"1 Year In"
Prologue
1 Minute In: It begins with light, a white wave that blazes through the city, shattering foundations, melting steel, and turning trees and people alike into ash. Monuments crumble into dust. Buildings are burned to their bones. Within seconds, the center of the nation's capital is reduced to a smoldering crater. The only remnants of the city are the scattered skeletons of buildings, charred black by the heat of the explosion. Those who have the misfortune to escape the epicenter of the explosion are instead seared to the bone by a wave of super-heated air. Even though the initial blast only reaches a one-mile radius, those on the outer edges of the city are still at the mercy of the radiation, which spreads out like the ripples in a pond, until Washington, D.C. has become one mass grave. The fortunate few who are far enough away to survive the bomb stare at the aftermath as the sky slowly turns a deep red, a sunrise at noon. They have no way of knowing that at that same moment, New York City, Chicago, Philadelphia, Los Angeles, and San Francisco are all ablaze.
2 Days In: The President, Vice President, Speaker of the House, President pro tempore, and Secretary of the State are all dead, killed either in the initial attacks or by the resulting radiation. By now, the word has spread that North Korea was behind the attack. However, it was joined by China. The true reason behind the nuclear attack has not yet been identified. However, the international relations between the United States and Asia had been deteriorating ever since the election of President James Walker to office. By the time the first nuclear missile hit, the United States had already returned fire, but by then there was no hope of averting the disaster. It was nothing more than vengeance, the final bite of a cornered beast sensing the end. As the shock from the explosions slowly fades, terror sets in. With the chain of command in disarray, the United States Military takes control. In the panic following the explosions, the death toll continues to rise as the survivors begin to succumb to dehydration and disease, or are killed by looters.
2 Weeks In: Aide to the affected cities decreases after an American Red Cross van is robbed and the doctors aboard are killed. What supplies actually make it to the cities are quickly hoarded by a small percentage of the survivors, while the rest are left with nothing. America declares war on North Korea and China, but the country is in such an upheaval that most of the soldiers are needed simply to keep the peace. England and France declare war on North Korea and China.
1 Month In: In the absence of an official leader, the military elects General Nathaniel Lawson to lead the United States. Aide to the afflicted zones increases slowly under his command. The areas surrounding the affected cities are evacuated. The hospitals are overwhelmed with victims of radiation poisoning. The announcement is made nationwide that all looters will be shot. For the first time since the attack, crime begins to decrease.
6 Months In: Every vestige of democracy is gone. After six months of limping along under the command of General Lawson, the government finally collapses, smothered by the body count that keeps climbing as the smaller cities run out of provisions and the radiation in the water slowly poisons the earth. While visiting Boston, General Lawson dies in an accident. His second-in-command, a general named Roger Casey, takes control. A small faction of the military breaks away and establishes itself in the Western states. General Casey announces that the primary objective of the military will from now on be to maintain order in the United States through any means necessary. A new, extremely aggressive form of influenza breaks out in California. The state is placed under quarantine.
8 Months In: Under orders from General Casey, the United States Army begins rounding up known criminals, suspected traitors, and dissenters. Those who resist are imprisoned or killed. Overwhelmed by the sudden rush of immigrants, Canada and Mexico close their borders to United States citizens. Hurricane Harland hits Florida, destroying Miami and the surrounding cities.
10 Months In: The population of the United States has been cut in half. Foreign aid continues to diminish as the situation shows no sign of improving. General Casey instructs the military to arrest anyone trying to leave the country. Roving packs of scavengers raid towns, abducting women and children and killing indiscriminately. The death toll continues to rise.
1 Year In
Part 1: The Survivors
Chapter 1: Out of the Ashes
The doctor picked his way through the rubble of the hospital. The only benefit of the end of the world was that you didn't have to forge prescriptions anymore. No one cared if you self-medicated. The problem was that after a year, most of the obvious places had been picked clean, which meant that in order to keep his pain under control, he had to venture into places that most sane people would avoid. This city had not been bombed, which lessened the risk of radiation poisoning, but a toppling wall would kill him just as effectively as a tumor.
He sidestepped a broken spear of metal piping that jutted out from the wreckage. Tetanus was just another convenient way to die nowadays. He had plenty of antibiotics with him, left over from last month, when he stumbled upon a pharmacy that had somehow escaped the notice of the other foragers. He had cleaned it out, filling his tattered doctor's bag, in addition to restocking multiple hidden stores that he kept stashed around his base of operations. Unfortunately, the pharmacy lacked the one thing he needed the most: Vicodin. He had a small stash of morphine, but in the kind of world the United States had become, you had to keep your wits about you if you wanted to survive. Once, two months ago, he had been unable to find any painkillers for over two weeks, and he finally caved in and broke into the morphine. It was a mistake that almost cost him his life. That same night, his camp was discovered by a stray band of raiders. Caught up in a morphine-induced dream, he had barely woken in time to hide. They had stolen most of his supplies, while he huddled underneath the burned-out shell of a white Chevy pickup. Ever since then, he had resolved to save the morphine for emergencies only.
As he walked, the doctor leaned heavily on a black cane. It helped relieve some of the pressure on his leg, but he still winced as he walked. His cane was the only familiar thing left. It had somehow survived the end of the world, like him. Although he knew that it was only an inanimate object, he couldn't help but feel a vague attachment to the last remnant of his life before what he liked to call "The Beginning of the End". It was an overdramatic idea, true, but if the collapse of modern America didn't merit some drama, what did?
He kicked aside a rusty can and fought the urge to curse. The hospital was a wreck. Finding any medicine would take all day. He disliked being out in the open for so long. This new world was even less kind to the infirm than the previous one had been. Most of the time, he stayed out of sight, preferring to save his errands for night. However, it would have been impossible to comb through this disaster area in the dark. His one and only friend had always told him that he was paranoid. This situation had not helped matters. The sound of a charred beam settling further into decay was enough to make him jump, fully expecting a bullet to coming crashing into his back.
After what seemed like an eternity of rummaging around in the rubble, he unearthed a battered prescription bottle. With one hand, he wiped the dirt off of the label. A frustrated groan escaped from him. Prozac. Great. He was about to toss the bottle aside when he heard a faint knocking. It was coming from a pile of drywall that he assumed had once been a waiting room. Still watching his step, he made his way slowly towards the sound. When he was four feet away from the wall, he heard a muffled voice accompanying the knocking.
"Hello? Somebody out there?"
"Hello?" The doctor called out.
"Finally. I've been stuck in here for hours. This stupid room just caved in on me. Could you…no wait…oh, finally. It's about time."
There was a sudden rumbling sound. The doctor stumbled back away from the wall moments before it exploded outwards in a rain of plaster. Waving a hand in front of his face, a man emerged from the chalky cloud. He was tall, thin but with a strong build. His thick black hair was in disarray, a turbulent black sea over thick black eyebrows and dark eyes that burned with an almost manic energy. He was dressed in a white shirt and dark jeans. The shirt was stained with blood, but the man did not seem to be injured. On the contrary, he held himself like a prize fighter, his shoulders straight and chin raised to a haughty angle.
The man looked over his shoulder at his prison. "I hate walls." He turned to look at the doctor. With a critical eye, he sized him up. "Just as well that my ability finally decided to clock back in. I doubt you would have been able to do anything anyway."
The doctor stiffened. "At least I'm not a moron who got trapped in a pile of rubble." He pointed at the stains on the man's shirt with his cane. "How did that happen?"
The man looked down at his chest. "Oh. Back when the room caved in, I didn't get out of the way as quickly as I'd have liked."
"Are you hurt?"
The man shrugged. "Not anymore." The corners of his mouth twisted upwards in a smile. "I'm special that way."
Taking care not to trip over the scattered pieces of plaster, the doctor ventured closer to get a better look. It was definitely blood, but he could detect no sign of a wound.
Part of him begged to take a moment and try to solve this anomaly, but self-preservation won out. He could always puzzle over it later. A sudden pain shot through his leg, causing him to wince and take a step back. His free hand moved down to massage his aching muscles. Vicodin. That was the main priority right now.
"How far into the hospital did you get?" he asked the stranger.
The man cocked his head back over his shoulder. "I explored most of the lower floor. Nothing too interesting in there. The food is all gone from the vending machines. I wouldn't risk it, not in your condition."
"What about the pharmacy? Did you see any pill bottles left?"
The man considered the question, and then nodded. "Yeah, I saw plenty of pills. Towards the back of the hospital. The walls are pretty unsteady, though. Are you sure you want to go in there?"
"Absolutely."
The man stared at him for another moment. Whatever he saw, it seemed to convince him that the doctor wasn't joking. "Fine. I'll tag along. You never know; you might need a hand, or a leg." This time his smile had an edge to it.
The doctor smiled back. "And you might need rescuing if another wall decides to pick on you."
"Touché." The man held out his hand. "My name's Gabriel."
Since his pride was still stinging a little bit, the doctor left Gabriel hanging for a few seconds before leaning forward to take his hand. "I'm House."
"Nice to meet you, House." He gestured towards the ruined hospital. "Shall we?"
The front of the hospital had been gutted by an explosion, leaving chunks of concrete scattered across a once grand entryway and waiting room doors sagging on broken hinges. In a few places, the walls had completely collapsed. House glanced up at the ceiling and immediately wished that he hadn't. The ceiling looked ready to drop on their heads at the slightest provocation. He picked up the pace as much as his cane and the general state of disarray would allow. Gabriel led the way, striding purposely a few steps ahead, surprisingly unperturbed for a man who had just escaped from a cave-in. Following behind him, House could see more dried blood on the back of his neck, almost as if his head had been cracked open. However, like with the shirt, there was no visible sign that any injury had occurred.
He noticed that the man was wearing a watch. "I thought one of the perks of the end of the world is that you didn't have to worry about being late for anything. Why wear a watch?"
Gabriel didn't even glance at it. "It's broken."
"Then why wear it?" House asked.
"To remind myself," said Gabriel."
"Of what?"
"Of who I once was." Gabriel looked back over his shoulder at House. "You're awfully inquisitive."
"You're awfully interesting," said House.
"Nice to hear. I've always thought so." Gabriel pointed ahead. "The nurses' station is just ahead. It's got piles of bottles in it. I didn't bother to clean it out when I was back here. I don't have much use for painkillers. That's what you're after, right?"
House paused to massage his leg. "How did you guess?" He pulled a pill bottle from his pocket and shook two white pills out onto his palm. Ignoring Gabriel's piercing eyes, he swallowed the pills.
"Intuition. I'm a slave to it."
When they reached the nurses' station, House tried to open the door. It must have been blocked from the inside, because it refused to budge, no matter how hard he shoved on the door. Gabriel motioned him aside. "Let me."
House expected for Gabriel to try to shove the door open just like he had done. Instead, Gabriel simply stared at the door and raised his right hand. Fingers extended stiffly, he pushed at the empty air. The door flew inwards, crashing against the opposite wall.
Noticing House's stare, he shrugged. "I told you, I'm special. I'm guessing you're got it from here? Since we're back here, I'd like to check out a few more rooms, if that's alright with you."
Without waiting for House to respond, he turned and walked down one of the adjoining corridors. "See you later."
It took House another five infuriating minutes of rummaging around in the nurses' station to find the right bottle. The explosion that had taken out the front of the hospital had not reached this far back, but the force of the detonation had been enough to knock every pill bottle onto the floor. A few had even broken open, spilling their multi-colored contents across the floor like a broken gumball machine. He ignored the antibiotics and anti-depressants for the moment, focusing on his true goal like a drowning man focusing on a life raft. The moment he spotted the familiar label, he let out a breath that he hadn't known he was holding. True, he had a decent store of Vicodin already stashed, but with every passing day it became less likely that he would find any more to replenish his supplies. Every bottle pushed back the terrible Detox Day. He could still remember the last time he had been forced to break free from Vicodin. That time, he had been in a hospital, and it had still nearly killed him. Part of him hoped that he would die before he ran out. He risked another glance up at the cracked ceiling. At this rate, he would probably get his wish.
In total, House was able to find six bottles of the blessed white pills. He hurriedly stashed them into his bag, only taking the time to pop one into his mouth. Next, he began a more careful search of the bottles. He would have liked to take all of them, just in case, but it was a long, arduous hike back to his hideout, and he only had the one bag with him. He examined each bottle, trying to decide whether he would need it in the future. He left the anti-depressants and other psychological medications alone, preferring to stock up on antibiotics. If the end of the world wasn't enough to push him to suicide, nothing would be. It wasn't like the situation could get much worse. The military had almost completely abandoned their feeble efforts at restoring America to the shining empire it had once been. Now they were more concerned with fighting the roving packs of bandits who preyed off of the weak and defenseless and arresting anyone who had the misfortune to look suspicious. It had been months since House had seen a policeman in uniform.
Well, at least they were able to confine the influenza outbreak to the West Coast. When he had heard about the new strain of influenza that was racing up and down the coast of California, he had thanked the heavens that he was in Ohio, something which he had previously never expected to do. After faking his death, he had decided to reestablish himself somewhere no one was likely to come looking for him. He had been at Grant Medical Center in Columbus on the day that everything changed. Not as a doctor; those days were over. He had been a patient after wrecking his motorcycle. Everyone had panicked when the news hit. The doctors and patients alike had run up and down the halls, trying to evacuate, convinced that Columbus would be next. He had decided to take advantage of the situation and slip out before someone had the chance to ask any uncomfortable questions about his past or why he had been carrying three bottles of Vicodin when he crashed his bike. All of the hullaballoo was pointless, as far as he was concerned. If somebody decided to nuke Columbus, there was very little that they could do to stop it, so there was no point in making a fuss.
After leaving the hospital, he had found an abandoned apartment and hunkered down to wait out the chaos. He had originally intended to only stay there for a few days until the streets quieted down, but he had ended up staying in the apartment for over four months. Just as well, as it turned out. Two months after the nuclear strikes, a riot had broken out, only five blocks from his apartment. The third shipment of emergency provisions had been redirected under orders from the military, and the citizens of Columbus had taken it as well as could be expected. They had protested, and then the protests turned into a riot, and then the riot had turned into a battle. In the end, the military had sent in troops to subdue the insurgents. Still on edge from the nuclear attacks, they ended up destroying almost as much of the city as the rioters. This hospital had apparently been one of the casualties. After a few weeks of fighting, both sides simply gave up, many of them preferring to abandon the city than help it limp along. Eventually, House had moved out into a more suburban section. At present, he was living in the basement of an abandoned split-level, a half-day's walk away from the heart of the city. It was remote, but safe.
To be honest, disease worried him more than actual physical violence. It wasn't that the thought hadn't crossed his mind that a lone cripple presented the perfect target for a robbery; he simply preferred to focus on the dangers that he could actually do something about. As he continued to search through the piles of nondescript bottles, his thoughts drifted back to the strange man who had evidently become his new foraging companion. Gabriel. He hadn't offered any last name, but then, House hadn't given out his first name. Full names didn't mean much anymore. The far more interesting mystery was the blood on his shirt and neck. If Gabriel had actually lost that much blood, he should have been hardly able to stay on his feet, much less shove his way through a plaster wall. Then there was his trick with the door. It was insane, but House could have sworn that Gabriel had pushed the door open just by moving his hand. However, that was impossible. Psychics didn't exist. He must have been imagining things.
House's curiosity had very nearly gotten him killed on more than one occasion. Of course, it had also helped him save dozens of lives. He craved puzzles even more than Vicodin. One thing was certain; Gabriel was more than he seemed. Suddenly, House's leg didn't bother him at all.