by nemarsde » 29 Oct 2009, 16:39
These may be my last words, I fear my story of our survival will shortly come to an end. My canteen is almost empty...
I don't fear the Reaper1. My sister once said I had a ghoulish streak, and perhaps it's this that has kept me going through the dark days.
But I dream of Cabot Cove2 more and more, a gentle place, O so beautiful and away from all this death. I often feel a sliver of regret at leaving good ole USA before the war, but at least this way I have not witnessed what became of it, as I have poor Europa.
Back in the States, when it looked like war was inevitable, Eleanor married her Senator Iselin3 and immersed herself in politics but my first love was writing. Taking up a special correspondentship with The Daily Globe4 I was packed off to Europe on an XL5 rocket with photographer, Jimmy Olsen6.
So I was in Germany at the start of World War 3 in '63, working on a story about secret drug experiments on G.I.s. I was interviewing an Army tank crew that claimed to have a tank haunted by the ghost of Confederate General J.E.B. Stuart7. According to the crew he'd been sent to watch over them by Alexander the Great and was greatly offended by the company's designation, Team Yankee8.
I can say that I never met the ghost, though Jimmy swore he had photos I never saw them. Nixon's assassination lit the powder-keg, all around us exploded into violence. Jimmy was killed in an air-raid on Rhein-Main Air Base, where he'd been developing his photos. I was on the front-line, but that tank crew proved almost supernaturally lucky and kept me safe from harm until I could be evacuated to Paris.
Wednesday, the 29th of January 1964. The nuclear holocaust could not rightly be called Doomsday, as it lasted only 2 hours and 58 minutes9. Being quite the transatlantic socialite, I was staying with the Comte de Bleuville10 at Piz Gloria in St. Moritz11. All we heard were news flashes and then nothing. Nothing at all. The Comte assured me that we were "quite safe" at his mountain retreat, but I soon realised what that meant. He had been cultivating a harem of the finest stock from across the world. His grand plan to repopulate the Earth involved him as stud.
I refused to be a plaything of this megalomaniac, and needed to find out for myself what was happening. Stuff him and his cat, I escaped with one of the tougher girls, Emma Knight12, daughter of Sir John Knight of Knight Industries and an expert in the martial arts.
Was Piz Gloria's famed revolving saucer actually an alien spaceship that had transported us to another world? Had we boarded at Earth and jumped ship in hell?
We wandered the war-ravaged landscape of Europe, I with macabre fascination as I wrote an account of the end of civilisation. On re-reading my first work, Ashes, Ashes, Fall Down Dead13 I saw that I had affinity with the morbid and - and found it liberating! This was a dying planet after all, was it not.
That may sound strange, but some survivors reacted more strangely. Some were ecstatic, gleeful. Had the end been nigh for that long a time? For a while some Christian sects were weeping tears of joy -- the Apocalypse, Armageddon -- soon would be the Last Judgement and their immortal reward. When it didn't come, some lost faith, others made excuses. The Catholics decided the holocaust could not be the Apocalypse and took to calling it the "Flame Deluge"14 instead.
There were new religions also. Alone after Emma's death in '69, I followed Ziggy Stardust15 and his Space Cadets. Staring red-eyed at the watch Emma's father had given her, her parting gift to me, I wrote The Dead Must Sing16. My outlook was bleak, I felt desperately alone, and Ziggy's message of peace and love and hallucinogenic oblivion lured me in. During our pilgrimage north I came to realise that I was part of a suicide cult and that the "Arrival" in Greenwich would be of an unspeakable horror. Unlike the rest of his followers, I'd studied at Miskatonic University17. I'd had room-mates in occult sciences, and had to sit through more than one of Randy Carter's writing classes18. So I can't say what happened to Ziggy, I didn't follow him across the ice sheet to Greenwich. But he and his cult vanished after '73.
Rumours of Ziggy Stardust's demise came back from the deep freeze of the British Isles, along with alarming news that the Martians had returned. Their Tripods19 had been improved and had incinerated the emergency government in its bunker. Now they were securing their captured position, herding up the last human survivors.
I wondered how their infamous heat rays dealt with vampires and the ravaging hordes of zombies, and then it struck me--- the Martians drank our blood too, didn't they. Were they then not just an alien breed of vampire?
I resolved then to investigate the significance of blood-drinking and flesh-eating. At first the "Sky Dark"20, the nuclear winter, was an obvious explanation for the spread of the vampire plague. Cannibals could surely be explained by the scarcity of any other meat. Maybe, but I still felt I was missing some vital clue.
My investigation led me south to the ruins of Rome. The city's historic centre had largely been spared the devastation as the warheads appeared to have targeted the industrial heartland to the south. This and the Vatican had made it a beacon to survivors from across Europe.
Here World War 4 was fought, and as Einstein had said it was with "sticks and stones". During World War 3 the West's military might had been committed in Central Europe and Indochina, and all supplies of equipment and ammunition had been shipped to the front-lines. So like in ancient times, the brutal savagery in Rome was red-handed.
Regardless of the factions, vampirism had escalated the conflict early on and by the time of our arrival Rome was a city of the damned. Moving about the city was difficult and dangerous. This was over a decade since the holocaust and my own health was deteriorating. Fortunately I'd gained the protection of a team of ex-Green Berets21. These four men had been deep in the jungles of Vietnam when the bombs dropped and undertook an incredible journey across Eurasia, commandeering a 12-wheeled Landmaster22 from an Air Force base. They survived as soldiers of fortune, looking for other G.I.s or sea-passage to the States. I asked why they couldn't commandeer a plane, but apparently their sergeant was petrified of flying.
Either way, they didn't mind a writer joining them, at least I had a mission and that gave them purpose. The Messengers of Midnight23 details my stay in Rome, the secrets I uncovered about the curse of vampirism, about dhampirs and zombies, about blood and the elixir vitae24. Like the cancer growing in my own body, I learnt that vampirism was a terminal disease infecting our universe with no two strains the same, planets and civilisations had succumbed to it. And as the last mortal beings die, the blood-suckers must seek new wellsprings of life on other planets, thus does the disease spread.
Blood-suckers from all space-faring civilisations would be drawn to Earth, like wolves scenting blood on the interstellar winds. Suddenly I realised why the Martians had returned. Even what little human life now remained on Earth was worth controlling, across the vast emptiness of space what choice did they have? I'd heard rumours that the Martians had built factories in the British Isle where people were now bred and slaughtered. I believed them.
When I wrote The Messengers of Midnight I'd speculated that the nuclear holocaust must have been some conspiracy, creating the perfect conditions for the uncontrolled spread of the disease. What I couldn't decide was whether some vampire cabal had consciously engineered the downfall of civilisation, or whether it was the manifest will of the disease itself.
In '81 I saw the first sign that I'd gotten it dead wrong. Nuclear fire in the skies above Europe, what caused it we don't know. Probably some defence satellite that had lain dormant for decades had launched its bright pebbles against a passing meteor. What we know is that the clouds of filth that choked the sky glowed, lit from above and for days even that defused sunlight burnt the skin. Many survivors along the coast were blinded and the triffid menace25 took root. Settlements had been trying to cultivate triffids for years, as food and fuel, but in the harsh nuclear winter the days were always dark. After the Great Blinding these stunted pot-plants grew enormously, uprooted themselves and started preying on blind survivors, who were now incapable of docking the triffid stingers.
The blast must have tore a hole in the sky, through which the intense rays of the sun could leak. For vampires caught out this meant a sudden if overdue cremation. For the zombies wandering mindlessly in deserted streets, unprotected, it meant massive burns, speeding their slow decay. For me it meant that the Sky Dark might not last forever.
By this time I was living alone in the wilds of Tataouine26 in North Africa and writing Endangered27. I'd left the snow-dusted ruins of Rome behind in '77 after we'd encountered the USS Sea Tiger28 in the harbour. The crew of this lurid pink submarine were celebrating the end of the world with one long party (aided no doubt by the gaggle of Army nurses they'd rescued on their voyages). Sea Tiger was on a Mediterranean cruise and bound for Greece. They'd put me ashore in Sciliy, I'd said goodbye to my ex-Green Berets and made the sea-crossing to the Barbary Coast.
What a surreal journey that was, gripping the gunnels of a small fishing boat, exhausted, no sleep and on rationed supplies. I saw a capsized ocean liner29, its keel silhouetted against black swells. I saw a shark the size of a school bus30 tear apart a boat in our flotilla and eat the poor devils it carried. Early one morning I saw two ultra-modern aircraft screech overhead31 and disappear into the east...
But across the sea I had finally found civilisation. Here the polyglot survivors, thousands of refugees from Europe had settled amongst the Saracens, creating many isolated hamlets and feudal realms. It was a new dawn for mankind, and what was the first thing we did? The same as the last thing. War.
World-weary I went south, a lone wanderer, craving to feel warmth in my old bones one last time. The temperatures in the desert swung from mild, mid-20 degrees during the day to subzero at night. I often dreamt of forests and savannah and wild animals, of greenery and clear streams, of paradise lost perhaps. The triffid menace had me thinking about the plant-like alien infestation that had been a periodic nuisance to pre-war Earth. The scientists and media had treated it like an annoying interplanetary fungus, each infestation an embarrassment that had cost the job of more than one politician over the years. Was there more to it than that? Had it been trying to gain a foothold on Earth too, like the Martians? Was this just the natural directive of any life form, or was there a subtle intelligence at work?
It was a gut feeling. Maybe it was old age, but this cave-dwelling hermit suspected there was a greater truth behind the fate of the world and had to know what it was before she died.
I needed access to military files and there was only one place I could think of that might house them. The strategic fortress-island of Navarone32. I started planning. Catching a ship at Algiers sea-port seemed like the only option. In a frivolous moment, I pictured crossing the Sahara and the Congo, and upon reaching the Victoria space-port33, rejoining 20th-Century civilisation in some orbital utopia. An appealing fantasy, but the hundreds of miles to Algiers would be an arduous enough journey, salt flats, arid mountains and open plains. To attempt the thousands of miles to Lake Victoria, through hostile desert and jungle, would be suicide. The fate of Victoria and the off-world colonies would remain a mystery to me.
I set out for Algiers then. The charming Lieutenant Holden of the Sea Tiger had told me North Africa's largest sea-port was still visited by crews for the salvage. I needed an intrepid crew with a hardy vessel for the voyage to Navarone. The sea had only grown more treacherous over the years and making landfall on the island would be an adventure in itself.
Leaving my cave and bearing north-west I had reached the salt flats of Chott Djerid when a sandstorm from hell descended on me. As the sun died on the horizon, the land was bathed in an evil red light. My strength was sapped by the ferocity of the wind and I fell. I could feel the storm tearing at me and in my delirium I saw shadow men, contorting around me, wanting to carry me off to hell34. I stabbed at them with my knife until finally, exhausted I collapsed unconscious.
I'm not sure how long I've lied here. I dug myself out of the sand, half-suffocated, but have yet to find my pack. Until I do I'm stuck here. I've used the water in my canteen to keep me searching for the jerrycan in my pack. The sky is aglow like it was in '81, but there's been no flash of an explosion this time. The clouds appear thinned and the temperature is soaring. I'm afraid... Is this the start of nuclear summer? Runaway global warming and the death of the planet? Are we all doomed after all? I don't fear that, I only fear not knowing why, why did we allow this to happen?
These last words are dictated into Emma's fancy wristwatch, and O how I wish she was here with me now. I will be nothing more than a tinny voice from the past, lost in the desert! I'm thirsty and so tired. This watch, this little box of tricks. It will outlast even my sun-bleached bones, to be found by some scavenger in the far-flung future.
I didn't press anything! A beep and codes flashing on the screen again! If only it didn't have so many buttons, I'm always pressing the wrong...
Wait! I see something on the horizon, far out on the salt flats and speeding silently towards me. A car like a black dart riding a mirage with dust in its wake35. Is this a knight in shining armour, come to save me? I must stand.
I am not done yet, it seems, and this may not be the last you've heard of Jessica McGill36!