by Kevin Gordon
It was the fifteenth year after Countdown, and the Earth had been fragmented into three groups of humans. Some lived in North America, in the area between Nevada and Missouri. Others lived in South America, mostly in the Mato Grosso state of Brazil, while the greatest number of initial survivors was in Africa, though disease and plague decimated them quickly, with the survivors migrating to Tanzania. The heavily populated areas like the East and West Coast of America, most of Mexico, Europe, India, China, and the Middle East up through mother Russia, were all quarantined within three years of the Countdown. There were just too many rotting humans and animals to waste the precious few survivors to try to clean up.
So they focused on securing their central living area, then spreading out, city by city, cleaning the dead out of the cars and homes, the animals from zoos and forests. They sterilized by chemical and fire, and hoped it would be enough.
Dust was by far the most threatening challenge to the survival of the human race. The first few years after Countdown were said to be the worst, with dust storms so intense they blotted out the sun for months on end, dropping the planet’s temperature by almost a full ten degrees. The remaining scientists feared another ice age, and plans were bandied about that involved detonating several dozen nukes in hopes of artificially raising the planet’s temperature, or at least disrupting the dust storms in midair. Thankfully cooler heads prevailed, as within three years the sun reappeared on a more consistent basis.
It now had been fifteen years since countdown, and a great deal of dust still whipped around the Earth. There was nothing to anchor it—without insects, or earthworms, grass or shrubs, the rain only turned into mud for a short time. But when the sun heated it, and the wind came, it rose again. It clogged the lungs, polluted the water. It fouled machinery, made cellphone communication impossible outside of a 250 mile radius.
The second biggest problem was information. Most who were over thirty when the countdown hit didn’t survive the shock of gaining fifty years in an instant. Those that were left had to learn quickly from the survivors, then teach the maturing children. It was now an odd mix of those seventy to eighty working with fifteen-year-olds, giving them the secrets of the world so it might carry on and be brought back from the brink of oblivion.
Brian was one of those learning the secrets of technology. He was part of what was known as ‘Year Two’ of human births, and all Year Two children came to be known as the ‘prototypes,’ and most prototypes were focused on learning and leadership. It was on they that all the hopes of the new America, the ‘Homestead,’ were placed. Every day he would travel to Scott Air Force Base, a massive facility located just outside of St. Louis, where he and others like him assisted in trying to prepare a NASA shuttle for launch. It was his greatest dream to leave the Earth and fly into space, and if everything worked out, he would be on that small crew to venture into space, to meet the watchers.
He took a bus for the long trip from home to the base, and Iris rode most of the way with him, which is why they were so close. It was an odd motley of folks; half the bus with those of his generation, the other half comprised of the geriatric set, who wheezed and groaned through the whole ride. Brian and the other kids his age always avoided them as much as possible. He could see the envy written all over their faces. The women leered at him, wishing they could possess his thin, supple body, while the men hated him for his youth, remembering how quickly theirs passed.
They passed through the fields of the heartland, now barren and dusty. Often they would need to stop when great dust storms rolled across the landscape, stretching hundreds of feet into the sky. Everyone that rode on the bus had to carry a filter mask and goggles, as the bus still allowed much of the dust to creep in.
The seats sat three wide, and though Brian and Iris usually tried to make it seem as if all three were occupied, as was sometimes the case, an old man sat down between them, his eyes on Iris as if she was a slice of bacon and a sixteen-ounce Pepsi rolled into one. He was tall and barrel-chested, with deep chasms through his ancient face. His skin was pale with blotches around his eyes, and he reeked of urine.
“Hey there, little girl, what’s your name?”
“Her name’s Iris,” said Brian, folding his arms over his chest. The old man smiled.
“Now don’t get your panties in a bunch little man, I’m not gonna move in on your . . . girlfriend?”
“Yeah, my girlfriend.”
He leaned back, obviously not going anywhere. “Well, it’s a long ride to the next stop, so we probably oughta get along. What do you think?”
Brian, ever the compassionate and forgiving one, relented, merely sighing and nodding.
“Good! So, you two hear any news?”
There was a broadcasting station resurrected about a year after the Countdown, but it was quickly taken over by the Homestead. Now, it only played taped programs of the old Earth, with isolated emergency broadcasts once in a while.
“No,” said Iris. “How ‘bout you?”
“Well, just look out the window!” They turned, and in the distance, through the dust, they could see massive farm machinery moving like metal elephants over the ground.
“What’re they doing?” asked Iris, excitedly pressing her face against the pane.
The old man laughed and coughed, wiping his mouth with a dirty handkerchief. “Damn this dust. They’re planting! Can you believe it? Well, actually they’re layin’ down the mulch.”
“Mulch?”
He shook his head, amazed at what wasn’t taught to the new generation. “Mulch is decomposed organic matter, used to help rebuild soil. I used to be a farmer of sorts, before . . . this.”
“Where’d they get the mulch from?” asked Iris, suddenly interested. “What about seeds?”
“The seeds, well, they weren’t wiped out. Seeds aren’t ‘alive’ like the rest of us, so they survived the Countdown. There’s tons of ‘em lyin’ around! There were even several seed banks—one of the few smart things the dead generation did before Countdown. The problem always was; how do we get the Earth fertile again?” He nodded to himself. “Well, we’re definitely doing it ourselves.”
“What do you mean?” pressed Brian.
The old man’s expression became distant and somber. “That mulch is the remains of the human race. All the dead people, from the cities we’ve reclaimed, are in that mulch.”
Iris yelped, covering her mouth with her hands. Brian felt sick to his stomach.
“How else are we gonna grow anything?” The old man shifted in his seat, as the bus was rocked from side to side by another fast-moving dust cloud. “All the plants died, and all the animals too. Shit, even the bumblebees and butterflies have dissolved into the wind. This is the only way, but even then, you should’ve seen the fight before they agreed on it.” He nodded to himself. “I actually sat in the meeting the Homestead had, trying to decide what to do. There just wasn’t any other option for disposing off all the bodies. We can’t burn all of ‘em, and we don’t have the manpower to bury them all. So any food you eat, once the plants come back and animals too, will have been birthed from our remains. Life, from death. Kinda poetic, in a way, if you thought about it.”
Brian’s highly analytical mind processed the old man’s words, and knew it was a logical and necessary decision. “I guess it has to be done.”
The old man nodded, smiling with approval at his maturity. “Yes it does! We’ve got a whole lot o’ things we’ve gotta do, and none of us are gonna like ‘em one bit.”
Iris nodded to herself, thinking on her own future, as the bus roared through yet another dust storm, headed for an uncertain future.
“But, if you want to hear some real news, then listen to this: Africa’s falling.”
“What?”
The old man began to cough, and took a whiff of air from a canister he carried at his side. It seemed to Brian that all of the old generation had them—it was the only thing he actually envied them for. “Well, maybe you hear
d, they had the lowest median age. More of their people survived the countdown than any other nation. The problem is, they didn’t have the technological resources to carry on. We’ve offered to help them, in exchange for them coming to work for us, but they’ve flat refused.”
“Why?”
“I dunno. Somethin’ ‘bout slavery . . . All I know, is that the world’s gotta rebuild, and we’ve gotta all get together and get it done. No matter what.”
Brian leaned back in his seat, as he was still tired from the poor night’s sleep he got. His mind drifted, thinking on all there was to be done in the world. One of his professors told him of the six priorities agreed on in the council.
First: disposal of the bodies. All human and animal matter is to be recycled into compost. Factories will be converted into compost accelerators and purifiers. Farm machinery is also to be pulled into the newly populated areas.
Second: food creation and distribution. All plant life across the Earth is dead. Many trees survived, but immense dust storms ravage our land. The few remaining species of animal life that are left are dying out from lack of food. After compost is created, we must plunder any and all seed banks to grow crops. We must begin to clone all insects from egg and larvae depositories. We must begin with bringing back the bees, then the cockroach and fly, to pollinate our crops and help dispose of the dead.
Third: the establishment of law and order as quickly as possible. A pseudo-communist government must be established in the interim, to facilitate distribution of food, water, and rudimentary medical supplies. Contraception is hereby illegal, as the repopulation of our planet must be achieved through government direction and/or coercion.
Fourth: the rebuilding of the technological infrastructure to unite people of Earth.
Fifth: the aggressive and systematic investigation of the Countdown catastrophe. None of our citizens will have the will to forge on, if they think that tomorrow another Countdown could take it all away.
Finally, as our society becomes stable, as we generate a surplus of food, medicine, and return to our pre-Countdown level of technology, we must convert the communist government to capitalist democracy, to prevent establishment of dictatorships and possible civil war. The greatest threat facing our race is a prolonged civil war between the remaining survivors. Anything and everything must be done to maintain peace among the survivors of Countdown.
Brian turned to look on his sister, who had fallen into a light sleep. Thankfully the old man was respectful, and sat with his hands clasped on his lap and his eyes closed.
“You know, we’re lucky,” said the old man, suddenly opening his eyes.
“How so?”
“There hasn’t been any war. I remember in the first weeks after the Countdown, how terrified everyone was. There wasn’t even any looting, any riots, because we all were holding our breath, waiting for something else. It took a full year before we all understood the scope of what had happened, and by them we had lost a great many more people. It was as if a switch was thrown, and each and every one of my generation knew we must work hard to keep our species alive. The ‘machine’ that was humanity roared and engaged, determined to accomplish the herculean feat of survival. People worked until they dropped from hunger, slaved in the most extreme cold and heat, knowing if they didn’t, our doom was sealed. There was a greatness about us, back then, as we faced the cold hands of death upon our necks. We didn’t need a gun, or a tank, to shout ‘we shall not die!’ And all of us shouted those words, in one way or another. We evacuated as many as we could from the cities, then reluctantly set them afire. We cared for those who were suddenly old, who couldn’t even speak.”
Brian’s eyes drifted onto the other side of the bus, lined with row after row of the aged and wrinkled specimens of humanity. He never liked them, always thought them disgusting and foul, but he was beginning to understand all they had done for humanity, and how little reward they reaped.
The old man continued. “But the time of generosity and patience and understanding is coming to an end. Perhaps you’re too young to feel it, perhaps because you grew up in that time of union and hope. But I feel it. War is coming, and it will be vicious and brutal. The more people think that another Countdown won’t happen, the more they remember power, prestige, and wealth, and seek to do anything to get them back.”
“But there’s still so much to do!” he cried naively, as the old man shook his head.
“It’s your generation that will betray us. The older we get, the more infirm, the less they will see anyone that could give them boundaries. Power, young man, power – it’s the root of everything. And we are in a time of great uncertainty, when the bravest fool can control the minds of men and bend them to his perverted will. We are in the seventh Age of Man; the Age of Doubt, and one only hopes the Age of Enlightenment will follow.”
The day passed quickly for Brian, working at Scott, as there was much to do trying to clean and repair the shuttle. And when he got home, he found his mother packing a small bag, scolding him for forgetting to get a physical done. She yelled at him that he shouldn’t have kept putting it off, that if another week went by the archetypes would pay them a visit. Brian nodded and piled into the car with the twins to see the Doctor Melon.
The room was packed in Dr. Melon’s office, and it was mostly filled with the wheezing, hacking remains of the human race. The dust was merciless, working its way through windows and doors, creeping into beds and homes, and it was by far the most pressing health concern of the survivors of the Countdown. Even though everyone was given a dust masks and told to keep it on most for the day, the average human couldn’t function like that, and most only wore it when a dust storm cropped up. While some could take the dust without getting sick, most had lungs that collapsed under the strain, leaving them as wheezing, useless bodies the Homestead had to care for.
Jacob, Brian’s younger brother, was one of those unfortunates. Brian listened at night to his wheezing and always wondered if his breathing would just stop altogether. He had heard the government was considering legislation to discontinue asthma medicine after five years, and if the patient didn’t improve, then to have them euthanized, as they would be too great a drain on resources while contributing too little work. Overhead hung a sign Brian only noticed a few visits back.
The Homestead has now forbidden contraception. Contraception in any form is punishable with euthanization for the male and forcible insemination for the female. Forcible insemination is no longer a crime. While the Homestead abhors violence in any form, no act that results in fertilization can be punished by law.
“Ready for you, Brian.”
Dr. Melon was almost eighty-five, but he was spry and active. Brian had begun to notice that while some men aged badly, like his father, others seemed to keep their strength and alertness. These men typically were his instructors, his doctors, and some of the Homestead officials he came in contact with. If he was of a more suspicious nature, he might even have thought there was some conspiracy afoot, but he was kind and relatively trusting, so that fact lay ignored in his subconscious.
“So, how are doing today, Brian?”
“Fine.”
Dr. Melon made a cursory physical exam, making Brian take off his shirt, pressing and prodding along his ribs and back. His hands paused along some black and blue splotches.
“You dad hitting you again?”
“Yeah, a little.”
Melon nodded, with a sad smile. “It’ll all be over soon – you’re going to be someone important! Now, turn your hand into a fist.”
Dr. Melon swabbed Brian’s inside elbow with alcohol, then prepped a syringe.
“Any breathing problems?”
“No.”
He injected Brian swiftly, rubbing over the site once again with an alcohol pad.
“Eating regularly? You look a little thin for the allowance you’re given.”
Brian shrugged, as he never wanted to speak about the food his p
arents sold. The doctor sat next to him.
“You know, we’re in a time of transition. A lot of us old ones, like me, still think and act like our mental age. After all, I really have an EMA of thirty-five! And yet, I’ll be dead in a few years, as will all of us, and kids like you will need to run the world. The time is fast approaching, Brian, when you and others like you will be brought up to speed, and given the keys, so to speak. Then you’ll have to drive this big truck of a world, and you’re gonna hafta be some kinda careful. So, grin and bear these last years when your father can act like a prick. I’m sorry it has to happen to you, but it’ll all be over soon, and you won’t have to be bothered by him anymore.”
The doctor had told him this several times, and Brian didn’t know how to feel. While he didn’t like his father, he couldn’t make himself feel happy about the fact that he would soon be dead.
“Yes, Doctor.”
The doctor smiled. “Now, go out there, make some babies, and keep yourself healthy! That’s all the Homestead asks for, and I know you can do it.”
“Why?” meekly asked Brian. “Why do I hafta make babies?”
“You know—I know they teach you that in school.” He put a hand on Brian’s shoulder. “I know it’s a scary proposition, but it must be done. There are too many things working against us—the dust, the death, the unknown. We need to revert to a more primitive existence; make as many babies, and hope the strongest survive. We never know when or if another Countdown will happen, so we must be ready. And you should be warned Brian—not only is celibacy past the age of fifteen a crime, but monogamy is also being discussed as criminal behavior. You are capable of great things, my young prototype, but you must follow the law in this one thing. Then, anything else, well . . . you’ll have a great deal of latitude with.”
