Clean Diaspora

[Arkcher]

[When I say a week or two, I really mean about three months. Something about a full-time job and relocating for the umpteenth time took precedence over writing things.]

 

[A preview for this here story can be found over here. Quick reminder for how this'll go down- updates will come in waves, at least for the next few updates, as the same events have to be told from perspectives of different people as they happen at the same time, and continuity is a good thing. So the first installment of story is introducing characters, second installment is getting four people in to one group, third will be focused on just throwing them out of their natural habitat. We'll now proceed to that point.]

 

 

 

Post 1.1.1

“Well, look on the bright side of things…” Emily Hummel comments to her friend, Callie, as they stood in a poorly kept single-file line among many others inside the Canon Colorado High School gymnasium. “We don’t have any homework assignments for today.”

 

“What did you say?” Callie responded, unable to hear over the loud chatter of the crowd around them.

 

“No homework today!” Emily repeats herself, speaking louder. Only a few meters away stood the medical examination stations, mostly composed of large white curtains where school teachers and staff awaited to individually check each student for an epidemic disease. This was a disease which was a big enough problem to halt all normal school routines in order to dedicate a majority of the day to screening students who had traces of a virus that supposedly caused internal hemorrhaging.

 

“This sure was thought out well. Put all 3,000 students in one enclosed, poorly ventilated room so they can all breathe on each other while we check who’s sick and who isn’t.” Callie thought out loud.

 

“I read that it’s supposed to be waterborne, so only the… low-income students will be screened out. You know, the ones who end up drinking unfiltered tap water all the time?” Emily replies, checking her cell phone for messages.

 

“And suddenly the overall cosmetic condition of the school improves dramatically, now that we have an excuse to kick out all the pot-heads.”

 

Emily smiles slyly, glancing around the room, able to point out at least four students in the short view of this crowd, who were guilty of drug abuse. They didn’t look happy about a medical examination coming. “It’s about time, too.”

 

Another student gets beckoned behind the curtains of the medical exams. Emily realizes that there is too much noise from the crowd to eavesdrop to find out what the process was, or the results of this particular student. Moreover, the single-file lines were so poorly kept that if Emily were to move too far to peek ahead, she may lose her place. Just because the lines were sorted by the first letter of the students’ last name didn’t keep people from banding together as friends. Emily was no exception to this rebellious behavior, she realizes, as she slowly steps forward in to the vacant space in front of her with Callie nearby.

 

“Oh, here we go! ‘Zombie Infection Originates from Africa, officials say.’ Because they’re right about everything, you know?” Callie was reading internet news headlines aloud from her own cell phone. “Or maybe this one- ‘Sign of the times: Infection is call to repentance.’” Callie snorted, truly not caring where this supposed infection came from. “I haven’t seen any evidence of this infection being real. I just think it’s a widespread excuse to stay home sick, you know? If enough people do it, then everyone else will panic and make some conspiracy theory about zombies. I haven’t seen any. None on the news on TV. Schools only run shows like this so that parents will calm down.”

 

“You don’t think it will escalate in to a problem here at all?” Emily asks, primarily for the sake of conversation. Callie pauses for a moment before turning back to her phone.

 

“Nah, we’re some obscure town in Colorado. Nobody cares about Colorado. Nobody travels through here to bring in a new disease even if it existed. Worst case scenario is that we’ll filter out some kids with a high fever or something.”

 

“I’m not so sure, myself…” Again, Emily speaks her mind to no specific recipient. She stands up straighter, craning her neck to get a visual estimation of how many people were occupying this gym. A good majority of the students were enthusiastically chatting among themselves, a small number looked nervous and uncomfortable with the idea of medical examination. A few were entertaining themselves with a media player, but a sparse group stood out- several dozen students truly looked ill. They weren’t talking to anything. They weren’t listening to music. They were either staring straight ahead or down at their feet, crossing their arms, balance swaying back and forth.

 

“Looks like I’m next up. … After this guy.” Callie brings Emily’s attention back by pointing out their position in line. One of the football players disappears behind the curtain with Mr. Walters, a Biology teacher. Callie sighs, standing up straight, mentally readying herself for whatever was to come.

 

“Well, how are you feeling today?” Emily tries to mimic Mr. Walters’ deep, friendly voice with his overused trademark question.

 

“Fine, Mr. Walters.” Callie jokingly retorts, also in an exaggerated voice. “I’m not a zombie. Can I go now?”

 

Emily quietly laughs at Callie’s simulated demeanor in response, and continues mimicking their instructor. “Are you sure? You haven’t felt the urge to…. To bite people and eat their brains?”

 

“Well there’s this one boy…” Callie breaks out of character, smiling widely.

 

“Ssshh!” Emily puts her hand over Callie’s mouth to prevent her from finishing this statement. Both of them look at their immediate surroundings, before spotting the subject of their discussion, Matthew Harper, barely visible from a gap between students in the line adjacent to Emily. The two girls look at each other again, smiling shyly.

 

“Callie Poole!” Mr. Walters’ voice calls for the next student in line.

 

“Oh!” Callie organizes her possessions, adjusts her blond hair, and proceeds behind the curtain with Mr. Walters. Emily sees the football player that had gone through moments before, walking next to the wall, slouched over and looking upset, apparently about his medical screening results. Emily’s imagination wandered, briefly recalling Mr. Walters’ lessons on biology, and hearing about infectious diseases and parasites that are so small, being able to bring down massive vertebrae. Watching a physically fit and healthy sports player’s countenance change, imagining a microscopic infection bring him down… made the potential of infection very real. This was not some science fiction movie where the brilliant scientist makes the cure in spite of all odds against him, this is… a dormant condition that could strike any minute and almost kill someone in less than an hour, in some instances.

 

A student in another line coughs loudly. Emily subconsciously turns to look at him, as he quickly recovers his composure and clears his throat politely, then turning from side to side to check if anyone was staring at him. Emily could see him move his hand up and down his throat as if it was bothering him. With a sigh, he removes his hand, uncovering his slightly swollen neck with a pink discoloration on his throat. Emily unintentionally gawks at him, imagining what would cause that condition, and what it must feel like.

 

“Emily!” Callie calls to her friend, waving. The two make eye contact, Callie walking briskly along the wall just as the football player had, smiling and giving a thumbs-up to Emily. Emily smiled and waved back in acknowledgement and steps through the curtains with Mr. Walters.

 

“Emily Hummel! How are you feeling today?” Mr. Walters’ warm, deep voice greets her, as he peers through a cheap pair of reading glasses, checking information on a clipboard.

 

“I’m… well off enough, thanks for asking.” Mr. Walters paused as he sorted through the papers before him. “Emily, you have an interesting medical record. You’ve been taking your medications regularly?”

 

“Yes, I have. If I ever forget, I get a terribly sore throat and have difficulty breathing, so… That keeps me in line!” Emily smiles, honestly stating the only motivation she has to take her prescribed medications.

 

“Now, interestingly enough, Emily, your medical records here indicate suspiciously similar symptoms to the very same disease we’re looking for.” Mr. Walters stated, looking at her over his spectacles. Emily frowned.

 

“Really? … I’ve had this medical condition for… what, six years now? So unless everyone else in the school has the exact same condition and just kept it a secret for so long, I mean…” Slightly flustered, Emily tried thinking of an explanation for this similarity.

 

“No, no, I assure you that your condition is fairly unique.” Mr. Walters flipped through some of the papers he had, scribbling something indecipherable on the clipboard. “I’ll make note of this, and look for more information later. I have… plenty of other students waiting for their examination, and I haven’t even started on yours.” Again, he shuffles through papers, and begins filling a form.

 

“What exactly is it that you’re screening for? I’ve heard some unbelievable stories about some kind of sickness running around in other countries that makes people act like zombies or something.” Emily asks, still not clear on what the purpose of this examination was. Mr. Walters pulls out an infrared thermometer and scans Emily’s forehead with it.

 

“I’ll tell you here in just a moment…” His usual cheerful attitude was not present. Emily wasn’t used to seeing his bushy brown beard not smiling.

 

“Well then, how was Callie?” Emily asks, trying to keep on a conversation to avoid awkward silence. Mr. Walters hesitates.

 

“Honestly, Emily, I’m not allowed to tell you.” Again he makes eye contact, but still, his stern countenance denotes that not all was well. Emily nods understandingly. Mr. Walters continues scribbling in notes on his clipboard, before pulling out a breathalyzer.

 

“Alright, just like the ones cops use!” Emily exclaims, trying to shed some light on to the situation. Mr. Walters nods, smiling patiently.

 

“Alright, I need you to take a deep breath, and exhale in to this opening.” Mr. Walters motions to the holes in the electronic device, Emily doing as she is told. After watching the readings, Mr. Walters takes the device away, removing the mouthpiece to sterilize it. Wordlessly, he makes more notes on his clipboard, Emily growing uncomfortable. “Just one more test to run, Emily…”

 

“So, am I a zombie yet?” Emily asks jokingly, unable to shake the feeling that the past three tests did not give satisfactory results.

 

“One more test, just to be sure.” Mr. Walters tried to reassure her with the possibility of cleanliness. He pulled out another electronic device that looked like a diabetic glucose meter. “Hold out your arm for me…” He instructed, taking Emily’s wrist and placing the pointed end of the device near her elbow. After a quick, subtle pricking sensation, a small blood sample was taken. Emily’s breath quickened, watching Mr. Walters give a sigh of disappointment, and turn back to his clipboard.

 

“Am I alright? What does it say?” Emily demanded more forcefully than she had intended.

 

“I’m sorry, Emily.” Mr. Walters took off his reading glasses, and looked her in the eyes. “Four out of four tests were positive. You, too, have a dormant infection somewhere inside you.” In a steadily growing panic, Emily’s breath quickened again, heart and mind racing.

 

“No… No, No there has to be something… wrong…” Emily’s mind began welling up with fairly unpleasant conjecture. She expected tears to come to her eyes, but instead panicked after hearing that she has an incurable disease. “You must be seeing the… the other condition that I’ve had! I’ve had similar symptoms for years, you said that! You said it yourself, are you 100% sure that this is…?”

 

“By all indications, Emily…” Mr. Walters sighed. “Yes. You have traces of a virus that is capable of causing fatal internal hemorrhaging. Now listen to me, Emily.” Mr. Walters puts both hands on Emily’s shoulders, keeping her attention. She instantly calmed down, but her breath did not regulate. “Like I said earlier, I can’t tell you… if any other students have this disease. The last thing we want is for anyone to find out that you do.” Frowning, Emily looks at a small gap between the curtains at the hundreds of students waiting for their examination. “Look at me, this is important.” Emily swallowed, still uncomfortable, but looked back at Mr. Walters. “Physically, you have a medical condition that we don’t have the cure for yet. It will come. Mentally…” He pauses for emphasis. “You are clean. I want you to walk out of here with a confident stride as if nothing is wrong. You and I both know that high school kids will handle the presence of an infected student with extreme prejudice. Lie. Do not tell anyone, don’t let on that you’re infected. Sit tight and wait for the cure to come, and it will come.” Emily realized that her friend Callie had a knack for hiding her feelings and putting on a happy face to cover up emotional hurt inside. After Callie’s examination, she walked out with an enthusiastic, confident stride. Was she infected, too? “Trust no one with this information. Just put on an act until things calm down. You can do it.” Emily nodded in acknowledgement. “Now, I’ll give you as much time as you need to collect yourself, get your composure so that you can walk out of here confidently.”

 

“… Okay. Thanks.” Emily nodded, trying to sort out her thoughts and control herself.

 

“Water?” Mr. Walters pulls out a bottle of water with an unfamiliar label. Emily shakes her head, not feeling comfortable with the presence of a water-borne disease. “Triple-filtered. Guaranteed clean water.” He read from the label to reassure her. Still, she turned it down.

 

“No thanks, I’m… I’m good.” Emily stated with a nod and half-smile as she stands up straight, locates the nearest exit and follows in the same direction Callie did, walking with confidence and a bright smile on her face. She pushes the double-doors open, the brilliant noon-day sunlight temporarily blinding her.

[Arkcher]

[whoops, forgot to italicize some text in the last entry. Use your imagination.]

 

Post 1.1.2

Stanley Nielson knew the back alleyways of Orgonth Colorado very well. Sticking to the shadows was easy to do between large apartment complexes, the evening sun wouldn’t reach him here. After a few more turns, he would be able to blend in with the crowds downtown in their rush to get home from work.

 

Stan resituated the backpack he kept close. Suspiciously, he turned around to check if he was being followed. Not ten minutes earlier, he had done something he wasn’t proud of but had no other choices. He saw a man in an expensive-looking business suit standing in one of the alleyways, apparently waiting for someone else to arrive. Stan was able to smooth-talk the man for a short time, before getting physical- The man was now in a crumpled, bruised heap inside a dumpster, and Stan has the backpack that the man was carrying. Stan knew he couldn’t hold down a job with his criminal record as it was. He’s stuck in this rut of crime after crime to keep himself alive. As expected, the man he robbed had quite a sum of cash, supposedly to make a blackmarket purchase. “Last time I’ll do that. I’ve got to turn around after this.” Stan thought to himself, before realizing these words were very, very familiar. He had promised himself this more than just once before. Maybe it was the appeal of the adrenaline rush that made this lifestyle so enjoyable?

 

Without allowing himself to get too distracted, Stan considered where he was ten years ago, and where he thought he would be now. Wife, two kids, modest home, white-picket fence, maybe a job as an accountant in a bank or something. The closest he’s come to that is occasional sexual assault, another thing he swore he’d never do again but lost control of his impulses. Look where he is now- mugging people just to get from one day to the next. How else could he hope to put food on the… “table?”

 

Downtown was in sight. Cars passing by, small crowds passing by on the sidewalks. Stan slowed his stride, hoping to decrease his heart rate and breathe slower, as to not look suspicious. Standing on the corner of the tall buildings, his wild eyes scanned the scenery, a wicked smile slowly spreading across his dirty face. His heart rate was getting higher. His adrenaline was so high, the thought of getting away with another misdemeanor, making such a clean escape- He couldn’t calm down after thinking about it. Stan withdrew himself back in to the shadows, took off the backpack and leaned against the brick wall, slowly sliding down in to a sitting position, hands covering his face. How much further could he be from the dream he once had? What would it take to remove his… addiction to crime, the rush of being chased, tension of mistrust… The thought of leaving it all behind almost scared him; this was his life.

 

Footsteps. He couldn’t tell who or where, but Stan distinctly heard footsteps… here in this alleyway, not out on the sidewalk. Subconsciously, he places his left hand on the ground near the backpack, ready to inconspicuously get up and leave with the pack if need be. Someone had seen him.

 

“Is that…?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Still staring blankly ahead, Stan heard the footsteps become two sets as their pace quickened. Judging by the muffled sound of metal clinking, thick clothing and heavyweight strides, Stan determined that he was being followed by policemen. Stan’s heart jumped, and before he knew it, the all-too-familiar wicked smile had come back. He was looking forward to the pursuit that would soon come. The city noise, chatter of people and car engines humming all seemed to quiet down for a short moment- just enough time for Stan to assess his surroundings. His hand was in a puddle of unidentified fluid, which was not present near his feet- he would not slip on the ground when trying to escape. No crowds or groups of people immediately nearby- Stan would have to try to hide his identity and get as far away from his pursuers as possible. Drawing ever closer, he probably couldn’t afford the extra weight of whatever was in the backpack he had stolen. Stan would have to leave it behind.

 

His last-second plan was executed with precision. His filthy hand splashed whatever pollutant across his face as he leaned forward and pushed off the ground with his legs, he was up and running in less than one second. The pursuers were shouting something, but Stan had other things to concentrate on that took precedence over eavesdropping. Stan turned sharply to the left, analyzing his surroundings as they sped by, and recognized a downtown café that he once tried to get a job at- he knew the interior of this upscale diner fairly well. Stan grabbed the door handle as he zoomed by, using his momentum to rip it open as he dashed inside- the door smashed against the outside glass wall and shattered it. Not slowing down, Stan sprinted through the dining area, ignoring the disapproving shouts of staff and customers as he made his way toward the kitchen, and rammed it open with his shoulder. Another staff member immediately behind the door was knocked to the ground along with whatever dish he or she was carrying- the intruder dodged countertops and stoves as he ran through, ended up pushing open the back doors where trucks load supplies, and Stan sprinted through the back alleyways once more.

 

Not much time passed before Stan was back on the main downtown streets- He looked from one direction to another, trying to decide the best place to run to. His train of thought was broken by a passing police car’s siren- Stan watched the car slow down to turn around, before deciding which direction to go. Another rush of adrenaline, the bittersweet anticipation of being chased with such high risk came back. Stan ran as fast as he could in the opposite direction of the pursuing policemen, lacking any real destination. Stan soon realized he had left the sidewalk and was running in to oncoming traffic- A civilian’s car horn alerted Stan of its presence. Reacting in the short time given, Stan jumped up, landed on the car’s hood and continued his sprint. A loud crashing noise indicated that a police car had collided with another vehicle. Involuntarily, Stan smiled once more. He knew that this was wrong, but he was enjoying it.

 

Stan made a sharp turn to the left around a corner, excitedly scanning the scenery for a large group of people to hide in. Usually this part of downtown was busy at this time of day. Running various scenarios through his mind as he ran, Stan decided to examine the inside of businesses for groups of people. He sped past a bank with tinted windows. A gift shop- windows too small to take the time to check through. Something caught his eye as he passed another window- this one was another diner. Stan grabbed at an indented pillar in the city’s architecture to help stop his momentum as he stopped to turn around, and pushed open the door to the Diner. A small group of business associates were on their way out. Stan “politely” held the door open for them, holding his breath in attempt to hide his panting. After the group exited, Stan closed the door and carefully slipped behind the group, standing up straight, walking at a steady pace alongside the businessmen.

 

“There he is!” Stan heard a voice shout behind him, but did not flinch. Staring straight ahead, he listened for what would happen next. Footsteps grew louder and closer as another policeman pursued after Stan, who ducked and ran just in time to avoid being tackled to the ground- The chase was on again. He sprinted across a corner of the city park, seeing tall buildings visible about a hundred feet away.

 

“Cars can’t fit in these narrow alleyways,” Stan thought to himself. Making another turn, he disappeared in between tall apartment complexes. Straight ahead was another road- more opportunities to hide. Stan’s smile faded as a police car blocked the alley’s exit. Stan turned around to see the same thing- he was trapped. Thinking fast, he saw a collapsible staircase fire escape for one of the apartment buildings- Stan ran straight toward the brick wall, placing his worn shoes on the vertical surface and pushed himself upward as far as he could before jumping backward- Stan reached high, only about one meter from his target. He landed, spotted a large aluminum dumpster, and dashed over to it, scrambled on top and made another attempt at his unlikely escape. Barely touching the rusted structure, Stan had just enough surface area to curl his fingers around and support his own weight while bringing down the collapsible staircase.

 

A loud slam- the stairs hit the pavement, Stan scurried up as fast as he could, causing the mechanism to retract upward, preventing any followers. One level after another- Stan made his was higher and higher, seeing policemen congregate down below. Stan tried to open a nearby door in to the apartments- it was locked. Stan punched it out of frustration and continued climbing up a few floors. The next door was locked. As was the next one. This fire escape did not lead to the roof. As high as the rusty appendage would take him, Stan watched with dread as more and more policemen gathered in the alleyway. Stan looked out at the streets, multiple police cars blocking each exit. Stan finally realized where he was- This apartment building had been abandoned for years. The fire exits were not just locked, they were sealed.

 

“No… No! … NO!”

 

Stan shouted in frustration, sinking to his knees, defeated. He was trapped. Only a matter of time before he would be walking back down “with your hands behind your head.”

[Arkcher]

Post 1.1.3

“Just hang in there, Dustin… This is your chance to shine!”

 

Dustin Redden reassured himself over again, determinedly carrying out his task of law enforcement in directing traffic at a major intersection in Canon. Five o’clock in the evening, the brilliant sun seemed to be struggling to stay above the horizon, as if to just keep the unbearable heat on Dustin. Not a cloud to be found in the sky. Dustin’s heavy uniform wasn’t helping the matter, either.

 

Much of the city was in a panicked upheaval with the presence of “zombies.” Some obscure sickness that eventually affects the way that people think, causing people to label the diseased as zombies. Citizens transporting their sick to another location, others packing up and moving out of town to get away from it, but most of them are just disturbed by their violent behavior. After clearing out several collisions from this intersection, the Canon Police Department put Constable Redden in the middle of it to regulate traffic.

 

A good idea, under normal circumstances. Dustin was almost completely out of breath from blowing in his whistle- moreover, nobody heard it clearer than he did. It was growing more difficult to tell which direction car horns were sounding from, Dustin’s ears were almost constantly ringing from the frequent, intense use of his whistle.

 

“Just hold on… Hang in there!” Dustin reminded himself. He was at the rank of constable, but knew police regulation inside and out. If he performed well, this may be an opportunity to turn his reputation around. Dustin was confident in his own ability, but not in the demeanor of the entirety of Canon’s citizens all in a panic.

 

A series of noises caught Dustin’s attention- Screeching tires, car horns blaring, one loud metal crunch after another; a careless driver, coming east on Fifth street, had apparently failed to slow down in time and ran in to the stopped cars at the intersection, pushing one car in to the other, ultimately forcing a small SUV out in to moving north-bound traffic. The luggage and items stowed on top of the SUV broke free of their restraints and spilled all across the road, with one piece of equipment impacting another car’s windshield, causing the driver to panic and swerve in to other vehicles.

 

In a short few seconds, any scrap of order or organization completely collapsed. Dustin signaled for all traffic to stop as he rushed across the broken glass to the six-car pileup. The sound of engines revving behind Dustin indicated that impatient drivers took Dustin’s temporary absence to mean that they were free to proceed unregulated.

 

“Station six, this is Redden at Fifth and Belt Line. The whole situation just had a meltdown, I count seven collisions, and other drivers seem to disregard any signals given to them. I need more men out here, and I need them now!” Dustin commanded through the radio at his side, still waving his hands to get the attention of oncoming drivers.

 

“Understood, Redden. I’m sending a squad your way. Weaver out.” Station control responded back shortly, dispatching an unspecified number of policemen out to the scene. Dustin surveyed over the damaged vehicles, seeing a small number of idle bodies, one or two sentient people watching him anxiously, and a few more people violently trashing around inside the overturned cars. Hesitating, Dustin realized that he may get a more intimate exposure to these so-called zombies than he had anticipated.

 

Nonverbally, Dustin decided to address those vehicles at a later time, justifying that they might calm down with time. Following procedure as ever, he begins helping people escape their overturned cars, occasionally turning his attention back to his whistle to halt further traffic. Not two minutes had passed before the distinct sound of police sirens could be heard. “At last,” Dustin thought to himself. “Backup. We can get this situation under control with greater numbers…” His thought was interrupted by his radio’s earpiece, Station Control calling back out to him.

 

“Constable Redome, what’s your status?”

 

“Still at Fifth and Belt Line, holding the fort until that squad gets here. I can hear their sirens approaching, shouldn’t be long.”

 

“Redden, I’ve been asked to call you back to Station Four as soon as your replacements arrive.”

 

“Replacements? I didn’t ask for replacements, I need help getting this situation under control! I can do it, just not by myself!”

 

“The order still stands, Constable.”

 

“… Understood.” Dustin responded, with a more negative tone of voice than he had anticipated using. As soon as he had finished this response, he turned his attention to the surrounding streets and saw several squad cars evading traffic by driving across curbs and sidewalks, stopping in formations in the intersection with numerous policemen exiting the vehicles. “So soon? Weren’t you doing something else beforehand?” Dustin remarked, surprised at the almost immediate response to his call for backup.

 

“Constable, I’ve been asked to send you back to Station Four-“

 

“Yes, I know.” Dustin snapped back at the other policeman, who stood considerably taller with a physically fit body and higher rank in law enforcement. The two stared at each other for a moment, before Dustin complied with his orders, angrily striding back to his unmarked constable car.

 

Dustin watched with distaste toward the replacement squad who was immediately handling the overturned vehicles, while others regulated traffic. That was the position he had intended to fill, not constable. Dustin’s tasks mainly consisted of handling paperwork, court escorts, answering phone calls, and coordinating other policemen who actually got to get out and handle their task of law enforcement directly. Choosing not to linger, Dustin followed the eastbound traffic back toward Station Four.

 

Hoping to rekindle his passion for law enforcement, Dustin turns on the police radio in his car. Various verbal exchanges and reports took place, only agitating Dustin more, as his rank would not allow him to directly influence peoples’ lives, rather passively regulate from a distance. Such a tactic was not how Dustin’s train of thought operated- He solved problems by addressing them, not by manipulating them. Dustin twisted the volume knob to the "off" position on the radio, and grabbed the steering wheel harshly, before deciding to seek something outside the vehicle to occupy his mind.

 

The only people who were out on the streets looked fairly ill. All of them had slightly paler skin, with a majority of them just standing still, looking at their feet. Others were staggering around, in a way that looked like they didn’t know where they were going, but making a strong effort to just stand up straight. Undeniably, something was wrong with them, but… if they were mindless “zombies”, why were they not attacking each other, or their surroundings? They seem to have the mental capacity to stay on the sidewalk, not in the street. Presumably, any citizens who were not infected were just hiding, or else in their cars, ramming each other in main intersections.

 

Dustin’s train of thought was interrupted by his cell phone ringing. He hesitated, and slowly pulled the phone out of his pocket, checking the caller ID. Cursing to himself, he watched the road for a moment before answering the incoming call.

 

“This is Redden.”

 

“Constable Redden?”

 

“Reporting in.” Dustin rolled his eyes.

 

“This is Chief Tapper, down in Orgonth. Canon’s Station Four redirected me to this number to contact you.”

 

Dustin had almost expected Station Four to send him back to Fifth and Belt Line. Still, getting a call from such a dignified city as Orgonth was rare. “What can I do for you, Tapper?”

 

“I understand that there are some vacancies over there in your county penitentiary? We have a… problematic individual over here on our end, but don’t have the means to hold him down until a court hearing.”

 

Dustin sighed. “Yes sir, we do have a few… spaces open.”

 

“Now, understand that this individual we have… He has quite a few convictions, he’d be lucky to not get a life sentence out of this. His criminal record has to be six inches thick, we’ve been trying to lock him up, but he manages to get a bail.”

 

“I’ll send a notification their way. Client’s name?”

 

Chief Tapper paused, enough time for him to check over some papers. “Stanley Isaac Nielson.”

 

“Note taken. Anything else I can do for you?” Dustin asked politely, as he drove past some policemen on a foot-pursuit. He hadn’t even been told it was happening.

 

“Actually, yes. As would be expected of convicts to get a life sentence, Stanley here is taking it pretty hard. As a ‘last request’, he’s asking for a religious pastor to meet him there.”

 

“Last rites? That usually only happens for convicts on death row…?”

 

“Yeah, I know. I told him that I couldn’t guarantee anything, especially since the penitentiary is out of our district. Figured I’d ask.”

 

“No, no, I… I know a guy. I’ll give this pastor a call.”

[Arkcher]

Post 1.1.4

Joshua Bradford sternly filed through his large collection of cassette tapes, intently searching for a specific one. He had developed the habit of keeping an audio journal; friends and family had urged him to keep some record of his otherwise eventful life, but even after forty-some years, penmanship was definitely not one of his stronger points. Some might call him old-fashioned, still using a cassette tape recorder, but he was comfortable with using this medium. Minimal risk of overwriting what was stored, no chance of deleting them if they were stored digitally… They were somewhat large and bulky, which made them easy to keep track of.

 

Joshua had, in fact, led an eventful life. Silver-tipped hair, unrefined wrinkles, and a slowly declining endurance for physical activity made this more evident. Spending this gradual change alone was a harsh reminder that his life was, indeed, eventful. “When you lose someone you love, you die too…” a quotation came to mind. “… and you wait around for your body to catch up.” Still scanning through his archive, a written date caught Josh’s eye. August sixteenth, 2008. Joshua sighed, before picking up the cassette holder and placing its contents in a nearby player, and starting it.

 

A flood of memories came rushing to him, before any clear sound came from the speakers. Josh was an enthusiastic religious pastor, back in the day. Part of his ongoing journal records included him developing and presenting sermons and lessons based on religious ideals and scriptural passages. Josh listened to himself give a sermon on blessings of prosperity to those who live righteously, and the flip side- adversity given to the wicked. Still with a zealous drive in his demeanor, Josh was telling of the outcome of Naaman’s behavior as recorded in the Old Testament. Today, Josh was truly listening with utter contempt toward this story’s morals. While preaching this very lesson to his humble congregation, Josh was not blessed for his righteous intentions and aspirations.

 

Distastefully, Josh fast-forwarded the cassette for a few seconds before resuming, just in time to hear its conclusion, followed by a long silence. It seemed comparable to what some would call the calm before a storm. Josh vividly remembered recording this next half of the record- news had then reached him that his wife and only child had been involved in a car crash. Still holding to the advice of his close friends, he recorded himself in prayer.

 

“Lord… If you don’t help me, I can’t get through this. I can’t.” The cassette player began playing back his voice, shaking with emotion. “Lord, I’m too old for games… Foolishness…” A long pause, followed by a quiet sob. “And I’m tired of rhetoric… meaningless rhetoric. It never changes things.” Joshua’s recorded tone of voice made it very clear that he was struggling to control himself. “Lord… Just help me.” Joshua was overcome, both in the past and the present as he revisited this memory. He was repeating the words “help me” in between quiet sobs, unable to think of any other request for the one constant in his life.

 

Hands shaking with emotion, Josh reached for a blank cassette and replaced the old journal entry with the new one, to continue recording himself in significant points of his life. He proceeded to audibly describe what occupied his mind as he reviewed this entry.

 

“I was feeling God’s pain! I have never had anything that’s been any worth—in my forty years—that wasn’t born in agony! Never! … Never…” Josh was feeling very bitter with his life and all the experiences that it had brought. He understood very well about “refinement,” how even a coal can be changed in to a diamond, but only with sufficient pressure, heat, and time. The process is what deters people from continuing. Josh was no exception to this idea. “I’m… feeling like I’m… empty, dead… This refinement that is supposedly strengthening me... Has brought me nothing but, but pain! Is this a refinement? What have I done wrong?! God, you have… taken everything that I have ever lived for! I have nothing to hold on to!”

 

Josh had been a pastor for over twenty-two years, and had once thoroughly believed in the same Christian orthodox beliefs that governed most aspects of his life. Even today he believed that there was a supreme creator, but he no longer thought of this God as a friend or ally. “What can be done… to restore any hope for me? What am I to look for next? Another… sermon from someone? A new revelation? Covenant?” Josh hesitated, realizing that he himself was not sure what he was asking. “I’m just not happy with the current state of affairs. The agony of God's heart is the awareness of all his children's shortcomings, all of our sin... and it seems as if I must endure this loneliness and pain as well, until I have been anguished over… some event… Until something, anything happens, I’m… I’m preaching sermons.” Josh glanced at the old journal entry that had started him on this tirade. Realizing the hypocrisy of his actions, but having no other path to follow, Josh was overcome with emotion, and simply wept uncontrollably, rife with memories.

 

---

 

A loud noise caught Josh’s attention, as he gradually regained his senses, aware of his surroundings. He was sitting at his desk, effectively sprawled across the surface in a mess of cassette tapes and papers, with his cell phone nearby alerting him of an incoming call from a number he did not recognize. Josh rubbed his face with his hands, trying to regain soberness. “This is Joshua Bradford.”

 

“Father Bradford? This is… Constable Redden of the Canon Police Department. How are you this evening?”

 

Josh cringed at being called “father.” The caller introduced himself, but the name was not familiar. “I’m well off enough. How about yourself?” Josh tried to hide the grogginess in his voice, unable to recall if he had dozed off or cried himself to sleep earlier. Nonetheless, phone call greeting formalities took place.

 

“I could be better. I remember several months ago I attended one of your Sunday religious services, and thought so highly of you and your message that I kept your contact information, but… law enforcement doesn’t always allow flexible hours, I regret not being able to attend your meetings more frequently.”

 

“I appreciate your remarks.”

 

“Well, the reason I’m calling is that I have an inmate who has made some poor decisions, and you’re the first person that came to mind for some words of comfort. A milder variation of last rites, if that makes sense.”

 

Josh hesitated, still trying to wake himself up to make a decision in a more sober state. Why not, he thought to himself. It can’t be any different from other meaningless sermons I’ve been throwing together.

 

“Where, what time? I think I can throw something together, if… schedule permits.”

 

Constable Redden audibly smiled, sounding relieved that Josh had agreed. That made Josh think that Redden was interested in a sermon for himself in addition to the inmate. “Well,” Redden continued. “As soon as your schedule permits. He’s not being executed, just locked up. He’ll be in the Canon Penitentiary, out south of town.”

 

Josh glanced at his wristwatch. “How about in an hour?” He would arrive at roughly 6:45, and still have time for himself afterward.

 

“That soon? … Great! Sooner the better, I mean, whatever suits you.”

 

“Can you meet me there?” Joshua asked, not wanting to take enough responsibility to track down “another soul to save.”

 

“I… think that I can arrange that, yes.” Judging by the tone in Redden’s voice, he had prior commitments but was willing to make adjustments to meet Josh in person.

 

“Excellent. This won’t be the first time I’ve gone there, so with that, I’ll see you in an hour.”

 

“Thank you very much, Father Bradford.” Josh hung up before his conversation partner could continue.

 

“Alright…” Josh sighed to himself. “now to find some flowery feel-good message.” In the past, Josh had heard that “one cannot convert another beyond his or her own belief.” This was just another lie that he had held on to for too long. He has given the same canned sermons to groups of people that have been brought to tears with how “touching” it was. Maybe they just want hope, something to hold on to, to know that a divine being cares. People will believe anything if they want to, even if it comes in the form of a bedtime story.

 

Josh considered telling the inmate about the story of Job, which could be interpreted in many different ways. For children, it can be a reminder to stay obedient or bad things can happen. For adults, it’s a reminder to keep going when times get tough. Either way, it reads like a novel; nothing implies divine inspiration or where the story came from. How could anyone know of the discussion in the heavens that led to Job’s adversity?

 

Catching his mind as it wandered off on a tangent, Josh pondered aspects of other passages rather than their legitimacy. Stepping in to the bathroom, he splashes water on his face before stopping to stare at his reflection in the mirror, thinking about how the subtle wrinkles and intensifying grey hairs were more visible than he remembered. Some people consider these aging effects to be shown with pride- a sign of age, experience, wisdom. Josh only sees wasted years, meticulously studying something that got him nowhere. With only a vague idea of what message to give to his awaiting audience, Josh leaves his home, feeling ready. “He’ll believe it. Just like everyone else.”

 

[Five bucks to whoever catches some cultural references in here. :B ]

 

[Next installment of updates will probably be about this long. Brace for impact.]

[Horatio]

[ Absolutely, positively fantastic!!!!!!

Are you planning on mailing me the five bucks? ]

[Arkcher]

[hnnnng

 

okay after i go to work tonight i get TWO CONSECUTIVE DAYS OFF

 

in which i will probably play video games until they lose my interest* and then i'll start writing some more of this

 

honestly, the only thing holding me back is how I have most of an outline written except for Josh's intro part 2.

Intro P2 is gonna put all four characters in one place, and effectively all that Josh needs to do is drive from one place to another and I really can't think of a way to make it interesting, so i might just skip it since i've come up with nothing after a month of thinking about it.]

 

[*may or may not take the duration of both days off. see store for details.]

[Horatio]

[hnnnng

 

okay after i go to work tonight i get TWO CONSECUTIVE DAYS OFF

 

in which i will probably play video games until they lose my interest* and then i'll start writing some more of this

 

honestly, the only thing holding me back is how I have most of an outline written except for Josh's intro part 2.

Intro P2 is gonna put all four characters in one place, and effectively all that Josh needs to do is drive from one place to another and I really can't think of a way to make it interesting, so i might just skip it since i've come up with nothing after a month of thinking about it.]

 

[*may or may not take the duration of both days off. see store for details.]

[ * cough, cough* Get to work!!! We can wait until you rest up.

 

Have you ever heard of the Graphic Comics Mouse Guard? If not, take a look. The author is David Petersen. ]