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  AFTER WORLD ARCHIVE

  The First Log

  L. W. BROOK

  Copyright ? 2016 AMSER STUDIOS

  All rights reserved.

 

  This work is a part of AMSER STUDIOS and falls within the "Experimental Collection".

  After World Archive

  The First Log

  A Short Story

  The lighting is poor in this small, strange metal room. There are no windows.

  There is one thin mattress on a weak metal frame. It's been pushed up against a wall.

  Other than that, the room consists of little more than a desk and tiny, open closet at the back of the room. It's empty, unused.

  Upon the desk is a clear, computerized notebook-like device that stands upright beside a neat stack of papers.

  Sitting at the desk in an uncomfortable wire chair is a man in his mid-forties. He looks as though he's been through hell. His clothing is crumpled and loose across his frame. His sweat laced salt and pepper hair is a mess and jaw line unshaven.

  He scratches at his jaw and then rubs his sweaty palms across his pant leg.

  "Right, uhh..." He clears his throat. "Here goes."

  The man scoots forward in his chair, takes a breath, and begins to type across the clear, fragile device. On the screen, at the top right corner, read the words: "HISTORY LOG: 12-12-2397"

  "My name is Robert Smith... And this is my first log."

  ---

  The first floor apartment is organized, neat. Everything has a proper location and resides within that location. There are pockets, folders, drawers, baskets- it looks as though it were a model home.

  The space, itself, is brightly lit with numerous walls upon walls of windows that line all sides of the building.

  It's a sunny, beautiful day in the bustling mountain city of Oliver, After World.

  The America's, they used to call this place. Northern America. But that is nearly the extent of the After World's knowledge of the Old World. After all, most of that once vast, luscious land is now buried in the toxic waste of ocean.

  The Great War Of Mankind, they called that which had devoured the Earth.

  And Great, it was.

  Not a single individual managed to keep out of it's reach.

  But that's a different story.

  This is the story of the archives, of the After World's attempt to keep it's history in check.

  A breeze drifts in through one of the apartment's open windows.

  "It all started about a week ago... When I received my letter of notice..."

  Upon the blue, pastel clothed table sits a basket full of opened mail. At the very top sits an official letter sent from the After World Headquarters there in town.

  ---

  Robert shifts uncomfortably in his chair. He's stopped his story to situate himself.

  It only takes a moment, then, for him to continue tapping away at the pressure sensitive keys on screen.

  ---

  A large window sits several inches from the ceiling. It's considerable in width, as apposed to length.

  Light beams through it to naturally light the apartment bathroom.

  "Of course, had I known what I would be getting myself into..."

  Robert reaches beside a vase of fresh cut flowers to pick up a well cleaned electric razor. He runs it up the side of his cheek where he'd apparently missed a spot.

  His reflection looks good, healthy.

  When it's clean, there's an almost brownish tint to his otherwise gray/white hair.

  "Had I known... that stale air, a tight bunker and water powered electrical circuits awaited me..."

  Robert reaches up to run his hand down his face and neck. It's smooth, as it should be.

  Deep blue eyes stare at themselves through a circular mirror. They appear calm, if not void of emotion.

  Robert reaches down to fuss with his razor. He's wiping it off, cleaning it, when there's a knock upon his door.

  It sounds twice, followed by a steady humm throughout his home's speaker system.

  "Well, had I known..."

  A voice sounds throughout the speaker system.

  "Robert Smith. This is sergeant Douglas from A.W.M.O. We've come to escort you to headquarters." The man's voice is loud, clear, as he informs the man of his intentions.

  There's a pause.

  Then Roberts drops his utensils and steps up onto the lid of his toilet. With a twitchy, uncoordinated motion, he unlatches the window and it automatically pops open.

  The grown man squirms his way out and onto a bed of flowers. Robert winces, and then darts a look to the front entrance of his apartment building. Officers in uniform have spotted the runaway.

  Heaving himself upright, Roberts makes a dash for it down the hovercraft lined street. There's shouting of orders to stop.

  Three men in uniform run down the street after the much slower, uncoordinated man.

  They tackle him to the ground with ease.

  ---

  From his present location, Robert takes a heavy breath and stops typing out his story.

  Then, he confesses, "I would have ran a lot faster."

  ---

  The A.W.M.O. Headquarters rests on the edge of the mountain city. It's built like a bomb shelter and ready for any attack the resistance may try to make.

  Officers in white uniforms declare their ranks with several thin metal pins attached to their lapels. Soldiers, on the other hand, walk around in gray uniforms. They are all equal in rank, and therefore have nothing but the tags around their necks to tell them apart.

  Two soldiers stand behind their General, Lucas Greers. The man is flipping through a paper document, something that had once nearly gone extinct at the height of Old World technology.

  Because of this, after The Great War Of Mankind, much of history had been forgotten, lost. It left the survivors scrambling in the dark, trying to make sense of how their present came to be.

  This uncertainty is what feeds the resistance. They believe that individuality, separate nations, as they were called, are what the After World needs to get back on track. With separation, they would fix the wrongs brought on by the G.W.O.M., whether it caused more death in the process, or not.

  This is of course a theory some have chosen to take as gospel.

  What life was like in the Old World is little more than a guessing game.

  The After World has sworn to learn from the mistakes of the Old World and to keep the world together in one big alliance, one connected association.

  That said, the resistance presses on.

  And so, for the first time in After World history, a civil war has emerged.

  Greers glances up from the papers in his hands.

  Before him, Robert Smith sits curled up in an armchair. He holds a suit case and black suit jacket in his lap. His discomfort is clear to all as he fidgets in his seat and glances around the room.

  "Obsessive compulsive disorder, Aquaphobia, Claustrophobia, Mysophobia-" Greers stops reading the file to take a tired breath. "Acrophobia, Haphephobia, and... Asthma..." The General sends Robert a tight smile. "Well... Aren't we lucky to have you aboard?"

  Greers tosses the thick file down upon his desk and leans back in his chair. His arms fold behind his head.

  At the sound of the file hitting the table, Robert flinches and bends inward. He chews at his thumb and refuses to meet the cold gray eye contact of the General.

  Greers twists a frown and leans forward. He rubs at his temple, then looks to the two stoic soldiers at his back. "Please tell me this is a god damn joke."

  The soldiers don't so much as blink.

  "And to top it all off, you're a pacifist." Greers sighs. "Pac
ifist... The glorified synonym for coward."

  Robert chokes out a cry. His eyes are watering.

  Greers stares wildly from across the table.

  With several short, stuttering releases of breath, Robert pinches a frown and stares back.

  Greers clears his throat. "Alright. Robert Smith, you have been drafted to-" There's a cry from the other end of the desk. "Drafted to..." There's a strangled gasp of air.

  Robert's face starts to redden. He isn't breathing.

  "Partake..." Greers looks down to the documents before him. "In an experiment regarding the U.S.S. LUCE- our new, state of the art battle submarine about ready to be launched into action."

  "Submarine?"

  Greers risks a look to Robert. He's hanging onto the arms of his seat like they're what tethers him to this world.

  "Yes."

  "You want me on a battle submarine?" His pitch rises the longer he talks on. "Submerged in a metal container with millions of gallons of water pressure dragging us further to Earth's restless core? The ocean?" He can't breathe. "You want to lock me away in a steel cage at the bottom of the ocean?" His mouth gapes. Salt water bites at his eyes. The contact stings. "The ocean?" He can imagine it perfectly. The weight of the water crushing him to death, that is.

  He's lost himself in a vision of his inevitable death.

  Greers stares back at the man who's so clearly left his physical form.

  The General tries an uncertain look back at the soldiers in the room, but if this is a joke, their poker faces are incredible.

  "Jesus christ..."

  This is the man to go down in history as the After World's first Archivist.

  Robert Smith.

  ---

  Light beams through clear blue water. It's all around, crushing down on Robert. He can't swim. He can barely move.

  He raises a hand toward the light, but something drags him deeper.

  The further he sinks, the darker it gets until he can't see anything at all.

  Buried at sea... alone.

  Was this what was to become of him?

  ---

  Water splashes across Robert's face. He awakens with a startled gasp and jump backwards on his thin hospital bed. His left hand is handcuffed to the bed frame.

  The care center is bright and small. It can only hold about twenty beds or so. The rest of the space is cramped with medical equipment. Emergency medical equipment.

  He's still at headquarters, he realizes.

  He can't remember passing out.

  A tall, thin woman in a white lab coat stands above Robert. She's reaching for Greers, as though trying to stop him from emptying his bucket of water over the patient's head.

  Obviously, she failed.

  "Glad you could join us." Greers says with a drop of his bucket to the ground. He takes a seat beside Robert's hospital bed. He reaches beside them, toward a cabinet stocked with numerous types of medication.

  Robert curls into a tighter ball as he watches the General's movements. He's begun to shake from the drop in temperature.

  Wet strands of hair cling to his brow and cheeks. There's a quiet chatter of metal cuffs against a metal bed frame, but he can't help the shaking.

  Greers reaches passed the medicine, up to the top of the cabinet where he'd previously set Robert's paper file. He pulls it down into his lap, licks his thumb, then opens it to the first page.

  "Give us a moment, would you?" Greers asks the doctor.

  The woman begrudgingly leaves Robert's beside to attend to some of her other patients.

  "You're a smart man, Mr. Smith. A writer, says here. You've written several textbooks regarding some recent history matters... Particularly on the Civil Wars breaking out across the After World."

  Robert scratches nervously at his jawline.

  "I respect that. We all do." Ha flips a page. "Which is exactly why we're giving you this mission." He closes Robert's file. "Think of it as an extension of your work."

  Greers tosses Robert's file back onto the cabinet beside them. He leans forward in his seat and drops his elbows to his knees for comfort. There are folds in the older man's skin. They showcase the man's own history, in a way. Joy, concern, worry... It's all right there, if one bothered to look.

  Robert uses his shoulder to brush some wet hair out of his eye.

  "As you know," Greers begins. "most of our history was lost after the G.W.O.M."

  Robert takes a shaky breath. When Greers doesn't continue, he nods his understanding.

  Greers nods back, then continues, "We can't let something like this happen again. This is why we need you to write what were calling 'History Logs', for now. You'll upload them from the USS LUCE, into a safe, underground location where they can never be touched. From there, we'll be able to retrieve every significant moment in history, no matter what happens to our computer systems."

  "That... sounds... wonderful, and all... But I'd really rather not be involved."

  "It's one month." Greers deadpans. Most would kill for this opportunity. Not only does it keep the man off the front lines, with this his name will never be forgotten. "Suck it up and write about everything you see. That's all we ask."

  Robert wipes his nose on his shoulder. He can't help his discomfort.

  Greers drops his look from Robert. "One month..." Both men meet one another's gaze. "And you'll be permanently removed from the drafting list. That's a hell of a deal, believe me."

  Robert pulls himself up by his bound hand. "I get the feeling I don't have much of a say in the matter..."

  Greers smiles. It pulls pre-folded skin back toward his prominent cheekbones.

  The General's arms cross over his chest.

  "As I said, Mr. Smith... You're a smart man."

  ---

  The train interior is sleek and bold. The seats are red and the aisles are more than of a comfortable width. Most windows are covered by thick curtains, but several give view to the dark night outside.

  Robert sits in the corner of the train car. His nose is stuck to files regarding everything one could possibly want to know about the USS LUCE. He's studying, trying to learn more about where he'll be forcibly held for the next month.

  The other three seats around him are void of people. However, they do carry his suit jacket, bag and neat stacks of paper.

  At the front of the car, two men in uniform stand guard. They're there to ensure Robert's safe arrival to the After World Military docks.

  Robert loosens his tie and flips to another page.

  From the door beside him, in steps Samantha. She's wearing her doctor's coat with pride. It covers her otherwise dark, bland apparel.

  Robert jumps at the entrance and then calms himself by taking several breaths. He's not yet trapped within a suffocating metal coffin, he reminds himself.

  Samantha's dark ponytail swings with a look to her immediate left. The man sitting there is lost in paper file after paper file.

  "Hey." She greets.

  Robert doesn't look up. "Hello." He flips another page.

  Samantha nods politely and then lifts Robert's jacket to take it's place in the seat. She lets out a satisfied huff and then raises her legs to rest on the arm of the chair beside Robert's.

  Robert keeps his chin down, but watches this with wide eyes.

  The doctor leans back to make herself comfortable.

  Robert darts his eyes around the nearly empty car of seats and then up and down Samantha's casual presence.

  He blinks, repeatedly.

  "May I help you...?"

  Samantha looks to Robert, then humms and closes her eyes. "Nope. I'm just-" She releases a breath. "Keeping you company."

  Robert opens his mouth to say something, and then closes it. With a choking sound, he gently sets his papers down on the chair in front of him and tries again. "Does-" He blinks rapidly through a collecting thought. "Does your company have to be so unusually suffocating?"
r />   Samantha opens her eyes to narrow slits. "Excuse me?"

  Robert takes in a shaky breath and stiffens his posture. "You have literally-" He gestures to Samantha's legs. "Just closed off this space-"

  The doctor looks to her legs, then drops them abruptly to the ground. "Sorry." She pulls them closer to herself. "So sorry about that."

  Roberts gives a curt nod. "It's fine." He reaches for his paperwork.

  Samantha props her head up so that she can eye the writer with ease.

  Robert glances back at her, then retracts his hand without actually having grabbed his papers. He then places his hands upon his knees and stares forward. His body language is practically screaming "Leave. Me. Alone." but it's a hint that flies way over the doctor's head.

  "My name is Samantha Stephens." She smiles. "I'll be the lead medical practitioner on the USS LUCE." She winks. "You can log that."

  Robert forces a tight smile. "I'll be sure to."

  There's a silence between them, then, as Robert stares forward and Samantha stares at Robert.

  "Your name's Robert Smith, isn't it? I've been reading up on your medical conditions."

  "You know..." Robert's head tilts. He reaches for it, then tugs lightly at his collar. "I'm feeling a bit faint." He clears his throat. "I think I might lie down."

  Samantha pulls out a flashlight from her pocket.. "Let me take a look at you. I am your doctor, after all." She leans over to pull at the side of Robert's face and he jumps back, terrified out of his mind.

  "No!" His hand shoots out between them. He's clinging to the window's drapes, desperate to put more space between them. "Please. Don't. Touch me."

  Samantha startles with revelation. "Oh, god, I am so sorry." She stands and takes several cautious steps out into the space between the rows of seats. "I forgot you were afraid of, umm-" She darts a look to the closed doorway she had come in from. "Excuse me."

  Robert slides down his seat when Samantha uncomfortably exits the train car. He clenches his jaw and raises a hand to his chest. His head shakes at the mere thought of skin to skin contact. All those germs? It horrifies him.