2013: The Aftermath

by Shane McKenzie

  There was nothing, no sign of life, and he’d made it to the shower block.

  This was when the yell rang out—“Help!”—A single word that spoke volumes. More voices sang out until a confused chorus was playing. Stranger heard a few pertinent phrases inside the cacophony.

  “…hurt Father Daniel…”

  “Shoot him, Shoot him!”

  Stranger spun on his heels as a bullet thudded into the wall of the building behind him. The muzzle flash was fading but he gauged the general direction. Tilting the rifle upwards to ensure he wasn’t likely to hit anyone, he fired three quick rounds in the direction of the shooter. As panicked screams sang out he slung the rifle over his shoulder and tossed his torch to his right, the meager beam cartwheeling through the air, not even dying when the torch hit the ground close to the entrance to the toilet block. He hoped it would prove distraction enough. They’d imagine he’d try and leave the way he’d come in, but that wasn’t his plan.

  Instead he ducked down the side of the building and jumped, grabbing the top of the wall. It wasn’t nearly high enough to prevent someone doing what he was doing. His fingers gripped tight to the edge of a wooden door and he hauled himself up, ignoring the pain caused by digits that were already going numb, and the sharp prick of a splinter digging into his palm.

  In seconds, he was atop one of the rusted cars, his footfalls echoing through the metal below like a tolling bell, letting them know exactly where he was. He didn’t pause; speed was his best ally now, speed and the thick cloak of darkness ahead. He jumped into the void, legs bent as he landed to absorb the impact, a painful shudder still lancing through his body as he hit the frozen beach.

  The cold was leaching through his bones, threatening to seize his muscles. He fought the aches and pains and picked himself up, then ran as fast as he could away from the community.

  Within seconds, there was gunfire, a ragged four shot burst, the thunderclaps almost muffled by the wind and the waves. He doubted they could see him but he zigzagged erratically as he ran anyway. By the time someone had the bright idea to turn on the spotlight he’d already passed the weathered old sign, and he veered slightly to put it between him and Hobbie’s, even though the beam wouldn’t reach nearly that far.

  Running on frozen sand in the pitch black wasn’t a smart move, but Stranger didn’t stop for another thirty strides. Then he dropped to the ground and lay prone, rifle butt tight to his shoulder as he listened and watched for any sign of pursuit, hoping there’d be none, hoping they’d be smart enough not to blunder out after an armed man in the dark.

  The cold was biting now, and his fingers were going numb, but he maintained his position, ignoring the discomfort, ignoring the icy rain that began to fall from the heavens above. Only after fifteen minutes did he risk standing. Gazing back the way he’d come he saw only a blanket of darkness. No sign of light, no sounds of movement.

  He couldn’t wait any longer; he had to chance moving on. He zipped up his jacket and pulled up the hood before slinging the rifle over his shoulder. He’d left the scarf and gloves in the rucksack, so with a muttered curse he jabbed his hand into his pockets, put his head down, and set off into the night.

  ***

  On the way in, he’d carefully counted his footsteps, and as he retraced his steps, he repeated the process in reverse. It wasn’t an exact science, he was moving quicker on the return journey after all, but he wasn’t too far from zero when he saw a faint glimmer of red light in the distance and quickened his pace.

  The zodiac was anchored to the beach by four stout ropes tied to spikes driven into the ground, but still the grey rubber boat flapped and buffeted in the wind, the tiny red light attached to it seeming to wave at him, taunting him with the illusion of warmth.

  His face felt raw, and it hurt to speak, but still he shouted into the darkness. “Twilight’s last gleaming!” The code phrase that said he was alone.

  Thirty intolerable seconds passed, but then a figure appeared out of the gloom. Morrow was a skinny man, but was wrapped up so much he looked obese. His face was obscured by a hood and by the cumbersome night-vision goggles he had strapped to his eyes. He held an Ingram submachine gun tight to his hip, the aim wavering between Stranger and the way he’d come, not trusting either. When he spoke his voice was muffled by a thick scarf, but the snide tone was clear.

  “‘Bout fucking time, Stranger.”

  ***

  Morrow usually talked too much, but hours of waiting had silenced any thought of conversation in him; he just wanted to get back to the ship as soon as possible. Stranger was grateful. Morrow was an insidious little bastard who, under other circumstances, he’d have long ago taught a valuable lesson—or three.

  Despite his eagerness, Morrow kept his speed down as he guided the zodiac out to sea; there was no point revving it up to the point where they wiped themselves out before reaching their destination. Still the boat moved quickly enough that, even after many other such trips, Stranger still found it disconcerting. He’d travelled in more dangerous transportation, through more dangerous territory, but then there’d been a professional at the helm, not a glorified mercenary—before the darkness Morrow had been a deputy in a small New Mexico town.

  Aside from the whir of the outboard, the only sounds were the waves as they ploughed through them, and the steady beep of the tracker that sat beside Morrow. Stranger positioned himself at the prow of the boat, but still Morrow, with his goggles, saw the ghostly leviathan before he did. He was already slowing even as Stranger started to make out the steel giant looming out of the darkness.

  She was called the Reina de Isla, The Island Queen, a Panamanian registered passenger ship some two hundred and fifty feet from stem to stern. As Morrow swung the zodiac in beside the ship, Stranger reached out to grab the ropes dangling from the side and his fingers touched the hull. The metal was ice cold.

  “Home sweet home,” he muttered bitterly.

  Once the smaller boat was tied up, Stranger and Morrow clambered up the rope ladder that dangled over the side. The zodiac would be drawn up after them, so they carried their effects with them. In Stranger’s case, this pretty much meant the M-16.

  The deck was alive with activity, people bustling this way and that, others huddling together for warmth in small refugee groups, tiny human shanty towns that they’d stay in until it was there turn to reside below decks.

  Despite all the people, only one man awaited Stranger.

  “You’re late.” Hernandez almost spat the words. He was an easy man to underestimate, almost sixty, carrying a paunch that suggested he ate better than most, and with a languid bearing that implied laziness. Stranger knew better. The man might have lost his way somewhat, but he was still a soldier at heart. Not really a good man, but better than many amongst the crew.

  “I had trouble getting away.”

  Hernandez snorted. “The Professor wants to see you. I’ll take your gear first.” There was a pistol belted to his waist, but he kept his hands on his hips, knowing he didn’t need it, not with Stranger.

  “I had to leave most of it behind; I was in kind of a hurry.” He withdrew the knife and reversed it in his hand, handing it to Hernandez hilt first. “Did pick up this however…” and he also handed over the rifle.

  Hernandez quickly checked the M-16, paying special attention to the almost fully loaded mag. Eventually he looked up and offered a grizzled smile. “I reckon we can call it even, so your rations won’t be docked for the loss of your equipment.”

  Stranger felt suddenly weary. “You’re all heart,” he muttered. More than anything he wanted to sleep, but he knew the Professor wouldn’t wait. “I’d better head down now.”

  ***

  He passed many more civilians on his way into the bowels of the ship. These were the luckier ones, but each knew that refuge below decks was only temporary, and on this floating utopia everyone had to take their turn.

  Almost everyone.

  Their faces were differen
t, but the expressions were the same; that curious mix of fear, destitution, yet also pathetic gratitude. Stranger thought about the people back at Hobbie’s—with emptier bellies, but fuller souls.

  There were no guards outside of the Professor’s quarters. Stranger rapped on the metal door and then waited, staring at the toes of his boots like a raw recruit.

  Eventually a voice rang out. “Come in.”

  He stepped inside, closing the door behind him. The cabin was well lit, the largest one aboard ship yet also the most cluttered. A higgledy-piggledy collection of bookshelves strained with a huge collection of tomes. There were maps and charts pinned to almost every surface, and on one desk, two monitors were hooked up to a single computer tower that creaked and whirred from the effort. One screen showed telemetry data, the other an infrared image of a coastline, a cluster of heat sources in dead center. Rolf 37 was still tasked with the community of Hobbie’s Surf Shack it seemed.

  The satellite was German originally, and as far as Stranger could figure, probably the only manmade object still viable above them, its orbit one of few low enough that it remained inside of whatever shroud that had been draped over the earth, though its sensors had proven useless in identifying the cause of the darkness. Its power source was solar, but its batteries had been full when its panels had lost sight of the sun, and the Professor was adept at eking out its reserves. He’d used a lot of power to maneuver it high above the Reina de Isla, but since then he used it sparingly, taking snapshots rather than live feeds.

  This reduction in power affected Rolf 37’s abilities, making it more important than ever to rely on human intelligence; which was where Stranger came in.

  The Professor was sat behind a second desk, a huge chunk of oak that looked too big to have fit through the doorway. The globe was there, and the desk was piled high with papers and jottings, but it was a small laptop that held the Professor’s attention. His head was down and he was peering over his glasses at the screen as he tapped away.

  “Sit,” he said absently, never once looking up from his work.

  Stranger walked over to the desk, but he stayed standing, fists clenched together as he stared down at the man.

  It took a few minutes but eventually the Professor realized that Stranger hadn’t sat down. He looked up from the laptop, leaning back to get a good view, delicately using both middle fingers to ease his glasses back. For a handful of seconds, his face was a blank mask, but then he smiled. “Of course. How remiss of me.”

  He stood up. From the desk he retrieved a device that looked like a TV remote, then he made his way around the giant desk.

  He was a small man, but how much of this was down to age Stranger couldn’t say. He had no idea just how old the Professor was. His face was creased with the years, his hair slowly turning from grey to white, and if you looked closely, there was the start of a cataract over his left eye. Yet he was also physically fit and able. He didn’t stoop, and had no need of a cane. Stranger had never seen him wince from aches or pains, never seen him massage a stiff knee, never heard him get out of breath, or issue anything beyond a polite cough from between his thin, grey lips.

  And there was no obvious age related mental decline either. The man was sharp as a tack, sharp as a scalpel. The cleverest man aboard ship; who knew, maybe the cleverest man left on the planet.

  He even dressed young, in a crisp dark suit and open necked white shirt. Stranger was grateful of that, it helped dispel any illusion that he was a befuddled old academic, or a kindly uncle. He was neither.

  “Turn please,” he said curtly. When Stranger complied the Professor held the device against his chest. Pressing his thumb against a sensor on the plastic, the Professor tapped a handful of numbers on the keypad. A single, dull ping rang out. Once upon a time, Stranger had found the sound horrifying. Now, irritatingly, he took reassurance in it.

  His hands unclenched. He sat down.

  The Professor retook his own seat, tossing the device back onto the desk. Then he leaned back in his chair and tapped his fingertips together as he regarded the younger man.

  The Reina de Isla’s population varied from week to week, as people joined the community, or else occasionally died or, even more rarely, left. On the whole though, it fluctuated around the five hundred mark. Five hundred souls aboard a floating fiefdom, with the Professor as undisputed lord and master of all he surveyed.

  A large portion deferred to the Professor’s leadership because they genuinely believed he was the right man to lead. Didn’t he put food on everyone’s table, hadn’t he ensured that they had this well-lit, warm ship, wasn’t it he who controlled Rolf 37 allowing them to make their way along the coast? Many in this group had profited personally from their allegiance—men like Morrow and Hernandez who took their pick of the spoils—more food, better weapons, their pick of the prettiest women, the handsomest young men…

  The majority deferred to the Professor out of fear. Fear of punishment, or just plain fear of being expelled, of being left behind in the darkness. Their old lives held no meaning now. Whether they’d been stockbrokers or movie stars, truck drivers or Supreme Court judges, it was irrelevant. They were the Professor’s subjects, and they did as they were told, no matter how degrading it was, to retain just a glimmer of civilization.

  And then there was the small minority; those who’d never willingly give their loyalty to men like the Professor and his ilk, those for whom even fear wasn’t enough of an inducement without something tangible to back it up. Stranger was in this group, and that was why there was a tiny explosive charge imbedded beneath his skin. Not a big charge, but it would be enough to rupture the arteries going into his heart unless the timer attached to the microscopic bomb was reset every thirty six hours.

  And it wouldn’t just be his heart that was broken, that was the real cruelty of it. There were maybe a dozen men that Stranger knew of who had similar implants, but there were at least two dozen more, most of whom didn’t even realize they had a tiny explosive inside of them—the doctors aboard ship had had to patch up an awful lot of people. Stranger’s implant was tied to two others, women or children most likely.

  Stranger would have taken death for himself if it meant freedom from this cruel man, but he wasn’t about to condemn innocents to share his fate. And so he did as he was told.

  Most of the time.

  “So,” said the Professor. “What did you find?” He spoke slowly, each syllable stretched to make it sound somehow threatening, as if each word were a test somehow.

  “About as expected, a small community with limited resources.”

  The Professor nodded. “I’ve been going over Rolf’s telemetry again; it suggests a population of around twenty five.”

  “It’s more,” said Stranger without hesitation. “I saw thirty one individuals, but there were references made to others. Some were away on a scouting mission to the ruins of the nearest town, a few others who were laid low with minor ailments were kept indoors.”

  The Professor scribbled notes on the pad in front of him. “So, in total?”

  “I’d gauge a shade over forty.”

  “Ages, genders?”

  Stranger shrugged. “Mixed bag, same as always. A few kids, a handful of over fifties, most between teenage and middle-aged I’d say; the gender split was roughly even.”

  More scribbles. When he looked up he began to tap the end of the pen against the pad. “Tactical assessment?”

  “Not bad. They don’t have a lot of weapons. A dozen rifles, some shotguns and pistols, but they’re well provisioned with ammunition.”

  The Professor’s eyebrows raised. “They showed you?”

  “Not specifically, but on my way out I snagged an M-16 from one of the guards. The armory was locked but I saw through the window. Gun racks and ammo, a lot of ammo, several thousand rounds at least.

  There was a flicker of doubt in the Professor’s eyes, but he bade Stranger continue.

  “The M-16 I took was fully loa
ded as well, had to fire off a few shots on my way out though.”

  “Yes, Major Hernandez reported you’d lost your pistol but claimed an assault rifle.” He took a deep breath, tapped his pen some more. “What about the people?”

  “Not sure, most were dressed in civvies, but a few of them carried themselves like they knew how to handle themselves. That might mean army, might mean police.” He smiled. “Of course it might mean they were gangbangers back before the darkness.”

  “Leadership?”

  “Ah, now he definitely was military. A man by the name of Daniel Hobbie, said he’d been a Captain in the Marines, seen action in Iraq and Yemen, and the way he spoke and acted backed that up.”