Assimilation Protocol

By Brian F.H. Clement

Twenty years after The Final Transmission, Thomas has grown up far from the horrors of the Mutation
Plague that swept the globe. Now an adult, he makes his way into a world inhabited by mutant
communities, commonplace biotechnology, and violent cults. When he becomes a target, he is taken in by
a mysterious humanoid salamander woman sent by a secret group hoping to unlock his potential. First
they must locate pieces of a technological puzzle, then trek across a contaminated wasteland while
avoiding human supremacists and the programmed hunters of the all-powerful Ordex conglomerate.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Spero Publishing
• Release date: Nov 14, 2017

Brian F.H. Clement

Brian F.H. Clement was born in Kelowna, British Columbia, Canada and comes from a multicultural family with both Japanese and English heritage. He lived in Japan for a year after high school and returned to Canada in 1997. He then took up independent film, writing and directing 7 features in Victoria, BC, which were distributed by small labels around the world during the DVD boom of the early 2000s, and received screenings at film fests from Germany to Brazil, Australia to Argentina, as well as all over North America. One of these films, Dark Paradox, serves as inspiration and background for his first novel, The Final Transmission, published in 2013 by Damnation Books. The sequel, Assimilation Protocol, followed shortly after.Brian is the recipient of several film-related awards and currently resides in Toronto, Ontario, Canada where he works in film and television distribution, and continues to write and direct when time allows.

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Assimilation Protocol

By: Brian F.H. Clement

Assimilation Protocol

By: Brian F.H. Clement

Eternal Press

A division of Caliburn Press, LLC.

P.O. Box 8747

Madison, WI 53714

www.eternalpress.biz

Digital ISBN: 978-1-944956-69-1

Print ISBN: 978-1-944956-70-7

Cover art by:

Copyright 2017 Brian F.H. Clement

Worldwide Electronic & Digital Rights

Worldwide English Language Print Rights

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any form, including digital and electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the Publisher, except for brief quotes for use in reviews.

This book is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Thanks to all the friends and family who have supported me in my writing, and all the women I’ve known who inspired ideas for the character of Ren.

Prologue

1225 CE.

Henri de Vareilles crawled up the rocky, tree-dotted hillside of Cevennes, France, panting and sweating. His sheathed sword slapped against his leg, reminding him of his purpose, his holy mission. The crisp morning air would have been refreshing were he not half-mad with fatigue, thirst, and hunger. Birds chirped. They were a dull background haze in his mind, barely audible. His shield was gone, dropped days earlier in delirium. His horse had fallen, unable to carry on. Wrapped in his mail hauberk, he at least still had his sword. His hand gripped a tree trunk. He felt no difference between its dry bark and his skin. He stopped to remove his helm and took a breath as he looked around. Sore from walking in his armor for days, he forgot sleep after seeing the heathens. Henri didn’t know what they were, but they were worse than the Cathars he had dealt with. There would be no salvation for them, no judgment even by God, only death, followed by eternal condemnation to Hell.

A mist hung over the mountaintops. The gray dawn matched the color of the surrounding rock. His breath puffed out in tiny clouds, and then mingled with the fog. They were near. He knew it; smelled it. The layers of sweat and grime covering him were nothing compared to their evil. They had to be destroyed. Leaving his estate behind at first was difficult. Joining this Crusade was a necessary inconvenience--he felt driven. The Crusade had officially been over for years, but Henri vowed to continue until the enemies of God were obliterated. The sin and depravity they showed would be crushed, purged forever from the world. They must not be permitted to escape.

Henri squinted as he looked from his vantage point around the hills. Movement. A quartet of black-robed figures walked slowly into a cave that flickered with a bright orange light. He watched them, furrowed his brow, and tried to see what they were doing. His lips curled into a sneer. He took a deep breath, wiped the back of his hand across his matted beard, and then donned his helmet. He crept into the mouth of the cave, sword drawn, and paused briefly at each footstep to listen for movement. Voices. Some kind of speech. Chanting? He pulled his helm off and laid it carefully down on the earthen cave floor.

Olog’lahai’kuhulll...Olog’lahai’kuhull, came unified chanting from men and women. As he moved deeper into the cave, Henri looked around at the cave walls. He saw symbols: Latin writing and Roman numerals in incomprehensible sequences. What did it mean? Was it code? A secret message? He turned away, fearing corruption by the confusing language. Around his feet were beds of straw. They surrounded flickering embers of a dying campfire. Scraps of bread and vegetables lay about, along with shreds of parchment and scrolls, dozens of them. He looked, tried to discern their meaning, but knew they contained only the same foul heathen nonsense written on the walls.

The sounds of chanting grew louder. Henri tried to swallow in fear, but his throat was parched. His eyes widened as he imagined what he might find. He gripped his sword tighter, summoned his resolve, and steeled himself for the task ahead. He moved toward the orange light, unlike any he had seen in fire or sunlight. It danced across the cave walls, interrupted only by writhing shadows of men and women moving in rhythm together. The chanting became screams of joy and ecstasy.

Henri peered around a rocky corner, toward the light and the chanting. He heard laughter, pleasured moaning. The scene was too horrible to look at, but he was unable to turn away. Small torches were mounted around the edges of the space, but they did not emit the light he saw. The flashes of brightness that poured forth were sparks and bolts of orange and yellow energy splashed around the ceiling of the space. The naked cultists reached the apex of their ritual, and then lost themselves in a torrent of sweat and frenzied excitement. Nude men and women pressed together in ways that defiled Henri’s sense of purity. The sight itself would corrupt him¬¬—violate his eyes and mind. He could not allow it, but he felt unable to move.

Something manifested above them. It was an impossible agglomeration of feathers, eyes, limbs, antennae, wings, and tentacles. Parts were from animals and plants he was familiar with, though many he had never seen before. Henri shook, mouth agape, and stared. His eyes bulged and his pulse throbbed. It could not be! Men and women were joined in vile, pleasured ritual, and this thing, this symbol they had summoned drew his eyes to it. He needed to look, to see it, but couldn’t. He mustn’t!

In an instant his powers of reason were shattered. Convulsing hands formed into tight fists around the grip of his sword. A crazed scream tore from his lips. It was as if he stood behind, watching himself rush into the room. The ritualists turned in surprise. The sword flashed in the unnatural orange light as he swung down and beheaded one of them. The nude body of the cultist fell limp. The man’s head rolled away just as Henri turned to another, and decapitated him as well. Blood splashed Henri. He heard screaming in terror now, but like the birds outside, it was as if through a dampened haze.

Energy flashed and fluctuated. The phantasmic form floating in the air faded away. The ritual was disrupted. The wall-mounted torches still illuminated the room in dim, flickering light. Henri continued his slaughter of the heathens. He saw his own shadow on the walls, raising his sword, and bringing it down again and again on nude bodies. Limbs fell and rolled. Blood sprayed the walls and spilled as if from gourds. Screams for mercy echoed somewhere, distant to him. He felt outside of himself, watching his body at work without conscious thought.

Dripping blood from his armor, he panted heavily as his eyes darted about the room looking for signs of life. A shuffling movement to his right caught his attention. A nude young woman, streaked with blood from the other heathens, pushed herself back with her feet against the cave wall. Fear shook her body as she looked up at him, her face quaking. He moved, stood over her, and dragged his blood-drenched sword along the dirt floor over the mutilated corpses now littering it. The girl’s eyes implored his mercy.

She tried, meekly, to squeak out words, but his eyes returned nothing as he stared at her. He eyed her feminine form, her smooth skin. How dare she expose herself like this, uncovering her body like some whore of the Devil! He felt urges welling, as if sent by Satan, and fought them away. He took a deep breath as he pushed it down, deep down, the bodily sickness. He curled his lips back. His breath grew heavier. Henri raised his sword over his head and waited for her to scream. Once she did, he screamed back in a maniacal retort of deranged bloodlust, and brought his blade down upon her, over and over.

Henri lurched back to the smoldering campfire and dragged his dripping sword behind him. He slumped, then collapsed into a sitting position, and pulled his chainmail coif off his head and dropped it limply to his side. His eyes darted back and forth as his entire body twitched uncontrollably.

He had purged the heathens. All were slain, sent to the pits of Satan. Why did the madness remain? He should feel clean, pure. Had he not done the will of the Almighty? Was there more work to be done? What was it?

He dropped his sword, clutched his knees, and rocked back and forth. His eyes caught sight of the parchment and scrolls, and then wandered back up to the Latin writing and strange configurations of numerals on the walls. Henri stopped rocking. His purpose was there, written out before him. He brought his hands up to his forehead and pulled them back across his head through his blood and sweat-filled hair. His hair was pulled out, caught in the mail around his wrists, but he felt nothing. He ran his hands over his scalp, harder this time. There was his purpose, the messages, the writing. He had but to gather it. Henri scrambled across the cave floor. He pulled the parchments and scrolls into his arms.

Days passed, then weeks, then months. Henri’s eyes glazed into a fanatical destiny of dedication. He no longer shook, but felt instead the calm serenity of holy purpose. He felt his beard, which hung low now, and realized how many months had passed. Henri squinted, wiped a hand across his face, and blinked away the fog in his mind. Realizing where he was, he looked around at his work. Burning candles surrounded him, illuminating scrolls, parchments, and piles of books of forbidden knowledge, neatly stacked and ordered. He had bound together a volume that compiled all the knowledge of the terrible scrolls, their black books of darkness and conjuring, their foul rituals of pleasure and bodily indulgence.

What had he eaten? He did not remember, only that he was well fed. The book. It had been bound in something. Tanned leather? The heathens were not human. They did not deserve the dignity of burial. They were animals, less than animals. God gave men dominion over the animals of the Earth to do with as he wished. They were used to keep Henri alive, used in the creation of this very book.

Henri carved a title in bone across its cover and spoke it aloud: Encyclopedia Nefastus, he whispered. The secrets, all the terrible secrets the heathens had would be kept safe, guarded, locked away. He needed Crusaders. He would gather together the most pious, the most righteous, valiant knights, and they would defend it: his Sacred Order. The Ordo Sanctus.

One

ORDEX HUL-NET REPORT 2039-06-02

URGENT DISPATCH

Shortly before the mutation plague of two decades ago, several incidents leading to the outbreak were recorded. First, occult activity, leading to widespread zooid infestation of Earth and subsequent severe human, animal and plant mutation. Cult known as Children of the Ninth Darkness or Cult of Olog’lahai’kuhul intended to spread zooid micro colony organisms in effort to alter all planetary life.

Second, use of artificial humanoid Cleaner unit by Ordo Sanctus to eliminate cult members and others infected by zooid organisms. Cleaner activated in attempt to curtail public awareness of cult mutation potential, before full Ordo Sanctus offensive against them. Cleaner generally successful, despite later uncontained outbreak of zooid organisms. Use of focused energy weapons first developed during the Second World War by F-Central Atomic Energy researchers proved extremely effective. Cleaner subsequently sent in pursuit of individuals attempting to impede Ordo Sanctus efforts. Registered only partial success; several individuals eliminated.

Third, activation of programmed sleeper agents by Ordo Sanctus for dissemination of self-replicating, weaponized, viral nanotech cleansing devices developed through Perpendex Pharmaceuticals. Devices released in attempt to eliminate post-mutation life forms before full onset of zooid outbreak with only moderate success. Plan partially interrupted by Toronto Police Detective Benoit Michaud and allies. Main Toronto Ordo Sanctus base destroyed. Cleaner unit destroyed, but memory core remained intact. Currently in recuperative stasis after physical construct rebuilt from its memory core. Location remains uncertain after placement by radical Ordo Sanctus offshoot members several years ago. Self-replicating, weaponized, cybernetic viral units marginally more successful. One-fifth of Earth’s human population eliminated, resulting in considerable loss of data. Many local governments able to continue functioning, contrary to original objectives. Watershed Security Corporation members, acting under direction of remaining Ordo Sanctus leadership, able to gradually gain control over areas of North America. Mutation plague and resultant chaos, colloquially known among the population as the Strife Years, severely hampered efforts. New directives, leadership, and planning needed, and once developed, then implemented.

Police records of the period indicate one remaining survivor of first recorded mutation incident and conflict with the Cleaner unit. Individual kept in custody at a mental health institution. Exact records of location, physical description, name, lost during intervening chaotic periods. Search of area facilities to locate individual, if possible, and ascertain significance, underway.

* * * *

Thomas sat on the edge of his bed wearing the plain, institution-issued, light blue coveralls he wore every day. Sunlight streamed in and warmed his face as he looked up from the book of poetry he had been reading. Mercifully, the light was able to reach his window in this area, more free from air pollution than others nearby. Though the sunlight felt warm, it provided little comfort. He felt a finality about the day. He ran a hand through his short, brown hair and scratched behind his ear. A bird, superficially free from mutation, sat on the tree branch outside, chirping.

Passer domesticus. House sparrow. Non-native species that arrived with European settlers. No visible mutations. Successfully adapted to its new environment, thrived, and still manages to survive.

He looked at his small bookshelf, lined with aged paperback novels, science and history textbooks, with a few of poetry and theater thrown in. Some of them he had brought when he arrived as a small boy. He closed the volume in his lap, a collection of Robert Frost’s work, and replaced it with the other books.

He stood a moment and looked over them. They were remnants of a world that barely maintained existence. He had only been out a few times, years past when he was much younger. His information on the outside world came from research and reading. The institution’s obsolete computers barely worked and lacked even a rudimentary connection to Hul-Net, the global network that ran and powered information exchange. Use was limited due to electricity rationing. Even with no one else left at the facility, Thomas shied away from them. He wrote out his personal journal by hand, or used a decades-old mechanical typewriter.

Growing up in the facility, Thomas had no Telemplants, nor implants of any kind, unlike most humans and mutants outside the fences. While shielded from the outside, he read considerably on Telemplants, the revolutionary technology that allowed instant thought messaging between users. Only a young teenager at the time, he recalled that when first marketed following the Strife Years, they were affordable only to a few of the most wealthy. Glitches in the technology were made embarrassingly evident within the first weeks of use. Users of Telemplants were unwittingly sending photo messages created by their brains based on their personal fantasies involving friends and coworkers. This resulted in several high-profile lawsuits. Comedic as the situation was, the technology was nearly ruined by these incidents.

However, the usefulness far outstripped the problems. After a first few shaky years, they had perfected and honed the implants until they had rendered the upper tiers of society effectively telepathic, at least with each other. Instant thought-messages (or ITMs, pronounced Items) were now thankfully filtered through Do you really want to send? warnings. Criminal infiltration of Items and their users was a lucrative business. Mental hacking, thought surveillance, and brain draining were all hazards. Probably best I’ve been stuck in here.

Thanks to the power rationing across the city and province, lights were off during the day, and barely on at night. Summers were stiflingly hot, as it would be in a month’s time, and winters were brutally cold with the lack of heat. Thomas had spent too many nights huddled in blankets, whenever possible with the others who were institutionalized, shivering in the dark, breath visible in the moonlight. With the late spring, the weather was pleasant for a change, and he needed neither heat nor cooling from it. The building was crumbling, painted over to maintain a sheen of respectability, but rust showed through in the pipes. Nothing was able to hide the widening holes in some walls. The elevators hadn’t worked since before the Strife Years.

Over the twenty years Thomas had been there, slow cost cutting and attrition had whittled the staff away to a few doctors and nurses, and a handful of security personnel. Less than a dozen people now lived in the building. With the chaos outside the fences, many chose to stay. When things calmed down, security abandoned them, and many people simply walked away.

Thomas, with nowhere else to go, stayed on. Everyone he had grown up around had gone. With more than two-thirds of the building shuttered, he felt terribly alone. Thomas sat back down on the bed. He looked at the faded, torn and dirtied stuffed triceratops atop his bookshelf. He was too old for toys, but it reminded him of a time when he was innocent. He probably still was. What do I even really know about the world out there? He’d have to find out, probably much sooner than he’d like, and he knew it. Like Frost said, Nothing gold can stay. The glimmer on the gold of this place has long since tarnished.

A knock sounded behind him, and pulled him out of his reminiscing. Thomas turned to see Doctor Zarelli standing in his rumpled suit and lab coat, holding a clipboard. Zarelli smiled through his salt and pepper beard, but his brow was furrowed. It was a mixed look of paternalistic concern and reluctance to convey bad news. Thomas had seen it many times before: fifteen years earlier, for example, when Doctor Zarelli had told him power would be rationed and they’d find creative ways to eliminate waste, as if it were a fun game or educational activity rather than a dire necessity. A few years after that, when they learned that water would only be supplied twelve hours a day, Zarelli suggested they make a contest for the staff and residents out of who might come up with the best way to store it.

Always trying to stay positive, Zarelli had been the closest thing to a father figure for Thomas. Being the sole authority figure, Zarelli tried to protect him and the others at the facility from the dangers outside. They had managed to keep the institution operating through the Strife Years, and through all the subsequent changes to the world around them. Funding slowly dried up; staff left; residents disappeared. Besides Zarelli, there was a lone security staff member, Avrinder Sihota. Sihota was the only other person Thomas remotely thought of as a friend.

Good morning, Mister Atwater, Zarelli said, affecting an air of humor as he often did. Feeling all right today?

Thomas sighed. All right, yes. He knew what was coming.

Zarelli moved to Thomas’s side of the bed and the sun caught him in its beam, briefly glinting on the cybernetic skull implants behind his ear and near his temple. He sat beside Thomas and cleared his throat. Thomas, I have good news and bad. The bad news is... He paused and took a deep breath. The bad news is that this facility is being closed. Cutbacks have eliminated us completely and the land will be redeveloped. Our few remaining private benefactors are taking what money they have and moving north. We won’t be able to operate much longer. Thomas frowned, trying to accept the news. He had anticipated it, but still wasn’t prepared for it. Zarelli continued, The good news is that you will be freely able to make your own way in the world now.

I haven’t been outside the grounds for years though.

Zarelli nodded. Thomas knew he was sympathetic, but torn. Zarelli’s face showed a careful search for his words. When your mother died and you were orphaned, you were just a little boy. You came to us frightened and alone, nothing but books and that stuffed dinosaur as companions. We thought you might have developed a condition as a result of witnessing the deaths, or inherited something from your mother. But I came to the conclusion that neither was the case. And you were able to continue living here, working for me, working with Avrinder, keeping the building clean, reading, learning. But you’re an adult now. You don’t need us. I think you’ll do fine outside. Most everyone else has long since left, rehabilitated, adapted to the new world out there. The facility’s simply not necessary for you.

I won’t know what to do. I don’t even have i/o nodes, Thomas said, pointing to the implant jacks visible on the side of Zarelli’s head.

People survived without them for thousands of years. I’m sure you can too. Or, when you’re able to buy them, have them implanted yourself. Many more things out there that will be different for you. Things have changed since you came through our doors. Inside these walls you avoided the worst of the Strife Years, the looting, the pogroms, the mass violence, and the crackdowns. The Resource Wars are mostly over now. The major powers fought themselves into exhaustion. There’s nothing out there for you to avoid any longer, Zarelli said trying to reassure him. He smiled. You might find out more about your parents, how they died?

I don’t have any money. I don’t even have any friends. No family that I know of. I don’t know anyone out there.

What about the police detectives who rescued you when your family died?

Thomas sighed. They’re both dead, I think. It was so long ago.

Zarelli put a hand on Thomas’s shoulder. You’ll do all right. I’m sure of it. You’re smart, resourceful, and quick. I’ve worked with you for twenty years. Hard to believe it’s been that long. I know you’re special. You can do things no ordinary person can do. No one on Earth is really ordinary any longer. But you, you may be one of the least ordinary, and in a different way than you might think.

Two

Thomas stood, rooted to the spot beside his bed, one hand in his bag. Indecision consumed him. The night air seeping in through the open window wasn’t cold, but he felt empty nonetheless. He had packed some of his books, among them the antique book he felt must be important, the Encyclopedia Nefastus. It might even be worth some money, which I guess I’ll need now. Included were pages of his typed journal, a few personal trinkets collected during field trips as a child, but he barely owned anything. He looked around the room. At least they’re letting me keep the coveralls.

Evenin’ Tommy, a voice said. Thomas turned around. Almost ready to go?

You know I hate it when you call me that, Av, Thomas replied.

The security guard smiled. You’ll miss it in a week.

Thomas shook his head, and laugh-sighed. He relaxed and zipped up his bag. Avrinder Sihota stood in the door, arms folded. Dim, half-power LED lights in the hallway illuminated him in partial silhouette. The black shirt, pants, and combat boots seemed so out of place on the chipper man. Thomas looked at Avrinder’s shaved head, and the ring of implants around his left ear. It was another reminder of how cut off Thomas would be outside the institution.

You’re not walking me out, are you? Thomas asked.

Avrinder laughed. Hardly. I’m leaving. Just wanted to say hi and goodbye one last time before I head home. Off to a new gig this week. He extended a hand toward Thomas, who looked at it. Thomas didn’t want to say goodbye, but he shook the hand, reluctantly making eye contact. You’ll do fii-iine, Avrinder said, drawing out fine into an eyes-closed, joking grimace as he slapped Thomas’s shoulder.

It shook Thomas, always unprepared for Avrinder’s strength. That’s exactly what Doctor Zarelli said. Well, not quite like that.

Wish I could help you out, but I have to take care of my family. We’re heading north in a few months, to a place up near Wasaga. Cousin of mine’s getting me on a local police force for a First Nations town. Hiigan Algonquin, or something. They did okay during the Strife Years, avoided the worst of it. Until then I’ve got a three-month contract doing private security for a gated Purist community. Might be interesting. I hear they can be pretty nutty. I’ll be patrolling the outer walls, so I doubt I’ll even see the inside or meet the people paying me. Probably about as much action as around this place! Avrinder laughed again.

Purists? Haven’t heard of them.

Yeah, really paranoid about germs, infection, you name it. I hear they wear masks all the time, never touch anything with their hands, and refuse anything invasive like telemplants or injections.

Guess the Strife Years didn’t help with that.

Nope. But these guys are the least dangerous of the weirdoes out there. At least they pay well.

Thomas sighed. You know you’re the only person near my age I’ve talked to since the last resident walked out three years ago? All the doctors and the rest of the security were always older than me.

Avrinder cocked his head to one side, raising his eyebrows. You’re getting all mushy on me. Not allowed!

Where do you think I should go? I have to find a place to sleep, a job, Thomas said.

Hell, the city core’s as good a bet as anywhere. Maybe one of the marketplaces, something attached to the old Path system. Used to be all underground. Now it’s built up into kind of a grid that goes above and below ground. People and mutants took over parts of it during the early Strife. Plenty of work to be found, most of it probably not legal or ethical. But hey, look at me. I used to be an accountant. Not much use for accountants during the Strife. Security was in high demand, and pays better now. So I’m stuck with it, Avrinder laughed.

The Path system had existed before Thomas came to the institution, and he knew a few things about it. It was an underground network beneath the streets of Toronto that connected major commercial and business areas. The Path had been lined with shops. By the sound of it, it had been expanded in both size and function by residents converting or co-opting it.

Thomas shook his head. I don’t know how you stay so positive with everything that’s happened. All the death, chaos, everything you told me about what happened with your brother, your parents.

Avrinder shrugged. What’s past is passed. Can’t dwell on things in this crazy world or it’ll make you crazy too. All you can do is keep your head up, stay above water, and dodge the explosions.

Thomas laughed. Thanks.

There we go! A smile. Avrinder patted him on the back. And with that, I depart, he said, turning back to the door. See you around, Tommy!

Thomas shook his head as he heard Avrinder’s laugh echoing down the hall. Footsteps. A door shutting. Feet going down the stairs. Another, distant door closing. Automatic timed locks bolting. Thomas turned to the window. He watched the former security guard walk down the paved front path, past the empty guard post at the front gate. Avrinder thoughtfully shut it behind him. Who’s coming or going now? Just me, I guess, and Doctor Zarelli closing the place down.

Thomas looked at the empty front yard of the institution. The grass had gone untended for weeks, and would probably be so for months to come, maybe longer. Wind rustled the trees and weeds, sending a chill gust in through the window. The darkness outside, all-encompassing, was ominous now. Thomas shivered and closed the window to shut it all out one last time.

* * * *

Aloof gray clouds overhead were the color of well-trodden concrete. Thomas looked up at them, then down to the matching cracked pavement of the institution’s front path. Weeds had started creeping through the cracks. The perimeter fence rusted; the paint of the building peeled. He turned to face the doors and looked up at the window of his old room. Difficult, but necessary. Time to grow up. The institutional womb is behind you. There’s only forward from here. He packed bottles of water, along with the few remaining scraps from the kitchen. Hopefully enough to keep me going until I can make it to the core and find shelter.

Thomas stopped at the empty guard station at the front gate. The glass was opaque with dust and grime, the latches on the gate so encrusted with rust it was a wonder that they moved at all. Fat spiders the size of a child’s hands had taken up residence in the corners of the booth, and it looked like a bird’s nest was perched atop it as well. Thomas looked at the barbed wire. During the Strife Years the place had become a safe refuge for orphans, like himself. It kept the outside world away as much as it kept them in.

He pushed through the gate, shut it behind him, and looked around the deserted street. Cracked pavement, an abandoned automobile hulk, and boarded up storefronts. I hardly know where I am. Thomas considered running back inside, hiding somewhere in the building. Who would kick me out? Zarelli? I could just wait. Wait until I have something figured out. He gripped the straps of his knapsack tightly and shook his head. No. Time to grow up. You’re a man. Act like one. Leave the cradle behind. He had been alone before, after his mother died. Even when she was alive, it wasn’t like he had real family. His father was barely there, and his mother’s head was full of cult nonsense about the New World they’d build. Maybe this was it, and he was living in it.

Thomas looked around again. He knew how to determine which way was south by the position of the sun, at least. He had some recollection of the neighborhood, where in the Greater Toronto Area or GTA, he was. Bon? Von? Something that sounded like that. It was far enough north to be called a town of its own, but he wasn’t sure where. He thought of landmarks that would be of use to guide him. Of course! The Tower. Silly of me.

From nearly anywhere in the GTA he’d be able to see what was once called the CN Tower. Moving toward it would easily take him into the core. Through the veil of pollution he made out the massive structure that stood above the cluster of skyscrapers, and began walking.