PLATFORM: PHYSICAL JOURNAL (WATERPROOFED CANVAS)
USER: TYLER JORDAN (Chief Engineer)
STATUS: ARCHIVED
DATE: ONE YEAR, TWO MONTHS, TWO WEEKS POST-EVENT.
LOCATION: NAMANGA BORDER POST (EN ROUTE TO NAIROBI).
[Entry 10]
The jungle is burning. Not with fire, but with chemistry.
The Salt Storm lasted six hours. It was a monsoon of brine and acid that swept inland from the coast, riding the trade winds. When the sun came up this morning, New Arusha looked like it had been dipped in bleach.
The lush green vines that act as our mortar? Withered and brown.
The bamboo scaffolding on the watchtowers? Bleached white and brittle.
The Great Baobab? It survived, but the outer leaves are scorched, dropping a carpet of dead foliage onto the streets.
We saved the Railgun. We wrapped it in every scrap of plastic and rubber we had. But the city... the city took a beating. The "Age of Wood" has a weakness, and Captain Suleiman knows it.
I stood on the wall this morning with him. He wasn't wearing a shirt. The acid rain had washed the oil from his skin, leaving his purple scars glowing in the dawn light.
"You see, Engineer?" he rasped, picking a piece of crumbling bamboo from the rampart. "Your garden is pretty. But the ocean is relentless."
"We held," I said, kicking a pile of white salt sludge off the walkway.
"You held a squall," Suleiman corrected. "The Leviathan brings a hurricane. When the true tide comes, this wood will turn to dust. You need the gun."
"We need the ammo," I said. "The steel slug vaporized. We need density. We need Tungsten."
Suleiman looked North, toward the grey horizon of Kenya.
"Then go get it," he said. "You have five days before the next high tide. If you aren't back with the metal by then... I take my men and I leave. And your city drowns."
So here we are.
We are back on the rails. We are heading North to Nairobi. To the city of bunkers and ghosts. We are going to rob a bank.
THE CREW
I couldn't take everyone. Juma insisted on staying behind.
"The Shark needs a keeper," Juma had said, sharpening his machete. "You go find the metal. I will make sure Suleiman doesn't eat the sheep while the shepherd is away."
I trusted Juma. He was the only one paranoid enough to catch Suleiman in a betrayal.
So the crew is small:
* Me (Tyler): Demolitions and heavy lifting.
* K-Ray: Driver/Pilot. She knows the "Wind Wagon" better than anyone.
* Baraka: Tech. We need him to crack the electronic locks if the EMP didn't fry them.
* Katunzi: The Specialist.
Katunzi is the surprise. When I mentioned the Central Bank of Kenya, his eyes lit up.
"The CBK?" he asked, smoothing his hemp suit. "I know it well. I had a safety deposit box there. Floor B2. High security."
"We aren't going for your jewelry, Katunzi," I said.
"I know the layout, Engineer," he said, offended. "I know the vault specs. I know the ventilation shafts. You need a man of finance."
"We are stealing Tungsten bars, not currency."
"Tungsten is a commodity," Katunzi smiled. "And I am a commodity broker. Plus... I hear the coffee in Nairobi is terrible. I must bring them the gospel of Arusha Arabica."
So, the Investor is with us.
THE GREY ZONE
We crossed the border at Namanga at noon.
The transition was jarring.
In Tanzania, the spores have taken hold. Everything is green, overgrown, and alive.
But as soon as we crossed the border marker into Kenya, the green stopped.
Kenya is the Grey Zone.
The spores haven't reached here in force yet. And the Salt Plague is too far south. So Nairobi is... preserved. It looks like the day the world ended.
We rolled the Wind Wagon—our upgraded rail-trolley with the "Kilimanjaro Lager" sail—past the silent border post.
Dust covered everything. Grey, volcanic dust mixed with the ash of the old world. The cars lined up at the border were rusted skeletons.
"It's quiet," K-Ray whispered, her hand on the tiller of the trolley. "Too quiet."
"Check the tracks," I said. "Baraka, scan for heat."
Baraka held up a thermal scanner we had built from a salvaged game-boy and an IR sensor.
"Cold," Baraka said. "The rails are cold. No friction. No movement."
We sailed on. The wind was behind us, pushing us North at a steady 25 mph.
As we approached the outskirts of Nairobi—the industrial town of Athi River—the landscape changed.
It wasn't empty. It was fortified.
The factories along the railway line had been turned into fortresses. Windows were bricked up. Rooftops were lined with barbed wire.
"Who lives there?" Katunzi whispered.
"Survivors who didn't join the network," I said. "Isolationists."
Then, the phone buzzed.
THE SURVIVORS' LOG
User: Sarah_M (Nairobi)
Tyler? Is that you? The sensors picked up a magnetic anomaly on the southern line.
Tyler Jordan:
It's us. We are in the Wind Wagon. Passing Athi River.
Sarah_M:
STOP. DO NOT ENTER THE CITY VIA THE RAILWAY.
Tyler Jordan:
Why? The tracks are the fastest way.
Sarah_M:
The tracks are the hunting ground. The Pack uses them to migrate. If you are on the rails, you are on the menu.
I looked up.
"K-Ray, brakes!"
K-Ray jammed the new friction-brake lever I had installed (rubber pads made from tires).
SCREEEEEECH.
The trolley slid to a halt.
"What is it?" Baraka asked, clutching his bubble-wrap armor.
"The Pack," I said. "Glowing dogs."
I scanned the tracks ahead. They curved around a cement factory.
And there, sitting on the tracks, was the welcoming committee.
THE PACK
They weren't hyenas like the Salt Dogs. These were Wild Dogs. Painted Wolves.
But the radiation from the fallout—or maybe the Architect's leaky reactors—had changed them. They were hairless. Their skin was translucent. And their internal organs glowed with a sick, green bio-luminescence.
There were fifty of them.
They were sleeping on the warm steel of the rails.
Our screeching brakes woke them up.
Fifty heads snapped up. Fifty pairs of glowing green eyes locked onto us.
"Reverse?" K-Ray asked, her voice trembling.
"We can't reverse," I said. "The wind is pushing us North. We'd have to push the cart."
"We fight?" Katunzi pulled a small, pearl-handled knife from his boot. It looked like a toothpick against the pack.
"No," I said. "We create a diversion."
I looked at the cement factory next to the tracks. It had a massive silo.
"Baraka," I said. "The Sound Grenades."
We had built them before leaving. Tin cans filled with black powder and magnesium. Flash-bangs.
"They are photosensitive," I said. "Sarah_M said they hate light. That's why they hunt in the tunnels."
"Ready," Baraka said, lighting a fuse.
"Throw it at the silo!" I ordered. "Not at the dogs! We want to ring the dinner bell elsewhere!"
Baraka threw the can. It arc through the air and hit the metal side of the silo.
BANG.
The flash was blinding. The sound rang against the hollow metal structure like a gong. GONG-G-G-G.
The Pack flinched. They whirled around, snapping at the silo.
"Now!" I yelled. "Push through! K-Ray, full sail!"
K-Ray released the brake. The wind caught the sail.
We rolled forward.
We plowed right through the middle of the pack.
The dogs were distracted by the ringing silo. By the time they realized we were moving, we were doing 30 mph.
One dog—an Alpha with glowing red guts—chased us. It leaped.
It hit the back of the trolley.
I didn't shoot it. I used the Salt Spray.
I had filled a crop-sprayer with the concentrated purple brine from the coast.
I sprayed the dog in the face.
HISSS.
The brine hit the radioactive mutant. It burned. The dog yelped, tumbling off the cart.
"Chemical warfare," I muttered, pumping the sprayer. "It works both ways."
We cleared the curve. We were in the city proper.
THE CONCRETE CANYON
Nairobi is a vertical graveyard.
Unlike Arusha, which is low and spread out, Nairobi has a skyline. The skyscrapers of Upper Hill stood like grey tombstones against the sky. The glass was gone—shattered by the initial EMP shockwave or looted.
We rolled into the Central Station.
It was dark. The glass roof had collapsed, creating a jagged skylight.
"End of the line," I said. "We walk from here."
We hid the trolley in a maintenance shed, covering it with a grey tarp to blend in with the ash.
"The Central Bank is on Haile Selassie Avenue," Katunzi whispered. "Five blocks. But it's the heart of the Grey Zone."
We moved out.
The streets were choked with debris. Cars, buses, debris. But it was strangely preserved. The dry air of the high plateau had mummified everything.
We saw bodies. Not skeletons. Mummies. Grey, dusty figures curled in doorways.
"Don't touch them," Baraka warned. "The dust is toxic."
We reached the bank.
It was a fortress. Massive stone columns. Iron bars.
And the front door was welded shut.
"Someone locked it from the inside," I said, inspecting the slag on the hinges.
"The guards," Katunzi said. "They sealed themselves in."
"Can we blow it?" K-Ray asked.
"If we blow it, we alert every dog in the city," I said. "We need a quiet way in."
Katunzi smiled. He tapped the side of his nose.
"The VIP entrance," he said. "For the bullion trucks. It's in the alley. It has a biometric lock, but..."
He pulled a severed finger out of his pocket.
We all stared at him.
"It's fake!" Katunzi laughed nervously. "Silicone! I made a mold of the manager's print years ago. For... insurance."
"You robbed this bank before?" I asked.
"I audited it," Katunzi said. "Aggressively."
We went to the alley. The steel door was there.
Katunzi pressed the silicone finger to the scanner.
Nothing happened.
"Power," I said. "The grid is dead."
"Baraka," I pointed to the panel. "Jump it."
Baraka pulled out his portable battery pack—a cluster of lithium cells salvaged from laptops. He stripped the wires of the lock. He touched the leads.
SPARK.
The lock beeped. A red light flashed.
BEEP-BEEP-BEEP.
"Alarm!" Baraka hissed. "The backup battery is still live!"
"Open it!" I yelled.
Katunzi turned the handle. The heavy door groaned open.
We slipped inside.
THE GOLDEN TOMB
The air inside was stale. Ancient.
We were in a loading dock. An armored truck sat there, tires flat.
"Downstairs," Katunzi whispered. "The Vault is on B2."
We descended the stairs. Our flashlights cut through the gloom.
We reached the main vault door. A massive circle of steel and tungsten.
"Here is the problem," I said. "This door weighs 20 tons. And it's time-locked."
"Not anymore," a voice said from the darkness.
We spun around.
Standing in the shadows of the corridor were five figures.
They wore hazmat suits. Not improvised trash bags like us. Real, yellow, military-grade hazmat suits. They held M4 carbines with tactical lights.
"Drop the weapons," the lead figure ordered. The voice was distorted by a gas mask.
"We are just tourists," Katunzi said, raising his hands.
"You're scavengers," the figure said. "And you're trespassing in the territory of the Nairobi Coalition."
The figure stepped forward.
"Identify."
"Tyler Jordan," I said. "New Arusha."
The figure paused. The tactical light lowered.
"The Engineer?" the voice asked. It sounded female.
"Yes."
The figure reached up and unclipped the helmet.
She took it off.
She was young, maybe thirty. Pale skin, tired eyes, short dark hair.
"I'm Sarah," she said. "Sarah_M."
I lowered my pipe-spear.
"You look different than your profile picture," I said. "That was a cat."
"The cat died," she said flatly. "Welcome to the Bunker, Tyler."
She gestured to the vault door.
"You want in?"
"We need Tungsten," I said. "For a project."
"The Railgun," Sarah nodded. "We read the logs. You want to shoot the Leviathan."
"Yes."
"Good," Sarah said. "Because that thing... or its children... they are starting to push up the railway line. We saw scouts in Athi River."
She walked to the vault door.
"We cracked this open six months ago," she said. "We live in here. It's the safest place in the city. Radiation shielding. Air filtration."
She pushed the massive door. It swung open on silent, well-oiled hinges.
Inside, it wasn't a vault of gold.
It was a city.
Families were living in the safety deposit box aisles. Hydroponic lights hung from the ceiling. The smell of cooking food replaced the smell of dust.
"This is the Vault," Sarah said. "The gold is stacked in the back. We use it for sandbags."
She led us to the rear of the chamber.
There, stacked like bricks, were bars of dull grey metal.
TUNGSTEN.
"Heavy stuff," Sarah said. "How do you plan to move it?"
"We have a wagon," I said.
"You'll need a train," Sarah said. "And lucky for you... we have a locomotive."
She smiled.
"But it doesn't run on diesel. The fuel went bad months ago."
"What does it run on?"
"Steam," Sarah said. "We converted an old museum piece. But we don't have coal."
I looked at Baraka. I looked at the bag of Green Spores and the bag of Purple Salt hanging from my belt.
"We don't need coal," I said. "I brought the fuel."
THE ALLIANCE
We sat in the vault with Sarah and her council.
"We trade," I said. "We take the Tungsten. You give us the train. In return, we give you the Arusha Protocol."
"Protocol?"
"The seeds," I said. "The hybrid maize that grows in the ash. The water filters. The blueprints for the spore-walls."
Sarah looked at the blueprints I laid on the table.
"You figured out how to live on the surface," she whispered. "We've been hiding like rats."
"The surface is reclaiming the world," I said. "You can hide, or you can adapt."
Sarah looked at her people. Pale. Vitamin deficient. Scared.
"Deal," she said.
"One condition," Katunzi piped up.
"Yes?"
"I check my box," he pointed to a wall of safety deposit boxes. "Box 404."
Sarah tossed him a master key. "Be my guest."
Katunzi ran to the box. He opened it.
He pulled out a small velvet bag.
He opened it. Diamonds? Rubies?
No.
Seeds.
"Coffee beans," Katunzi whispered, inhaling the scent. "Blue Mountain. Pre-apocalypse. Vacuum sealed."
He looked at me, tears in his eyes.
"We are going to be rich, Engineer."
THE RETURN TRIP
The next morning, we loaded the Tungsten onto the train.
It was an old steam locomotive, the "Iron Snake," painted black and red.
We loaded the firebox with the Spore/Salt mixture.
"This is going to run hot," Baraka warned. "Really hot."
"Just get us to the border," I said.
I looked at Sarah.
"Come with us," I said. "Bring your people. Arusha is safe."
"Not yet," she said. "We hold the North. You hold the South. We expand the network."
She handed me a radio repeater.
"Plant this on the border," she said. "It will boost the signal to Ethiopia."
"Done."
I climbed into the cab.
"Ignition!"
Baraka shoveled the mixture. BOOM.
The boiler pressure spiked. The whistle screamed.
The train lurched forward.
We rolled out of the station, pushing a flatbed loaded with ten tons of Tungsten.
We were heavy. We were loud. We were a smoking target.
And as we hit the open plains of the Kapiti Coast, the phone buzzed.
Juma The Lion:
TYLER. HURRY.
Tyler Jordan:
We are moving. Got the metal. ETA 6 hours.
Juma The Lion:
TOO LONG.
THE LEVIATHAN IS MOVING.
IT IS NOT WALKING.
IT IS DIVING.
IT IS COMING UP THE RIVER, TYLER. IT IS COMING UP THE PANGANI.
IT IS BYPASSING THE WALLS.
I stared at the screen.
The Pangani River runs right past Arusha.
"Full throttle!" I screamed at Baraka. "Burn the valves! Get us home!"
We roared South, carrying the only thing that could kill a god, while the god swam upstream to kill our city.