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  4POCALYPSE

  Four Tales of a Dark Future

  A Dark Red Press collection

  INTRODUCTION

  by C.L. Stegall

  In 2011, I had recently published my first novel and had begun several new projects. I was trying my damndest to keep up with the whole social media thing, attending writer’s conferences, and such. One of the conferences I attended with a writer friend of mine, John J. Smith, who I had known for several years.

  John and I had collaborated on a short story, The Innocent, which I included in my first collection of short stories, Ordeals. The collection didn’t do much, but that story and a couple of others got great response. I had been writing for decades, but never as seriously as I really wanted. After the conference, an idea began brewing in my head.

  I met Brian Fatah Steele through a writers’ forum back in 2003 and was always very impressed with his tales and how he conducted himself amongst the other writers of various levels of experience and maturity. We kept in touch and began to build a great rapport and respect for one another.

  Through Brian, I came into contact with Jack X. McCallum. I had never read anything from him, but as I got to know him, his sense of humor and perspective on the world led me to believe he was a shining example of literary and creative chaos, which I loved! I began to see these three gentlemen as kindred spirits and decided it was about time we took our destinies into our own hands.

  After a significant amount of back and forth, of creative collaboration, of bitching and moaning and laughter enough to bust a gut, we set it all up. Thus was born Dark Red Press, an independent author co-op designed specifically to build up our work, skills, and notoriety. Instead of self-promotion, DRP’s main goal was united promotion. We worked for each other, as much as for ourselves. I should state that finding four writers of the same mindset and forward-thinking motivation was sort of like finding four small diamonds in the middle of the frigging Sahara! Yet, here we are.

  To date, we have published Jack’s “Made In The U.S.A.” — a fabulous and dark romp through the darker side of pop culture; Brian’s special edition of “In Bleed Country” — a terrifying and adventurous tale of the world-within-the-world we live in; and, most recently, John’s “Finding Katie” — a paranormal romance thriller that is one of the best page-turners I’ve read in quite a while.

  Now, here we have 4POCALYPSE — Four Tales of a Dark Future. This is the first collection specifically by the four Dark Red Press authors. All centered on the theme of what happens when the world as we know it ends… in whatever manner that may come about.

  Personally, I’ve always imagined that the “end of the world” would come not with a bang but with a whimper. In the end, I feel that the earth will cleanse itself in preparation for renewal. It is simply the way of nature, itself. Every so often mankind comes up against something that is a force of nature, that they are unprepared for. Take, for instance, the Black Plague of the Middle Ages. Modern day estimates suggest that the plague wiped out as much as (or more than) half of Europe’s entire population. It took around 150 years for that continent’s population to recover.

  The plague was thought to have originated in China, was carried by Oriental rat fleas making their residence on the rats of the merchant ships of the day. No one started the plague. It was nature.

  Who’s to say that this was not a simple, effective cleansing of the populace in that area? Then, again, it could have just been a fluke. Right?

  Some believe the apocalypse — or, Ragnarok or whatever other name one might call it — will be dealt by the hand of God. Some believe that humanity will simply run its course and a massive die-off will occur. However you see it, it will remain an unknown until it is nigh upon us. And, perhaps, not even then.

  Surprisingly, each of the tales contained herein relate different apocalyptic events yet only one of them describe it as a “bang”, so to speak. I had nothing to do with that, I promise you. I told my tale and Jack, Brian and John told theirs. Yet, I do find it interesting, that little fact of similarity.

  As I see it, when the end of human civilization comes, it will arrive in such a creative fashion as there will be nothing more desired by any survivors than to relate it in word, song, or poem for the remainder of human history to come.

  We DRP guys are just getting a head start.

  ~ C.L.

  FUTUREBLIND

  by

  Brian Fatah Steele

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  This novella could not have been written without the advice and information I obtained from Douglas A. Brookes and my brother, Nathan Steele. Their background expertise in all things computery and electrical far surpasses my own limited knowledge. This tale is dedicated to them, for all their help and all the hours they endured listening to me babble about concepts I barely understood. I’d also like to thank my brother Adam Steele for putting up with my near-midnight call, frantic to know if a certain phrase I had used was valid or not. Any misuse of the science found in the story is either due to artistic liberties, or more likely, my own stupidity.

  This story developed quickly with secondary characters getting their names, and from there, what I wanted to say with this piece that simply started out as an idea about “How awesome would it be to have Necromancers controlling Zombie armies!” The writing process fell into place as soon as I discovered my tale’s soundtrack. As with the majority of the novels and novellas I’ve written, this one couldn’t start until I found it, and a playlist with Deadmau5, Skrillex, and The Glitch Mob made sense this time. I don’t know, I guess dubstep equals a post-apocalyptic wasteland in my imagination.

  Finally, you probably wouldn’t even be reading this if it wasn’t for CL, Jack and John, my cohorts in Dark Red Press. Those guys rule my face off. No, literally… they ripped it off and threw it on the carpet.

  Smiles & Zombies,

  Brian Fatah Steele

  Jan. 2012

  ————————

  DataLog Text-LiveJourn: Doyle, Sienna A. / 22-10-24

  Standing here on the edge of the sky bridge ruins, I can see where the rivers used to guard Pittsburg below. Back when it was Pittsburg. One of the last major strongholds, the city had used its three rivers as a natural barrier against her enemies. I suppose that worked when there were just mindless hordes of Feeders. It fell about five years ago when caught between two Mancers. One of them dumped about fifty thousand Feeders into a choke point and detonated them.

  The city is mostly swampland now, corpses and fetid remains drifting in the muck. Feeders don’t rot like Humans, and a wall of mutilated parts formed a dam elsewhere down another river. It’s a wasteland slurry of vegetation, meat and water.

  I’m going to cross it tomorrow morning.

  It’s growing darker, and I glance along the mountain ridge to one of the Towers, miles away. I’m surprised it’s still running. No matter. Tapping on my Servant, I access the T-Net to get better coordinates. I wouldn’t need the T-Net to keep recording this, I’m cog-jacked in, but I don’t want to wear out its limited battery life. It’s essential I record everything, doubly so that I make it to the eastern seaboard. A tower hub is outside what used to be Boston.

  The Servant connects and I slide it from my holster. Fingers across its screen, I pull up a hard-light map to make sure I’m going the right direction. The so-called “Transcendental Net” is routed from the Tower to my Servant, every bit of needed information in my hand. If only they had known, I think for the umpteenth time. Still, T-Net is less a mouthful than “Data Enriched Ultra-High Frequency Atmosphere.” Checking my location, I power down the connection — an idea that would have been unheard of once. Once.

  Glancing behind me, I idly wonder if the ruins of the skybridge
port will provide enough shelter. I’m not worried about unexpected visitors… not anymore. A few hours back, I stopped long enough to check my progress and weather patterns say it’s going to rain tonight.

  ————————

  DataLog Text-LiveJourn: Doyle, Sienna A. / 22-10-24

  A few hours into nightfall and I still can’t sleep. Two walls and a solid roof give me enough protection to light a small fire. Staring at it, willing myself to be tired, I think perhaps I should use to time to run a backup on my log. It’s been a few days, and I don’t want to lose anything from laziness.

  I managed to get my hands on one of the last innovative cog-jacks created before everything fell apart. Not much different in appearance from a regular earpiece, it translates my direct cognitive thoughts into text. An eJournal via force of will. Convenient. Tapping at the Servant, I start to run a deep-saturation backup, and my cog-jack speeds across all of it.

  I’ve encrypted the file to always contain the same opening. Always.

  ————————

  DataLog Text-CompJourn: Doyle, Sienna A. / 22-10-24

  My name is Sienna Doyle. At the time of this recording, I’m twenty-six years old and was formerly a survivor at encampment Sigma-8. This is outside what used to be called “Columbus, Ohio,” but those distinctions don’t matter anymore. I know the year is 2224, but I can’t be totally sure of the month. DataLog says October. Those distinctions don’t matter anymore, either. This is being translated directly onto my Servant from my cog-jack, so the DeUhFA, or T-Net, won’t be necessary to read it.

  After ChinaTec and their data axis with Ottoman-Soft were obliterated in 2140 during WWIII, the NorthAm Alliance and their EU allies decided to profit and prosper. Ultra-high frequencies had never been viable before due to various particle types in the atmosphere, so transmissions could never move from point A to B. Due to a number of breakthroughs, however, it was discovered that the environment that prevented data transfer could actually be used to house it instead. After the brutal, three-year luke-warm war over information that ended with a massive EMP blast over Hong Kong, this seemed a miracle. Free, ever-present data was all around us, accessible through Tower routers and appearing on our Servants.

  Fast-forward. The exploration of varied frequencies and energy signatures has become big business. It was long known that humans’ bioelectricity could power a twenty-five watt bulb, and “Galvanic Sciences” were on the forefront of these new innovations. Named after some eighteenth century Italian physicist, this field of study dealt with ion manipulation or something related. I’m not entirely sure. Regardless, just like our DNA sequence it was studied and eventually mastered. By 2182, there were myriad pioneers in human bioelectrical manipulation. Ten years later, it was commonplace, and by 2208 the world was united in our ability to control our own bioelectrical energy.

  This peace lasted about a year.

  While a person could self-diagnose to heal minor injuries and most illnesses, this caused a drain on the individual’s bioelectricity. People were using various other types of energy as supplements, while some were starting to show signs of acute dysmorphic bioelectrical energy. The “Leecher” phenomena began to reach epidemic proportions. Once a person tapped any external energy source for any reason to augment their own, it became an addiction as well as detrimental to their own prolonged health. Unfortunately, this didn’t stop many people. Leeching resulted in a euphoric high, along with prolonged stamina and longer life. Unfortunately, it only took one act of leeching to become addicted. The side effects were horrendous, the result eminent.

  The world health and science communities were just starting to get a handle on the Leecher epidemic when it happened. All over the globe, reports began to come in of people who had succumbed to a catastrophic bioelectrical meltdown. Instead of dying, however, the victims took on entropic qualities. Near mindless, they operated on an almost primitive level seeking out any type of energy supplement, walking black holes. Creatures reminiscent of old Zombie fiction, they devoured everything containing a spark in their path and proved near impossible to destroy. The “Feeders” were here. Worse still, since a single act of leeching caused addiction, be it once or one hundred times, leeching would invariably lead the person down the path to becoming a Feeder.

  If the world was still reeling from Leechers, the resulting Feeder epidemic proved a global disaster. Unlike the old two-dimensional films about the walking dead, a blow to the head didn’t slow Feeders down. Each one had to be annihilated to such an extent that the entropic signature dissipated. Civilization was hanging on by a thread when the final deathblow came.

  One out of ten thousand times, a Leecher would not become a Feeder. Through some genetic quirk, instead of bioelectrical collapse, their system rebounded in a new way. Now, along with complete control over their own bioelectricity, they were able to manipulate all the varied fields of energy just as a Feeder would devour them. Taking advantage of the chaos, these self-proclaimed “Mancers” began to set themselves up as both warlords and messiahs. New conflicts erupted among the Mancers, beings of incredible power who realized they could also exact a modicum of control over Feeders.

  To put it bluntly, the world ended.

  With only the Mancers immune and a dwindling number of Humans left, the Apocalypse had arrived through mankind’s own ingenuity. Even the remaining two billion Humans soon found themselves forced down the path of the Leechers, merely to survive a short while longer from the Feeders. The Mancer Wars broke out and their Feeder armies ravaged continents until only two dozen of them were left and only a half billion Humans and Leechers remained. Although the Mancers had called an uneasy truce, most of the population had been eradicated or turned into Feeders.

  I was only eleven years old when Leecher epidemic began. It was shortly after my twenty-second birthday when the Mancer Wars ended. Maybe six months ago, I was forced to become a Leecher. And then, only a few weeks ago… something else.

  ————————

  SIX MONTHS AGO

  DataLog Text-MemxJourn: Doyle, Sienna A. / 17-04-24

  “Where’s Anton?”

  “Anton’s dead!” Gemmel screamed back at her.

  “Shit,” muttered Sienna over and over as she reloaded her gun. “Shitshitshit…”

  Anton Russell had never been her favorite person, but he didn’t deserve to get torn apart by Feeders. She had heard the emotion in Gemmel’s voice. Anton had been part of his Sigma-8B Quartet since its inception.

  Sienna peeked over the wall to see her brother firing wildly into the mass of approaching bodies. The XM8-MOD was loud, messy, and he didn’t seem to notice. Sean was taking the sudden loss of Anton as hard as Gemmel, but he was reacting badly to it. It was going to get them killed.

  “Sean, pull back!” Sienna yelled as she attempted to cover him.

  Swearing at the top of his lungs, Sean retreated behind the garden wall and reloaded. Ready to pop up again, he paused and began looking around. His swearing grew even louder somehow.

  “What?” asked Gemmel.

  “Anton had the MedAid Kit!”

  Sienna closed her eyes. The Feeders had come out of nowhere; not a single blip on the Servant. It had been Anton’s job as Navigator to get them safely to recon point, scanning the route for movement. Feeders were rarely motionless, always seeking out more energy to consume. She almost hoped Anton had screwed up his part of the job — the alternative was quite worse.

  The Sigma-8B Quartet has been tasked with obtaining any vital materials from a series of buildings a number of miles west from the Sigma-8 encampment. Once a university, it had been mostly picked clean long ago, but a returning scout patrol had notice a smaller compound that appeared yet scavenged. The whole area had been Feeder-free for almost a year, the mission relatively safe. The Quartet had been more concerned about random Leechers than anything else.

  In all, it had started out simple enough. The battered diesel-converted-to-cooking oil Hum
mer had taken them there quickly, Sean behind the wheel and Anton beside him. While Sean was a good driver, Gemmel was a better shot. He had ridden true “shotgun,” while Sienna prepared for her role as Spotter. Gemmel and her brother had been reluctant to take her into the Quartet initially, but preferred they had eyes on her than any other group. In the end, they had to admit she had worked out well. Sienna had a tendency to find vitals in a room others would’ve passed by. Sean, of course, often joked that his sister was “observant of everything except the people standing next to her.” Sienna didn’t get that, and that pissed her off even more.

  But no one could argue she wasn’t good at her job. Sure enough, almost a dozen unopened MedAid Kits had been discovered along with a few cases of pemmican substitute. Although they hadn’t found any weapons, the rations alone more than made up for the trip. All four of them had grown complacent, too busy joking as they stashed their find in the Hummer to stay alert. The rations packed first, Anton had been walking out of the door with half the MedAid Kits when the Feeders had descended on them.

  “I think we can make it to the Hummer!” yelled Gemmel.

  “We need those Kits!” Sean yelled back. “At least some of them, we’ve got two pregnant chicks back at Sigma.”

  Sienna’s gun clicked empty. “I’m out!”

  Gemmel threw a clip to her without taking his finger off the trigger. She reloaded her M&P .22 and fired off a few shots. It did very little except to slow the Feeders’ advance. Not prepared for this type of fight, only Gemmel and Sean had explosive rounds. A few bullets didn’t do much to a Feeder; you had to render it inert.

  “I’m out,” came Sean’s voice over the sound of Gemmel’s gunfire. “You got the Mossberg on you?”

  The stubby, pistol-grip shotgun flew over to Sean along with an attachment of ballistic buckshot. Gemmel tried his best to lay down some kind of suppression fire as Sean loaded. Sienna took the opportunity to gauge their distance from the Hummer. Fifty yards seemed a long way off.