This is a response to a TerribleMinds.com Flash Fiction challenge: a story about a non-traditional apocalypse. Because, you know, most apocalypses are so mundane these days. Anyway, I’m working on one that’s a good deal more serious and personal, but it’s not ready for prime time. This one’s not either, but it was fun to assemble and format (thanks to Nicole for solving a really ugly roadblock). Either a whimper or a bang work equally well in this one, although describing them might be problematic.
The key to beating
any disease is not, as many believe,
having a cure. Prevention and resistance
are the first lines of defense; destroying
the ailment after it has been acquired
is nothing more
than the last resort. We knew this, of course,
but it prevention does no good
when the attack arrives from an angle
previously unimagined.
The most
fearsome plagues
are those which not only destroy their hosts, but
also cripples any attempts to fight
back. When we first began to suspect
that something
was wrong, that we were under
attack, it was already too late. The very
tools we used to solve
the riddle were rendered ineffective
almost immediately.
We created some
workarounds, crude
at first, increasingly
intricate as the disease progressed.
Our counter-measures
were slow, too slow, to halt the progress
of the malady, but
we live in
hope that these works will be the seed which will set humanity,
what survives
that is, on the road to recovery.
If you‘ll
allow me an
aside here, you may
well wonder why I am
even
bothering
with committing
this account to
paper. That is a reasonable question
and I have
no satisfying
answer. I could
say that I am documenting
the nature
of our
demise in
hope that future
generations,
if there are any, will learn
from it. That’s just
a sick joke, though,
given
the nature
of this particular
plague.
Besides, to
be honest, while we have
grown
to understand
the mechanics,
the physical manifestation
of the illness,
we have made
no progress
in understanding
its nature.
How can
such a thing
happen? one
theory is that, while we experience
what we believe are external
symptoms,
it is the instruments
of our
perception which are under
attack. That would explain
the universality
of this plague
which manifests
in such a
localized manner
that it beggars belief.
Another
theory posits
that the attack is not viral,
bacterial, or neurological,
but rather algorithmic.
This is a tidy concept, but
it altogether too
simple to
properly explain
how the experience
is equivalent,
but not
identical, for
victims in
okinawa and
Leipzig. If the attack is one
based on a set of
logical rules,
and the rules
have been
devised so
as to work
identical in
such radically different
environments,
then that suggests
an intelligence
behind the attack. That is a proposition
to diabolical,
not to
mention
unlikely, to
merit consideration.
Regardless
of the source
of the enigma,
it was effective to
a degree I would
not have
imagined
possible. While we were able to
swiftly identify the pathology
of the attack, we were unable
to contain
the general
panic it caused.
Even today,
it seems unlikely
that such an
apparently harmless
(at least physically so) bug
would engender
such a violent
reaction. Every
loss set off
riots, even
when we reached the point
where we could accurately
calculate the period
between each event.
Steady as a clock it was, and
yet each of its ticks may
as well have been
the click of a detonator.
With what we now
know, the end
was always inevitable.
We fought, and
fought well. We tested incessantly.
If we could know
nothing of
the source or
the cure, then
at least we could understand
its behavior.
The printed word
suffered in
the most obvious
way, but we were more
than a little shocked
when we discovered
that the speech was equally impaired.
How could
that be so? nonetheless,
we created visual
meta-languages
which could be used
to get by,
if not to
move forward.
We used sounds,
variations
in pitch and
tone and
rhythm, and
we made more
progress than
you might
have guessed,
but it was all for
naught. We
determined
much too
late that machines
were affected in the same
way we were.
Whilst humanity
is quite resilient
in finding
new paths
when another
is blocked,
machines
are almost entirely
devoid
of this facility. When
the communication
between bleeping
box and
glowing
rectangle started
to fail, there was no
stopping
the rot. Soon
all manner
of devices
which relied upon
communication
were rendered
utterly unable
to function.
not only
did media
fail, but so
did the
banking
system, the power
grid,
telecommunications,
and ultimately,
all governmental
authority.
Chaos did
not do it
justice.
I am
saddened
to report
that our better natures
abandoned
us at this point
and all higher
creeds and
moral codes
were replaced
by “every
man for
himself.”
A few of
us who
adjudged
ourselves
to be the best hope
for reversing
the disease walled
ourselves
into
bunkers and
let the rest of the world
fend for
itself. It fared
poorly.
And, if I
am to be
wholly
honest, I would
confess that the altruism
of our
isolation
was more of
an excuse
than anything.
we sought
safety and
if any
salvation
were to
come of it,
well, that would
be nice as well.
funnily
enough, we
have never
discovered
the vector
for this plague.
It is entirely
possible the paper
on which
you are reading
it is infected.
perhaps
it becomes imbedded
in the very
language
itself, crippling
the unsuspecting
reader by
the mere
act of reading.
Should that
be the case, then
it strikes me
as extremely
unlikely
that there
is anything
to be gained
by writing
further.
The disease
will have
its hooks in
you and,
presuming
that it progresses
as the pace
we’ve
previously
observed,
you will
have only
a few
random letters arranged
on an
otherwise
white page
from which
to deduce
my intent.
pity.
So
I will leave
you now as
the prospect
that my
report will
not only
fail to
serve its purpose,
but in fact
provide
this plague
with new
victims,
depresses
me mightily
and depression
is one thing
I have no
further
need of.
Should you,
by some
miracle,
safely
decode
this, then
I hope that
it is of some
use in
preventing
the further
spread of
this dread
disease. or,
dare I hope
it, that the
plague
itself has
been conquered
and you are
reading
this free
from the
confusion
which
condemned
us to a
noisy,
wordless
fate in the
shadow of
the remains
of a modern
tower of
Babel.
I like the slow degradation of the story, like the loss of memory or the corruption of data. I can see it being analogous with a disease either real or digital. Looks like a nightmare to edit, though, so kudos on coming out with a finished product that works so effectively!
Thank you very kindly! There’s a surprise for you if you highlight all the text, too 😉