Excerpt from Chapter Three of After The Dawn by Riley Winters

When Morta Cerebra had its first outbreak and caused the Black Dawn thirteen years ago, it didn’t take me long to realize that the world had finally collapsed into chaos. What wasn’t too easy for me was accepting and acknowledging that fact. See, I had it in my head, and knew it full well — but I hadn’t found the courage to make peace with it yet. It was sort of like the elephant in the room, the glaring issue that I knew was there but refused to come to terms with, or simply couldn’t.

As time went on and more and more of the world fell to the parasite and the devastation it caused, it became harder and harder to turn my back to that elephant in the room. The world I knew was falling apart around me, sinking deeper every single day, and it became nearly impossible to keep myself in the shadows. Then, when the Outreach organized itself in early 2037, I couldn’t hide anymore. I had to face the truth.

I enlisted myself in March of that year, nearly a full calendar year after the parasite had had its first worldwide strain. I was one of the first thousand survivors to do so. Back in those days, and for a good several years after, the Outreach was basically the equivalent of a post-apocalyptic U.S. military: We had a few hundred outposts across the country, and soldiers were trained the way that they had been before the outbreak. It didn’t come as a surprise to any of us that many combat veterans and former U.S. soldiers enlisted, and even took part in the founding of the organization. For many people who had survived the Black Dawn, the Outreach signified a promise of hope, of a future for those who couldn’t build one for themselves.

Thirteen years later, after the Outreach had been run into the ground and the parasite and its victims were only a few steps shy of swallowing the world whole, I managed to find another small piece of hope: One that resides inside a small glass tube stored within an unassuming eyeglass case.

Sitting on a large rock by a clear ravine, I turn the vial over in my palm a few times, watching the blue liquid inside it flow back and forth and the small bubbles rise and fall. It’s a pretty surreal experience, thinking about how this tiny little piece of glass I’m nonchalantly examining on a rock next to a creek could mean a future for the entire world. But I have to remember that that’s if I manage to transport this thing all the way to Seattle, and if there are still any scientists there, and if so, those scientists have to know how to use the thing and turn it into what it’s meant to be.

I pop the vial back into its case – well, the case meant for holding eyeglasses that’s currently being used as its case – and put that back in my pack. I can’t risk anyone else seeing it and wondering what it is. If that happened, I’d have to either convince the person that the vial is nothing at all important, or, if they were still skeptical, kill them. I wouldn’t have any glaring moral dilemmas about taking the latter route, but my uncomfortably finite supply of ammunition would still cause me to hesitate.

It’s still broad daylight – likely around noon, possibly a little later – so the ample light provided by the sun gives me plenty of information about my surroundings. I’m still within the boundaries of the forest, but the trees are gradually beginning to thin out as I walk down the path, which means that I’m getting very close to its edge. Once I make it out of the forest, I’ll have a better sense of the topography in the area, which will give me an idea of where I should be going. But being out in that open country can also be dangerous: It leaves you very little to no cover, meaning that you’re easy to shoot at and even easier to track – if anyone wanted to do either of those things, which plenty of people do these days. But there’s no way around it – sometimes, you have to take your chances with a double-edged sword.

As I stand up from the rock, I take out my pocket compass and try to gauge my direction. Facing in the direction that leads out of the forest causes the compass to tell me that I’m heading west, which I count as a lucky break. West happens to be the way that I need to go, so it’s fortunate that it’s also the way out of here. I put the compass back into my pocket and keep heading down the path, slinging my backpack over my shoulder and keeping my rifle at my waist. The sun’s rays reach me more and more as I walk, which I take as two different signs of hope at the same time: One, I’m almost out of this forest, and two, I’m still alive.

—

It doesn’t take me a very long time to reach the forest’s edge. My fingers run across the bark of a small tree as I cross the threshold out into the picturesque open country of Nebraska, the warm air putting a small smile on my face. In the distance, I see a massive lake, and at the end of it is a river running across the vast plains beyond. Not a single Forsaken in sight, and it’s absolutely beautiful.

As I walk down the same dirt path, the faint sound of clicking and dragging starts to reach my ears. I squint in confusion, but suddenly I’m given an explanation when I come across a tiny RV camp, with a table out front carrying a CB radio. It’s still powered on, and the soundwave display on the analog screen makes it clear that the sounds are, in fact, coming from the radio.

There’s a picnic chair right in front of the table, and I sit down in it, listening closely to the transmission. It goes on for several more seconds before it stops, and there’s a moment of silence before a series of words are said. The static is present, but not enough to obscure the words, which I can still understand.

“Repeating Dawncode broadcast from encampment NE-13. We are repeating this Dawncode broadcast from encampment NE-13.”

I instantly whip out my notebook and a pencil. Dawncode was – and still is – a highly classified code system somewhat similar to Morse code that the Outreach developed in its early days. The code was only ever known by the people who enlisted, so if they’re communicating using it, it’s a flat guarantee they’re former soldiers.

I hear a drag-click — the letter I — followed by a click-click-drag-click, which is repeated twice. This spells MM. I write the IMM down in the notebook. What follows is a click-drag-drag-drag, then a drag-drag-click-drag, and finally a triple click. This spells U-N-E. The first word is immune.

I continue to listen carefully to the broadcast, writing down each letter as it’s coded out. Click-drag. H. Click-triple drag. U. I write the word human down in the notebook.

Single click. A.

Triple drag-click. T.

Another couple minutes go by, and by the time every letter has been spelled out, the words on my notebook read:

IMMUNE HUMAN AT DENMAN MEMORIAL HOSPITAL OUTREACH ENCAMPMENT, DUNNING, NEBRASKA.

I read over the note one more time, then commit it to memory and return the notebook to my backpack. If there’s an Outreach encampment in Dunning, then that’s where I’m headed, no questions asked. Any big city in this state shouldn’t take me more than a few days to reach, even on foot.

In place of the notebook, I pull out a folded-up road atlas of the United States and spread it open on the table, the creases smoothing out a little. Through a quick examination of the state of Nebraska, I deduce that the city of Dunning can’t be more than a two-day walk west from where I am now. I highlight its location on the atlas with a red pen. Then, on the side of the map, I write:

DESTINATIONS:

-DUNNING, NE (DENMAN MEMORIAL)

-SEATTLE, WA (BIOSOL LABS)

-SACRAMENTO, CA? (IF NECESSARY AFTER D&S)

ANTIDOTE PROTOTYPE DISCOVERED (NE)

I look over my notes again. It’s not like I’m gonna forget any of this stuff, but I might as well have it right here where I can easily access it. I fold the road atlas back up and return it to my backpack, then zip it up.

Slinging the backpack back across my shoulders, I stand up from the chair and walk into the RV. I’m surprised to find a snarling Forsaken pinned to the back wall by a large dagger in its neck, several bullet holes puncturing its body. Thumbtacked to its chest is a note that reads:

FAMILY’S ALL FUCKING DEAD

ASSHOLE FILLED ME WITH LEAD

GOT THE BUG IN MY HEAD

FIGURED BETTER OFF DEAD

SO I QUIT IT INSTEAD
NOTHING LEFT TO BE SAID

The monster looks down at me, growling and snarling and trying to get its rotten hands on me. If this guy had stuck the knife in his head instead of his throat, he would have stayed dead, but instead he let the parasite get to his brain. But hey, sometimes an unfortunate fate calls for an announcement.

“You went through some shit, didn’t ya?” I say, looking up at the thing. It snarls back at me, as if to answer in the affirmative.

Without looking away from its eyes, and with the same nonchalant expression on my face, I draw my survival knife and stick it firmly into the creature’s head. Its growling stops sharply, and its eyes remain fixed in the same position.

I wipe the blood off of my knife, then return it to its sheath on my belt. After a few moments of silence, I look around the RV. It looks like it’s in working condition, and perfect for long-distance travel. So I remove the dagger from the monster’s throat, then hoist the thing up and dump it down on the grass outside with a loud whump.

Afterwards, I lift up the CB radio on the small table and position it on the RV’s dashboard, along with the microphone that goes with it. The vehicle’s keys are still in the ignition, so I pull the door closed, sit down, and twist them to get the thing running.

The RV roars to life, its fuel gauge showing almost a full tank of gas. I look back and double check to see the two more red cans in the back, then put the vehicle into drive.

I’d be lying if I said a big, dumb smile didn’t cross my face as I stepped on the gas pedal and began to push down the path. Only two things were on my mind at that unforgettable moment: That I was on my way to the future, and that I hadn’t felt this free in a long, long time.