I finally got this damn thing working. My name is Lt. Commander AJ Green. We performed an emergency landing in the Dominican Republic twelve weeks ago in response to a distress call that sounded like a medical outbreak. I was very wrong.

We were flying in an HC-144A from Clearwater, FL to the old Coast Guard Station in Borinquen, Puerto Rico. This was during the brief period of time when the governments were still trying to gain control over the situation. Vaccines were being shipped to combat a virus that was mutating out of control, supplies were being shipped away like candy. We were to transport aid, vaccines, and supplies that were needed to continue the treatment of influenza victims in the Caribbean for the next month.

Lt. Jack Solomon and I were assigned two additional crewmen to manage the handling of  medical personnel and supplies.

Ensigns Amanda Briggs and Robert Calloway joined us in the cockpit after strapping in the fourteen relief personnel into the cargo hold with the hummer, the vaccines, all of the electrical equipment that needed replacing on base, and enough emergency rations for a small village to live happily for a few months.

About 30 minutes from our destination, we heard a very unique call for help. Someone on one of the islands we were passing had locked himself in the control room of a military outpost in Haiti. He was screaming (in broken English throughout broken static). The strangest thing I recall hearing was that his father was trying to kill him. Somewhere in there he mentioned his father’s funeral being several weeks ago.

We radioed back and decided that this could have been some new strain of disease in the outbreak that the doctors needed to attend to before it got out of control. We changed course and decided we were going to try to land at the old Cibao Airport in Santiago.

We landed at what was the start of the first of at least three hurricanes that plowed over the airbase. We taxied into the only roofed service hangar and did the only thing we could do in a hurricane. We waited.

A week went by of solid storms. We did our best to keep the hangar doors closed at all times, but mostly we stayed in the plane. The occasional bashing on the outside of the hangar was easier to ignore in the cockpit. The hangar had a bathroom, and the eighteen of us waited out the storms. Apparently the rest of the island wasn’t so lucky.

When we emerged from the hangar, piles of debris were everywhere. Over the course of the next two weeks, half of the island came down with some strange strain of the disease. One of the doctors on board tried to explain it to me, but all I got from the conversation was that it wasn’t swine flu, and it was blown here from another island thanks to the hurricane. Mosquitoes, maybe?

Five of our medical personnel died that week from it. Another eight (including Lt. Soloman and Ensign Calloway) were on death’s doorstep for about a week before a few of them died. Calloway, Jack, and another one of the doctors eventually pulled through, but the other five didn’t make it.  Ensign Briggs and I, with the help of Dr. Gerald Samuel (the only other person in good health), buried the dead outside the airport limits behind the hangar. We really wanted to get out of there, but Calloway and Jack weren’t exactly making a speedy recovery and the doctor didn’t want them to be moved at all. During his copious amounts of free time, Samuel was able to determine that all of the victims had mosquito bites. Very peculiar.

I took one of the luggage go-carts out of the hangar with Amanda, and we drove through the airport looking for a fuel pump or a tanker truck. I didn’t know where we were going next, but I sure as hell wanted a full tank of gas when we left.

That’s when I first saw them. Coming in from the other side of the airport, a small mob of about a dozen locals was shuffling their way towards us. Briggs wanted to speak with them, but I couldn’t help but feel like something was off about them. There was nothing wrong with how they looked, aside from being locals. It’s just that they didn’t move like they were supposed to. It seemed…inhuman…the way they swayed and staggered about while they approached us. It was almost as if they’d forgotten how to walk. I saw a tanker truck and decided we’d make for that instead. Briggs and I ditched the cart and hopped into the truck. There was some debris in the passenger seat (someone left their windows open), but we took off across the tarmac anyways.

We ran into another problem outside the hangar. Those doctors we buried the week before…they were limping around the corner to greet us. Covered in mud, staggering the same way our pursuers were giving chase they were all converging in on us at the hangar.

That was probably not the best time for Robert to come out to investigate the strange knocking noises he was hearing on the hangar walls.  They were on him and dragged him behind the hangar before we had a chance to do anything. I couldn’t see what they were doing to Robert, but no one came out from behind the hangar for quite some time. We capitalized on this window of opportunity to open up the hangar, get the tanker in, and lock it back up before any of them had a chance to come back.

We started fueling and were trying to figure out a destination to get the hell out of there. Briggs suggested Puerto Rico, our original destination. Samuel suggested warning Haiti that there was some sort of epidemic on the island and to close the border. I really should stop listening to doctors.

We managed to get out of there without a scratch.  Apparently they aren’t too bright….didn’t think to use the door in the back of the hangar…they just kept banging on the walls until they saw we were leaving.

As I was setting the plane up for departure, that’s when I saw the rest of them. A giant mob of hundreds…possibly even a thousand or more…feebly approaching from the terminal. The odd thing was, as we were leaving the ground, I swear I saw the shape of a man on top of the control tower, beckoning them in our general direction. I had absolutely no idea what was going on at the time.  Now I know I should have shot the bastard where he stood. Or at least knocked him off the tower.

Damn it…the clouds are rolling in, and I have to get this equipment under some cover before it gets rained on.  I’ll explain more when I can, but I don’t have an awful amount of free time while we’re dealing with these border attacks. There always seem to be more of them after a storm…

Semper Paratus.

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Fresh Kills, NY There is little to report. People weren’t talking to me much until I started to pitch in. Mostly I have worked on the breathing apparatus. These are fairly crude devices, like bellows that is about the size of a person. They have ten of these running normally for a crew, about one per person, and there were several mine entrances going at any time. With this situation, all mining operations have been suspended, and the apparatus has been transferred to this site. It was only yesterday that all of them became fully operational in the rescue.

There is an old landfill air system, part of the design, but it isn’t designed to support humans. The ducts are more designed to drive waste gases out. These gases are used as fuel on site as they can, but it isn’t useful as a primary energy source.

The camp is breaking into factions. Some say to clear starting from the mine entrance. Some think they should dig directly down, starting with a narrow air shaft they can lower food down, then widen it to aid in the rescue. The problem is, there is no modern equipment for pinpointing exactly where to dig. It could be a shot in the dark.

Another faction wants to clear the tunnel leading to the trapped miners, but the issue becomes the fear of another collapse.

They say they think they have heard voices coming back up the air tube, and so their hopes of rescuing their trapped brethren remain high despite the long odds of success.

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Fresh Kills, NY – The men continue to pump air into the chamber. There have been several strategies employed in the rescue, but each has met with unforeseen issues. They tried to clear waste from the top, but the time this would consume is too great to hope for any of the men trapped to survive. They have also tried clearing the shaft leading in, but cave-ins continue to happen. After the garbage hit the landfill, the plastic bags tended to rupture, making the piles essentially fluid. It’s like quicksand, the more you move out, the more falls in. Tunneling underneath the surface leads to collapses, and so they are going to try to drill a shaft down. The machinery they have might have been capable of this were a mine, but its weight makes it unsteady on the landfill base. They also have limited diesel fuel to run it. I was thinking about calling Blankenship Towers for a donation, but I guess that bridge is burned. Can anybody supply a recipe for biodiesel? It would seem like we’d have enough raw materials to cook some up. I’d do anything to help if it could get me away from the smell.

There doesn’t seem to be any one person in charge, but several leaders are emerging from the men here. The situation looks more and more dire, but the men and their families refuse to give up hope.

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I’m nearing Fresh Kills, NY, and I can smell it. The pollution and run-off from the rivers in the area make the sea a septic mess. Add to that the garbage mine’s stench and I may never smell again. Soren, I’ll get you back for this assignment if I have to build a boat to get across the ocean to do it.

The strange thing about an event like this is I can just walk up to it. There’s no media circus, no press area like there would have been ten years ago. I just walked into camp and started talking. Thing is, I can only talk to the people who are on break. It took me four hours to find somebody in charge who would take a moment to speak with me. Facts are these: there’s nine men trapped. They suspect that the collapse is down the tunnel from where they were, so they suspect there is enough air to last for a while down there. The toxicity of the environment however means they have to act fast, or the air they have will be unbreathable.

They spent nearly a day discussing strategies, about 36 hours ago. It needs to be said, I guess that there aren’t any professional miners in the area, and the material is not like mining into bedrock. They were making up safety guidelines as they went. The garbage is certainly not stable, and collapses are not uncommon here. The difference this time is that the collapse is deeper. This particular tunnel was a new experiment to go under the newer trash to get at material that is older, pre-recycling, richer in the materials they wanted.

I should give you a little lay of the land. Any tunnel must be constantly pumped. They have made air canals leading from the entrances of the shafts using pipes and metal of whatever they came up with from the landfill. These pumps were manned by hand to create a constant flow of waste gas out and air in. This is something of the trapped men’s saving grace. They are well reinforced, and the air is being constantly cycled, even more aggressively than when in normal operating mode.

The safety regs they had were never written down, but were an ad hoc combination of experience and guesswork. As they dug tunnels, they would reinforce as best they could. This is what led to this situation. They severely underestimated the weight of the trash above the tunnel. I have yet to get names, other than nicknames, but I will continue reporting from here as I collect the pieces of the puzzle.

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I met a man named Nex Anhelo today.  His name means “death breather,” but the way he carries himself suggests to me that he is not the man his name implies.  It seems that here, in the swamplands of Fleshtown, a name makes the man; who you are perceived to be centers on your name.  Ithius, apparently, is a strong name here, but Nex tells me it will only get me so far.  I’ll have to earn passage into the inner portions of the city, to the banished spaces, and even to the darker portions of the Santa Cruz Mountains.  I’m still learning what that will take.

I’m not alone here, thankfully.  It would be suicide to be here alone.  I’ve had to call up a few favors through my father’s old business.  You could say I have an entourage, but these people only have my safety in mind.  There are two:  Erin and Bruce.  The latter has been here before.  He told me the other day that he fled the area after the big quake in January, the one that split the mountains right through where Highway 17 wound its way from San Jose to Santa Cruz.  You’d have to see the split to believe it.  It cannot compete with the Grand Canyon, but it has a demonic look to it:  gnarled brambles, spiked rock, and ash run-offs from the fires.  Fires still rage out in the deep mountains–old brush and overdue forests torn down by the heat, poor weather, and lightning storms.  Those are parts of the mountains where most people never go; it’s too dangerous.  If Mother Nature doesn’t get you, the mountain folk will.  I’d rather Mother Nature took my life, if I were to die out here.

In any case, Nex tells me that there have been rumors of the mountain folk moving downhill into what is left of the city.  I haven’t seen them, but Nex knew they had been about when a few farmers stumbled into Mission Quarter yesterday in rough shape.  The farmers had been raided by an enormous party of cannibals–at least fifty men and women, but probably more.  What was once a farming community of a hundred people had been reduced to a dozen or so people.  The rest?  Nex didn’t ask.  But you can guess where most of them have ended up.

I’ll end this with a word of advice given to me by Nex’s son, Vita:  ”When the trees shift and you hear unfamiliar voices in the dark; run.  An unfamiliar voice is a demon in the night.”  Poetic, sure, but out here and in these times, it couldn’t be any more true.  Santa Cruz is no place to be when the sun sets.

So maybe I was a little bit rash on my last post. Blankenship has sent out at least one band of armed patrols that narrowly missed me. I’m heading away. Not saying in which direction, just away. Blankenship can just get over it.

Should get a new assignment in a day or two, and by that time I should be out of the range of where I’m worth the resources to Blankenship to hunt down. Who thought journalistic integrity would be so life threatening?

The Santa Cruz Mountains are surprisingly lush this time of year, even considering all that has happened. You’d think, given the massive earthquakes that brought San Francisco and much of Santa Cruz to its knees, the flooding of much of the coastal areas, and resurgence of tribal cultures in the area, thriving redwood forests would be the last thing to find a haven here. But if you have an armed escort, you can escape, find a nice grassy knoll tucked away somewhere, surrounded by trees, fuzzy ferns, and banana slugs: a refuge from the things happening below along what is left of Highway 17.

You can’t stay out at night here, though. It turns into a bad post-apocalyptic movie, a mixture of Rhona Mitra and George Romero. Cannibals and territorial “natives,” if that’s what you can call them. But who am I to judge? Who are we all to judge the ways humans cope with disaster? These people have been through things I cannot imagine. Flash floods, raging fires, earthquakes, massive landslides, cruel winters, the list can go on.

I’m from the Northern Block, where Montana used to be. We had storms, sure, but these people, folks we used to know as hippies and Santa Cruzians, have seen some of the worst conditions imaginable. And they have largely been incapable of leaving, not with the blockades along the San Jose Front or the swampy sinkhole that is now San Francisco to the north.

This whole area made up Santa Cruz County and used to be part of California, back when States and Unions meant something. Now? I don’t know what it is. They call this place Reverb City, after the constant fluctuations of earthquakes, and Fleshtown, for various reasons. Before long, the Santa Cruz Mountains may succumb to fires and logging. But that may be some years from now.

There’s a lot to be learned here about how things have turned out—the rules, the culture, the people. We’ll see how long I can last before the locals and the conditions force me to skip town.

–Ithius Sinclair

Filed june 14th

Time for the final approach into Boston. Spent an hour scavenging when I woke up. Found a toothbrush and toothpaste in packaging in a house. Also found a buck knife stashed in what was probably a teenage boy’s room. Found it with his porno stash. Then made my way to the road.

It was a couple hours to a place I felt good about getting off the road, getting close to noon. Got off 90 at the Framingham exit. Found a Country Club. Found food, a few boxes of Powerbars. Great for a hike, great for lunch. The course was a perfect place to stash the bike. Had a garage with riding lawn mowers and golf carts to park and conceal the bike. Packed for the hike in. Also broke into the Country Club’s wine cellar. Stashed a couple bottles in the bike, and put one in my backpack. Booze is always a good portable bribe.

With that I started on foot along 90. Took until evening until made it to the suburbs of the city. That’s when the highwaymen found me. I was still five miles or so from where I was supposed to be, and the area was mostly neighborhoods. Lots of overpasses to hide under. It was an amateur crew. One jumped out in front of me, and sounded a signal, but the others were too far back to get me. I gather the plan was to distract me, have them get behind me, and then, well, these days, it’s mostly about the things you carry.

Ordinarily, you ditch the bag you’re carrying, they leave you alone, but I wasn’t about to lose my sat phone and everything that allowed me to work in the third day on the job. Forget that. Without that phone, I turn into these guys but with student debt, not that it wouldn’t be easy to walk away from that.

When you have to fight a group, of men that are all larger than you, the last thing you want is to be surrounded, so I ran off to the middle of the road, and away from the two coming up behind me. Sensei always said when you’re in a street fight, if the fight lasts more than a few seconds, you’re doing it wrong. The goal of a fight is to take your opponent down, not to dance and talk. The distance that I created between myself and the two coming from behind was enough time to take the first one out. I left him behind, bleeding from the nose on the pavement. After that, they stopped coming. One of them pulled a knife, but he wasn’t too serious. I didn’t hesitate at all, took the knife out of the equation, and then the second, and the third didn’t stick around. I collected another knife and a Zippo lighter. Turnabout is fair play.

The sun was setting by this point, so I took the off ramp and disappeared into the neighborhood.

This close to the city, you couldn’t tell which of these houses might have been occupied. There was no power out here still, and so it was best to seek a place to sleep before the sun went down. It’s always tense going into a house like this. Any place could be a haven for the desperate like the highwaymen, still harboring disease, or any number of other things.

So I picked a house on a corner, where I could see for a way from the second floor. No doggie door on the back, so most likely no wild animals. Anything could be dangerous, but a worst case scenario would be an urban coyote or fox. I checked inside every window, and knocked before entering. Funny the conventions we keep.

Air was stale, so I opened all the windows. No food of value inside. Dinner was powerbars.

Tomorrow I should make my assignment.

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Hello, and welcome to the End of the World Times.

If you are reading this, you are one of the lucky ones who have restored internet connections. Currently, you are in the vast minority, but we are working to restore service to more pockets of survivors as they are discovered. This is no small task, but rest assured, I and what is left of Nordland Telecommunications are working as hard as we can to repair lines, restore power to the main hubs of the internet and reestablish the network links. Oftentimes, our technicians must dig out rubble and dedicate their lives to a location, food and supplies must be airlifted in to maintain them, and the work is slow and tedious, but it must be done. It must be done.

You are probably aware of what has happened locally wherever you are, but as communications networks fell in the catastrophe, news lost the ability to travel. Let me try to give you a brief overview of what has happened in the various places of the Earth.
There were some things that affected us all. When global warming caused the water levels to rise, Tuvala was the first to fall below sea level, but the oceans crept up on every coastal town. Venice, Florida and New Orleans were inundated. The refugees this created moved inland, to other cities, but so many died. We still have Disneyworld, but thanks to the wealth of the corporation, it is Disney Island.

But they were followed by the giant hurricanes of ‘10 and ‘11. Eighteen hurricanes of cat 4 in the first year, and twenty-three the next. We’ll see what 2012 brings, but it looks to be similar.

Then there were the flus. H1N1 met with H5N1, and the strains kept mutating, and people kept dying. The CDC kept up for a while, but the spread was too far too fast, and they soon ran out of resources. The 1918 flu seemed small in comparison.

When the United States Midwest, and Europe’s plains dried out, the food aid to other hungry nations ended. Food and water shortages led to hunger in even the most prosperous nations, and wars in the less prosperous. In the U.S., there was a large migration to the cities, and the overcrowding made life expensive. Many cities had riots for resources and housing.

This instability led to other disasters, mostly due to human actions. When Iran fired it’s nuclear weapons at Israel, and Israel responded in kind, it led to fallout spreading across much of the Middle East. North Korea followed in kind against China. It doesn’t exist anymore, and those that survived the fallout in South Korea spread throughout the world.
After all that we hardly had a chance, but it kept coming. Three large volcanoes went in ‘10. The big one hit in California in ‘11, resulting in a tidal wave that hit Japan hard. And when the asteroid hit Montana, the blast carried for hundreds of miles. The dust has cooled the atmosphere some, but getting plants to grow in some places requires artificial sunlight, and solar power is less efficient than it could be.

This brings us more or less up to date. As far as more details, our reporters will put the rest together through the course of their investigations.

Before I move on to introductions, it’s only fair to mention that our reporters are paid based on donations from you, the reader, so if you have anything to give, we take all currencies.

To start off the journal, we have Lori Kim heading towards Boston to investigate Conrad Blankenship’s community. Conrad took over a complex of buildings that started off as a green building project. Conrad’s project is now seeking self-sufficiency.

We’ll be catching up with more reporters and more locations as we go.

Thank you for reading. Good luck out there.

Editor,
Soren Ragnvald

We left the Phoenix area several weeks ago and traveling has been tough, especially with my elderly mother, but we made it to Montezuma’s Castle. I hadn’t been there since I was a kid.

Photo credit: M Blackhorse

People took refuge in the ruins, damaging them I’m certain, but how does one tell in such an ancient place? My small group set up camp in the nearby trees. Shelter was shelter in this new era and there’s a river close by offering clean water and fresh fish to those who were willing to work for it and help out in this small community.

Photo credit: M Blackhorse

It pained me to see the ruins being damaged, but reminded me of a time long before the modern world. It’s so strange to watch the world revert back to that time . . . with exception to the few cell phones and laptops around here. They weren’t really being used much to conserve battery life, but a few of us had them in case of an emergency, and this was how I’d get news out. I was honestly surprised the internet still worked, but I supposed as long as there’s power on somewhere to run a server or two, and satellites still hung in the sky, cyberspace still existed.

The people around here were living off whatever they’d brought with them, which consisted of a lot of junk food, and not one in the group was any good at hunting aside from catching a rabbit or squirrel. That didn’t feed too many people and this group wasn’t small. A large man named Zeke was the leader. He’s kind of scary-looking, but he’s a big teddy bear. Once Zeke learned that Daniel and I knew how to hunt, that became our job. If it kept me from scrubbing laundry and dishes, I was game. We hunted in the early mornings after our run toward the sunrise—me with my rifle and Daniel with his bow.

We’d hunt at night as well. Coyote was best to hunt at night. We headed out together then because there were other things lurking in the darkness. During last night’s hunt, we’d tracked a coyote down into a wash. They were extremely quiet and cautious animals, so tracking one wasn’t easy, but Daniel and I figured tracking a coyote would lead to a whole pack, and coyotes were scavengers. Not that I wanted to eat whatever they’d found or killed. They made different sounds for each, though. When they killed, the yips and howls sounded like an angry pack of hyenas, not like the coyotes near the Phoenix area. Those were more like desert wolves and howled more than anything. We were able to kill a few of them. Their pelts would help keep us warm come winter, since we’ll be heading north.

This morning while Daniel and I were out on a hunt, we stumbled upon a small doe. Daniel damn near scared it away with his excitement. We hadn’t seen game like that in some time, long before the world dipped into chaos and cataclysm.

I stood on his left and leaned in to whisper. “Make sure you actually hit it.” I was only teasing him, of course. Daniel’s an amazing hunter.

“Shh.” He was a perfect statue, keeping his aim steady, watching the doe for a good long time before letting the arrow fly. It pierced her eye and she dropped.

“Holy hell, that was a good shot!” I almost dropped my rifle.

Daniel turned to me. “Yeah, even though someone doesn’t know how to stay quiet during a hunt. No wonder you need the damn gun. You couldn’t stand the torture of silence for long.”

“Oh, shut up and go get her.”

He smiled and wandered toward his prey that lay about thirty yards from us. “You’re lucky she didn’t hear you or I’d be putting that arrow in your ass.”

I heard gunshot in the distance, to the east. “You hear that?” I shouted to him.

He waved a hand in acknowledgement. He’d heard it, but wasn’t concerned at this time. Maybe it was just another group out hunting. If that was the case, Daniel and I would need to be more careful on future hunts, or find another spot.

I walked over to him and the doe as he pulled the arrow from her and cleaned it.

He turned to me. “She’s gonna be heavy. See if you can find a log or something we can tie her to and carry her back to camp.”

I nodded and turned away. Scanning the area, I decided it was best to head down near the river. Trees grow along a water source, so that would be the best place to find what I needed.

Not sure how long I’d wandered around, I finally found a piece long and sturdy enough to carry the doe. As I picked it up and started to drag it back, I heard voices on the other side of the river beyond the trees and ducked down.

Three men appeared out of the brush and headed for the river as I watched from my canopy of tree branches and bushes. Daniel and I were pretty far from our camp, which was why we needed the log to carry the doe back. At least it wasn’t an elk. Those things were huge.

I couldn’t understand their words as they cleaned up in the river, but I could see what they washed from their hands—blood. I could only hope it was from an animal. Before leaving the Phoenix area, Daniel and I had to fight off a small group trying to steal our supplies, so I didn’t trust anyone easily . . . especially if they were armed and covered in blood.

We’d run into some real nice people too, such as those in this community, but I’d heard stories of the unsavory kind of folk you only saw in movies. The kind like those we fought off several weeks ago. Not looking forward to that again. I guess an end of the world type of situation would test what kind of person you truly were, wouldn’t it?

So far, I was pretty damn proud of who I was and who my family was.

I looked back along the path to see if I could escape without being noticed. The possibility existed, so I secured my rifle on my back and picked up one end of the log that was about three inches in diameter. Very quietly, I made my way up the path, looking back now and then to see if they noticed me. They hadn’t.

When I made it back to Daniel, I huffed and caught my breath before speaking. I’d moved quickly through the woods.

“We need to get out of here,” I said, and told him about the men.

Daniel worked fast securing the doe to the log. Once she was ready, he pointed me to one end.

“Grab it and let’s go.”

I lifted the log at the same time he did, and we marched back toward our camp.

“Jesus, could this thing be any heavier?”

“Wuss,” he replied from the front and continued walking. “Keep up.”

“I’m trying.” I had my end resting on my right shoulder. “Boy, they’ll be happy when they see this. It’ll feed the whole camp.”

“I know, right?” He looked up through the trees. “C’mon, there’s a storm coming in.”

My eyes peered through the tree canopy above us. “How do you do that? All I see is blue.”

“It’s a gift,” he said. “Besides, I can smell the moisture in the air.”

In my nervousness about the men I’d seen at the river’s edge, I kept looking behind us to make sure no one followed. The feeling just wouldn’t go away.

Once my mother could travel again, we were heading up to Montezuma’s Well. That’s the source of the river from an underground spring several miles up the mountain and I’d be able to find specific medicinal plants around there that mom needed. While she didn’t have the WNV strain that afflicted most of the Valley of the Sun, she definitely wasn’t doing well and I needed to figure out how to treat her.

Eventually, we’d make it home, to our Navajo Nation. Then maybe on to Canada, which was where everyone else was heading. I just didn’t want to sit in this place too much longer.