NaNoWriMo 2006
I must be a masochist...I signed up for NaNoWriMo, the insane "write a novel in a month" event that happens this month. hardlyfatal and hadaverde have signed up as well, and hardlyfatal has shared a bit of her novel-in-progress with her flist. I thought I'd do the same, if anyone is interested.
This is the way the world ends;
This is the way the world ends;
This is the way the world ends,
Not with a bang, but a whimper.
- T. S. Eliot (1925)
Annihilate (verb)
1. To destroy completely.
2. To reduce to nonexistence.
3. To defeat decisively; vanquish.
4. To nullify or render void; abolish.
Excerpt from Cycle of Death: The Chronicles of the Human Holocaust; a personal recording of the events following the Rising by David Ohlinberg
Everything comes in cycles, everything has its time. Birth and death, Summer and Winter, the slow, relentless turn of this world and the constant shifts and changes it undergoes are all part of the natural order of things. Look at our planet’s history: ice ages, warming patterns, shifting continents and seas, the evolution of its creatures to survive these changes. All are part of the larger pattern, the rhythm of this world.
The crumbling texts of the old world speak of Global Warming and the cautionary tales of scientists and politicians. They blamed the rising use of fossil fuels and pollution for the steady rise in temperature throughout the world, the melting of the polar icecaps, and the loss of landmass as the oceans gradually reclaimed the parts of the earth they had once covered millions of years ago. They could not have been more wrong as to the cause, and there was nothing the human race could have done differently that would have changed what happened. It was all part of the cycle of this world; a cycle as inevitable and as unstoppable as the turning planet itself. History will repeat itself again and again. And it is up to us to make sure that this time, history, the real history, is not forgotten, or rewritten to serve the propaganda of those in power.
Of the wave of darkness and terror that followed this latest warming, I can only say that it had happened before, though there are those who would argue that point since there is nothing in our recorded history to say that it happened. Nothing of historical fact, indeed, but our legends, our myths, or fairy tales - they speak of the things that now hunt the human race to nigh extinction. Therefore my question to my opponents is this: how did our ancestors know of these creatures if they had not been here before? Yet the more important question would be: how did our ancestors defeat them?
Chapter 1
September 14, 2107
Elysium, Washington
“We lost another one last night, Sarge.”
Malcolm Finnes didn’t look up from tallying the recent shipment of food from Yakima. The amount was short, again, and likely to be so again next month. He sighed, pushing the small scrap of paper away from him. “Who was it?” he asked finally, looking at the man standing in the doorway of his office and searching his memory for his name. Davis; that was it, Robert Davis.
“Reynolds. He had tower watch last night. We’re not sure what happened.”
Malcolm rubbed a hand over his shaved head, grimacing. “Did they find enough to bury?”
Davis nodded. “Looks like it was a solitary, though, not a pack at least.”
“Well that’s something, anyway,” Malcolm agreed. He sighed again. “Double the watch on the perimeter and make sure the fires are lit. Send Rurick and Costen around to make sure we’re locked up tight for the night, eh?”
“Nothing in, nothing out, right, sir,” Davis said. “Should we send a watch to the tower?”
Malcolm shook his head. “Not until we know for sure why the hell Reynolds was attacked. That place is impenetrable unless someone just opens a door. Reynolds was a veteran, he wouldn’t have fallen for one of their mind tricks.”
“No sir. At least, I don’t think so.” Davis hesitated, looking troubled.
“What? Speak, man.”
“It’s just that, since Marjorie died, Reynolds wasn’t quite…himself, sir,” Davis said reluctantly.
Malcolm stared at the man across from him. “You’re saying he wanted to die? That he let that creature in?”
Davis shrugged, looking uncomfortable. “I don’t honestly know, sir. There wasn’t any sign of a struggle, though. That much we could tell; it didn’t break in.”
Malcolm started to rub his head again and stopped; it was a habit he’d picked up after he’d shaved his head. He just couldn’t get used to not having any hair. He dropped the offending hand to his desk and looked levelly at Davis. “Anything else you want to tell me?” he asked quietly. “Anybody else not, how did you put it? ‘Quite themselves?”
Davis shook his head, dropping his gaze away from Malcolm’s.
“Dismissed,” Malcolm said finally, watching the man retreat.
It wasn’t good, the news of Reynolds’ death. It would strike yet another blow to this company’s already piss-poor morale. And if Davis was right about Reynolds’ actions, that he’d actually let one of those damned creatures in…
Malcolm pushed away from his desk abruptly and stood to pace, his hand rising idly to scratch his skull. It wasn’t good at all.
Elysium stood on the very edge of the Northwest Territory, guarding what few pockets of civilization that remained in Washington State. Since the Rising, those pockets had become damned few. Of a population of over 6.2 million people just 100 years ago, there were probably only a little more than 300 thousand left. Nearly ninety percent of the population had been wiped out during the Rising; some had been killed by the creatures themselves, others had died as a result of the complete loss of civilization as they knew it - falling to sicknesses or injuries that would have otherwise been treatable, had there been the facilities to do so.
Malcolm and his men and women were what remained of the military presence in the state; he had all four branches of the former Armed Forces, including Coast Guard and National Guard fairly represented in his men. A handful were volunteers who had made their way across the state, men and women who felt it was their duty to protect those who could not protect themselves from the things that hunted them.
Somehow, he’d ended up in charge, and to this day, he wasn’t sure exactly how that had happened. He’d never attained a rank above Sergeant in the Marine Corps, yet for some reason, these men and women, some of whom had been officers in their former lives, looked to him for answers.
Was it Yeats who’d said ‘Things fall apart, the center does not hold’? Malcolm couldn’t remember, but it fit, whoever had said it. It explained why things were the way they were. People needed leadership to survive, it seemed. At least, they did when they were threatened. Maybe one day, when they figured out how to drive the creatures back to whatever hell-hole they’d crawled from, he could retire, find a nice fishing-hole and spend the rest of his days trying to catch the ‘big one’ and drinking whiskey.
Until then, he’d do his best to keep this part of the state safe. A difficult, if not impossible job at best, and his men were steadily dwindling in number as the creatures managed to pick them off one by one, despite numerous precautions.
He stopped his pacing and glanced at his watch; to the best of his knowledge, it was fairly accurate. There was no absolute way to check anymore; with the fall of civilization went most of the things that made life convenient. Electricity was a sketchy thing at best. Oh, the power houses were still standing, but it was damned hard to find anyone willing to risk their lives to keep them up and running. With the loss of electricity, the ability to communicate across great distances with any ease was lost. It was funny, actually, how something so simple could literally bring a country to its knees. With the loss of communication, each state had been reduced to becoming totally independent from the rest of the country. Any news was slow in coming and usually out of date by the time it reached them. Finding couriers willing to make the trek from town to town, state to state was even harder than finding someone willing to watch the power stations. There were only a handful of couriers, a few hundred at the most. They were too damned few to be truly effective, but better than nothing at all.
They were fearless or reckless souls who braved the crossings time and time again; fierce fighters, all of them. They had to be, in order to survive. Because the things that hunted, the creatures that had risen with the temperature of the planet were ruthless, brutal, and hungry. Always hungry.
This is the way the world ends;
This is the way the world ends;
This is the way the world ends,
Not with a bang, but a whimper.
- T. S. Eliot (1925)
Annihilate (verb)
1. To destroy completely.
2. To reduce to nonexistence.
3. To defeat decisively; vanquish.
4. To nullify or render void; abolish.
Excerpt from Cycle of Death: The Chronicles of the Human Holocaust; a personal recording of the events following the Rising by David Ohlinberg
Everything comes in cycles, everything has its time. Birth and death, Summer and Winter, the slow, relentless turn of this world and the constant shifts and changes it undergoes are all part of the natural order of things. Look at our planet’s history: ice ages, warming patterns, shifting continents and seas, the evolution of its creatures to survive these changes. All are part of the larger pattern, the rhythm of this world.
The crumbling texts of the old world speak of Global Warming and the cautionary tales of scientists and politicians. They blamed the rising use of fossil fuels and pollution for the steady rise in temperature throughout the world, the melting of the polar icecaps, and the loss of landmass as the oceans gradually reclaimed the parts of the earth they had once covered millions of years ago. They could not have been more wrong as to the cause, and there was nothing the human race could have done differently that would have changed what happened. It was all part of the cycle of this world; a cycle as inevitable and as unstoppable as the turning planet itself. History will repeat itself again and again. And it is up to us to make sure that this time, history, the real history, is not forgotten, or rewritten to serve the propaganda of those in power.
Of the wave of darkness and terror that followed this latest warming, I can only say that it had happened before, though there are those who would argue that point since there is nothing in our recorded history to say that it happened. Nothing of historical fact, indeed, but our legends, our myths, or fairy tales - they speak of the things that now hunt the human race to nigh extinction. Therefore my question to my opponents is this: how did our ancestors know of these creatures if they had not been here before? Yet the more important question would be: how did our ancestors defeat them?
Chapter 1
September 14, 2107
Elysium, Washington
“We lost another one last night, Sarge.”
Malcolm Finnes didn’t look up from tallying the recent shipment of food from Yakima. The amount was short, again, and likely to be so again next month. He sighed, pushing the small scrap of paper away from him. “Who was it?” he asked finally, looking at the man standing in the doorway of his office and searching his memory for his name. Davis; that was it, Robert Davis.
“Reynolds. He had tower watch last night. We’re not sure what happened.”
Malcolm rubbed a hand over his shaved head, grimacing. “Did they find enough to bury?”
Davis nodded. “Looks like it was a solitary, though, not a pack at least.”
“Well that’s something, anyway,” Malcolm agreed. He sighed again. “Double the watch on the perimeter and make sure the fires are lit. Send Rurick and Costen around to make sure we’re locked up tight for the night, eh?”
“Nothing in, nothing out, right, sir,” Davis said. “Should we send a watch to the tower?”
Malcolm shook his head. “Not until we know for sure why the hell Reynolds was attacked. That place is impenetrable unless someone just opens a door. Reynolds was a veteran, he wouldn’t have fallen for one of their mind tricks.”
“No sir. At least, I don’t think so.” Davis hesitated, looking troubled.
“What? Speak, man.”
“It’s just that, since Marjorie died, Reynolds wasn’t quite…himself, sir,” Davis said reluctantly.
Malcolm stared at the man across from him. “You’re saying he wanted to die? That he let that creature in?”
Davis shrugged, looking uncomfortable. “I don’t honestly know, sir. There wasn’t any sign of a struggle, though. That much we could tell; it didn’t break in.”
Malcolm started to rub his head again and stopped; it was a habit he’d picked up after he’d shaved his head. He just couldn’t get used to not having any hair. He dropped the offending hand to his desk and looked levelly at Davis. “Anything else you want to tell me?” he asked quietly. “Anybody else not, how did you put it? ‘Quite themselves?”
Davis shook his head, dropping his gaze away from Malcolm’s.
“Dismissed,” Malcolm said finally, watching the man retreat.
It wasn’t good, the news of Reynolds’ death. It would strike yet another blow to this company’s already piss-poor morale. And if Davis was right about Reynolds’ actions, that he’d actually let one of those damned creatures in…
Malcolm pushed away from his desk abruptly and stood to pace, his hand rising idly to scratch his skull. It wasn’t good at all.
Elysium stood on the very edge of the Northwest Territory, guarding what few pockets of civilization that remained in Washington State. Since the Rising, those pockets had become damned few. Of a population of over 6.2 million people just 100 years ago, there were probably only a little more than 300 thousand left. Nearly ninety percent of the population had been wiped out during the Rising; some had been killed by the creatures themselves, others had died as a result of the complete loss of civilization as they knew it - falling to sicknesses or injuries that would have otherwise been treatable, had there been the facilities to do so.
Malcolm and his men and women were what remained of the military presence in the state; he had all four branches of the former Armed Forces, including Coast Guard and National Guard fairly represented in his men. A handful were volunteers who had made their way across the state, men and women who felt it was their duty to protect those who could not protect themselves from the things that hunted them.
Somehow, he’d ended up in charge, and to this day, he wasn’t sure exactly how that had happened. He’d never attained a rank above Sergeant in the Marine Corps, yet for some reason, these men and women, some of whom had been officers in their former lives, looked to him for answers.
Was it Yeats who’d said ‘Things fall apart, the center does not hold’? Malcolm couldn’t remember, but it fit, whoever had said it. It explained why things were the way they were. People needed leadership to survive, it seemed. At least, they did when they were threatened. Maybe one day, when they figured out how to drive the creatures back to whatever hell-hole they’d crawled from, he could retire, find a nice fishing-hole and spend the rest of his days trying to catch the ‘big one’ and drinking whiskey.
Until then, he’d do his best to keep this part of the state safe. A difficult, if not impossible job at best, and his men were steadily dwindling in number as the creatures managed to pick them off one by one, despite numerous precautions.
He stopped his pacing and glanced at his watch; to the best of his knowledge, it was fairly accurate. There was no absolute way to check anymore; with the fall of civilization went most of the things that made life convenient. Electricity was a sketchy thing at best. Oh, the power houses were still standing, but it was damned hard to find anyone willing to risk their lives to keep them up and running. With the loss of electricity, the ability to communicate across great distances with any ease was lost. It was funny, actually, how something so simple could literally bring a country to its knees. With the loss of communication, each state had been reduced to becoming totally independent from the rest of the country. Any news was slow in coming and usually out of date by the time it reached them. Finding couriers willing to make the trek from town to town, state to state was even harder than finding someone willing to watch the power stations. There were only a handful of couriers, a few hundred at the most. They were too damned few to be truly effective, but better than nothing at all.
They were fearless or reckless souls who braved the crossings time and time again; fierce fighters, all of them. They had to be, in order to survive. Because the things that hunted, the creatures that had risen with the temperature of the planet were ruthless, brutal, and hungry. Always hungry.