Fools' Apocalypse

by Anderson Atlas

  She rotates the head turret and unleashes more hell. The massive bullets shred everything in the store. The shelves, toys, candy bars, and all the other crap they sell explode in a million different pieces. Life in confetti. She pumps a few more rounds into the man that stole her stuff, splattering his guts. The other guys start to return fire just as she ducks down the hatch and exits through the back door.

  With her pack, an assault rifle and shotgun slung over her shoulder, two pistols in her belt, and her Beater in hand, Isabella runs down Lexington Avenue. The men don’t follow, having received her message loud and clear.

  She wants to get to Central Park before noon, which is in an hour or so, and set up some kind of camp for the night. Squatting in a building only to have it burn down or trap her like a rat in a maze isn’t an option. The park sounds safest, and it has fresh air blowing through it. She thinks about heading north but decides against it. For one thing, all ten million New Yorkers headed to the bridges, trying to escape the city. So there’ll be a ton of dead and rotting bodies up there. Two, she doesn’t swim very well, so she’s not gonna be able to cross the river. And three, when the military rolls on through, she wants to see them comin’ so she doesn’t get shot. When they see that she’s not infected, they’ll help her get out through the proper channels.

  After reaching Central Park, she sets up camp in the middle of a baseball field with a one-hundred-foot perimeter of things that make noise like soda cans, plastic bags, and egg cartons. Feeling secure, she lets her mind wander. Has my family survived? Most of them I don’t even know. It’s not like we all hang out at family reunions or anything. Her dad’s the real kicker. She tries not to think of him, but can’t help it.

  He was a strict Catholic, the head of an import syndicate that worked with cartels south of the border. God must have looked the other way when her dad’s clients laundered money, hid cocaine in legit import deals, and sold illegal guns to thugs. Hypocrite. In fact, he was worse than just a hypocrite. He was a beater. He’d get mad and “whoop” her and her mom. She remembers the day he found she’d failed out of private school. He beat her so bad, he had to lock her away in his cabin on Lake Rockland until the bruises healed. He said it was for her own good and that she’d be a better person if she knew how to behave. In life you either make the rules or follow them. He didn’t think she’d be making any rules, so hence the needed to learn how to follow them. Bastard.

  There she goes again, wanting to punch somethin’. She turns to the trunk of a tree and punches it hard. Her skin splits, but she punches it again. “If you’re alive, Papa, I’ll show you some new rules. Rules that I make up.” Isabella changes her thoughts. Time to sleep, not get angrier.

  #

  Isabella hadn’t had a good payin’ job since getting kicked out of the army. Sure, many places hired her, but she always ended up hating the bosses which eventually got her fired. They were usually men with big egos like her father. They wanted to pull on those puppet strings, but she wasn’t no puppet. Besides, they always broke the rules they made.

  Isabella had gotten by okay doing odd jobs for people. One day, after punching this bitch out at Club Crisis—she started it—Isabella was approached by this guy. Called himself Professor Cott. He was a pasty white dude with a bright white beard, bald head, and thick glasses. He hired her to be a security guard at a physics lab on Columbia University’s campus. He paid her fifty grand for a year’s work. She couldn’t say no to that. They made all kinds of shit there. Even had the military stop by a few times to gawk at some trash can–sized piece of tech with wires and dials and pipes. She didn’t think too much of it then. In addition, Cott contracted her to protect his ass on his off hours, to be his bodyguard.

  Turns out the professor had more of a nightlife than most people do when they’re in college. He would go out to bars and clubs and sometimes to these shit-hole warehouses in Jersey. Sometimes he’d end up in back rooms with shady lookin’ people. Isabella would be called in if there was trouble. Most of the time there wasn’t, but hey, that’s the security business for ya.

  The year went by, and live was good. She only had to get in three, no, four fights for this guy. And it was always after some late night meeting he attended. Oh yeah, before all this death and shit, she’d just earned a half a million bucks. Maybe it was sitting in a Cayman Island bank like it should be, or maybe it was all a lie.

  #

  Two weeks before everyone started dying, Cott met with an activist group called People for Stable Fairness, a bunch of weirdos in black. After a political rally, he disappeared into a Jersey warehouse with the head honchos. Isabella was told to stay in the alley. The last time the two went to one of these meetings Cott had gotten thrown out on his ass, and she had to keep him from getting beat down. So, consequently, she got ready to draw her pistol that night. She waited in the alley for a long time. It was just after midnight when a limousine drove up and a woman waved her over.

  The woman had jet-black hair and wore sunglasses even though it was nighttime. “You’re Professor Cott’s guard?” she asked.

  “What’s it to you?” Isabella rests her hand on the grip of the pistol, which hung in a shoulder harness under her jacket.

  “How would you like to make half a million on a job?” she asked.

  “Fuck you,” Isabella snapped and backed up. She thought she was gonna ask her to do a film for her or whack someone.

  The woman stepped out of the vehicle dressed in full camo-gear, not some slick cocktail dress. “This is not some sicko offer.” She smiled and took off her glasses. She had the eyes of a fighter, not some bimbo. A scar on her right cheek extended to the bottom of her jaw. It gave Isabella goose bumps. “This is a job that will deconstruct the powerbase that runs our country.”

  “You stop me on the street, looking like you just got off tour, and expect me to do a job for a half million? Piss off and find another bitch. I ain’t living the rest of my life in prison.” Isabella folded her arms and leaned against the cold brick wall.

  The woman held out a white envelope, fat with cash. “This job is for a man called Zilla. He needs your skills. It’s for a top-secret surveillance job. It has to be done on the 15th by midday.”

  Isabella flipped through five bundles of one hundred dollar bills, a healthy advance. “I ain’t going to prison for no one, not Cott or my family or this Zilla guy.”

  “There will be no prison. You already have the access we need. You know how to get around the security because you are the security. If you don’t do this job, the government will swoop in and do it. But it won’t be directed at themselves, it will be directed at the people. Do you know who Snowden is? Julian Assange?”

  “Yeah, they dumped a ton of secret documents in the public’s lap.”

  “Right. Patriots, really. Now it’s your turn.”

  “Those fools are wanted by the Feds. They were chased out of the country.”

  “But you won’t be. No one will know about this job but you. Just follow the instructions in the envelope. You’ll see how perfect this is. Plus, we’ll get you access to the data room so you can erase the video surveillance footage.” She handed over a metal square the size of a brick. “Wave this over the hard drive, and they’ll be wiped clean.”

  Isabella took the money and the metal brick. It was heavy and solid with not a single wire showing. She had her attention.

  “I know you respect free thinkers. Time to prove you are one of them,” the woman said and left.

  Cott came out of his meeting, and Isabella drove him home. He was in a weird mood and didn’t talk as much as he usually did. After he trudged inside his house, she sat in his carport. Eventually, she pulled the envelope from her pocket and flipped out the note. They wanted her to fire off this rocket the brainiacs in the physics department at Columbia had built. It had to be done in two weeks, exactly. There were detailed instructions. She looked them over. Sure, she could do it without getting caught. She was the security in that bu
ilding. The note said the trash can thing was some kind of micro-satellite with spy gear on it. But it cost a pretty penny to make, and someone would be pissed enough to investigate its unauthorized launch. She might not get caught, but they’d question her, maybe fire her for neglect of duty, maybe throw her in jail. Her freedom was too good to blow over five hundred thousand bucks. Or was it?

  Isabella pulled out her cigarette lighter, lit a smoke, then touched the glowing embers to the paper. She let the flames lick her fingertips before tossing it out the window. No, thanks. But hey, you just try and get a refund for your deposit, lady. The brick that would wipe the hard drives clean remained in the back seat.

  Two weeks went by pretty quick. Isabella had gotten an eviction notice and a letter from the army informing her that she was being sued. Her money situation went from ‘eh’ to fucked. That half a mil suddenly looked pretty good.

  On the fifteenth, she went to work as usual, leaving her apartment at five o’clock in the morning. Somethin’ was going on. The street was jammed with cars, and people were rushing somewhere. She avoided everyone, as usual, and cranked the volume up on her earbuds and jogged down the stairs and all the way to the subway stop. No one down there. It was a ghost town. Weird. She turned down the music as she got on the sparsely populated train, that was usually packed. Some lady hopped on at the last second. She wore a face mask and moved as far away from everyone as possible.

  The trains were on time and got her to work by five thirty. Even at this early hour, the campus had kids and workers millin’ around, but not today. Isabella strolled up to the plain white building, wondering where everyone was. Those brainiacs liked to get started early. There was no door guard, which was really weird. She had to use her key to get into the building and shut off the alarm. No lobby guard either? Also weird. There was a guard twenty-four hours a day. After stashing her lunch in the refrigerator she went to the front desk. At least one guard had shown up. His shit was all over the place: a book, a crossword puzzle, an ice-cold cup of coffee.

  Isabella waited around until after seven. Usually there were all kinds of people in the facility. But today, no one was showin’ up. She thought about the half million dollars. It sure would be nice to sit on that cash. A sudden adrenaline rush hit and she took off toward the physics lab. If she was gonna launch this micro-satellite-whatever, it would have to be quick.

  Isabella unlocked the door to the lab and shut off the alarm. The huge rocket was at the far end of the room behind four-inch Plexiglas. It was quite a bit longer than she remember; an extra piece had been added. She pulled out her side arm and aimed at the Plexiglas. It was probably bulletproof. Plus, they might be able to tell it was her gun that was used, so instead found a metal bar in the supply closet and started chipping at the lock. Finally, the plexiglass clasp broke open. She ripped the small door off and removed the four corner clips on the inside of the enclosure. The entire side cover fell open. Isabella tried to roll the thing but it was too heavy, so she retrieved a dolly from the closet next door, tipped the rocket on its end, and walked it onto the dolly. This was too easy. Zilla must have cleared the way for her. From that point it was even easier. She simply rolled the thing to the roof.

  There was a note stuck to the roof access door.

  You have exactly fifteen minutes to complete this project before being arrested. If you beat the clock you will be able to get away. Good luck, solider. ~Zilla

  Isabella’s heart jumped and her pulse thickened. Too late to back out. She rolled the rocket to the middle of the roof, took it off the dolly, and kicked it away. There was a red button at the bottom of the cylinder so she pushed it. Three legs folded out of the base, one of which held a remote.

  A police helicopter approached, but it didn’t look like it was heading her way, not exactly. She looked at her watch. Now I’ve got only eight minutes. Illustrated instructions on the remote described the launch procedure. She pushed the buttons in the right order and stepped back. The rocket stabilized, automatically adjusting its legs.

  Sirens wailed in the distance. Lots of sirens. Something was going down, something big. She focused on the mission; the army taught her how to do that.

  Five minutes.

  The last instruction was to enter a code. The note she’d burned had the code. Shit. She visualized the note and tried two words. Nope. She looked at her watch. One-minute left. Then her memory clicked. ‘Silence.’ She typed the word into the remote and without a second thought, pushed the launch button. Smoke poured from the rocket’s engine, then fire. It lifted off the stand as smooth as unsheathing a sword.

  Isabella blocked out the sun with one hand and watched the rocket rise. It climbed and climbed. Then, to her surprise, the bottom half dropped off and a second-stage motor ignited. The rocket disappeared into the sky. No explosion and no sound. Well, those fools said it was for surveillance.

  Now all she had to do was get to the tape room and erase the camera footage of her launching the rocket. The brick device was in her car. I’m a shit brain. Well, device or no device, she wasn’t going to let the tape tell this story.

  Motion above caught her attention. The police helicopter had lost power and went down. It flew over the building and exploded a block or two away near the quad. Her jaw fell open. The sirens had gone silent. So did the traffic nearby. There were faint screams and yelling.

  I just needed to wipe the tapes clean, she reminded herself and ran to the door. A red box hung from the doorknob of the roof door. ‘Urgent’ was printed on its side. Inside the box was a red syringe and a note.

  Use or die. The New World thanks you. Your service was indispensable. ~Zilla.

  She was about to throw it over the edge of the roof, but didn’t. A little voice in her head spoke up so she stuck herself with that needle, somehow knowing that she didn’t have a choice. She flung the door to the roof open and ran down the steps. The stairwell was dark. The lights weren’t working. There was no way they were out of power, unless the entire city had blacked out. No, not even that was possible. They had backup generators.

  Tapes, gotta erase the tapes. She jumped down four, five steps at a time, smashing her shoulder into the far wall and continuing down the stairs. After bursting through the B1 door she found the server room. Computer stacks lined the wall, silent like stone towers. The hard drives will still have the footage of her doing the deed so she lit the place on fire.

  When she got to the street, she froze. The cars weren’t working, nor were the traffic lights. People were standing around yelling at each other, waving their cell phones in the air. A loud engine whined to her left. She turned just in time to jump out of the way of an old Chevy truck. That truck was working. It was all over the sidewalk, running people out of its way. The old truck disappeared around the corner. Isabella ran the opposite direction. It was time to go collect her cash and bug out.

  #

  That was Isabella’s part in the extinction event. Now as she held her knees, sitting in the middle of Central Park, armed to the teeth and surrounded by cans and trash, she cries. Biggest mistake of her life was to trust that bitch with the scar. That rocket was an EMP not a surveillance satellite. She wouldn’t have done that shit if she’d known the truth. No one deserves this shit. Her chest tightens with a wave of sadness.

  The grey skies get darker as night comes. She shakes it off, mostly. They’re dead. I’m not. She just needs to forget about her little rocket incident and focus on survival. I’m not sick, and I’ll probably stay that way. The shot she took after launching the rocket must have been a vaccine. So this Zilla guy declared war on New York, huh? I guess that makes me his foot soldier. Damn fucked up.

  Chapter 1.8

  Tanis Heart:

  The Day the Satellites Die

  Tanis Heart gets off at the Fifty-Ninth and Lexington subway exit around noon. The city is bustling with people, all doing their thing, going here and there. He loves this city. It’s a metal forest filled with giants. Tanis lives i
n Forest Hills and doesn’t get into the city much, but when he does, it’s bliss. He’s only fifteen, but when he’s walking around New York he feels like an adult.

  His cell rings. “Hello, Ma. . . Yeah, I’m gonna surprise Dad at his office. Eh, I just took the subway into town. I’ve done it by myself lots of times. I’m not a baby anymore.”

  He finally gets his Ma off the phone and unwraps a lollipop. She worries too much. The city is as safe as any suburb, maybe more so. He crosses the street along with a bunch of other people. It’s just like any other day, semi-cloudy and not too hot though it is the middle of summer. People are doing what they always do: eat at the cafés, take their lunch breaks, hop cabs, and whatever else adults do.

  Tanis’s dad is in the Air Force, but civilians would never know it. He doesn’t have to wear his uniform anymore because he works at a secret Department of Defense building in the city. He mostly works with and maintains satellites. He is the smartest guy Tanis knows and near the top of the food chain. He’s on the job more than he’s at home, but that doesn’t bother Tanis. The whole country exists because of the strong military.

  “The only problem”—he’d told Tanis a thousand times— “is the military doesn’t have enough power. Civilians run the military. Civilians that are elected by cash donations from the biggest corporations on the block.” Tanis agrees with him. He’d even go a step further. The whole voting thing is so lame. People should be told what to do because they are too stupid to think for themselves. Most kids are as dumb as rocks, and they’ll be the ones voting in a few years.

  Tanis’s school had an election last year for student council president and for the other leadership positions. Leaders are what they call themselves. Truth? They’re just the nerds that run the bake sales and organize school rallies and stuff. Anyway, voting for the most popular person to run stuff was so lame. Everyone knew who was the most popular. They should’ve just given her the presidency and let the students carry on.