Chapters of Rema

Preface

In 2012 CE, the United States – along with most of the developed world – fell victim to a wave of deadly viral outbreaks.  The virus, known colloquially in the U.S. as the African Flu, migrated from Libya to Syria following the Syrian Uprising of 2011.  In Syria, the virus devastated the rebels at first, then the government, ceasing the revolt as the population of Damascus fell from 1.7 million people to just 200 thousand in just a year.  The virus migrated from Libya to Italy, where medieval crypts filled again with the corpses of millions from the disease.  From Italia, the A-virus spread throughout Europe, decimating large cities, eroding the fields, and bringing the world to her knees.  European travelers brought the flu to China, which spread the disease further on throughout Asia and Australia.  Imported goods brought it aboard naval vessels to the shores of California, where the U.S. population dropped from 302 million to 120 million in a year. 
         The world’s population dropped from Seven Billion to Two in just over a year.  Highly urbanized regions, such as Western Europe, Japan, and the U.S. were hardest hit.  The U.S. government was bankrupted and stretched beyond breaking point as the CDC collapsed in on itself, failing to prevent the viral outbreaks.  New York City’s population dropped from 8.2 million to five-thousand, as food supplies drained, electricity ceased to function, and disease pushed survivors from the concrete and steel sarcophagus.  Remaining survivors crazy enough to stay the course resorted to guerilla-warfare-based raid teams on traveling survivors.  The United States were no longer united, and the government had fallen. 
         Three years after the outbreak, fueled by religious zealously over impending doom, Iran broke international law and protocol, launching their secret nuclear arms on Israel.  Israel retaliated with their conventional strikes and nuclear arsenal.  Pakistan entered the war, crushing Iran with her nuclear arsenal, as India entered combat with retaliatory strikes against Pakistan, in fear of the use of the atomic bomb was intended for her own borders.  Combat of the third World War consisted of no European involvement, and lasted only two days. 

Months later, after the mushroom clouds faded and fell so too did the products of the war.  Radioactive rain and poisonous plutonium isotopes fell from the heavens around the world.  Those who disease didn’t take from the world, the power of the stars did.  Carbon dioxide, sulfuric acid, and plutonium in the smoke from the bombs blocked out the light of the sun, but maximized the heat like a brick oven.  Lakes evaporated, streams ran dry, oceans dropped, and the earth began to whither, and die along with her inhabitants. 
 
But some of the CDC’s actions worked throughout the A-viral outbreak of 2012.  Covertly built bunkers under America’s national forests left-over from the late Cold War as part of President Reagan’s ‘Starwars’ program blanketed the country beneath randomly selected national forests.  The CDC, gripped in ever-growing concern over the pandemic of 2012, restocked, rebuilt, and reorganized for the purpose of survival for political elites. 
One-hundred and three years later, in the August of 2115 CE, I begin my story.  My name is Mark A. Schmitz-Mason, and I am a survivor of the day the earth died.  Or at least, my great-grandfather was, before the doors of our safe sealed, and our concrete and lead cave became our new home.  For, since the time of my great-grandfather; you were born in the cave, and you died by the cave. 

Four generations may have passed though, and factional politics never dies.  The safe had been governed by a council of five since my great-grandfather’s time, you see.  Two members were those of the American soldiers, politicians, and scientists who occupied half of the cavernous hide-away.  Another two members comprised of two Germans who represented the German half of the cave, who themselves were scholars, scientists, and – at the time of sealing – school children.  The fifth member consisted of the overseer of the safe, who had always been a heredity-linked passage, until the death of my father. 
         The non-all-powerful position, who had maintained merely a sense of judgment and oversight of the council, acted solely as a chief legislator and commander of the safe’s militia forces in the event of breach, had begun to be looked upon unfavorably by the people of the safe.  My father sought to increase his power, and began to oppress many passages of the council.  Upon his death, and fearful of another ruler seeking the same powers, the factions behind leadership from the council expelled me from the cave, leaving behind a wife and my friends. 

I was plunged, head-first, into what would turn out to be a brutish, nasty, and short existence in what used to be the State of Maryland.  The clouds of World War III have long-since vanished.  The radiation has settled, and rivers and streams began to flow again, poison free.  This seemingly peaceful world would quickly show to be a false impression.  For the ever thirsty need of Mars for the river of blood could never be quenched, and here where the nuclear weapons of modern civilization had plummeted the world into war, fought by stones, bone, and iron again. 
 
Capvt I
Early August, 2115
Round Top State Park
1320

A deafening metal screech echoed throughout the naturally carved cavern opening as the stainless steel-plated concrete door closed behind me.  Standing at the other end of the damp, dark corridor, I turned to view where I grew up close behind me.  Through the darkness of the poorly illuminated cave, I saw steam from the hydraulics of the door shoot out through pores on the olive drab concrete walls, sealing the door shut tight to avoid disease and radiation for the inhabitants.  The sound of the steam eventually faded, and I was alone, standing in the cave lit from the sun around the corner I was standing in front of with a small duffel-bag beside me, an olive drab backpack over one shoulder, a Remington 700 over my other, and a Colt .45 on my left thigh. 
         I had draped my dark blue cashmere coat over my shoulders, on top of my backpack, and jury-rigged leather straps to the inside lining of my coat that attached to leather straps on my army green jumpsuit to wear as a cape and allow free movement.  My well-polished leather boots shone in the low light of the cavern as I picked my bag up and left my life behind me.  I took a step into the light, and lost vision for a few minutes as my eyes readjusted from the low, artificial light of the cave. 
         Vision crawled back to me, as I adjusted slowly.  I emerged from the mountain just above the crest of the Potomac River, below an old pre-war rail trail to the top of the mountain.  The river, now a wide creek, flowed quietly through the hills as it curved southeast-ward towards Berkeley Springs, West Virginia.  I set off on my journey into the rolling hills, heading north along the river bank. 

A mile down-stream, downed tree debris and flood remnants damned the river, allowing an effortless crossing into West Virginia.  Not long after crossing the Potomac, I came across a cleared field, mossy rocks piled shoulder-high.  Continuing along the hedgerow, a crumbled section allowed for the perfect location to jump over the brick barrier.  I chucked my duffel bag over the wall and hopped over.  Horses scattered as I landed on the opposite side.  The pasture had been cleared as far as I could see up the gradual hill, with a pond in the center of the hill.  I calmly shifted my Remington around to a grip in my hands, so that I could rest it on the ledge as I unstrapped my makeshift rain-cape, and draped it across my duffel bag on the ground.
         I pulled the heavy .30-06 from its resting position on the wall, checking the empty chamber quickly before viewing the wide pasture through the telescope.  The horses calmed themselves, huddling together watching me as I scanned the grassland.  A wooden ranch-style house had been built at the top of the hill overlooking the pasture I was on, as well as the steep hillside on the opposing edge overlooking a silica quarry south of Hancock Maryland.  I pulled the magazine out of the rifle, placing it in a dump pouch on my combat belt containing a few MRE pouches. 
         Strapping my rifle flat across my chest and picking up my duffel bag and cape, I began to walk up the hill towards the home.  The rich clay soil had dried from the war, turning to a sandy, gritty soil beneath my feet.  The horses in the field slowly went back about their business as I left, aside from a white one that had followed me without orders, or sound.  Near the pond, I turned cautiously towards the following mare.
         I extended my left arm out, as she sniffed at my dominant hand for an apparent eternity.  She looked up with her ears pointed towards me, over my shoulder, as she took a step closer to me.  I petted her long, wide neck gingerly as I strapped my duffel bag over my shoulder as I cautiously climbed onto her.  She weaved slightly as she braced for my weight as I brushed my hand down her soft mane lightly to calm her.  Pressing my heels into her shoulder, I clicked my tongue as she started walking up the hill.  “Good girl,” I whispered, brushing her mane with my hand as she began to trot further. 
         The windowless log home quickly grew in size as I approached.  The oak timber house stretched wide across the hill as the sod roof dipped low near the ground on the far wings of the wide home.  A dirt trail cut through the grass by the front door of the house overlooking the ravine, dirt footprints covering a stone block by the door In place of a doormat.  The door had been left cracked open as I dismounted the white horse. 
         I rapped my knuckles against the door frame, hanging a breathing mask over my mouth and nose to prevent disease from an overbearing stench in the house.  “Hello,” I called, pushing the door open as I drew my Colt and flicked on the flashlight mounted to the underside.  “Anyone home,” I asked sneaking into the pitch-black house.  My light flashed passed the unlit hearth in the center of the large room’s wall before scanning the entire wall length of the room.  A small table sat slightly off centered beside the hearth with two wooden stools beneath the table, a third lying on the ground. 
         I began to wheeze as I entered a small room on the left wing of the house, finding a bed with two decomposing corpses between two night tables with melted candles and empty cups beside them.  I cleared the room, searching the room on the opposite wing of the house, finding leather saddles and bridles for the horses stacked high in a corner with a chest full of wool blankets and a knit quilt resting folded on a shelf above the chest.  I grabbed the knitted quilt in one arm, holstering my sidearm, and the woolen blankets in my other and walked out of the house, resting the blankets on the horse’s back that remained standing near the door.  I petted the horse again gently, apologizing for her loss, before returning to the house again momentarily with the quilt to cover the couple in their bed. 
         I stepped out of the house silently with a saddle and bridle.  The horse had remained in the same spot, grazing on the grass in front of the log home as I strapped the saddle onto her quickly.  She stomped around momentarily as I put the bridle in its place before strapping my duffle bag in front of the saddle and slung my rifle from the pommel.  I swung my coat around my shoulders, covering my marine sabre and laced the leather straps.  Stepping in front of her shoulder, I petted her mane and scratched along her jugular groove.  “I guess we need to find a name for you,” I said as her ears relaxed and she extended her upper lip, tilting her head slightly.  “How’s, ‘Quila,’” I asked, smiling.  Her ears pointed forward as she looked at me. 
I smiled, climbing onto the saddle, as I turned her around.  She trotted through the open gate through the stone wall, a wooden sign dangling off a nail embedded in the cracks, ‘LVES’ etched into the plaque.  “Don’t worry, love,” I said aloud to the mare, “you’re safe from this plague.”  We continued north down the earthen path down the hill side towards the river. 

We stopped the river bank as the sun began to fade for the night.  I climbed off of her gently, as I tied her reins to a tree by the river.  She grazed in the grass by the tree as I filled my empty canteen with water from the river before unloading the heavy duffle bag and saddle from Quila’s back.  After collecting firewood from the trees nearby and starting a fire for the night, I checked the water in my canteen, running it through a Geiger-counter briefly before boiling the water in a pan above the fire. 
         A shifting of leaves brought Quila to full attention, as she nervously shifted her tied reins around the tree to see the commotion.  “Shh,” I warned her, petting her forehead lovingly with my left hand as I untied her reins with my right.  The stomping of leaves and twigs sounded through the woods as I drew my .45, grasping the reins tightly while turning around to track my follower as a Centaur-like figure ran off into the darkening trees.  Holstering my handgun, I comforted Quila, tying her to a different tree closer to the fire where I commanded her to lie down before returning to the river with a bowl of water, an MRE, and the blankets from beneath her saddle. 
         Moments later, I returned to Quila beneath the tree where I sat a bowl of the boiled water next to the trunk of the tree for her.  I laid one of the blankets over Quila and the rest on the ground beside her before tearing into the pouch of the packaged meal.  The sky had begun to turn dark orange as my dinner heated up from the water-activated chemicals provided, as the pouch lay rested against a rock beside me.  My dinner cooked as my new horse shook her head vigorously, swatting flies away which simply jumped about on her neck to land again.  “Poor girl,” I whispered, petting her flank, swatting flies and mosquitos away. 
         Her tail waved continuously against her body as the insects scattered momentarily, just to land where they had been before.  I sat my beef stew down momentarily, petting her neck as I whispered to her again, “I know, girl, these damned bugs are annoying.”  I continued eating my meal, offering the peppermint candy that came with it to the mare.  Following the completion of my meal, in the darkness of the August quarter moon, I pulled my coat over my legs and waist as I laid back on Quila, petting her softly as I dozed to sleep for the night. 
 
Capvt II
September, 2115
Potomac Airpark Ruins
0540
The fire crackled as I sat down on the sideways log in the darkness.  The noise of the stream beside my campsite settled my mind as I stirred the porridge of wheat grains and poured the meal onto a large, flattened rock in the fire to bake my breakfast for the morning before the sun rose.  I leaned back against the large oak tree trunk behind me, watching the flames of the fire shoot out, coals burning bright.  Noises of the woods surrounded me, as the sound of a twig snapping behind me forced me onto my feet, my left hand on my holstered Colt adorning my thigh. 
         My eyes slowly began to adjust to the darkness as a figure appeared, clutching his left shoulder, blood dripping off of his elbows. 
“What happened?” I exclaimed, releasing my grasp on my side arm and rushing over to the bloodied man.  “Over here,” I said, pointing to a patch of grass that I had covered with my cashmere coat as bedding for the night, “lie down, and let me see your arm!”
“They’re,” he began, coughing up blood and collapsing to one knee.  “They’re,” he tried again as I lowered him onto his back against my coat. “There!” he exclaimed again. 
“They are what?” I looked down confused.  He pointed above my shoulder weakly.  I turned my head to see man standing above my shoulder silently, gripping a short sword in his right hand by his hip pointing towards the fire to my left side.  I stood slowly turning towards the silent man, keeping my hands away from my weapons on my hip. 
“Step away,” the man finally said after staring me down for an eternity.  “This is between the Reman,” he continued, “and I.”  I stood there, confused, and pressed a small button on the palm of my left hand discreetly.  After my refusal to obey, he shifted his feet to a more aggressive stance.  “Move,” he said, annoyed. 
         I continued to stand there confused, shifting my right toes behind me slightly, silently.  The man smiled as he looked down towards the fire to his right.  He began shouting a war cry from the top of his lungs while he launched his sword in to the air.  At this moment I released to button on my palm, flinging my fingers skyward as a two-inch wide blade flew from my leather wrist guard.  The man’s sword flew down from the sky as I extended my arm straight into his chest.  He gasped for air, releasing his clutch on the dual-edged blade as it fell to the dirt.  Punching with my right hand, I withdrew my hidden blade and extended it back into its scabbard while shoving the man to the ground as two more figures emerged into the light of my fire.
I stood upward again releasing the latch on my thigh holster for my .45.  “What?” I asked, turning my back against the fire to face the figures behind me.  They approached silently in a flanking pattern around the fire.  “Alright,” I said quietly, “have it that way.”  The men drew short swords from their right hips while approaching me slowly. 
I let out two short, high-pitched whistles followed by third, slightly longer.  My horse shot straight up and kicked the flanking attacker off-balance and onto my fire, killing the flames as he rolled around screaming in agony.  The man in front of me ran at me as I drew my Colt and pointed it at his knee cap.  He continued to diminish the gap between the two of us as I raised a Maglite with my right hand and blinded him with the high-beam light.  A shot rang out as the man fell to his back screaming as well, wiggling in pain.  I turned my attention again to my right side as the remaining assailant rose out of the ashes of my dead fire, his blood-red cloak on flames.  The rising sunlight shone off his face, scorches and burnt flesh engulfing his face.  He stood staring at me, gasping for breath, as I let out a half-smile and tilted my head slightly to the right as he fell to the ground breathlessly.
“Now,” I stated glaring at my assailant.  “I’ll ask again; what do you want?” 
“The Reman,” he responded, spitting at my feet as he fell to one knee. 
“I don’t know what that is,” I retorted, holstering my .45 as I walked to the wounded attacker wrenching about in the dirt.  “I’m sure your friend here,” I started again, pressing the toe of my boot into his bloody, shattered knee, “might be able to tell me.”  He cried out in agony as the other mysterious man sprang to his feet behind me to overtake me.  I twirled around and released the latch on my blade again, meeting the triangular, sharpened steel to his throat.  He fell to a knee, clutching his neck for breath as I placed my foot on his chest in a fluid motion, and pushed forward.
         My attention turned again to his wounded friend on the ground, now attempting to crawl away vigorously.  He ferociously pulled himself with his arms, kicking the dirt as hard as he could with his good leg.  Stepping on his wounded knee, I shoved the crippled man onto his back as he cried out in further torment again.  I knelt down, gripping his neck with my right hand as I pressed my blade against his shoulder. 
“If you don’t want a crippled arm, too,” I warned, placing further pressure on the ball joint, “tell me who you are, and why you attacked me.”  He glared at me before spitting up at my face.  Pressing my knife further into his shoulder, I slowly began penetrating the leather shoulder guards he was wearing before slicing through flesh.  “Who are you?” I asked angrily.  He further struggled in pain as I stepped on his knee again with greater weight for refusing to answer my demand.  “Well?” I asked, placing my foot on the ground, still holding his arm from his sword, my knife to his shoulder.
         He spat at my face, followed by a loud, painful cry as my blade pierced his shoulder, tearing the joint of his shoulder.  “I’m Quintus Julius,” he finally exclaimed.  “We’re after the Reman,” he continued, “the one you’re helping escape from Romulan justice!” He turned his head to stare at the wounded man unconscious from blood loss, lying on my coat. 
“What?” I muttered under my breath, looking at the wounded man as I retracted my dagger.  “He’s likely going to die by the end of the evening,” I explained, angrily.  “What sort of justice do you have, letting a man die slowly by running him down?” 
         The broken man chuckled lightly, before cringing from the wounds I’ve inflicted upon him.  “You’re one to talk,” he groaned, “profligate.”  He raised his good arm to cover his wounded shoulder as he tried to crawl out from under me as I stepped back.  “If you take him back to Romula,” he said raising himself up onto the trunk of a tree, “you could be welcomed as a hero.  Maybe even replace that god Quirnx he killed.” 
“I’m not a hero,” I responded as I relit my fire.  “I’m especially not going to become a hero killing a man.” 
“Ha!” Julius yelled, gripping his knee.  “That, swine, led a slave revolt in Romula that resulted in massive fires and over two hundred killed!”
“Look,” I snapped back, turning around to the crippled man, “I don’t even know where the hell ‘Romula’ is, or even what a ‘Reman’ is!  Why am I going to help either of you?  Especially if you’re the one attacking me for nothing!”
         The sun had begun to shine fully over the hill, illuminating the area in a fiery orange and red hue.  The leaves of the oak trees surrounding my campsite for the night had been red for a couple of days now, and were even beginning to fall with the chilled wind as it blew through the clearing.  The quiet stream ran down into the Potomac River downstream about half a mile away, but not before flowing below the shell of Route 522 as it crossed across into what used to be Hancock Maryland. 
“Then take him across the Tibau,” Julius went on, “and just see for yourselves how those profligates think a city should be run.” 
“The what,” I questioned, not knowing what a ‘Tib-ow’ was. 
“The river,” he said with a puzzled look on his face.  “Have you been living in a rock since the war?”
“In a manner of speaking,” I responded quietly, saddling Quila. 
“No!” he exclaimed.  “No, you can’t be!”
“Can’t be what?”
“You’re from the safe!” he continued, bewildered.
“What safe?”
“The castle near Reman quarry!” he stated, attempting to stand on his one good leg.
“No, I’m not,” I told him, resting one knee on the ground beside him.  “What’s so special about the castle, anyways,” I asked.
He slowly began to lose consciousness from the pain of his wounds.  He coughed lightly, before speaking.  “The bards tell tales of a hero,” he said weakly.  “They claim him to be a reincarnation of Heracles himself, and that he will lead all of the New Romans to unity and civility,” he continued with his tale.  His cough grew stronger as his grasp on this world began to fade.
         I placed my hand on his good shoulder.  “Relax,” I began, “you’ll be fine.”  His eyes closed, and his head dipped down.  He was unconscious.  “May the Father honor your soul,” I began, waving a burning lighter in front of him, “and Tartarus not have you.”  I gathered my thoughts before walking over the wounded Reman lying on my coat and attempted to wake him.  To my surprise, he regained consciousness momentarily before wincing at the pain in his shoulder.
“Easy,” I told him, applying pressure to his bleeding arm, “easy.” 
“What,” he began, before coughing, “what happened?”
“You were attacked,” I offered him, looking over my shoulder at the Romulans.  “C’mon,” I began again, lifting him up to walk him over to Quila.
“Where are we going?” he asked, dazed.
“Somewhere safe for you,” I answered lifting him into the saddle.  I tore a piece of clothing off of the dead Romulans and tied a small knot on one side, and made a loop with the cloth.  “Here,” I offered, handing the Reman the cloth, “bite on this if you start to feel pain in your shoulder.”  He nodded, grabbing hold of the small cloth.  I fastened my combat belt around my waste.  On it sat two filled magazine pouches for my Colt on my right side, along with a canteen and another small Maglite.  On the left side of my belt, a marine-style sabre fastened taunt against my thigh with a second canteen filled with aged wine behind it.  I draped my cashmere coat over my shoulders and fastened the leather straps.  I let out a long whistle, and called for Quila to stand.  We were off.