Beep. Beep. Beep.
Rador groaned. Already? He turned over in his bed to look at his alarm clock, its bright digits blaring at him in the relative darkness. 7:30 AM said the bright red digits. Only half an hour until his shift started.
He rolled out of bed, still struggling to make sense of the world around him. After weeks on the continents helping deliver supplies to those cities suffering the most from the plague, a return to MBH Station–a small floating structure bobbing unceasingly in the middle of the sea–was going to take some adjusting to. Even if it was home.
Rador hastily put on his uniform and headed up to the Command Central. In the absence of the station's permanent captain, Rador was acting captain. Command Central was a dimly-lit room, its low ceiling giving it a cramped feel despite the relatively large area of the room. A number of heads turned when Rador walked in, but none said anything. He surveyed the exhausted faces of those around him–each one looked expectant, waiting for him to ask the same question he'd asked the last seven days. He knew what the answer would be–the same as it had been every day this week. But he had to hope.
"Have we heard anything from Captain Adams?"
"You still haven't heard anything from any of the leadership team?" Bie asked. "I don't think you should wait any longer."
Minnie sighed. She and Rador–now effectively the new leadership team–had felt it was best to wait instead of acting rashly.
"Let's just give it another–."
"No!" said Bie, with a voice that Minnie felt was altogether more forceful than Minnie had ever heard from her. "People are dying out there, Minnie. There's a plague: one that infects thousands by the day, one that our best scientists and researchers haven't been able to stop in seventy years! Every day you sit here, refusing to accept that the old guard is gone, thousands more die. Every. Single. Day."
Minnie opened her mouth, ready to explain the innumerable reasons why acting rashly could cause even more deaths, when waiting just a few days could give the experienced leaders a chance to return to the safe havens and restore order. But she didn't get a chance to.
"I was alive then, you know." Bie continued. "During the C0dA pandemic. Do you know what it was like–to be sitting in math class when suddenly your teacher's skin goes clear? Can you imagine? A class of thirteen year olds when suddenly the one adult in the room turns into a translucent bag of flesh and veins? Seeing the frantic rage that drove her to strangle my classmates? I thought the world was ending then. I thought the human race was doomed to die out.
"But then we began to rebuild. Cities built themselves back up from ruined wastelands into something resembling what they'd been before the end; a shadow of their former selves, but something." Bie paused to catch her breath. A single tear rolled down her cheek.
"But this plague: it's something else. It first broke out only a few years after C0dA, if you can believe it. And it ravaged everything. People, animals, infrastructure: everything began to die out. There are whole cities–no, continents–that we don't even have contact with anymore. There are entire peoples, civilizations, that might as well be extinct and we'd never know."
Bie was sobbing quietly now. Tears were flowing unrestrained, and she was struggling to get the words out.
"This… this is the end of the world. I've dedicated my life to helping those who can't help themselves, but I can only do so much. You can get the Alliance's support. You can organize a new task force, get our people out there helping the world. This is what the Alliance is for, Minnie. We have to help."
She held Minnie's hands in her own. "Please," she choked out.
The dozens of arguments Minnie had prepared all died out, and all she managed was a weak nod.
It was Christmas day. As a child, Mick's family had always made it a point to celebrate. They were all Christians, but that wasn't why they celebrated: it was just nice to take a day to acknowledge the good in their lives. He still tried to celebrate, wherever he was. Today, though, he was struggling to see the good to celebrate.
The Alliance's leadership had gone missing. And with them, the entirety of their task force was gone too: the brave soldiers, workers, and volunteers who typically went on missions to deliver aid. After a week of hopeful–but ultimately futile–waiting, the new leaders at MBH station had put the call out for volunteers for a new Emergency Task Force. It was an underwhelming call: only three people had responded. One of them was just sixteen years old–a boy named Harod. Another was a nonagenarian, an old teacher named Bie. And of course, there was Mick. There were also the two administrators who'd called for volunteers: Rador and Minnie. Both competent people that Mick had worked with in the past, but he wasn't sure how they'd hold up now that they were acting captain and vice-captain of the Alliance.
He didn't really have the time to think about them though. He and Harod were on their way out of their own home–a safe haven from the plague that they called Tiszan Station–and he was worried about the boy. He was fiddling with a radio of some kind, a small box emitting a static sound. Mick walked over to him.
"Hey, kid, how are you doing?"
Harod glanced up at him for a second, then returned his gaze to the contraption he was holding. "I'm okay–I'm trying to fix up this radio. You know how we can't really use radios between people?" Mick nodded. The radios required a tether at one end for long distance communication: you could only talk with one of the three stations. And even then, you couldn't reliably keep the connection for more than about a minute. "Well, see, there's this thing I'm trying to make work. I don't know if it'll do anything, but I learned this trick a few years ago from someone in… uh… Miami, I think?" He trailed off for a second, but then continued with a renewed vigor. "If this works, I think I could get this radio to talk to other radios. We won't need a station to relay the messages."
Harod continued, getting increasingly excited as he delved into the details of how he might make true radio communication plausible. Mick smiled and nodded, but really he lacked the technical background needed to follow Harod's descriptions. They were stuck on a small speedboat though, and there wasn't really anything else to do, so he sat around.
They were on their way to New York: Mick was hoping things wouldn't be too bad there. New York–like most cities they were in contact with–had started the month with a decent stash of supplies, and had managed to keep the plague under control so far. They were burning through their food reserves a little faster than some of the other cities, but Mick wasn't worried. He'd had the foresight to put in an order to the hydroponics lab at one of the Alliance's floating research stations, and they'd managed to pick up a bulk food order on the way. Harod would then move on from New York down the coast of the West Atlantic while Mick stayed back– he wanted to see if he could help out in cities like Washington and Jacksonville, and Mick silently said a prayer for his safety. Leaving a kid that young to fend for himself (let alone help entire cities) didn't sit right with him, but he had to acknowledge that Harod–and many of his age–had had to grow up faster than he did, just by virtue of being born into the wrong time.
It was five in the morning in Cairo when Bie was awoken to a call from Minnie. Minnie had stayed behind at MBH Station to coordinate efforts, while the rest of the task force had set out.
"It's London. There's been an epidemic there, and they're running low on supplies. It's still in the early stage–so antibiotics can still help the infected. Can you take some there?"
"Have them ready for me to pick up. I can charter a boat to pick them up and take th–." And that was it. The connection dissolved into static before Bie could finish her sentence. She cursed, and then put in the call to a local friend asking if she could borrow his speedboat.
It was two hours to MBH, and then another three to London. It was morning by the time she floated up the Thames into London. And there, in the middle of the city at 9am, Bie found that the city was dead silent.
Not a single soul walked on the streets. Doors were shut, blinds pulled. Had she not known better, she might have thought there wasn't even a single soul alive in the city.
Eventually, she made it to the Alliance's local office in the city. It was a small, dark brown building; roof and walls heavily stained over the decades it had been standing there, with not a single window to look in or out. The interior, though, was a different story.
As she entered, Bie was confronted, as always, with a spick and span room, every nook and cranny disinfected heavily and sparkling white. She was greeted by someone in a large gray hazmat suit. "Bie! It's lovely to see you again, though I wish the circumstances were better. If you'll please follow me," said the voice, as it led Bie into a small medical lab. The next hour was spent conducting innumerable tests, double- and triple-checking that Bie showed no signs of infection. At the end, she was finally let into the main office, along with her several crates of antibiotics, and whatever medical equipment MBH had been able to spare.
The figure in the hazmat suit had turned out to be Mary, a once-student and now long-time friend of Bie. After a pleasant but ultimately-too-short exchange of pleasantries, the two of them suited back up and set out on an excursion to deliver antibiotics to every infected household–the thing about the plague was that if you treated it early enough, the disease could be kept at bay, going dormant for years–or even forever. Once it had been a day or two though, there was no recourse: all you could do was hope for a quick death. The lucky ones passed out from the pain before it got bad.
It was a grueling eighteen hours bouncing from doorstep to doorstep before Bie's body had finally given in, refusing to stay awake any longer. Mary, presumably, had continued for even longer, but she was back home by the time Bie found herself waking up on Mary's couch.
"We did it," Mary said. "Every household that was infected should have enough antibiotics to flush it out."
An hour later Minnie called: she reported that Rador had marshaled together enough locals to help build a small supply center in Sao Paulo; they'd be able to manufacture some rudimentary antibiotics there for the locals to use. Bie knew the toll the plague had taken on Rador–now the de facto head of the Alliance–and she'd seen how every death had affected him. She hoped he was taking care of himself, and that he could rest a little better, now that the London epidemic was contained and Sao Paulo was supported by a supply center. Maybe, Bie thought, just maybe, we have things under control for a little bit.
“Aha!” Harod exclaimed. “I think I got this thing to work.” He was in Lagos now, having deemed that the best city to help now that Washington and Jacksonville were under control. He’d heard of a few brief epidemics cropping up up north, but it sounded like the rest of the Task Force had mitigated the worst of them.
He fiddled with the buttons on his radio. He had a lot of stuff with him, but he wasn't sure what exactly to do with them. They were supposed to be antibiotics, but the liquids in those bottles weren't quite antibiotics anymore. After a turbulent journey across the Atlantic, something had happened to them, and the solutions had separated out into its constituent parts. Harod had heard of that happening before, but he'd never cared enough to figure out what caused it or how to fix it, and now he didn't know what to do.
So, naturally, he'd retreated to his radio. He'd pulled it apart and reconstructed it several times so far, but this time it finally seemed to work. He put in a call to Tiszan Station, hoping someone there would be able to help him out. Someone answered him immediately, and he heard a voice he didn't recognize. "How can I help you?" Harod had begun to explain his situation, but then been cut off abruptly. "Hey, I'm sorry, but I don't have the time to help right now." And then Tiszan Station had hung up. Corvus Station didn't even pick up. Weird, Harod thought. Finally, he'd called MBH, the last of the three Alliance stations. He'd been connected to Minnie herself.
"Harod! Where are you?"
"Lagos. I need some help, if you have a second."
"Lagos? Do you have a boat? How fast can you get to New York?"
Harod shifted uncomfortably. Something was wrong here. "New York? What's going on? I can't get there just yet: Lagos is low on antibiotics. I need to help them here."
The line was silent for a few seconds, and then crackled back to life. "Okay, you should probably stay in Lagos. We can't really help you or send anything your way though. There's been an incident in New York: there are people with really advanced cases of the plague. It's probably already spreading." Another pause. "Look, I'm sorry I can't help you right now, but do what you can. I'll call you back as soon as I get a chance."
Harod felt the stress pooling up in him, ready to turn into tears and overflow at any second. If the stations are too busy to help, if Minnie, one of only five on the task force, couldn't help him out, who could?
The answer came to him immediately. Resolutely, he looked back at his radio: the one radio in existence capable of talking to others directly, and began to dial for Bie.
New York was falling apart, and there was nothing Rador could do about it. He'd used an Alliance speedboat to get to Tripoli, but it had since been commandeered by Mick going god-knows-where, dealing with yet another city falling apart. Rador felt bad: as co-administrator of the Emergency Task Force, he felt he should be keeping better tabs on people. But he'd been working through a brain fog for a week at this point, scurrying non-stop between affected cities, sleeping less than three hours a night, and barely pausing to even take a deep breath. Had Minnie been in his situation, Rador knew he'd never expect her to know the goings-on of every member of the task force, and if he was being honest with himself, he'd probably pull her off the task force and force her to get a good night's sleep.
He couldn't in good conscience take himself off the task force, though. So he forced himself to push thoughts of New York out of his mind and turned his focus to the supply center he'd just built.
It was a rudimentary building: really, building was a bit of an overstatement. It was a large tent hung over a collection of steel pillars bolted together, and only spanned the size of a large room. The interior was a little more presentable, but only a little. There were crates lining three of the walls, filled to the brim with dried foods, antibiotics, other medicines, and even some weapons. The main attraction–if you could call it that–was the makeshift laboratory in the middle: it was designed to be able to make doses of the antibiotics to counteract early-stage plague, and could be manned by a team of four. Certainly, the antibiotics made here would be far weaker than the industrial grade ones they manufactured on the stations, but at least it would be self-sufficient. The local branch of the Alliance had sent two technicians to help set up: a middle-aged woman named Indira, and her son Ali, who looked to be in his mid-twenties.
Time to call in, Rador thought. Minnie was likely immensely busy coordinating the relief efforts in New York, but she'd appreciate the interruption for some good news: between the supply center in Tripoli, and the one Rador had set up last week in Sao Paulo, it was starting to look like, just maybe, they could improve their response to the plague, and not have to rely solely on the members of the task force.
He stepped out to get some fresh air and call Minnie, when he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned to his right just in time to see a figure duck behind a building down the street. What was that? Heart thumping, Rador began to walk carefully towards the building where he'd seen the figure: was that someone infected? Someone who needed help? Most locals knew of the Alliance, but many feared them, and there were others who simply didn't trust the medicines that the Alliance offered.
Suddenly, a bullet whizzed past Rador's face. Instantly, realization clicked into place: the figure he'd seen wasn't someone in need or someone he could help. It was a Hollow Man. The Hollow Men were an organization hellbent on destroying the Alliance and everything it stood for. They could be found everywhere the Alliance was, and their only goal was to drive the Alliance out: what Rador and his teammates saw as helping the local populations out, the Hollow Men saw as seizing power and controlling them, and they took every opportunity they could to steal supplies, destroy facilities or kill members. The Hollow Men would rather the Alliance leave the people to their fates and retreat to their stations in the middle of the oceans.
Fury blazed through Rador. He'd never seen a Hollow Man before, and in fact they'd been largely inactive for the last six months; but simply the thought of the Hollow Men and their cause infuriated him. How dare they take everything he worked for?
He whipped his pistol out of his holster: it was a gun he carried around more for his peace of mind than physical security, and only as he held it in his shaky hands did he realize he hadn't had to use it in years. Gun in hand, he began to retreat, hoping he'd spot the Hollow Man if they came back into view. They seemed to have retreated somewhere, but–
Bang. He heard a gunshot go off behind him, turning to find a circle of eight or so masked men closing in on the supply center. At the center, armed with a weapon far larger than his own, was Indira. She was crouched behind a crate just by the entrance, calmly firing shots off at the hollow men. He could already see four bodies splattered with blood lying motionless on the ground.
Rador held up his own pistol, and took aim. The Hollow Men hadn't noticed him yet, and maybe he could use that to his advantage. He took careful aim–he'd only get one shot before he was noticed–and steadied his breathing. He fired at the man closest to him.
He missed.
A dust cloud broke out where the bullet hit the ground. It was several feet off from the target. Rador cursed. The target turned his gun to Rador. And then he crumpled, his neck turning red as blood began to pool out of it.
Another shot went off. Another man crumpled. And again. And again.
Awestricken, Rador watched, too stunned to move while Indira took down attacker after attacker. It was only when the last attacker finally fell to the ground that Rador realized he'd been holding his breath. He released it, and looked to Indira. The steel facade had fallen apart, and Indira was now wailing uncontrollably. He walked up to her, crouched down beside her to reassure her that everything was going to be okay, and that she'd done well.
And then he saw Ali lying next to her. There was a hole in his head, blood and brains oozing out onto the ground. One eye was bloodshot, the other completely gone.
Rador fell to the ground. He didn't cry, like Indira. He couldn't. As he stared at Ali in horror, he realized that he didn't feel sorrow, or anger, or even fear at the situation.
He only felt despair.
Two days ago, Harod had felt overwhelmed; alone in Lagos with a crate full of defective antibiotics, he'd realized just how unprepared he was for the job he'd signed up for. At sixteen, he was legally an adult, but he hadn't realized how little that meant until he'd had to look an infected woman in the eyes and tell her that there was nothing he could do to help her, and that he hoped she died painlessly.
Today, though, he felt better. He'd finally made it to New York and he'd spent all day assisting relief efforts. The distraction had certainly helped, but even more calming had been Mick, who had once again found himself in the same location as Harod.
They were on a walk through the city. Mick had insisted it'd make them both feel better, and was leading Harod on a tour through one of the city's historical districts–Manhattan, he'd called it. Mick was right–it had helped. Well, it had helped him. He wasn't sure about Mick though–with every desolate street they walked, every long-abandoned storefront they passed, every broken down car they saw, Mick seemed to grow a little sadder. Harod could see the tears forming in Mick's eyes that he was trying so hard to hide. Harod pretended not to notice.
Mick's reaction made sense to him. He wasn't sure how old Mick was, but he knew New York had been relatively active less than twenty years ago–surely Mick was old enough to remember the old New York. God, Harod thought. He couldn't imagine what a city that busy would have been like: before the last big outbreak of the plague, New York had had as many as twenty thousand residents. Honestly, he couldn't imagine that many people in one place.
And now, there weren't even three thousand people left. Dead piled up all over the city–earlier on their walk, they'd seen a subway station entrance filled to the brim with bodies. Dried blood, rotting flesh, and mangled limbs had stacked together until the entrance was completely blocked. If not for the hazmat suits they were wearing, Harod suspected they'd also be gagging from the pungent stench. Again, Mick hadn't said anything, but Harod could see how the sight had affected him: he now walked with less of a spring, his shoulders hunched, and his voice was cracking.
"Let's turn around. I'd want to get back," Harod said. Truth was, the walk was nice, but Harod didn't really know how to comfort Mick, and he was hoping someone back at base camp would know what to say.
"Sure." Mick squinted at a hand-drawn facsimile of a map, and after a moment pointed to another empty street. "That way, I think."
The walk back was quiet. Each side tried to make conversation, but neither really knew what to say. Every few minutes, Mick would check in with a "how're you holding up, kid?" Harod had tried to ask Mick the same once, but Mick had just put on a weak smile and said "could be worse." Harod desperately wanted to know what was going through his head, but it didn't seem like Mick was going to volunteer that information, and so they both fell into a silence.
As they approached the Alliance building, they began to hear screaming. Ahead of them, a small crowd was gathering, yelling at what appeared to be a solitary figure–a boy not much younger than Harod, by the looks of it. He had blood dribbling down his chin, and walked with a limp. He has the plague, Harod realized. Coughing up blood and an overwhelming weakness in the body were among the first symptoms that the plague had advanced to a fatal (and fatally contagious) level: even antibiotics had no effect at that point.
"Stay here, kid," Mick said as he began to walk towards the crowd. He paused, turned around, and held out a small pistol for Harod. "Here, just in case you need it."
Where'd he get that from? Should I have been carrying one of those? Before Harod could ask, though, Mick was gone, walking purposefully towards the crowd.
"What's going on here?" yelled Mick as he walked up to the crowd. They cleared up a little bit, and Harod could see that a man at the front of the crowd had a rifle trained directly at the boy.
"With all due respect, sir, this isn't any of your business," said the man, without even taking his eyes off the boy.
"I'm with the Alliance," said Mick. "Anythi-."
"I can see that," sneered the man.
The boy staggered one more step forwards. Behind the armed man, the rest of the crowd reignited.
"What are you waiting for?"
"Don't let him take another step!"
"He's going to infect us all!"
"Shoot him! Better a quick death than that plague!"
The boy, impervious to the hostility, stumbled another step forward. His hand was outstretched, as if he was asking them to wait. His mouth opened, and Harod could see him struggling to form the words. He took another step forwards, and that was when the man fired.
The rifle went off. Mick flinched out of instinct, and turned his face away from the man. When he turned back, the young boy–the one who looked so much like Harod–youthful, innocent, and determined to continue living–now lay bleeding out on the ground.
Mick remained rooted to his spot as the crowd beside him dispersed. They all mumbled their relief, but the only thought running through Mick's mind was How long before that's Harod lying there?
Minnie wasn't sure how long she'd been up. Three days, at least. Maybe four. Probably not more than that, she thought.
Bie had just set up a final supply center in London. That was the third one they'd set up in the last two weeks. Each was guarded 24/7 with a full complement of soldiers, and had a team of technicians working twelve hours a day to concoct as many antibiotics as they could. Perhaps that would be enough. Maybe it would give the task force a reprieve; a chance to rest before they went out again.
Either way, it didn't seem like there was much of a choice. She could hear it in each one of their voices: the hollowness in Rador's voice; the unbridled fear in Harod's; the guilt in Bie's; the hoarseness in Mick's that only came from crying.
They needed a break. She sent out a message to everyone on the task force.
We need to regroup. It's time to come home.
A special thank you to my friend Jackie Oh for alpha-reading this story and giving me lots of valuable feedback!