2013: The Aftermath

by Shane McKenzie

  A fourth and fifth weight hit him from behind and he falls forward, still facing the hole. The third creature, dislodged, turns back toward him, and he sees, behind it, frantic hands pushing rubble to close up his hole. Choose The Work That Still Needs Choosing. His work, he understands, is to keep the terror with him until the hole is closed and the mob is safe in the Old Place. This flash of understanding is followed by a picture of warm sleeping bodies, then dreadful pain, then darkness.

  About the author:

  Anne Waldron Neumann has published literary folktales in American Letters & Commentary, The Harvard Review, Australian Quarterly, and other journals. The author of Should You Read Shakespeare? Literature, Popular Culture, and Morality, she holds a Ph.D. in English from Johns Hopkins and has taught at Ohio State University and the University of Melbourne.

  Dakota

  by Shane Collins

  Commander Pace, Lieutenant Fletcher, and all the other bridge officers of the USS Dakota stood in a circle around the display monitor of the captain’s station. “The message is encrypted,” Captain Hamilton announced. His fingers danced across the keyboard, typing a series of Pacewords. Commander Pace was sure he could hear the others holding their breath; the sound of hushed silence with the occasional cracking knuckle to punctuate it.

  “It’s the president,” Lieutenant Fletcher dared to whisper. “He’s calling us back to port.”

  The screen flickered, and indeed, President Ford’s face appeared. He began to speak but the video transmission was riddled with static. “Good evening,” he began. Static hissed in the background and occasionally made the broadcast impossible to see. “I’d like to begin by thanking you—the brave men and women of…Dakota. Your hard work has been indispensible during this crisis.” Static crept in again so that only the vague outline of the president could be seen, and the officers cursed, wanting to hear every word. “But I fear the worst may be yet to come.” More static. “Three more months…vigilance…coast’s clear. I’ll do what I can from Washington, and with your continued efforts, we can pull through this together.” The president smiled and the video ended.

  As soon as the screen went blank, the room erupted into debate. “Another three months,” one of the officers muttered.

  “Washington hasn’t been evacuated,” someone else said.

  “Why didn’t he tell us the latest death statistics?” Lieutenant Fletcher asked. “Are they still at twenty percent or has it gone up?”

  Captain Hamilton waved his arms up in the air. “People, people, settle down. Nothing has changed. We’re in this for the long run; we figured as much.” Commander Pace noticed how pale the captain was. Probably because he spent so much time in his quarter’s lately, Pace decided. “Now we’ve all had a long day. Take the rest of the evening off, the junior officers will hold down the fort. Go to the officer’s club, get to sleep early, whatever you need to do to blow off some steam. But be here at 0800 and be ready to work.” The captain left the bridge and the other officers all stood silent for a minute.

  “I want to know if my family’s alive,” someone shouted and several others agreed.

  “You heard the skipper,” Pace called out. He knew he had to say something to calm down the others. “We’re all on edge here. We all have families and none of us have talked to them in months. You don’t think the captain wants to speak to his daughters?” The others were quiet. “Now let’s get the hell out of here; the first round’s on me.”

  The officers sighed and left the room. Pace worried about what would happen when the taps ran dry and he could no longer pacify his officers with alcohol. All the booze had already been pulled from the NCO club because it had been making the men “rowdy” as the captain called it. There were more than two dozen men in the brig already. Since the beginning of the plague, they had always been a hairsbreadth away from mutiny.

  ***

  “Here’s to another three months with the finest crew I could ask to serve with,” Lieutenant Fletcher announced and everyone touched glasses and drank.

  Commander Pace finished the last of his beer, put the mug on the table, and leaned back in his chair. He noted that three drinks eased away everyone’s tensions. A few more though, and they’d be at each other’s throats again.

  “Has anyone else noticed how much time the captain’s been spending in his quarters?” Fletcher asked.

  “Sure,” someone said.

  “He’s exhausted,” Pace said. “Since this whole thing started, none of us has been sleeping enough.”

  “But what if it’s something else?” Fletcher said. “What if he’s sick?”

  “Don’t even say it,” Pace said. “For four months, not a single crewman has become sick. He’s just tired.” And with that, Pace stood up and said ‘goodnight’ to the others. He made his way to his own modest quarters. He undressed, folded his uniform, and set his alarm. On his desk was a framed photograph of his wife at the beach wearing a yellow and white sundress. She was laughing and holding out her arm; she’d always been camera shy. In her other arm, she was holding their baby boy. He picked up the picture and wished for the thousandth time he’d had more of them. He set it down and turned off the light.

  He awoke not to the buzz of his alarm clock, but to the ring of the telephone.

  “Sir,” Lieutenant Fletcher said on the other end. “You’d better get to the bridge. We’ve spotted a ship.”

  Commander Pace dressed hurriedly and jogged up to the bridge. Captain Hamilton was staring out the large bay window with binoculars.

  “What is it?” Pace asked Lieutenant Fletcher.

  “It looks like a commercial fishing boat. Probably a crew of five or ten. We’ve tried to hail them. The marines are mobilizing now.”

  Commander Pace joined the captain and looked into the horizon. He could see a black speck in the distance. He watched as a helicopter lifted off the deck of the USS Dakota and made its way toward the fishing vessel. They had put a lot of miles onto their helicopters over the last few months. With no resupplies in the foreseeable future, the fuel-hungry fighter squadrons were sitting below decks where all they did now was collect dust. Occasionally, the captain would haul a couple up and order a long-distance recon, but those were becoming fewer and fewer.

  As the helicopter got closer, Captain Hamilton walked to the COM station and turned up the volume for the frequency the marines were using.

  “I’ve got a bad feeling about this one,” Lieutenant Fletcher whispered, taking off his headphones and leaning closer to listen.

  Commander Pace glared at him. “When was the last time you had a good feeling about anything?”

  The marine radio hissed. “Grey Falcon to Dakota, we’ve made a pass around the objective but can’t see anything. Third squad is going to take a closer look, over.”

  The captain picked up the microphone. “Roger, Grey Falcon. Proceed, over.” The helicopter hovered above the fishing ship and lines were thrown over the side. Within seconds, marines were rappelling onto the vessel; not an easy maneuver with full MOPP gear. It was cumbersome, but it would protect them from any contaminants.

  The majority of the officers had left their stations and were now crowding around the radio. Pace grimaced. A couple of months ago and the captain would have reprimanded all of them for the breach in protocol. The thin veil of leadership and authority was slowly disappearing like a wisp of smoke. Even their appearance had diminished. Six months ago and any inspection would have found the bridge officer’s six o’clock shadows, uncreased uniforms, and half-hearted salutes to be despicably inept. Now it had become commonplace.

  “Tango one-six to Grey Falcon,” the marine squad leader said. “We’ve reached the main deck but still see no sign. We’re ready to continue inside, over.”

  “Proceed, Tango one-six, over.”

  There was a long pause and finally the radio hissed. “Contact. We’ve found the crew. Jesus. They’re dead sir, all of them.”

  “Grey Falcon to Dakota
, the ship is contaminated, over.”

  The captain sighed and lifted the microphone to his mouth. “Copy, Grey Falcon. Round up the boys and head back home. Dakota out.” Captain Hamilton put the receiver back on the wall. “Lieutenant Fletcher,” he said, “Ready a missile. I want that ship in the bottom of the Atlantic.”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  Commander Pace watched from the bay window as the helicopter landed back on the Dakota. Crewmen came running out toward the helicopter in hazmat suits and dragging hoses behind them. Just then, a missile launched from the Dakota. It slowly arced across the sky, leaving a trail of smoke.

  “It’s a hell of a twenty-one gun salute,” Lieutenant Fletcher said. Commander Pace could almost hear taps playing.

  The missile struck the commercial fishing boat and it went up like a torch. Within a matter of minutes, the hulk of it had sunk and all that was left were a few empty life preservers and a streak of burning oil on the surface of the water.

  It had been months since they’d found survivors, Pace thought. Their mission was to protect the Northeast seas—the ports of New York and Boston—from ships that were contaminated. In the beginning they had been lucky; they had found several ships with healthy people aboard. The ships’ whose crews had a clean bill of health joined the Dakota and her two destroyer escorts. They had saved almost thirty ships. But lately, every ship they found was like the burning fishing boat; a ghost ship.

  Captain Hamilton stared out the bay window for a time. When he turned around, Commander Pace knew something was wrong. The skipper’s face was even paler than usual, and Pace could see that his knees were trembling. The captain began to say something but then his legs buckled and he collapsed.

  “Someone call sick-bay and get a medical team up here,” Pace shouted. He ran to the captain and checked his vitals. He was unconscious but had a strong pulse. The medical team came up and hefted him onto a stretcher. They wheeled him away and Pace noticed that everyone on the bridge was silent and looking at him with open mouths.

  As the Executive Officer, Commander Pace sat at the captain’s station. He felt the eyes of the other officers on him. Pace ignored them and stared vacantly at his monitor, failing to appear busy. After a grueling ninety minute wait, the phone finally rang.

  “Commander.” It was the Dakota’s chief doctor. “The skipper’s asking for you. He’s comfortable in his own quarters now.”

  Commander Pace stood and the others looked at him expectantly. “I’m going to check on the captain,” he said. “Lieutenant Fletcher, you have command while I’m away.” He left the bridge and headed down to the captain’s quarters.

  Captain Hamilton was in his bed when Pace came in. He was propped up on several pillows and there was an IV in his arm. When he came in, the captain smiled. His cheeks were sunken and when he smiled, he had a grandfatherly look to him. There was a chair beside his bed and the commander took a seat. At last he said, “Captain, are you—”

  “Sick?” the skipper interrupted. “Yes. I have cancer.”

  “Cancer?”

  “I found out about a week after the outbreak. The doctor says I’m in the final stages now.”

  “Why didn’t you tell anyone?”

  The captain laughed. “The crew is barely holding it together as it is. I waited as long as I could, but now the doctor says it’s only a matter of days.” The captain sighed and looked away. “That’s why I called you down here, Rich. Close the door.”

  Commander Pace cocked his head but did as he was asked.

  “There’s something you don’t know,” the captain said. “Something I haven’t told you. The video from the president yesterday, would you like to see the whole thing?”

  “Of course, sir. Has the video been enhanced for clarity?”

  “In a manner of speaking.” The captain typed away at the keyboard beside his bed and Commander Pace looked at the computer monitor. The president’s face appeared, but this time there was not a trace of static. The image was of perfect quality.

  “Good evening,” the president said with a broad smile. “I’d like to begin by thanking you—the brave men and women of South Dakota.” The commander raised an eyebrow and looked at the captain, but he motioned back to the video. “Your hard work has been indispensible during this crisis. The tornado that ravaged this community only two weeks ago is gone, but I fear the worst may be yet to come. There have been wide spread power outages and trees blocking roads that utility crews are still fighting to clear up. It could very well be three more months before life here returns to normal. However, with your vigilance we will ride this tragedy out until the coast’s clear. I’ll do what I can from Washington, and with your continued efforts, we can pull through this together.”

  Commander Pace was at a loss for words and Captain Hamilton sighed. “That was the video from the President…which aired three years ago.”

  Commander Pace shook his head. “Captain, I don’t understand.”

  “Do you want to know what the last message we received said?”

  Commander Pace nodded.

  “It came in six weeks ago from the former Secretary of Agriculture who is now the acting President. The message was a final order to all naval personnel since the president was anticipating massive power outages. The order was to wait ten more months at the minimum before returning to port.”

  Commander Pace shook his head. “Why?”

  “Because the death estimates had increased. Projections were no longer twenty percent; they were between eighty and ninety percent. Maybe a little higher. The president said to wait, and within ten months, hopefully there would be no more chance of spreading the disease.”

  “Hopefully?” Commander Pace repeated. He stood up and pushed his chair hard across the room so that it crashed against the wall. He could not believe the captain had kept this from him. From the whole fleet. They had a right to know. “Why have you kept this from us?” he blurted out. He knew he was being borderline insubordinate, but at that point, he did not care. All he could think about was his wife and baby boy.

  “Why?” the captain repeated. He sat up in his bed and he no longer looked grandfatherly. He looked like a captain once again as his eyes hardened and he gave Pace a cold stare. “What do you suppose would happen if I told the crew? Do you think they would understand that we had to wait here, out at sea, while most of their families died of the plague? No, of course not. There would be a mutiny, we would return to shore, and in a week, six thousand of my men would be dead.” The captain snorted. “That is why, Commander.”

  “But what about your family?” Commander Pace looked around and noticed how barren his quarters were. There were no pictures of his daughters on any of the walls or on his desk.

  “That is another life,” the captain said. He gazed off and lied back down into the stack of pillows. “A life that must be kept separate from this one.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because I am no longer able to command the Dakota. That is your job now and you must decide.”

  Commander Pace shook his head. “If I do this and we return stateside next year, they will crucify me. And they’ll have every right to do so.”

  Captain Hamilton nodded. “But at least they’ll be alive in a year.”

  Commander Pace sat by the captain’s bed until he eventually fell asleep. He returned to his own quarters and slumped into his seat. He felt the weight of leadership on his shoulders—a tangible weight that hurt his legs and bent his back. He felt as if he’d aged ten years in the last few hours. Pace picked up the photo of his wife and looked at it for a long time. At last, he slipped the photograph out of the frame and put it in his drawer, beneath a stack of documents and naval manuals. He left for the bridge to relieve Lieutenant Fletcher knowing what he had to do.

  About the author:

  Shane Collins is a graduate of the University of Massachusetts in Amherst with a BA in English and a concentration in Creative Writing. He has
been featured in numerous publications including ResAliens, Sex and Murder, Down in the Dirt, Haggard and Halloo, and the upcoming anthology Caught by Darkness. He writes speculative fiction from his boat in Mystic, Connecticut.

  Final Audit

  by Sam S. Kepfield

  “Eight X’s in a row. Whole block’s dead.” Peters brought the car to a stop at the end of a dusty dead-end street.

  “No forced entry on—wait, I see one, two, there in the middle,” Lena Foster said, getting out. “Rest are clear.”

  “What’s to loot in a shithole town like this? Better get the respirators out. They’re here, they been settin a while.” Peters got out, opened the back door, grabbed his respirator, and strapped it on his face. Foster did the same. They were both dressed in black fatigues, though they worked for different agencies.