by Kevin George
But not for long. He pushed the button and immediately scurried away, nearly losing his footing as the ISU slowly turned and rose to the surface. He rushed into the bedroom and lay down, ready to feign sleep if Weller awoke. But the ISU eventually came to a stop and Weller’s snoring continued to resonate from the library. Horace climbed out of bed and returned to the window, looking out into the bright light of ISU-Ville, feeling a momentary sense of relief, a sense that he was finally home.
Except that his home wasn’t the same as he’d left it. He saw little in the way of movement, only the swirling of dusty snow. When he looked closer, he saw snow starting to cover plenty of bodies—dozens of them strewn about—as well as countless splotches of blood that had turned pinkish in the hours since the Blast 2.0 massacre.
Is she among them? Or did she help create the massacre?
Horace didn’t know if he wanted the answer to either question, but not knowing would undoubtedly haunt the rest of his life, however long that might last. He headed for the front door, not even glancing into the library as Weller’s throaty snores continued. He opened the door and was inundated with frigid wind, which somehow felt more comforting than the wind atop The Mountain. He stepped outside and immediately heard the crunching of snow and heavy breathing. Though instinct told him to go back inside and shut the door forever, he took several steps forward, his eyes darting around the village.
He sensed the blur of movement before actually seeing it, his eyes too slow to keep pace. The blur ducked behind an ISU several rows away. More ISUs were underground than usual, and those remaining on the surface were in terrible condition: doors knocked off, windows smashed, greenhouse glass missing. The entire village had turned into a ghost town, even more evident by the fact that so many bodies lie strewn about. Despite the tingle of warning making the hairs stand on the back of his neck, Horace started toward the nearest corpse, determined to check them all if he must.
He didn’t make it halfway to the first body when he looked in the direction of Carla’s ISU and saw a lumbering beast encircling it. The beast was massive, a foot taller than Horace and much heavier. The shredded tatters of human clothing still clung to its white-furred body, which still had a feminine curve to it despite the size. The beast suddenly stopped and turned, as if sensing Horace’s presence. It was only when Horace saw its face that he recognized any sign of humanity.
The eyes staring back at him weren’t those of a true beast, and he knew that because he recognized who they belonged to.
“Carla,” he whispered, before calling her name much louder a second time.
Most of her face was covered in white, but he still knew the soft shape of her cheek and the curve of her neck. Neither of them moved, staring at each other like long lost lovers. A hundred feet separated them, but it may as well have been a hundred miles. They would never be together again, though Horace saw sadness in her eyes and wondered if she was still capable of feeling human emo—
Carla suddenly bared razor-sharp, red-stained teeth and bolted in his direction, moving awkwardly on her hind legs. Horace shook his head, praying that she’d stop, praying that she’d remember him and come to her senses and somehow find the human part of herself again. When it became obvious that she wasn’t slowing down, Horace started to back up, not sure whether he’d make it back to the ISU in time, not sure he even wanted to. He watched Carla fall to all fours and lumber even faster, her head up and eyes wide the entire time, almost as if she were afraid of what she was about to do.
Horace finally turned to run but spotted another blur of white movement in his periphery. He slipped in the snow and by the time he regained his footing, the blur had turned into another massive Blasted beast, this one streaking straight toward him, obviously on pace to cut Horace off before he’d ever reach the front door. Horace skidded to a stop and watched death speeding toward him, taking a deep breath as he realized The Board would never get its hands on him again. . .
Suddenly bumped from behind, Horace was launched several feet to the side and hit face-first into the snow. He lifted his head in time to see Carla crash into the other beast, two white-furred monsters becoming a tangle of limbs and gnashing teeth, each one lunging for the other’s throat. When the other beast mounted Carla, Horace started forward, uncertain how to help but determined to do something. He didn’t take a single step before he was suddenly grabbed from behind.
Horace turned, nearly launching his own attack when he came face to face with Dr. Weller. The scientist grabbed Horace by the parka and dragged him inside, slamming the door shut behind them. A pained roar erupted from outside and Horace felt all strength leave his legs. Weller pushed several different buttons on the control panel before finally finding the one to lower the ISU.
Weller leaned back against the door, slowly shaking his head as he sneered down at Horace. “Are you trying to throw your life away?”
“Don’t act like you care about me,” Horace muttered.
“I don’t,” Weller snapped. “I care that you live long enough to stay useful.”
Horace hung his head between his knees, listening to the whirring of hydraulics as the sound of battling beasts faded above. When the ISU came to a stop underground and the surface cover slid closed, Horace realized once and for all that the village and Carla were both gone forever. A part of him wanted to remain on the floor, close his eyes and never get up again, but he pulled himself to his feet and headed toward the library. Weller—still leaned back against the front door—quickly cut him off.
“Do I need to watch your every step?”
Horace shook his head. “I have no reason to go above ever again. Carla is truly gone.”
He stepped around Weller and entered the library, bypassing the shelves of books, finding a pencil and a folder of blank paper in a nearby drawer. Without a word to Weller, Horace took the paper and returned to his bedroom, sitting down at the small table beside the bed. With a deep sigh, he began to write.
“What are you doing?” Weller asked from the doorway.
“Writing an account of what happened in The Mountain and in ISU-Ville and the Blasts,” Horace said. “The Board will never admit what they did and it’s important that the facts survive. This ISU is filled with history; it should have the entire account, whether anyone finds this place again or not.”
“I see,” Weller said. “I think it would be wise if I read whatever you wrote. . . to ensure we have matching descriptions of the events that transpired.”
Horace glanced back and saw Weller’s stony expression, his idea to read Horace’s work more of a command than a suggestion. Horace nodded and continued writing.
Over the next few days, Dr. Weller got plenty of sleep, drank plenty of water and ate plenty of food. Horace barely did any of the three. He remained at the small table, scribbling furiously, trying to gather his words and memories into a coherent series of events. At times he wondered if he was writing too much; at other times he wondered if he needed to add more detail. But somewhere along the way, Horace felt himself coming to grips with everything that had happened and with everything—and everyone—that he’d lost.
When Weller wasn’t sleeping, he headed underground to pack supplies or check the imploded section of tunnel to ensure the guards weren’t digging their way through. On more than one occasion, he made it known how badly he wanted to leave; each time, Horace insisted he wasn’t leaving until his account was finished. Annoyed as he was by the delay, Weller did not argue and instead spent his free time reading Horace’s words, ‘strongly suggesting’ several changes to which Horace begrudgingly agreed.
Horace finally finished, breathing a deep sigh of relief, ready to put the heartbreak of his past behind him. He placed nearly a dozen handwritten pages into the folder, closing the cover and labeling it: A Brief History of The Mountain, ISU-Ville, and the City Below. He left the folder on the small table and found Weller rifling through the packages of food remaining in the ISU’s small kitchen.
“I’m ready to leave,” Horace announced.
“Is that so?” Weller asked. “Where’s your precious memoirs?”
Horace nodded toward the bedroom.
“Then it’s time you learn to wait for me,” Weller said. “I’ll need to check it over one last time to make sure all of your facts are. . . accurate.”
Horace nodded and began to walk away when Weller cleared his throat and pointed at him.
“You can leave the pencil in case I need to make adjustments,” Weller said. Horace hesitated a moment before handing it over. “Also, I want to discuss a suggestion for when we reach the City Below, a suggestion that will benefit us both in the long run.”
Horace lowered his eyebrows and listened as Dr. Weller laid out his idea. With every word Weller spoke, Horace’s stomach sank deeper and deeper until he felt urge to be sick. But knowing that Weller’s ‘suggestion’ was more of an ‘order,’ Horace kept his face an expressionless mask. At the end, he agreed without argument.
“Excellent,” Weller said before returning his focus on reading. He barely got through a paragraph before Horace watched him starting to erase certain words.
“I’ll straighten up while you finish,” Horace said, receiving a nod in response.
Horace headed to the library and plopped down in the reading chair. He thought about his father and his grandfather, about how both would be rolling over in their graves if they knew what Weller had in store. But a strange sense of calm washed over Horace and he realized he might finally get what he’d always wanted. . .
That didn’t mean he felt good about Weller getting what he wanted, too. Horace stood up and tiptoed around the room, finding the nub of another pencil on one of the bookshelves. He’d had plenty of blank paper left in the bedroom, but he wasn’t about to interrupt Weller. Instead, he pulled a random book off its shelf and slowly—quietly—tore a piece of paper out of the back.
He began to jot a final note, glancing up every few words, constantly on the lookout for Weller. When Horace was done, he slipped the scrap of paper into his pocket and returned to the bedroom in time for Weller to finish. Weller put the pages back into the folder and handed it over.
“You want to look it over? Make sure you approve my changes?” Weller asked.
Horace looked at the folder and knew its contents held the details of his former life, the truth of those details probably altered far beyond the truth. He shook his head and began to walk away.
“Where are you taking it?” Weller asked.
“In the library, with the rest of the world’s history,” Horace said.
Weller nodded and followed him out. When Horace glanced back and saw the scientist focusing on their packed bags, he discreetly reached into his pocket and removed the scrap of paper, sliding it into the back of the folder, which he then put onto the small table beside the reading chair.
After checking to make sure the automatic timer remained set for the hydraulics system, Horace slung one of the heavy packs on his shoulder. Without bothering to take a final glance around the ISU, he nodded to Weller and started toward the ladder leading below the surface.
“Now onto the City Below.”
THE FOLLOWING PAGES ARE THE CONTENTS OF THE FOLDER LABELED “A BRIEF HISTORY OF THE MOUNTAIN, ISU-VILLE, AND THE CITY BELOW”
My name is Horace Jonas and I write this account not knowing what life holds in front of me, only knowing what I have left behind. I write this account from the ISU that’s been in my family ever since this village has been set up. Part of me wonders if I should remain here and live out the rest of my life in relative peace; no Blasteds have gotten in yet, nor have I seen any evidence that they will. But alas, my ancestry has placed me on a prominent path in life, and life in the underground bunker should provide a better chance for safety than remaining here. Still, I know not what my future holds and I hope someone finds this account one day.
My family owned One Corp., one of the largest companies in all of the U.S.N.A. before the country ceased to exist, before all countries ceased to exist, before the melting of polar caps and the subsequent change to the oceans’ currents. Most of the world ignored the impending dangers, but in the forward thinking of the Jonas family, my ancestors began to acquire companies that would allow us to survive the new Ice Age. Construction, pharmaceuticals, excavation, biological and geological studies, genetic hybridizations, security, communications; everything to create a new world suitable to living in sub-freezing temperatures.
A two-pronged approach was originally planned. First was construction of a massive facility within The Mountain. My grandfather envisioned a society of Earth’s brilliant minds working together to survive and thrive in conditions that humankind had never faced. Second was a valley of self-sustaining Surface Units (designed to lower beneath ground to avoid the harshest of weather conditions) that would allow up to three people to live inside. Those chosen to live in the ISUs were brave and strong and taught how to be survivalists.
Built separate from The Mountain and the ISUs was a massive underground bunker intended for storage, steam energy production and housing for a smaller number of people; this third ‘prong’ was unexpected and not even fully completed by the time the globe officially reached Ice Age status.
In the process of constructing the subterranean bunker, Mountain biologists and ISU-Ville’s designers planned yet another structure, this one attempting to combine elements of both of their habitats. The Dome of Life was built on the surface just above the underground storage facility. It was the first of many planned societal buildings where larger groups of people could live together. If there’d been enough time before the Ice Age hit in full effect, more of these Domes may have been built.
During the early phase of One Corp.’s planning for the new world, my grandfather held secret meetings with other wealthy families from across the globe. Though most common folk were more concerned with keeping their jobs and paying their bills, they overlooked what was happening to the environment. These wealthy families did not, and a feeding frenzy ensued as scientists and futurists and top university minds were hired to come up with ways to survive the impending global catastrophe. My grandfather swore his strategy would work best, though he spent years communicating with leaders from other ark projects; my father subsequently cut off those communications.
Samuel Jonas was a paranoid man. The first thing he did in the aftermath of my grandfather’s death was cut off communication with the outside world. He personally reviewed the files of every One Corp. employee living in The Mountain and the ISUs. Anyone he deemed untrustworthy was banished.
It didn’t take long before our people accepted isolation and no longer questioned why updates from the outside world stopped coming. Our long-distance drone division—at least before most drones stopped working—tracked civilization’s downfall, years of chaos as Earth’s temperatures dropped to conditions no longer livable.
Our people still prayed for the day when the world’s weather would revert back to previous conditions, when life would have a chance to start over, when the ISUs and The Mountain and the City Below (which it had been dubbed) could be abandoned in the hopes of reforming our great country. As my father’s generation of Mountainers grew older, the structure of leadership—with my father at the top—began growing very secretive. I lived for a time in an ISU and I heard complaints from fellow villagers about a lack of information that came from The Mountain. ISU inhabitants suffered crumbling ISUs, failing hydraulic systems, increasingly dangerous hikes to large underground supply bunkers to haul back solar panels, heavy panes of greenhouse glass and power units.
The ISU inhabitants eventually banded together and began to demand entry to The Mountain. I was forced to lower my family’s ISU beneath the ground and use our hidden tunnel to return to The Mountain; my father wasn’t exactly thrilled to see me. The citizens of ISU-Ville were told there was no room. They were ordered to remain in their units while Mountain scientists worked on an answe
r (the mythical “answer” that had been promised—and not delivered—for years). A few of the more combative—albeit foolish—ISUers marched to The Mountain and subsequently perished from exposure.
My father was part of a circle of Mountain leaders called The Board. While I was accepted back into The Mountain—I was heir to the Jonas Mountain leader, after all—I was eventually banned from many of The Mountain’s central levels. I rarely saw my father, who grew increasingly agitated and private over the years. Most of what I learned came from Dr. Weller, a lovely man whose contributions to The Mountain and humankind will undoubtedly live on for countless generations. With the approval from my grandfather for initial research—and subsequent approval from my father for actual testing—Dr. Weller used genetic splicing to modify the human genome to make human bodies better equipped to handle colder conditions.
His modifications included increasing the layer of fat beneath the epidermis and increasing the amount—and thickness—of body hair. When his research didn’t quite reach its desired results, Dr. Weller was forced to splice out more human DNA and replace it with more DNA from animals that thrived in sub-zero climates. Though he eventually achieved the success he sought, complications arose in test subjects. From what I understand, testing was done in secret and several of his human subjects did not survive; those that did changed more dramatically than expected.
Dr. Weller fixed the most extreme of these issues and eliminated the hyper-aggression among those injected with the Hybrid Blast. He planned to continue his research, but my father felt otherwise. Samuel Jonas was not a patient man and though he was pleased with Dr. Weller’s success, the two often met in private to discuss the next phase of the Blast program. It wasn’t until later that I learned my father ordered him to work on a new version of the hybridization.
