N. White: The End - Visions of Apocalypse

Tick.

One of the subjects escaped on day four of trials. We aren’t sure how, but the complex guards were found in irreparable condition, to say the least. Retrieval units were sent immediately, but not before the damage was done. The subject was found eventually, but not before she had killed several citizens, and infected an unknown amount. Technicians and medical staff were trained to deal with contamination, of course, but outside personnel were not as prepared.

The entire region was quarantined, with suspected viral carriers placed in immediate lockdown and then euthanized as a precaution.

Two days later the FBC aired a report of Gard spies being captured in the area; I couldn’t determine the veracity of the report. Was it a cover, or truth?

I am not convinced that we are safe.

Twelve, his graduation party, his Uncle Isaiah coming in drunk, stinking of liquor. A fight had broken out between his father and Isaiah, blows struck and then a larger brawl as several family members and friends had jumped in to help. Which of course didn’t help at all; it never helped, it just meant more blood, more threads of anger and bitterness.

Eight, now, what had happened when he was eight? James’ memory had blurred again, and he couldn’t quite recall anything significant about that. Surely he should remember something? The timer hit seven before he even realized it.

Six, well, not much at all he could remember at that age, right? James was still stuck on eight, and he was getting a bit agitated that he couldn’t remember anything. He thought he had something, grasped it, then it disappeared again.

Four. What the hell was wrong with him that he couldn’t remember? He couldn’t even quite remember fifteen now, like it had happened so long ago that his memory eluded him. Or maybe it hadn’t happened at all. It was all starting to make James angry. It was like someone was tricking his brain, pushing and pulling memories and stories out of his head at will. He had vague impressions of things happening, but through it all was a common thread: anger. He was mad. He thought he had always been mad, at himself, at someone, anyone.

Tick.

I was right. We had an outbreak, not only among the populace outside our walls, but apparently technicians had managed to get themselves infected as well. The facility went on full-scale alert, with military troops expedited to maintain order and enforce the lockdown. I had it on good word that orders were given to shoot on sight if any showed signs of infection.

Advanced Sciences had the good fortune to bunker up in one of the secure wings at the facility. Major Thomsen was confident we would be safe there, but if not, he told me personally that if it came to it, he would ensure that I was evacuated to a safe location off-site.

Perhaps we should have reconsidered the name we came up with. Despite my calm exterior, I am terrified.

One. “Dammit! Shut that damn thing up!” James hit the console hard, hard enough that his knuckles came up bloody. He slammed it again for good measure; he was trying to think, and that damned thing kept counting down to him, like he cared. If it kept up, he’d look for something harder than his fist, shut that damned number-counter up for good.

He had no idea what the numbers meant anyway. Maybe they were his countdown, and when they hit zero he’d explode into sheer absolution, a pure rage that would envelop everything around him. They all deserved it.

James realized, like a revelation, that he did, too. He’d rip everything to shreds if he had to, including himself. He knew it with cold certainty.

Tick.

I haven’t seen Major Thomsen since. Things have gone from bad to worse, and there are telltale signs that the strain is already spreading beyond control. This will be my final log until I have been able to locate suitable secure arrangements for my exit. I wish that I had more time, wish that we had been able to contain this beast; it was reserved for our enemies, those that truly deserved it. Instead, we may have doomed the entire human race. I may have doomed them.

I must find a way out.

Forgive me.

Zero. James heard a rushing sound, followed by short thumps and vibrations. The console displays lit up, showing hundreds of blinking areas on the continental maps. He had a quick lucid thought, remembered for a moment what had happened, what he had just done. Unbidden tears streamed down his face as the displays changed, showing massive fireballs in the sky; regions of the earth faded into a brilliant white, and then blacked out. Humanity died millions at a time, along with most of the planet’s infrastructure, before the displays were all overcome by blackness or static.

For a second afterwards, there was a peaceful silence. Then the earth was quiet, save for the hiss of smoke and dying fire that only he heard. He saw the displays, full of noise, saw the blinking alerts and lights, but James heard nothing but the crackle of slowly burning ember.

James’ screams shattered the silence. His last thought, before a permanent and lethal rage overtook him, was that he had become Ragnarok.

Peter McLean lives in Norwich, England, with his wife and their two Siamese cats. When he isn’t being an account manager at a global technology outsourcing firm, he is busy writing about magic, fantasy, and demons. He is currently courting agents for his urban dark fantasy series.

Occult hitman Don Drake gambles his way into the debt of the nastiest demon in London. He can’t drink his way out of this one, but maybe he can make a deal with something else to save his skin. Something much worse…

He saw my warpstone and raised me an angel’s skull, and there was no way I could cover that bet. I had a Knight-high flush and the Tower, a fair hand in Fates, but that warpstone was all I had left. My palms were itching. I looked down at my cards, and the face of the Knight of Cups looked back up at me. He looked drunk and happy in his painted tarot world, the lucky sod. I was only drunk.

Someone laughed, away on the other side of the smoky club. Glasses clinked. Across the table from me, Wormwood was starting to look impatient. He lit another cigarette off the butt of the last and poked it between his thin, grey lips before he mashed the old one out in the overflowing ashtray beside him. A strand of his long hair was stuck greasily to the three-day growth of stubble on his cheek.

He rested his free hand on top of the skull and stroked the pristine white bone with fingers that were nicotine-stained to the colour of dark mahogany.

“Well, Drake?” he asked. “I ain’t got all bleedin’ night.”

I cleared my throat, and the waitress wiggled up beside me and poured another generous slosh of whisky into my glass. Very old single malt whisky. I nodded a thanks at her. She was pretty, I thought. Nice tail. Another night I might have tried it on with her, but this was serious now and I needed to concentrate on the game. I knocked the whisky straight back and set the glass down on the table.