Monsters (3 page)

Science was one of many casualties as the civilized world collapsed. Cynics had long attacked science with irrational, emotionally-charged arguments that sought to preserve the status quo. They had attacked the theory of evolution. They had attacked the research on climate change. They spread fear and misinformation about vaccines. There had even been doubts cast upon the great accomplishments of the era, like the moon landing. It was as though the existence of the great pyramids was being called into question. And so, when the fall of man came, the Luddites rejoiced. For them, man's demise was a vindication of their ideals, a moment full of spite and bitter rejoicing.

The economies of scale that had for so many years given civilized man access to technologies he could never build for himself finally failed. The innovations that gave hundreds of millions of people access to foods they didn't have to harvest, access to clothes they didn't have to weave, access to houses they didn't have to build, these all fell into chaos. The supply chain, once broken, could not be restarted. Each cog in the wheel, each link in the chain had been built one upon another over the course of centuries.

Ever since the industrial revolution, civilized man had built upon the successes of previous generations. Relative to the billions alive on Earth, only a handful of people actually understood and could build devices like a transistor or an integrated circuit from scratch. Without the supply chain, mankind was as helpless as a newborn, and so when the Fall came and society collapsed into violence and chaos, mankind was left helpless and alone.

Eastern societies fared better than the West. Their dependence on technology was much lower, so it was easier for them to make the transition back to feudal times, but they were easy prey to the monsters of Asia. Tigers were the first to exact their revenge on mankind. Litter sizes increased. Although it took a century for tigers to reach the size of a horse, by that time they numbered in the tens of thousands. With speed and stealth that belied their weight, they preyed ruthlessly on mankind.

The Asian black bear, brown bear and sun bear eventually grew to the size of a rhino, while the Komodo dragon reached up to thirty feet in length. Mankind was easy prey. Omnivores became carnivores spoiled for choice.

Although polar bears resided predominately above the Arctic Circle, a variant sub-species arose to fill the increasingly empty ecological niches in the relatively warmer, southern climates. With a thinner coat, they ventured south across both Asia and the Americas, reaching as far as Beijing in the East and the Dakotas in the West. Their spread into North America was held in check only by competition with bears such as the grizzly, brown and black bear.

Herbivores like elk were dangerous, attacking anyone that ventured into their territory during mating season. Their aggression was surprising to all but hunters, who had long known a stag in the rut was as dangerous as a mountain lion, but now a fully-grown male could reach nine hundred pounds. Even a fleeting attack was often fatal.

At first, animal attacks and fatalities were considered a rarity, but soon the remaining scientists realized this was due to a breakdown in reporting structures. In reality, for every account that made it to the press there were hundreds of attacks that went unreported. With such abundant food sources, the resurgence of the megafauna took a little over a hundred and eighty years.

There were few newspapers in those final days of the first decade, but those that did survive spoke of being abandoned. The last of the papers were handwritten accounts, printed and circulated to as many who would heed their message. They were feeble attempts to dispel the myths and misconceptions that had proven so lethal to so many. There were the lies about Europe surviving intact, the lies about safety in the tropical zones. Rumors spread on the East Coast about the West being a haven for all, and vice versa, but these lies were devastating. Lies were the final plague upon mankind, displacing and killing hundreds of millions who believed in a false hope, that help was around the corner, that salvation was coming. Help never came. A sense of bitterness arose among survivors.

Conspiracy theories abounded, with blame being apportioned everywhere, but no one had any answers. Survivalists fared better than most in the early days. Their paranoia had them hoard supplies that could feed hundreds for years on end, but even they found themselves overwhelmed by the ferocity of man reduced to the state of a wild animal. Their attempts to defend themselves and their caches only drew more attention to their supplies and they were inundated by hordes of devious, vicious men and women struggling to survive.

The buildings of man still stood, and would probably stand in one decrepit form or another for millennia to come, but the societies that founded them faded like the early morning mist drifting across a lake.

Once the newspapers came to an end, the New World began, a world in which survival was the only virtue. For those in the New World, the reign of
Homo sapiens
, the wisest of men, became but a legend, a fable lost in the mists of time. It seemed fantastic that once people had flown above the ground in silver birds that roared through the sky.

Concepts that had been taken for granted were like the fairy tales of old. The ability to talk to someone hundreds of miles away through a small metal box, or to capture the view one saw in front of them, freezing it on a glass screen or printing it on paper seemed fanciful. Pictures and images of the Old World survived, but they held no more meaning than hieroglyphics. They were a novelty, an amusement, something to argue about or trade for equipment, but never something to understand. Slowly, the Old World was forgotten, except by those that kept the newspapers.

Monsters roamed the cities. These weren't the monsters of myth and lore, but they were every bit as deadly. Packs of wild dogs, wolves, mountain lions, rats as large as domestic cats, and they all bred profusely.

Guns, which had so long been the means for mankind to project power, failed to stop the monsters. Even high-powered rifles did little more than aggravate a Grizzly standing twenty feet tall on its hind legs. Military squads could have taken out most of these animals, but their ranks were decimated by famine and disease.

As the New World took shape, new priorities arose. Reading was lost. At first, there was no time to read. Then there was nothing of any substance to read, just fragments of information, often completely irrelevant to the harsh reality of life. Most people understood basic numeracy, just enough to barter in the markets. Some grasped simple words, but only if they needed to keep a ledger. Few understood enough to read properly.

Suspicions arose. Survivors sought to blame someone for the calamities. Science was an easy target. Science had failed. Science had underestimated the implications of Comet Holt. Science couldn't save mankind from the drifts and the floods. Science had missed the rise of monsters. Science had made mankind soft, vulnerable, weak. Some said scientists had created the monsters, like Frankenstein in his lab.

Knowledge was seen as something akin to arrogance. Superstitions prevailed because they were easier to justify than reason. Readers were persecuted like the witches of old, with a sense of vengeance being laid upon them for the sins of the past. Those that wanted to hold on to the Old World with its knowledge of atoms and stars, footballs and cars, were seen as dreamers at best, or as subversive at worst.

There was no equilibrium between the tribes of men. In some countries, mankind managed to maintain a level of sophistication like that of the feudal Dark Ages, in others, they were thrown back into the Stone Age, existing as subsistence farmers, hunters and gatherers.

In the New World, monsters reigned.

R E A D E R S

Bruce Dobson was a reader. He hadn't always read. It wasn't until after the battle of Bracken Ridge that he first sought out a reader in much the same way as men once sought out a prophet or a soothsayer, only his interest wasn't in divining the future. Bruce wanted to read about the past.

For Bruce, the past was an enigma, a dark secret, a puzzle he had to unravel. Somehow, intrinsically, he understood that life moved in cycles, repeating time and again with only minor variations. Summer always followed spring, the moon waxed and waned, crops grew, harvests came, seed was gathered, and life would begin anew in the coming year. There was much to learn from the cycles of the past.

His father thought he was mad. Why bother with the past? The past was gone, never to return. What could the past offer? It was the future that was important. Whereas the past was static, the future was whatever he wanted to make of it, so why bother with the past? His father had a point, Bruce understood that, but, he argued, the past determined the future, in the same way as the autumn rains preceded the heaviest snows. Try as they may to deny it, their lives were shaped by the past.

Bruce Dobson died on Bracken Ridge, at least that's the way he felt. His innocence, his excitement for life, his zeal and enthusiasm were casualties in the war with the northern tribes. Seeing his brother fall before him was too much for young Bruce.

Jonathan was the older of the Dobson boys. Jonathan told his mother he'd look after Bruce. The two boys, barely eighteen and twenty, thought they were indestructible, as countless other young men had before them, misguided and sent to their untimely deaths across thousands of years of senseless tribal warfare. The cause had changed, the faces were fresh, but the heartache and tragedy was just the same as it had always been.

Pockets of snow lay on the frosty ground, slowly melting as the days grew longer. Birds returned from the south, anticipating the break that had come in the weather. The bright sun was refreshing.

The arrow that felled Jonathan came in the first wave. It was surprisingly quiet, like the wind whistling through the trees. Neither of them saw it coming. The thin shaft with its twist of feathers seemed to materialize from nowhere.

The arrow struck Jonathan's collarbone and glanced up through the side of his neck, tearing open his jugular vein. Jonathan sank to his knees, his hands grasping at his throat. Bruce was still trying to process what had happened as Jonathan fell to one side, slipping into the furrows that scarred the muddy ground. Blood soaked into the worn, tired tracks that wound their way up the steep ridge.

Bruce had never seen so much blood. The splash of crimson was jarring to his mind, such a violent contrast to the dark woods still devoid of leaves. Brilliant streaks of red sprayed out across the white snow. He tried to stem the flow. He tried so hard as Jonathan lay there speechless in the bloody mix of ice, snow and mud. His brother's lips were moving but no words came out, just a sickening gurgle as he gasped for air.

It was Jonathan's eyes that were the hardest to accept. In that moment, as Bruce knelt in the muddy track, pressing his fingers hard against the wound, trying in vain to stop the bleeding, it was the look in his brother's eyes that said so much more than any words could articulate. Jonathan couldn't believe what was happening to him, he couldn't believe his life was ending so quickly, so suddenly, so painfully. Just moments before, they'd both laughed, joking around with the warmth of the sun on their faces, a delightful contrast to the brisk cool in the air. They were marching to glory, or at least that's what they'd been told, that's what they believed.

Blossoms grew on the trees along Bracken Ridge, buds opening out into the first flowers of spring. It should have been the start of a new year, a better year. Hundreds of young men had marched forward with excitement, now a ragged line of boys screamed in agony. In the months to come, Bruce learned that the first wave had fallen in much the way the generals had expected, exposing the enemy's position and allowing for a flanking maneuverer. Their sacrifice was called noble, but that was a lie, one that depressed Bruce and left him crying out for answers.

Jonathan looked pitiful as he lay there. No words were spoken, none were needed. Bruce understood. He could see it in his brother's eyes, a plea for mercy, a desire to unwind the moment and escape this cruel blow. Jonathan's eyes shouted out in agony as he gripped his younger brother's hand. Those tender brown eyes couldn't understand what was happening to them, they couldn't accept such a violent and brutal death, and yet death marched upon them regardless.

Volley upon volley of arrows rained down on the muddy track in which the two boys lay. Bruce was struck on his arm and thigh, but he barely felt any pain as he watched his brother die.

Within a few minutes, Jonathan fell limp. His eyes lost focus, seemingly looking through his transparent younger brother, looking up at the brilliant blue sky above. Bruce cried. Whereas once he'd felt like a man, ready to take on the world, now he realized he was still just a child. He wanted the war to go away, to leave him and his family alone, to return them to their innocence, but time ignored his pleas.

Bruce had no idea how long he sat there in shock, cradling his brother's head. The battle raged around him as he sat slumped in the mud, trying to straighten his brother's hair, to clean the mud and blood from Jonathan’s face, but his hands were dirty, everything he did made things worse.

Bruce sobbed with anguish. Jonathan grew cold.

Soldiers fought with swords and spears. Men fell around him. The mud and blood obscured their uniforms. Enemies in life, they were indistinguishable in death.

Bruce barely noticed the clash of swords. His mind was as numb as his legs soaked in snow, slush, mud and blood.

A dark shadow cast over the sun and he looked up. One of the northern soldiers towered over him, his legs set on either side of the muddy rut. He held out a sword, bringing the blade to Bruce's throat.

Bruce looked into his eyes, wondering what he was waiting for, wanting him to end his torment, but the soldier lowered his sword. In the midst of hundreds of other fallen soldiers, this young man seemed to sense the personal tragedy Bruce had endured and had no heart to kill him. The soldier ran on, swinging his sword and fighting to kill someone else.