Some of the facilities were powered by diesel generators, but largely the compound would be considered dark. Some battery powered lanterns were used to light rooms and provide a psychological lift for the occupants, and command did have a few smaller, portable gas generators to power individual rooms or modules, but fuel was in short supply. It was cold and dark, though as unwelcoming as it was, it was preferable to the alternatives.
Overall, the cluster of buildings was tightly packed; with scarcely five feet separating the street frontage fence and the structure where you slept, its claustrophobic nature was keenly felt. It required constant patrol and chronic vigilance, and this became infinitely more taxing as the numbers of trained personnel dwindled and provisions rationed. There was plenty of space towards the back of the complex, but it wasn’t feasible to try to change the facilities.
No, this was as good as they were going to get.
Looking down now at the compound, Anders couldn’t stop himself from thinking that while the site was defensible, its geography was hardly ideal as a fortress besieged by a tireless, ravenous enemy. While it was a conclusion Anders reached several times while manning the nests, the realization lingered just a shade longer today.
Glancing up to see his spotter had been staring blankly in the wrong direction, the nameless grunt kicked Anders’ boot. Snapping back to reality and remembering his post, Anders raised his binoculars and turned back to face the wasted landscape.
Chapter 2
The communications room and center planning were off limits to all but the official response and their supporting staff. Any communiqués meant for wide dissemination were posted in the mess of the civilian living quarters next to the day’s duty roster.
Otherwise, if you didn’t need to know, you didn’t.
What was widely known, however, was the conspicuous and complete absence of resupply and relief the response had promised. The realization that whoever survived and wherever they now found themselves would be on their own for the foreseeable future was a troubling thought. Many simply couldn’t accept it, or otherwise weren’t equipped for the realities they now faced.
Unable to cope, many sunk into despondency.
A stifling, malevolent hush permeated the very air; it clung to the dormitory walls and to the skin as if a stale cigarette, idly smoldering. The world was both cruel and apathetic in even the best of times, but this new order… this was truly sadistic. Barbarous and bestial, it would be destined to change you.
***
Lying in bed, Isaac stared fiercely at the ceiling, ostensibly intent on burrowing a hole through the aging tile. Not much reward for the effort, but the congestion in the sleeping quarters was bordering on the claustrophobic; the confines were cramped and constricting, the minimal sleeping space on ration just as everything else. Having a cot or makeshift bed was a welcome amenity, but somehow the sleep just wasn’t as restful knowing it would only be yours for your apportioned eight hours a day, shared with at least one other person during the remainder.
Imagining a sky, a vast starlit canopy overhead – however dull and overcast – gave him some degree comfort.
Isaac was thin – standing but a modest height, he scarcely tipped the scales at 140 lbs., even before the rationing. Truthfully, his appearance was rather unremarkable. Being neither fast on his feet nor considered strong for his size, he’d never have been thought particularly athletic, even without the black framed designer glasses and the awkward gait. But he had always been clever – clever, and ruthlessly pragmatic. It had served him well in the world before the outbreak, where he enjoyed a successful career as an analyst with a national telecommunications company. He loved numbers, loved both the challenge and the reward of attempting to dissect and find opportunity in the ever-changing figures. Despite how taxing the last few weeks had proved, his face didn’t yet betray his age – the only thing that would give away his actual years was the presence of a strip of stark white whiskers on his chin when he wasn’t able to shave.
Ignoring the many shortcomings of their current accommodations, Isaac knew their worth. Almost at the outset, he and his fiancée Keeley had found themselves in the Coast Guard site.
Keeley was a sweetheart, not at all meant for a world like this, and how she and Isaac had ever come to be would prove a mystery to most. She was an absolute free spirit, selfless to a fault and full of life – diametrically opposed to Isaac, whom many would consider a bit of a “buzzkill,” even if they would never admit as much. She had spent several years working for a major chartered bank and had progressed through the ranks of working as teller through to being one of the top financial planners the bank had to offer. She excelled at working with people and had a genuinely buoyant spirit; people couldn’t help but like her. She was small and light, not even reaching a full five-two, and even when wearing her customary high heels she could seldom look Isaac in the eyes. Her hair was a deep and lustrous brown and she had dark, obviously kind eyes. Despite her small stature, she walked with purpose and had a surprisingly heavy footfall for someone otherwise so graceful.
Keeley had served as one of the bank’s First Aid attendants for several years; this coupled with her natural likability had her frequently drawing duty rotation in the infirmary. Medical skills, even fundamental training, were highly prized at the compound, and she wasn’t afraid to get her hands dirty. She would often pull double shifts and otherwise was called away regularly. Keeley always strived to maintain a strong façade, as often as possible, and consciously made an effort not to display the fear and anxiety boiling under the surface.
Keeley was blessed with the ability to flip the proverbial switch and function on autopilot when need be, but after the adrenaline dump, she couldn’t always shake the memories. She understood the challenges facing the enclave, and the realities of her post. The infirmary couldn’t take chances, especially inside the walls. The more recent the infection, the more deadly the patient; the early stages were both the most dangerous and had the highest probability of being communicable.
Keeley always preferred the term “euthanized” to the more guttural sound of “putting them down.” Although she understood the necessity, she was thankful the guards didn’t force the infirmary staff to watch the infected being lined up on the pavement outside.
Isaac and Keeley lived and worked in the Uptown core of the city, each had offices within walking distance from their home. When the calls came out for survivors to get to shelter, they were blessed to have found each other in the chaos, even despite their proximity. Isaac had emptied their bank accounts, believing he might be able to buy them safe passage to the best defended facility they could get to – reasoning at best he’d successfully secure safe passage, and at worst the money wouldn’t be worth anything anyway. In any event, he was able to barter their way as far back as the last line of defensible terrain, the dormitories of the Coast Guard site. He was even able to ensure they shared the same room, albeit stacked up with several other refugees.
Isaac had never shared that information with Keeley.
As far as she knew, things just worked out.
Isaac spent most of his time working the nests or out with the scavengers. His father – an excellent marksman and an avid outdoor enthusiast – had taught him to shoot alongside many foundational camping and survival skills. While not as gifted a shot as some, his aim was reliable, and he had logged trigger time with a variety of firearms; even went so far as to pursue a restricted permit. Isaac didn’t appreciate the lessons as much in his youth, didn’t care for the simple life as much in his early years as when he was aging and craved the escape from the hustle of corporate life. In any case, he’d proven himself to the response and as a good soldier; none of the officials questioned his position, and no one doubted his loyalty.
Since the night the line broke, Isaac preferred being outside the walls.
Isaac and Keeley tried to avoid tal
king about their shifts, which led to the majority of their evenings being spent in silence. Through everything, she was convinced there still had to be a plan, a grand design. After all and against all odds, they were together, and they had found shelter.
She had always believed in miracles, and he wouldn’t tell her any differently.
***
Lynn was finishing her shift in the civilian section of the command building. She had experience in administrative support and had worked a number of summers with the city cashier’s office, and had been in the final year of her Business Administration degree at UNBSJ. Most people would have described her as attractive – she was young, blonde and charming – though few would have considered her as much else. She wasn’t street smart and no one would have mistaken her for being well read; but she never needed to be. She had the unmistakable air of someone who had gotten by with their looks alone, and never concerned herself much with the nuances of hard work. The fact she was near completion of an undergraduate program was a shock to most.
Lynn mostly made coffee for the officials in the building, took notes and the like. While her official capacity was limited to the most menial of tasks, it didn’t bother her; she enjoyed the prestige, the entitlement of being part of the “inner circle.” She rarely paid much attention to the chatter around her, except when it came to the three-day duty roster. Smiling smugly at her self-importance, she relished in the sense of being so close to the action.
Putting on her jacket and turning the collar to shield her skin from the winter air, she started back out in the cold and headed towards the living quarters, stopping only briefly to look at the supply shed. She always scanned it on the walk back after finishing a shift; seeing both the size of the structure and the stately guards posted outside gave her comfort. With stores that size packed with provisions and the ever improving prospects of springtime, as long as the walls held they’d be well looked after.
They could do this.
***
Quinn stared into his stale, black coffee, patently underwhelmed by it but determined to find some brief distraction. Quinn had command of the facility and the movements of its occupants, but little desire to lead; he loathed the weight of responsibility on this scale, cursed the day the crown had fallen to him.
Quinn wasn’t a bad choice for command. He’d served with distinction in Afghanistan – two tours – as a First Lieutenant integrated with an armoured unit, and was himself a Maritime transplant to Petawawa; he was born and bred in Moncton and thus knew most of the province’s terrain. He had seen sustained combat against an unconventional enemy, and had been wounded in service to his country. Furthermore, Quinn understood the burdens and the realities of leadership – he understood the need to make tough choices, and how to live with the consequences. A career soldier, he was only days away from his promotion to Captain when the First Wave hit and he was thrust back into service.
It would have to wait.
Most of his current capacity circled around the duty roster and managing the facility’s remaining inventory. Though he had advisors and people whose counsel he valued, instinct was his true compass.
That instinct was telling him that they’d be on their own.
Since communication broke down, he had plenty of time to consider the math. The Federal response would invariably be concentrated in the nation’s major population centers. All the Maritime Provinces combined – with Newfoundland and Labrador thrown in for good measure – wouldn’t equate to the population of Toronto alone.
Quinn leaned back in his ragged chair, sipping the faintly metallic-tasting coffee and tapped his pen against the whiteboard. The administrative work bored him, but it allowed Quinn to make sure he had the pieces where he wanted them. A true utilitarian, he would devote however long was necessary to be wholly satisfied with the efficiency of his lineup – sleep be damned.
The things outside never slept.
Upon assuming command, Quinn had immediately canvassed the survivors for any marketable skills; anyone with medical training, however rudimentary, was deemed critical complement and reserved for the infirmary. Anyone with military, police or general firearms experience was earmarked for patrol, scavenging and defense. Those with construction or mechanical backgrounds were assigned to facility maintenance and upgrading, and were responsible for developing lists of priority materials for the scavengers and salvage missions. Everyone else was deemed more-or-less non-essential and relegated to general labour; cooking, cleaning, sanitation and the like. There were a few orderlies and laypeople running about – but for the most part they made up the supporting cast of the unspecialized.
Quinn needed to keep the survivors fit and wasn’t afraid to work them, and his soldiers were loyal and would enforce his edict. He also understood the dangers of having too much time on one’s hands, especially when tired and hungry. When no better option presented itself, and partly in compensation for the onslaught of snow and freezing rain, he would assign shifts outside clearing snow throughout the compound and along the perimeter walls. He would ensure the pathways were traversable and guarantee the site was highly conspicuous against the backdrop – especially for a trained recon or relief team. The bare pavement would shine as a black beacon against the otherwise snow covered landscape; it would be unmistakable the site was occupied, or at least had been occupied since the last snowfall. Clearing the snow and ice around the border fencing was of paramount importance as well; if the snow drifted against the chain link and froze, it could provide easy access to the compound for an unwanted guest, or the intrepid dead.
His approach didn’t make friends, but quite frankly, it didn’t have to – in any event, Quinn didn’t care. He needed to drive maximum utility out of each and every limited resource, and with their supplies continuously dwindling, labour would prove the most readily available asset. The cost for this labour was simple, but it was high – food, water, warmth and shelter – and in light of current weather patterns, Quinn was forced to scale back the commitment to scavenging. To compensate, he instituted a tighter rationing plan. It was widely unpopular amongst the population and led to sporadic unrest; it even led to occasional violence. But he reasoned it served two purposes of equal importance – one, it extended the life of what little stores they had left. Two, it temporarily spared Quinn the necessity of an otherwise very public admission that their stores would soon be exhausted, as were the remaining complement of trained soldiers at his disposal.
Urgency meant Quinn had to step up scouting activity as well, and part of him was banking on a big score; they were out there, and he knew it. The problem was the commitment of man and material to go for the high value sites, especially whereas the roads were largely impassable for the limited vehicles on hand. The implications of failure, both in terms of the lost resources and public perception, weighed heavily upon him, but Quinn had to maintain order. The conditions were dire, but only the upper echelons of command knew exactly how dire things had become. He could sense his grip on the situation was slipping. Tenuous as it already was, he couldn’t abide the possibility of public sentiment swinging to despair.
Generally speaking, Quinn didn’t trust his civilian militia for much but working the nests and scavenging, ultimately preferring what little company of military and veteran presence for scouting, patrol and maintaining order.
But there were a few civilians he could count on to do what needed to be done.
Polishing off the remainder of the ghastly coffee, Quinn rubbed his weary eyes and ran through the duty rotation again.
His hand would be forced soon, and he knew it.
Chapter 3
Keeley and Isaac were both on the day shift this morning, and woke before the reveille to eat breakfast together before parting ways. Keeley would find herself in the infirmary whereas Isaac had drawn a scavenging placement, the details of which were unknown; the briefings, when applicable, were
seldom more than a few hasty minutes in advance of departure.
The mess hall was a makeshift space, but it served the purpose. Whereas the duty rotation accounted for shifts throughout each twenty-four hour period, there were always survivors milling about – either those just finishing a shift, those about to begin, or those otherwise too agitated to rest. While many faces were recognizable, Isaac mostly kept to himself and could truly only claim to know a handful of refugees in the entire compound; mostly fellow scavengers, a handful of the guards, and Keeley’s cohort in the infirmary.
Isaac didn’t want to know anyone else.
Hell, glancing around the mess, he didn’t want to know as many faces as he did now.
Breakfast this morning was lackluster and consisted of boiled oats in water – there were so few flakes of oat you couldn’t rightly call it oatmeal – served alongside a weak tea and packets of sugar; both the dairy and powdered milk had long since run out.
They ate quietly.
Even without an appetite, Isaac would finish his ration; Keeley ate like a bird in general.
Isaac looked worn out. As he scraped the bottom of the metal bowl for his last few apportioned calories, he inexplicably became distant and fixated on the empty vessel. His breathing was regular but shallow, his lungs barely inflating.
He wasn’t the same. Before the world ended, Isaac could make her laugh, but since his time on the wall and the night the line broke, he was constantly preoccupied. Keeley wasn’t sure if it was the result a long, gradual slide or something more sudden and specific, but she saw a change in him.
Keeley reached across the slender table and placed her hand on top of his. Isaac snapped up, eyes fixed to hers in a severe glare, neither knowing her face nor processing his surroundings. A flicker of recognition and his demeanor softened – he even managed a weak smile and a deep breath before averting his eyes back down to the bowl.
The Decline Page 2