The Last Dark Age of Man

by Michael Burnett

Part 1 appears in this issue.

conclusion

“It’s all here. You were right. About everything.”

“Tell me what it says, George,” I reply, glancing up from the sofa at Callow, who’s seated at my desk, the blue light from the laptop screen illuminating his exhausted face. It’s almost time for morning bell, and we’ve been up all night.

“This is from a classified memo sent three hours after your hearing with the Board of Directors. And I quote,” Callow begins:

Director Kaye: I refer to the most recent report from Dr. Grafton’s research team, operating out of Laboratory Six. Given Grapsus pictanaevatus’ ability to filter a diverse range of toxins, rendering them safely within the modified chitin structure, Grafton’s Colossus is a ready source of food for our colony that we should begin to exploit without further delay.

The modified chitin itself likely represents opportunities for advancement in diverse engineering applications. Although we have barely begun to consider the possibilities, I am confident that the substance, as well as the organism itself, could be applied to military projects that may provide distinct advantages in the event of hostilities between colonies.

Callow shakes his head in disbelief, his single remaining hand closed into a frustrated fist. His voice comes out bitter and angry. “They know that the other Bunkers will never agree to our keeping this find to ourselves. That goes against the Accord.”

“They want to use the Colossus to make war,” I respond. “Pre-emptive strikes.”

“They’ve already got proof of its effectiveness against human beings,” Callow replies, looking down at the stump that hangs uselessly below his shoulder joint.

“We must let Dr. Grafton know immediately. Raise the alarm. The people of Bunker Nineteen will not want this.”

“No,” Callow replies, his face suddenly hard and determined. “We must act. Now.”

* * *

Getting past the Directors’ firewall took more than two months. I’m a scientist, not a hacker, so I had little to do as Callow wrote the virus that would shut it down long enough to get a message out to the other bunkers via the long-range radio network.

Back at Laboratory Six, new orders came down from above: Dr. Grafton was ordered to refocus our team’s research activity exclusively on deconstructing the plastic-chitin material and finding a way to synthesise it from materials brought in from the Garbage Patch.

Rumours began to spread that Laboratory Eight had begun a behavioural modification programme involving dozens of Colossi, although no-one from the Lab would speak of it openly. Shiploads of the creatures began to appear shortly after, packed into closely stacked crates in Bunker Nineteen’s docking areas; soon after that, crab meat began to turn up in our meals in various guises.

Morale was higher than ever: people began to talk about reclaiming the surface for humankind in hushed, excited tones. But for me, those weeks passed like an anxious, sleepless nightmare. Callow and I spoke only rarely to avoid raising suspicion.

At last he came to me, knocking on my door in the dead of night. “The message is out,” he said in a voice subdued by dozens of nights sat at the computer, instead of in the warmth of his bed. “All we can do now is wait.”

And then he was gone. For the first time in weeks, I sank into my bed happy and calm. We’d done it. We’d finally done it, and everything was going to be alright.

* * *

I awake to the deafening noise of sirens.

I groan, holding my ears with my hands against the din. My eyes squeezed shut, I watch the play of the red emergency light that penetrates the skin of my eyelids, not moving a muscle as I try to get my bearings.

What on Earth is going on?

I think of fire, then of flood. I leap out of bed, suddenly terrified, barely noticing the chill of the air and the metal floor as I try to focus my thoughts. I throw on a pair of cargo trousers and a canvas jacket, then jam my feet into my work boots, almost pitching headlong into the floor in my haste. I head to the door then, placing my ear against it, try to make sense of the noises beyond it.

I hear the thudding noise of running boots. I hear a man shout, and a high, terrified scream. Something falls to the floor and the sound of boots, slower this time, recedes into obscurity. Now all I can hear are the blaring sirens, all I feel is cold dread, blossoming like a poisonous flower inside my gut.

Betrayal.

“I have to find Dr. Grafton and the others,” I mutter to myself, pushing the fear aside. “We have to get out.”

I listen from behind the safety of the door for another few seconds. Hearing nothing, I push it open with trembling hands and step into the corridor. In another second, I’m running for the southwest atrium; from there I can make my way to the surface via the emergency stairwell. My plan for escape extends no further than that, but it’s the best I’ve got.

I trip on something hard and fly forward, landing painfully on my elbows. I turn around, already knowing what I’ll see. The prone form of a woman lies motionless, hands clutching a bag of belongings that are now half-spilled out across the floor. She is dead. Dark blood, black in the red lighting, pools on the ground below the body, spreading across the floor.

Who is responsible for this?

“Hey, you! Stop!”

My instincts are screaming like banshees in my head. I don’t turn around or stop. As I scramble off the floor, bullets ping about me, ricocheting off steel sheeting and supporting beams like a swarm of angry hornets. The voice shouts again, but now I’ve rounded the corner, mercifully unhurt. But I am far from safe. I can feel the danger bearing down on me; each of my muscles is tensed and ready to defend my body. Already I’ve forgotten about the others. Now it’s me against the world.

I pass the open door of another resident’s room to see two bodies slumped on the floor, holding each other in a tight embrace. Three more bodies lie further down the corridor, and one is still moving. But I have no time to stop. I can’t stop now.

The door to the atrium is just ahead: the sickly green light of the exit sign glows like a lighthouse in the gloom. I stumble towards it, aware of nothing else but the light and my own primal craving to survive: to survive, at any cost.

I burst through the door to see a line of figures, clad in grey riot armour. Each one is holding an assault rifle, aimed and ready to fire. A powerful white light shines into my face and I freeze up, standing unmoving in the violent glare.

Blinded, I hear two voices speak. I hear my name. “You’re Dr. Blake Isett?”

But I am paralysed. I try to speak but no sound comes out.

“Answer him!” another voice sounds from behind, and I feel the back of my head erupt with agony. I fall to the floor, the pain pushing me down as I force the word yes from my throat. Two rough hands grab my right shoulder, then another pair clamp down on my left. As they drag me across the atrium, I hear the first voice speak into a radio.

“Yes, sir. We got him... Yes, it’s definitely him, heading back to Command for debriefing.”

My mind reels. Command? Who are these people? I try to think, to understand, but I feel leaden and stupid, collapsing under the weight of my pain and confusion. I feel my grip on consciousness loosen; the voices around me become less distinct, the vowels seeming hollow, the consonants amputated. The soldiers are speaking again. I grit my teeth, resolving to listen to them. If I am to survive, I’m going to need every piece of information I can get.

“The only Bunker naïve enough to actually contact us,” one of the soldiers is saying. He laughs cruelly. “I just heard from Nesbitt: they’ve still got years of food in here. And then there’s those creatures...”

Another bunker.

Realisation hits me full force, and I choke on my own saliva. The soldier to my right curses and kicks me in the ribs. The blackness spreads out across my vision again and the voices recede to vague echoes. I’m left alone with my pain and my thoughts.

So, this is what it’s come to. It had never crossed my mind — any of our minds — that another bunker might go rogue. But it makes sense, now that the brutal facts have finally come knocking, much as they did for our ancestors, centuries ago. We’re fools: that much is plain to see.

Nothing’s changed. Nothing at all.

The only difference is that now we’re carrion feeders, cannibals, feeding off the scraps of a dead world. Even in our broken state, we seek to dominate whatever weakness we can root out.

As the soldiers corral myself, along with a few dozen other scientists, into a vast prison ship, I know that they will not stop there. I know that they won’t stop until every last bunker, every last vestige of life, has bent its knee to their will. I am broken, and I know nothing anymore, save for one stark, unyielding truth.

Man is as man ever was. And now, a new and terrible Age of Man has dawned.

Proceed to Challenge 930...