Afterwards: The Signal

The singular event that marks the beginning of the ‘Afterwards’ timeline, wherein a group of ultra-environmentalists trigger a biological attack with unintended consequences.

The man jogged across the intersection to beat the light, cradling a pair of loaded cardboard coffee trays and splattering ankle-deep ice-slush up the legs of his grey wool trousers with every step. The liquid snow lay thick as horse-shit in Jolly Old London before they stopped riding animals and started killing the planet with cars like the ones idling out carcinogens in the congested street.

His blundstone boots squelched over a sidewalk thick with vagrants and druggies warming themselves around the sidewalk heating-vents of the hockey stadium, or squatting at the entrances of a myriad of under-the-road foot-tunnels built to make Winnipeg traversable for pedestrian traffic in brutal prairie winters. Few honest citizens dared to cut through the piss-reeking galleries and abandoned storefronts lining the lowway at night in recent years; preferring instead to brave the blistering wind of the world above.

“Hey uncle, can I get a cigarette?”

The man ignored the slurred request, striding between obstructing clusters of catatonic opioid enjoyers where he could find gaps in the crowd, balancing the coffee trays in one hand and shielding them with the other. He stepped over a puddle of nostril-stinging vomit and passed a stream of Jets fans shivering in their jerseys on their way back to warm pubs and cold beers.

Better make it quick.

The filter face-masks and dainty mouth-lingerie worn by many he saw were useless against the bio-weapon, of course. Not that anyone around him suspected the impending attack, or that they’d been unwittingly carrying the weapon for months now; infecting everyone in their lives while their bodies fought low-grade sniffles. The symptoms had been calibrated to escape the attention of global health authorities, and there were virtually none alive that had escaped its reach. There had been whispers of a spike in investigative activity from the W.H.O, and several colleagues’ arrests reported over the last few weeks—but it was already too late.

A pair of police officers stood on the next corner, laughing to each other and ignoring the lawlessness around them as they waited for… what? The man sneered at the embodiment of organized apathy as he passed and swiped his keycard through the reader guarding the airlock between the rude outside world and the pristine environs of the luxury apartment. He handed one layer of coffee to the two-person security shift monitoring the lobby, trusting them to pass along the surplus drinks to their fellows who would no doubt be skipping their sleep cycle to witness the event.

Gaia Group owned the building, occupied now only by the members of his two teams in their separate suites; it would have been hard to explain the stock-piling of dozens of bulky hard-plastic supply cases in recent months to other residents.

He tapped out a specific, rhythmic knock with his boot against the bottom of the command-room door and stepped in as it opened for him. “These are already fucking cold, let’s get them in the microwave—I don’t want my last Starb’s to suck.”

A middle-aged woman dressed in earth tones took the tray and hustled it to the kitchenette, stepping around a pile of black duffel bags on the carpet. Thick dreadlocks perched about her shoulder like the tail of a tame iguana resting on her head—an outrageous affectation that the man knew best to never mention. “Ten minutes to go. I thought you weren’t going to make it.”

“Like I’d miss this.”

The doorman, younger by a decade and dressed to blend in at an indie rock concert, joined him at the faux-wood desk before an array of computer screens showing scenes from outside.

Addicts stumbled aimlessly in the black and white world; others stood in contortionist poses like hellish statues draped in cast-off clothing and plastic bags. The streets were clearing of the night’s post-game traffic, leaving the urban wildlife to its own devices—smoking cigarettes and huddling in rags apparently. The man checked the cameras for the police from earlier, but they had disappeared already. Sure enough, the most enterprising prostitutes started to appear as if by magic on street corners.

The woman passed him his coffee, spreading warmth into his numb hands. The three sat mute before the man raised his cup in a toast. “For the past. For the future. For the world.” The others echoed his last and drank, watching the timer tick down through the last minutes of post-industrial civilization.

The younger man shifted in his seat and rubbed his hands together absently. “I wish they would have let G.A.I.A trigger it.”

“It wouldn’t be right. Humanity got us to this point, it’s only fair that we’re the ones to fix it.” The man nodded at the screen. “They had their chance, look at what they did with it. No matter the warning, not matter the cost, they wouldn’t turn from their path. It didn’t have to go this way, but that’s what they chose.” He sipped his drink and met the eyes of the younger man. “Plus they burned the coffee. Fuck ‘em.”

The clock counted down the final seconds in silence. The man flipped open a leather briefcase, revealing an interior glowing with the light of red LED bulbs, and retrieved a key from a necklace beneath his shirt. The others watched as his hand hovered over the single recessed slot on a smooth metal box within.

This isn’t right. I can’t fucking do this.

The man remembered his daughter—the beautiful girl she had been before cancer had stolen the light from his world, felt her frail warmth against his chest once more as he held her in his mind. The glow sparked a conflagration of hatred in his heart as his thoughts turned to the corporations poisoning the very air his family breathed, and the corrupt government agencies colluding with them. Everybody had a reason for joining The Group, and his had driven him to this moment.

This has to end.

Digital numbers fell to zero on the monitor, and the interior lights switched to green as the key slid home, then flickered wildly as the man turned the fob. He sighed and leaned back in his chair. The woman gripped his shoulder, whispering again and again. “Thank you.”

The younger man stared at the screens. “That’s it then? When does it start?”

“It’s already happening. Everywhere.” The man cleared his throat against a lump of emotion, pushing it down to the deep place within his soul to lie with other sorrows.

It needed to be done… right?

“Everything The Group fought for… it’s here and it can’t be stopped. The cell towers they all rely on… used against them.”

“And… you’re sure we’re immune… right?”

The man shrugged and sipped his coffee. “I guess we’ll find out.”

They observed the first casualties within an hour on the screen as the weakest of the homeless began to exhibit symptoms—uncontrollable vomiting and diarrhea in the open streets spreading from victim to victim like prairie-fire as others succumbed to the bio-weapon; activate now from the signal radiating from every compromised cell-node and hacked satellite The Group could influence.

A frenzy of sirens wailed outside and the man rose from the desk to watch the street below through the plate-glass window. An ambulance sped downtown, avoiding prostrate clumps of dying humanity and skidding onto the sidewalk. The driver stumbled out of the cab and collapsed to his knees to hurl in the slush before resting his convulsing body against the curb. A rear door swung open, and his partner tumbled to the ground—her chest heaving as she fought for breath.

The strongest victims crawled towards the ambulance, dragging their bodies towards the false hope of rescue by inches as they retched and shat in the frigid air. One made it all the way over, but lacked the strength to haul himself into the idling vehicle as the others abandoned the effort and writhed in the street until one by one they ceased in their movements.

The man stood fixed at the window until the power cut out with the horizon glowing red before dawn, snuffing points of blinking warning lights on rooftops across the city and extinguishing rectangles of illumination in the surrounding high-rises. His cellphone couldn’t find a network, and hadn’t even sounded an emergency alert the entire time—evidence of the efficacy of their cyber-strike. The equipment in the room remained on, of course; The Group had spared no expense in provisioning their outposts and isolating their own grid from the city.

“That’s it, then. The sabotage teams did their work with the power-lines… Manitoba Hydro isn’t going to be repairing dozens of towers any time soon.”

The man closed the blackout curtains and crossed to the farthest bed, sitting heavily and facing the wall. “Maintain radio silence, wake me if something happens.” He lay down on top of the comforter, turning away from the room to hide his face.

It’s done…It’s over.

“I wonder what the actual… death toll will be, you know?” Asked the younger man.

Too many idiot…but don’t worry, you’ll get a chance to see their faces every night for the rest of your life.

The man heard the shrug in the woman’s answer. “G.A.I.A knows what she’s doing, and thanks to all those mandatory health checks, she has quite a database of The Group’s biometrics. The important thing is all the right people will have avoided it—who knew volunteering to save the planet would pay off, right?”

The younger man exhaled. “Yeah, no shit eh?”

                                                              *    *    *    *

The man must have slept, for hands shook him awake. He focused on the words—a thrill of fear made him alert.

“We have a problem.”

He took the chair before the monitors and clicked through the camera feeds. “When did this start?”

The younger man rubbed his hands together as sweat beaded at his temples. “Twenty minutes ago. At first I thought it was just one or two survivors… I didn’t want to wake you…but…”

The homeless were up again, as if nothing had ever happened. Scores stood hunched in catatonic postures like before, while others ambled down the sidewalk past prostrate, snow-covered forms in the gathering darkness of sunset. The man leaned back in his chair.

What the fuck? Had it all just been a nightmare?

But no, there was the ambulance; missing its crew now. The lights were still off across the city, the streets empty of their customary stream of cars. He motioned to the woman on the other bed. “Wake her up and grab the security team. We’re going down to have a closer look.”

The six members of the group assembled in the lobby within twenty minutes, dressed in biological protection suits that anonymized them and armed with prohibited weapons pulled from the duffels upstairs. The power was off on the ground level to avoid compromising the outpost, and their footsteps echoed in the dark atrium.

Why didn’t I stay with the main team on the outskirts? Why the fuck did I have to volunteer for the city?

There were only two other observations posts for the whole of Winnipeg, and the teams hadn’t counted on having to interact with the outside world so soon after the attack—but whatever the hell was happening, it was worth a closer look than the limited view provided through windows and screens.

The man keyed his radio, speaking to the woman upstairs. “Command, this is ground team; we’re stepping out.” He acknowledged her answer and nodded to the masked face closest to the door. The point-person, whoever it was under all that ridiculous gear, pushed out into the street in a decidedly civilian fashion.

The man sighed through his gas-mask and followed the rest of the team into a cold that seeped through the latex against his face with the first gusts of wind funneled through the channels between tall downtown buildings; covering the noise of the door-latch closing behind them. He had no illusions regarding the skill of his ‘security’ team. Ultra-environmentalists were seldom born-soldiers after all; but they had been included as a precaution against hostile survivors and given a basic level of training with their weapons at least.

A vagrant draped in cheap, filthy blankets, eyed them from up the street and stumbled towards the team. His vomited-flecked beard framed a sagging mouth, and he moaned raggedly as he came forward—gaining a shuffling momentum as some of his compatriots turned towards the noise. He dropped to all fours like a beast, then rose snarling and twitching, glancing off a parked car as he closed the distance.

The man stepped past the bio-suited group and called out. “Hey bud, are you alright?” A raspy growl sent a shiver down his spine. “Do it.”

The leading team-member levelled a dart-gun at the shambling form, letting the red dot of the aiming-laser play around the swaying neck before air hissed and a metal syringe appeared there. “Again.” Said the man as the bum rushed forward.

His system’s probably used to worse than tranquilizer.

Two gleaming darts at his throat didn’t slow him, and he tumbled into the shooter—knocking them both to the slush. The addict loosed a shuddering gasp of inhalation as he struggled with his prey, oblivious to the flurry of surgical gloves and rifle-butts raining down on him. He grabbed his victim’s arm as they fought, and thrust his jaw towards the hand.

A muffled scream escaped the gas-mask—blood spurted from three missing fingers onto the face of the assailant, as two teammates hauled him back over the sidewalk by his legs. The attacker flailed free of their grip and scrabbled towards his target where she lay staring at the nubs in shock. She shrieked and kicked out, giving the addict her boot to use as a handhold to haul himself closer and sink his teeth into the polymer leg of the suit.

“Shit.” The man pointed his rifle and pulled the trigger, then flipped the safety off and tried again—nothing. The suited-form squealed as the vagrant savaged enough material away to find her flesh underneath. The man pulled the cocking handle and fired into the ground, surprising himself with the discharge of the once-familiar weapon.

Stop fucking panicking.

His ears rang as he aimed and squeezed the trigger, punching a series of small holes through the back of the unheeding addict and into the car behind him. “Fuck.” He stepped closer, until the muzzle was inches from the thrashing head of his target. The skull shattered with the impact of two bullets, spraying viscous black fluid onto the sidewalk. The attacker’s body slackened, and he was pulled away. “Shit.”

The man looked up from the woman whimpering in her bloodied suit to the crowd of snarling vagrants surrounding them, moaning in chorus as they stumbled closer with jerking limbs—then to the safe-house door less than a hundred metres away. “Grab her, let’s fucking go!”

Two members of the security team grabbed the casualty under her shoulders and dragged her over the sidewalk, leaving a trail of bright red blood over the dull layer of ice and snow behind them. The others fled to the door, crowding it as the man struggled with the card-reader. The plastic swiped impotently through the slot; failing to unlock the mechanism.

“The lights are off—the fucking thing needs power!” The man pressed his back against the tall windows separating them from the lobby and keyed his radio, calling frantically for the woman in the command room to let them in. He felt a sudden warmth spread down his legs as a ragged fusillade of gunshots split the air. A dozen frenzied vagrants closed in, uncaring of the projectiles punching ragged channels through their bodies.

One hooded attacker collapsed as a lucky bullet snapped through her cranium. “Shoot them in the head!” A figure shouted before he was tackled to the ground from behind. One of the team turned their rifle towards the lobby and fired until the glass shattered, but disappeared under a dog-pile of flailing bodies before they could escape.

The man fled the bestial faces swarming him, abandoning screaming teammates struggling with the rabid mob as he slipped over shards of door. He shook off grasping hands as he ran through the unlit atrium and up the stairway; slowing only to rip the suffocating gas-mask from his face. Tortured shrieks and the sickeningly wet sound of tearing-flesh pursued him, echoing hauntingly around the concrete enclosure over his ragged breathing.

He pounded on the command-room door and pushed in as it opened, slamming it behind him and sliding down to the ground. He ignored the woman’s shrill questions and tried to swallow as he panted on the floor.

“Get on the radio with base… We’ve got a fucking problem.”

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This link connects to the next standalone short story wherein a group of survivors attempt to visit a library in the next town.

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If you liked this story, be sure to check out the other standalone tales in the Afterwards zombie-verse! Likes, comments and re-posts are greatly appreciated.