PLATFORM: FACEBOOK (GROUP: THE SURVIVORS' LOG)
USER: JUMA THE LION (Scout)
STATUS: ONLINE via Mobile (Signal Intermittent)
BATTERY: 14%
DATE: ONE YEAR, TWO MONTHS POST-EVENT.
LOCATION: HIMO INTERCHANGE (OLD MOSHI RAILWAY LINE).
[Post Visibility: Public]
[Comments: ENABLED]
Juma The Lion:
I HAVE THE COPPER. 5 TONS. I AM AT THE OLD POWER STATION NEAR HIMO. THE SALT DOGS ARE COMING. I FOUND A FLATBED TRAIN CAR BUT IT HAS NO ENGINE. TYLER, HOW DID YOU MAKE THE WIND WAGON? I NEED SPEED. FAST.
Comments:
> Tyler Jordan (Admin):
> Juma, where did you get 5 tons of copper? We talked about a sample, not a stockpile. That's too heavy for a wind wagon unless you have a hurricane. You need to dump half the load.
> Juma The Lion:
> NO DUMPING. SULEIMAN NEEDS THE WIRE FOR THE GUN. THE DOGS ARE 1 MILE OUT. STOP LECTURING. TELL ME THE TRICK.
> Tyler Jordan (Admin):
> Fine. Do not dump it. But you need torque. Do you have a mast? You need a vertical support at least 15 feet high to catch the laminar flow above the bush line. Use a triangular sail configuration (Lateen rig) if you can. It handles crosswinds better.
> Juma The Lion:
> I DONT SPEAK SCIENCE. I HAVE ROTTEN TELEPHONE POLES. I HAVE A BILLBOARD TARP. DRAW IT.
>
THE SCAVENGERS
I shoved the phone into my pocket. The screen was cracked, but Tyler's crude MS Paint drawing of a "Lateen Rig" was visible.
I looked at my crew.
I call them The Rust Eaters. They are not soldiers. They are not builders. They are the cockroaches of the apocalypse. Survivors from the shanty towns around Moshi who learned that if you wrap yourself in enough plastic, the Salt Plague can't touch you.
There were ten of them. They wore armor made of yellow jerry-cans and woven rice sacks. They smelled of sweat and old plastic.
"Boss," the leader, a skinny, nervous man named Kip, stammered. "We hear them. The yipping."
I listened.
Yip-yip-howl.
Salt Dogs.
Hyenas that had scavenged the purple carrion of the coast. The salt had calcified their bones, making them heavy, armor-plated, and mean. They didn't run; they bounded like living boulders. And their bite could snap a railway tie.
"Load the copper," I ordered.
We were standing on the old railway tracks that ran parallel to the mountain. We had found a maintenance flatbed—just a slab of rusted steel on wheels. No walls. No brakes. Just a dead platform.
The Rust Eaters heaved the massive spools of copper wire onto the deck.
"It's too heavy, Lion!" Kip whined, pushing against the rusted wheel. "We can't push five tons. The friction is too high!"
"We aren't pushing," I said. "We are sailing."
I jumped onto the flatbed.
"Give me the telephone poles!" I yelled.
The Rust Eaters dragged two rotten wooden poles they had cut down from the roadside.
"Lash them!" I ordered. "Like the picture in the box. One up. One across."
We used the copper wire itself to bind the poles. It was sloppy. It didn't look like Tyler's neat diagram. It looked like a scarecrow made of trash.
"The Tarp!"
We threw a massive blue plastic tarp—an old advertisement for "Kilimanjaro Lager"—over the crossbar.
"Pull it tight!" I screamed. "If it flaps, we die!"
The wind was blowing hard from the East. From the coast. It smelled of ozone and rot. It hit the tarp.
SNAP.
The sail filled. The mast groaned.
CREAAAAK.
The flatbed shuddered. The steel wheels shrieked against the rusted tracks.
It moved an inch. Then it stopped.
"It's stuck!" Kip yelled. "The static friction! It's too heavy!"
I checked the phone.
Tyler Jordan: Juma, are you moving? If static friction is too high, you need to reduce the normal force (weight). Or you need a massive initial impulse. Physics doesn't negotiate.
I looked at the copper. It was money. It was power. It was the only way to kill the Leviathan.
"I don't negotiate with physics," I muttered. "I cheat."
I looked at the tracks ahead. They were flat. We needed a kick. A big one.
I looked at the Salt Dogs emerging from the bush. There were twenty of them. Grey, rocky skin. Glowing purple eyes. They were hungry.
"Kip," I said. "Do you still have the blasting caps?"
"The ones we found in the quarry?" Kip patted his plastic chest-plate. "Yeah. But no dynamite. The spores ate the nitroglycerin."
"We don't need dynamite," I said. "We have the chemistry."
I grabbed a sack of Green Spores we carried for protection against the crystal.
"Tyler uses wind," I said to the crew. "We are going to use Fire."
THE IMPROVISATION
I ran to the back of the flatbed.
There was a heavy steel drum welded to the rear—an old water tank for steam engines. It was empty, rusted, and open at the back.
"Fill it!" I yelled. "Throw the salt rocks in!"
The Rust Eaters looked at me like I was crazy.
"Do it!"
They grabbed chunks of the purple crystal salt that littered the ground here—the fallout from the coast. They threw them into the drum.
"Now the Spores!"
I grabbed the sack of green dust.
"Get on the cart!" I screamed. "Hold on to something! Tie yourselves down!"
The Rust Eaters scrambled onto the pile of copper coils, strapping themselves in with loose wire.
I stood at the back. The Salt Dogs were fifty yards away, their jaws snapping. The Alpha—a beast the size of a pony—was leading the charge.
I poured the Green Spores into the drum, onto the Purple Salt.
HISSSSSS.
The reaction started instantly. The biological agent attacked the mineral agent. The chemical war releases heat. A lot of heat. And gas.
It was a primitive solid-fuel rocket engine.
I jumped onto the cart and grabbed the mast.
BOOM.
The gas expanded out the back of the drum with a sound like a cannon shot. Purple flame shot out ten feet.
The flatbed jerked forward so hard my head snapped back.
"GO! GO! GO!"
The wheels screamed. We went from zero to thirty in four seconds. The sudden momentum broke the static friction.
The wind caught the sail.
Now we were flying.
I pulled out the phone, typing with one hand while holding the mast with the other.
Juma The Lion:
PROBLEM SOLVED. I BUILT A SPORE ROCKET. WE ARE ROLLING.
Tyler Jordan:
A what?! Juma, that reaction is exothermic! It generates heat upwards of 400 degrees! You'll melt the axle bearings! You'll turn the grease to slag!
Juma The Lion:
THEN I WILL SPIT ON THEM. STOP WORRYING. WE ARE FAST.
THE CHASE
We were rocketing down the tracks. The landscape blurred—a mix of dead white trees and encroaching green vines.
The Salt Dogs were fast, but they couldn't keep up with the chemical boost. We left the pack behind in a cloud of purple smoke.
But one Dog was different.
It was the Alpha. Its skin was fully encased in purple crystal armor. And it wasn't running on the ground.
It was running on the Tracks.
Its claws were hard enough to grip the steel rail. It was galloping along the ties, closing the distance, sparks flying from its feet.
"Boss!" Kip screamed. "It's boarding!"
The Alpha leaped. It landed on the back of the flatbed, its claws digging into the copper wire coils. The weight of the beast shook the cart.
It snarled, purple drool dripping from its jaws. It looked at the Rust Eaters like they were snacks wrapped in plastic.
"Steady!" I roared. "You tip the cart, we derail!"
I drew my machete.
The Alpha lunged at me.
I dodged. Its crystal shoulder checked me, knocking the wind out of me. It was like getting hit by a moving car.
I rolled. I was trapped between the Alpha and the mast.
I swung my machete. CLANG. It bounced off the crystal hide.
"Damn rocks!" I cursed.
I needed intel. I needed the Engineer.
I pulled out the phone.
Juma The Lion:
TYLER. ALPHA DOG ON THE DECK. ITS ARMOR IS THICK. MACHETE BOUNCES OFF. WHERE IS THE WEAK SPOT?
I dodged a snap of its jaws. I kicked it in the snout. It didn't flinch.
PING.
Tyler Jordan:
The knees, Juma! The crystal calcification fuses the joints. The tendons behind the knees are the only soft tissue left for mobility. If you cut the tendon, the leg becomes a statue. HAMSTRING IT.
"Smart boy," I grinned.
The Alpha reared up for a killing strike. It was going to crush my skull.
I didn't swing at its head. I dropped to the deck.
I slid between its legs.
The smell was awful—rotten brine and ozone.
I swung the leaf-spring machete upward, hooking it behind the Alpha's rear knee.
I pulled with everything I had.
SHHHH-K.
The blade bit through the tough, grey flesh. It severed the tendon.
The Alpha howled. Its leg collapsed. It tried to stand, but the joint was dead.
It fell sideways.
Since we were moving at 40 mph, gravity did the rest.
The Alpha tumbled off the side of the flatbed. It hit the gravel embankment. It shattered into purple dust.
"Woo!" Kip cheered, banging his plastic shield. "The Lion eats the Dog!"
I stood up, wiping purple slime off my armor.
"Check the lashings!" I ordered. "The rocket is burning out. We are on wind power now."
THE BRIDGE DILEMMA
We were making good time. The chemical boost had faded, but the "Kilimanjaro Lager" sail was holding the wind. We were cruising toward the Kikafu Bridge.
Then, the phone buzzed. A long vibration.
Tyler Jordan:
Juma, stop. I'm looking at the old railway schematics. The Kikafu Bridge was rated for 50 tons in 1990. But the Spores have been eating the concrete supports for a year. With your 5-ton load plus the dynamic stress of speed... I'm running the numbers...
Tyler Jordan:
It's a 60% chance of collapse. You need to slow down to under 10 mph to reduce the vibration.
I looked ahead. The bridge was coming up. It was a long, high span over a deep gorge.
"Kip!" I yelled. "Brakes!"
"We don't have brakes, Boss! You said brakes were for cowards!"
"I changed my mind! Jam the wheel!"
Kip grabbed a heavy iron bar. He jammed it into the wheel spokes.
CRUNCH.
The bar snapped like a twig. The cart didn't slow down.
"Too heavy!" Kip screamed. "Momentum is too high!"
I typed furiously.
Juma The Lion:
CANT STOP. NO BRAKES. BRIDGE IN 30 SECONDS.
Tyler Jordan:
Jumping off is suicide at that speed. You have to redistribute the weight. If you hit a harmonic resonance, the bridge fails. DISPERSE THE LOAD.
Juma The Lion:
HOW? I CANT THROW 5 TONS OVERBOARD.
Tyler Jordan:
Uncoil the wire! If the wire is coiled, the weight is concentrated on the axles. If you unspool it behind you, you reduce the mass on the cart and create drag friction to slow down!
"Unspool!" I yelled.
"What?"
"Grab the ends of the copper coils!" I ordered. "Throw them off the back! Let them drag!"
The Rust Eaters hesitated. "But we lose the spools!"
"Do you want to fly?" I roared. "DO IT!"
They grabbed the loose ends of the massive copper spools. They threw them overboard.
The thick copper wire hit the tracks. It sparked. It bounced. Then it caught.
It began to unspool.
WHIRRRRRRR.
The spools spun wildly. Five thick lines of copper dragged behind us on the tracks and the gravel.
The friction was immense. It acted like a ship's anchor.
The cart shuddered. We slowed down. 40 mph... 30 mph... 20 mph...
We hit the bridge.
GROAN.
The bridge deck vibrated. I could feel the concrete beneath the rails shifting. Stones fell into the gorge below.
"Keep unspooling!" I yelled.
We were trailing miles of heavy copper wire behind us like a giant tail. The weight on the cart was dropping every second as the wire played out onto the track behind us.
We crawled across the bridge. The vibration lessened.
We reached the other side.
The cart came to a halt.
We were alive. But we had a problem.
"Boss," Kip said, looking back. "The wire."
We looked back.
Five miles of precious copper wire lay on the tracks behind us, unspooled, twisted, and dirty.
"Suleiman is going to kill me," I muttered. "He wanted coils. I brought him spaghetti."
I typed.
Juma The Lion:
WE ARE ALIVE. BRIDGE HELD. BUT THE WIRE IS A MESS.
Tyler Jordan:
Alive is good. And actually... unspooled wire is better for the winding process of the electromagnets. You saved us a step. Just tell Suleiman it was intentional.
I stared at the screen. The Engineer was covering for me.
"I meant to do that," I told Kip. "It's called... pre-processing."
THE ARRIVAL
We rolled into New Arusha at sunset.
We looked like a disaster. The tarp sail was shredded. The Rust Eaters were covered in purple dust and slime. I was bleeding from a cut on my forehead. And behind us, dragging along the ground for miles, was a chaotic tangle of copper wire.
The East Gate opened.
Tyler was waiting.
He looked clean. His shirt was pressed. He held his wooden clipboard. Behind him stood Captain Suleiman, arms crossed, looking unimpressed.
I jumped off the cart. My knees buckled. I was exhausted.
"You look terrible," Tyler said.
"I look like victory," I grunted. "And I smell like rocket fuel."
Suleiman walked out of the shadows. He looked at the mess of wire trailing out the gate.
"My copper," he rasped, his shark eyes narrowing. "Why is it on the ground? Why is it... everywhere?"
"Efficiency," I said, improvising. "Tyler said you needed it unwound for the magnets. I did it on the move. Saved you two days of labor."
Suleiman looked at Tyler.
Tyler didn't blink. "He's right, Captain. Straightening the wire is the hardest part. Juma used the friction of the tracks to strip the oxidation. Genius move."
Suleiman grunted. He touched a piece of wire.
"The Shark approves," he said. "Get this to the winder."
I walked over to the water trough and dunked my head in. The cool water washed away the salt and the fear.
Tyler stood next to me.
"The rocket," he said quietly. "Spores and salt?"
"Big boom," I nodded. "Kick like a mule."
"That's... chemically fascinating," Tyler admitted, making a note on his clipboard. "Exothermic reaction. Gas expansion. We could use that. Controlled blasting. Mining."
"See?" I tapped my temple. "The bush teaches. You just have to survive the lesson."
Tyler handed me a cold bottle of beer.
"Check the group," he said.
I pulled out my phone.
THE SURVIVORS' LOG
User: Farm_Boy_88:
Did anyone else see a train car flying down the Moshi line with a blue sail and a tail of fire?
User: Sarah_M:
That's the Arusha Group. They are crazy.
User: Iron_Fist:
I bet it was the Lion. Only he is stupid enough to sail on rocks.
I grinned.
I typed.
Juma The Lion:
IT WAS ME. AND IT WORKED. PHYSICS IS NEGOTIABLE IF YOU HAVE ENOUGH EXPLOSIVES.
I hit post.
"Come on," Tyler said. "Mama K made stew. And Baraka wants to know how you managed to sever a hamstring on a moving target."
"I'll tell him," I said. "But first... I need to charge the Box. And maybe wash this purple slime off my armor before it eats my skin."
I walked into the city. The electric lights were humming. The walls were high.
For the first time, I didn't feel trapped. I felt like I was in the command center.
And the war... the war was just getting started.