N. White: The End - Visions of Apocalypse

James heard a scream behind him; they had reached the admin bay, broken the security doors. Alarms went off overhead, flooding the passageway with amber light and a low-pitched siren call. Terrified, he ran for the outer bay door, sealing it shut behind him, ignoring the shouts and curses that sounded from beyond it. He didn’t look back as they started pounding on the fortified doors, not even when gunfire erupted.

Down two flights of stairs, he jumped into the elevator; James quickly unlocked the elevator console with a flick of his imprint, frantically pushed the Vault button. With a whisper, the elevator doors slid shut and James plummeted down into the earth.

The first human trials, isolated examples, went almost too well. Within minutes the cooked virus had circulated with the air in the sealed chambers, and then quickly bypassed the body’s defensive systems. It slowly and methodically went to work on the subjects’ brain functions.

The subjects did not initially show any effects, and they tested at or below normal response limits for several hours. Symptoms began to show into day two; low levels of serotonin, along with virus mutations affecting the prefrontal cortex, changed the behavior patterns of almost every subject. Symptoms included raised tension levels, an outward hostility towards others, violent shows of anger and degraded memory function.

With a soft lurch the elevator stopped at the vault level, and James pushed his way through the doors, silently hoping that no one had heard him. He briskly walked, as quietly as he could, aiming for the bunker. As he moved, the alert sensors began to flash, rotating red lights that ran along the top of the walls in the corridor. He quickly decided that he was moving too slow, and he sprinted up to the bunker door, which was sealed shut; a flick of his security imprint and the vault door pushed outwards, allowing him entry. He breathed a sigh of thanks that his rank and office had given him clearance to the vault.

James was surprised to see that the bunker had not yet been claimed by any brass, or any other administrative staff. The displays that hung over the command console were all powered down, waiting for the override commands that would bring the console — and its sensor and command interfaces — to life. A small vault off to the side was closed, but James knew that food and water would be inside, likely enough to last him decades; the emergency rations were meant for more than one person.

With a short huff of relief, he used his imprint to seal the steel door behind him, and entered an additional encrypted security code to block external access. He was all alone.

Day three of human tests was the marker of the virus on infected men and women, most of whom were political prisoners with little inherent violent trends. Subjects manifested clear violent outbursts; they would attack, on sight, any person they could see, even if they could not physically get to them through the protective glass. The subjects would become so angry, so violent, that if they could not find an outlet they would inflict harm on themselves. We watched as subjects tore at their eyes, pulled out tongues, scratched their own flesh until only raw, bloody strips remained. Several subjects died on day three of human trials without ever touching another human being.

We allowed certain isolated subjects to confront one another, with obvious outcomes. It took several medical aides hours to clean up the mess that was left behind.

The viral strain worked perfectly. If it came to it, the enemies of the Confederation would have to deal with themselves, rather than our soldiers and weapons. Our armies wouldn’t need to fire a shot or kill another soul.

James watched from sensor-fed displays, his secure bunker several hundred feet below the surface. He had stopped crying several hours ago; a numbness had spread over him, almost a calmness, like he half-expected what was happening above to be nothing more than a dream he was sure to wake up from.

The displays blinked statistics, interspersed with videos. The compound had been overrun; the troops in place had initially resisted attacks from civilians and infected staff, but in the end it hadn’t mattered. After hours of exposure, everyone above broke and went after one another. The strain was spreading faster than even James had imagined it could.

The east coast had sank into outright chaos; entire military divisions had opened fire on civilians, trying to maintain control, before the virus had eaten through reason. They had turned on each other after that, missiles, bullets and fire turning communities, whole cities, into ash, smoke and death.

Humanity warred with each other, on a scale unheard of. Fires raged out of control; mobs of flesh and blood ran city streets, fought and slaughtered amongst themselves, turned on anything they came across. It wasn’t enough to defeat their foe, not when their foe was everyone else. Not when their mind told them that everyone, everything, was an enemy. Eventually it even told them, when there were no more enemies left to fight, that they had one left: themselves. The virus had become a vehicle of war, on an intimate, personal level.

Those that fled would spread the virus like a plague, and it would only be a matter of time before it would infect the continent, and then others. It would be impossible to stop.

That last thought gave James pause. Something stirred in the back of his mind, tried to tug its way loose. He frowned, struggled to remember, and when he couldn’t, James cursed his poor memory. Not like him at all to forget.

We had meetings with executives and military officials today, which were quite productive. After providing statistical outlays and a brief demonstration of our product in action, plans were put in motion to advance the research and production of the viral strain. The Confederation brass had several high priority targets that they had already considered as likely spots for live testing; we assured them that we could enter production at an aggressive rate.

The strain was codenamed in that meeting: Ragnarok.

James bypassed the security protocols, convinced that he was doing the right thing. Amber warning lights went off, and then dimmed once he had enacted the proper command codes. He entered the firing commands, clicking on approval sequences, and the countdown began. Numbers flashed on his display, and with each passing number, he recalled moments in his life; strange that every tick seemed to take minutes.

Twenty, the year he was accepted into the Advanced Sciences Division, and oh, how proud his Mom was at that. She had gushed to all her friends and family; James was embarrassed at first, but then it felt good to be noticed, to finally be really good at something. James knew, even then, that he would thrive at ASD.

Eighteen, the year he lost his virginity; what was her name again? Oh yes, Regina; she was a beauty, a fiery red-head with the temper to match. She had broken his heart two short months later, when she had run off with Bob Kane. James had never liked that guy anyway, come to think of it. A tinge of anger touched him then, but quickly passed with the next tick of the countdown.

Fifteen, his father’s funeral. He remembered crying for days afterward, his death a surreal dream until that moment when they buried him in the earth, when the shock of it finally hit James like a tidal wave. He was certain now that hole had never been fully repaired. The gap his father had left still marked him.

Where would everything be right now if he was still alive?