Tuesday, March 8, 2011

Week 1- The Lucky Ones

Saturday, March 8, 2121- Something happened late last night. I don’t know much yet, but it seems global. PIC communication has been jammed all morning, which really scares me. Radio chatter is filled with speculation from ignorant hillbillies, so everything I’ve picked up about biological warfare and the Armageddon sounds the same as every other conspiracy they’ve been spouting off since I’ve been out here. I haven’t addressed my crew yet. They’re as impressionable as the hillbillies. If I’m to have any hope of surviving whatever’s happening, I’ll have to be careful about what I let them know.

Anyway, even with the little information I’ve gathered so far, I can tell it’s going to be a story worth recounting. So, until things straighten out, I’ve decided to start recording daily updates. I’m not sure what I’ll do with them yet, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned in the last seven years, it’s that you can’t change the past, but only an idiot refuses to learn from it.

I’ll report until I’m dead or until things go back to the way they were, but neither option sounds much like a happy ending. 

Sunday, March 9, 2121- PIC communication was down yesterday because everyone still alive had to re-register. It’s back up now and it’s on fire. I’m still pretty isolated out here in the Ozarks, but the Coalition has been recklessly liberal with their information. They’re saying something called the Raptus Virus went global around three or four a.m. Saturday morning and consumed a good portion of the earth’s population. And I mean completely consumed. Nothing left but gold teeth and prosthetics. They’re not sure how many were infected by the original virus and how many died in the chaos that followed, but there was a 20 percent drop in population with the PIC re-registration yesterday.

Between President Rodriguez shutting down all E-train and sub-jet travel and presidential candidate Nerius Drake suggesting a socialist government, I’m not holding out much hope for help from above.

I got a contract this afternoon. I’m supposed to pick up two fugitives out West. I’m kind of surprised. The world is ending and the Coalition is still worried about its productivity. It’s not a bad business move, since their workforce was hit hard by the virus, but it takes some guts to secure your retirement when you might not even make it through the day. Oh well. That means job security for me. I guess tomorrow will be just like every other Monday. Business as usual.


Monday, March 10, 2121- I picked up the fugitives today. The first one, Dr. Tighe, came quietly. Those academic sorts always do. High and mighty in the classroom, but they can’t wait to roll over when it comes to the real world.

The second one, though, he was different. Areli Adva was his name. He might have been a doctor too. I don’t remember. He seemed more like a military man, but his file said he was a civilian. A lot of government contracting for combat training, though. It showed, too. He was sleeping in the Great Basin Cornfields when we found him, half dead already. We had him completely surrounded, but he still almost managed to get the jump on us. We had to tranq him. I was glad to get rid of him. I sold both of them to the Missouri Lumber Yards. He’s their problem for the next two years, or, at least, until the world ends.

Not much else happened today. Not out here anyway. I’m sure thing are going to hell in the cities. No wonder so many people are running for the hills. The Coalition couldn’t pay me enough to take a job in San Angeles or New Washington right now. That reminds me. I wonder if my parents are still alive.

Tuesday, March 11, 2121- I finally called mom and dad today. A part of me was waiting to see if they would call first. They didn’t. No one answered when I called them, either. I’m not too surprised, though. They wouldn’t answer even if they were alive. I might go back to New Washington eventually and see if they’re still there, but I’m in no hurry. Either they’re ignoring me or they’re dead.

I haven’t called Erica yet. She hasn’t called me, either. Whatever. Ivan, my 60-kilogram bullmastiff, is a better companion than she ever was.

Wednesday, March 12, 2121- I hate Wednesdays. I hated them even before the world was ending, but at least then I had an excuse. At least then I had weekends with cookouts, and golf trips, and boat races. I don’t have anything now but work, so I’m not sure why I hate them so much. Maybe it’s because they remind me of why I used to hate them.

Anyway, today was just as bad as every other day since nature’s failed attempt to get rid of us, but I hated it more. If I were a weaker man, I probably would have killed myself by now. Everyone else is.

Thursday, March 13, 2121- Business has definitely picked up. Between the chaos in the cities and the loss of so many of the Coalition’s workers, I have more contracts sitting on my desk than I ever have.

I picked up three more from the sub-jet tunnel coming out of New Washington. They really need to increase security in the tunnels. Anyway, before I dropped those three off at the fabrication headquarters in Houston, they were going on about the Great Tribulation. They said all this is the beginning of the end, in the Biblical sense. The oldest one of the three used to work for the CDC and he claimed that all of the victims of the virus were Christians. It’s the first I’ve heard of it.

Hopefully it’s the last.

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