by Cross, Amy
"Do you think it's all going to go back to normal one day?" I ask.
He smiles. "No chance."
"But at least a little bit?"
"You're not one of those idiots who thinks the government'll ride to the rescue, are you? There's no-one out there in a position to do anything. The whole goddamn system fell apart, and the most we can do is pick up the pieces. I'm sure some people are gonna do okay out of it. Probably the lunatics, like Ms. Quinn, while the rest of us fade away. I guess the building blocks of a decent world are still scattered all over the place, something for the children to play with, but the human race had its chance. It's over now."
"But that signal -"
"It's just a blip, or a malfunction, or some other kind of fuck-up."
"There has to be someone somewhere," I continue. "Someone's doing something, and maybe it'll help us all."
"We're cooked," he replies. "Maybe a few of us'll keep going, but we'll never get back to where we were. I have no idea how many people are left on the planet, but it could be as low as a few hundred thousand. Things'll probably get worse before there's a chance for them to get better, and that's without taking into account things like disease and infections. It's only been about six weeks, so there's still food left over from the old days, but when that starts to run out, I don't see many people surviving. There's gonna be mass starvation, including the people here." He pauses. "If you want my advice, you'll get out of the city, find yourself some land out of the way, and try to get by with subsistence farming. Maybe someone'll come along and help you out, maybe even a woman and you can think about bringing some children into this world. But that's really the absolute best you can hope for."
"When are you leaving?" I ask.
"As soon as I've done some asking around," he replies, getting to his feet and gasping as his knee cracks. "There's no time to sit around chatting. Just take my advice, boy, and don't hang around here for too long. The city's a bad place to be, and I don't trust that Quinn woman. There's something dangerous in her eyes. She might seem friendly, but she's crazy, and not the good kind of crazy either. If I were you, I'd get the hell out of here before sundown." He reaches out a hand. "I know we met in awkward circumstances, and I'm truly sorry for trying to blow your head off that time. It was nice getting to know you, even if it was only for a few days, and I wish you all the best."
"You too," I reply as I shake his hand. "I hope you find your daughter and granddaughter. They really might be out there somewhere."
He nods, but he clearly knows that there's no chance.
Once he's gone, I stay by the window for a moment. There's a part of me that's tempted to go with him, since we could cover so much ground if we used the truck, but I don't feel like going on a doomed quest. I need to come up with something, anything, that gives my life purpose, and then I need to make a proper decision. The craziest thing is, I'm starting to wonder if Joe and I should have just stayed at the farm. At least we knew the land, and if we'd worked together, we might have been able to grow enough food for us to survive. One thing's for sure: I definitely can't stay in the city. The people who cling to this place are deluded. The only chance for survival is to hit the road and, as George said, to find a new home.
Or, if not a home, then at least somewhere that offers some kind of hope.
The Bunker
"Shit," I mutter, holding the main cable in one hand while I reach around the back of the machine and try to blindly operate the secondary valve. It's a balletic operation that would reward someone a little more delicate, but gradually I'm able to turn the handle, releasing pressure on the pipe and reducing the intake load. Straining to look back at the meter, I watch with relief as the needle quivers a little and then finally moves back down out of the red zone.
Danger averted.
For now.
"Fuck!" I shout, as my hand suddenly brushes against the pipe itself, instantly burning the flesh around my wrist.
I instinctively pull back and stumble over some cables on the floor, which cause me to tumble against the desk. Just about managing to maintain my balance, I look down at my wrist and see that the flesh on one side is seared pink. It hurts, but I know it's going to hurt more soon.
"Fuck!" I mutter again, annoyed by my own stupidity. I'm always so careful. What if this mistake is a sign of mental erosion? I might be losing my mind, which in turn might lead to clumsiness and then problems with coordination, and finally I'll just make mistake after mistake until I end up killing myself through sheer stupidity. Still, I'm on top of the situation. I'm not crazy yet.
Glancing at my reflection in the mirror, I stare at myself for a moment.
"No," I say finally. "You don't look crazy at all."
Making my way to the supply cupboard, I search for some anti-bacterial wipes and finally I find an open packet on the top shelf. Even the slightest injury could become infected and then blow out of control, so I'm careful to cover the burn in three layers of gel. It stings, and I'm going to have a hell of a blister in the morning, but this approach is definitely preferable to dying of some goddamn stupid little scratch. That would be an absolutely pathetic way to leave this world.
"Just keep on truckin'," I mutter as I examine the wound. It's pretty bad, and it's clear that I've burned the flesh deep. I guess it'll hurt like a bitch for a week, maybe two, but all I can do now is make sure I never do something so dumb again.
After a few minutes, I wander back over to the computer and watch the screen as the signal continues to cycle through its three stages. Keeping this damn thing running is a constant struggle, but fortunately I don't really have anything else to do. Grabbing the tin of cold beans I was eating earlier, I use a spoon to scoop some into my mouth before giving up and just pouring the contents straight down my throat. Some of the sauce spills over my chin, but I don't care. It's not as if anyone can see me, anyway. I haven't been anywhere near another human being for forty-eight days straight now, and I don't expect to see one any time soon either.
Unless...
Leaning closer to the screen, I watch as the inbound IP tracer cycles through another scan. It's been twelve and a half hours since the last ping, but someone out there has sure as hell located the server. So far, all they're doing is pinging it a few times a day, almost as if they can't be sure that it's really here. I guess they're surprised to find that someone has managed to keep such a sophisticated rig up and running for so long, and I have to admit that I've done a damn good job. The problem is, pinging my server is only the first stage. Whoever this asshole is, I need him (or her, I guess, if I'm being politically correct and all that other bullshit) to actually come and find me. After all, how hard is it to triangulate a signal?
"Come on, motherfucker," I whisper, watching the screen intently. "Use your head. If you've got the intelligence to get a basic system running, you should be able to come up with my position and grab a few shovels. It's not rocket science."
Glancing over at the window, I realize that it's daylight again. Damn it, the nights and days just seem to sneak up on me. Sometimes I worry that I'm going just slightly crazy, which wouldn't be too much of a shock. Still, I've got my anti-crazy set-up arranged on the desk: a copy of Ulysses, a set of headphones for the computer, a notebook, and a pen. When things seem to be getting too much, I can just take some time out and try to calm my mind. Damn it, I wish I had some opera recordings, but that would just be too perfect. A man must suffer.
"It'd be so easy to go nuts down here," I whisper, staring at the desk. "So easy to just... flip out and become a total psychopath. Good job I'm -"
Suddenly, I pause.
"Was that out loud?" I ask, genuinely puzzled.
I wait.
"Huh."
Taking a deep breath, I realize there's a faint smell of rotten meat in the air. Looking over at one of the other desks, I realize I forgot to finish off the ham from yesterday. Damn it, at this rate, I might actually have to start worrying about my food supply before th
e year is out. I should probably tidy up, but I figure the bunker's probably about as neat as it's ever going to get. Besides, I'm the only one down here, and I got used to the stench a long time ago. I've got far more important work to be doing, so the plates of half-eaten food can just stay in place. Feeling a ticking sensation in my throat, I break into a coughing fit that eventually causes me to double over. I'm still not doing so good, but I don't have time to rest. Once I've brought myself under control, I resume my relentless gaze at the monitor.
I'll do some sudoku later. Just a few from one of the books I stashed down here, to make sure that I don't get lazy. And then I'll play a game of chess against myself. I need to keep my mind alert and sharp, because eventually I'm going to need to put phase two of my plan into operation. God damn it, I need to be sharp as a pin when someone finally finds this bunker.
I need to be ready.
"Come on," I mutter, desperately willing the system to show another ping. "What are you waiting for? I'm right here. Come and get me!"
Thomas
"It's been the case throughout human history that most people are expendable. You know that, don't you? You must have noticed? Most people are just... worthless."
Sitting in the room that Quinn describes as her 'office', I keep my eyes fixed on the laptop. It's hard to believe that she's got it up and running, and even harder to believe that someone somewhere out there has managed to maintain a server. I can't help trying to work out who could be on the other end of the signal. The government? The military? Some lone hacker? Someone like Quinn?
"I've always had a very realistic view of the world," she continues, apparently not too bothered by the fact that I'm not responding to her. In fact, this whole encounter is more like a soliloquy than a conversation. "Most people try to maintain the fiction that human beings, in general, are useful, but the truth is rather different. There were seven billion people on this planet before last month, and now how many do you think there are? A hundred thousand, maybe? That's one sweet-ass cull. It's almost enough to make me believe in God. I mean, I never had much of an opinion one way or the other in the old days, but now..." She pauses for a moment. "God just became interesting, so I'm finally paying attention."
"Can't you work out where it is?" I ask, still staring at the laptop.
"The signal?" She wanders over and looks at the screen for a moment. "I'm working on it. I've got a few ideas. I always considered myself to be not very good with computers, but I had the benefit of being able to look stuff up online. I never bothered with hard copies of system information, and now I'm struggling a little. I'll work it out eventually, though. Nothing ever beats me, not in the long-run." She pauses again. "Where's your friend?"
"What friend?" I'm genuinely puzzled for a moment, until I realize she means George. "I don't know. He... I think he left. He's looking for his family."
"Family?"
"His daughter and granddaughter."
"Oh," she replies, sounding distinctly unimpressed. "So he still clings to traditional patriarchal definitions of societal structures, does he? How gauche."
I turn to her. "He wants to find his -"
"I know, I know," she says dismissively, "but it's all just pissing in the wind, isn't it?"
"Aren't you looking for anyone?" I ask.
"Only smart people. Bright people. People who can help me." She stares at me for a moment. "What about you?"
"I've got a sister, but she was out in California when all of this started so -"
"Forget her."
"I just -"
"Forget her. She's old news." Putting a hand on my shoulder, Quinn seems to be trying to make friends with me, although there's something stiff and off-putting about her, as if she's pre-determined her every move. "California's a hell of a long way from here, Thomas. The odds of you finding your sister are huge, and why does it matter, anyway? Just because someone is biologically related to you, it doesn't mean that either you or she will benefit from working together. You have to get past these old ideas about family and recognize that the world has moved on. What do you really think is going to happen to your friend George?"
I pause. The truth is, I don't want to say what I really think.
"He's going to die," she continues. "He's going to fill his head with dreams of looking for his family, he's going to go out there, and he's going to fail, and then he's going to die. He'll probably collapse and starve. It'll be a horrible, lingering and painful death. He'll feel his stomach starting to digest itself as he dies. If he's lucky, rats will finish him off a little quicker. And why will his life end like that? Because he was fixated on family. Families are absolutely fatal. Am I right?"
I stare at her.
"Thomas, I need you to show me that you understand. Am I right?"
I nod.
"Say the words."
"You're right," I whisper, even though I feel as if I'm making a mistake.
"Louder."
"You're right."
"That's better." She smiles. "The way I see it, you've got two choices. The first is that you can sit around here, or sit around some other place, and scrabble in the dirt until you die. Do you realize how bad your life could get before the end? There's no dignity left in the world, no promise of love or tenderness. It's every man for himself from this point forward, and screw the weak."
"This is some serious shit," I hear Joe's voice say suddenly. "You're changing. You're letting this psycho freak make you see things differently. Be careful, kid. She doesn't strike me as someone you can trust."
"Worms," I reply, ignoring Joe's imagined voice and turning instead to face Quinn. "I was eating worms the other day. They were the only thing I could find."
"Exactly. And who wants to end up like that?" She pauses again, as if this whole performance has been calculated from the start. "Or you could take the other choice, which is to make something of yourself and adapt your skills to the new world. There's a reason I took you into my confidence, Thomas. I'm a good judge of character and I could tell immediately that you're someone who can see the world from my perspective. You're not like all those assholes out there, wandering the streets, waiting for me to tell them what to do. There are lots of different types of zombie. At least those infected creatures were interesting, but a lost, mindless human is dull and boring."
I open my mouth to argue with her, but I can't. I know deep down that if I stay here, or if I strike out on my own, I'll die. When George left earlier today, I knew that it would be the last time I'd ever see him, and I also knew that his chances of success were zero. Worse still, I could see that same realization in his eyes.
"We're going on a journey," she continues with a grin. "You and me, Thomas. We're going to find the source of this signal and we're going to go and find it. I've been waiting for someone to show up, someone I could take with me, someone smart and resourceful. Fate has brought you here, or maybe it was God, but either way, we're going to find that source and we're going to take bold steps into the new world. Are you with me?"
"I don't know," I reply. The truth is, she seems to be completely insane, but at the same time I feel as if she's at least offering something positive. I don't want to hang around here in Chicago, and I'm not sure I could really make it as a farmer.
"Be better than the others," she whispers, leaning closer until her face is almost touching mine. "You arrived here because this is where you were needed."
"What about all the other people?" I ask.
"What other people?"
"The ones here. The ones who follow you."
"They're not people. They're sheep. They'll die once I'm gone, and it doesn't even matter. Let them starve. The world won't benefit if smart people waste their lives worrying about the weak. You and I, Thomas, carry the burden of being better than the rest. We owe it to the future of the human race to maximize our potential." Reaching out to take my hand in hers, she pauses, and again I get the feeling that she's working through some kind of script that she pr
epared in advance. "Let's do our part to rebuild the human race. Let's go and find the source of this signal. It's a beacon for people like us, and it's our duty to respond."
"I..."
She waits for me to continue.
"I have a truck," I say eventually.
"I know," she replies, her eyes bright with excitement. "That truck of yours is going to make our journey so much easier! It's another gift from God!"
"We don't know which way to go."
"I'm working on that. By sundown, I should have worked out the direction of the signal. I've got a few different systems set up, and once I've triangulated the signal's strength, I can mark out an area that should be no more than five or six square miles. Then all we have to do is go and search. I'm pretty sure it should be easy enough to find whoever's running the server. After all, they seem to want to be found."
"But then -"
"No more hurdles," she says, silencing me by placing a finger against my lips. "It's decided. As soon as I've got the information we need, we'll leave. If the people here are worthy of life, let them save themselves. It's every -"
Before she can finish, there's a knock at the door, and a man wearing rags steps into sight.
"What is it?" Quinn snaps, clearly annoyed that we're being interrupted.
"There's..." He pauses. "There's been another... It's that girl again."
"What girl?" Quinn asks, before a faint smile crosses her lips. "Oh. That girl." She pauses, before turning to me. "If these people are going to survive once I'm gone," she continues, "they'll need discipline. I might as well try to help them one last time." She squeezes my hand tight. "Come on, Thomas. Let me show you the power of tough love."
The Bunker
Nothing.
Day forty-eight, and still no sign of the creatures. That makes it three full weeks since the last one, which in turn means that I have to at least be hopeful that the first phase of this nightmare is over.