since the “First Wave” broke. Its approach was much as you’d likely expect – the occasional news report, buried under something sensationalized, likely pertaining to pop culture, celebrities or politicians misbehaving. The occasional headline, alluding to a resistant strain of something wholly uninteresting and unable to be packaged in a way it could readily be sold to the public. Scattered reports of some instances of civil unrest potentially associated with whatever it was the news report was about.

  The exact point of origin was unknown.

  The exact cause of the infection was unknown.

  The exact date of the first event was unknown.

  Truth be told, the above became increasingly irrelevant details; all just minutia. After a few short weeks, it really didn’t matter to the masses if it was a natural mutation of something viral, microbial, fungal; the ill-gotten gains of scientific research, intended as malicious or benevolent; the desolation of bioterrorism; or the undiscerning wrath of a truly vengeful god, finally coming to terms with the realities of a failed creation – aborting this attempt in favour of starting civilization anew.

  What mattered is that it had spilled into the streets outside your door.

  The early stages of infection were relatively docile with symptoms most closely resembling the flu. Hospitals were filling up with patients complaining of fatigue, fever, sore throat. As it progressed, tremors and involuntary movements would shake the extremities, blood pressure would rise to the point where vessels in and around the eyes would burst, a general inability to swallow or keep food and water down. Whereas most patients were unable to eat or drink, rehydration was driven through intravenous drips, though even they couldn’t seem to slake the body’s thirst. It was almost as if the organs themselves were parched and arid, being overclocked and guzzling exponentially more water to fuel their frenzied function. As the dehydration deepened, the “shakes” became more pronounced, and the fever escalated sharply.

  A combination of strains simply burned you out from within.

  While the time between the onset of symptoms was not fixed and notoriously difficult to forecast, it was generally accepted that once you exhibited symptoms, mortality experience would be certain within ninety-six hours. When the hospitals were still running, there were numerous attempts to refine the understanding of the pathology’s patterns – subdividing the infected through representative demographic samplings and forced observation under guard – but the studies didn’t yield conclusive results. The infection made no distinction and had no conventional pattern amongst the young or old, men or women, the fit or the sedentary. It was seemingly random how long a given patient would survive the internal assault, but invariably… brain function would cease and the organs would fail.

  But that wasn’t the end.

  It didn’t take long to learn that there was a second stage, post mortem. In every traditional sense, the body had died; the heart stopped beating, the lungs stopped pumping, and the brain was lifeless and without spark. Official observation reports varied, but in as little as an hour, something profane and defiling.

  A perversion; a twisting of our collective natural order.

  Reanimation.

 
This new state was aggressive and predatory; categorically primal, driven by only the basest of instinct.

  The insatiable desire to feed.

  Ravenous, the recently reanimated would swarm the living, rend and consume their flesh. Though perhaps not as lithe in their raised state as they had been in life, the first few days or weeks of reanimation were when the dead could be described as the most “active.” Ultimately, the flesh would turn necrotic and tighten, progressively withering to decay.

  As the days and weeks progressed, the reanimated would begin to slow – whether this was from the advancement of infection or the gradual degradation of the flesh was unknown. The First Wave of the outbreak was now largely in this segment, still deadly and incomparably violent, but not near as agile as the more recently succumbed.

  Small mercies.

  ***

  Anders surveyed the grey waste that surrounded the compound, straining his already tired eyes in an effort to scan the empty streets between scores of abandoned buildings.

  He had drawn this duty on several occasions, but honestly didn’t mind it. Being perched atop a weathered building seemed as good a vantage point as any for the end of days, he mused.

  While ordinarily serving the role as spotter would be relatively dull, on some occasions it proved frantic. Anders wasn’t yet convinced either way if he preferred the lull or the chaos, but having something to focus on did ease his mind – even if only intermittently – as it kept his thoughts from straying away from duty. In truth, Anders had been fortunate to find himself here, much more fortunate than most.

  And he knew it; that knowledge drove him.

  On the surface, the prospects for survival in a small, unassuming place like New Brunswick, Canada were halfway decent. The landscape was largely rural and, for the most part, densely forested aside from three hubs of population.

  Anders lowered his binoculars and shut his eyes tightly, vainly trying to combat their fatigue. The wind was fierce today; he could feel traces of windswept tears clinging to the outermost corners of his eyes. He knew he’d find no relief until the shift was over and he found himself back inside the relative warmth of the congested corridors and stale dormitories. Opening his eyes again, he sighed almost imperceptibly and turned his gaze away from his charge to where he now called home.

  Anders had found himself in Canada for what should have been a brief stint on an exchange program, meant to foster heightened cooperation and consistency amongst nations potentially interested in joining the NATO alliance. His native Finland, in light of recent tensions between Russia and the European bloc, had renewed debating the subject of NATO membership despite years of thinly veiled Russian protest and posturing.

  Anders took a deep, contemplative breath and considered his surroundings.

  He looked about as threatening as a kitten; cherubic features, fair skinned with light hair and soft blue eyes. His appearance readily betrayed his Scandinavian heritage, and his accent ensured he was not mistaken for a local.

  He was a long way from his birthplace, and held no illusion he’d likely see its shores again.

  At least the winter was familiar.

  As was customary, each spotter was paired with a sniper – one team for each of three nests about the compound. He’d never served an assignment with this soldier before; some grunt whose name he didn’t remember from the duty roster, and who clearly had no interest in breaking bread. It was just as well – Anders was seldom one to connect easily, even without the language barrier. While his English had improved dramatically since his time with the exchange program, and even further now in the narrow confines of the compound’s quarters, Anders had never been comfortable in initiating conversation with someone new; even less so away from home. He often felt his command of the English language inadequate, preferring to leave others to their own device in any event. Nevertheless, Anders was generally liked – the survivor’s enclave appreciated his work ethic, and he was always ready to pick up a shift somewhere on the duty roster. It didn’t matter if his reasons were to stave off his own boredom or because he was ultimately selfless – his time along the wall was noted.

  Turning his back to the ruined city, Anders sat, rested the binoculars on his lap and blew into his hands, trying to chase away the stinging numbness in his fingers. Any reprieve from the chill would be short lived – his shift in the nest still had plenty of time remaining. Though spring would be on its way soon, the air remained bitter cold when being whipped by the sharp winds on the harbour, even moreso amongst the rooftop vantage points.

  The city of Saint John was nestled on the coast of the Bay of Fundy, which boasted the highest tides in the world. The deep water port was ice free year round and made the harbours here particularly valuable for military and commercial application. The Coast Guard site was one of several designated safe zones dotted throughout the city proper, though at one point its borders stretched out beyond the confines of the base itself to include two neighbouring cruise ship terminals. It had extended southwards down the peninsula to encompass the better part the eastern half of the harbour. Whereas the west side of the harbour was largely zoned as heavy industrial, it wasn’t suited for much else than unloading large container ships before the outbreak; thus, the official response had put their focus into fortifying the length of the east waterfront and inland a few streets as its primary conduit for extracting survivors. It was meant to serve as a beachhead for future military support arriving by sea or by helicopter, but it wasn’t meant to be. There was a time when the west side of the harbour seemed occupied, and occasionally they would spot attempts to signal with flashlights, smoke or something reflective.

  Now it only appeared desolate, defiled.

  One by one, the outposts, checkpoints and camps throughout the city became overwhelmed by the swarms of infected and the response had little option but to abandon their inland posts. Recognizing the east harbour as being the last line of defense, they kept collapsing back to the waterfront with the aim of holding the port and their lifeline. The discipline and professionalism of the military was evident – they had fallen back in good order, executed their plans almost to the letter.

  The “best laid plans,” and all.

  The line was thin, and the stations woefully overcrowded. Once the infection was inside, the terminals – designed for herding tourists through an assaulting array of tour guides and tacky souvenirs – simply weren’t designed for any meaningful tactical purpose. The outbreak ravaged the camp, and the satellite guard stations watching over the hopeful evacuees were overwhelmed, literally swallowed whole by the surging crowds, equal measures of the dead and dying.

  The infected had driven a catastrophic wedge into the very heart of the response. When the line finally broke, the harbour was effectively cleft in two; some fled to the Coast Guard site, while the rest broke for the city barracks at the southern tip of the city’s peninsula.

  That was a dark day.

  The compound itself was previously used as a staging area for training exercises and for the collection of meteorological data. The site was in the process of being decommissioned, and even before the outbreak was largely stripped of most of the man and material that once called it home. Rumour had it the municipality had been pursuing negotiations with the Federal government to acquire the site in order to repurpose it into commercial development for several years. As discussions progressed, the Coast Guard saw little reason to invest in its upkeep, believing it clearly destined for another fate. While the compound’s position was indeed ideal for its purpose with the Coast Guard – it occupied a prominent position on the waterfront – it stuck out awkwardly against its renovated, tourist-friendly neighbours.

  A strange relic of an era past, seemingly aware it had no place in the future portrait of the harbour.

  Almost half the site’s natural borders were waterfront and jutted sharply into the Bay. The areas not
protected by the water were almost completely wreathed in a chain link fence that was crowned with barbed wire. The survivors sheltered here had been productive during their charge, and had taken to reinforcing their walls by cannibalizing fencing from elsewhere within the compound; given the nature of the disease and the aggressive, violent disposition of the afflicted, having an already erected barrier to scab on to would prove invaluable. The site also featured cleared space for a helipad, and with the combination of a landing area for helicopters and docks to load and unload ship-borne cargo, resupply and rescue seemed probable; in the event the site was compromised, necessitating extraction, they had options.

  Largely of brick construction, the aged strength of the masonry offered some strange comfort to Anders. The compound proper contained four significant permanent structures, each repurposed into the variety of services required to support the colony, and a garish sheet metal monstrosity that housed the enclave’s stores. Command and control, a makeshift infirmary, an armory and workspace, as well as respective quarters for the civilians and soldiers alike were carved out of the compound and arranged between buildings as efficiently as possible. Sniper’s nests – like the one Anders found himself in – dotted several roofs, while a hastily erected shooting-platform-slash-guard-tower offered cover along the various approaches.

  Piecemeal checkpoints were built at the front gate, and a temporary registration tent had been set up in the front parking lot between the fence and the command building, though now they served no practical purpose. Whatever hopes there may have been for an orderly approach to the situation were long since abandoned. The registration tent now only housed bleak coffee and hot water to those on patrol and guard duty, and the main gate’s checkpoints would only be manned in the event someone approached the gate to be granted entry.

  It had been several days since the compound had encountered anyone that was breathing.

  At least, breathing in the conventional sense.