PROLOGUE
Ambient Music
The second day of Spring had a cozy warmth about it. The survivors stationed in Murrell’s Inlet had managed to keep track of the months and seasons since the start of it all; first with a paper calendar, then with the drawings of a child on paper, then finally they would burn one end of a stick, then use that end to scrawl dates in the mayor’s office in the town hall. Subsequently, an announcement would go out the day of with the current date. They had missed a few days or two, like during an infected siege five years back, but had mostly kept up with the times. The infected sieges had been only getting worse,
It was miraculous that they had been able to hook up the intercom system the way they had, then. Long, intricate wires stretched through buildings like spiderwebs, all to keep five various speakers hooked to poles working. A combination of fifteen solar panels, one wind turbine and two backup fuel generators powered the intercoms and around three sirens, but nothing else. The survivors had to get used to cooking meat on a spit. The rest of their rations would be eaten cold, ranging from artichokes off of the farm to pop-tarts. The farm was all that remained of the town park, now used for carrots, green beans, tomatoes, potatoes, corn and the aforementioned artichokes. All civilians were required to farm once a week; failure to do so would result in loss of ration cards, or in extreme cases public beatings. It had been two years since the last public beating.
Squads of military would sometimes leave the relative safety of the QZ to retrieve supplies. People needed something more than vegetables and debated fruits every now and again. No survivors were allowed outside of the Quarantine Zone, but the soldiers weren't stupid, naive, dumb, ignorant or any other synonym you could think of. They knew that survivors would leave on a freedom kick or some way to get food without doing any menial labor. Sometimes they thought that the soldiers were holding out; a few of the crazies considered that they were in some kind of Truman Show experiment, that the outside world was perfectly fine and these soldiers were just lying to them. Most survivors who left the QZ did not return. A few lucky people came back, shell shocked or with a few boxes of food that would be confiscated soon after if not hidden well. One man who came back woke up the next morning and bit a chunk out of his daughter’s shoulder.
Thus began the infection checks.
On Tuesdays, Thursdays and Sundays, every morning every citizen in town was required to come to the town hall in order to be checked over for infection. A simple swipe of one of their scanners, a handheld, PDA looking device that could find an infected in seconds. The survivors were herded in, each made to stand in line in front of one of the ten soldiers checking them out with the scanners. If they swiped green, they were good to continue about their day. If the screen came up with a bright red, flashing INFECTED on it, you were dragged off and executed, out of earshot and eyesight. Those who did not bother to show up were rounded up and forced there by patrolling soldiers. Those who resisted were shot, beaten or stabbed and killed.
“Good morning, Murrell’s Inlet! Happy second day of Spring!” A cool voice boomed over the intercoms. “The date is Tuesday, March 21st, 2035. So, get on up to the town hall, get checked and head back on with your business! Today’s extra ration cards will be going to those who help Mrs. Abernathy clean up the vines around the town hall fountain. First come, first serve!”
The sharp ring of feedback woke Sullivan Trotsky up. He breathed heavy, sitting bolt upright in his bed, before rubbing his temple. He moved out of his bed, managed to comb out his greasy black hair. The brush only got tangled up with the thick, coarse hair a few times, but other than that he had no troubles. He brushed his teeth for the first time in a week, numb pain in him. He had to conserve his toothpaste; they didn't have much left. He spit blood out into the sink, then walked away from the stained, bloody bowl of ceramic. Most people would brush without toothpaste, but not him. He had grown so used to the feel, the tenderness and decayed mint taste of it. He had become addicted to the tube. He had to conserve it, he had to.
Sullivan soon got dressed, a vest of body armor on with an M4 rifle slung over his back. He would wear no helmet today, for he feared the sun beating on his head. By the time he had locked his door, he realized that the sky was gray. Clouds had begun to billow up, rain soon to burst from them soon. Sullivan signed, too lazy to unlock his apartment and nab his helmet. He was pretty sure Francis kept an extra on him, anyways. Besides that, Sullivan was already late and needed to move on.
He watched civilians leave their homes and move towards the town hall, yawning, stretching and all other manner of wake up rituals. Sullivan stumbled along the road, yawning along with them. Many of the citizens journeying to the town hall were shopkeepers. They’d sell smuggled items in exchange for ration cards, and the military wouldn't prevent it. FEDRA might have, but the last time a FEDRA agent had shown up was two years ago. They were pretty much on their own, due to focuses in Boston and Philidelphia. Sullivan wasn't even sure what had happened out in those places; last time he had contact from them was the same time that FEDRA agent had shown up. In fact, the person who had traveled the farthest and ended up here was that guy from Utah. Sullivan wasn't sure what his deal was, but something he didn't like.
For the survivors to grab ration cards, they’d have to work hard. Jobs to get ration cards included just about anything; filtering water from the coast, fishing, shopkeeping, entertaining, assisting the doctors, teaching, you name it. Those who refused to work or who couldn't work were at the mercy of the kindness of others.
Sullivan waved to some of the people while he walked down the street. This Mexican guy, Jose Rodriguez, came strolling down with a pep in his step. “Sullivan! Hermano, que pasa?” He crooned, holding a hand high in the air as a wave. Sullivan smiled and waved back. “Keeping the streets safe.” Jose laughed. “Okay, amigo. Have fun with that!”
“Yeah, you too!” Sullivan called back to him, shaking his head and grinning. This girl came stumbling past him, short brown hair atop her head. She brushed past him, grinning slyly as she did. “Oh, excuse me Sully.” She walked off, swaying hips with her torn jeans. Sullivan grinned. He had to ask Macy out sometime.
Sullivan finally reached the wall, climbing up the ladder. He stood in the watchtower, high above the concrete wall and the rest of the landscape. If he turned his back, he could maybe even see the coast from here. The one thing that struck him as strange was he had no partner standing in the watchtower beside of him today. Francis had disappeared, gone from sight. Sullivan sighed, pulling walkie-talkie from his belt and talking into it. It was starting to give out; he’d have to replace the batteries with some of the forty AAs that had come with his military gear. “Command, this is Corporal Trotsky. Is P-F-C Johnson coming in today?”
He awaited a response, fiddling with the batteries on his belt. Before he could take the back off, a voice spoke threw it. “Negative Trotsky. Johnson is being trained in the infection check since Private Boone’s leg is still broken.”
Sullivan groaned, held the device up to his mouth, and spoke. “Copy that, central.”
Another long, boring, rainy day.
***
Staff Sergeant Emily Porter watched the masses pouring in, seated behind one of the ten desks in the wide open town hall. She frowned, then turned to the teenager behind her. Private Hale Rose stood at attention, holding a rifle in her hands. “Remember, Private Rose. Watch me.” She took her index finger and her middle finger, pointing at her own eyes then back to Hale’s over and over. She turned back again, a sheet of paper listing the names of all 137 citizens in the QZ in alphabetical order. She looked up, the civilians stepping in and milling about. They were scanning them in twos today, the sudden influx in survivors forcing to resort to speed instead of details.
She pointed at two of them, a chubby black man with long scraggly hair, and this muscular white dude with brown hair and blue eyes. He wore a tattered white shirt along with a pair of blue jeans, a standard getup for one of the civilians. The black guy had a stranger getup, namely due to his cotton ball hat, despite it being around fifty some degrees outside. She looked at the two, then glanced back at Hale. “Here,” she spoke, handing the young soldier a scanner, “You scan the one I don't, got it?” She whispered this fast, before the two civilians could speak. She glared at them with tired, weathered eyes. Her left raised eyebrow stretched her sagging skin, and she began to speak once more. “Names?”
***
Sergeant Mason Walsh was seated at another of the desks, eyes drifting down the paper up and down. Behind him was the young black twenty-year old Francis Johnson, eager to start. He already had a scanner in hand, ready to scan one of those coming in. In a way, he was hoping that one of them was infected; but Mason would have to quell his anxiety, if he didn't want the rookie to move too fast. The two men approached. One of them, somebody that Francis had recognized leaving the walls multiple times, towered over Mason, even if he was standing. He was 6’1, six inches over Mason's tiny 5’7. His green eyes glimmered in the light through the windowpane. The other man Francis did not recognize; he assumed that this man was one of the newcomers. He wore a beanie and a yellow jacket, one that would look at home with the Fireflies. Francis narrowed his eyes, as Mason said the word.
“Names?”
***
As the Russians walked in, two of the soldiers caught their eyes on them, singling each one of them out. One of them, who was nothing but a plucky Corporal called two of them over. The tall, fat man and the manly looking girl with the pink hair shambled over, heads hung low. “The fuck’s getting you two down?” She bit from behind her face mask and riot helmet. The woman looked over the piece of paper on the table before her, then stretched her hands behind her head. “What the fuck ever, I don’t give a shit. Names?”
The other soldier, a red haired, pale and freckled man with eyes constantly darting back and forth, waved the remaining of the group over. An older woman, maybe fifty or forty-five came walking up, along with some girl with a limp. He scoffed at them, snorting air. “Names?” A shrill voice pierced their ears, his eyes unblinking seemingly.
