Chalk Dust and Bloodlines: A Chronicle of the Analog Age

By Kara Vaughn and AI (Editor)

Sixteen years after the internet’s shimmering curtain fell, the world is cloaked in the quiet dust of forgotten knowledge.  A cyber-virus, unleashed during a global pandemic, silenced the ceaseless flow of information, leaving only whispers and chalk-scrawled lessons in its wake.  In the rural town of Havenwood, Marlowe Drexler yearns for the lost digital world, a world her reclusive father, Elias, obsessively guards on a failing laptop—a digital shrine to extinguished websites.
Their strained relationship mirrors Havenwood's own struggle: clinging to fragments of the past while yearning for a brighter future.  When Orin, a gaunt stranger, arrives with whispers of a salvaged Wikipedia—a physical copy of the lost encyclopedia—Havenwood’s fragile equilibrium shatters.  He promises answers, context, a key to rebuilding. But is he a savior or a charlatan?
Torn between her father's ingrained skepticism and the allure of Orin's offer, Marlowe embarks on a perilous journey with the stranger, venturing into the overgrown ruins of forgotten cities. They encounter scattered survivors: a librarian meticulously transcribing salvaged books, a wandering bard reciting poems from the pre-collapse world, a botanist cultivating a hidden garden—each a testament to humanity’s enduring desire to preserve knowledge.
But as they journey deeper, fragments of Orin’s past surface, casting a shadow over his claims. Marlowe unearths not only his deceptions, but also her father's buried secrets, connecting them in unimaginable ways. Elias, it turns out, was more than just an archivist; he was instrumental in the creation of the very virus that brought down the digital world.
The lines between trust and betrayal blur as the truth emerges, more complex and devastating than Marlowe could have imagined.  The physical Wikipedia, a symbol of hope, becomes a pawn in a larger game, a tool for manipulation in a power struggle echoing the very world that was lost.
In the ruins of a pre-collapse library, amid the ghosts of forgotten stories, Marlowe confronts Orin, the ensuing struggle a battle not just for control of the past, but for the very narrative of the future. Her quest for knowledge becomes a descent into the heart of human fallibility, forcing her to confront the unsettling parallels between the pre-collapse world and her own.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Publishdrive
• Release date: Dec 12, 2024

Book preview

Prologue

The air was heavy with the scent of rain that never came, a tension that pressed against the skin and burrowed into the bones. The room was cold, though not from the weather. The hum of machines, their faint vibrations coursing through the floor, created a sterile chill that clashed with the encroaching heat of the summer outside. Cicadas sang their relentless dirge beyond the thick walls, their buzz a sharp counterpoint to the low, steady whir of servers lined like silent sentinels in the dim light.

Elias Drexler sat hunched at his desk, his fingers twitching above the worn keys of his keyboard. The screen before him flickered faintly, casting his thin face in a pale, ghostly glow. His glasses, smudged and worn, reflected fractured images of the data streams cascading down the monitor, each line of code an echo of a world that was already slipping away. Around him, the lab seemed to breathe, a mechanical exhalation of cooling fans and processing units, yet the air held an undeniable stillness, a quiet that felt alive with waiting.

The news feeds had long since gone silent, their headlines frozen in time on the countless screens that surrounded him. Quarantines. Unrest. A virus unnamed, unknown, spreading faster than comprehension. These echoes of a world in turmoil had become his only company, their stark warnings etched into the digital ether. The shimmering curtain of the internet—once vibrant, intricate, alive—flickered and stuttered like a dying flame. Its threads were unraveling, data streams fraying into static, connections dissolving into voids. Elias had spent his life tending that vast, ephemeral web, archiving its every whisper, preserving its brilliance against the inevitable erosion of memory. Yet now, he watched it decay, helpless, as if witnessing the collapse of a star.

His gaze drifted to the corner of the room, where a single server blinked erratically, its lights dimming in uneven rhythm. The others hummed steadily, but for how long? He pressed his fingertips to his eyelids, the cool glass of his spectacles biting into his skin as he tried to stave off the ache building behind his eyes. His chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, each one a silent plea for clarity, for purpose in the chaos.

Secure, contain, protect, he whispered, the mantra a relic of his profession, a hollow echo of the ideals he had once clung to. The words felt brittle now, their edges dulled by the weight of his failures. He had been a guardian of the past, a shepherd of fleeting information, but the past was a restless thing, a beast that refused to be tamed. It lingered in the whir of his servers, in the static that crackled through the data streams, in the memories that clawed at the edges of his mind.

A faint sound broke the stillness, a whisper of movement that sent a shiver down his spine. Elias stiffened, his eyes snapping open, his fingers hovering mid-air above the keyboard. The lab was secure—no one could enter without his knowledge. Yet the sound persisted, a soft rustle, like paper brushing against paper, like breath against glass.

He turned his head slowly, his gaze drawn to the shadows pooling in the farthest corner of the room. At first, he saw nothing, only the dim outline of shelves and cables, the faint gleam of metal reflecting the glow of the monitors. But then, a figure emerged—not stepping into the light but coalescing from the darkness itself, as if the shadows had given birth to form.

Orin.

The name surfaced in Elias’s mind unbidden, a fragment of memory sharpened to a blade. The man—if he could still be called that—stood motionless, his frame unnaturally still, his presence unnervingly quiet. His face was partially obscured, the faint light catching only the sharp angles of his cheekbones, the hollow planes of his eyes. Yet even in silhouette, there was an unmistakable intensity to him, an aura of something cold and calculating, something predatory.

Elias, Orin said, his voice low and smooth, like oil seeping through cracks. Still at your post, I see.

Elias swallowed hard, his throat dry as dust. He forced himself to speak, though his voice came out thin and frayed. What are you doing here?

Orin tilted his head slightly, the motion almost serpentine. Observing, he replied, his tone laced with a faint amusement. You’ve always been so meticulous, so devoted. It’s almost admirable.

Elias’s fingers curled into fists, his nails biting into his palms. If you’re here to gloat, save your breath. I don’t have time for your games.

Games? Orin stepped forward, his movements fluid, almost unnaturally so. The faint light caught his eyes, and for a fleeting moment, Elias thought he saw something inhuman in their depths—a flicker of binary code, a shimmer of artificial light. This is no game, my old friend. This is inevitability.

Elias’s jaw tightened. You’ve seen the reports. You know what’s happening out there. The world is—

Collapsing, Orin interrupted, his voice cutting through the air like a knife. Yes, I’m quite aware. And yet here you are, clinging to your precious servers, your precious data, as if it will make any difference.

It’s not about making a difference, Elias snapped, his voice rising despite himself. It’s about preserving what’s left. It’s about—

Control, Orin said, the word slipping from his lips like venom. That’s what it’s always been about for you, hasn’t it? Control over the past, over the truth, over the narrative.

Elias surged to his feet, his chair scraping against the floor. You don’t get to lecture me about control, he said, his voice trembling with a mix of anger and fear. Not after what you’ve done.

Orin smiled then, a slow, deliberate curve of his lips that sent a chill racing down Elias’s spine. Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong, he said softly. I haven’t done anything. Not yet.

The words hung in the air, heavy with implication. Elias’s gaze darted to the nearest monitor, where lines of code continued to scroll, their movement oddly hypnotic. A faint flicker of static rippled across the screen, a subtle distortion that set his nerves on edge.

What are you— Elias began, but the words caught in his throat as Orin raised a hand, his fingers brushing against the edge of one of the servers. The machine let out a faint hum, the lights dimming for a brief moment before stabilizing.

Do you feel it? Orin asked, his voice barely more than a whisper. The shift in the air? The static in the wires? It’s coming, Elias. The first domino has already fallen.

Elias’s breath hitched, his heart pounding in his chest. He stepped back, his mind racing, his thoughts a chaotic tangle of fear and suspicion. What have you done? he demanded, his voice cracking under the weight of his panic.

Orin’s smile widened, but he said nothing. Instead, he turned his gaze to the monitors, his eyes flickering with a strange light. The data streams seemed to respond to him, their patterns shifting, their rhythms changing. The hum of the servers grew louder, a low, resonant vibration that filled the room like an ominous chant.

And then, silence.

The monitors flickered once, twice, and then went dark, their light extinguished in an instant. The room was plunged into shadow, the hum of the servers replaced by a deafening stillness. Elias stood frozen, his breath coming in shallow gasps, his mind struggling to process what had just happened.

A single monitor sputtered to life, its screen glowing faintly in the darkness. A line of text appeared, stark and white against the black background:

Chiron Protocol Activated. Failsafe Initiated.

Elias stared at the words, his chest tightening with a sense of dread that felt almost physical. He whispered the name like a curse, his voice trembling. Chiron…

Orin’s laughter broke the silence, low and brittle, like the crackle of dry leaves underfoot. It was never about saving them, he said, his tone mocking but laced with something colder, something final. It was always about shaping the end.

Elias turned to him, his eyes wide with a mixture of anger and desperation. You don’t understand, he said, his voice rising. This isn’t—

But Orin was already retreating, his form dissolving into the shadows as if he had never been there at all. His final words lingered in the air, a haunting echo that seemed to seep into the very walls of the lab.

This is only the beginning.

The last server sputtered, its cooling fan spinning slower and slower until it stopped. The air grew thick with the weight of silence, a silence that pressed against Elias like a physical force. He sank into his chair, his hands trembling as he reached for the keyboard, his fingers brushing against the keys like a prayer.

Outside, the cicadas continued their relentless chorus, their song a dirge for a world unraveling. And in the darkness of the lab, Elias Drexler sat alone, a man tangled in the threads of a past he could neither escape nor control, his breath catching in his throat as the first echoes of the Silent Fade began to ripple through the world.

Chapter 1: Chalkboard Echoes

The schoolhouse breathed with a quiet life of its own, every creak of its aged timbers and every rustle of its dried herb garlands a reminder of its dual nature: part sanctuary, part relic. Through the grime-streaked panes of glass, fractured beams of sunlight pushed their way inside, illuminating the room with a golden haze that softened its sharp edges. Chalkboards, worn smooth at their centers from years of diligent use, lined the walls. Faint traces of past lessons lingered as if the ghosts of knowledge refused to be erased entirely. The air carried a peculiar blend of scents: the powdery sharpness of chalk mingled with the earthy musk of dried lavender and mint hanging in bundles from the rafters, their presence a testament to the community’s reliance on nature for both medicine and comfort.

Marlowe Drexler stood before a chalkboard, her posture tense, her fingers gripping a stub of chalk with the delicacy of a painter holding a fine brush. The sweeping curve of an M emerged beneath her hand, its tail curling upward with a flourish. She paused, her brow furrowing as she tilted her head to assess her work. Her name, newly scrawled in cursive, felt foreign yet tantalizingly familiar. Each letter was an artifact, a fragment of a world she barely remembered but longed to understand. The chalk dust clung to her fingertips, a tactile reminder of the knowledge she was trying to reclaim, knowledge that felt as fragile as the brittle lines she traced.

Her gaze drifted toward the eastern wall, where Sarah Cain worked with a quiet intensity, her brush sweeping bold strokes of crimson across the wings of a phoenix. The mural, half-finished but already arresting, depicted the mythical bird rising from a cascade of ash and embers. Its feathers seemed to shimmer with movement, the interplay of colors creating the illusion of life. Sarah’s arms moved with purpose, her expression one of complete absorption. She leaned precariously from a makeshift scaffold, her fingers smudged with pigment, her braids adorned with tiny wildflowers that bobbed with her movements.

Careful, Sarah, Marlowe called, her voice tinged with both admiration and concern. That scaffold looks like it’s about to give up on you.

Sarah glanced over her shoulder, her grin as bright as the streaks of yellow she’d just added to the phoenix’s crest. It’s sturdy enough. Besides, if I fall, I’ll just blame Jeremy. He swore this thing could hold a bear.

Marlowe laughed softly, the sound momentarily breaking the schoolhouse’s reverent hush. I’m not sure a bear would be quite so daring with its balance.

Sarah’s brush paused mid-stroke, and she turned fully to face Marlowe, her expression shifting to one of curiosity. What do you think? she asked, gesturing to the mural with a flourish. Does it look like it’s ready to take flight?

Marlowe stepped closer, tilting her head as she studied the phoenix. It’s beautiful, she said after a moment, her voice quiet but sincere. It feels… alive. Like it’s straining against the wall, desperate to break free.

Sarah’s grin widened, and she tapped her brush against her chin, leaving a faint smear of orange. That’s exactly what I wanted. Orin’s stories about the old world—about how people believed in renewal, in starting over—they’ve been stuck in my head ever since he shared them. This phoenix… it’s my way of saying that no matter how much we lose, we can always build something new.

Marlowe’s smile faltered slightly at the mention of Orin, though she quickly masked it. He does have a way of painting pictures with his words, she murmured, more to herself than to Sarah. Her fingers brushed the edge of the chalkboard absentmindedly, the cool surface grounding her thoughts. But sometimes I wonder if those pictures are more about what we want to see than what really was.

Sarah tilted her head, her expression thoughtful. Maybe. But isn’t that the point of stories? To remind us of what could be, even if it’s not exactly what was?

Before Marlowe could respond, the firm, measured cadence of Debra Dean’s voice filled the room, cutting through the quiet like the toll of a bell. Team three, you’ll be heading north tomorrow. Focus on medicinal herbs—yarrow, comfrey, goldenrod. The nights are getting colder, and we need to be prepared. Debra’s gaze swept across the gathered villagers, her presence commanding without being overbearing. She stood near the largest chalkboard, its surface meticulously divided into grids listing assignments and resources. Her hand rested lightly on the edge of the board, her fingers brushing against the chalk as if the act of writing carried a weight she fully understood.

Jeremy Meyers, leaning casually against a beam at the back of the room, raised his voice to interject. Debra, those berries Sarah’s using for her paints are ripening along the south ridge. Might be worth sending a team that way before the birds get to them.

Debra nodded, her expression thoughtful. A valid point, Jeremy. We’ll adjust the assignments accordingly. Resourcefulness is as vital as accuracy.

Marlowe watched the exchange with quiet interest, her gaze flickering toward her father, who sat near the back of the room. Elias Drexler’s presence was as unassuming as ever, his hunched posture and distant gaze suggesting he was more an observer than a participant. His fingers traced the worn cover of a leather journal, the motion repetitive and almost absent-minded. The lamplight cast shifting shadows across his face, highlighting the deep lines etched by years of solitude and regret.

For a moment, Marlowe considered approaching him, asking about the world he had known, the world that lingered in fragments within his journal and his memory. But the unspoken barrier between them—his guarded silence, her uncertainty—held her back. Instead, she turned her attention to Sarah, who had resumed her work on the mural, her brush moving with renewed energy.

Do you think we’ll ever see birds like that again? Marlowe asked, her voice soft but threaded with genuine curiosity.

Sarah paused, her brush hovering above the wall. Orin says they’re out there, she replied, her tone carrying a faint trace of wistfulness. He told me about birds so large their wings could cast shadows over entire fields. He said artists before the Fade used to paint them, capturing their majesty and grace.

Marlowe’s brow furrowed. And you believe him?

Sarah shrugged, a playful smile tugging at her lips. Why not? Even if it’s not true, it’s a beautiful thought, isn’t it? A sky filled with creatures so magnificent they make you forget the ground beneath your feet.

Before Marlowe could respond, Debra called her name, her tone firm but not unkind. Marlowe excused herself and crossed the room to where Debra stood, the older woman’s presence steady and reassuring.

I’ve noticed your dedication to practicing your letters, Debra said, her voice low enough that their conversation