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Prosperity and Darkness

Book One of the Den's Dreamers Saga By Michael Luvar Barnes

Prosperity and Darkness: Book One of the Den's Dreamers Saga by Michael Luvar Barnes is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.

Chapter one

The town the human found himself along with his companions wandering through was a treasure trove, a slice of small town America before the war. It was just enough out of the way of the major cities to have avoided being struck by the kinetic, nuclear, and biological weapons unleashed during the last few hours of the former global society.

Even a hundred years after the fact, lingering remnants of that horrible day remained. But Will Peterson was a survivor. His grandfather had spoken of what it was like to have running water pumped to your home directly, while some of the recovered towns and some of the newer ones had it; it was still enough of a rarity.

Here where a faded sign had said the place was called Bluegill, starting point of the world's largest cookout, Will had entered a home through an unlocked door. It was common enough, a lot of people in small towns left their doors unlocked during the day. They knew their neighbors and trusted them. In a city, it was not as common but happened in close knit communities.

Inside he found the solar battery driven electrical systems still worked and there was running water. He was uncertain if he would find anything worthwhile though. Even if the territory seemed clear, there was a good chance someone or something still lurked in the area.

Will poked around in the house, using the slow halting crablike walk he used for stealth, balancing on the balls of his feet ready to dodge if anything tried to get the jump on him. He had enough sense to draw his airgun. He had used it successfully to kill vermin, mutant or otherwise, that pestered him.

He also carried some rounds of ammo with him for trade with folks. Bullets were hard to come by in some areas and were used for trade. Though since some of the hardened portable computers everyone carried a century ago, called slates, allowed for an electronic currency system to still function; used by a lot of the recovered and newer towns and small cities.

The portable computers took advantage of wireless tech that connected with a central banking organization set up by survivors; and maintained by a wealthy cabal. They allowed for tracking of individuals. Will lacked the technical knowledge to disable the GPS in the computer slate he carried. And even if he suspected he had given away stores of tech by having the thing on him to the cabal, he still made enough in salvage jobs with his team; even if they could hit a location only once.

Maybe they should find a computer expert or engineer to modify the devices, or figure out how to block the sensor tech in the things? Will let his thoughts wander until he felt nothing below his neck. The attack was faster than he had thought, silent, efficient, he could not even gasp for breath but his eyes spied the wide end of a dark blade with a wickedly sharp edge hack halfway through his neck.

A fist grasped the back of his vest and held him in place as it continued the rest of the way through his neck. As his head fell, blood weltering from the stump where his head had been, the individual plunged the blade into his torso's chest and raked it down, reversed it, and yanked it up twice.

He was not a cyborg, so such a tactic was not needed, it seemed like an automatic movement, machine precise. Was the pretty woman that had killed him a cyborg herself? His life faded shortly after his head thumped to the ground.

Moira knelt and cleaned her kurkuri knife off on the clothing of the man she had just gutted. A large pool of blood spread beneath his body. The ebony blade, with its thin silver tone edge, was quickly replaced within the woman's attached boot sheath. The tough fibers of the double stitched pants she wore bore no signs of the slaughter. Her short sleeve shirt had not one bit of blood on it, which surprised her. Even her arm and hand were clean, she had just been too swift in her killing and avoiding the resulting mess. Her boots however were in the middle of a large pool of spreading blood. She knew she would leave bloody footprints, the better to psychologically toy with anyone who found the body. She, however, would leave no clear trail once she cleared the building. And her boots would be cleaned off in grass before she carried on scavenging.

Moira mused for a moment about how comfortable the clothing she had on over her dark blue sleeper sensor-suit. The body-sheath provided support for her muscles and telemetry and data on her physical condition to her keeper, Den. All of her clothing was made of materials that repelled liquid while also wicking away moisture; its function kept her cool and dry when hot, and warm and comfortable when cold. At the moment she felt cold, faintly remembering the talk her father had given her about smart polymers when he had purchased her a dress as a little girl. She had not paid him any mind a week ago when he gave her a talk about her burgeoning sexual habits.

A week ago.

How many months and years had passed since that week ago was? Since she woke up in this new world with a voice in her head telling her how to kill and survive?

Moira checked her surroundings before collapsing against ta wall within the ruins she had taken cover in and subsequently killed in. Even as her emotions broke down at not being alone, fear surging into her every pore, the machine teachings for combat, survival, and prosperity kicked in; even as she just wanted to continue hiding, the machine programming in her brain activated, unleashing a fatal attack upon some foolish man that had wandered into her hiding place.

She had been out on a check of the area, something the computer voice told her to do. It called itself Den. And the bunker she had survived the end of the last society within was their home, hidden beneath the town of Bluegill.

The long years in storage had done nothing but make her into a weapon and a leader. But for that long moment after killing that man she was a lost little girl. It had finally sunk in that she was no longer in her own time period. Whenever she was, it was no longer a spring day in a town known for its crystal clear blue waters, fed by a river from further up north.

A town known for hosting the largest cookout in the county, and for the longest time, country. The largest barbecue table had been set up year after year. Stretching a mile, it fed thousands then a few hundred thousand year after year, only growing longer until it passed the county lines. Golf carts were used to move people among the various shaded barbecue tables after the event grew massive. But most folk simply picked a section and stayed there, deciding that trying to walk for miles to sample cooking from around the country was just not worth it unless you were a barbecue fiend.

Some took it as a challenge, and spent the three days of the event marching the whole length of the table, using a pass that allowed them unlimited food from any table. Moira and some girlfriends had tried it one summer when she was fourteen. The whole thing had left her with clothing smeared with sauces, dozens of pictures posted online of her in various states of ravenous eating, and less than a quarter of the way through the long stretch of tables that made up the event.

The event was something of a memory that made Moira remember her hunger. She had not felt like eating the food Den had prepared in its automated kitchens. The machine had said nothing about her going out hungry, except to warn her about consuming anything that looked expired.

Forgetting her sorrows and warm memories of summers gone by, Moira let the instructions buried in her brain work. She quickly checked the man's person. Like many survivors of the ruined last civilization, he had a small portable solar rechargeable computer terminal on him that used a touch screen interface.

The device, when left screen up in direct sunlight, could absorb about two watts worth of power within twenty minutes. Even at night it could get a charge if the moon was visible. The battery within it was one of the high capacity bio-electric polymer type that had only just been mass produced when things went south for humanity.

Moira pocketed the unit after cracking it open with a pocket multi-tool to physically disable its GPS unit. She scratched away with the fine point of a blade until she was certain that component had no more power going to it. She reassembled the device by simply placing its pieces back together and re sheathing them in an anti-static coating metallic semi-waterproof frame. She would use sealants later to reseal it better, once she was back in her hideout.

Moira found a few .44 Magnum and 9mm rounds, and a sack of lead pellets for an air pistol. The pistol lay before the dead man's outstretched fingers. Moira had gutted him using the training programmed into her; training she had come to rely on more than her own frightened instincts. Training that she wanted to fight, but whenever she fought the programming, it would cause her the beginnings of a migraine headache.

As she examined the airgun she took note of its workmanship and the fact that the air cartridge for it screwed in under the barrel and ran lengthwise to it. Checking a small dial, Moira found that the weapon had a charge in it enough for at least fifteen shots.

It was a choice weapon for stealth varmint killing if you wanted to hunt at a range and lacked a bow. Moira figured she would be eating some rabbit, cat, or dog meat soon enough. She finished her examination of the dead man, a young white guy about her physical age, his head still wearing the frozen look of shock and surprise from when she had severed his spine from it at the neck. She had followed that up with two swift strokes of her blade within his torso cavity, breaking bone and cutting up organs. Moira would have to ask Den about that, about why the combat instinct, the programming, told her and forced her to do that after his head was removed.

Her scavenging done, Moira turned her attention to the sky. Blocking out a bit of the sun, the survival programming kicked in with knowledge of how to gauge how many hours of daylight were left using the position of the sun in combination with a hand; she immediately knew she had three hours of daylight left. Enough time to explore another mile or so, carefully hidden, the area around her hidden home.

As she worked her way outside, Moira took in the terrain. As in her youth, it was still a town surrounded by mostly grassy areas with trees everywhere they could flourish. The building Moira had had her encounter with the scavenger in was the preserved remains of a family home. She did not know the people personally, but knew of them.

She was only in there because materials needed for its 3D manufacturing plant, would likely be found there. A lot of homes had mini-factories, the home automated part manufacturing craze had really taken off in the earliest years of her life.

In the backpack she carried she had a few bricks of 3D printer material. When heated the machines could use the resulting soupy mixture to create items. The machine had told her to go out and learn how to scavenge, she needed practical survival experience. And though she was scared, if she trusted in the programming, in the power given her by it, Den, she would live.

Those combat instincts, or instructions, Moira was not sure what she would call what was in her head now; she knew Den had implanted cybernetics within her body while she slept, enhanced her body so she could deliver precision killing blows with ease. And she was fairly certain most of these functions were not activated due to her body needing more time to acclimate to having them embedded.

She had voiced some worry about rejection, but Den had informed her everything was bio-mechanical, and engineered to not cause an immune system response and thus be rejected by her. It still did not tell her what it had done beyond saying she had power to thrive and eventually lead.

The worst part about being alone, stalking through the preserved ruins of a town, was the loss of everyone she loved. But post-programming Moira had no time to worry about that, the new Moira had waited calmly for the man to blunder into her and he died swiftly; part of her, this machined killer inside of her, found the action unsatisfying but profitable; her examination of the corpse proved that.

Right now as her thoughts wandered, her eyes, nose, ears, and flesh and every sense she had was attuned to the area around her. The survivalist in her kept her scurrying from house to house, low to the ground, sticking to the shadows and moving at a reasonable pace. She did want to mask her presence now, or at least keep her profile low, and she was successful. At least until she heard someone call out the name Will, and knew she would have company shortly.

On the one hand it meant more loot, Moira figured as she hefted a pistol she had with her, removing it from the largest pocket of the six pocket backpack she carried. On the other, it meant that she would have to kill again, and part of her wanted to hide.

The warring within her ceased as she managed to reason with the killer within, the programming, that she was not in danger unless she picked a fight. Slowly, she replaced the gun, a 9mm pistol with an integrated suppressor, and drew her kurkuri blade as she hid in some tall grass behind a home. She flipped the blade around, holding it so that she could strike first with the flat edge of the blade.

Whatever or whomever was coming, she was comfortable with simply waiting for it to come closer. After all, what was a few moments more of waiting when she had waited decades to wake up from an artificial slumber. A slumber that had saved her while so many others were sacrificed.