by Pike, JJ
All food must be boiled or grilled. No raw eats.
Hoyt claims his people can carry 50lbs apiece. I’ll believe it when I see it.
We have a nurse and three army medics. They’re all being promoted. The nurse is now our doctor and the medics are nurses. Fun times ahead. Don’t fall and break anything.
Hoyt sent a corporal down to the convoy** to place orders (requests?) for clothes, medication, weapons, plastic wrap, and tools to be airdropped nearby. We’ll at least have potassium iodide. What else can they gather/deliver on short order? I am a big fan of the military-industrial complex at this precise moment. They HAVE stuff. They’re bringing some of that stuff to US. We’d be fools to refuse their help (even if they are behind the release of MELT). No…I won’t go there. All that talk—where did it come from, who had access to it, why did Fran let it loose on the world—will just tie me in knots. There will be plenty of time to think about that once we have MELT contained.
Wow. Talk about having your head in the sand. The woman refuses to look the facts in the face. Her friend and colleague released MELT, damning us all to this living hell and Alice Everlee “doesn’t want to think about it.”
There are seven of Hoyt’s people who claim they can hunt and fish. Baxter says, “no fish.” Don’t see how they’re going to be different from the rabbits and squirrels we’ll be trapping, but she’s the boss (when it comes to science; not when it comes to matters of practical importance).
Crossed out several times, but legible: Michael Rayton is a pain in my ass. He doesn’t think he belongs here. He wants access to the comms. Says his “man in China” has answers. You’re barking up the wrong tree there, buddy. Give it a rest. Interesting.
Hoyt and Baxter are going to be married before we head out. No comment.
In spite of their protestations, I’m keeping Maggie-loo. Every woman needs a dog and this dog is a keeper. She’s smart, loyal, and we’ve bonded. No Maggie-loo means no me on the team. They relented.
**The convoy (the Humvees and purloined cars Hoyt and his people came here in) is, apparently, already showing signs of MELT-related pitting. Any argument for using motor vehicles for this trip has been effectively nixed. We’re going to be on foot. Yay. (As Petra would say: Hashtag Sarcasm.)
A week has gone by and we’re still here at Wolfjaw Ridge. The longer we stay the harder it is not to go home. What must he be thinking? I can’t bear it.
Two pages were ripped from the notebook, leaving ragged edges by the spine.
They finally dropped the supplies. I say dropped but it was a carefully orchestrated delivery which included seven helicopters with large pallets swinging from nets. They lowered our goodies into the clearing a mile outside the fence and Hoyt’s people went to work, unpacking and sorting what we need for the journey.
No word on comms. We’re going to be cut off from the outside world. Don’t see how that’s going to work.
New clothes don’t fit, but they’re cotton. All good.
Potassium iodide, onboard.
We’re scheduled for shots. Inoculations. Rayton kicked up a fuss. (Of course. When doesn’t he?)
No comment.
NOTE TO SELF: Record time intervals.
I’m going to call this “Year Zero.” Like “ground zero” with a temporal twist. No one knows what day it is. We’ve been rocketed back into the pre-timepiece ages. Time’s going to be measured by the sun and the seasons. So, today is officially Year Zero, Day One. If you don’t like it you can measure time however you like. It’s not as if there’s anyone to argue with you.
YEAR ZERO, DAY 4 (sometime in late August or early September. I could ask Hoyt to check, but he has more important fish to fry).
We were shot up with all the usual suspects when going into battle. Getting them all at once was rough (fever, chills, raised welts on my shoulder and butt), but we’re here for a few more days, so we have time to recoup.
We’re keeping ourselves apart from the Wolfjaw people who didn’t make it underground. We voted. They’re not coming with us. Couple of them seem competent, but we don’t need the extra mouths.
YEAR ZERO, DAY EIGHT
The Army came through!!! We have weapons. Ancient, beautiful, well-crafted weapons with no plastic parts, but lots of lovely, clicky metal. My revolver has a mother-of-pearl inlaid handle which I find very pleasing.
Maggie-loo brings me rats and mice as offerings. She’s a good girl. I shovel them up and place them outside the perimeter. I’m not burying them. I want to see if there’s evidence of MELT on their carcasses.
[DAY TWELVE, ADDED NOTE: They’re decaying, but I don’t see signs of MELT. How can that be? Has it run its course? Are we now inside the burn zone? Is it traveling west? How can the rats/mice have no wounds? Keep watching.]
DAY TEN
Jim and Betsy stayed above ground with Angelina. She was denied entry to Wolfjaw Down because of her condition.
Wow. Understatement of the century. Angelina is Patient Zero. It’s hardly a “condition.” More like an infection that could bring down the industrialized world. It’s not up to me, but the girl should be permanently housed in a non-permeable, non-porous space and made to remain there until such time as she has been cleared of MELT.
Betsy fusses and bustles and brings Angelina treats while Jim (literally) hauls wood and water and makes their little hut habitable. They’re GOOD, GOOD people. I admire them.
The former inhabitants of Wolfjaw Down have stayed underground. We haven’t heard a peep from them since day two when they welded the door shut from the inside. There are a few of their people stranded above ground, but they keep their distance from us. We’re moving on, they’re staying put.
LATE AFTERNOON: Incursion. Non-violent. Family of four who’d thought they could join Wolfjaw Ridge. Word hasn’t gotten out that Wolfjaw is no more. Michael was useful (for once). Negotiated the strangers’ departure. Orders from on high are to send all stragglers westward. We gave them a couple of rabbits and instructions to boil their water for a decade or more but didn’t engage further.
This is our life now. Strangers are to be ejected with all speed. Don’t piss them off, says Michael, or they’ll come back. Good. At least he has a job now. Didn’t realize what a lay about he was until I was forced to live with the man in a village without electricity or running water. He thinks the world owes him a living. Or something. I can see why Baxter’s not a fan. Mustn’t let that attitude seep into my work.
Christine is acting weird. Keeping me at an arm’s length. Conferring with General Hoyt and not briefing me. I’m starting to think she’s lumped me in with Rayton (mentally). Just because Fran was my assistant, doesn’t mean…
The rest of the sentence is scored out so heavily there’s a tear in the page. The following FIVE pages were ripped out. Something tells me Alice Everlee is having trouble squaring herself with the facts.
FACT: Fran betrayed us.
FACT: We have to live on.
FACT: The chances of us living through this are slim unless someone (me?) pulls off a freaking miracle. A science miracle, that is.
DAY ELEVEN
We’re ready to head out. I’m in charge of hunting. Suits me. Means I’m part of the forward guard. Also gives me a good [excuse] crossed out REASON to take myself off away from the crowd. Gail Hawes, Seamus Dower, and Bob Devlin are on my team. They use last names. We’re going military. Sending Dower and Devlin ahead to set traps; keeping Hawes with me so we can track larger game.
Final meeting in Wolfjaw, briefing notes:
Weekly airdrops of food and supplies. Locations TBD.
Hoyt will carry comms. He’s already infected. Wants to use that to our advantage. (At least we HAVE comms. That’s a relief.)
No word/decision on what we do with any newly-infected personnel. Shrink wrap them like Hoyt and carry on seems to be the gist of it.
Rural roads are safer. Stay away from towns/cities. Be prepared for the bodies.
Daily skin
inspections mandatory. Self-reporting not enough. Medic/nurse will set up a blind so we can strip on a daily basis. What joy is mine.
Don’t touch the dead.
No scavenging if there are signs of biological infiltrates (oozing bodies, etc.).
Fall back if we encounter hostiles.
Conserve bullets. No firing without a direct order/threat to your life.
Don’t think I’ve forgotten anything. I didn’t take notes in real time. Don’t want anyone to think I’m spying on them. That’s not my intention. Still plan to make this a record of our journey to Indian Point. You never know what might turn out to be useful data.
NOTE TO SELF: Go back and edit out the personal stuff. No one needs to see that. Of course you miss your husband and children. Who doesn’t? Quit bellyaching and keep your eyes on the prize.
I’m not given to paranoid imaginings like Michael Rayton, but I swear it’s getting worse: Baxter and Hoyt are actively closing ranks, closing me out, plotting. They’ve taken at LEAST two calls they haven’t briefed me on. Fishy.
Even if you take into account the fact that they’re gaga for each other, there’s a level of exclusion that has me on high alert. Though, now I say that I’m reminded that they ARE newly-weds. Of COURSE they want to be together all the time and not be bothered with anyone else. And…they have the added burden of not being able to touch each other because of Hoyt’s condition. They’re trapped in a Jane Austen novel: Always anticipating and never getting there (well, they do EVENTUALLY, but only after the book is over).
What will our story be once this is all said and done? Will there be any happy-ever-afters for any of us?
Bill never came for me. He said he always would. Always. But this time he didn’t. I broke us. I shouldn’t have told him. I mean, I had to, but…
Several more pages were ripped from the notebook.
Alice Everlee: Over and out.
CHAPTER TWO
MARCH 2022
The underground city complex that Alistair Lewk had built beneath Wolfjaw Ridge—known by its inhabitants as Wolfjaw Down or Down for short—was fully locked and supposed to remain that way for several decades (if needed).
That was the whole point of Wolfjaw Down: When the time came and the world imploded (and that time had definitely come, on that point at least, Jacinta had no doubt) they had a place to retreat to, away from all pollutants, contaminants, and invaders.
They’d locked the doors and welded them shut. That was it. The end.
That’s the way it had been designed. They all knew that when they signed up to join the colony. If they ever had to retreat to Down, there’d be no turning back.
The people who’d made it in were set for life. They called themselves the Downers. The people who’d been left out, well they were shit out of luck, because they were known as the Outers.
But knowing policy—even signing on the dotted line and saying you agreed with it—and abiding by the rules once they’re being enforced are two completely different beasts. And that was what the brouhaha was all about.
Because, as it turned out, locking the doors wasn’t the end of the story. It was just the beginning. The awful, unending, nightmarish beginning.
Jacinta’s chambers were crammed with Downers airing their grievances and sharing their opinions. She needed the rabble to leave her alone to think or, at the very least, consult with her cabinet of advisors.
But that wasn’t going to happen. Nothing was going the way she wanted it to, so why hope for peace? Best just grin and bear it until they were done. The Downers who were yapping and flapping their gums at her would get hungry. Not bored; they loved the sound of their own voices. Eventually they’d have to leave to attend to their chores. Everyone had chores, there was a roster, life in Down was dominated by rules; there was that in her favor at least, they couldn’t all come at her at once.
On the outside she remained all composure and calm, but on the inside she was chomping at the bit, ready to run roughshod over all the voices that were coming at her, tumbling over each other in a torrent, washing her mind out to sea.
“We have to open the doors, just this once.”
“My mother is a spinner. She adds value...”
“My brother’s out there. Liam has given his life to Down. He’s been here from the start. He built the water system and the ventilation system. He was Alistair’s right hand…”
“We can’t do without Bokerah and Bill Brumley. They’re real farmers. From before. Not like the rest of us. We learned what we know from them. Losing them is like losing an entire generation. You have to open the doors…”
“It’s the right thing to do…”
“Jacinta! Are you listening?”
Still. No one had said it. No one had named the thing they all feared the most, herself included.
“Jacinta!” A voice cut through the clamor. Jeff Steckle. Should have guessed. He was smart, good looking, and knowledgeable about the world. Leader material. He thought the crown should have passed to him after Alistair’s death. He was also of the opinion that they were at war with the outside world. The rest of the USA was the “Alt-50.” Wolfjaw Ridge, which was the village above ground, and Wolfjaw Down, where they were currently housed, was a country in its own right. Citizens of Wolfjaw should be protected at all costs. Non-citizens should be evicted and, should they resist, executed.
But what made him strong also made him weak. He thought he was always right. He was Mr. Invincible. Men like him had been two-a-penny back in her Reserve days. Minus the good looks. There weren’t many men at fifty who had a thick head of blond hair, dazzling blue eyes, and blindingly white teeth, all his own. Though they might not stay that way for long; did they even have a dentist in Down?
His mouth was still moving. His face red. The veins in his neck doing that pop-y thing. His fist smacking into his hand while he lectured the people around them about why his way was the only way and why Jacinta had failed them.
He was going to be a problem.
She tuned him back in, just in time to hear him say, “Are you hearing any of this? Don’t you get it? This is a failure of leadership. Alistair would have wanted you to let the Downers in. For sure. But the others? No way. You have a moral responsibility…”
He wasn’t wrong on that score.
People had been left outside in the radioactive rain. (Jacinta couldn’t think about the other compound out there. Invisible but ubiquitous, IT was everywhere but nowhere to be seen. It scared the pants off her. Best shove that down and not think about it.)
For eight months Jacinta had resisted Jeff’s faction who urged her to open the doors. Keeping those doors locked was her duty, her job, her way of respecting Alistair’s legacy. Wolfjaw was sealed to keep the Downers safe. That didn’t help her much. Thinking about who was out there was a torture.
No unaccompanied children, thank God. They were all accounted for.
But a couple of grandparents who were well connected hadn’t made it inside, as well as three families who’d been working in the orchards, the old couple who were tending to the child known as “Patient Zero” (who couldn’t properly be called a child), and some unnamed stragglers who only had themselves to blame for not making into through the steel doors before Jacinta Baule had called for the doors to be sealed.
She didn’t need to hear them begging in person to know what they were saying. She heard them in her head, every night when she turned down her lamp. “For the love of God, let us in. We’re dying out here. Jacinta: let us in. Let.Us.In.”
That made twenty-five souls hammering on the doors of Wolfjaw Down begging to be let inside.
For eight whole months.
Twenty-five souls balanced in her hands, not letting up, still banging on her doors.
Still…
She held firm and let the debate rage on around her.
She regretted instituting office hours more than she could say. She’d have been glad to have their complaints filtered and f
ed to her by any cabinet member; even Jon Burgoyne, whom she wasn’t sure was completely on her side.
But that wasn’t the Downer way. The Downer way was “in person” and “together” and “consensus driven.”
Except it wasn’t. Not really. Not when Alistair was in charge. What happened in reality was, the Downers got their say and then he made an executive decision. That’s how it had worked for years; when they were upside, when they were Ridgers rather than Downers.
But he’d had the charisma to pull it off.
The razzle-dazzle.
The chutzpah.
The cojones.
Whatever.
He had what it took to keep several hundred people in check while making decisions that would impact their lives for decades. If he’d made it from the outside world into Down, he’d have managed this crisis without breaking a sweat. But he hadn’t; he’d gone and died on her; stabbed though the ribs by some lunatic. He’d left her in charge. Yippee-skippy.
Jacinta was fairly certain she had nothing close to razzle-dazzle. It wasn’t that she lacked courage; more that she was averse to making the wrong call. She had to be sure before she pulled the trigger, which meant she didn’t pull the trigger unless either 1) she was given a direct order or 2) she was damned sure it was the right thing to do.
What was right anymore?
She opened those doors (the way Jeff wanted her to) and radiation poured in.
Then what?
If she allowed the radioactive humans (soil, air, water) in, would it stick? Stay? Could it infect the Downers who’d been smart enough (or lucky enough or prepared enough) to make it into lockdown? How much was too much? She sure didn’t want to touch anything that had been hammered with radioactive rain. How many people was she exposing? Four hundred, give or take. And, as her father would have reminded her, had he still been alive, when you kill a human being, you don’t just kill one human being. You kill everything they could have become; all their achievements, their potential, their unlived lives. What if someone in Down was The One?
