by Mike Kraus
Marcus Warden
11:14 PM, March 30, 2038
As Marcus slept, he dreamed of the creature yet again. He was back on the green mountain, watching the creature through his binoculars as it disappeared, reappearing behind him, poised to attack. This time, though, the creature was off balance and awkward, stumbling forward instead of moving with the fluid precision it had displayed in previous dreams and when he had seen it in the cavern the previous night.
Although the creature’s body looked the same as it had before, the face was completely different. Instead of being crisscrossed with the metallic silver substance, it was normal and looked like any other average person you might see on the street. The man’s face was contorted and his mouth opened and closed in a jerky fashion, almost as though he was trying to speak, but couldn’t form the words. Pain was etched across his expression as he drew closer to Marcus, and the gasping of air escaping from his lips touched on Marcus’s face.
As Marcus continued to step back, matching the pacing of the creature, a glint at the edge of the man’s mouth caught Marcus’s eye. As he watched, a trickle of silver emerged from the left side of the man’s mouth, curling upwards around his cheek, defying gravity. More trickles began to appear, as though the man had drunk a glass of mercury and it was all running out, upwards on his face.
As the first trickle reached the man’s eyes, the pained expression on his face grew more pronounced. Marcus’s mouth dropped open in shock as the silver fluid filled the man’s eyes, covering them at the same time that it disintegrated them, leaving nothing but hollow holes where they once were. A scream finally emerged from the man’s mouth, mirroring his expression as the silver liquid continued to flow over his face, melding with his skin. Gradually, the same facial features Marcus had seen on the creature before began to take shape as the man’s entire head was consumed by the liquid that was now beginning to solidify into place.
As the creature became fully consumed by the silver substance, it began to move more quickly and smoothly toward Marcus. The limbs of the creature were no longer jerky and awkward, instead taking on the smooth and calculating precision he had seen in the cavern and in his previous dreams. Thin trails of smoke started to rise from sections of the silver substance, evaporating into a buzzing mass that floated around the head of the creature, revealing patches of skin that were left intact among the patchwork of silver metal. Marcus retreated faster now, nearly falling over as he backed up, not daring to turn and run for fear of inciting the creature to give chase. Despite his caution, Marcus found himself tripping as he stumbled backwards, falling flat on his back in the grass.
The creature loomed overhead, silver smoke buzzing around its face in thin wisps that began to coalesce into the silver mass he recognized. The wisps condensed and moved closer in to the creature’s head, vanishing as they entered through its partially open mouth. Where the pained expression of a man in agony appeared just a moment ago, there now only remained the face of a monster, twisted and menacing as it closed in on him.
Heart pumping, Marcus awoke in the store, grabbing his machete in panic yet again before realizing that it had all been just another dream. What’s going on? he wondered. Am I going insane? Marcus checked his watch under the glow of his flashlight, struggling to relax and get his breathing under control. 2 AM. Maybe I can still get some rest if I try. In his heart, though, Marcus didn’t want to sleep anymore. As tired as he was from the events and restless nights of the last few days, Marcus no longer desired sleep. Instead of bringing him focus and energy, his sleep merely brought more nightmares and with them, more questions.
Leonard McComb
2:23 AM, April 1, 2038
Leonard’s sleep was restless, and he woke up several times during the night to strange sounds echoing around him. From the start, he dismissed them as the sounds of the city slowly settling after having been ripped apart. After the seventh time he was startled awake, though, he sat up for a while, trying to catch a clearer sound of whatever it was he heard. Twenty minutes after being awoken, he still heard nothing but the rushing of the wind, and he put his head back down.
A soft buzzing came with the breeze, lightly catching on Leonard’s ear. He sat up straight in the Jeep, motionless, craning his head to the side in an effort to find the noise again. It was familiar and deeply disturbing, even as faint as it had been. As he searched his memory to remember where he had heard it – I’ve heard it somewhere recently, but where? – it came again on the wind, and he remembered.
That swarm! That silver smoky thing! The buzzing was far off in the distance, but it terrified Leonard to the core, a fact he did not deny. His first thought was to run, to get the Jeep cranked up and get out of there as quickly as possible. It was still night, though, and he had very little chance of getting out of the city in the dark.
Besides, those things went after the generators... who says they won’t go after the Jeep? Leonard sat still in the back of the Jeep, leaning against the front seats, fully awake for the last few hours of the night. Every so often the distant buzz would echo quietly through to him, putting him on edge. Though Leonard stayed alert for the rest of the night, there was no sign of any of the swarms, nor did the sounds grow in volume.
The first rays of sunlight trickling through Washington sent Leonard into a frenzy. For the last hour before dawn the occasional buzzing had stopped. Though he had wished for this to happen, when it finally did it made him more nervous than ever. At least when I could hear them, he thought, I knew they weren’t here.
Leonard refilled the Jeep’s gas tank in a record amount of time, then set off, moving through the rubble towards the monument and the bridges beyond. Though Leonard had planned on making a quick escape from the city to avoid running into any of the things that he heard last night, this plan was cut short as he turned a corner.
Though Leonard had managed to make it to the National Aquarium once, he had never visited Washington. He had driven through it on occasion, but never found the time or a justifiable reason enough to stop at a place he had always dreamed of seeing. Now, as he rounded the corner on 14th Street, he came face to face with the house he always wanted to see but never did.
Three elections ago, hundreds of years of precedent had been wiped clean by the most aggressive and totalitarian administration ever to set foot inside the city. The most famous house in the nation, once sitting proudly on display for all to view behind simple metal bars, had been completely walled off, sealed from both access and view to the rest of the world. Visitors were completely barred from entry, and the only way vehicles entered or left the premises was through an underground passage. Air travel via helicopter quickly became the default mode of transport, though, and the vehicle entrance was relegated to bringing in supplies and individuals not important enough to shuttle in by air.
Camouflage netting was installed along the top of the entire structure, extending out into the surrounding lawn. Large concrete walls topped with razor wire and reinforced with steel beams were set in place behind the old metal bars, keeping anyone from viewing the house from any angle. Despite the intense and overwhelming objections to these changes, the only response from the government was to erect a small digital display outside that showed rotating photographs of the White House through the years, conveniently stopping short before the latest change.
The reasons for the changes were always nebulous, such as “in response to terrorist threats” or “for the safety and well-being of the nation.” No one believed these reasons, but there was no arguing against them. In less than a year, the shining jewel of the capital of the United States became a bunker, an eyesore and an ever present reminder of the changes the world had gone through.
Once these fortifications had been made to the White House, Leonard no longer wanted to visit it. What was the point of going through the trouble to visit when you couldn’t even see the building anymore? When Leonard turned off of 14th Street onto Pennsylvania Avenue, he jammed on the brakes
, laughing as the Jeep slammed to a stop. In spite of the current state of affairs, it was amusing to Leonard given the lengths the government had gone through to protect the area.
Instead of the concrete wall, steel reinforcements and camouflage netting on top, for the first time in years the White House was finally visible to the world. The netting was burned, leaving nothing but a few pieces of charred cloth on the ground. The concrete and steel walls, built to withstand direct suicide bomb attacks, had been torn apart, with large pieces ripped apart by the force of the blast.
There, in the heart of the compound, Leonard saw the White House. The wings had both partially collapsed, falling in on themselves and toppling forward and back into the lawns. The main portion of the building was still standing, though, a confirmation that recent renovations had been for more than just applying a new coat of paint. Most of the windows were intact, too, with only a few of the largest ones cracked or broken in isolated spots.
Forgetting all about the buzzing masses, Leonard stepped out of the Jeep and walked slowly up to the wall, peering through a hole in it large enough to drive the Jeep through. He stared at the White House, soaking in its beauty and majesty. Through centuries of peace and war and prosperity and disaster, the building still hadn’t changed all that much.
Leonard didn’t know if the men who stood in the building just a few days ago were responsible for the world as it now was. He didn’t know if they started the attack or if someone else did. He didn’t know and, for the moment, didn’t care. He was the first outsider to see the jewel of DC in years, and realizing this took his breath away, pulling him out of reality and placing him in a state of awe. The weight of this sight did not rest lightly on Leonard’s heart. So he stood still, staring at the building, a testament to those leaders who had come before, both evil and good, and who were now gone, all of them, burned away like the covering that once hid the mighty home.
Marcus Warden
9:18 AM, March 31, 2038
Light pouring in through a crack in one of the store windows woke Marcus several hours later. When he had finally gotten to sleep again, his sleep had mercifully been free of any dreams at all. Whether it was his body’s defense mechanism trying to protect him and enable him to get to sleep or not, he didn’t care. For the first time in days, Marcus felt somewhat rested and rejuvenated, ready to get started on the day.
Before he left, Marcus threw open the windows to the store, illuminating it as much as possible. He spent close to an hour picking through supplies, trading older and less desirable food and liquid in his backpack for fresher ones that he found in the store. From where he was, Marcus figured he had another several days hike to get to Richmond, though it would all be much smoother and faster going now that he was finally on the highway.
Once his backpack was fully loaded, Marcus slid the vending machine out of the way and pulled the door open. Sunlight was cutting through the thick clouds that roiled overhead, though he could swear that they seemed a bit thinner and calmer than they had yesterday. The faint smell of smoke wafted through the background, though it was overwhelmed by the scent of pine and general foliage that surrounded the small store and the nearby highway. In full daylight, the store looked quainter than he had noticed last night, with a group of handmade signs hanging out front above a pair of worn and weathered benches. Before he started back down the highway, Marcus decided to make a quick check around the sides and back of the store for any more weapons or supplies that he could make use of. One glance of the far side of the store told him that this search was not in vain.
Propped up against the side of the store and held in place with a small log sat an old fixed-gear bicycle. In between the patches of rust and chipped paint, it looked like it had once been bright blue in color, but time, wear and not enough upkeep had soured its appearance. Despite the bad condition of the frame, the wheels of the bike were both in excellent condition, the chain was well-oiled and the seat was worn but functional. From all appearances, it looked to belong to the owner or an employee – or perhaps a customer? – of the store who used it on a regular basis.
A fixed gear bike in the mountains, though. They either live VERY close by or they’ve got some kind of masochistic streak, he thought. Still… I am going mostly downhill from here on out, and this beats walking by a mile. Marcus hopped on the bike and adjusted his backpack to redistribute the load more evenly. He rode it slowly around the gravel parking lot in front of the store, testing its capabilities. It was a simple machine and the large wheels were made for riding on pavement, not going off-road, but it felt sturdy enough to hold him. As he pedaled away, he took one last look at the store, feeling extreme gratitude to whatever poor soul had once worked or visited there.
With the sun rising in front of him, Marcus put his head down and pedaled furiously forward, taking advantage of the steep downward slopes to gain enough momentum to cruise up through the foothills. Having the bicycle would certainly shave a huge amount of time off of his trip, but it also made him more vulnerable to injury. It also made him more visible, being positioned higher in the air and traveling at a faster pace. In Marcus’s mind, they were acceptable risks, especially given what he had seen and gone through to get him to this point.
Rachel Walsh
8:09 AM, April 3, 2038
Though the grass and saplings that grew around the side track where the handcar was located were difficult to remove, they proved to be no match for Rachel’s determination. In the morning, it only took her an hour to get the handcar from the side track to the main railway. Once she checked and double-checked that it was as ready to go as possible, she climbed on and coaxed Sam up next to her.
She stood behind one end of the lever with Sam at her feet, bracing herself on the largest of the logs that she had used to replace the rotten floorboards. With Sam and Rachel’s backpack at her feet and her rifle still slung over her shoulder, she began to slowly pump the lever on the handcar. The wheels squeaked loudly in protest at first, then began to turn smoothly, lubricated by the application of oil the night before.
As the handcar began to pick up speed, Sam whined nervously. “It’s okay, boy, calm down.” Her words had little effect on Sam’s whines, but he stayed put on the cart, his nails dug deep into the wood for stability and support. The track was flat and straight, making it easy for Rachel to bring the cart up to speed. It took several minutes, but once she got it going, the work on the lever became significantly lighter and she was able to easily maintain their speed.
Rachel watched the wooden railroad ties pass underneath the handcar, counting them as they went. They were placed around 2 feet apart and were flying by quickly. Rachel estimated that they were going at least 9-10 miles per hour based on how quickly they passed over the ties. It wasn’t the quickest speed in the world, but it was over double what she was able to walk with a full load in her backpack and it gave her legs a chance to rest, too.
From what Rachel remembered from looking on the map before they left, she guessed that they were around a hundred miles or so from Raleigh, the only large city before Richmond that the track passed directly through. If she was able to maintain a steady speed for the rest of the day, there was a decent chance that they’d be able to get in to town by nightfall. That is, of course, if my arms don’t give out first, she thought. After an hour of steady up and down motions on the lever, she was growing weary. Rachel dared not stop or slow down, though, since doing so would mean losing the momentum that she had spent so much time building up.
Three hours later, Rachel’s arms had given all they could, and she dropped the lever wearily, letting the handcar coast to a slow stop. The view hadn’t changed much since they had started that morning and the only break in the steady flow of trees and fields on either side of the track had been a small way station. With nothing worth stopping for, Rachel had continued on without pause.
Rachel had kept count of how far they had gone by watching the mile markers. According to those, she
and Sam had traveled for around thirty-four miles, getting just a bit farther and traveling slightly faster than she had originally estimated. There was no way Rachel was going to be able to continue pumping the handcar any farther until she gave her arms a break, though. She sat down next to Sam and pulled out some food and water from her backpack, her arms trembling as she struggled to open them.
She was thoroughly exhausted, especially in her upper arms, which were burning from the effort she had expended. Despite this, she didn’t want to just give up and waste hours sitting there. Sipping on a water bottle, she hopped down from the handcar, motioning at Sam to stay still. He had relaxed considerably since the morning and just stared at her as she walked around the handcar, his head resting on the wood.
The frame of the handcar was plain, with no handholds on any side and nothing else she could see that would make it easy to pull along the track. Rachel sighed and went to the back of the handcar, putting her water next to Sam. She braced herself against the back of the frame, behind where Sam was laying, and pushed on the handcar, gauging how much force would be necessary to push it along the track to give her arms a break.
