Welcome to Death Valley
By J. L. Young Deep in the southwestern U. S., a ship was placed in the vast wastes of California. Record Temperatures leave this area quiet as the proverbial tomb. A ship 389 miles from the nearest ocean purposely moored on a slip fault, a fail-safe. That ship was registered as the U. S. S. Falling Star. Aboard that ship, my colleagues and I tasked with creating a vaccine to end a terrible DNA mutating virus that has spread to the far reaches of our little wet dustball. I was the sole survivor of that experiment, one of 630 men and women. An outbreak had taken the lives of all aboard the cargo ship, but one. At first, nothing seemed the matter. We were successful in creating a vaccine. It showed promise. We were about to present our findings, and the vaccine when the event happened. The killed form of the Phage virus had resurrected itself within the vaccinated hosts. Its surface proteins were deactivated, but somehow they reactivated. They were voracious in their biological purpose. Rampant cancerous growths appeared on all the test subjects. For some reason, it spared me. The virulent disease spread unabated. The virus attacked healthy tissue and spread to the rest of the ship. The personal protective equipment proved impotent against the strain’s onslaught. If the hosts survived the initial symptoms, the second stage was excruciatingly painful. Organ failure soon followed. To protect the world, I cremated the bodies. I knew I was next. I took the sidearm of a Marine and chambered a round, cranked up the furnace, and leaped into the blue flames. Despite the intense pain, I shot myself. I awoke, the steel slab beneath me felt cold on my naked skin. The sidearm was distorted and blackened. I pushed myself out of the furnace and fell to the floor. My throat felt parched and the first thing on my mind was water. I climbed the ladder and walked aft to the galley. There, I took a drink. It burned as though I was drinking straight Everclear. The pain subsided, but the thirst remained. I returned to the lab, performed a biopsy of several organs, and subjected each sample to a round of different solutions. Everything necessary and healthy for the human body was now toxic. Some, like water, tore apart the cellular membranes. When I applied known toxins. Every one of the samples thrived. It has been forty years since the outbreak. Other virologists have succeeded where I have failed. I was Doctor Marshall Bach. Now, I’m Sephtis. I am eternal death.
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We Hold The Line
By J. L. Young It has been said that the life expectancy of a fighter pilot in this war is four weeks. Similar to a Spitfire pilot’s life expectancy during World War Two. Needless to say, the chances of living through this war are slim to none. Regardless of this statistic, our expertise of a hundred and fifty years worth of space fighter training. We are the best humans can muster against this unknown foe. Why do they attack us? That question is no longer on the lips of the crew of United Earth Attack Carrier Aries’s Dawn. It is but one ship in a massive armada in place as Earth’s last line of defense. We have been at war with the unknown for five years now. Millions died when a probe entered our atmosphere, dispersed secondary projectiles which upon impact flash melted our already weakened polar ice caps. The sudden rise in the ocean levels flooded the coastal cities without mercy. Our deep space early-warning sensors couldn’t detect the weapon. When it was fished from the ocean, we learned it wasn’t one of ours. The countries of Earth set aside their differences to work together with one cause, to save Earth. This initiative built the increasing number of warships that serve to protect our planet. The exact number of ships is classified. Our trash became the near-endless well of material used in the construction of barriers, Earth-side support craft, cars, and homes. Ships and aircraft destined for the boneyards were dismantled and rebuilt to serve again. The klaxons woke us from our much-needed rest and like firefighters we slipped into our flight gear and make way to our ships. We blast at full-throttle into the infinite clear and join our brethren on the line. The short range sensors aboard our fighters pick up the enemy signals. Our scopes light up with thousands of blue triangles. We are outnumbered four to one. We hold the line. |
AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. Archives
May 2024
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