Realistic or Modern T-Minus Never

[Vudukudu]

With Liberty taken care of, Ryan spins in his chair just enough to pull the black notebook on the corner over. With total nonchalance, he kicks his feet up onto his desk like a student waiting for the bell, chewing the back end of a pen as he flips to the right section. The notebook is an old relic of a time when kids went to actual schools, and the paper and binding, though familiar, feels like it belongs to another lifetime, maybe another person. It was a little reminder of why he did all this - for Hannah, for his sister, for all the little kids out there who'd fired a gun before they'd learned how to count past 10.

He swallows that thought as he thumbs through the sticky note tabs on the side of the notebook, opening it to the one that is simply marked with an X in black ink. Casualty estimates trickle down the pages in neat rows, estimating the loss of life on both sides if NUSA were to call in an airstrike, mount a ground invasion with the intent to conquer, or simply raze the place to the ground. Other strategies, including Protocol Six, were further down the page. That row required input from the infection spread simulation on his computer, and he'd already run it a few times over without filling in the designated section on the page. The Mall's population was too large to use such tactics. Triggering a hot outbreak among the children was out of the question, even if he'd had to do it before to wipe out opposition. Data from the Crash showed neighborhoods with an elementary school in them suffered greater fatalities than almost any other, once you excluded urban centers. Those that didn't cooperate with NUSA's aims had learned the hard way that statistics are a lethal weapon.

Fortunately for the denizens of the Mall, such extreme measures were out of the question, at least for now. He doesn't strike out the row, but he does flip to another section to go over his more friendly survival-oriented notes. There was a lot about the Mall he intended to change. It was stagnant, committed to wasteful practices, and its lack of substantial trade networking implied to him that it had met its survival needs through more competitive means using its large security force. He had no proof, but it was simple political theory. Mancur Olson had written on the matter of Stationary Bandits vs Roving Bandits decades before, and the apocalypse had unveiled a new brand of bandit - Stupid Bandits. Stationary ones became kings, promoting internal security and growth to enrich themselves. Roving bandits had no purpose but to loot and destroy, traveling and bringing anarchy with them. Stupid Bandits, as DHQS operatives often referred to them, were those that lacked the foresight to cultivate growth within their influence and took on the behaviors of the infected , consuming until there was nothing left to consume. The Mall, he suspected, was one such organization, given its modest trade contacts and the lack of other sizable settlements nearby in a conveniently walkable radius. It would need new leadership and a change of direction, or it would finally find nothing else to eat except itself.

He scrawls down a new entry on his list of criticisms of the Mall's organization and management, adding "Bamboo crop" to the list. They were using it to make paper for a newspaper of all things, and even that was just a clever way to avoid calling it a propaganda piece. That same land would be better used on GMO crops, hardy ones capable of surviving the unpredictable weather of the climate disaster coinciding with the undead one. Best to put the field of it to the torch to return nutrients to the soil and to replace the potted plants with food crops as well. He'd taken a brief survey to discern eating habits and found that most inhabitants of the Mall could stand to eat quite a bit better, even if they might not hit a desirable number of calories per day, and every bit of surplus food helped. The kids were probably nutrient deficient for proper growth, and that meant they might not be as strong as they needed to be to keep waging the war they would have to when they came of age. True meaningful victory would take a generation or more to secure in terms of military manpower and the supplies it theoretically takes to kill a planet's worth of undead. That was the optimistic thinking, and the pessimistic line of thought is that humanity will put itself to the torch well before then, drowning in its own blood as desperation and dwindling resources force internal competition.

Ryan sips his scotch and opens his laptop. Another day, another simulation, another night alone wondering how much blood he'll have to dip his hands in to make sure there's a future. It would be good to have a friend. He should call his wife. It had been a few days.

 

[spottednewt]

Leaving Ryan’s office after what felt like a lifetime of scrounging on the road felt surreal. There were times that she forgot places like this existed - places where people had offices and neighbors. Bitterness and determination twisted in her stomach for reasons that she couldn’t quite untangle. Bill Archer had neighbors and an office - she was in the field to make sure of it. In that fleeting moment, Liberty found herself angry. Angry for the state of the world that this little oasis in a sea of shit had become a Mecca of sorts after thousands of years of human development. Art, technology, architecture, culture - all things that would be lessened when - and if - the human race made it to the other side of this catastrophe.

Taking a pause, Liberty placed a flat hand on the wall next to her, pressing her eyes shut as she let herself feel the anger before filing it away with all of the other things that were out of her hands. This was, in many ways, an oasis, and she had made it against all odds. Liberty would be grateful for this moment if it killed her; and for some reason, that determination calmed the storm in her chest.

Still clutching the money she’d been given in her other hand, Liberty studied it carefully as she pushed forward. Propelled by an invisible force, she stuffed the currency into her pocket and made her way back into the main drag of the building.

Having found the purpose of her afternoon, it wasn’t long before Liberty found herself beneath the needle of one of the shadiest people she’d ever met; a questionably pale man who introduced himself as “Circle-K, the Mall’s resident Inkmaster.” While the man’s name felt fitting, the declaration of divine tattooing talent did not. Regardless, but a small fee, he’d agreed to print “Lucky” in a typewriter front on the back of Liberty’s left shoulder - as though she needed another reason to be sore.

As she straddled the dining room chair that he’d seated her in, hugging the back support as the sound of the gun rattled her brain, she took another moment to be grateful that he had a gun, rather than just a set of stick-n-poke needles. The stick-n-poke artists these days always seemed better at their craft, but not one fiber of her being felt prepared for the time commitment that might entail. Finished and visibly pleased with his painfully average work, she asked him to add another squiggle to the collection on her ribcage, almost as an afterthought while her tank top was all twisted up and dotted with ink anyway.

After politely denying Circle-K’s kind offer of a romantic, candlelit dinner to the soothing sounds of the (hopefully) last Rammstein CD in known existence, Liberty was quick to make space between herself and that particular corner of the mall. Even as she left, she was still considered roughing him up a little bit for not having any decency; but the weakness in her limbs and her better sense won the internal argument. Instead, she took her time wandering the stalls of the mall, picking up a flask of moonshine and a new, coveted set of lacy underwear on her travels. The fact that they were here, in this dark and dirty place was a wonder, but the fact that the set was also in her size was nearly enough to knock her off of her feet. Liberty reckoned that the only reason that they were still for sale among this particular merchant’s relics of a bygone era, was that they were painfully impractical. They may be itchy, but these were more for the butt in her heart than her physical one. After all, McCarthy had told her to do whatever she needed to be back in ship-shape.

With her findings packed away in the cargo pockets of her pants, she was content to spend the rest of the afternoon window shopping and blowing the last of the money she’d been given on strange new street foods.