Earth's Survivors Box Set [Books 1-7]

by Wendell G. Sweet

  Small groups had been assembled and were assigned various tasks within Utopia. All of which needed to be accomplished before The Man arrived. Some monitored screens that still showed scenes from the outside via satellite cameras deep in space. Others monitored the computer screens that ran the small nuclear reactor that supplied the city and the military base far above it with power, while others kept track of the inner workings of the city, which were also run by the huge computer system.

  When The Man had arrived later that same evening, he had been alone. The rider with his black armor had not been with him. Neither the steed nor the rider had since appeared, and although Willie was curious, he was not curious enough to ask why. The black rider had frightened him, in some ways more than The Man had, and he was glad, in a way, that he had not come.

  One room had been kept separate and apart for him, and he had suddenly appeared within it. Willie had been standing, just inside the doorway, wondering what secrets the room held, and why it was so important. He had blinked and when he opened his eyes the man had been standing before him.

  "Curiosity killed the cat, Willie," he had said, in a softly sarcastic tone. "Would you like to become a cat? Would you like to feel how the cat felt when it was killed?"

  "No," Willie had managed.

  "Then get out, Willie. Get the fuck out, and don't come back unless I call for you, understand?"

  "Yes," Willie whispered, as he had turned to go. Before he had reached the door The Man had spoken.

  "One other small thing, Willie. Very small, yet very important."

  Willie had turned from the door, wishing desperately that he had been able to reach it sooner.

  "A name, Willie. I need a name. Not some candy-ass name, but a good solid name, Willie. After all, I am not a man, and after some thought I have decided that I should not be referred to as such," he grinned proudly, and then continued. "Willie, quit worrying about that fucking door and help me out here, would you?"

  "I-I," Willie started. He was much too afraid to speak. He hadn't been aware that the man could read his thoughts.

  "Willie?" he sighed deeply, and rolled his eyes comically. "You act like a fucking little girl, you know that? You act like a great big chicken-shit, Willie... A name Willie?"

  "J-John?" Willie said hopefully.

  "J-John?" he mocked him. "John is no name for me, Willie... How about Luther, Willie. How does Luther strike you?"

  "G-Good. Good."

  "Okay fine," he said prissily, "Luther it is. I'm Luther, Willie, no more of that The Man shit, and speaking of shit, Willie," he paused and sniffed at the air. "Did we maybe make a wittle fudge in our wittle pants, Willie?

  He tried, but Willie could not make his throat work.

  Luther waved his hands in disgust. "Willie, that is disgusting. Never mind though, I can take it, and I won't tattle on you either, Willie... Well, Willie my boy, what are you waiting for? Go tell them my new name," he finished, and flapped his hands at the door.

  Willie did not need to be told twice, and this time he was not called back when he reached the door.

  Luther's private room contained two monitors, as well as a small computer terminal with several key-ways set into its face plate. A blank wall of screens filled the opposite wall. Willie had no idea why the room was so important to Luther and did not care to know.

  Luther had emerged from the small room later in the evening, and had found Willie in the large main control room. He directed Willie's attention to the wall of monitors.

  They knew, from the monitors, of the destruction that had been wrought upon the Earth, and Luther quietly informed Willie, that all that lay east of the new river belonged to him, and that the small room contained the key to keep it.

  Willie did not doubt it in the least. He doubted nothing that Luther told him, and would not think of doing so.

  They had located, and brought on-line, a small television studio that had been set up in the city, and nightly broadcasts had begun to the new citizens of the underground city. The capabilities of the studio were not limited to the city alone.

  The studio had been built as a replica of the oval office, and its intended purpose was quite clear, even to Willie. In the advent of a serious nuclear or chemical attack on the continental United States, the President would be able to speak from it, without the public being aware he was not in the White House.

  The CIA had set up a similar facility for President Kennedy during the Cuban missile crisis, and they had also set up this one along with incorporating the small studio.

  It had, of course, never been used by the people it was intended for. The end had come much faster than anticipated. Air Force One, carrying the Vice President, had crashed in Iowa on its way to the site, and the president had never left New York City.

  The end had come so fast, in fact, that only a few technical people, and an even smaller number of soldiers, were inside when the computer controlled city had closed its doors. Some technical people inside had known how to over-ride the system. They had, however, been reluctant to do so because of the destruction they had witnessed on the screens in the control room, and because of the shooting and panic that had ensued in the long tunnel. They had instead waited for someone to tell them what to do, and most were actually relieved when Willie had shown up.

  Willie, at Luther's direction, had broadcast the executions of those who would not join them, from the small studio, and the people were strongly encouraged to watch from the monitors that seemed to be everywhere. It was a strong deterrent, and many that had thought of escape had changed their minds and given in instead. They had tested the satellite links and several were still operational. Willie had put a twelve man crew in charge of finishing the work on the transmitter per Luther's orders.

  On the 21st. of April, they began to transmit.

  FOUR

  May 1st

  Joe Miller

  Joe miller walked down Longwood Avenue towards an old apartment building that sat at 5471. As he reached it, he paused to look over the once grand building. Trash littered the front of the building and graffiti covered nearly every square inch of the stone faced building.

  He had never been to Seattle in his life. He had walked into the city from the old Edison farm and had met no one along the way, and, although he knew it was not, at times the city had seemed to be completely deserted.

  For Joe, the last few days had been unbelievable. It seemed as though it were a dream. Even so, he knew it was not a dream, it was real. As real, as real could be. It had been hard to shake the dream-like quality though. How often were you killed, and he was convinced now that he had been, and then suddenly alive once more? How often did you not only meet God, but spend time with him? Talk to him?

  He had always believed in God, maybe not in the sense some people would think of God, but still he had believed, and when he had met him he had realized that he had been right. God was exactly as he had always pictured him.

  God, for Joe Miller, was a kindly old man with long flowing robes.

  In fact, to Joe Miller, God looked remarkably like Pope John Paul. He had even noticed that he had the same accent.

  He stepped back from the sidewalk into the street, and looked up at the tall, dirty brick building.

  It appeared empty to him, yet he knew it was not. When God had asked him to come here he had agreed without hesitation, even though he knew he did not have to. He could have stayed where he had been and never entered this fight at all. But he had felt, and still did, that he was part of the fight, maybe even been born to it. He supposed that if God knew everything, and Joe believed he did, that he probably had been born to it.

  He walked up the wide stone steps and entered the darkened interior of the building. He carefully stepped over a pile of plaster which had apparently fallen from the old ceiling and paused, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dim, musty smelling entrance hall.

  Besides the plaster, all manner of trash littered the hallway. Graffiti cove
red most of the cracked and peeling walls, as well as an old wooden staircase that led away to the upper floors. A line of dented and scarred mail slots filled most of one wall. At one time they had probably been able to be locked, but now most of them hung open, the small glass and metal doors either smashed or missing.

  Joe walked over to the line of slots and began to read the small labels above each one. Some were nameless, listing only the apartment number to which they belonged, but most of them had small white stickers affixed to the slot that listed the occupants’ name.

  Some looked new, and some were old and yellowed. He searched until he found the one he had been looking for, and then turned; walked to the stairs, and carefully made his way up the trash strewn risers to the third floor.

  He walked down the shadowy third floor hallway, and stopped in front of 317. He hesitated for a moment, and then knocked lightly on the dented steel door. He waited quietly in the musty hallway, but there was no answer.

  He knocked louder, and called out.

  "Arlene?"

  He was about to knock once more when he heard a slight noise from behind the heavy door.

  "Arlene? I need to talk to you. You don't know me, but I swear I'm not some weirdo or anything, I was sent to talk to you."

  "Who sent you?" a woman’s voice asked. "There isn't any one left to send you."

  Joe sensed the fear in her voice although it was apparent she was trying to hide it.

  "Do you know Frank Morgan?" Joe asked, and then continued. "He sort of sent me. Listen, I just want to talk for a second, Okay?"

  "What do you mean by, sort of sent you? I haven't seen Frank for better than four days and why couldn't he come himself?" The fear in her voice was still present as she spoke, and Joe began to think she wouldn't open the door unless he gave her a much better reason to.

  "Listen, I know your name, right? Frank needs help, and I'm going to try to help him, but I need your help. I know this will sound weird, but I know you've been praying for help, and...Well...I guess I'm your help. Listen, sincerely, even though that sounds nuts, I'm not nuts, I swear it, I just, well..."

  "...Look, I'm going to help Frank. He doesn't even know me, but I know him, and he needs all the help he can get, and God sort of sent me to you."

  Wonderful, Joe thought, if she didn't think you were whacked before she will now for sure.

  "Listen, Arlene, I'm being honest here. I know all about you. If you don't believe me, ask me, Okay? I mean, if I was nuts would I be standing out here talking like this? That sounds even more nuts doesn't it? What I mean is, if I were nuts I wouldn't come off as a fruit-cake, and I guess that's the way I sound, but, think about it. I would probably try to sound sane, right?"

  "How can you know about me, or know about Frank? Listen I've heard that crap before. You could be anyone, and everybody around here knows me. You could have found out my name easily, or Frank's for that matter," her voice was still strained as she spoke, but Joe thought that some fear seemed to be gone.

  "Arlene, I do know things, all kinds of things. God told me, and I know it sounds whacked to talk about God too, and I'm no religious freak, in fact other than believing in, you know, God, I can't say I was religious at all. Hell, I'm still not, well, maybe a little. Look... if I get into everything I've been through in the last week you'll really think I'm nuts. Suffice to say I'm glad I'm alive, but that doesn't mean I'll stay alive any more than you will if you stay here. I know you believe in God too. I know a lot about you, Arlene, and I swear if you just open the door and hear me out I'll do my best to explain it all." Joe thought for a second and when she still hadn't answered, he spoke again.

  "Okay, listen, you don't have to open the door, just listen, Okay?" Joe looked into the small round peephole that was set into the door as he spoke. "You can see me, right?"

  "Yes and why should I have to open the door just so you can talk?" Arlene asked, from behind the thick door.

  "You don't, I mean it would be easier, but if you don't want to... just don't, only listen, Okay?" Joe continued without waiting for her to respond.

  "I know you're afraid, hell, I would be too, I guess, but I really do think you should come with me. This thing about Frank is true, and what I said about knowing things about you is true also. I know where you grew up, Arlene, and I know you never told anybody that. I know you ran away from home when you were thirteen...you were living in Killeen Texas, Arlene, and you ran away because your step father... his name was Arthur, Right? You ran away because he... he hurt you, Arlene, and your mother knew it and wouldn't stop him. And you were even thinking about killing yourself, but you prayed instead, and you felt you should run away, because you felt that's what God told you to do..."

  "...I'm sorry, Arlene, but I need to make sure you understand. I'm not nut's, and you never told those things to anyone so how would I know?" Joe paused, waiting.

  "Your real name is Becky, Arlene, you never told anyone that either..."

  "...I... Arlene, Please!" Joe stopped speaking and stood in the trash strewn hallway staring at the peep hole, waiting for her to speak. When she did, he could tell she was crying by the way her voice broke.

  "I-I just don't know what to do! I don't want to die and I don't know. I... Just...How do you know?" she pleaded.

  Arlene had locked herself into her apartment after the first earthquake had hit. She had been down on Longwood when one of the other girls had come running down the street shouting.

  Arlene recognized her from the avenue, and had managed to get her attention. She had thought at first maybe she had gotten in to the wrong car, or been hurt somehow. It was something all the girls on the avenue worried about.

  Arlene had thought it was a good sign that she was running though, as it meant she had managed to get away if someone had tried to hurt her. To be safe, she had reached into her purse to assure herself that the small pistol she carried was still there. She had never shot anyone, but on more than one occasion the pistol had come in handy, and she wouldn't hesitate to use it if she had to.

  It hadn't been any person, or persons, that had sent her running down the street though.

  She had been in a car, but the man had been a steady date, nothing to worry about. What had alarmed her was the news that had come over the radio. As the woman had been telling Arlene, it seemed as though everyone else on the avenue was hearing it too.

  The avenue had cleared out fast. Arlene had locked herself into her apartment shortly after that. She had tried looking for the runaways, most of them were really only children, but she had not been able to find any of them. In the end she had given up. All of them knew where she lived, and so she assumed they would find their way to her eventually. They hadn't though.

  She had stayed huddled behind the door ...waiting, with the small pistol clenched in her hand, but no one had approached the door at all. Once or twice she had heard someone in the hall and had been tempted to call out, but hadn't dared. When Joe had knocked on the door she had pretty much decided that she would have to venture outside soon anyway as she was out of food.

  The knock had startled her though, and she had very nearly shot through the door. She was still not entirely convinced, even with what the young blond haired man outside the door had said. She could see him quite clearly though, and she could see that he did not appear to have a gun, or any other weapon for that matter.

  She was fighting to get her emotions under control. She didn't want him to know how badly he had shaken her, with the mention of her step-father. She had thought that all of her past had been buried, but had found that it wasn't: Instead it was just below the surface and still hurt as much as it had when it had first happened.

  Joe broke into her thoughts as he spoke.

  "Arlene, God told me. You prayed, right? Well, I guess that's why I'm here. I only know that we can help each other. Arlene, I'm just as scared as you are, look," Joe said as he pulled up his shirt and turned around. "I don't have a gun even." He quickly turned ou
t his pockets as well. "Nothing, Arlene, see?"

  Arlene had watched as he had pulled up his shirt, and turned around. Several short red scars were evident on his chest, as well as his stomach and back, and she wondered about them as he turned around. They looked like just-healed serious wounds, and she wondered how he could have possibly survived them.

  She paused for a second, and then made up her mind. She had seen no gun, no knife, no-anything. The young man seemed to be telling the truth. He also didn't look crazy, despite what he had been saying. And how had he known about her? She reached up and unlocked the door, and holding the gun steadily in one hand, told him to come in. She had the gun, she reminded herself, and if he tried anything she would shoot him. She didn't want to, but she would.

  Joe stepped warily into the shadowed apartment. He was surprised to see the gun in Arlene's hand, and shuddered involuntarily as an unbidden thought jumped into his head.

  You're going to die again, only this time with a gun.

  He paused for a second, fighting the unreasonable fear he felt. She's scared is all, he thought, she wouldn't really shoot me. Even so he was cold inside as he walked into the small apartment.

  "How did you know?" Arlene asked once he was inside, and she had secured the dead bolts and chains once more.

  There were three separate dead bolts on the door, Joe noticed, and two chains. Not the flimsy types that he used to install for Bud, but the heavy duty ones. She took the time to make sure they were all locked, while keeping the gun on him, before she turned completely from the door and faced him, asking the question.

  "You prayed, Arlene, you asked God to send me. I..."

  "...Listen, like I said, I know it sounds whacked or something, but that's how I know..." Joe stopped and looked at her, willing her to understand, despite how unlikely his story sounded, even to his own ears. She was actually very pretty, he thought, for an older woman. He had thought she would look... Well, like a prostitute. He didn't know for sure what a prostitute should look like, sort of sultry, he decided. Maybe a lot of make-up, short skirt, no bra. Every time he had seen one on TV that's how they looked anyway, and Watertown didn't have much of anything that he could compare it to. She didn't though. She actually looked... Well, normal. No make-up, or only a little, he couldn't tell, and just faded jeans and a lite cotton button-up shirt. To Joe she looked more like someone’s sister than a prostitute.